“More people will die.” I had no idea if this was true.
What would happen when we arrived at the castle? Would a trial take place immediately?
Who would judge me, with His Highness sick, perhaps dying? The mayor? The princess? Sir Misyur, who might have done everything?
Bells chimed—the three-o’clock bells, not the long tolling that would mark His Majesty’s death. I was glad at least that the lair lay at the southern edge of Two Castles and there were no witnesses to my disgrace. But the secret wouldn’t be kept. Soon my accusal would be known in town. Eventually word would reach my family, who thought me safely apprenticed to a weaver.
The menagerie lay ahead. If only I could shape-shift.
I stumbled. The pressure on my right arm grew, although I hadn’t been trying to break free. The guard on my left complained that they were missing their meal. I had missed mine, too, and was hungry through my fright.
A guard behind me said, “Master Jak will have put something aside for us.”
Master Jak? I thought he and the taster were imprisoned. No, of course not. I was the one who would be imprisoned. Master Thiel had lied. Why would he lie about this?
To persuade Masteress Meenore to let him go.
The count’s castle rose ahead. I made myself heavy and stopped walking.
The red-cape guard snapped, “None of that!”
“I’ll take her.” The guard on my left slung me over his shoulder as if I were a sack of wheat.
My head jounced with every step. “I’ll walk!” I cried, but he didn’t put me down.
Someday I will mansion this, I thought.
Sir Misyur and Her Highness were waiting at the door to the northeast tower when I arrived, along with guards who stood so still they might have been nailed in place. My guard set me on the ground and pushed down on my cap to force a curtsy. I would have curtsied!
Sir Misyur only looked at me dolefully, but Her Highness cried, “Ehlodie! How could you have hurt him?”
“I didn’t! I wouldn’t—”
She slapped me across my face. My head swiveled with the force of the blow.
“La! Didn’t I give you my own cap?”
I put my hand up to my cheek. “Please, Your—”
“You will have an opportunity to speak,” Sir Misyur said. “Until then, you’ll be confined to the tower.”
“You’ll be comfortable in spite of your crime. I give you a princess’s word. You won’t suffer.”
“Does your father still breathe?” I shouldn’t have asked, since they believed I wanted him dead.
No one answered. I was led inside.
As I went in, I heard Sir Misyur say, “A mansioner can easily mansion innocence.”
The door thudded shut. I didn’t hear a lock turn. What need to lock a guarded door?
Facing me was the door to the donjon, closed now. On my right rose a narrow circular stairway in its own little tower attached to the big one. The stairs were dimly lit by occasional slitted windows.
My left-hand guard pulled on my elbow. He and I advanced together with Mistress Guard in the rear. The other guards remained at the bottom. After climbing once around, we reached a short landing and another shut door. The stairs continued, and so did we to the third and top story. A landing here, too, door on my left. Facing me, a ladder led upward to a trapdoor, which must have opened onto the wall walk.
Mistress Guard lifted the latch and pushed the door open. “In you go.” She shoved me inside.
The chamber was large and comfortable. In other circumstances it must have been guest quarters. A fire burned brightly and an oil lamp had been lit, no doubt the princess’s doing to keep me from suffering, as if light and heat could lessen my misery. A low door across the room would certainly lead to the privy.
The guards exited. The door groaned as a crossbar was pushed home. On my side, the key to the ordinary lock was in the keyhole, useless because of the crossbar.
Furnishings were a small table, a low-backed chair, a case of shelves that held no more than a sewing box and a clay bowl, a barred window too high in the wall for me to see out of, and a bed, a rich man’s bed, suspended from the ceiling by ropes and surrounded by drapes to keep out the cold. For extra warmth, a second blanket lay folded at the foot. I threw myself facedown across the coverlet and wept.
I don’t know how long I cried. For a while I seemed made of brine. I wept for the ogre, the king, the ox, the princess, Nesspa. And me. Thoughts of yesterday’s happiness were torment. I was unlikely ever to become a mansioner.
More than a few tears were caused by thoughts of my masteress. Why hadn’t IT flown with me to the castle? IT could have ripped me away from my captors.
Because IT doubted me. IT hadn’t ridiculed Master Thiel’s suggestion that I had plotted with Sir Misyur, and IT had called ITself a fool when the guards came, a fool for not deducing that I was the whited sepulcher.
That hurt most of all, ITs disbelief in me.