Chapter 12

Valemonde, Lynese

The damp seeped through the thin pallet, chilling Isolde to the bone with a persistent cold that clung to her. This was the second time she’d been imprisoned, and truth be told, she much preferred her time in Sidorian confinement to that of her own people.

Although they were both her own people now, but even before she was one of them, the Sidorians had treated her humanely. William had kept her in her own home, fed her from the same rations he ate, and yet still apologized for the state of it.

Her own blood was treating her much differently. Now she was surrounded by rough-hewn stone, slick with moisture, with nothing in the cell but a pallet, a chamber pot, and a small wooden table on which sat an unlit candle. A narrow slit near the ceiling offered a sliver of pale sky, the only hint of the world beyond. The smell of stale sweat, old fear, and the faint tang of the privy bucket filled the space.

She sat huddled on the pallet, knees drawn to her chest, wearing the same gown she’d had on when she was arrested aboard Count Janir’s ship, though now its fine fabric was stained and wrinkled beyond recognition.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been here. Was it three days since she was dragged here from Count Janir’s ship? Four? The days had begun to bleed together.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside drew her attention. Keys rattled against iron, and the heavy lock turned with a groan of protest before the door swung open, its hinges shrieking, to reveal two guards. One carried a wooden tray bearing what passed for her evening meal; the other stood watch, hand resting on his sword hilt.

The guard with the tray stepped into the room. He was a stocky man with a weathered face and a beard just beginning to show streaks of gray. He looked just like the other guards who’d delivered her food since she’d arrived here, although something about him tugged at Isolde’s memory.

“Your dinner, Your Highness,” he said, setting the tray on the small table.

The meal consisted of a chunk of dark bread, spotted with weevils, and a wooden bowl containing what appeared to be fat floating in murky water. Food for a traitor. His tone, however, was a change. It lacked the contempt she’d heard from some of the other guards.

As he straightened, his face caught the meager light from the window, and recognition struck her.

“You were at the field hospital here in Valemonde over the winter,” Isolde said. “You took an arrow to the shoulder near Port Belmar.”

The guard froze, surprise evident on his face. The second guard at the door shifted uncomfortably.

“I’ll wait outside, Galer. Don’t tarry,” the second guard said, pulling the door nearly shut behind him.

The guard, Galer, stared at Isolde for a long moment. “You remember me, Your Highness?”

“I do.” Isolde folded her hands in her lap. “The Disciple of Healing said you might lose the arm, but you refused to let them take it. You said your wife and child needed you whole to work your farm on the plains of Lynese. Has the wound healed properly?”

He flexed his shoulder reflexively. “It troubles me in the cold, but I kept the arm. Most days, I forget the scar’s even there. I never thought you’d remember a common soldier among so many wounded.”

“I try to remember each face I visit. I will be honest, I talk to many men and sometimes they run together, but I do remember you. How fare your wife and child? Linhi, wasn’t it? And a daughter named Jala? Are they still on the farm?”

She had always been good with names and faces, a useful trait living at court and one she had practiced.

“I can’t believe you remember their names. Yes, Jala’s six now and growing like a weed. But we lost the farm.”

“Lost it?”

“Count Ruvir confiscated two-thirds of our harvest for war expenses. Said it was our duty to supply the troops. What he left us wasn’t enough to feed ourselves through winter, let alone pay the tax he demanded after. We had to sell the land. Got barely a quarter what it was worth, but it was sell or starve.”

“I’m so sorry, Galer. Where do they live now?”

“They moved to Cestralion, in the lower city. After my conscription was over, I joined the guard, and it is enough to pay for our rent and some of our food, but it is still difficult. Linhi takes in washing when she can find the work.”

He paused, a shadow passing over his features.

Isolde noted his hesitation. “And when she cannot?”

Galer did not meet her eyes. “Times are hard, Your Highness. The war has brought many widows to the city, women willing to work for less than what Linhi asks. And Jala needs to eat.”

Isolde understood what went unsaid. She did not like it, that this kind of thing was necessary in her homeland, but she knew it existed. Many were forced to take whatever work they could find, respectable or otherwise.

“Ohh, Galer, I’m so sorry,” she said, reaching out and taking his hand, patting it gently. “I’m so sorry your family has been caught up in all of this. It’s terrible that honest, hardworking people like yourself pay the price for other men’s fights.”

“There are rumors that there might be war again. That your brother means to retake Rendalia.”

“My brother is not the one deciding. He is still a child. Lord Agravaine is the one who wants war, and he will bleed Lynese dry to satisfy his ambition.”