by Claire Luana
Wren felt like a mouse being eyed by a cat.
“And when Callidus discovers the threat from Guildmaster Chandler, so carefully hidden away in Kasper’s desk, they will discover your puppet master. Because everyone knows a simple girl such as yourself couldn’t have planned and executed such a daring murder. Once he is linked to you, both of you will meet the headmaster’s axe. And that inspector too. The one who tried to cover it all up.”
Wren’s mouth tightened in anger. Greer may have had tragedy in her past, but she had chosen her own path. To kill. At least the planted letter was gone, and there was no way to link Chandler to her or Lucas. At least Chandler would be spared this vicious charade. Now if only she could save Lucas.
“Lucas has nothing to do with any of this,” Wren pleaded. “Leave him out of it.” The poison was heavy in Wren’s hand—the only real evidence linking Greer to the crime. Her best laid plans were gone, and she had no idea what to do. This woman had boxed her in on all sides.
“I’m sorry. We can’t do that. He was foolish enough to vouch for you. He will pay the price.”
Wren panicked, adrenaline surging in her. If her time on the streets had taught her anything, it was that when talking and threats and bravado ran dry, there was only one option. Run.
She bolted for the door, rushing past Greer. The woman grabbed her arm with an iron grip, pinning her against the doorway. Wren struggled, trying to pull her arm free. The older woman was surprisingly strong.
Greer’s gloating grin was macabre, chilling. It filled Wren with anger, drowning out the fear. She pulled the top off the bottle of Gemini poison and threw it in Greer’s face.
The woman recoiled, gasping and sputtering. The opening was all Wren needed. She shouldered Greer aside and sprinted out the door.
The hallway was filled with six armed men in brown uniforms of the Cedar Guard. Wren’s momentum bowled her into the first, and he reached up with his gloved hand, took her by the neck, and slammed her against the floor.
Wren slipped into blackness.
Chapter 37
She saw her journey to the Block in flickers and glimpses, her head a pounding mess of fog and pain. Her feet knocked against stairs as she was half-carried, half-dragged down to the main floor of the Guildhall. Marina stood by the door, a bloody rag pressed to her forehead and a look of dark satisfaction on her face. Lennon stood next to her, his brown hair mussed, his eyes wide.
She reached out a hand towards him. “Help…” she thought she managed before she was through the door into the blinding sunlight of the morning. And then there was only blackness as she was tossed inside a dark prison carriage, just a hard box on four wheels. When they turned off Guilders’ Row onto the cobblestone streets of the Guild Quarter, the thunks of the carriage wheels set her reeling, her teeth clacking together until she tasted blood. There was cold sweat and sharp breaths and then nothing as she lost consciousness once again.
Wren woke on a hard stone bench. She opened her eyes with a groan and revised her assessment. It was the floor. She was in a cell. Forbidding gray stones pressed around her claustrophobically.
Her head pounded as if a herd of wild horses had been set loose inside it. She sat up, holding her temples to keep the room from spinning. It didn’t work.
“Easy there,” a woman said, reaching out a hand to steady Wren.
Wren jerked away, the sudden movement setting her head rattling once again.
“I won’t hurt you,” the woman said. “Just another prisoner like yourself.”
The cell came into focus as Wren’s vision cleared. A huddled shape sat across from her, her eyes shining in the torchlight of the hallway.
“Where are we?” Wren croaked.
“The Block,” the woman said. “Women’s quarters.”
Wren shuddered.
“Want some water?” the woman asked. “That’s all I can offer you.”
Wren nodded, and the woman lifted a wooden cup from a bucket. The water tasted of stale sawdust, but it helped clear her senses.
“Thank you,” Wren said, handing it back. “I thought everyone was thrown together in the Block? Not that I’m complaining,” she amended.
“Used to be that way, I hear. The women kept dying. Those they want to keep alive, they put in here. The guards and interrogators still sometimes take advantage, but you can live through it.”
Wren shuddered, closing her eyes to the horror of it, and realizing that the horror was inside her own head—as well as all around her. Nowhere was safe. She had to keep it together. Think. Not let her fear paralyze her.
“How long have I been in here?” Wren asked.
“Few hours,” the woman said. “Got a pretty hard bump on the head. I’m Penelope,” she added.
“Wren. What are you in here for?”
“My husband’s fault,” Penelope said, the anger in her words palpable.
“Did you kill him?” Wren asked.
Penelope barked a laugh. “No, though if I got my hands on him now, I just might. He tried to play tough in some trade negotiations with Steward Willings. We own a lead mine in the mountains. Threatened to withhold the product unless our terms were met. I told him that we would never get a fair price from the king, but he’s so naive! Took over after his father died last year.”
“What happened?” Wren asked. “How did you end up here?”
“That bastard Willings told my husband that they would be withholding his wife until he stopped withholding the lead.”
“Your husband didn’t give them what they wanted?”
“He did! Of course. I wouldn’t have married a man who’d choose lead over me. But that was a month ago. They haven’t released me. I’ve been told I’m being held for ‘insurance.’”
Wren shook her head in disgust. “For how long?”
“Don’t know,” Penelope said glumly.
Wren saw now that under the layer of grime, Penelope’s dress had once been fine, a thick damask fabric. She didn’t think she’d live long enough for her dress to get that dirty.
“What about you?” Penelope asked.
“I’m being framed for murder,” Wren said, resigned. “The worst part is, I finally figured out who did it. But it was done at the king’s behest.”
Penelope tsked. “Can you blame it on someone else? As long as they have someone to take the fall, it doesn’t have to be you, right?”
Wren thought of Chandler, his warm smile and grandfatherly affect. She shook her head. “I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t live with myself.”
“Better living with regret than dying without,” Penelope said. “Your honor won’t keep you warm in the grave.”
Wren pulled her knees against her chest and rested her chin on them. “I think it’s too late for me,” she said. “My fate was set before Kasper even died. I just didn’t know it.”
“Given up, have you?”
“The worst part is that I’m not the only one who will suffer. If I die, a man… a man I care about is doomed as well.”
“Then you better not give up,” Penelope said. “Despair suffocates in a place like this.”
“I don’t know what I can do,” Wren said. “I don’t think I’ll be around long enough for despair to get me. The headsman will be quicker.”
As Wren’s words echoed through the cell, the door flew open, making them both jump. In the doorway stood a tall, broad man with a bald head that shone in the flickering light. He was finely dressed in the king’s emerald colors, but the broadsword at his hip and the dark expression on his face told her all she needed to know. This was the Grand Inquisitor.
“That one.” He pointed. “The confectioner. Take her.”
Two guards half-marched, half-dragged Wren through the cellblock. She found her legs weren’t working very well, her knees weak.
Hands reached through the bars as they passed, coated in grease and grime. Through the bars of other cells came lewd names and threats as the prisoners recognized that there was a w
oman in their midst.
They turned a corner and entered a room filled with horrors. The torches’ flickering shadows fell on a table of wicked blades and screws, along with a long, low table that she could only assume was a rack. The metallic tang of blood mixed with the acid of urine flooded her senses, a potent cocktail that made her stomach roil.
Cold sweat pricked her skin as the guards set her in a chair and fixed her wrists to the arms with leather straps. Then they left, the door swinging closed with an ominous thud behind them. Wren sucked in a deep breath, desperately trying to find a place of calm. She had been hurt before, wounded, beaten. She knew physical pain—the gnawing ache of a belly that hadn’t eaten in weeks, the burn of frostbitten toes coming back to life, the sting of a constable’s lash. None of it had broken her, she told herself. But none of those pains, her inner voice spit right back, was the artist that Grand Inquisitor Killian is rumored to be.
The Grand Inquisitor took a leather apron off the wall and pulled it over his head, tying it behind his back. Then he pulled a stool out of the corner and sat upon it. A smile flashed across his face as he regarded her, but it was gone before she was sure it hadn’t been her imagination. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.
“You’re Killian. The Grand Inquisitor.” Her words sounded small, scurrying like mice into the corners of this horrible room.
“And you know why I’m here?”
She looked at him, the easy seat he took, one ankle crossed over his other knee, his back straight. So arrogant and cocksure. “You’re here to question me. About the murder of Guildmaster Kasper and the attempted murder of Grandmaster Sable.”
“Smart girl,” he said, flicking an invisible piece of dust off his apron. “But that’s not exactly right. I’m here to take your confession.”
“My confession?” she asked.
“Yes. That is my task. I can take it willingly or by force.” He leaned forward, meeting her gaze with his own black eyes. “It is up to you.”
She leaned towards him, as far as the restraints would let her. Her heart thundered in her chest. “I didn’t kill Kasper, and I didn’t try to kill Sable. But I know who did. I can give you the real killer. And proof, too.”
“The hard way then,” he said, standing.
“Wait!” she said. “I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t murder anyone. I’m innocent. It was Iris Greer, Guildmistress of the Confectioner’s Guild.”
He stood at the table, considering the various implements, running his fingers over them as a piano player might play a scale he knew by heart.
“The Guildmistress?” he said. “And Kasper’s sister, if I remember correctly. Surely, you could have picked a more probable murderer to accuse.”
“I didn’t choose to accuse her,” Wren said. “She killed him. Then she tried to kill Sable because Sable found out the truth.”
“Did she?” the inquisitor asked, picking up a thin silver pin and holding it up to the torchlight. “And did you discover what possessed the Guildmistress to murder her own flesh and blood?”
“Because Kasper and the other guildmembers were threatening to reveal…” Wren paused, the secret of the Gift about to spill out of her. The wine wasn’t reacting. Which meant that this man knew about the Gifted. And if he knew about the Gifted…
Wren’s eyes widened as the pieces fit into place. How blind she’d been! If it was the king and Steward Willings who had truly conspired with Greer to murder Kasper, surely the inquisitor knew it. He was the king’s righthand man, the sword that carved through the flesh of the king’s enemies. Her pleading for him to listen to her about the conspiracy was a fool’s errand. If it was truly the king, her fate was sealed.
His grin had split wide, revealing straight white teeth.
“You’re here to frame me for Guildmaster Kasper’s murder,” Wren whispered. “And the poisoning of Grandmaster Sable.”
A laugh escaped from him, surprisingly warm against the chill of the dark room. “Like I said. I’m here to take your confession.”
She felt hollow as the weight of her predicament settled upon her. There was no way out. No hope of convincing this man of the truth, no proving herself innocent. He knew the truth. And he was here to ensure it died with her.
“I admit, I’m a little impressed that you figured it out. I thought we had covered our tracks well. Willings had been working on Greer for two years. She was our secret weapon.”
“I’m frequently underestimated,” Wren said numbly.
The inquisitor chuckled. “I’m afraid your pluck won’t save you, as charming as it may be.” He waved the long needle he held over the nearby candle, making its tip glow an angry red. “And so I say again. I’m here for your confession.”
“No,” she breathed. “You may be able to pin the murders on me, but I won’t help you do it. I won’t confess.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” He crossed the room and clutched her hand in one lithe stride. And then he began to push the needle under her fingernail, and she began to scream.
Chapter 38
When the guards deposited Wren back in her cell, she crumpled to the floor, numb with shock. Penelope hurried to her side as the door slammed behind her.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked. “Water…?”
Wren leaned back against the door, closing her eyes as tears leaked down her cheeks.
“Water… would be good,” she finally said hoarsely.
She took the cup as Penelope handed it to her, reaching with her good hand. She risked a glance at her fingers on the other hand and quickly looked away, nausea roiling within her. Her fingernails were mangled and bloody, her pinky fingernail hanging on by a thread. Her hand radiated pain like an angry sun, smothering her thoughts with its dull roar. The inquisitor had been about to start on her other hand when he was called away.
“Don’t miss me too much,” he had said with mock sweetness, his face swimming dangerously close to her own. “I have so much I want to share with you.”
“Oh, your nails,” Penelope said, her voice full of sympathy. “He often starts with that, I hear.”
A sick sense of curiosity came over Wren. “What comes next?” she whispered.
Penelope’s face twisted as she bit her lip.
“Never mind,” Wren said. “It’s probably better not to know.”
“I’m sorry,” Penelope said. “You seem more… composed than some of the other girls coming out of Killian’s chamber, if that makes you feel better.”
Wren let out a bitter laugh. “A little, I guess. I told myself that I would be strong, that he wouldn’t break me. But who am I kidding? A few more minutes and I would have given him anything. There’s no hope.”
“Can’t you give him what he wants? He likes it when they resist; it excites him.”
“He wants me to confess to the murder. But he knows I’m innocent, the bastard.” Wren’s hands tightened into fists and she hissed as a wave of pain rolled over her.
Penelope’s eyes were sympathetic.
“He’ll keep torturing me until I yield, won’t he?” Wren asked.
She nodded. “No need to put yourself through it, is there? If there’s no other way…”
“None that I can think of,” Wren said. All of her efforts and schemes, uncovering the truth, it meant nothing in the end. She was completely powerless against the might of these foes. Her only hope of rescue had been Guildmaster Sable and Hale, but who knew if Sable would ever wake up. Maybe she was dead already. Perhaps Grandmaster Chandler—when he realized she never showed up to the meeting? But if the king and his lackeys were trying to frame Chandler, then trying to help her would only damn him further. No, it could not be.
“I’m in this alone,” she finally admitted. “Except for poor Lucas, whom I will take down with me.”
“Who?” Penelope asked.
“I can’t confess,” Wren explained. “A friend… he vouched for me. If I confess, I will be dooming him as well.” As much as
the thought chilled her, it also strengthened her resolve. She could withstand Killian’s attentions. Not for herself, but for Lucas.
“He must be some fellow.”
“He is,” Wren whispered, his face appearing in her mind’s eye, the crinkles at the corner of his eyes when he smiled, the way he ruffled his hand over his hair.
Penelope sighed. “Wren… no one defies Killian. Not trained warriors, not hardened criminals. The man is ruthless. He sews rats into people’s stomachs and lets them eat their way out.”
Wren flinched, her mangled hand inadvertently straying to her stomach.
“Don’t put yourself through his machinations needlessly. If he is determined that you confess, you will confess. Unless he accidentally kills you first.”
Wren grimaced. “Thanks for the glad tidings, Penelope,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Penelope whispered again, her eyes glittering with tears. “I’ve seen a few girls come in and out of here… just spare yourself the pain.”
The cell door opened and torchlight flooded into the cell.
Wren’s heart was in her throat, her eyes wide. But the silhouette was not Killian’s. A reed-thin youth entered the room bearing a tray. In the flickering light, his face looked no more than sixteen. His eyes were wide, as if he had more to fear from them than they from him.
The other woman rose, keeping the wary distance of a wild animal lured close with the promise of food.
There were two bowls on his tray, and Penelope snatched hers away as he offered it. Oily stew with a heel of hard bread, from the look of it. The last thing Wren’s stomach wanted was food, but she needed to eat. As the boy held her bowl out to Wren, he looked her straight in the eye. “This one is for you,” he said. “Just you.”
Wren froze as he withdrew, disappearing and shutting the door as quickly as he had appeared.
“How odd,” Penelope said.
Wren looked down at her bowl. In addition to the soup and bread was a thick slice of white cheese with a shadowed blue rind.
