His face curls in disgust. “Not my hostage. We will escape together. You yourself said you were a prisoner here.” His voice is low, urgent, and as seductive as when it first rose up out of the oubliette to greet me.
And that voice now holds a sword at my throat. It is such a huge betrayal that fury lashes through me. I lean forward, using the movement to conceal my hand behind my skirts. “If you wanted to escape together, you could at least have included me in your plans.”
“I thought about it,” he admits. “But wasn’t certain you would agree and couldn’t risk showing my hand.”
My fingers unfold the supple leather of the case. “Just how long have you been planning this?”
“A while.”
That spark of fury crackles along my skin. “How long is a while? Ever since I first brought you food and water? Ever since I saved you from starving to death? Or was it after that? When I brought you news of the outer world. Trusted you—trusted your word.”
He takes a step toward me. “I have been planning my escape for over a year. It is the one thing that kept me alive. Kept me from giving up. I was planning it long before you stumbled upon my prison. You just happened to be the first opportunity that presented itself.”
His words are like the blade of a knife—I was never anything but an opportunity to him. “So you were planning it before we even came to our sparring agreement?” When we were naught but voices in the dark, easing our loneliness? My fingers count along the tops of the needles until they reach the ones with the knots of thread.
“Yes,” he says softly. “But that does not mean that any of what I have said was not true. It was and is. I still have no wish to harm you or put you in danger.”
“You have an odd way of convincing me.” There! The needle is firmly grasped between my finger and thumb, the point of it a safe distance from my own skin.
“I proved it all the times I did not move against you.”
I shake my head. “That was not honor. That was stringing me along on a line, hoping I would lead you to a bigger fish. And I have! By trusting you enough to agree to this room, I have given you a much greater chance of success. Do not pretend it was anything other than you trying to set up the best opportunity for yourself that you could. At least be honest about it.”
“Until you have been shut in a hole for months on end, with no food, no light, little water, and even less hope, do not lecture me about honesty. The only thing that kept me going was my vow to find vengeance for those wrongly slain before my very eyes. That vow comes before all others I have given.”
His face grows soft again, and he lowers the sword slightly to take half a step toward me. “But now is your chance to be free. You are not happy here. You hope for adventure or you would not be training as you do. We can find it together, once we are away.”
My attack will not require much movement. If he is trying to persuade me to escape with him, he will hopefully not run me through due to a flick of my hand. Even so, it is a risk I must take. “With me doing what, precisely? Being your lightskirt? Your laundress?”
His eyes widen in offended surprise. Now! I whip my hand out, jam the needle into his forearm, then quickly yank my hand back to my side so he will not think I am trying to wrest the sword from him.
“Ouch!” He frowns in both pain and annoyance. “What was that?”
“That, O False One, is a trick of my own.”
He blinks rapidly as his vision begins to blur. The arm holding the sword starts to tremble slightly.
“What kind of trick?”
“The kind I wore up my sleeve in case you turned out to be as false as you are. I wish you sweet dreams.”
“Dreams? What are you talk—” His voice stops abruptly and the sword clatters to the floor. His eyelids flutter and his body loosens, like a puppet cut from his strings.
Realizing I will be in trouble if he hits the ground—he is far too big for me to carry—I leap forward and wedge myself under his shoulder just as he goes slack.
“Wha haf you done ter me?” he slurs.
“There, there, now,” I assure him as I get my arm around his waist and steer him toward the door. “It is just a bit of poison.”
“Poyshum!” The garbled word is filled with alarm. Fortunately, the poison has not reached his legs yet and I am able to clumsily guide him out of the sparring room toward the oubliette.
“Ewe poyshumed mme.” His lips have grown numb and are tinged with blue.
“It isn’t enough to kill you. Or it shouldn’t be, at any rate. With luck, you will just sleep for a bit.”
“Can’t schleep. Mussht eshcape.” When we are only halfway to the grate, his entire body stiffens briefly, then grows utterly limp and begins to slip to the floor.
Figs! He is too heavy for me to hold up. I have no choice but to let him fall.
As I fold my arms and stare down at his motionless form stretched out on the stone, a dark swirl of emotions writhes inside my heart. I cannot believe what he has done. Cannot believe that, once again, I have allowed myself to be lulled into trusting someone.
Resisting the urge to kick him, I get down on my knees and roll his unconscious body toward the grate. The only thing keeping me from feeling like a fool is that I have always known this was a possibility and prepared accordingly. It is that very planning that has stopped him today.
It is the hollowest of victories.
By the time I reach the oubliette, I am hot and sweating and angrier than ever.
I briefly consider going down first to make sure his pile of moldy straw is directly beneath the grate to soften his landing, then scoff at myself. He held a sword to my throat and was going to escape—after all I’d done for him and the assurances he’d given.
I study his sleeping face, trying to see if the signs of his treachery are written upon it. If they are, I cannot see them, even now. I have half a mind to pry open his mouth and inspect his tongue to see if it is forked. Instead, I place my hands on his shoulders and hips and roll him into the opening of the oubliette. He folds in half and disappears down the hole, followed by a solid thunk as he hits the floor.
I sit on my knees a moment, breathing hard, then stand up, slam the grate closed, slide the bolt in, and lock it. Our sparring sessions have come to an end. And I was the one who emerged victorious. Now all that is left for me to do is leave.
?Chapter 50
Sybella
e give it a week before we make our move—enough time for the household to fall into a recognizable rhythm. Waking, mass, dinner with entertainment. In the afternoon, the king pays a visit to the queen. Inevitably, the regent contrives to be there just prior to his arrival.