Thread of Frost

Ch. 6: I Let You Sleep in My Bed

"You're a person," Tristan said.

"Technically, I'm a shifter." The stranger unlocked the door. "I have some Salvatorian heritage. Just like you."

Bile rose in his throat. "I let you sleep in my bed."

"I know." The stranger's mouth quirked. "Terribly uncomfortable, too. You really ought to do something about those pillows." He unlatched Tristan's cell next, wrenching open the door. "Come, now. Quickly."

He started down the hall.

Isaac and Tristan exchanged a glance. Then they hurried after him.

"Wait!" Tristan hissed. "Who sent you?"

The stranger paused, an ear cocked toward the stairwell. "That's a long story."

Tristan swallowed. "What do you want?"

The stranger raised a thin red eyebrow. "Right now, I'd like to make it out of this prison cell without being skewered. So, again. Keep it down."

He turned back toward the dark stairwell. Tristan closed his eyes, trying to stop the world from tilting sideways. He hadn't run that fast in... well, in weeks. His legs were trembling with the effort of staying upright.

The stranger started up the stairs. Tristan seized his shoulder.

"Wait!"

The young man looked exasperated. "What?"

"What's your name?" Tristan asked.

"Owain." He took the first step. "Now hurry."

"Stop!" Tristan said.

He darted in front of him this time, almost sending them both toppling down the dark staircase. The stranger — Owain, Tristan thought — swore in a language that he didn't recognize. "What?"

Tristan's heart was hammering. "We can't go yet."

Owain pinched the bridge of his nose. "Tristan, I swear to the holy stars—"

"Do your keys work on every cell?" Tristan cut in.

Owain's gaze was flat. "I refuse to start a prison riot."

"It's just one prisoner," Tristan said. "Tarquin."

"Are you mad?" Isaac hissed. "His wife tried to kill us!"

Isaac was standing at the bottom of the stairs, wearing an expression that Tristan could only describe as "exasperated-father-dealing-with-toddler-trying-to-lick-a-hot-frying-pan." He took a step down.

"We need him," Tristan said. "If we go to Tarhalla, we can offer him as an act of good faith."

Isaac's eyes narrowed. "As a bargaining chip, you mean." Tristan remained silent, and Isaac sighed. "Fine. Whatever. Let's break him out."

Owain raised an eyebrow. Still, he must have decided that it wasn't worth arguing about, because he handed Tristan the keys. Tristan started down the corridor. Most of the cells were empty, although it took him a good five minutes to locate Tarquin. And when he did, he wished he hadn't.

Tarquin was curled up in the corner. The former guard was clutching a handful of hay as if it was a plush toy, and his breathing was wet and ragged. Tristan squared his shoulders. Then he unlocked the cell.

"Tarquin?" he whispered.

The man didn't stir.

Isaac stepped in after him, wrinkling his nose. "Gods. It stinks in here."

"June," Tarquin slurred. "My June."

The older man sat up, his dark eyes glazed. He was still clutching that handful of hay to his chest, whimpering slightly, and Tristan had to battle the urge to look away. A lump rose in his throat.

Owain leaned against the bars. "He's delirious."

"I can see that." Tristan turned to Isaac. "Can you carry him?"

Isaac raised an eyebrow. "You want me to carry him?"

Exasperation filled him. "How did you think we were going to get him out of here? Levitation?" Isaac was motionless, staring at his former colleague with something akin to horror, and Tristan threw his hands up. "Fine. I'll do it."

He started forward. Isaac held up a hand.

"No offense, Beauchamp," Isaac said, "but you couldn't carry a bag of feathers." He rolled up his sleeves. "I'll do it."

Isaac stooped, slinging Tarquin over his shoulder. His legs shook slightly as he rose, his stride slightly unsteady. Prison had eaten away at his muscles, Tristan observed; probably eaten away at his confidence, too.

"Good," Owain said. "Follow my lead." He paused at the cell door. "And for stars' sake, stop talking."