“I’ll do better.”
He crouched in front of her. “Even if you manage to kill me, Keeper, what good will that do? You wouldn’t leave here alive after that. You’re no martyr. You want to punish me, and you want to live. You cannot do both. Not now.”
He waited for her to respond. He expected her to respond. To make her case for killing him.
This was the Gavril she’d come to know, after getting past the snaps and the snarls. The young man who couldn’t carry on a conversation without turning it into a debate.
Except he was right. She wanted to punish him. But if she did it now, she’d die for it.
She laid the dagger on the floor. He took it. As he rose, she did, too. She felt the prickle of cold air and looked down to see her shift torn down the middle and soaked in blood. When Gavril saw her, anger seeped back into his eyes. He tightened his grip on the dagger.
“What did he do?”
Moria reached for her clothing and started putting on her tunic.
“What did he do, Keeper?”
She pulled on her trousers.
“Moria?” A warning edged into his voice, that anger seeping through. “What did he do?”
She reached under her tunic, ripped her shift free, and tossed it aside. “I’ll need another of those, if it’s not too much trouble.”
She started to turn away. He caught her by the wrist, gripping hard, only to let her go almost as quickly, backing up fast, as if she’d burned him.
“Moria.”
“He brought me water to bathe. In front of him. Wasn’t that kind?”
Gavril swallowed hard. “Did he touch you?”
She didn’t answer.
“Moria, answer my question or I swear by the ancestors —”
“He did not succeed in whatever he intended to do.”
His mouth opened. He hesitated. Then he snapped his mouth shut, and, teeth clicking, turned and marched from the cell.
Moria sat cross-legged on the floor of her cell. What else did she expect? At least she wouldn’t need to worry about Halmond anymore. Unless whoever took his place decided to avenge him.
She sighed. Not quite the proper reaction, but there was no sense weeping and raging over her predicament. It would only waste energy she might need. She lowered herself to her blanket and clutched her wildcat figurine and was closing her eyes when the door opened again.
Gavril walked in, followed by two guards.
“Come,” he said. “You’ll have new quarters.”
For a moment, she considered being contrary and saying that she liked these quarters just fine. But there would be self-pity in that, too. A sulking child, still smarting from his betrayal, crossing her arms and being stubborn.
At least she stood a chance of escape someplace else. So she rose and gathered her blanket.
“You’ll not need that,” he said.
She hesitated. She’d planned to secret the wildcat figurine under it. Thinking fast, she bent and lowered the blankets to the ground, using the opportunity to slip the figure into her pocket, before following Gavril out the door.
“You’ll note there are no windows,” Gavril said as he paced about the room. “There is one exit. It will be guarded by two warriors at all times. If you somehow managed to make it past them, you would find yourself in the middle of a military compound, home to sixty-three warriors. Your chances of escaping that are nil.”
Moria tried not to gape about the room. Five days ago, if she’d been given this cell, she’d have looked at the straw pallet on the wooden floor and thought how thin and uncomfortable it would be. She’d have looked at the stiff sheets and plain cushions, and thought how scratchy the fabric would feel, how lumpy the padding looked. She’d have gazed around the otherwise empty room, lit by four wall sconces, and wondered how she’d survive without going mad from boredom. Now, it all seemed luxury beyond reckoning.
She did not, however, fail to miss the lack of windows. Or the way the candle sconces were high enough that she could not grab one and use it to light something on fire. Nor did she miss the thick wooden door.
“It’s a cell,” she said.
“What did you expect? You’re a prisoner.”
“I mean, this is for captives. Presumably prisoners of war. Prisoners who’ve committed no greater crime than choosing the wrong side. Is that correct?”
He barely seemed to pay attention, clearly impatient to finish this transfer and be off. He gave a curt nod and said, “Yes, yes. Now —”
“Then why was I not here before?”
He paused and turned slowly toward her.
“I am exactly the sort of prisoner this cell is intended for, am I not?”
He stood there, saying nothing.
“What have I done to you, Gavril?” she said. “Besides being foolish enough to fall for your tricks. Even then, one would think you’d feel some debt of gratitude that I was not clever enough to expose you for a traitor before you could escape.”
He cleared his throat, as if to say something. But he didn’t.
She stepped toward him. “What did I do to you to deserve being thrown into a dungeon cell? To be degraded and nearly defiled?”
“My father —”
“— put you in charge of my care. Which I’m sure was a dreadful bother, and perhaps you blame me for that, allowing myself to be captured. But there was no reason to leave me down there. Your father left my care to you. I could have been up here.”