Her family wouldn’t have been twiddling their collective thumbs in that time, either. They probably had someone keeping an eye on the Keep outside right now. If she could get away, she was sure there’d be help waiting.
Ruart shook her hard. “Take a look at this, Lady.” He pointed. “See, we drop this bar across the whole door when we leave.” He hauled her onward, halting again, “See this? A good strong lock.” He grinned in an extremely unpleasant way. “I lock all the doors down here or the servants get into the wine—and maybe other things I don’t want broached.” He leered suggestively.
Aisling felt sick again. Kirion snorted.
“When you’ve finished showing off, Ruart, let’s get on with it.”
His target grunted, pushing Aisling ahead of him through an open door. “You’ll be safe here. Just wait until I come for you. Don’t go running away now.” He bellowed with laughter as he slammed the door. A key turned with a loud clunk. Aisling flung herself at the door to listen. She heard a second lock clank and then in the distance a dull thud as the bar went into place. Her eyes flicked about her prison. A heap of moldy straw, a bucket, and an empty tin jug and plate. Nothing she could use.
But in her clothing she had something that might aid her. Aisling still felt sick, and to that was added growing hunger and a tormenting thirst.
She dug hastily into her boot to produce the item she’d found. At some stage a woman had been in the room upstairs. She’d been reboning a bodice in the fashionable way. One of the pliable strips of metal ‘boning’ had been dropped onto the chair, to make its way down the back out of sight. Probably the owner had never missed it.
Aisling bent it into a right angle toward one end. Then, very slowly, very carefully, she began to pick the lock. The lock was old, hence it was clumsy with large, easily felt wards and only two of them. It had been kept well oiled as well. It had been a long time since Hanion had taught her this as a game. But in a short time she had the lock open.
She glanced back at her cell. Play for time, Ciara always said. If you aren’t sure what to do, play for time.
Aisling went back. She humped up the straw into a curl, then covered it with the outer skirt. She stared down. What else? She wrenched at one sleeve until the stitching tore at the shoulder. Then she stuffed the sleeve with more straw. She laid that over a small ball of straw. From the door it looked like Aisling asleep, an arm thrown over her head in despair. It would suffice if no one looked long or too closely. She found her head was whirling. She must have something to drink. Hadn’t Ruart boasted he kept his wine down here?
The locks on the other doors nearby were also of the older, more simple type. She shut the door of her cell, locked it with her pick, then started on another door. Behind that was the wine. She chose a bottle of a lighter wine and drank carefully. Being drunk certainly wouldn’t help, she mused. She tucked two of the bottles in a corner and tried a third door. Thank Cup and Flame for that. The siege supplies, some of them anyway. She took a round of bread and a small cheese. Both went to join the bottles in a corner in the main part of the outer room. Then she locked both doors again.
She sat quietly for almost half an hour. With bread and cheese inside her, a quarter bottle of the wine on top wouldn’t make her drunk. Somewhere there’d be water, probably the next level up. Now if she could just get that door open, too—
The lock on this was newer. More wards. More time. By the time it opened, she was sweat-soaked and shaking, knowing that any minute a triumphant gambler could reappear to collect his prize.
Still no one. She dodged through the door and turned to work on the lock again with growing hope. If only one man came to get her, she might be able to shut him in. She’d seen Ruart leave the key in each lock as they took her down. She could wait until whoever it was entered the cell. Then he’d be too far down for any to hear his yells for release.
She opened doors hurriedly. Water. It was in large barrels and stale, no doubt, but with a little wine it would do. She opened a barrel to check. Yes. Her hands were shaking. Keep them steady, she told herself. Within seconds she had poured out most of the remaining wine, filled the bottles with water, and recorked.
She had enough to drink for as long as it might be before they came for her now. The bread and cheese had put new energy into her, too. She studied the situation. She’d come back up two of the three levels. The problem would be this last level. That was the one with the door barred instead of locked. She wiggled her metal strip through the gap, lifting upward. The metal bent. It was strong enough for its original purpose, strong enough to turn a single ward at a time. But raising a heavy bar was beyond it.
Aisling said several words she’d once heard Grandfather Tro say. All of a sudden she found she was kicking frantically at the door. She must get out of here, she must! Fear that she would be heard stopped her attack on the wood. She slumped to the floor beside the planking. Where were all the heroes when you needed one? Did she have to do it all herself?
It seemed she did. She ate a little more of the bread and cheese as she thought.
It was clear why Ruart wanted her. She’d wondered about Kirion, but something he’d said had given her a hint. Some half-caught comment about her being of the Old Race.
Aisling knew the story. Centuries ago only the Old Race had lived in Karsten. Then incomers had arrived. People from elsewhere who joined them to live in the mostly empty lands. The two races had lived in peace a long time. Then in the time when Grandmother was a little girl the current duke had gone crazy. He’d called the three-times Horning on all of the Old Race. That was a form of outlawing. After that anything could happen to them and it was lawful. It had been a bad time.
Many had died, and most of the others had left Karsten to live over the border mountains in Estcarp where it was said all women were Witches. It was also said that one day there’d be a blood debt called in. That was why most of Karsten was still against the Old Blood. They were afraid.
And guilty, her grandmother had always added. Too many families had got a start up on the backs of those they’d murdered, with the goods and stock they’d stolen from them.
Ciara was half of the Old Race. Aisling had always known vaguely that she must be partly of the blood, too. Lately it had been difficult. It was as if something inside her stretched, awoke, and demanded from her things she didn’t know how to give. Grandmother had taught her to use some of the power. Aisling could drop into the mists when she wished. Once she’d been allowed to help heal an injured horse. Grandmother said horses didn’t talk at least, or fear you afterward. It had felt good to do that. To use what she was.
Kirion wanted to use her, too. She remembered his grasp on her the time she’d beaten him in a race. She’d used her power then. Called fire from the mist to his hand so he’d let her go.
The two events came together with a mental crash. She could help a healing, and call a kind of fire. Was there any way she could use her powers to get her out of here?
The simplest and most obvious use was to open the door. She’d seen the bar as they dragged her by.
She stood against the door, palms flat to the wood. The bar had been held on two brackets, one on either side of the door. There were two more on this side and a bar leaning against the wall. That would be to bar the door against invaders if you escaped down here. Good. She could use that to give her a position. She lifted the bar into place. Now, if she was right, the other bar would be here. Dropped into a bracket just—her finger touched lightly—there!