Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book III ]

64

The soldier had not removed his hand from the hilt of his sword. He looked at Aun again, then past her toward the discreet opening to the servants' passage. "Who's with you?"

"...No one." She looked, too, as if to reassure herself of this fact. Then, twisting her hands together, she met the soldier's eye. "Has...something happened? Is Her Grace alright?"

The second soldier gave a soft snort of laughter that sent a bolt of ice through Aun's vitals, but the first gave him a look that silenced him at once. Then, he said, "Take her in."

The fairer man started toward Aun. She stiffened, backing away another step or two. "Where? What are you doing?" she asked, flinching away from the man as he reached for her arm. "Don't—what's happened?"

"Shut your mouth and come with me," he snapped.

The dark man had shifted his focus back to the juncture of the halls. He was sidling back, easing out of sight around the corner. "Take the cart, too," he said. "Don't just leave it stranded there. Besides, somebody might as well drink it."

***

Aun could feel the soldier behind her, half again her size and armed, his presence a threat. She was prepared to play-act to an extent, but the physical impact of her very real fear underpinned her pretending: her hands were shaking, and although she knew precisely why she was here and precisely what she aimed to do, her thoughts were difficult to wrangle.

She pushed her tea cart into the main hall of the royal wing, where fear was quickly smothered by renewed horror and sorrow. The bodies she had hurried past just hours ago were lying where they had fallen, blood smeared along the walls and pooling on the floor. Many pairs of sightless eyes stared out of death-pale faces. All but one of them wore palace livery.

"Don't you dare scream," said the soldier. He stepped up beside Aun, closer than she liked. She let out a shaking breath and nodded her understanding, but she could not look away from the bodies. "Go," the soldier urged. "Up there."

Halfway down the hall, not far from Mhera's chambers, two more soldiers stood outside a closed door. They shifted as Aun approached, one of them reaching for his weapon, but neither of them spoke.

"Servant girl come with breakfast," said Aun's warden. "Didn't want her telling tales back in the kitchen."

"Might as bloody well, at this rate," muttered one of the others.

"They'll come, Peo," his companion bit out. He cast a brief glance over Aun and the soldier who'd brought her, then leaned over to open the door. "Save me some of that if they're handing it 'round, will you? Haven't eaten since breakfast yesterday."

"And what was that but watery porridge?" Peo added.

"Let His Grace hear you and you'll be eating your own bleeding innards," snapped Aun's warden. He then shoved her shoulders and barked, "Go!"

Aun flinched at the strike. She lowered her head and hurried into the room, maneuvering the cart and trying with every scrap of strength in her not to look up as soon as she was inside.

She failed in that effort. No sooner had she raised her head than she saw the prisoners across the room, all of them hunched on the floor, their backs against the wall. They had been bound with their hands behind them, and they were all gagged, too. Mhera had her head down and her eyes closed. The lorekeeper, who had been cruelly handled to judge by his face, was curled toward her, his knees drawn up and his head against the wall.

But Kaori was looking her way. She met his eyes instantly. She saw the recognition there, the relief...and then the fear.

"Servant girl come with breakfast," called Aun's warden as the door closed behind them. He pushed her away from the cart and she shrank from him, her shoulders hunched up. In her place, he pushed the cart farther into the room, grinning. "Might as well have a bite."

There were many soldiers in the room—a dozen, perhaps sixteen, Aun could not count them at a glance—but her captor's back was turned, and she assured herself with a look that the others were focused on the cart. She fixed Kaori with her gaze, glanced to the cart, and looked back at him. Don't, she thought. Whatever you do, no matter how hungry you are, no matter how thirsty. Don't. Please don't, even if they are merciful and offer it to you.

Kaori's brow pinched. He looked at the cart, moving only his eyes, not his head, then looked back at Aun.

She closed her eyes and let her head drop forward, let it loll ever-so-slightly on her neck—and then, her message delivered as clearly as she could think to share it, she raised her hands, clasping them together before her mouth.

"Look at her," said one of the men. "She's praying. Brought us a little nun, did you, Isan? I can feel myself getting holier already."

General laughter followed this comment. Aun glanced back to Kaori and the others, her heart leaping into her throat when she met Mhera's eyes this time. She kept her hands clasped before her lips in an effort to conceal her smile.

"Somebody put her over with the others," said Aun's captor, who'd been called Isan. "Do we have any more rope?"

"Don't think so. Roati used twice as much as he needed on the one-armed prince."

"Well, take some bedsheets, then, and make some. Where's His Grace?"

"On the balcony in conference with the archmage. Oi, Roati, you used the last of the rope. Get them bedsheets off and tear 'em to strips!"

Isan grabbed Aun by the arm. She stifled a cry and staggered after him as he dragged her farther into the room. He threw her down near the foot of the grand bed. "Don't move," he said, striding toward the balcony doors. "And the rest of you, don't eat a morsel until His Grace has had his fill!"

A murmur went around the room at this. Aun caught the sound of a mutinous whisper: "He's already had most our provisions." She sat with her back against the bedpost, stealing another quick glance at Mhera and Kaori. This time, Eovin had his head up. The poor man looked sick. Perhaps the beating he'd taken had hurt him deep in the head. That happened sometimes. Aun ached to see to him, but she stayed where she was, listening to the bedclothes being pulled off of the mattress behind her.

"Don't tear up the quilt," someone was saying. "Once this is all done, I'll have that for my own bed."

"It's the bloody palace, you idiot," someone replied. "Ain't a thing in here will be taken out. 'Tis all His Grace's."

The pair fell to bickering. Then came a familiar sound: cloth being torn into strips. This had always seemed a soothing sound to Aun, who found the act of making and rolling bandages to be calming work, but here, it was a sharp screech. A warning.