Emily nodded, slowly, as they reached a heavy iron door. Althorn knocked twice, waited five seconds and then knocked again. The door creaked ominously as it opened, revealing two guards wearing dark outfits, topped with the little cloth caps. Althorn spoke briefly to them, then led the way into the dungeon complex itself. The air felt thick and heavy despite the cold. Emily tasted the scent of helplessness and fear on her tongue. The stench was sharp and thoroughly unpleasant.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she said, as they passed a glowing lantern. The light flickered randomly, as if the lantern was permanently on the verge of burning itself out. “Why do you all wear cloth caps?”
If Althorn was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it. “The caps are a symbol of the working class,” he said. “Everyone is meant to wear a cap, just so they can doff it to their betters. There are - there were - strict limits on who could wear what. Now... we adopted the cap as a symbol, rather than dismiss it entirely. We are all laborers now.”
He stopped in front of a heavy iron door. “The royal whore is in here,” he said. “Knock when you want to come out.”
Emily glanced at him, suddenly wondering if she was walking into a trap. The cells were heavily warded. She thought she could break out, given time, but... she shook her head and watched as he opened the door. The rebels weren’t likely to kill her, not as long as they needed her. Even so, Crown Prince Dater was unlikely to accept the rebel terms. It was far more likely he’d risk everything in a desperate bid to reclaim the capital city. She sighed inwardly as she peered into the semi-darkness, then stepped into the cell.
The door banged closed as soon as she was inside. The shadows pulsed like a living thing, refusing to reveal their secrets. The sole source of light was a single lantern, dangling from a metal chain. Emily gritted her teeth, then cast a night-vision spell. The cell loomed towards her, then receded. A lone figure was sitting on a bench, looking up at her. The figure - the queen - was so still that Emily thought, for a single worried moment, that the queen was dead.
She inched forward, glancing from side to side. She’d been in worse places, but not by much. There was no bed, save for a pile of straw; there was no bathroom, just a single chamber pot positioned in the far corner. King Randor had kept his political prisoners in much better conditions, Emily reflected, but he’d assumed he might need them again eventually. The cell he’d put Emily in had been worse. It would be no comfort, she reflected, to tell that to the queen. The odds were good she’d never been locked up until the rebellion had turned her world upside down.
Queen Francoise cleared her throat. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“I’m here to check on you,” Emily said. She’d never met the new queen. She thought it might be better not to give her name. “How are you?”
The queen laughed. It was a broken sound. “Terrible.”
Emily shuddered. Queen Francoise had probably been pretty, once upon a time. Now... her hair was a mess, her face scarred and pitted, and she wore a dress that looked as though it had belonged to a scullery maid. She didn’t seem to have any broken bones, Emily noted, but she held herself in a manner that suggested constant aches and pains. The rebels might have brutalized her or... she shook her head. The rebels had an interest in keeping the queen alive and relatively unharmed, at least for the moment. They probably wouldn’t mind if Emily did a little healing before she left the cell.
“They said my husband is dead,” Queen Francoise said. “Is that true?”
“I...” Emily hesitated, unsure if she should tell the truth. The queen was in a fragile state and yet... she didn’t want to lie. “Yes. It was quick.”
Queen Francoise let out a long gasping sigh. “He shouldn’t have listened to that bastard,” she said. “I knew he couldn’t be trusted. Always babbling on about this and that, trying to marry his daughter to the princes... he simply couldn’t be trusted. I knew it.”
Emily frowned. “Who couldn’t be trusted?”
“Triune,” the queen said. “My husband made him an advisor and... he was never satisfied.”
“Triune,” Emily repeated. The man who’d owned the house the rebels had taken, then given to her? “What happened?”
Queen Francoise shook her head. “It happened so quickly,” she said. “I couldn’t believe it.”
“I know,” Emily said. “What happened?”
“There was a riot,” Queen Francoise said. “The Royal Guard was sent to quell it. The traitors turned on us instead. The streets turned on us. We had to run through the tunnel to the castle as the walls were breached, then... I told him to take command. I told him to take command. I told him...”
That probably wouldn’t have worked, Emily thought, grimly. She felt a twinge of pity for the queen. She didn’t deserve the charges thrown at her by the rebels. They should have been safe, as long as they stayed in the castle.
“The Royal Sorcerers were killed,” Queen Francoise continued. “Poisoned, by a maid. Can you believe it? A maid killed them all! Triune had her executed, but it was too late. The walls were going to fall. I told him...”
She let out a high-pitched giggle. “Triune had a plan. We’d take the coaches and flee to the countryside. The Crown Prince was out there, somewhere. We’d get out and return in glory, bathing the rebels in the light of our radiance. The people loved us. They would come out for us when we returned. We got into the coaches and drove away and...”
Emily leaned forward. “And?”
“We drove right into a trap,” the queen said. “Triune betrayed us. He must have done. The rebels
