She drank a little more of the watered wine. Then she stood, hands touching the door just where the bar should be in the bracket. She imagined it, and made a picture of it in her head. She gathered herself, then allowed the silver mist to rise in her mind. Now! She strained; the bar had to rise up, then fall so she could be free. That desire grew. The bar had to let her go. Up. Up. Up!
She could not have said later how long that struggle went on. It seemed forever, timeless. But at last there was a feeling as if the bar yielded to her demand. In her mind it rose, just far enough to clear the metal that held it. She thrust outward using the dregs of her strength. Beyond the door there was a dull thump as the bar fell. Aisling fell, too. She slid down the wooden planking until she rested sitting against the door. It swung partway open before the movement halted. She could see out. She sagged back.
So that had been what Grandmother meant when she warned using power demanded a price. Aisling managed a tired grin. It would be ironic if she was now too exhausted to leave. She reached for the wine bottle, draining it. She still had a bottle left.
It would be wise to look for a place to hide. Still sitting, she studied the area outside the door. There was a short stairway leading down to here, a good-size landing in front of this door. A pity she didn’t have sufficient strength to bar the door from the inside again. That would baffle everyone. No use in wishing, though.
Aisling forced herself to her feet, then dropped the outer bar back into its brackets. After that she collected her bottle and food into a fold of her petticoat. She must look quite mad, she thought. In her petticoats, with a sleeve torn from her bodice, probably reeking to the skies, and straw sticking out of odd bits of her clothing.
She looked down at her boots. They’d make a noise on the stairs. Better get them off, she told herself. She could carry her food and wine inside them. Removing them reminded her of the coins she’d found. She tipped them into her hand and blinked. Two gold and a silver. Very nice.
But she hadn’t time to think of that. With her footwear tucked under one arm, Aisling scooted silently up the stairs. No one appeared to announce her escape. She stared out of the window slit as she passed by. It was almost dusk. If she could get out of here into the countryside there was a chance she could elude any possible pursuers.
She checked a couple of the rooms at this level. There were ample places to hide from anyone just walking about. She prowled cautiously to where she thought the front entrance had been. Two servants were there energetically polishing. From the look of it, they’d be there some time. She picked a place to watch them, then tried to relax.
Somewhere upstairs Ruart and Kirion must still be gambling. If the servants finished before the gamblers did, Aisling might be able to slide out of the door to freedom. She crouched waiting, wondering what was happening at Gerith Keep. Old Geavon would have been furious when he found out. He’d take it as a personal insult. He’d never liked Ruart, with this business he’d be almost ready to call feud.
Aisling hoped she’d be able to tell Geavon it had been mostly Kirion from what she knew. It would be satisfying to know she’d brought trouble to her older brother. At least as much trouble as he’d brought to her if luck continued to hold.
It was holding better than she knew. Upstairs both men no longer gambled. Instead, they lay sprawled on the floor, faces each wearing an identical look of frustrated fury. Between them a small table had been upended, dice and glasses spilling onto the sheepskins. The fire was almost burned out. Ruart had given instructions that no servant was to interrupt him as they gambled., None would dare go against that order. Kirion had agreed. It suited him to be private. He hid a sly smirk. Ruart was being far more helpful than he realized.
Unseen by his comrade Kirion had slid open a tiny compartment on his wrist ornament. It opened with a twist of his thumbnail to allow a pinch of grayish powder to drift down. He turned, proffering a glass as he drank from his own.
The powder would take a short time to work. Ruart would only think the wine unusually effective at first. By the time he knew otherwise, he’d be helpless. Not that Kirion intended him any harm; he’d just collect Aisling and head back to Iren Keep.
In the solitude of his tower he could wring her power from her. Use it to buy more of his own. He’d found a way to do that without risking anything himself. Aisling would lose a lot, including her life and soul—if there really was such a thing.
He grinned as he rolled the dice again, accepting more wine from Ruart. Was the man beginning to look dizzy? He thought so.
Ruart had eyed Kirion thoughtfully. That powder he’d dropped in his third cup of wine would take a while to work. It cost, too. The old woman by the Kars gate charged high.
He hid a leer. But you got what you paid for. The stuff would work quite swiftly. Another minute or two and the girl would be his. By the time Kirion revived it would be too late.
This wine was strong. He drank off the remainder of his glass, finding himself staggering as he walked to open another bottle.
It shouldn’t be that strong, though. He’d ordered the lighter wine. Better not to be too drunk, he thought. He focused on the bottle. Strange, it was the lighter wine he was drinking—why then did he feel so dizzy, so weak?
He understood just as his knees gave way. His face creased into helpless rage as blackness enveloped him.
Kirion watched Ruart slump to the floor. He rose to stand over him watching the glaring eyes slide closed. That was that. Now he’d just have one last glass like a lord should. No need to hurry now. He had all the time in the world; it would be tomorrow evening before Ruart awoke. By then Kirion would be back in his tower, his sorceries completed.
He drank his wine. Strange, that may have been one too many. He felt dizzy, weak at the knees. He leaned on the table as it gave way, dropping glasses, dice, and Kirion to the floor beside it. Kirion’s face wrenched into a snarl of frustrated fury. Damn false comrades. The bloody man had drugged him! His mind slipped into night still yelling its surprised indignation.
Aisling crouched by her door. Through the door curtain she could see the servants had almost finished their polishing. She’d spent part of her time checking for anything that might help her here. She’d found an old cloak dropped in a corner. That would help to hide her unconventional attire. The cloak was dusty and mouse-smelling, but anything was better than trying to march through the door in her petticoat. That betrayed too much to anyone who saw her. The cloak betrayed less—unless they got close enough to smell it.
Kirion and Ruart must be gambling-mad up there, she mused. It had taken her hours to get this far and still no sign of either.
She had finished her drink. If she didn’t get out of here shortly, she was going to be in the very unladylike position of having to use a corner. It would be just her luck to have someone walk in at that moment.
The servants were actually leaving. Aisling gathered herself by the door curtain. One was gone, then the other. She dived for the door just as the first returned.
It was a woman. Not young, not old, but her face was lined, bitter and weary. Aisling held a finger to her lips imploringly.
The woman’s eyes summed the girl up. Another of his lordship’s playthings. Not a willing one, either. Somehow she’d escaped. The servant nodded to herself. She’d call for help to stop the girl; his lordship had given one of the men a whole silver piece for that last time. She opened her mouth to yell, then paused as the girl moved.
Aisling dug frantically into her boot. Where had she put the coins she’d found? They slid into her hand and she held out the two gold ones. Gold! The servant gaped. That was more than Ruart would give her. Aisling smiled and held out her hand offering both gold pieces. The servant edged close enough to snatch them from her.