However, since being in France, I have found great comfort in the Nine. Visiting this altar is one of the few ways I am able to remember my own self, my true flesh and blood and purpose.
Nine short candle stubs sit in one of the alcoves. There is enough food left in the sack to make another offering here. But as my fingers close around a loaf of bread, I realize there is something else I can do with the food. Something that would bring me even more satisfaction than a second prayer for Margot.
Besides, it is a risk, and I am as hungry for those—?for action—?as the prisoner is for food. I rise to my feet, take the lone torch, and use it to light my path back to the oubliette.
“Hello?” I whisper as I set the torch into a bracket in the wall. “Is anybody home?”
A rustling from below. “You have caught me just in time,” the deep voice rumbles. “I was about to go out visiting.”
“That is lucky,” I agree. “I suppose you have already eaten your dinner, as well, and are not hungry?” The thick silence that meets my question reminds me he is not simply hungry, but starving, and I curse at my careless jest.
“I have recently dined on mildewed straw and a bony rat.” His humor mostly manages to hide the strain in his voice. “I cannot imagine you have anything that can tempt me after such a fine meal as that.”
“I am not one to be deterred by such a daunting challenge.” I follow his tone, but am careful not to overstep again.
“Well, do your best. I will not stop you.”
I cannot help but smile as I set the bundle down. “How far from the grate to the floor?”
“Two men’s lengths.”
I do not know if he is tied up or chained, but with that great a distance, he cannot leap up and grab me, or overpower me in any way.
Unless he is lying.
Just to be certain, I glance around the antechamber until I spy a small piece of stone—a pebble from some past guard’s boot or a crumbling corner of the castle wall. I toss it down through the grate. The length of time it takes for the pebble to hit the bottom reassures me that it is as deep as he says.
“Smart girl,” he whispers. He does not know the half of it. Once I had told him I would return, I began carrying the needle case from my sewing basket with me. I select the sturdiest needle and use it to pick the padlock on the metal grate.
It is old and rusty with the damp air, but within seconds I hear the satisfying snick of a lock giving way. The bolt screeches in protest as I pull it back. I wait, ready should the sound have drawn anyone’s attention. A guard perhaps. Or a jailor. When no one calls out or approaches, I lift the heavy iron grate, wincing as the hinges creak.
“Here.” I toss down a wineskin filled with water. When I hear the slap of it hit his hand, I lie flat on my belly and lower the sack down as far as I can. “And the rest. Ready?”
“Yes.”
I let go.
I do not know what I expect—?a ravenous growling as he rips into the food, a gluttonous snarling as he snuffles through it like a pig through slops. Instead there is silence, as if some miracle has been laid before him.
Mayhap it is a miracle, to him at least.
At last I hear rustling as he unties the sack and begins pulling out supplies: bread, cheese, and another apple. When he finally speaks, it is a strained rasp. “Thank you.”
Part of me wishes to sit and listen to him eat—?hear every bite he takes, every moan of pleasure the food will bring him. But I also know what it is to be hungry—?the relief of having food again. I know that desire to shove it into your mouth so fast you can’t even swallow, so that before you know it, you are retching it back up. “How long has it been since you’ve truly eaten?”
“The apple you brought with you was the last food I’ve had.”
“Then do not eat too quickly,” I caution him. “Else it will turn your stomach.” I do not linger to see if he takes my advice, but push to my feet and begin walking the perimeter of the outer chamber, giving him time to be alone with the first food he has eaten in days.
Truly, it is a wonder he is still alive. After a dozen laps around the chamber, I allow myself to return to the oubliette. There are no sounds of eating—?or retching. “Are you all right?”
“I think I have died and passed into the Otherworld.”
“If that were the case, I do not think I would be able to hear your voice.” I do not know if that is precisely true. I have been around death so rarely that I have no knowledge of what shape my gifts from Mortain might take. Perhaps I could hear his voice, alive or dead.
“Then clearly I have been visited by an angel.”
A surprised snort escapes from me. “I can assure you, I’m no angel.”
“You have come bearing food, water, and hope. If that is not the act of an angel, I do not know what is.”
“You are ridiculous,” I say, even though his words warm the deep part of me that is hungry to do something important, something that matters. And feeding a starving man feels important. Unless he has committed some horrible crime. “Why are you in the dungeon?” The question feels like yet another risk—?akin to poking a coiled snake with a stick.
“I am not sure that I know.” His words are careful, measured, and I cannot help but wonder if that is what all guilty men would say, given the chance.
“Surely you did something to end up in an oubliette?”
“Are you so very confident of justice in this world?” he asks softly.
His words give me pause, for no, I am not at all certain of justice in this world. Have indeed seen very little of it. “Fair enough. What do others think you did to deserve such a fate?”
“As best I can tell, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Saw something I should not have. And you?” he asks. “Why are you here? Are you some bored lady in waiting? A servant exploring the dungeons for your own gain? Some spy sent to rescue me?”
His questions feel like darts that have hit home. I am all of those things. “Are you deserving of rescuing?”
“Oh, yes. Would the Nine have sent me hope, then water, and now food if they did not believe my cause to be just?”
Hearing him speak so casually of the old saints makes the fine hairs along my arms stand up. “You are Breton?” I have never heard of anyone in France who still worshiped the Nine.
After a considering pause, he says, “Yes. And you?”
“I, too, am from Brittany. And to answer your earlier questions, I am neither a bored lady, a spy, nor a servant. I am far closer to your own circumstances than you might think—?a prisoner, of sorts. One who has been gone too long already and must return before my absence is noted.”
“Will you come again?” The question hangs in the air like a feather.
“I do not know,” I tell him. “I shouldn’t have come at all.”
“I’m glad you did.”
When I return to my room, it feels less empty than it has in weeks. That is when I know that I will be returning to the oubliette.
Chapter 8
Sybella
rom the height of the eastern tower, I can see that the holly bush is slightly larger than yesterday, as is the crop of offerings beneath its branches. It is hard to keep my fingers from drifting to the twig hidden in my belt, even as I mock myself for doing so. And yet I cannot bring myself to throw it away.
Harder still is not picking at the scabs that have begun to form over old wounds. Especially now that the essence of what made me more than simply the sum of those wounds has been taken from me.
But not all of it has been taken. I am still able to experience the souls of the dying. Indeed, it is the soul of the guard who died with my hand on his chest that brings me to this tower today.
It has been a full week since the battle. While souls normally linger for only three days before moving to the Otherworld, those that suffer a violent death often take longer, if they ever move on at all. And today, with no people nearby to distract me with their heartbe
ats, I am able to sense a few that remain. They bump and flutter, restless and unsettled.