But what to do about the stones? she thought, wishing that Tam had taken them away rather than wasting time trying to defend them. It doesn’t matter what happens to me. Not really, she told herself. What matters is that Meraud doesn’t get her hands on the stones. The idea of her being in possession of all four made her tremble.
She used the Earth stone to flatten the copper bands which held the elemental stones. The cold metal snaked higher up her arm, twisting so that the stones hid under her arm.
“What is she doing?” demanded Svelrik from behind her.
The guard who held her stopped, turning to Svelrik with a puzzled expression.
“Nothing, Your Grace,” he said. “Not so far as I can see.”
“Just watch her,” said Svelrik. “Take her to Darrow’s cell. Baird can have his old one. And you,” Kaetha thought he spoke to Raghnall now, who seemed to have regained some strength, “fetch Brocair, tell him I wish to speak with him in my audience chamber.”
“Aye, Your Grace.”
Svelrik disappeared down a passageway, followed by Raghnall.
“Pa,” she called when they got back to his cell. She reached for him but the guards pulled them apart.
“Be strong, Kit – as I know you are,” Aedan said as they threw him in and locked the door. They hadn’t seen the body of the dead guard but surely it wouldn’t be long before they discovered it.
“Pa!” she croaked. No more words came. Now might be her last chance to speak to him but words simply faded from her mind.
“Move,” said the guard. The point of his dagger pressed into her back. He and the other guard took her through further twistings and turnings of the tunnel. She didn’t see the cell until they shoved her into it, her arms and legs smacking against the hard, cold floor. They’d long since taken her knife but now, despite her struggling, they roughly pulled off her boots and stripped her of cloak and gown so that she was down to only her red kirtle and white smock. Chains clinked and then cold metal clenched around one of her ankles. The door slammed, a key clicked and they left her there, curled up and shivering against the unforgiving stone.
She lay there, motionless for a long while until something soft brushed against her shoulder. A pair of eyes gleamed in the darkness.
“Tam!” She sat up, a current of air brushing against her as Tam shifted form. He made a pained sound and she thought it odd that his transformation took longer than usual.
“Damn,” said Tam, looking around the cell as he knelt beside her.
She reached out for his wrist. “Your hand.”
“Never mind that. I can’t bleed to death.” He pressed the bloody stump of his finger into his clothing. The guard must have exaggerated the stab to his belly for there was no sign of any other wound.
“But it could get infected,” she said.
He shook his head. “Now, what do we do?” he asked. She was surprised at his trembling as he grasped her arm. “How do we get you out?”
His questioning unnerved her. For one moment, she’d expected him to have a plan or at least something definite to say. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I think— I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”
“But there’s a chance you could make it, don’t you think? You’ve got the stones after all.”
“Aye. But their power feels more distant from me now.”
“Damned iron bars and rails go all the way around this cell. That’ll make their magic harder to use,” said Tam, “but surely not impossible with the kind of power you have.”
“But there’s a chance that Svelrik or the guards could get hold of the stones or, worse, Meraud could. You said you saw her here.” She could almost see Meraud’s cold, satisfied smile. “Then she’d have all four. I can’t risk that happening. You must take them and get yourself far away from here.” A light was bobbing towards her cell. It was too late. “Hide, Tam. Hide!” she whispered and, with what looked like a painful effort, he became a mouse and scurried into the shadows.
“Who were you talking to?” The cold tone of the voice sounded familiar. The man who spoke placed a torch in a wall bracket opposite and the light cast bars of shadow over her.
“No one,” she said, scrambling to her feet. “Myself.” Looking up into his face, she flinched. She knew those black eyes, that crooked nose and narrow jaw. This was the man who, along with his assistant, had tortured her father. He unlocked the cell and Svelrik emerged from the shadows and strode in. The king towered over her, fixing her with his icy stare. He had long wiry blond hair and beard, pale blue eyes set deep beneath a protruding brow, broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms, his mother’s Hildervalder heritage declaring itself so strongly through his form and features, that surely his nobles, servants and soldiers would be constantly reminded that he was the son of the king’s mistress, not a trueborn heir like Rhona.
“So, you’re Baird’s daughter. Kaetha, I’m told, is that right?” said the torturer. She didn’t plan on answering any of his questions. Svelrik said nothing but stared like a hawk hovering over its prey. The torturer tutted. “How impolite of me. I should have introduced myself. I am Sir Jarl Brocair, His Grace the King’s torturer. I’ve had the pleasure of offering my services to your father.”
“I bet your mother had the pleasure of offering her services too,”
