by Anthea Sharp
How undignified that would be, but Anneth had little choice in the matter. The reality of her imprisonment settled heavily upon her shoulders. If she were to be constantly guarded, escape would be more difficult. And she hadn’t bargained for her surroundings to be quite so dire.
But there was no changing her plan now. She only hoped the Gearys had managed to keep themselves out of the castle’s scrutiny.
“So, spy.” Captain Crane faced her through the thick iron bars of her cell. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
She lifted her chin, but remained sitting, so as not to remind the captain of her unusual height.
“I admit to being an agent of the Athraig,” she lied. “But I had no part in the attempt upon the king’s life. That is another faction’s work.”
“What faction? Are they part of the delegation that’s about to arrive?”
The Athraig were coming? That certainly changed things, and made her story more plausible—she hoped. It also brought a new host of complications, but she would deal with those as they arose. No point in borrowing trouble from the future. She had more than enough at present.
In answer to the captain’s question, she shook her head. “All I know is that when word of the ball reached us, my masters chose to send me as a candidate. My task was to catch the prince’s eye and secure an invitation to the castle, so that I could provide information about the royal family’s movements to my superiors. I was not aware of any assassination plot.”
She sent Prince Own a look of apology. The lie certainly didn’t paint her in a good light, but she hadn’t been able to think of a better explanation.
Captain Crane grunted and turned to the prince. “I told you she was suspicious.”
“At least she didn’t try to kill my father.” Prince Owen frowned at her. “That explains your air of mystery, I suppose. Is your name really Anneth?”
“It is.”
“You gave me a last name, as well.” The prince stepped forward. “Geary?”
She swallowed, her throat tight with apprehension. “I chose a common surname, to avoid suspicion. And I believe it was Cleary.”
Prince Owen’s eyebrows drew together, but he didn’t challenge her.
“I think she knows more than she’s telling,” the captain said. “I’ll ask the king if I might try some further methods of questioning—”
“Not yet,” the prince said. “We’ll wait to see what the Athraig delegation does once they learn we have one of their spies in our dungeon.”
Anneth shuddered at the implication of the captain’s words.
“If we can get the truth from her, we can compare her story with what the other Athraig have to say.”
“We already have her story,” Prince Owen said. “She was sent to infiltrate the castle, not kill my father. If she’s lying about that, I’m sure the truth will come out soon enough.”
The captain scowled but, to Anneth’s relief, didn’t press the matter. The sound of someone approaching caught his attention, and he set a hand to his sword.
It was the russet-haired guard, returning with a blanket, skin of water, and bucket. Under the captain’s watchful eye, he unlocked Anneth’s cell and set the items just inside.
Careful to appear harmless, she sat very still, not moving even when the barred door clanged shut again and the man turned the key in the lock.
“Go ahead.” Prince Owen glanced at the blanket and gave her an encouraging nod. “Have you eaten anything today?”
Porridge—but she could hardly admit that she’d shared a decent breakfast with a Dark Elf scout hiding deep in the forest. Mutely, she shook her head.
“I’ll have the kitchen send down some bread and cheese,” the prince said.
“She’s not some court lady to pamper.” The captain scowled. “A little hunger won’t hurt her.”
“We will show her common courtesy.” Prince Owen turned a cold look upon the captain. “At least until she proves unworthy of that trust.”
“Thank you.” She inclined her head.
The prince regarded her, their gazes locking. “Do not abuse our hospitality.”
“I’ll endeavor not to.” Still, she couldn’t promise not to escape.
“Enough.” Captain Crane pointed to his man. “Ian, remain on guard. I’ll send Kavan to relieve you at the end of your shift. Don’t leave her unwatched.”
“No, sir.” The guard drew himself up.
Prince Owen sent Anneth a final, unreadable glance, then turned and followed the captain to the stairs. No one had mentioned the slipper.
If it were found, could they trace it back to the Gearys? It certainly bore an unusual pattern. Eventually, someone would know where the slipper had come from. She could only hope it would remain mysteriously missing.
The guardsmen had confiscated her small scrying bowl, which she should have anticipated. She wondered if she would ever get it back. It complicated matters somewhat in terms of contacting Ondo, but she would find a way, even if she must cup water in the palm of her hand.
Slowly, keeping a wary eye on the guard, she rose and picked up the blanket and water skin. The cell wasn’t comfortable, but at least she could keep the chill from her back and sip away the apprehension that insisted on drying her throat. Beyond that, all she could do was wait.
Wait for the guard to grow weary and perhaps sleep. Wait for a moment that she might lie down and turn her back to the bars, and send a message to Ondo. Most of all, wait for Bran and Mara to arrive, so that she could end this grim, self-imposed imprisonment.
27
That evening, the Athraig arrived at Castle Raine. Owen and his father, seated upon their thrones, received them in the great hall.
“Your majesty.” The leader of the delegation bowed to King Philip. “As my letter of introduction states, I am Lord Alvar Jensen, Greve of Sonderborg. On behalf of the Athraig, we are delighted to be here in Raine.”
Behind him were arrayed a pair of minor nobles and a retinue of personal guards. In all, a dozen of the fair-haired foreigners had disembarked from the coaches hired at Portknowe to take them through the Darkwood to the castle. Accompanied, of course, by an honor escort of Captain Crane’s men.
Owen had watched them arrive earlier from the hidden peephole over the courtyard. There had seemed, to his mind, a disproportionate number of fighters among the Athraig.
Then again, they weren’t exactly entering friendly territory. Raine and Athraig upheld an uneasy truce, but there was a history of conflict between their two countries. Still, as the delegation bowed and made their greetings, he was grimly aware of the number of sword-bearers among the group.
What are you up to? he wanted to demand of the greve. But he was afraid he already knew. They were there to test Raine’s weakness and try to force an alliance—one that would not benefit his country. He shifted on his throne and shot a glance at his father.
“I bid you welcome,” the king said with a bland smile. “The servants will show you and your people to their rooms, Lord Jensen. Once you’re settled, perhaps you might join us in the study for a glass of wine, and we may speak further as to the intent of your visit.”
The greve made a flourishing hand gesture more suited to the court of Parnese than Raine’s simple protocols. “As to that, your majesty, we make no secret of it. You have a prince; we have a princess. It would benefit both our kingdoms if they wed one another.”
The king’s lips tightened, and Owen had the unpleasant satisfaction of knowing he’d been right. They meant to convince him to marry the Athraig princess.
It would be disastrous for Raine, of course. Every country the warlike Athraig made “alliances” with ended up becoming vassal states in short order. They could not be allowed a toehold in Raine—and Owen wondered that they even would try.
Perhaps the Athraig leaders thought the kingdom was unsettled and vulnerable after the queen’s death—and, if Anneth was right, they plotted to kill the king. Did they think Owen would be so overcome wi
th grief at that point that he would agree to marry their princess?
He would never consent to it.
“The Athraig will be under close guard at all times,” Captain Crane had said, when word of the delegation’s imminent arrival reached the castle. “My soldiers are a match for any of those pale-haired bastards. We’ll let no harm come to you, your majesty. Or yourself, Prince Owen.”
“I rely upon you and your men, of course,” the king had said. “But do remind them that the Athraig are our guests. We don’t want to incite violence.”
The captain had nodded, though Owen thought he looked a bit disappointed at the king’s reminder to be civil. For himself, he found he was in sympathy with the captain for once. He’d rather they boot the Athraig from the castle, and damn the consequences.
“When should we let them know we have their spy in the dungeon?” Captain Crane asked.
“Not immediately.” The king rubbed his forehead. “I’d like to see what they have to say first, and how they comport themselves. Perhaps they’ll slip up and reveal something they shouldn’t.”
Now, watching the greve bow and smile, Owen thought the fellow was unlikely to put a foot wrong. He was too much the polished court diplomat—much like the Parnesian nobles Owen had encountered during his educational visits abroad.
For a moment he regretted the straightforward nature of Raine’s court. The running of their small country did not lend itself to intrigues and machinations, beyond simple attempts to curry favor with the king and catch the prince’s eye.
Perhaps, if the court were more skilled at subterfuge, they would not be at quite so much of a disadvantage.
Owen squared his shoulders, vowing to himself that Raine would never bow to the Athraig. No matter what schemes they might try in order to seize power.
“I see,” King Philip said, replying to the greve’s suggestion. “My son is all but betrothed, however, so we must decline your generous proposal of an alliance. Still, we offer you the hospitality of the castle.”
Lord Jensen’s mouth twisted in an unpleasant expression, quickly smoothed away.
“I understand,” he said. “Nonetheless, we look forward to further conversations along these lines.”
“No doubt.” The king’s voice was dry. He gestured to the waiting servants. “You must be tired from your long journey. Allow my people to see you to your rooms, Lord Jensen. Food will be sent up, and your needs tended to.”
Teeth bared in something that passed for a smile, the greve bowed. “Until tomorrow, your majesty.”
The rest of the delegation bobbed their farewells and, under the watchful eyes of Captain Crane’s guards, were escorted from the hall.
When the last of their footfalls had faded in the distance, King Philip turned to Owen.
“You must make your choice,” he said in a low voice. “Tonight.”
Owen stiffened in his seat—but he couldn’t deny he’d seen this moment coming.
“If I must select a bride, then it will be Lady Fiona,” he said. She was the least objectionable of the bunch.
“Good.” The king gave a sharp nod. “We’ll announce it tomorrow at breakfast. Go, now, and make your intentions known.”
“Yes, Father.” Owen stood.
He would speak with Lady Fiona—but first, he would pay a visit to the dungeon.
In the clammy dimness of her cell, Anneth turned her back to the guard and poured a small measure of water into her cupped palm. She had no idea if it would be enough to cast a scrying to Ondo, but she must try.
Despite her assurances to him not to worry, she had no doubt he was stationed just outside the castle, ready to charge to her rescue.
Holding her palm close to her face, she whispered the rune of scrying, directing it toward Ondo. It was difficult to make out any reflection at all, but she held very still, concentrating. The water in her hand caught the light of one of the greasy torches, and a moment later, Ondo’s face appeared.
“Princess,” he said urgently, “are you well?”
“Shh,” she whispered. “Well enough, under the circumstance. They are holding me in the dungeon, but I am unharmed, and my illusion is holding strong.”
“Hey!” the guard, who’d recently taken over from the russet-haired man, rose to his feet. “What’re you doing?”
Hastily, Anneth gulped the water in her cupped hand, bringing the scrying to a quick end. She hoped Ondo would not be unduly alarmed.
“Taking a drink,” she said, turning toward the guard and lifting the skin of water.
“You were talking.” He scowled at her through the bars of the cell.
“Simply saying a prayer.” She smiled innocently at him, then poured more water into her hand and drank.
“You Athraig.” He spat into the dirty straw strewn across the floor. “We’ll never make an alliance with you, you know. No matter how much you might threaten our kingdom.”
“I mean no threat.” She kept her expression mild.
“Your man upstairs does.” He jerked his head toward the ceiling. “I can hardly wait til it’s my watch on them. I’ll piss in their ale, I will.”
Anneth blinked, casting a suspicious glance at her water skin. It didn’t taste foul—but perhaps she wouldn’t drink too much more. Just in case.
The guard resumed his seat, and she pulled the blanket up around her shoulders. It was going to be a chilly night upon the hard stone, and she did not look forward to it. But Bran and Mara would reach Raine soon, and she would be free.
Soft light filtered into the dungeon as someone approached, carrying a lantern.
“Who’s there?” The guard stood, one hand going to the sword at his belt.
“Prince Owen,” the answer came.
Anneth’s heartbeat accelerated. Why was the prince coming to visit at this hour?
A moment later, he stepped into the dungeon, his lantern held high. His expression was set, his green eyes clouded with worry.
“Your highness.” The guardsman made a rough bow.
“Has the prisoner been any trouble?”
“Only that she’s polluting our air with her Athraig breath,” the guard mumbled. Then, as the prince’s expression hardened, cleared his throat. “No, my lord.”
“Good.” Prince Owen peered into her cell. Anneth met his gaze defiantly.
She might be a captive, but she was still a princess. There was no need to grovel.
“Are you well?” he asked softly, stepping toward the bars.
“Take care, my lord.” The guard joined him, giving Anneth a wary look. “These Athraig are slippery. Don’t stand too close—she might have a concealed dagger.”
“Didn’t you search her?” the prince asked mildly, obviously not overly concerned that Anneth might leap up and stab him.
“Of course we did.” The guardsman sounded affronted. “But you never know with these foreigners.”
“I trust you with my safety.” Prince Owen set his lantern down. “In fact, I’m happy to relieve you for a short time. Go fetch yourself a late dinner.”
The guard hesitated. “My lord, are you sure?”
“Go.” The prince waved his hand. “I can mind the prisoner for a short time. I’ll answer to Captain Crane, should there be any trouble.”
“If you don’t mind. I’ll be back in a trice, your highness.” The man bobbed another quick bow, then headed for the stairs, leaving Anneth alone with Prince Owen.
They regarded one another in silence for a long moment.
“Are you acquainted with Lord Jensen?” the prince asked.
Anneth shook her head. “If you’re here to interrogate me further, I’ve nothing more to say.”
“No.” He let out a low breath. “I was only wondering if you could give me insight into the man—and how long we might put him off before I must announce my betrothal.”
Prince Owen sounded unhappy, and grudging sympathy moved through Anneth. She knew how it felt to be forced into making a match because of o
ne’s royal blood. At least she could say no to Prince Deldarinnon, whereas it seemed this prince had no choice at all.
“You’ve picked a bride, then?” Why did the thought give her a little stab of pain? Prince Owen meant nothing to her.
“Yes.” He wrapped his fingers around one of the bars of her cell. “I’ve decided upon Lady Fiona.”
Of course. Anneth let out a breath. “I’m sure she was delighted at your proposal.”
He glanced away. “I haven’t told her yet.”
“Oh?” Her brows rose. “Honestly, she seems the best option—not that I’m very familiar with your prospects. The people at the ball seemed to think she’d be the one.”
She didn’t tell him they’d been laying bets on the matter.
He looked back at her, frowning. “But where are you from, mysterious Anneth? You don’t look like any Athraig I’ve ever met. You’re too tall, and your hair is too dark.”
“I… I colored it, as a disguise.” Even as she spoke, she could tell how unconvincing she sounded.
He studied her intently, and she glanced at her hands to make sure her human semblance was still firmly in place. Why was he suddenly so curious about her?
“The Daroese in the far south are quite tall,” he said. “With black hair—but their skin is much darker-hued than yours.”
“Shouldn’t you be visiting your soon-to-be betrothed rather than indulging in wild speculation about where I’m from?”
“And that’s another thing—you don’t speak like any commoner I’ve ever heard. Or Athraig, for that matter.”
There was truly no response she could make to that, so she folded her arms and narrowed her eyes.
“I think you’re avoiding doing your duty to your kingdom, Prince Owen,” she said, trying to needle him into leaving—or at least stop trying to guess where she was from. “You’re distracting yourself with foolish speculations so you don’t have to think about marrying Lady Fiona.”
Instead of becoming annoyed, as she’d hoped, he let out a low sigh and leaned his forehead against the bars.
“You’re the only one I can talk to,” he said, so simply it left her breathless. “My father doesn’t understand, Captain Crane thinks every problem can be solved with a sword, and my mother—” His voice caught. He paused, swallowing. “My mother isn’t here anymore.”