Rune King

"Are you going to listen to me or not?"

"No," Gunnar answered without turning back. There was more between them than a little grudge, he knew that much. It had been too much to just play as if they were old friends. As enemies, it was easy to be motivated against him, but as allies, and near death as it is, he had little reason to listen.

Valdemar was too clever by half, and with the way that things had been going between them there was no doubt that he could turn things in such a way that Gunnar wouldn't realize that he was the one duped until it was his head on the chopping block alone.

But in spite of that, the word 'escape' rang in his mind. Escape, survival, homecoming.

Was any of it possible?

They were inside a wall perhaps ten feet across. No, they couldn't break through the wall, so they would have to fight their way through guards who would certainly know where they were headed and block their retreat. On the advantages side, they were close to one exit. If they could have only a few minutes' lead time, then they might be able to get out of the wall without a problem.

It would be easier without the bars between them and the door. It had a heavy metal bolt that pulled to open. A few men had been brought in after them, thieves if he didn't miss his estimation.

Then, once they were out, they would have to hope that no one on a horse came after them, and they certainly would do so. No amount of running would matter if someone knew where they'd gone, because the mounted soldiers would ride them down in a matter of hours.

So they would need to have a way out of this room, a room with iron bars as thick as Gunnar's thumb, and then get through the wall without anyone seeing and realizing what had happened. Then they would need to get through town unnoticed, make camp somewhere they wouldn't be found, and then get out of the area. No, it wasn't going to work.

"You're thinking that it's impossible, aren't you?" Valdemar paused a moment. "You're thinking that you're a brave man indeed—you saved the woman, and she'll always carry a torch for you, right?"

Gunnar turned, ready to tear into him. Ready to fight. But what would be the point now? In these chains, it wouldn't be a good fight, and there wouldn't be much point in it regardless. They'd still be stuck right there next to each other. So instead he turned away again.

"Of course that's what you were thinking. You were thinking that it hardly mattered what happened to you now, because you're beyond help. Well, I'm sure that's what she thinks, too."

What did he know? Gunnar's eyes never left the window, watching the feet of everyone walking by. It was surprising how different they could be, just from that. How he could make out what sort of life a person lived by the quality of their shoes. The thought was a good enough distraction.

"She certainly left in a hurry, didn't she? Imagine, though. Imagine whether or not Hilde would have left you, in the same situation. She'd have stayed. She'd have fought, same as you. Or she'd have taken you across her shoulders."

"Don't you dare speak to me about my mother," Gunnar growled. His mother's stories were still told in the mead-halls. Stories to be lived up to. She had been a strong woman. He had to be strong to follow behind her.

But the thought was insidious, wormed its way into Gunnar's head. Had she left him behind because he made her? Or had she because it didn't much matter? He tried to think. Did she look back for even a moment?

His eyes left the window, flicked toward Valdemar. But he managed to keep himself in line, didn't turn his head at the very least. Couldn't give him the satisfaction of having gotten under Gunnar's skin.

He was wrong about Deirdre. She was afraid, but she would do what she had to do. It was her belief in him that had let her go, not that she didn't particularly care. But it rubbed like a burr in his mind. What if he was wrong, though? He wasn't as clever as Valdemar, and not near as clever as Deirdre.

It would be easy to play him for a fool, for a woman like that. If she'd wanted him to be her pawn, then could he have stopped her?

He struggled not to think it any further. It wasn't proper, not at all. But the idea was insidious. He couldn't get it out of his head, regardless what he wanted to think.

He had to find a way to prove, once and for all, that he hadn't been made a fool of. That he'd done the right thing. His pride hurt as he turned back, frowning.

"Tell me about your plan, and we'll talk."

Twenty-Nine

The first thing that

Deirdre noticed when she woke up was that she didn't hurt any more. Her body felt surprisingly alright. The second thing she noticed was the smell of food, still hot, set on a plate beside her.

Not the bacon that she'd been preparing to eat before she fell asleep, either. A sweet roll and a thick cut of beef, far too nice for anyone she had only met the night before to give her. Deirdre made a mental note to thank Amelia when she saw her next.

The scent of poppy was fainter, and she didn't notice it until she had already started to dig into the food that had been presented, along with a little note to her to enjoy the food. Very tasteful and surprisingly thoughtful. Had this woman really known her teacher? It seemed strange to think that Brigid had known anyone with a lick of manners.

She was a shrewd woman, and more capable than Deirdre could express—but the very furthest thing from having any manners. Which begged the question where her hostess was. The question raised a second one. Who else lived in this place? She had seen a maid, her plain-looking features hazy in Deirdre's memory.

Did the lady have a husband paying for her things, or had she made all the money that she so obviously had by selling her potions? If this was the sort of money that might be made selling little remedies, what was she doing in the middle of the forest?

Deirdre swallowed a bite. Lord, she hadn't realized just how hungry she was until she'd started eating. She had felt hungry, but the sensation had faded away as if her body realized that she wasn't going to be eating any time soon. Now that food, real sugar even, touched her lips her stomach had remembered its emptiness and was begging for any food she could put in it.