“It’s all right,” she said, hiding how rattled she had become while facing her criminal patients at close quarters.
Forgive, forgive…
Thaydor would be furious if he could see what manner of people she had been treating.
Thankfully, they soon left the infirmary. Still a bit unnerved, she glanced at the warden as they walked back down the corridor by which they had come. “Why is that last one still alive? I thought hanging was the penalty for such crimes.”
“Ach, he’s related to some duke.”
“Oh.” Even curing a murderer of jaundice had not revolted her the way the rapist had. She couldn’t wait to get out of this place. She just hoped she’d succeed in taking Jonty Maguire with her.
As they neared the bard’s cell, tension tightened the knots in her stomach. She had already aided—nay, married—a fugitive, and she was about to break a prisoner out of jail. Thinking about the possible consequences was too terrifying. But having met him, she couldn’t leave him here to rot. Not now. She knew in her bones that he did not deserve this.
Somehow she ignored her fears, following the warden as they retraced their footsteps through the mazelike dungeon. She kept watch for Jonty’s cell, then fought a smile when she heard his mournful groaning coming from up ahead.
“Help! Please!” the magnificent voice wrenched out, though they could not yet see the man. “My guts are all twisted. I’m sick. Chills. Fever!”
“Oh, shut up,” the warden muttered as they came alongside his cell once more.
“Sudden onset, I daresay,” Wrynne remarked.
To her relief, the warden stopped there and glanced at her sardonically. “Obviously, he’s faking, mistress. I’m no healer and even I know that.”
Jonty groaned. He was lying on his cot clutching his stomach. In the dim torchlight, they could see his grimace and his admirable shaking.
“He’s a trained playactor! Don’t the bards’ guilds make their members learn this sort of thing?”
“Hmm, I don’t know. Do you mind if I talk to him for a moment just to be sure? My vows require I do not turn my back on anyone who is truly suffering.”
The warden shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Wrynne stepped nearer to the bars.
“Did this just start now?” she asked skeptically.
“No, of course not!” he snapped, playing his part well. “I didn’t complain before, but two nights ago, the stomachache began. It’s only grown worse. Please help me, Sister!”
“Could he have been served spoiled food?” she asked the warden, who was now also wincing in disgust.
“Well, we don’t give ’em what you might call
fine cuisine
, but look around. None of the others are sick with this. They all eat the same food. Fakin’,” he repeated.
“You’re probably right. But perhaps I should have a look at him. Abdominal pain could mean typhoid fever. It’s very contagious.”
That got the warden’s full attention.
“I don’t need an outbreak in my jail,” he said a trifle nervously. He backed away from Jonty’s cell and covered his mouth and nose with his hand. “Had a bout of typhoid fever here two years ago. Killed thirty, including five of my guards.”
“Well, don’t be too alarmed just yet,” she soothed. “It could simply be his appendix has burst. That’s fatal, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, save me!” Jonty wailed, clutching his stomach and rolling on his cot.
“Fatal?” The warden frowned. “I’m not allowed to let him die.”
“The pain! The pain!” Jonty moaned.
“You believe him?” the warden asked, squinting at her.
She shrugged. “Better safe than sorry. It will only take a moment, like the others.”
“Very well. If you’re fakin’ in there, I’ll have you flogged till you lose that famous voice of yours from screamin’.”
The warden lifted his mass of keys and started unlocking the cell.
“Ought you to shackle him first, sir? For my safety. Is he dangerous?”
“Nay, he’s in here for debts and disturbin’ the peace.”
“They sent him to a place like this for such small crimes?”
“I reckon somebody wanted to teach him a lesson. I don’t ask questions. But after havin’ him here for the past month, I can understand why someone would want to try to shut ’im up—though from what I’ve seen, it’s impossible.”
Wrynne smiled at the warden. As he opened the door to Jonty’s cell for her, she hoped nothing too bad happened to him for what she was about to do. He seemed a decent man with a very hard job.
“The Father of Lights sends his blessings upon you,” she said, offering the same formal greeting she had used with the other inmates as she stepped into Jonty’s cell.
Heart pounding, she clutched her staff and walked the few short paces toward the cot where the bard lay theatrically writhing.
“Your abdomen, you say? Let me see.”
With the warden right behind her, she had to stall for just a little time.
“Can you pull up your shirt, please? I need to see if your stomach is swollen.”
He paused and glanced at her, the wicked twinkle in his green eyes at odds with his show of suffering. “You want me to undress for you? Odd request from a nun.”
She gave him a stern look. “I’m not a nun. I’m a Daughter of the Rose.”
“You’re very pretty.”
“Would you shut up?” she said through gritted teeth.
“Aye, milady.” The wild bard obediently pulled up his loose shirt and revealed a sharply chiseled stomach, though not as impressive as Thaydor’s. Also, he smelled like a dungeon.
“Now tell me if it hurts when I touch it,” she instructed, crouching down beside his cot.
“Touch it all you like. Please,” he whispered.
Wrynne scowled at him.
He groaned again. “Mother!” He pretended to sob like a sick child, chin trembling.
She fought not to laugh at his charade as she went about her inspection.
“Yowww,” he purred in roguish mischief when she laid her hand on his stomach and palpated him, the warden looking on.
“Please, sir, I’m a doctor. And I’m married,” she added under her breath.
“Tragedy,” he whispered. “Then again, tragedy is one of my favorite art forms…”
“Well?” the warden asked, hovering nearby. “Fakin’?”
“Actually…” Wrynne gripped her staff in one hand and kept her other planted on Jonty. He held on to her arm, curling upward smoothly into a sitting position. “There’s only one thing I can say for certain.”
“What’s that?”
Wrynne bumped her staff on the ground.
“Cheerio, mate!” Jonty grinned at the warden, waving goodbye as Wrynne whispered, “
Hasten
.”
In the twinkling of an eye, they were gone.
They landed in a field about a thousand feet outside the walls of Blackport Dungeon, collapsing in a heap. Jonty rolled onto his back in the cool, tall grass in gales of raucous laughter.
“Shh! They’ll hear you.” As Wrynne sat up, sputtering and shaking the usual
hasten
spell dizziness out of her head, the bard caught sight of the sky and drew in his breath at the beauteous stars.
“Oh!” He sat up suddenly, craning his neck to view every possible constellation. “The sky…”
“Admire it later, friend. We have to teleport again a few more times to join our party. They’ll be waiting.”
“Party?” He jumped to his feet and offered his hand, pulling Wrynne up unceremoniously.
“Of course. I wouldn’t attempt this on my own.”
“Well, whoever you are, I could kiss you.”
“Not if you value your life,” she said with an arch smile. “I wasn’t lying when I said I have a husband.”
“Oh? Who’s the lucky fellow? Tell me. I know everybody.”
“You’ll see.
Hasten
.”
This time, they managed to land upright when the spell carried them another thousand feet toward the others. She was glad of that. She did not think her husband would have appreciated seeing her lying on the ground in a tangled pile of limbs with another man.
Not even one who smelled like a dungeon.
She steadied herself and glanced at her fellow traveler. “You all right?”
He glanced down at himself, saw that all his parts had arrived in their proper places, and grinned. “All here.”
“Here we go again.”
There were five jumps in a mile, so they were both rather woozy by the time they reached their waiting companions, but at least they got there fast. It had taken only seconds.
“Wrynne!” a strong voice called from out of the darkness. She looked across the landscape just ten yards off and glimpsed moonlight gleaming on armor as Thaydor marched out from behind the men’s cover and strode toward her.
“They made it. Quickly, to the horses!” Brother Piero commanded the two other warriors, while Wrynne nodded to Jonty to follow.
She rushed ahead, running into Thaydor’s embrace. His hands descended firmly onto her shoulders, and he searched her face worriedly for a moment. “Are you all right? Any problems?”
“Everything went smoothly. I’m fine.”
“Praise be to Ilios,” he murmured, and tipping her chin up with a gentle press of his fingertips, he bent to brush a brief kiss to her lips. “Well done, darling.”
“Oh, you have
got
to be joking!” Incredulous laughter filled the air as the bard joined them. “Golden Boy?
You’re
the one behind this?”
Wrynne turned to Jonty. “Allow me to present my husband, master bard. I believe you two already know each other.”
Thaydor scoffed. “You could say that.”
Jonty turned to her in mirth, laying his hand on his heart. “Oh, dear lady! You must be a piece of perfection, indeed, to have been selected by this one. The great, the glorious Sir Thaydor Clarenbeld!”
“She is, actually. Now stop looking at her,” he said with a cool, aloof smile.
“Boys,” Wrynne warned. “Jonty, you’ve been in prison for a while, so you probably haven’t heard. My husband is the most wanted outlaw in the kingdom right now. I daresay I’m the
second
most wanted at this point, and in about five minutes, you’re about to be the third. So I suggest we all make a timely egress.”
“Wait, they’re after him, too?” Jonty asked, squinting. “How is that possible? He practically
is
the kingdom. They turn against me, that’s one thing. I piss off everybody. ’Tis my gift. But you?” he asked Thaydor. “And pardon, but I still can’t wrap my head around the marriage part! I thought you were some sort of priest!”
“Hardly,” Wrynne purred, her arm around her husband’s steel-clad waist.
Jonty shook his head, looking amused and nonplused. “I can have some fun with this.”
“I don’t suggest you do,” Thaydor said mildly.
“A Daughter of the Rose,” Jonty mused aloud. “But of course. This one wouldn’t have any but a she-paragon. Well, who’d have thought a lover’s heart beat all this time inside this great, shiny chunk o’ metal standing before us?”
“Watch it.”
“Can we go before we all get arrested?” Wrynne asked impatiently.
Thaydor looked at her and then at the rascally bard, and seemed to remind himself he was the bigger man. “We brought you a mount, Maguire. I hope you can ride in that skirt.” He pivoted and walked away, heading for the horses.
“Hoy! Respect the kilt!” Jonty called indignantly.
“Come on. We have to keep moving,” Wrynne said.
They both followed Thaydor up the shallow rise, behind which the horses were hidden.
“He’s taken the hero routine to a whole new height while I’ve been locked up, hasn’t he? Rescuing people he doesn’t even like?”
“Actually, the oracle in service to our god told us you have some sort of information on which the fate of the whole kingdom rests.”
“What? Me?” Jonty stopped and looked at her incredulously. “Shite in a bucket!”
“Language!” Thaydor huffed from over by Avalanche’s side. “You are speaking to a lady!”
“Apologies.”
“Get on your horse, Wrynne. Maguire, the chestnut’s for you.”
“Thank you. All of you. Even you, Clarenbeld. I mean it—truly. Much as it pains me, I am in your debt.”
Thaydor shrugged, but Wrynne smiled reassuringly at the newcomer. “You’re welcome.”
Then they hurried to the horses, but as she set her foot in the stirrup to mount up, a long, bone-chilling howl suddenly split the night.
Everybody turned to look.
It was instantly followed by a clamor of frenzied barking in the distance.
“And here come the guard dogs,” Piero murmured in a tone of dark humor.
Jonty snorted. “Try dire wolves.”
“Dire wolves? Are you jesting?” Thaydor demanded from beside Avalanche.
“No, they loose them on any prisoner who tries to escape.”
“How many are there?”
“Six, from what I’ve heard.”
“What are dire wolves?” Wrynne asked, wide-eyed.
“Death in fur,” Jonty replied.
“What do we do?” she cried.
“Ride like hell, I should think,” he muttered.
“No,” said Thaydor. “We’ll never outrun them. We have to make a stand and kill them.”
The younger monk stared toward the prison. “Judging by the sound, I’d say we’ve got a minute and a half to decide.”
“We could climb into the trees,” Wrynne started. “Pick them off with crossbows from above—”
“While they tear the horses apart? No,” Thaydor said. “We must defend our animals.”
“Would a sanctuary spell work?” she countered urgently.
“They’d still smell us,” said Brother Piero. He looked askance at Jonty. “Some more than others.”
The bard arched a brow.
“Yes—that’s it! Maguire, take off your shirt. We need an article of clothing that smells like you to draw the dire wolves. Wrynne,
hasten
yourself and the kilt out of here. I’ll meet you five miles due north as soon as this is finished.”
“I don’t want to leave you,” she protested, recalling the oracle’s warning. “Can’t we all just get on the horses and ride? If we go right now—”
“Dire wolves can last much longer over distances than horses,” Thaydor said, pushing her staff insistently into her hands while Jonty lifted his shirt off over his head. “We’ll never outrun them. The pack will hunt us cross-country until the horses are exhausted, then they’ll move in for the kill. Horses are their natural prey.”