AISLINNE KRAY SAT QUIETLY in the near-darkness of her prison, listening to the sounds echoing without. Even from underground in the basement storeroom and from behind thick walls and the heavy wooden door, she could hear the tumult. She had become aware of something happening earlier, perhaps as long as several hours ago, voices drifting down to where she sat, growing steadily stronger as time passed, both in numbers and in volume. Some sort of gathering was taking place right outside the building in which she was locked away. She wondered if it had anything to do with her imprisonment. Had Pogue called for her release? Were people gathering to hear his decision and to make a judgment of their own on her fate?
It was impossible to tell. Because the sounds did not come from overhead—there was no creaking of floorboards or thudding of boots—she knew that everything was taking place outside the building. Time passed as the sounds rose and fell in regular cadence until just a little while ago they had erupted in a series of sharp bursts.
Something unexpected and wild had happened, for all at once the collective voice of the crowd exploded with such a roar that she came to her feet in response. She hurried to the door and tried to listen through the cracks in the jamb. She pounded on the door and called the guards to tell her what was happening, but no one came. She shouted a long time, but to no avail. Defeated, she walked back across the room and resumed her seat. She was at the mercy of her captors, and she was not sure that even her husband could save her.
Pogue, please help me, she whispered silently. Do not abandon me.
As if in answer to her prayer, she heard movement on the other side of the door. The scrape of a boot, a fumbling at the door, the release of the lock, and a soft squeal of wood and metal as the door swung open.
She moved back quickly, suddenly uncertain who it was. “Pogue?” she asked softly.
“Aislinne?” a voice whispered.
“Brickey!”
She felt a surge of relief. He had departed several days ago for Hold-Fast-Crossing, not long after her encounter with the ragpicker, to find out what had become of Hadrian Esselline, and many were the times since—especially after they had locked her away in this storeroom—that she had wished she had never let him go.
The little man stepped quickly through the door and closed it behind him. He was dust-covered and his black hair was sticking up like the quills on a porcupine. “Shhh, softly now. I gave the guard something to make him fall asleep, but he might have friends nearby. Are you all right?”
“Now that you’re here, I am. When did you get back?”
“Not more than two hours ago. Soon enough to see the villagers charging about like headless chickens and to hear of the madness that’s taken hold. What are they thinking, shutting you away like this, blaming you for the Troll’s escape?”
She shook her head. “If I knew, I would tell you. I was asleep in my bed one minute and thrown into this room and charged with all sorts of things the next. I only just last night met with Pogue. He waited until then to come to me, telling me I had betrayed him. But he’s not himself. Wasn’t until we talked, anyway. He might be more so now.
He’s promised to see to it that I have a chance to face my accusers.”
“I wouldn’t count on that happening, Aislinne.” The little man glanced back at the door as if expecting someone. “Things have gotten much worse since you spoke with him. Bad enough that I decided right away I had to get you out of here.”
“But I have to give Pogue a chance to see if—”
“Pogue Kray’s chances are all used up. He lies dead in the village square, his bones broken by something that looks like the Seraphic but very likely isn’t.”
“Skeal Eile killed him?”
“A Skeal Eile made over or just a creature that looks like Skeal Eile. I saw him pick up your husband as if he were made of straw and throw him twenty feet through the air into the trunk of a tree. The Seraphic might have use of some small magic, but nothing this powerful.”
“Who, then?”
“The ragpicker, I would guess.”
“That old man?”
“He’s more than an old man or even a simple ragpicker. I sensed something strange about him the moment we met. He’s something more than he seems and nothing good.
He’s found a way to make Skeal Eile his own, a willing tool in his plans, whatever they are. Now Eile claims to have spoken to the ghost of the Hawk. He says the boy has returned and wants everyone to march out of the valley so they can be taken to some new, faraway place to live. Madness.”
“Out of the valley! We have to stop this!”
“A fine sentiment, but devoid of anything resembling common sense. What we have to do, Aislinne, is get away from here and find help somewhere else. I have news of another sort that suggests a further reason we can’t stay. Esselline isn’t coming.
Apparently, he had second thoughts about the advisability of getting involved in our struggle. That’s the way he sees it, I am told—as our struggle. He’s a proud man with a modicum of courage, but he’s a fool for public opinion, as well. With Sider dead, he feels he is released from his promise. He thinks it best to stay home and defend his own ground rather than to rush to our aid. He doesn’t see us as worth saving, I guess. I had thought better of him once, as I suppose Sider had. We were both mistaken.”