At this point, there was only one thing I hoped for—that Captain Greenwood would be able to clear his own name without ruining an innocent witch.
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THE PALACE DUNGEONSwere rumored to be an intimidating labyrinth of cramped cellars and dank air that sucked all the life out of a prisoner. Those who were proven guilty lost all defiance and those who refuse to admit their crimes did so after mere hours of being locked up. I could see where such rumors originated when Ash took me through the iron wrought gates and down the dark pit.
Though it was only a few hours after midday, there was not a hint of light aside from the torches. Square grates lined the ceiling, but they were too high up and too small to illuminate anything.
“Take one of these to better see the gorgeous scenery,” Ash said, handing me a torch from the wall. The firelight flickered over his grin as he gestured grandly to our squalid surroundings.
I took it, feeling too grim to smile at his jokes. “How long are we allowed in here?”
“Thirty minutes, at most. Though we could get away with an hour. I am a prince, after all.”
We passed a set of hefty wooden doors guarded by two men. They bowed and pushed them open.
“Here comes the not-so-pretty part,” Ash said into my ear.
I swallowed as we stepped over the threshold. Moans and cries of prisoners echoed from the long hall. A draft brought the odor of unwashed bodies and other unpleasant things. I pressed my sleeve to my nose, inching closer to Ash.
“Your Highness! Save me!” A hand shot out from one of the cells, caked with grime and grasping for Ash’s leg. He sidestepped gracefully.
“No can do, sir,” Ash said. “I believe you murdered somebody six months ago.”
“Where exactly did you keep Captain Greenwood?” I whispered as we proceeded down the passageway. I was shaking involuntarily, trying to avoid eye contact with the wild-eyed prisoners. I thought I saw a woman chewing on her foot.
“Not too far,” Ash replied. “Cell number one hundred fifty-six.”
I glanced at the numbers nailed atop the cells. The furthest I could see was sixty-two. Something touched my arm. I yelped, but I had only brushed Ash’s elbow.
He turned to me, lips twisting. The scoundrel was on the brink of laughter. “Are you scared, Amarante?” he teased. Someone’s shrill scream pierced the air.
I scowled heavily. “Of course not. I promenade amongst half-crazed criminals and murderers daily.”
His face lost a bit of its mirth. “Unfortunately not just criminals and murderers,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Some of them are citizens who couldn’t afford to pay taxes or were caught with illegal goods.”
I bit my lip. “Like from the Witch Market?” I ventured to ask.
“Precisely,” Ash said. He shook his head. “Many of them couldn’t help it. They have no choice when they are too destitute to pay for little else but food. I only hope they haven’t been harmed by witch-made items.”
I thought about Nina and her fish. Was her family so poor that she had to trade for medicine at the Witch Market? It was a good deal for her—I knew Lana’s antidote worked wonders, even more so than a regular ointment that cost real gold. Yet magic was unlawful and Ash spoke of it with such distaste.
“I didn’t know you sent people with witch-made items to the dungeons,” I said.
Ash heaved a sigh. “It came with the Non-Magic Age. Once I find evidence of Navierre’s crimes, my father will reinforce the anti-magic laws—”
He paused abruptly at my scowl. He probably mistook it for disinterest. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be talking about this with you.”
If anything, I was the most fitting person to talk to. But I knew I couldn’t say so.
“It’s fine,” I said instead.
His grin reappeared on his face. “Well, if you’re still scared grab on to me.” He took my arm and wrapped it around his.
For a moment, I forgot my offense.
