The Prison of Buried Hopes (After The Rift Book 5)

by C. J. Archer

  The following afternoon we traveled over Hailia's Pass. The western branch of The Razorbacks was not as high as the eastern, and the pass named after the gentle goddess was easier than the one named after the formidable, warlike god.

  Quentin tried to cheer us up, but after a snappy retort from Max, he fell into silence. Not even Theodore seemed interested in trying to talk them out of their glum mood. Of all the men, Erik seemed the least perturbed by the news that he'd been in a Freedlandian prison mine. Perhaps because he already knew after Merrin that he was a thief and he'd come to terms with it. Although he wasn't morose like the others, he was certainly more contemplative than usual, but he did manage smiles for Kitty. I even caught them kissing during a quick midday stop.

  I rode at the back of the group with Balthazar but could think of no way to start a conversation. Should I mention the prison or not? Should we talk about something else entirely?

  It was he who broke the silence eventually. "If we really are from this prison, then there's something I don't understand. Most of the servants are clearly from Freedland, but many are not. So why were they all in a Freedlandian prison?"

  "Freedland's prison mines are not just for Freedlandians," I said. "Prisoners from all over the Fist are sent to them for punishment. Freedland takes money for them, of course."

  "They're paid to accept the criminals from other countries?"

  I nodded. "Only the worst ones."

  "The ones they don't want back," Balthazar mumbled. "The ones they hope will die in the mines."

  "You sound as though you now accept what those drunks told us."

  He lifted his chin. "I am considering all possibilities. So these prisons take money to accept foreign prisoners and get free labor in their mines. What a nice arrangement," he bit off.

  I'd never given the prison mines much thought before. I knew they existed but no one from Mull had ever been sent to one, and my entire life had centered around my village. It made sense that the prison mines were located in the country that the rest of the Fist seemed to have forgotten. Freedland was so far away from Glancia, its people and political situation so different, that it was as foreign to me as Zemaya. Indeed, I'd met more Zemayans than Freedlandians before the palace servants came into my life.

  I'd certainly never expected to meet anyone who'd been imprisoned in one of the mines, let alone fall in love with a former prisoner. A prisoner who had not completed his sentence.

  The desert sands of southern Freedland were punctured by rocky hills and little else. Tufts of hardy bushes clumped together in dips where water must pool after rain, but going by the dryness, there'd not been any rain for some time.

  The endlessness of the desert took me by surprise. I knew Freedland was largely empty, but I'd still expected a village here and there, a small creek or the occasional tree. But there was a lot of nothing. The wind blew across the wasteland, whipping up the sand and throwing it in our faces, as if to say “you dare to come here, now suffer for it.” It was abundantly clear why travelers took the route along the northern border, following Blood River from Lake Torment to Noxford. Only those who didn't want to be found tackled the Razorbacks and the desert.

  It took us five days to reach the village of Gull's Wing on Freedland's south west coast. Five days of spitting sand out of my mouth every time I opened it. Five days of squinting at the horizon, searching for a building or tree, anything to offer relief from the burning sun. Five days of wondering what we'd learn at the prison mine.

  We ran out of supplies on the third day. Despite the men hunting in the early evenings and mornings, they found little to eat except for some desert rats that Kitty and I refused to eat. Thankfully our water lasted until the fourth day, but only because we rationed it.

  The one good thing about being hungry, thirsty, exhausted, and miserable was that no one felt like talking. The tension that had been simmering within the group since leaving Priest's End didn't boil over, but it didn't disappear, either.

  I didn't try to comfort Dane again, and Meg hardly spoke to Max at all. I caught him looking at her on more than one occasion, however. His torment was written into every groove of his face.

  Gull's Wing was a beautiful sight when it came into view on the fifth afternoon. Like Priest's End, it nestled in a small bay between two cliffs. It was larger than Priest's End, however, and was not as remote. While the desert spread to its east, fertile farmland to the north supplied the village with an abundance of produce.

  We dined heartily at a good inn that night, and Kitty finally got her bath, although she wasn't quite as interested in it being warm as she had been when we were high up in the freezing Razorbacks. I felt much better after washing the sand out of my hair, nose and ears, and even felt like trying to coax Dane out of his grim mood.

  I found him in the taproom with Max, questioning the innkeeper and his wife.

  "It was located to the north east of here." The innkeeper waved a hand in what I assumed was the direction of the prison mine.

  "Was?" Dane asked.

  "It was abandoned after the escape. The High Minister did the right thing for once and kept it closed. It didn't feel right to re-open it. Not after all those deaths."

  "The executions of the escapees were carried out there?"

  The innkeeper gave Dane an odd look. "I meant the death of the guards. Ain't no one cares about them prisoners. They can all rot in Merdu's Pit. They were the Fist's filth. No murderers, mind, but rapists, kidnappers, torturers, thieves, pirates—you name it, they all ended up there or at one of the other two prison mines in Freedland."

  Max dragged a hand over his cleanly shaved jaw. "I need another drink."

  The innkeeper's wife took his tankard and refilled it from a barrel. "Why are you so interested in that mine anyway?"

  Max drank deeply, leaving Dane to answer. "We were passing through and heard the story of the escape."

  The innkeeper snorted. "Passing through Gull's Wing? No one passes through Gull's Wing."

  "Noxford, not Gull's Wing. It's fascinating, so we decided to come and see the mine for ourselves. So there's nothing to see?"

  The innkeeper polished the counter top with a rag. "Afraid not. Just some rocks the prisoners were in the middle of crushing when they rioted, some carts and barrows abandoned in the tunnels."

  "Everything was left just as it was," the innkeeper's wife added as she dried a tankard with a cloth. "They say it looks as if the prisoners stepped away for a break. Not that they got breaks, mind. Some of the guards used to come in here on their days off, and they told me the prisoners started before dawn and finished well after dusk. They wouldn't know what time it was down in the mines, would they, so what did it matter."

  "They got no breaks in that whole time?" I asked. "What about food or water?"

  "Criminals like that don't deserve food or water. They deserve to die down there."

  I pressed a hand to my mouth as bitter bile surged up my throat.

  The innkeeper's wife shook her cloth at me. "Girls like you should thank the magistrates for putting away men like that."

  "The prisoners didn't survive long, I take it," Dane said.

  "Not more than a few months, so they say," the innkeeper said with a shrug as if all those lives didn't matter.

  Dane ordered a drink for me and another for himself. Max drained his tankard and also asked for a refill. "Do you know everyone in this village?" Max asked.

  "Every soul," the innkeeper said proudly. "About three hundred live in Gull's Wing. Used to be more, when the guards and their families lived here. After they died, the families moved away, mostly back to Noxford. Why do you ask?"

  "Have you seen anyone looking like me pass through?"

  The innkeeper looked at his wife. She studied Max then shook her head. "Why?"

  "My brother's missing. We look alike. I thought he might have been in the village."

  "Sorry, son," the innkeeper said. "I haven't seen your face or one similar around here.
"

  "My husband's real good with faces, so if he says he hasn’t seen him then he never came in here." The innkeeper's wife patted Max's arm. "I'm sure your brother will turn up. Where are you from?"

  "Near Noxford."

  "There you are then. He probably went looking for adventure in the city. Have you searched there?"

  Max merely shrugged and stared into his tankard, abandoning his story. He'd been trying to find out if he was local to Gull's Wing. Perhaps he'd hoped he lived here instead of being a prisoner, resulting in some confusion for the drunkards in Priest's End. It would seem not.

  "Do you know someone who can escort us to the mine tomorrow?" Dane asked. "We'd like to see it."

  The innkeeper's wife stamped a hand on her ample hip. "What is it with all you travelers wanting to see the mine?"

  "It's only natural," her husband chided. "People got an interest in grim history."

  "It ain't history yet. Not for some."

  He rolled his eyes. "Don't mind her. All this interest is good for business. Things were a bit slow after the escape, but it's picked up lately on account of people like you coming to see where it all happened. Not that we've had travelers from as far as Glancia before." He jutted his chin in my direction. "I reckon the mayor should start charging a fee." He chuckled. The deaths of the guards hadn't affected him too greatly then.

  "Sander too," his wife said. "He could do well out of all the travelers we send his way."

  "Sander?" Dane asked.

  "Your guide. He lives not far from here. He'll take you tomorrow, if he's not out fishing."

  "He'll make time for you," the innkeeper said. "He likes taking people to the mine. He says it's good for him, helps him remember his friends who died. He says he doesn't want to forget them or it'll be like they never existed."

  Max arched a brow. "I thought all the prisoners were caught and executed."

  "Sander wasn't a prisoner. He was a guard. He wasn't on duty at the time of the escape so he wasn't killed. Only the night shift was murdered by the escapees. All the guards on the day shift were lucky, but Sander's the only one who stayed in Gull's Wing. He decided to retire here by the sea. The rest left to find work elsewhere. You can ask him all about the guards tomorrow. He's got a very good memory. He can remember all their names, their children's names, where they came from, and what they looked like."

  The innkeeper's wife agreed. "Sander doesn't forget a thing. You just ask him a question about any one of his friends at the prison and he'll tell you everything about them."

  I knew she was referring to Sander's fellow guards, but I couldn't help wondering if his memory extended to the prisoners as well. If so, then we couldn't go to see him. If he recognized Dane and the others as prisoners, he'd set the authorities onto them.

  Chapter 11

  "Absolutely not," Max said, slicing his hand through the air to underline his point. "It's too dangerous."

  "How will it be dangerous?" Meg asked with a determination that matched Max's. They kept their voices low, however, to avoid being overheard by other patrons in the taproom. "We are simply three women with an interest in seeing the mine."

  "Without husbands or fathers to escort you?" Max shook his head.

  "Max is right," Dane said. "If nothing else, the guard will be suspicious."

  The others nodded, including Kitty. I glared at her and she gave me a small shrug.

  There had to be a way. We couldn't allow the guard to see the men but we couldn't visit him alone either. As much as I hated to admit it, Dane and Max were right. It would be very strange for three Glancian women to make inquiries about prisoners.

  It was Balthazar who came up with an idea. "You can be widows. Your husbands were sent to the prison mine and you wish to see where they lived and died and hopefully hear stories about your loved ones from a man who knew them during their incarceration."

  Kitty's eyes lit up. "What an excellent idea. We can tell the guard our husbands were wrongly accused. He wouldn't believe women like us would be married to criminals anyway."

  The idea was a good one, and I nodded along with her. "That way we can also use their names. Dane, Max and Erik."

  "Not Erik," Dane said. "It's too much of a stretch to believe Kitty married a Marginer. Say it's Theodore. Max can also go, but under an assumed name. He has already told the innkeeper that his brother is missing, so he can simply extend his story and say his brother was arrested and sent to the mine. Josie can be my widow, and Meg can be Quentin's."

  Erik snorted. "No one will believe she married him."

  Quentin stiffened. "You saying I ain't worthy of her?"

  "You're not," Max growled.

  Erik slapped Max's shoulder with the back of his hand. "I mean he is just a boy."

  "Then I'll say he's my brother." Meg sized up Quentin, perhaps looking for a resemblance of some kind to reinforce her story. They were not alike in any way.

  "Half-brother?" I suggested.

  It was decided. The men felt better with Max escorting us, and we three women had solid stories to tell. I wanted to go immediately but we would have to wait for the morning. It would be another restless night tonight with answers so close yet not in our grasp. It must be even more excruciating for the men. Perhaps that explained why none made a move to retire for the evening, despite long days in the saddle.

  Dane signaled to the serving girl to bring more ales then paid her when she carried over the tray laden with tankards. Quentin's jaw dropped when he saw how many ells it cost.

  "Bloody hell, that's expensive," he said. "They got gold in their ales here?"

  "It's the taxes," Balthazar said. "Everything is taxed in Freedland, including the ale."

  Max stared into his tankard and sipped instead of taking a deep drink like he usually did. "Taxing ale ain't right. What's a man supposed to drink after a hard day's work?"

  "Wine?" Theodore suggested.

  "Also taxed," Balthazar said.

  "Really?" Theodore also stared into his tankard. "I don't remember the prices being high in Priest's End."

  "I suspect Priest's End gets most of its supplies from smugglers. Smuggled goods avoid the middleman—namely the tax collector."

  Theodore looked around at the small groups talking in earnest nearby. "It's surprising anyone drinks in Freedland at all."

  "I can't believe everyone just accepts it without complaint," Quentin said.

  "Who says they're not complaining?" Dane asked. "From what I can tell, almost everyone in here is talking about the upcoming elections and what it means for them, including the suggested changes to the taxation system."

  "Election?" Quentin echoed.

  Balthazar smirked at Dane. "You've been listening in to conversations again. Sometimes I think your job at the palace encompassed more eavesdropping than fighting."

  "I rarely eavesdropped." Dane sounded offended.

  Max winked at Balthazar. "He mostly coerced information out of folk."

  "Is someone going to answer me?" Quentin asked. "What's an election?"

  "Exactly what it sounds like," Theodore said. "The leader of Freedland is chosen, not born."

  "By who?"

  Theodore looked to Balthazar. "The people," Balthazar said. "If you listen in to the conversations around you, like Dane, you'll hear them talking about the pros and cons of the candidates."

  We fell silent. The conversations at the other tables were quiet but earnest, going by the occasional stabbing of a finger into the table to make a point.

  That changed by the time we finished our ales and prepared to retire. The drink must have taken hold of the other patrons, and those who'd only spoken quietly before, now voiced their opinions of the high minister in loud protest.

  "He's got to go!" someone shouted.

  "Aye!" cheered the others around him.

  "But the other candidates are no better," said one brave soul seated on a stool near the window. "No one's going to lower taxes."

  “They mi
ght reform them,” said another. “Whatever that means.”

  "Bloody ministers," said another, closer to us. "I bet the taxes line their pockets and pay for their nice houses."

  "Aye," several chimed in.

  "Where's the money going? That's what I want to know!"

  The innkeeper's wife marched up to him and swatted him with her cloth. "Pipe down! This ain't no place for a political rally."

  The instigator muttered an apology into his tankard. The room quieted somewhat, although the conversations remained more animated than they had been earlier in the evening.

  It was time to retire before we found ourselves embroiled in something that didn't concern us.

  Sander, the retired guard, was not what I expected. He was a broad man of about sixty who was tall compared to Max but not as tall as we women. He may have once been muscular, but it had run to fat, and not just in his body. His face was a series of thick bulges marred by scars, symbols of a rough past. I wondered how many had been inflicted by prisoners.

  His formidable appearance was softened when he smiled in greeting, revealing more gaps than teeth. "Come in, come in. I've been expecting you. Shall we have some tea before we head off? My wife's brew is delicious."

  The innkeeper had written ahead to notify Sander of our interest in seeing the mine. Even so, this warmth was more than I was expecting.

  "My wife's at the market," Sander said as he poured tea from the pot into cups. "She sells the fish I catch."

  "You're a fisherman now?" I asked.

  "Sure am. I gave up being a guard after the escape. It's a job for younger men, not old dogs like me." He paused as he passed around the cups. While his lips stretched into a flat smile, his eyes were dull. He must be remembering his fellow guards who'd died that day at the sorcerer's hand. "I like it here in Gull's Wing, and the fishing's good," he went on. "I've got myself a small boat that I take out to my secret places." He tapped the side of his nose with his finger. "My wife sells what I catch, and that's enough for us to live on. It's a simple life and we ain't going to get rich, but it's a better life than being a guard, especially down at them prison mines."