There was no escape from this place. None.
One might say that after five days in the cell, Moria’s situation had improved, but when one was locked alone in a cold, dark cell, any change had to be for the better.
Her leg iron was off. The healer had apparently insisted her ankle was infected and needed to be free to heal. With that treatment came sponge baths and clean clothing every other day. Moria was also now getting three meals of rice and soup, and if the guard Halmond didn’t bring them, she could actually eat. She had a clean blanket. Halmond had chastised her for soiling the last one, then taken it and said she’d have none until she was ready to appreciate it. The old woman had come the next day, realized she didn’t have a blanket, and ordered Halmond to bring a new one.
That was the pattern they’d settled into. Halmond would punish her—for no misdeed greater than existing—then the old woman would undo the guard’s punishment. If he spit in her food and she didn’t eat it, the healer presumed it was not to her liking and brought something else. If he pissed in the corner of her room, the healer thought the bucket had overturned and ordered someone to scrub the floor. When he kept snuffing out her candle, the healer replaced it with a lantern.
Moria never complained about Halmond. She had no idea whether the woman was in any position to have him reassigned, and if she wasn’t, tattling on him would only make things worse.
But by the end of those first five days, she had a lantern, an extra blanket, regular hot food, and sufficient clean water. Compared to the initial hell, it was relative extravagance. And now that she’d recovered from her exhaustion and shock and hunger, she’d begun trying to figure a way out of her situation. Unfortunately, there was none.
The cell had no windows. From the damp and the stink of dirt, she suspected she was underground. There was one door. Every time it opened, it revealed Halmond, a serving girl, or the healer. The women were always accompanied by a guard. Whenever Moria looked through the open doorway, she saw two more warriors outside as permanent guards.
Now, hearing the scraping of a key in the lock, she tensed. While she had no way to tell time in this dark place, her life had fallen into a reliable schedule. That door opened only for two things—her meals and the healer’s visits, which came every second day. She’d had her breakfast not long ago, and the old woman had come yesterday. Meaning that door should not be opening.
Unless he’s come. Gavril. Or his father. Come to tell me my fate.
Come to kill me.
When she saw Halmond, she almost exhaled in relief. That lasted only a moment before she caught sight of the murderous glint in his eye.
Moria’s fingers scraped against the dirt floor as she struggled not to creep away.
Something’s happened. And I’m about to pay the price.
Halmond wedged in the door stopper with his foot. While the hall light shone in, he crossed to her lantern and lit it, filling the room with wavering light.
Without a word, he returned to the door and retrieved a bowl from the hall. A steaming bowl, like the one the healer brought. Moria tried not to smile. The old woman was coming early. That was the only surprise in this place she’d welcome. There was still no conversation between them—and no sign that one was possible—but the healer was kind. The hot sponge bath and clean clothes had become a luxury Moria dreamed of on the nights before the old woman’s visits.
That’s why Halmond was annoyed, then. Because Moria was getting a treat.
He brought the bowl and laid it beside her. Then he returned to the door, kicked out the stopper, and walked back toward her.
“Isn’t the healer—” Moria began as she struggled to her feet.
“She can’t come today. You’ll bathe without her.”
“But it’s not my day to—”
“It is now.” He shoved her shoulder. “Undress.”
She glared up at him. She didn’t say a word, though. She understood. Something had happened, quite possibly something that had nothing to do with her, and this was how he was handling it. Venting his frustration by finding fresh humiliations for his prisoner. Well, he’d chosen poorly, then. She was no timid maiden, clutching her tunic together for fear some man might glimpse her breasts. While she knew better than to flaunt herself, she saw no shame in nakedness. Compared to pissing on her blanket or spitting in her soup, this was a punishment she could bear.
She started unfastening her tunic.
“What did you tell her?” Halmond asked.
She looked up.
“What did you tell that old crone about me?” he said.
“Nothing.”
“No? Then why has Lord Gavril summoned me to speak about you? And why did the messenger warn he was in a foul mood when he gave the order?”
She met his gaze. “I’ve said nothing. I know you’d retaliate if I did.”
His eyes narrowed. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? So much more clever than me.”
Moria bit her tongue against a retort. Even when she was civil and reasonable, he still found fault. Ashyn would say he was an angry man, an unhappy man. Perhaps so, but that wouldn’t stop Moria from putting a dagger through him if she got the chance. Nothing excused humiliating and torturing a helpless captive.
“Are you still undressing?” he said. “Because if I need to help you, you won’t be able to wear that clothing again, and I’ll not bring you anything new.”
Moria yanked off her tunic and trousers. When she finished, she was wearing a thin silken shift that fell to the top of her thighs. She reached over to take the cloth from the bowl of hot water. As she did, she tensed, waiting for him to tell her to remove the shift. He said nothing, and she didn’t look at him—just took the lump of soap, rubbed it on the wet cloth, and began to clean her arms.
When she glanced up, he was staring at her. She’d been ogled by men before, but she was beginning to realize this was far more dangerous than having him spit in her stew.
Her gaze fell to his blades. Could she distract him and grab his dagger? If she could distract him, would she distract him?
Yes, she would use his ogling, if that was the path to freedom. But it was not. Even if she pulled his blade, the hall was guarded.
She lowered her gaze and put the cloth back into the bowl. “I’m done. The water’s cold, and I’m quite clean. Thank you for bringing me an extra—”
“Finish bathing.” The growl in his voice warned her. Tread carefully.
“I have. Thank you for bringing the water. I appreciate—”
He rose from his crouch so fast that her fingers automatically dropped to her side, where her blade should be. He was on his feet now, standing beside the water bowl.
“You’ll not do it yourself?” he said.
“I truly don’t need—”
He plunged his hand into the water and took up the soap. He squeezed it, suds and ooze running through his fingers. Then he dropped the soap and advanced on her, his jaw set. He grabbed her bare knee. And she grabbed his dagger.
It wasn’t planned. Wasn’t even intentional. He yanked her leg, and she went for his blade, as if there was no other option. Even as her fingers closed on the cool handle, she knew she’d made a mistake.
It wasn’t too late. She could let go and pray to the ancestors that he hadn’t noticed. But nothing in her would allow him to touch her, because if he did it once, he’d not stop doing it. So she grabbed the dagger, and she plunged it into his gut.
He let out a howl and fell back. She yanked it out. Blood gushed, and he howled again. She gripped the dagger, ready to stab him again if he reached for his sword. But he only let out a snarl, grabbed the front of her shift and yanked so hard the silk tore.
His eyes rolled in pain and fury, his hand still wrapped in her shift, blood soaking it now as his wound gushed. He wrenched, as if to pull her onto the floor. She stabbed him again. She didn’t know where. It didn’t matter, truly, only that she stabbed him as he yowled in fresh pain. Still, he grabbed for her, and she was raising the blade again, ready to deliver the final blow when the door swung open.