needle and tubing still ran into her arm. At least though, she was now mercifully alone. She lay back and pulled experimentally at her bonds—but there was no give in them. Carefully she considered her options. The links were strong and she couldn’t really put all her weight against them, since her legs were bound too. However if there was a way to lubricate them she would perhaps be able to fold her hands and slip out of them. She’d always been flexible, and if she sawed back and forth, enough of her own blood might do the trick.
Zofiya flicked her head and strained her eyes to look around the room. Freed of the influence of whatever potion they’d given her, she could make out that she was definitely in a cellar. Against the wall were some implements that looked like hoes and shovels, and the smell of dirt filled her nostrils. It had been a far more pleasant environment in the dream.
However, one thing was obvious; they hadn’t expected to kidnap her so soon. Her falling into bed with Merrick had just been a fortuitous event for them, and so they had apparently had to make hasty arrangements. This could play to her advantage should she get at least her hands free. Considering del Rue’s physical attributes, Zofiya hazarded she might be able to get the best of him. No telling how weak she might be if they kept her here too long and under the ministrations of the device.
So yes, it had to be soon.
Zofiya began to work both of her wrists within the confines of the chain. Without drugs, it was going to be very painful. However, she’d only just started when a door opening somewhere in the shadows alerted her that she’d run out of time. Hastily, Zofiya slumped back on the bed, glad at least that she’d not hurt herself too much yet.
Del Rue came in whistling from the other room. She could hear his boots shuffling through the dirt of the floor, and made note of how long it took from the first door opening until he entered her room. Only six seconds. She tucked that information away, just in case she needed to run in the dark.
“How is my little princess this morning?” he asked conversationally. When she did not answer, he sighed dramatically. “Come, come, you are awake, so let’s not play these games. I have other, far more interesting ones for you.”
Zofiya turned her head and looked at him, keeping her face carefully blank. “I am sure you do, but what if I don’t want to play them.”
He shrugged. “That is neither here nor there.” He set down a jug of water on the stool just out of reach of the bed, then a plate bearing a wedge of cheese and some bread.
Zofiya’s mouth watered, and she ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth. She hadn’t eaten much at the party, and nothing at all after with Merrick in her room. She didn’t know how long it had been since then.
Del Rue busied himself with the device, filling up several empty containers that were part of its inner compartments. As he worked he whistled, though his back was to her. “My, you have taken quite a lot of houndsbane and myrwood.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Very impressive really.”
The Grand Duchess’ short laugh seemed to catch him off guard. “Obviously you don’t know anything about the Delmairian Royal Court. All of the King’s children are exposed to small doses of poisons throughout their lives. It’s an occupational hazard that everyone lives with.”
He frowned at that. “How very inconvenient, but I do have some other tinctures that are quite rare and most likely will do that trick.” He snapped shut the device’s housing. “I’ll have to send out for the ingredients though.” He didn’t look at all impressed at this delay to his plans.
“Sorry,” she said, her voice full of mock distress, “I do hope I haven’t upset your timetable.”
A bright and terrible light flashed in his eyes: a glimpse of something that Zofiya was fairly sure could not be human. The shadows around him seemed to grow deeper, and his words when he spoke boomed in the tiny cellar. “I was inclined to be kind, but now I see that would be wasted on you.”
He snatched up the food, and stalked away, slamming the door behind him. It was, the Grand Duchess considered, like dealing with a very dangerous child.
She was having a hard time keeping up with his moods, and it was impossible to know how to approach her captor when he flip-flopped so often. Zofiya had known more than a few conspirators and traitors in her time and handled them easily. It was obvious to her that struggling against him was not working in any way, yet she could not find it within herself to soothe the man.
Hearing the final door to the cellar bang shut, Zofiya turned her eyes upward, back to her bindings. She didn’t know how long her father’s paranoia with the tinctures all those years ago had bought her, but she would assume it was enough. She began to yank and pull on the chains in earnest. Blood flowed as she set to with grim determination.
The Grand Duchess had no way of telling how long she tugged and pulled on her arms, sawing them back and forth against the rough metal, but eventually she felt her right hand slip. The pain was making her breath come in short gasps, and she shook her head trying to clear the spots that rose before her eyes.
She folded that palm as best she could and readied herself for a final tug. She knew she mustn’t scream, because she had no idea where her captors were. So when she pulled, Zofiya bit down on her own lip. Every muscle concentrated on that right hand. She tensed her legs, bracing herself against the bed, and then yanked hard.
The skin tore, the hand felt like it was being crushed in a vice, but she didn’t give up. Finally, the hand slid free with a liquid pop that seemed very loud in the chamber. Zofiya allowed herself to lie there for a minute and let the pain wash over her. Then cautiously, she raised her arm to examine the damage. Despite having felt quite the contrary, she still had a hand. The skin was torn, bleeding and starting to swell without the constriction of the cuff.
Yet she could not cosset her hand, now she had it free. It had work to do. The first order of business was get herself disconnected from the vile machine. She would have loved to have knocked the thing to the floor, but again that would make far too much noise, so she pushed it away on its wheels. Now able to twist about and get some leverage, she made quick work of the bed, bending the strut and getting her left hand loose. After that, her feet, tied with rope, were quickly freed.
Zofiya sat up quickly, and immediately wished she hadn’t. Her head was swimming and it took a long moment for her eyes to focus. This new point of view took a moment to get used to. There was only one way in and out of the room, a simple wooden door. Taking a moment to rip up a sheet, the Grand Duchess bound her wounded wrist and examined the place for a weapon of some kind. Nothing bladed was present—that would have been far too lucky—so she yanked out one of the struts from the bed, and swung it experimentally a few times. It should do in a pinch, but feeling like she was, the target would have to be slow moving.
Testing the door, Zofiya found with some surprise that there was no lock. After taking a breath, she pushed it open a fraction and glanced in. This next room was as dimly lit as her own, and so, crouched over, she crept in. The smell was the first thing that hit her, actually stopping her in her tracks. It was the odor of urine and excrement, and not just a fraction, but a considerable buildup. She’d been on campaign with her father as a young woman, and despite the joys of traveling with the King, she’d still been exposed to the more visceral side of life in a camp. However in a closed space, on top of her already fragile condition, the smell was so overpowering that for a second she had to choke back her own bile. She held her shirt over her nose and went on.
A single lantern hanging from the wall lit this room’s prisoner. He was restrained, but not as she was. This old man sitting cross-legged on the floor was collared around the neck with a chain running from a fixture on the wall. The opposite side of the room was where this poor creature had been forced to defecate. It was a state that Zofiya would have been outraged to have any of her dogs in—let alone a man. After she conquered her disgust, she took another step into the room.
Zofiya glanced around, making absolutely sure that they were alone.
“Are you all right?” she whispered, bending down toward him, though the smell lower down was no fresher. The man did not acknowledge her presence, merely continued what he was doing.
The floor they stood on was dusty and strewn with straw, as a house in the countryside would have been. This debris of dust and wheat was what fascinated her fellow prisoner. He had sorted out the larger pieces of stalks to one side, and piled them behind him, so that what lay before him was a clear surface. He was drawing.
Zofiya tilted her head and stared as he worked. They were not words, but symbols. Despite the peril of the moment, the Grand Duchess circled around him to get a better look. She had never seen anything like it. These were curved interlacing strokes, elaborately curled and curiously beautiful. As she stared, she thought she could make out a couple of shapes she recognized; two runes she’d last observed on the Gauntlet of Deacon Sorcha Faris.
