Idle Prison, Yusan
Ailor tells good stories, and he hasn’t tried to kill me, which makes him my best friend in a place like Idle Prison. Well, we’re friends inasmuch as cellmates can be friendly. I like having him here, and I don’t want anything bad to happen to him. I’ve come to believe that he’s not a spy. I think he simply happened to be thrown in with me.
I should say: I’m sure someone powerful has something planned by putting us together, but I don’t believe Ailor is in on it any more than I am.
Ailor is forty years old and from a city near the Strait of Teeth. He has a grown son, a wife who died long ago, and a donkey named Sticks, whom he misses. Since he retired from the king’s guard, he primarily spends his time growing lemon and olive trees and trying to forget what he saw and did as a soldier. The last part is speculation. I’ve told him I have done things I’m not proud of, and he just said, “Kid, you have no idea.”
We’ve been exchanging stories in the dark because the oil for the lantern ran out long ago. There’s been no sign of Hana for twenty meals—which I think is somewhere between five and nine days, but it gets harder and harder to keep track.
The food she left ran out a while ago, and my stomach has been clamoring ever since. It roars like the iku, and I wrap my arms around my waist.
“What I wouldn’t give for another block of cheese,” I say.
“It’d be nice,” Ailor says casually.
I can see his form but not every expression. I’ve become skilled at reading his tone, though.
“Been through worse?” I ask.
He nods. “You’re probably too young to remember the famine around twenty years ago. I would’ve happily eaten this prison food if I could’ve gotten my hands on it. I had more than most because I was a soldier, but that’s not saying much. We had some rice provisions, and we were left to fend for ourselves for anything beyond that.”
He’s right—I don’t remember the famine. I was a year or two old when it happened. But I’m sure even if I had been older, I’d barely recall it. I’m certain my family didn’t experience any hardship. Those at the top never do.
But I am no longer a noble. And I don’t think Hana is coming back to help. The thought twists a knife in my side. Or maybe that’s hunger pangs, too.
Our meals come, and once again I think about chancing it for some spicy pork and glass noodles. How infested could just the noodles be? But I also don’t want to soil myself in front of Ailor or make the cell reek. Instead, I just have the bread and water.
Hana explained that prison food is left over from what the palace kitchens feed the many servants in Qali. What isn’t eaten is brought here to feed the guards, and then finally left out until it’s dished to the prisoners. That is why it smells good. Some meals will be edible, and some will be well-spoiled by the time the food makes it to our cells.
A little after our trays are taken away, keys jangle and turn in the lock—someone is here.
Ailor and I both startle. I scurry, while Ailor steps back in a dignified, ready fashion. I think we’re both expecting the guards to pull us out. He still hasn’t told me what he did to be in here, but I haven’t been forthcoming, either. We’ve told detailed past stories, particularly about the antics of his donkey, but vague recent ones.
“Put your hands over your eyes,” I say. “It will help you adjust to the light faster.”
The door opens, and someone comes in. I brace myself for the bright torches of the guards, but instead it’s a small lantern.
Hana?
I remove my hand and squint in her direction. Itisher.
Joy races through my body, my heart filling. I hadn’t realized how worried I was about her until she just reappeared. Maybe it’s all for selfish reasons—for the help she gives me—but I don’t think it’s ever a bad thing to want to see someone alive and well.
My happiness, though, is snuffed out by the haunted look on her face. She seems like she was tortured. She’s still beautiful, of course, but there’s a hollowed-out gauntness to her. Something about her seems changed for the worse.
I can only imagine one thing that could throw her this much: Sora is dead.
My mouth goes dry, and my head feels light and woozy, but I keep my composure. I brace myself to ask. I don’t want to, but I have to know.
“What happened?”
My pulse beats, pounding in my neck as I wait for her to tell me that all hope is lost. My heart thuds like it wants to leap out to get the answer faster.
Hana shakes her head and sets down the lantern. Then she takes a deep breath, puts her hood down, and faces us. She looks collected, more like someone who simply didn’t sleep well last night. But it’s an act.
“Is Sora all right?” I press.
She nods.
