Lorin stayed stoic, but his mind whirred and spun around like a leaf caught in the wind. He never took his eyes off Varron while he spoke, looking for a tell, a twitch, some crack in his lie. How Varron had healed so well also confused him—there wasn't so much a thin scar from their previous meeting. Nothing but earnest compassion showed from Varron. That didn't fool Lorin however. He could see the monster dressed up and masking itself in sympathy.
Varron broke the silence, saying, "You confuse me, Lorin. You seem to have your wits and a strong fire. But if you won't help yourself, I can't do much." Varron stood straight. "The punishment for slander against the Baron and family can be as high as death. I don't think that necessary, yet." Varron paused, taking in a deep breath. "Lorin Rhodes, I sentence you to a year and a day of imprisonment. You will be held in the cells of this estate." Varron turned to Ard and gave him a pointed look. "Do you understand? Do not bring him to the lottery."
Ard nodded.
Varron turned to Lorin and continued, "You will be fed and cared for as a noble criminal. I will not have you burned, beaten, or defiled in any way. When the time is up, we will meet and you will be tried again." Varron gave a slight bow. "You are a troubled man, and I have a great respect for ones who have survived past adversity."
Lorin tensed and felt a tooth shift from his clenched jaw.
"Am I clear? Gods, man, I'm trying to help you. The least you could do is acknowledge it. Ard, was I clear?"
"Yes, M'lord."
"Well, I hope you understood as well, Lorin. We will meet in a year’s time." Varron nodded, walked past with a pat on his shoulder, and a moment later his footsteps echoed down the stairs.
"Alright, boy, we're heading this way," Ard said. "Stand up and be thankful you still got your head." Ard held Lorin up, carrying most of his weight, and led him to a door under the balcony. Just as they were about to exit the judgment seat, Varron's voice carried into the room, followed by another more feminine voice. Lorin strained to hear, but was pulled through the door. The two walked in corridors lined with plain wood panels, up some steps, and then through a large door. Its hinges screamed its opening to the world.
Two cells separated by a hallway were all that was behind that rusted door. Instead of the smooth wood of the corridors, the room was finished in cobbled stone. Ard brought Lorin to the cell on the left. Its iron door made of thick bars was open and the cell was empty. Ard shoved him in, and Lorin’s legs buckled under him. Laying on the floor now, Lorin heard the door close and lock behind him.
The walls that made up the cell were stone, and iron bars separated it from the hallway. In one corner was a bucket filled to near the brim with sewage, smelling wretched. Besides that, there was a cot on the far wall with a rolled-up wool blanket. Hanging in a designated place among the iron bars was a wooden bowl and spoon, and below that sat a pale of water with a ladle inside.
"This is yours till you die or your sentence is up," Ard said. "Meals are after sun-up and before sun-down." Ard pointed. "The window in the cell across from you is your clock. If you don't place the bowl and spoon where they go, you don't eat and we take your bucket. If you mark up the walls while you are here, we take your bucket. If you act up or disturb anyone, we—"
"Take my bucket," Lorin said, pushing himself up to lean on his elbow.
Ard snorted and walked away.
Lorin heard the creek of the door shutting, but he laid on the ground for a long time before he moved. When he did, he crawled his way to the cot, flicked a large centipede off the blanket, and fell asleep.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Lorin awoke. The unfamiliar cell walls greeted his crusted-over eyes. A new kink in his neck, earned by sleeping on the uncomfortable cot, brought his mind back to him with painful clarity. He rolled onto one shoulder and faced the iron bars. The wooden bowl and spoon were now on the floor filled with a brown, chunky broth. Lorin's stomach twisted and clenched with hunger. He nearly knocked the bowl over in his rush, but the cold stew was the warm embrace of a friend and tasted like bliss.
"Slow down. You'll choke on a bone," said a female voice from the other cell.
Lorin choked and coughed. Some stew spilled on the cobbles, but he composed himself enough to keep from losing the rest. The stew saved and his breath regained, Lorin looked across the hallway. The light from that cell's window made it hard to focus in the shadowed parts of the cell, but after Lorin rubbed his eyes, the shape of a person laying on the cot, propped up on one elbow, became clear.
"Who are you?" Lorin said.
"Another prisoner, just like yourself." She motioned with her free hand. "How do you like your royal cell?"
Lorin looked over to the bucket and stained cot, then gave a look back to the woman.
She laughed. It was pleasant and unconcerned, as if she was sitting in a warm tavern and not a piss-drenched cell. "What? Don't like the perks? We are the lucky ones, don't you know?"
Lorin crossed his legs with the bowl nestled between them. "I don't know, I'm not from around here."
"That's clear enough." The woman stood up from the cot and walked to the bars. "What did you do to be in the good graces of the Baron?"
"I'm not in his good graces, I'm in prison."
"Yes, this"—she motioned around herself—"prison is a privilege. Wow, I thought the Baron's reputation was more well known."
Lorin spit out a bone and took another spoonful of stew. "I lived far from here. Haven't had a need to know any reputations."
"Well, I love to teach. My name is Ashmere."
"Lorin."
"It's a pleasure," she said, giving an exaggerated bow. When she did, Lorin could make out a few more details as she blocked the bright sunlight. She was tall, only a hand span shorter than himself. Her hair was just past her shoulder in a tangled mess, and she wore a sackcloth tunic with the sleeves ripped off. Her arms and shoulders showed well-defined muscles, and she moved with a measured control.
"Now," she said, "to know how fortunate you are we just need to wait a little longer." She walked back to her cell's window. "The Baron has been called the Butcher Baron, Bastard Baron, and my favorite, Bent-cock Baron. All for different reasons, of course, but he has earned them." She stood on her toes and looked down through the window. "Should be very soon." Then, she left the window and sat on the floor, mirroring Lorin. "He isn't all that bad—he is just a man, after all. A little power hungry and cocksure? Yes. But there are worse things. The land he governs has expanded its borders far and stays safe because of him." She tilted her head. "Are you from a different province?"
Lorin swallowed his mouthful of stew. "What's a province?"
"Hmm, you aren't educated? Why are you here?"
Lorin opened his mouth to speak, but she spoke first.
"Don't tell me. I like a puzzle." She sat, looking Lorin over, and grinned. "A province is a large section of land governed by someone. We are in the Baron's province in the capital city of Jence. This province is called Almith, which is the Baron's first name… He is a little self-centered. Do you just not have a shirt, or do like to show off your scars?"
Lorin looked down, puzzled; he hadn't realized his shirt was still gone. He shrugged. "It was cut off."
"They'll bring a new one soon—we get new clothes every week, give or take a few days. I could take mine off if it makes you feel more comfortable."
Lorin shrugged again and slurped another spoonful.
"You are interesting… Are you from—"
A loud bell echoed from the window. It rang three times, and each time Lorin could feel the sound rattle his bones. Lorin shivered, even though he wasn't cold; the bell made him feel uneasy.
"That's why you are lucky," Ashmere said. "That is the bell of execution. It rang three times, so three live, three die."
"Who lives and who dies?" Lorin asked while looking down at the last few spoonfuls left in his bowl.
"Criminals, the ones that aren't held here"—she motioned around the room—"are se
nt to the lottery. Basically, anyone who breaks a law or annoys the Baron gets put in the lottery. Well… that's not true. If the Baron is annoyed personally, he usually gets his guard to kill that person right away. But that's beside the point. Any thief, vandal, rapist, murderer, or scoundrel that gets caught goes to the lottery. Then, every morning around the time our meal comes, the bell is rung."
Lorin looked up. "I'll get more food then?"
"In a bit. Aren’t you listening?" Ashmere said, a little annoyed.
"I am." He shrugged. "It's interesting, but… please continue, I am listening."
"You're a difficult one to read." She didn't say anything more for a time and just searched Lorin with her eyes. Lorin rubbed his spoon against the bottom of his bowl absentmindedly. Ashmere broke the silence, saying, "Anyway, the bell is rung at random, could be five times, could be one time. Each toll is one person executed and another set free."
Lorin kept his head low and said, "So a murderer could walk, but a thief is killed instead?
"Not instead. Their names are drawn and every other name is freed. They could be in the cells for months before their name is picked, and when it is picked, it's either death or freedom."
"Seems harsh to me."
"I agree, but it makes for a lot less crime. Mugging someone becomes a hard choice to make when the punishment is so severe."
"But we aren't a part of the lottery?"
"Nope," Ashmere said, reaching her hands above her head and stretching like a cat. "That's just another perk of being here."
Lorin grunted.
"Are you a relative of the Baron?" She asked when her stretch ended.
"No," Lorin shot back.
"Such a mystery. You’re going to make me ask why you're here aren't you?"
"You asked that already."
She grinned. "Just making sure you are listening." Her arm reached through the bars and pointed at Lorin. "How did you get that scar?"
Lorin looked up, then back down to the area where her finger pointed. "Long story."
Ashmere gave a decidedly unladylike snort. "You don't even know which one I pointed at."
"They all are from a long story."
"The same story? We have plenty of time, you know."
Lorin looked at her. She was giving him a wild smile. "I don't want to tell a story—especially this one."
Ashmere stood up while holding on to the bars. "Why not? We should trade stories." She lifted her shirt and pointed at a ridge of scar tissue that traveled from her navel up, disappearing under a fold of sackcloth. "This one I got from a hunt near the north bridge." She let her shirt fall back in place and bent over to roll one pant leg up past her knee. She pointed to a dark shape under the skin of her thigh. "A basilisk got a lucky hit and gave me this to remember her by. I have quite a few more, but we should get better acquainted before I show you those."
Lorin's look of surprise got a deep belly laugh from Ashmere.
"Why so shocked?" she said.
"I just… How did you survive? I thought basilisks could turn you to stone with a look?"
She grinned. "Don't get ahead of yourself. That would spoil my story."
"Who are you? Why are you here?"
Ashmere spun on her heel, walked to her cot, and laid on her side facing the wall. Lorin stood and was about to speak when the groaning sound of hinges, protesting movement, filled the room. A shriveled, gray-haired woman walked through the door. She set a folded sackcloth bundle outside Lorin's cell and walked back to the door. The door didn't close, and she was back a moment later in front of Lorin's cell. She filled his wooden bowl with steaming oatmeal and turned around to do the same with Ashmere's bowl. Then, she shuffled out the door and closed it behind her.
Lorin watched the door close, then turned to the cell across from his. Ashmere was already sitting cross legged against the bars facing him. She was blowing on a spoonful of oatmeal and smiled when she caught his gaze.
"Why did you do that?" Lorin asked as he reached down for the sackcloth bundle.
She raised her eyebrows. "What?"
"Pretend to sleep, or hide from her?"
Ashmere brought the spoonful to her mouth and immediately started breathing fast, then fanned her open mouth. "Wow ow ow ow! That is way too hot to eat." Her eyes watered and she set her bowl down beside her. After she composed herself, she said, "Anyway, Lorin, right?"
He nodded.
"Good, I have always been bad with names. How about this? You tell me your story and I'll tell mine. It's a fair trade."
Lorin frowned. "I'm here because of not keeping my mouth shut."
With more than a hint of annoyance, she said, "Dammit, that's too big of a hint. Now you owe me the story for ruining my puzzle."
"I owe you nothing."
"Come on, Lorin, it's just us two. It's going to get boring very quickly in here."
Lorin unrolled the sackcloth and held the shirt and pants in front of him. After giving them a thorough look over, he looked over the shirt to Ashmere. "Story for story?"
Ashmere nodded and sat a little straighter.
"Let me change first, then I'll start."
She gave him a suggestive look. "Don't worry, I will peek."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Then, that two-faced bastard sent me here for a year," Lorin said, scratching at a particularly irritating stitch of his pants.
"And a day," Ashmere added.
Lorin shrugged and picked up his bowl of oatmeal. It wasn't completely cold yet, but when he plunged his spoon into it the whole lump lifted out of the bowel.
"It makes sense that you're locked up here. Varron is a much kinder man than his father."
Lorin's face flushed red and he almost drove his spoon through the bowl. "Did you even listen? He killed my family."
"You say that, but the story you told in the bar ends with Varron helping your family. What happened after?"
Lorin's expression dropped from anger, to fear, to guilt. "It's hard for me to say, I don't like to think about it."
"If you don't remember all of it that's—"
"I remember it all," Lorin cut in, his voice near cracking. "I close my eyes and it plays in my head, over and over. It… it hurts."
"Lorin, it may help to talk it through," Ashmere said, then paused and looked for the right words. "Right now you have bottled up everything, but it's not a pain you have to deal with alone."
"I am alone," Lorin said in a whisper. Ashmere started to speak, but Lorin yelled, "Don't say you're here because I don't even know who you are!"
She raised her hands palms out, and in a calm, concerned voice said, "Maybe that's for the best, since you can talk without hesitation to a stranger. I think Arthur was trying to do that in his own way."
"Now he is probably dead too," Lorin snapped.
"You don’t know that, and besides he saw something in you worth trying to help. Who are you to say he was wrong?"
Lorin's eyes softened a little, and his breathing slowed. Silence fell over them—a silence so deep they could almost hear the other's thoughts.
"Lorin, are you still planning to kill yourself?" Ashmere held his eyes.
They stared for a long time, a battle fought in silence, until Lorin gave in and let his gaze drop.
"Tell me what happened," Ashmere said.
"What's the point?"
Ashmere stood. "To make the depressed sack of shit in front of me worth something. You say your family is dead, killed by Varron."
Lorin raised his head, and he could feel his anger bubbling up. "He did."
"Yet the only thing you're doing about it is sitting around waiting to die? You won't even talk about it? What type of father are you?"
Lorin stood. "You don't know what you’re talking about, I—"
"Then tell me, and stop being such a child."
"I did do something about it. I cut up his
face, but he just kicked me like a dog, and now he looks perfectly fine. I am not doing anything because I can't! I can't do anything." Lorin's final word hung in the air. They had been shouting and were breathing hard as each second dragged on.
Once they calmed, Ashmere spoke, "Tell me what happened and I will help you."
"Help me do what?" Lorin said.
"Exact your vengeance, find a purpose, protect yourself or others, it doesn't really matter. If it's for a just cause, I will help."
Lorin thought for a long while. His eyes were fixed on a shallow, rusted scratch on an iron bar. He would never find that same mark again if he tired, but right now it was all he could see, like a bonfire in the night. "I want to kill him. Him and his group." Lorin looked up. "How do I know you can help me?"
Ashmere sat cross-legged again on the floor. "Have a little faith," she said with a smirk. "Now, finish the story."
Lorin stayed standing and stared down at her. He took in a deep, shuddering breath like he had just been inconsolably crying, and let it all out, slow and controlled. "I grabbed a few things, then I, Theo, and Varron set out for the hive."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The glint of flashing gold from the tree line marked where Lorin would meet with the other two. His bow was strung across his chest next to a quiver of homemade arrows, and his hunting knife was sheathed on his side.
"Quicker than I thought you would be," Theo said, extending his hand to engulf Lorin's. "I'm glad men like you can still be found."
"And what type of men are those?" Lorin asked with a smirk.
"Stupid and gullible," Varron said. He stood up from sitting against a tree in the shade. "Daylight is valuable. We need to hurry so this boy playing dress-up can get back before night."
Lorin let his grip fall from Theo's hand, and then walked up to Varron. "What is your problem with me? We are about to work together, and you being a prick won't help us."
Varron molded his face into a mix of disinterest and disgust. "We should move sooner rather than later if we are to be done before sundown, and idle talk is a sure way to delay us." Varron scanned his eyes up and down over Lorin. "What won't help us is you being as prepared for a fight as Theo is for birthing a child. Is this supposed to be armor?" Varron pulled at a leather strap on Lorin's shoulder and half the material covering his chest fell to the ground.