Empire of Night (Age of Legends 2)

When Moria was done bathing and her ankle had been cleaned and bound, the old woman gave her fresh clothing. As Moria pulled on a shift, the woman passed the bundled tunic and trousers. Moria motioned that she was still getting herself into the shift--the silk stuck on her damp skin--but the woman took Moria's hand and pressed it against the fabric. There was something hidden in the folds. Something small and hard.

Moria reached in and felt a knobby thing small enough to close her fist around. She pulled out her hand, then carefully opened it.

In her palm lay a black figurine. Obsidian carved in the form of a wildcat. Moria raised her gaze to the old woman.

"Does this mean . . . ?" she whispered, unable to finish.

The healer's words came thickly accented and awkward, like a magpie repeating a phrase it had heard.

"He lives."

Moria squeezed the stone figure tightly as tears filled her eyes. The old woman laid a hand on her arm and said something, again in her own language, the words incomprehensible, but the intent clear. Words of comfort and reassurance.

Then, the old woman said, "Keeper."

Moria looked into the woman's black-bead eyes and understood. She was showing her this kindness--the wildcat and the comfort--because Moria was a Keeper. Did the old woman follow their ways? Or perhaps someone else here did, some pious warrior, who'd given her the figurine and the message.

"Tyrus," Moria said. "Prince Tyrus. Does he . . . live?"

Moria could see a glimmer of comprehension in the old woman's eyes.

"I was with Prince Tyrus when I was captured," Moria said, speaking slowly. "He is a friend. A very good friend. He was in danger, and I fear . . . Is Prince Tyrus all right?"

The old woman seemed to search her face then. Searching for what?

After a moment, the healer shook her head.

"No? You mean . . ." Moria could barely force the words out. "He's dead? Tyrus is dead?"

The woman shook her head more vehemently this time. Then she shrugged and shook it again before patting Moria's arm. She didn't know if Tyrus lived or not. That was all she'd been saying.

"What about the children?" Moria asked.

The old woman's face wrinkled in confusion.

"Children?" Moria said. "The little ones? From my village and from Fairview?"

The healer continued to look confused. It did not seem a problem of language comprehension but of context. She knew nothing of captive children. Like the guard, she'd been fed lies. That meant the little ones were not being held here.

Moria finished dressing while the healer brought stew. It was hardly palace-worthy cuisine, but it was hot.

The old woman departed as Moria ate. When the door opened again moments later, it was the guard from earlier, bearing a bucket and a thick wool blanket.

"You'll need this to piss in," he said, throwing the bucket across the cell. "Mind that you do. As for this--" He threw the blanket on the floor beside the bucket. "The old witch thought you might be cold."

He started to leave, then stopped and turned. "I know you Northerners aren't too bright, so let me show you how to use that bucket."

He walked over to it and reached into his trousers. Moria looked away and waited for the sound of him relieving himself in the bucket. When she heard nothing, she glanced over to see him urinating on her blanket. She lunged to grab it, but it was too late.

"Huh," he said. "It seems I missed. It's so dark in here. An easy mistake."

He hitched his trousers up, grinned at her, and sauntered out the door. Moria lifted the blanket, in hopes that perhaps he'd only soiled a corner. Of course he hadn't. The middle was soaked through, rendering the blanket unusable. Worse, the smell . . .

She threw the wet blanket into the corner, curled up on the floor, clutched her wildcat figurine, and shivered against the cold.

TWENTY-FOUR

"He's going to die," Guin said as she gazed down at Tyrus's still form.