“Is my father not coming to supper then?” Rowan asked, sliding into a chair.
Thalia hovered near the table, biting her lip. She was a Glaevor girl, newly hired, with thick curly hair. “There’s been—a disturbance.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, your ladyship,” she continued, setting Rowan’s food in front of her. “When your father returned to the keep this morning, he discovered that six of his Elkarin had vanished.”
Rowan’s chest fluttered suddenly, but she continued with the same drab, steady voice. “He has not found them?”
“He is in pursuit of them now,” Thalia continued, “However, the—perpetrator has been—apprehended.”
“It is him then!” Rowan exclaimed suddenly, slamming her palms down on the table. “The one they call Thunderblade!”
Thalia glanced aside. “Don't get too excited. They’ve taken him to the dungeon.”
“Oh," Rowan said. The words sunk like a stone in her stomach, but she tried not to let it show. She didn't know what she had expected. “I suppose they will kill him once he has told them everything?”
“It is likely, your ladyship,” Thalia replied.
“Well,” Rowan said, rising from her seat, “Since my father isn’t coming, I shall take my supper in the fireplace."
The fireplace in the great hall was the largest in the castle, mostly because of the large benches on either side. It was warm even in winter, and always tucked away from easy visibility. The back wall contained a long, vertical corridor which served as a chimney for a fire on every floor of the castle.
Every floor—including the dungeon.
Rowan sat as far back as she could, near the chimney shaft. The servant girl moved her supper to the bench beside her, set a kettle on the fire, and left.
As soon as Thalia was gone, Rowan wrapped her hand in her skirt and moved the kettle. She'd caught the trick of this spot as a child, and it worked both ways. She couldn't let the whistle sound.
The stones were hard, and echoes carried, muddling each other. It was hard to pinpoint movement, parse specific sounds. Finally she heard something distinct—a wet thwack, like a newly washed plait accidentally flung against the wall, echoing up from the chamber below.
A brief silence followed, and then the same noise, over and over, like the beat of a drum. Rowan started to get bored, and that scared her a little. It was too easy to acclimate.
Finally the beating stopped, and Rowan was startled to attention just in time to hear a gruff voice.
“Tell me where you’ve hidden them.”
The reply must have been mumbled, because the next sound Rowan heard was a loud clap, like the sound a round of cheese makes when it smacks the ground after being dropped.
“What do you mean, who? The Elkarin slaves you so deliberately stole this morning!”
Someone coughed. “First of all," he said, a little louder, "Just because someone asks a silly question doesn’t give you the right to slap them. Did your Mother never teach you basic manners?"
Rowan gasped in spite of herself, covering her mouth to muffle the sound. She had to admire the man’s pluck, but he was going to get himself killed.
Then again, that was going to happen anyway.
The gruff voice spoke again, “Do you have any idea where you are or whom you speak to?”
“Unfortunately.”
“This is the keep of Highlord Ambrose, and I am his chief inquisitor. I will give you one more opportunity. Where have you hidden the slaves?”
“Just to clarify,” the stranger said, “We’re talking about the slaves I so deliberately stole this morning?”
There was a short silence.
“Fine,” the stranger said, “If you really must know—I actually don't know either.”
The inquisitor scoffed. “If you think I believe that, you're more of a fool than I thought.”
“That's definately true."
“The sword then. Tell me how it works.”
It was a kind of victory, Rowan thought. He'd annoyed the inquisitor into switching tactics.
“Well," the stranger said, speaking slowly, "I'm not great at swords. But I've been reliably informed that they work best when you hold the smooth bit and keep the stabby bit pointed at the other guy.”
“You summoned lightning this evening," the inquisitor said, with a tone Rowan was used to in old ladies who tried to make her sit still at a child. "It incapacitated ten men. There are numerous witnesses. You used the sword. How does it work?”
“Lightning?” the stranger asked, “You mean like the Thunderblade? Was he here?”
“I should have you killed this instant,” the inquisitor said.
“Do it then,” the stranger said, suddenly serious, “Face highlord Ambrose without the information he commanded you to extract.”
Rowan held her breath. It was a valid threat. Her father did not take kindly to failure. Had the stranger overheard some conversation, or made an educated guess?
There was no reply from the inquisitor this time, only the steady snap of the whip starting up again. Rowan sighed. What had she expected? There was never going to be any other outcome.
So then, why was she disappointed?
Four months ago, a peasant and an Elkarin man had disappeared from their cells in Fort Lineau. Or so rumor had it. Such a situation was too embarrassing to publicly report. Even so, it was an isolated incident, an exception. Prisoners and slaves did not escape.
Three months ago, thirty-seven Elkarin broke out of their cell near the Lineau docks and ran away along the shore. The boat that set off to pursue them sunk within half an hour of leaving port. It had been struck by lightning.
A month and a half ago, Lord Renean went missing during a hunting party. Three quarters of his garrison spent the next day and a half searching the surrounding forest for any sign of him. He was eventually found tied to a tree, unharmed. There was a note, apologizing for any inconvenience caused, but explaining that Lord Renean had it coming. When the group returned to Renean’s keep, twenty-three Elkarin were missing.
The note was signed Thunderblade.
Ever since Rowan heard his name, she had been fascinated. Not in a girlish way—Rowan had met plenty of dapper young men, and they were all as blatantly violent as her father. She could remember her mother, lying broken at the foot of the grand stairs. Rowan had run down to her, pulled back the hair from her face, felt under her nose for breath.
There wasn't any.
After that, Rowan decided that she would never love a man. She would marry—she had to get out of her father's keep somehow. She would probably get stuck with one of the two eligible sons of highlords, both of whom were too well-liked, too confident, and far too strong.
She used to hope she might end up with Prince Aleksander. He was short, uncoordinated, incompetent, spoke with a pronounced stammer, and was known to cry when he stubbed his toe. He would be easy enough to overpower, if the need ever arose. Unfortunately, the lords and highlords all planned to kill him the minute he assumed the throne. It was the king’s fault for marrying an Elkarin woman. Didn’t he know the lords would never submit to anyone who possessed even a drop of Elkarin blood?
Rowan suddenly realized that the echoes had stopped. Was the man dead already? For his sake, she almost hoped so.
Why had she been so fascinated?
Any man with a sword that shot lightning could be off slaying dragons and winning tournaments and making himself disgustingly rich and atrociously popular. Yet Thunderblade spent his time ticking off powerful people in order to give freedom to those who didn’t have it.
People like Rowan.
She must have fallen asleep. The fire had turned to embers and her remaining food was cold to the touch. Suddenly, a chill ran up her spine, and she turned to see a dark form looming over her. She screamed, and a hand clamped over her mouth, cutting the noise off.
Rowan froze, terrified—but nothing else happened. Her eyes started adjusting to the dark. In front of her stood an Elkarin boy, slight, about her age. He let his hand drop down from her mouth, brought one finger up to his own lips. Then his knees gave out and he fell, back toward the gaping chimney shaft.
Rowan caught his arm and pulled him forward onto the bench.
They sprawled there for a moment, both too shocked to speak or move.
“Did you climb up?” Rowan finally whispered.
Suddenly, Rowan heard a latch click. Something shifted in the shadows on the walls as a new light source entered the great hall. Without a word, she grabbed the boy by the scruff of his shirt, pushed him to the floor behind her, and turned to greet the newcomer.
“Your ladyship,” Thalia said, “I heard you cry out—”
“It was a nightmare,” Rowan explained, heart beating wildly. If it had been anyone else—one of the Elkarin who worked here—she might have explained. But she couldn't risk it. She didn't know Thalia well enough. “I fell asleep by the fire. Nothing to worry about.”
“Do you need anything? I could take your supper dishes,” Thalia suggested, still moving nearer.
“No! That won’t be necessary. I’m sure I—actually, I—didn’t finish my supper and it’s quite cold now,” Rowan said, suddenly inspired. “Run down to the kitchen and tell the cook to fix me something to eat.”
“Yes, your ladyship,” Thalia said, stepping dangerously close with the light.
“Stop! What are you doing?” Rowan ordered, “Didn’t I send you to the kitchen?”
The girl started. “Your ladyship…it's dark. I could light a candle for you.”
“The embers of the fire will be enough. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”
Thalia nodded nervously, then finally turned and left the way she had entered. Now it was dark again, but that wasn’t a problem. Rowan knew every inch of this castle. It wasn’t like she ever got to leave.
“Come on,” Rowan whispered. Grabbing the boy's arm, she yanked him to his feet and started dragging him toward the end of the great hall.
He made it about three steps before he collapsed to his knees.
Rowan could have kicked herself. Hadn't she sat there and listened? She knew he was hurt. Quickly, she took off her cloak and fastened it around his neck. If he was bleeding, if she couldn't see it, surely that would soak it up a little, keep them from leaving an incriminating trail. Then she drew one of his arms over her shoulder, grabbed him around the waist, and lifted him to his feet again.
They started forward again, Rowan doing most of the work. Moving fast and quiet, listening for a pursuit, guiding them through the dark, it took her a moment to notice. There was something long and hard under her arm, pinned against the small of his back.
“You stole back the sword?” she whispered, unable to help herself. If she'd caught a chance to escape that dungeon, she wouldn't have stopped to grab her belongings.
“Is it really stealing,” he murmured, “if you take something...that didn’t belong to the...to the other person in...in the first place?”
Rowan was too self-possessed to answer. A conversation could wait for another time and place.
It was so difficult, so unlike anything that she had ever done, that it almost seemed like it was all happening to someone else. She dragged him out of the hall, up the stairs, down the corridor, into the third room on the right. Her room. As soon as they got through the doorway, Rowan dropped her charge onto the floor. Then she pulled the door closed, turned the key in the lock. Her hands were shaking.
"Thanks," the boy breathed.
Rowan crouched down beside him, trying to make out his face. No fire was lit in here, but the window was open, and moonlight spilled into the room. “I could have pushed you back down the chimney and left you to die,” she said. “Instead, I’m helping you. But my help comes at a price. I want answers.”
The boy smiled, the motion barely visible. "Oh no. I'm bad at giving those."
"Then I have a demand," Rowan continued. She didn't know why she was talking like this. Maybe she'd been around condescension so long that she didn't know how to speak any other way. "I want a part of this. Make me part of what you're doing."
The door rattled. Rowan jerked to her feet, every muscle tensed. She took a halting step forward, trying to come up with a story.
The handle stopped rattling, the door still closed. Then there was a knock. Whoever was after her must not have a key.
“Your ladyship, are you awake?" Thalia said, "I’ve brought your dinner.”
“Leave it there,” Rowan ordered. She didn't need to eat now.
"As you please," Thalia said.
Rowan heard her footsteps retreating—she must have sensed that Rowan was in some kind of mood. All the better for both of them.
"Do you want the food?" Rowan whispered.
There was no response.
Rowan turned around, afraid that her charge had lost consiousness—but he wasn't on the floor. Startled, she scanned the room. In the dark it was hard to tell if anything had changed.
Suddenly she heard a shrill whistle from outside, like a falconer would use on a cloudy day. Rowan ran to the window and stuck her head out. The sound had been close, and when she turned to face it, she thought she could make out the origin—a shadow, a lump on the roof that shouldn't be there.
While she watched, the moon flickered. For a moment, everything over her was shadow. Then the shape that had covered it landed, cloud and branch, every silhouette of night, just there on the gutter. In a moment it rose up again, floating away like a kite. It left a plain roof, ordinary as ever.
In spite of herself, Rowan grinned.