“I don’t know how Whimsitt found out, but Ralph told me this morning, just to watch my face when I realized what it meant.” Sylvie lifted a hand to brush her hair out of her eyes, and Isobelle saw her nails were torn, her fingertips bloodied. “And then he locked me in my room, to keep me from you. I tried to fight my way out. I tried to warn you.”
“Sylvie!” Isobelle threw aside the pillow, scrambling across the bed. “I’m sorry, I should have known. You deserve so much better than for me to think...”
“I do deserve better,” Sylvie agreed, taking a step back in alarm as she realized there was a very real prospect of a hug unless she took evasive action. “But we have far bigger issues. They’re all going to be shouting at each other and putting out fires for a while yet, so we have time to think. Let’s do that very carefully and get this right.”
“Get what right?”
Sylvie blinked at her. “Rescuing Gwen, of course.”
Chapter Forty-Four
A foolish, reckless idiot with her head in the clouds
Gwen wedged herself into the corner of the cell and tried not to shiver.
We should’ve gotten those villagers out of here the moment they were taken,she thought guiltily. She’d never been in a jail cell before, but between the unrelenting chill, the constant steady dripping sounds from the ceiling, and the sporadic, not-so-distant rustlings of rodents, Gwen realized she’d never fully imagined quite how awful it was.
At least she could lean her shoulder against the stone wall and let the chill soothe the pain for her. It was even better than Olivia’s basin of cool water. She’d tried, when she’d first been tossed in here, to haul the heavy door up off its hinges again—but the other night, it had taken her efforts combined with Isobelle’s and Olivia’s, plus the help of a few of the villagers. On her own, she could barely shift the door at all.
The distant screams and foundation-shaking roars from the dragon had long since faded. If any of the lore about them was right, though, it would be back. The gold mines had been closed long ago because the precious metal attracted the monsters. Now, a fortune in gold and gems would be under guard at the heart of Darkhaven castle, and the beast had gotten quite a good look at itwhile it flew about the tournament.
Gwen closed her eyes and her mind filled instantly with a memory of the dragon as it had flown over the tournament grounds. Its wingspan was wide enough to block out the sun across the entire stands, and with one casual breath it had razed half the festival.
And yet her bloodsangwhen she saw it. Some terrifying instinct, buried deep within her, had burst out in one piercing rush, and she had actuallyfoughtthe guards dragging her toward safety in order to stay where the dragon was. In order to stand, to fight.
Gwen shuddered and buried her face in her hands. When had she turned from a sensible, practical village girl into a foolish, reckless idiot with her head in the clouds?
Isobelle,she thought, heart aching.That’s when.
The faint illumination in her cell came from a torch some distance down the corridor and around the bend. Her first indication that someone was coming was a sudden, massive shadow on the wall, and then a mad flickering of the light as whoever it was tugged the torch out of its sconce.
She recognized the heavy, clinking steps of the mail-enhanced boots worn by the castle guard and braced herself. She thought she’d have more time before they decided what to do with her. But perhaps it was better this way, without an eternity in these cells, replaying the choices she could have made differently.
The torchlight bobbed and weaved, illuminating a large, burly form, and came to a halt before the bars of her cell.
“Gwen?”
Gwen’s head snapped up. She knew that voice. Knew it better than any other in the whole world.
“D-dad?”
Her father tossed the torch down onto the stone, pulled off his helmet, and pressed in against the bars. “Gwen!”
Gwen scrambled to her feet, biting back a sob as she rushed for the bars, reaching through them so Amos could wrap her hands up in his own big, scarred ones. “Dad, how... I don’t...”
Her father gave a soft, strained laugh, and squeezed her hands hard enough to make her bones ache. She didn’t protest. “I came as soon as I heard. It took me a while to get everything together, but as soon as that lady showed up to tell me what had happened—”
“Lady?” Gwen interrupted, her heart staggering.
“Well, I don’t know what she was. She was dressed like a servant, so I suppose...”
“Olivia?” Gwen gasped, hands going somewhat limp now under her father’s. “Was she the same woman who brought a bunch of refugees to the village?”
Her father nodded. “The very same. She brought me your armor, all messed up, straps cut and everything. Gwen, who the hell is she? She’s not any kind of servant, that much I know.”
Gwen fought the somewhat hysterical urge to laugh. “I have no idea. She’s supposed to be Isobelle’s maid, but... well, we don’t ask how or why she knows and does the things she does. The villagers from Aberfarthing—they did get to you?”
Her father nodded. “They’re all well, by the way—we’ve sent a few of them on to other villages, and we’re all making sure they’re well cared for.” He let out a sigh, a faint smile on his face. “I forgot how much easier it is to take care of someone else than it is yourself.”
