As her breathing and the tripping of her heart slowed, Briony heard a sound very close by, a woman or a child quietly weeping. A moment later her breath caught at what sounded like murmured words in her own tongue. What prisoners were these? Was it some kind of brothel of captured Marchlander women? For a moment she entertained a feverish fantasy of waiting for the autarch here and stabbing him when he came to ravish another victim, but she knew even as the anger burned through her that it was a foolish and useless idea—the kind of scene that Nevin Hewney would have written after drinking too much.
“Who’s that crying?” she asked quietly. “Can you understand me?”
The weeping abruptly stopped.
“Where are you from?” she asked. She had given herself away now; she couldn’t turn back. If only it wasn’t so wretchedly dark! She had no idea how this prison tent might be set out—was it one big cage? Or were many separate cells grouped here under the ghostly tent? “Won’t anyone answer me?”
“Frightened,” a small voice told her from somewhere nearby. “Want to go home.”
“What’s your name?” she asked. “Why are you here?”
“Men took us. We’n been doin’ nought wrong. Came into village and took us, uns did.”
“Where did they take you from?”
“Mam?” said another voice, slightly older. “Did you come for us? Will you take us out from here?”
Zoria’s heart! Why had the autarch stolen Brennish children? “And you’re all prisoners?” Her heart seemed clenched like a fist. “Are there any grown-ups in here? An older man?” Would they know who her father was? “A king?”
“No king,” the small voice said, sniffling again. “Just us littl’uns.”
Before she could ask more questions, a sudden light flared on the other side of the pitch-black tent: someone had pulled back the flap and now stood in the opening with a torch. Briony crouched. More torches, more silhouetted figures—then the light dazzled her, and she had to look away. Briony stayed very still until she heard voices and the clang of an iron door opening and closing on the other side of the huge structure. The torches withdrew and the flap dropped, leaving the interior of the great tent pitch black again. Could the guards be looking for her?
“Can anyone else tell me if they know anything about why you’re prisoners, or whether the king of the Marchlands is one of the prisoners?”
When there was no reply Briony began to make her slow way around the exterior of the cage, still beneath the tent. She had to cross one doorway, but to her relief the flap was down and, judging by the voices of the guards, none of them were even looking back at the tent they were guarding. At last she reached the place where she judged the torches had been, the main entrance, but stopped short of the doorway.
She took a breath, but there was no sense hesitating, nor did she have the time—the guards might be coming back any moment. “Hello? Who’s here? Can anyone hear me?”
The voice, when it came, made her skin prickle all over. “What… ? Meriel? ”
“Praise Zoria! Father, is that you?” She pushed herself as close to the bars as she could. It was all she could do not to shout. “Father? It’s me! Oh, the gods are kind! Father!”
Suddenly, she could feel his presence. His hand came through the bars and found her face, which was already wet with tears. “By all the gods… ! Briony? Is that truly you?” Olin’s voice was hoarse, but it was undeniably his voice. “This is a miracle beyond belief! I was almost asleep… I thought… your voice; I thought it was your mother. Am I truly awake?”
“Yes, Father, yes! It’s me!” She clutched at him—he was so thin! Still, it was really her father, after all that time, clearly and plainly him. “I never thought I’d see you again!” She laughed through her tears. “I mean… I still can’t see you… !”
He was also laughing. “Are you well? What are you doing here? Gods, child, this makes no sense at all! Are you here by yourself?”
“I heard the autarch was holding you. I came to…” She couldn’t bear to waste time talking about it. “It’s a long story. But we have to get you out of here!”
“No, it is you who must get away from here, my lamb. They will be back soon to return me to my usual prison. They only put me here because someone attacked an outpost, and Vash feared it might be an attempt to rescue me. The autarch is out of the camp this evening and his minister is terrified something might go wrong while he’s away.”
“All the more reason to get you out now,” she said.
“It’s not possible, Briony. This is not simply a barred enclosure—it’s a cage, with bars on top and bars on the bottom that are sunk in the earth.” He kept his voice low, but she could hear stirring among some of the other captives. “I do not know exactly what the autarch plans, but he is obsessed with Southmarch and thinks somehow if he can take the castle he can awaken a god. Are you with Shaso or Brone? Can you tell them that?”
Briony laughed, but it was painful. “Shaso is dead,” she said. “I’m sorry, Father, but he was burned in a fire in Marrinswalk. Brone is either a prisoner in the castle or a traitor—maybe both. Hendon Tolly is holding the place, but I hear he has been bargaining with the autarch about something.”
“Then how did you get here? Are you with Barrick?”
“Never mind. We have to get you free.” But suddenly Barrick’s name was working in her like a spark slowly growing into a flame.
“You can’t! It’s too late for me, my dear one. But you must not be caught. Get away! Get away before the guards come back.”
“No.” And now it was burning inside her, a fire she had kept banked for months. “Why did you lie to me? Why did you do that, Father?”
He sounded surprised but not shocked. “What do you mean?”
“You never told me about… your curse. About Barrick. About what happened that night his arm was broken.” She bit her lip, fighting the tears again. “Why did you lie to me?”
Long moments passed. Her father had been holding her arms, but now he let go and even took a half step back from the bars. “I’m… sorry.”
“But why? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I was ashamed, girl! Can’t you understand? Ashamed that I passed my tainted blood to those I loved most in the world. Ashamed that I almost killed my own son!” His whisper was hoarse. “And now it is beginning again.”
“What is beginning?”
“The poison! The poison in my veins—I can feel it again. Oh, merciful gods, Briony, I might have been a prisoner for much of the last year but I at least I was free of my cursed blood! Can you understand? For the first time the madness that used to afflict me nearly every moon did not touch me. But as we drew closer and closer to the castle—to my own home!—the affliction returned. Even now I can feel the gall boiling in my veins…”
“But I would have helped you! You should have told me! We could have found a way to cure it—Chaven would have found something… !”
“You cannot cure someone of their own blood,” the king told her in a bitter murmur. “Not unless you slit their throat and hang them up like a slaughtered pig.”
Briony began crying again. “Then it’s my curse, too, Father. You had no right to keep it from us.”
“Don’t you see?” He came back to the bars then, caught her shoulders, and pulled her against the cold metal so that he could put his cheek against hers. “I would have done anything I could to keep it from you. You and Kendrick showed no signs of it.”