“We could wait,” Mordec
suggested. “Make an example of those two fellows when they get here.”
“Not this time,” Alpin said. “We’ve had our due payment. Not that I wouldn’t have enjoyed stringing the two of them up and indulging in a little target practice. But I’ve no great wish to add more fuel to this fire. All too soon we’ll have bigger things on our minds. Dendrist and his kind will keep.”
Faolan pondered this as
they headed for home. Bigger things. An active part in the war to come? On which side? The key lay in those western holdings, he was sure of it. With the terms of Bridei’s treaty still to be laid out before Alpin, Faolan suspected double-dealing, lies, and treachery. Time would tell; the longer he could maintain this guise of harmless musician, the better chance he had of unearthing the truth before
it was too late.
THE DAY AFTER Ana spoke to Deord, the hoodie brought her a key. The bird came early, waking her soon after dawn with tapping, scraping sounds as it hopped from windowsill to chest, then a little thump as it dropped its gift on the polished wood for her inspection.
“What—” Ana rubbed her eyes, half-asleep. Her visitor uttered a cry in its harsh crow-voice. Sitting up
in bed, Ana glanced across and saw what it had carried to her. She was instantly wide awake. There was no doubt in her mind which door this would open.
She reached for her shawl, her mind racing ahead. “Someone wants me to go and look at storerooms today.” The hoodie had its head on one side. Its pose seemed expectant. “I’m supposed to send a message back? I can’t think what.” She’d end up bald
as an onion if exchanges of hair were the only means of communication with this unknown entity. She should shoo the bird away and give the key to Alpin when he got back. A sensible girl brought up in a king’s court should have no hesitation in doing just that. Ana reached out and took the key in her hand. “There,” she said. “I can’t promise anything.” As if satisfied by her words, the hoodie hopped
back to the sill and, with a strong beat of its dark wings, was gone into the morning.
Now, Ana thought, her heart drumming. Right now was the time. It was so early even the kitchen men and women would barely be stirring. As for Deord, he was a servant, however intimidating. If she went in there and encountered him, she would simply demand to be shown his place of work. She had met every craftsman
at Briar Wood. This was no different, she told herself, not quite believing it. She could get there and back before anyone missed her. Alpin was away, and so was Faolan. It occurred to her, as she dressed quickly and put on the soft indoor boots she had been given, that Faolan would not approve. What lay beyond that door might be genuinely dangerous.
She picked up the little key once more and
slipped out of her chamber, realizing that before the journey to Briar Wood she would not have dreamed of attempting this. Something had shifted within her, something deep and vital. She walked quietly along the passageway to Alpin’s door, opened it and went in. She tried to look as if she had every right to do so. The last thing she wanted was for her future husband to hear she had been sneaking
around his house, spying out secrets and breaking rules.
The key turned noiselessly in the lock of the little inner door. Taking a deep breath, Ana pushed the door open and walked through.
She was in a stone chamber holding piles of sacks, old leather buckets, and rusting iron tools. It was dim; shadows crept out from the corners and cobwebs festooned the roof beams. A black cat slept on the
sacks, its tail twitching as it dreamed. Another could be glimpsed under a broken bench, a pair of gleaming eyes, a hint of stripes. Ana felt a stab of disappointment. She was not sure what she had been expecting, but it was certainly not this.
From somewhere beyond the storeroom a bird chirruped, and there was a flutter of wings. The black cat lifted its head, suddenly awake.
“No you don’t,”
Ana whispered and, following the sounds, threaded her way through the clutter into a second tiny room holding little more than empty shelves and piles of dust. The light brightened; she reached an open doorway leading out onto a steep flight of stone steps plunging down between looming walls. There were little windows set in the outer of these; Ana counted them as she passed. One: a distant view
of water, a silver mirror in the dawn light. Two: the trunks of elms, warmed to gold by the rising sun. Their rook-tenanted crowns could be glimpsed above the stones. This was the outermost wall of the fortress, that was clear. But what was this inner wall, so tall, so solid? What need for that, and this strange, narrow space between? Three: she was rapidly descending, and here she glimpsed the dark
green shadows beneath the pines where the forest grew closer to Alpin’s stronghold. Ana judged she was approaching the same level as those buildings set around the courtyard, the dining hall, the sewing chamber, the places of cooking and brewing, the armory and smithy. Four: deeper still, the window level with the ground outside, thorny bushes pressing against the wall, their sharp fingers seeking
entry to this lonely path, their strong hands clutching at the stone as if to test how well Alpin’s defenses might stand against the power of the wildwood. This opening would be invisible from the outside. Five: a secret kind of window, set in a depression of the land. The foliage was softer here, curling tendril and subtle frond and delicate leaflet. The crossbill waited on the sill, a splash
of red against the lush green. The cats had not ventured beyond that last doorway.
“I’m here,” Ana said softly. “Where are you taking me?”
At the foot of the steps the path went on, following the curve of the outer wall and sinking deeper still, the barriers on either side formidably tall. Ana thought of certain ancient stories; of captives held in high towers or behind impenetrable hedges,
of heroes scaling walls or hacking through briars and brambles to liberate true love. For every such tale of quests fulfilled, she suspected there was another peopled by forgotten, lonely prisoners and fair ladies grown wrinkled and faded as they waited for a deliverance that never came.
The crossbill was leading her on, a short whirr of flight, a pause to wait, look, assure itself that she was
still following. At length they rounded another curve of the path and there before them was a gate of iron grillwork, higher than a tall man, as broad as the path, and, from the look of it, locked fast. Beyond it was some kind of court or garden.
The bird alighted on a crosspiece of the gate, looking back at her, then flew away within, a streak of scarlet. A moment later the wren appeared in
its place.
Ana weighed the key in her hand. She moved up to the bars and peered inside, and the wren hopped onto her shoulder. There was a little sunken courtyard, bordered by the curving outer wall and roofed with close-set iron bars. It was gloomy within, for the place was set low in the ground and little of the early morning light penetrated there. Dimly, she could make out a patch of struggling
grass, a stone bench, flagstones. On the inner side there was a building of some kind, its doorway shielded by a rough woolen hanging. Was this subterranean dwelling Deord’s home? If so, why did he need such a gate, such a roof? It was like a cage. Ana thought of wild animals. Perhaps Alpin was one of those eccentric men who kept exotic creatures for pleasure, seeking to enhance their status
by apparent mastery over such beasts. A wildcat, a dragon, a manticore … Surely not. Would these birds fly in and out so freely if death lay within one snap of the jaws? On the other hand, to unlock the gate, supposing she could, and march right in was perhaps overbold.
“Is anybody there? Deord?” she called, not sure how she would respond if anyone answered. Her voice sounded odd in here, hollow
and ringing, as if the place saw few visitors and could not quite accommodate her presence. “Hello?”
There was no reply. The wren was preening its plumage close to her ear, and the crossbill had flown out of sight.
“Hello?” she called again, but nobody came. She tried the key in the lock. The iron gate opened smoothly and Ana went in, closing it behind her.
It did not take long to walk the
perimeter of the sad little enclosure. All there was sorely bereft of sunlight, the grass limp and yellowing, the pond choked with slimy weed, its borders cracking into cavities where black mosses crusted the surface. Where there was stone paving, the place was swept clean. Ana moved over to the bench, stumbling as her foot caught in an obstacle. Metal chinked, and both birds cried out together as
if in answer. Ana looked down. A long chain was fastened around a heavy iron ring set into the bench. The chain lay across her foot and over toward the outer wall, where the smallest of openings was set through stone as thick as the length of a man’s arm. The chain ended in an iron bracelet of cunning design. At a glance, she could see how it might be tightened to fit a man’s wrist or ankle snugly,
and locked in place with a pin; how it might be loosened by another man so its captive could be freed. Ana felt a chill run through her. Who lived here? Who was it Alpin held under such security? And where was he now? She had been stupid to come here, utterly stupid … She wondered at the position of the shackles, lying below the window chink as if the prisoner had stood there watching the world
beyond his cell. What did he see? She stood on tiptoe and peered out through the tiny aperture. The place was so low that the bottom part of this window was underground. Through the narrow space above could be glimpsed, on a sharp upward rise, a single, beautiful oak, its spring foliage touched by the light of early morning to the purest of greens. A chorus of birds sang in its branches; their music
was an anthem to freedom, and as Ana watched she saw them rise in a great flock to the open sky, winging out into the new day. Had a man wept here, raged, pleaded with the gods, watching them? She was being fanciful; putting her own thoughts into someone else’s head. And time was passing. She would have a quick look inside, then hurry back to her chamber before Ludha arrived to help her wash and
dress.
A table, a shelf, a bench. A container for water. On the wall, another iron ring set at the height of a man’s waist; did this captive eat his meals chained? A millet broom, a bucket, folded cloths, all stored in orderly fashion. No supplies, only an empty tray, a platter, two bowls, two cups, two spoons. No knife. Ana ventured into the inner chamber, the wren on her right shoulder now
joined by the crossbill on her left. There was so little light in here that she returned to the outer chamber to loop up the door hanging before she investigated further. A lamp on a stone shelf, unlit, with a crock for oil beside it. Two rudimentary beds with straw mattresses and blankets of good woolen weave, sadly worn. All was neatly stowed, and the floor was strewn thickly with fresh rushes:
Deord’s doing, no doubt. Above one of the beds was yet another of those rings. It made her shudder to see it.
“It’s a man they keep here,” she said to the birds. “One doesn’t house a wild beast in a blanketed bed, nor feed him his scraps on breakable earthenware. Imagine it: sleeping fettered, so that even in his dreams he can’t run free … Surely he’d go crazy with longing for open skies and
the wind on his face.” This neat apartment was, in its way, as sorry a place as the shadowy enclosure outside it. The key she had been given had revealed nothing but more unanswered questions. Time to retreat. Ana made to turn, and the two birds flew down together to the rushes in the corner, where they began to peck about busily.
What—” Ana took a step toward them. Suddenly, the ground beneath
her foot was not there. Teetering, she stepped back, then knelt and pulled aside the rushes, her heart racing.
Boards lay across an opening of some kind. She moved them aside, peering deeper. It was a tunnel; no hastily scooped hole, but a well-formed exit large enough for a strongly built man such as Deord to pass through without difficulty. The opening and its cover had been entirely concealed
by the generous rush carpet. From the look of it, this had been here a long time. Its walls were stone-lined, not part of the fortress’s original construction, she judged, but made afterward by someone who knew what he was doing. Light was entering the underground place from the far end. It was a passage to the outside world; a way under the great wall of Alpin’s fortress with, more likely than
not, an exit amid the thick cover of the wildwood. Bold indeed. The prisoner could escape when he chose. This was becoming odder by the moment.
Ana hesitated on the edge of the drop. It was still early, but not so early that a servant or two might not be about quite soon, lighting fires, tending to horses or dogs. She did have the key. Perhaps this should wait for another day. But …
The wren’s
tiny form darted down to vanish into the subterranean way. The crossbill fidgeted, ruffling its wings.
“Just to the outside, then,” Ana murmured. “Just to the other end, no farther. I suppose these folk must have good reasons for such strong walls.”
She was quite a tall girl, but this had been made for big men, and passing through was easy. The bird flew ahead of her, and before long they reached
the outside, emerging into a hollow at the foot of the fortress wall, a place well grown over with briars and creepers and concealed still further by a tumble of stones, perhaps remnants of some earlier construction now fallen to ruins. Ana was breathing hard, as much from anticipation as exertion. It was not far past dawn and the light was gentle on the foliage above her. Crossbill and wren
perched side by side on a thorny branch at the lip of the hollow, apparently waiting. There was no way she could simply turn back as she had promised herself she would do. These two were surely leading her to the answers she sought.