“I see you,” I say. “Is there anything I can do to help?” He just moans. “I’m going to send for a doctor,” I tell him.
“Nooo,” he replies forcefully. Then more weakly: “Water.”
“Sit tight. I’ll get you a doctor.”
“Water!” He gets more insistent. Then he goes back to rocking and groaning.
“I’m sorry . . . I can’t do that. I can’t come in. And you may be contagious. But I can try to get someone who can help you.”
“Not contagious,” he says. “Happens all the time.”
“Then you still need help.”
“Thirsty,” he begs.
I’m absolutely certain I am not supposed to open any cell door, let alone enter one. But he seems harmless enough—he can’t even get up to reach his water. How can I let this poor man suffer? Who knows how long it’s been since he had anything to eat or drink?
For all I know, this key only works on the ground-floor entry to the turret anyway. I’ll just try it. If it works, if it unlocks the door, I’ll hand the man his water and head right back out the door. Besides, he’s a human being, a sick human being, not a rabid animal waiting to pounce, and I’m not exactly defenseless either.
I slide the key in the lock and twist. It clicks. I push the door open. The man is lying on old straw that’s been stacked against the wall, covered up to his ears by a blanket, though his feet and the bottom of his legs stick out. He’s still groaning and rocking back and forth. At this rate it doesn’t seem like he’ll last long enough to see a doctor. But I don’t see any obvious boils or sores on his exposed skin, and he doesn’t look particularly sweaty or flushed, so not feverish. Must have something gnawing away inside him, like one of the countrywomen Aunt Mesha treated years ago. A tumor. She suffered in much the same way at the end. And that’s not contagious.
I pick up his water mug and carry it to him. “Here you go,” I say, crouching down and holding it out. The prisoner rolls over a bit to take it from me.
His hand reaches out. I offer the cup. Suddenly, he’s flinging himself toward me and his hands grab my wrists before I’m able to process what’s happening.
The mug crashes against the ground.
In a flash, he has my arms pinned behind my back and holds a sharpened stick at my neck. I stifle a scream as I recognize him at last.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Shadow
“CALEDON HOLT! I’M HERE TO help you!” I try to break free from his grip but he’s too strong. “Stop! You’re hurting me!”
“You’re not the usual guard,” he says in my ear, pulling my arms tighter. He looks me up and down. “You’re not even a guard. Who are you? Why are you here?”
“Aren’t you ill?” I ask. He doesn’t show any signs of the disease he was supposedly suffering from minutes ago. He yanks my arms tighter behind my back.
“Ouch! Ease up a little.” I try to pull away from him but he only strengthens his grip again. “I’ve been looking for you. I’m here to get you out.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Or let me go. Seems like he’s trying to understand what I’ve said. This is not the dashing rescue I’d hoped it would be. If anything it’s already a disaster.
He pulls me with him over to the doorway and looks out into the hall. “Who’s with you?” he asks me.
“Nobody. I’m alone. The guards are playing cards tonight. That’s why I delivered the food. I was trying to find you. They’re full of ale, totally oblivious. I know where we can get horses.”
Caledon looks puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“I told you. I’m here to get you out.”
He laughs. “Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that she sent you?”
“She who?”
“She who?” He laughs. “Who are you working for?”
“Let me go and I’ll show you.”
“That’s not going to happen. So either you start talking or . . .”
“Queen Lilianna sent me,” I finally tell him. That’s the only “she” he would believe.
“Prove it.”
A wolf howls off in the distance. We both turn our heads toward the window for a moment. But we’ll worry about the wilderness later; for now I have to manage to leave this cell in one piece. “Let go of me and I can. I have a royal work order.”
“A work order? Is that how we operate now?”
I’m unsure whether he’s referring to the palace or the Guild, but either way, simply being included in Caledon’s “we” thrills me. Still, I didn’t expect him to question me this way. I suppose it was foolish to believe my arrival alone would be cause for celebration. Lucky for me, I have the paper. “It’s in my pocket,” I tell him. He squeezes my wrists with his right hand and reaches into my back pocket with his left. My whole body tenses. “Other side,” I say. If he decides to search me for weapons, that could be rather awkward . . .
He pulls out the paper and opens it with one hand. “This is fake. A decent one, but fake all the same.”
The fact that he knows that instantly makes my stomach turn. The only reason I wasn’t caught straightaway is because the guard in the wagon was too dull-witted to notice. “We don’t have time to argue. Because there is someone in this prison who was sent here to kill you and it’s not me.”
He looks me up and down. That revelation didn’t get the reaction I wanted. “No, she wouldn’t send you. Who are you really?” He pulls on my wrist and twists it. “A spy?” he demands, scrutinizing my face.
“No!” I pull away from him. He lets me go this time. He does believe me, then. I snatch the paper out of his hand and put it back in my pocket. “I told you! You’re wasting time. The queen sent me to you for training. Getting you out was my first assignment.”
“You’re to be my apprentice?” He looks confused. “She knows I work alone.”
“Look, there’s nothing else I can do to prove it, but if you want to get out of here—”
“Well, first of all, how about giving me your name?” he says. “Since you already know mine.”
“Caledon,” I say, stalling for time.
“Name’s Cal,” he corrects. “No one calls me Caledon but my father and the queen.”