“It’s what we do here. We call each other by our crimes. Think of it as a whetstone, sharpening you every time you hear it.”
Jack rolled his lips together. He was full of countless retorts and questions and emotions, all of which he wished could escape from him, like steam. But he was caught in a web, and panicking would only draw the spider toward him sooner.
“Then what do I call you by?” he asked.
His cellmate tilted his head to the side, a fringe of dirty blond hair shifting over one of his eyes. “I’m Thief too. Most of us are here.”
“Not mad, like me?”
“No. You should be honored that you garnered such a title. Whatever did you steal?”
Jack glanced away, settling as comfortably as he could on the ground in a sitting position. His right ribs smarted in pain, and he gingerly touched them, wincing. He must have been thrown over Rab’s horse, then bruised by the gallop to Kirstron.
“I stole nothing,” Jack finally said.
“Ah. You’re one of those kinds,” mused his cellmate.
“What kind is that?”
“The ones who are in denial when they come. It may take a few days or weeks, depending on how stubborn you are. But you’ll soon admit to your crime, if only to see the moon and stars one last time. To look upon the face you love in the crowd, even from a distance.”
Jack’s attention sharpened as he tried to make sense of the man’s words. “Is there a way for an innocent person to get out of here? A trial, or a proceeding?”
His cellmate snickered. “Oh, there’s a way. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.”
“I’m not from these parts. Do enlighten me, Thief.”
The man smiled, his scar puckering his cheek. “There are many ways to enter these prisons, Mad Thief. But there are only two ways out. The first? You die of the cold and the damp. The second? You face the culling.”
If there was one thing Jack was truly bad at, it was hand-to-hand combat with swords. He could make rocks sail with alarming accuracy with his slingshot, and he was good at sneaking from one place to another. He could even shoot and handle a bow decently. But he had never been strong at spars when he was a student in Sloane, taking classes with the other isle children. Those hours of practice on the castle green had been difficult and often humiliating for him. Which was rather hilarious to think about, considering how much Jack had once aspired to become one of the East Guard.
He sat against the wall of his prison cell and mulled over all the details of the culling Thief had given him. It didn’t sound real, and Jack had initially wondered if his cellmate was trying to have fun at his expense and was teasing him for his lack of knowledge. But Jack had to remind himself that he was in the west and in the thick of the Breccan clan. It shouldn’t surprise him that they died by their swords as they lived with them, and that an honorable death was still important to them, even to criminals.
According to Thief, the culling was held in an arena, and most of the clan attended as witnesses. Fighting for your life before hundreds of eyes was terrifying to imagine, but it was also the only ray of hope Jack had at the moment. If the clan attended the event, there was a very good chance that Adaira would be present. At the very least, the laird would be there and Innes would recognize him.
So Jack needed to be chosen for the next culling. It was the only way he could see himself escaping this place if the damp cold didn’t kill him first. He was so desperate to get free that the thought of being slain in the arena didn’t rattle him. Yet.
“How does one get selected for this culling?” he asked.
“It depends,” Thief replied. “Sometimes they go by how long a prisoner has been here. Sometimes they do a random selection. But it’s why they put you in the cell with me. I’ve been selected to fight tomorrow.”
Jack had to bite his tongue to hold back his eagerness. He breathed once, twice, before saying calmly, “Would you be willing to let me go in your stead?”
“You want to die tomorrow then?” Thief countered.
“I can hold my own with a sword,” Jack lied.
“It’s not you. It’s the one you’d be facing tomorrow, should I let you take my spot.”
“I thought you said prisoners who won the spars were pardoned and welcomed back into the clan.”
“Not Oathbreaker.”
The hair rose on Jack’s arms. He shivered, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from rattling. But that name was familiar, roused in a memory shaped by Mirin’s voice. They called him “Oathbreaker” and stripped him of his title and name.
His father was here, somewhere in the dungeons. Sitting alone in the cold dark, breathing the same dank air as Jack. He was here, and he had fought time and time again in the culling. He should have been pardoned many times over, but something or someone was holding him back, waiting for him to finally be slain.
“I take it you’ve heard of the old tragic Oathbreaker,” Thief drawled. “Since you’re not pestering me with questions.”
“How many times has he fought in the culling? Why hasn’t he been freed?”
“More than I can count. And the laird doesn’t wish it. Simple as that.”
“How just of her.”
“Careful, Mad Thief. Don’t forget where you are. Don’t speak ill of the laird.”
Jack fell silent, grinding his molars as he imagined his father fighting, killing, shackled, unforgiven. Over and over and over. Jack didn’t even know what he looked like—he had never seen Niall Breccan—but would his father know it was him should they meet in the arena? Would Niall see all the traces of Mirin in Jack’s features?
Jack raked his fingers through his hair, distressed. It was a dangerous risk to take, and he could taste it in his mouth like blood. It would be foolish for Jack to face his own father. A man who was so strong and angry that he was undefeated in the culling. A man who had seen and held him only once when Jack was a small bairn.
“Will you trade places with me?” he asked again.
“Perhaps,” Thief replied around a yawn. “But perhaps I’m tired of being in this cell. Perhaps I want to try my luck tomorrow in the arena.” He moved to bed down on the hay. “All I know is this: don’t wake me while I sleep, Mad Thief. Or I’ll kill you myself.”
Time seemed to melt in the dungeons.
Jack didn’t know if it was morning, noontide, or night. He paced the cell to keep warm. He thought about the letter he had sent Adaira. It should have reached her by now, and he wondered if she would read between the lines. If she would realize he was here in the west, and if she would look for him.
She would never think to check the dungeons. Or would she?
A clang echoed down the stone corridor.
Jack paused, glancing at the iron door.