Gisella smiled. 'It needs dusting.'
He raised an eyebrow.
'And I should love to spend hours here studying everything, if my lord would permit it.'
Vlad smiled. 'I do believe, Princess Gisella, this could be arranged.'
Chapter Thirty-Eight
September 1, 1763
Anvil Lake, New Tharyngia
o wen awoke with a start, clutching his blankets tighter. He shivered, cold air finding him through both. A draft poured into his cell beneath the wooden door, flooding the dark room.
He rolled onto his side and drew his legs up. They protested, less from the wounds than those other things du Malphias had proved he could do. The man had studied enough anatomy to have charted nerve paths. A touch here, a caress there, and it felt as if he was scourging Owen's flesh. He body reacted, yet the flesh remained untorn and unbruised.
And it wasn't always a touch. As he had done in stopping the crutch, du Malphias was able to use magick at a distance. Owen didn't know how, and had been in too much pain to make any serious observations, but du Malphias had been able to affect him from at least a yard away. Perhaps more.
Owen groaned, his breastbone still aching.
Quarante-neuf loomed out of the shadows. He draped a heavy piece of canvas over Owen. 'This may help.'
Owen shook his head. 'I need to move. If I lay here I shall die.'
He threw back the covers and sat up. He wrapped a blanket around himself. He reached a hand out and Quarante-neuf took it, easing him to his feet. Owen chuckled.
The pasmorte cocked his head. 'What amuses you, sir?'
'You're dead and yet your flesh is warmer than mine? How is that?'
'I do not know, sir.'
Owen slowly straightened, his spine popping as he did so. 'Did he give you vivalius recently?'
'I do not require it as often as the others.'
That made sense. As nearly as Owen could determine, the pasmortes in the most advanced states of decay needed the most. To heal Owen's wounds, du Malphias employed mere droplets. He'd watched ragged collections of flesh and bones bathe in it. He had no idea if it warmed their flesh, but it did vitalize them.
Owen took a step, then another. In another demonstration of power, du Malphias hobbled him by magick. If Owen tried to take a full stride, pain shot up his hamstring, over his rump, and into his back. It hurt worse than being shot. Sometimes it left him breathless.
He forced himself to ignore the pain.
Owen clutched at Quarante-neuf's shoulder when his left leg buckled. The pasmorte caught him. 'You must be careful, sir.'
'I have a duty to escape.'
'But, Captain Strake, the Laureate will have you killed if you defy him.'
'I think, my friend, if I shall end up dead, I should like to die a man.'
The pasmorte walked with him, supporting him. 'You called me 'friend.''
'You keep me alive.' Owen looked up at him. 'Your service is compelled. You are not my enemy.'
'No.'
Owen smiled. 'I know, from your voice, you are Mystrian.'
The pasmorte shook his head. 'I do not recall.'
Owen would have taken that as a blanket dismissal, but the words trailed off ruefully. Over the time he had been in Quarante-neuf's care, Owen had noticed subtle changes. Pierre Ilsavont, according to his son, had memories of his previous life. Quarante-neuf might have some as well. He might be hiding that information for a variety of reasons. Do the dead desire privacy?
'Please remember this, then: You are my friend. I cannot thank you enough for helping me, no matter what comes.'
'You are welcome, sir.'
They continued walking around the cell. Owen hissed when the pain spiked. Quarante-neuf would pause, ready to catch him. Owen leaned on him when his legs quivered so violently that he wasn't sure if he could take another step. Then he would push on.
Quarante-neuf nodded encouragingly. 'You must continue. She is waiting for you, your wife.'
Owen raised an eyebrow. 'How did you…?'
'You spoke her name in your sleep.'
Owen hesitated. He recalled the dream, when he was so cold. She had come with a thick blanket. She had laid it over him, then crawled beneath it. She held him, whispering that everything would be fine.
Bethany.
'That was not my wife.' Owen struggled along several more steps. 'It was a woman I met in Mystria. Another friend.'
'I understand, sir.'
'Not that sort of friend. She is a lovely young woman, is Bethany.'
The pasmorte nodded. 'It is a beautiful name.'
'True, but we must never speak it aloud again.' Owen glanced toward the door. 'Your master is an evil man. If he suspects, he will find a way to harm her. I will not let that happen. Promise me.'
'As best I am able, Captain.' The dead man shook his head. 'I would have no harm come to your friend.'
Owen shivered again. He was fooling himself if he thought du Malphias did not already know about Bethany, about everything. Owen couldn't remember what he'd revealed under torture, but he'd have given anything up to stop it. He tried lying, repeatedly, and even kept one lie alive over three sessions, but finally broke down and admitted it had been a lie. All he'd done was purchase time and earn himself the thaumaturgical shackling.
I must escape. He labored under no illusion that his escape would protect his friends and his nation against du Malphias. The man was evil in ways beyond human comprehension, and incredibly powerful. The way he had assaulted Owen, the way he'd tortured him, implied depths of magick skill Owen had never even imagined could exist.
'To escape, Quarante-neuf, I will need your help.'
'I do not know what I can do.'
'I will need food and clothing. And I will need nails. Four nails, no, six. Maybe a dozen. Iron nails.' Owen shuffled around to look at Quarante-neuf. 'Can you get those things for me?'
The pasmorte considered for a moment, then nodded. 'The Laureate has me under a compulsion to keep you safe.'
'Then how can you can watch him torture me?'
'I am also constrained from harming him.' Quarante-neuf shook his head. 'It does not mean I cannot hate him. I just cannot harm him.'
Owen nodded. 'If you gather these things for me, you will be making me safe. Distancing me from du Malphias will keep him safe.'
'Thank you, sir.' The pasmorte smiled. 'It shall please me to be of service to you both.'
Quarante-neuf was good to his word. He collected everything Owen requested and concealed it somewhere in the fortress. He did not tell Owen where, so Owen could not reveal the location of the cache under torture.
As Owen identified new needs, he worded his requests carefully. 'I would feel much safer if…' prefaced all of them. When Quarante-neuf told him of his success, Owen always thanked him with, 'I feel much safer now.'
The nails trickled in. Owen hid them inside the leather sleeves, sliding them between the shackle and his skin. It pleased him to carry the keys to his escape at all times and that du Malphias never noticed. When Owen was alone he'd pull one out and sharpen it against the cell's stone floor. He worked it until it was needle sharp, then
