Читать книгу Only the Bold - Морган Райс, Morgan Rice - Страница 11

Genevieve crept through the castle in the early morning light, afraid with every step, knowing that she was taking a risk just by doing this part. If Altfor realized she was here, then she would be in danger even though she was carrying his child, but he had left their rooms before she had, and Genevieve guessed that he was away somewhere with Moira.

“I’ll kill her,” Genevieve said, although even then, she knew that she would have a hard time killing anyone directly. She’d already proved that with Altfor, when she’d found herself unable to put a knife in him even when she had the chance.

“I’ll find something,” Genevieve promised herself, the same way she’d promised it when it came to Altfor. If she couldn’t do it directly, then she would help to bring them all down indirectly, and then she would see to it that they were executed for their crimes. They deserved it, and more.

She hated Moira more, if it was possible, than she hated Altfor. Altfor had never pretended to be her friend; had only betrayed her in ways that Genevieve had expected him to betray her. Moira had been in almost the same position as her, married to another of the duke’s sons and immersed in a world that she should never have been a part of. She should have been Genevieve’s ally, her friend. Instead, she’d gone to Altfor, and she’d betrayed Genevieve. She’d done worse than that when she’d handed over Garet to the king’s forces.

At least Genevieve could start to undo that.

She continued forward, moving smoothly from hiding place to hiding place, trying to make it look as though she was running errands, off about legitimate business. Sneaking was no use in a keep building up to war, where there were too many people around and too much fear of spies to ever hope to hide completely. The best that Genevieve could hope for was to have people believe she was doing something she ought to be doing.

She approached the dungeons, knowing that her journey through the keep had been the easy part. People would imagine reasons for her to be in almost every part of the keep, and wouldn’t dare to question the noble wife of the king’s newest friend in any case, but Genevieve doubted that anything like that would work to get her into the dungeons.

She stood across from the entrance now, where a large guard sat as jailer on a stool, keys in his belt and a sword at his hip. Genevieve needed to find a way to get him away from that door, and right then, she couldn’t think of anything. What would move a man who had been commanded to remain in one spot?

The answer was that nothing would. There was no subtle way to do this, no way to distract him from his post cleanly and slip inside. The only option was the direct one, and if she took that, it would be obvious what had happened. There would be no way that she could remain there. Was Genevieve really ready to abandon everything and run, when there might still be a chance to find out more that might help to win this war?

“And what happens to Garet if I wait?” she asked herself. She could already guess at the answer to that. She’d seen what the king did to those who opposed him, and had no doubt that he meant what he’d said about the torture. She had to get Royce’s brother out of there, even if that made it impossible for her to stay.

Maybe it would even be to her benefit. Genevieve would be able to head back to Royce’s forces if she had Garet with her. It would be proof that she was on their side, and Royce might finally believe that she cared.

“I’m actually doing this,” Genevieve said to herself, and then strode forward to the guard at the dungeon door. The guard looked up at her with the lazy slowness of a man who had no intention of moving if he didn’t have to.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“What do you want, my lady,” Genevieve corrected him, adopting the haughtiest voice she could manage. “Or do you believe that we are somehow equals?”

It was easy to think of how to do this: she simply imagined the way Altfor would have said it. It was enough to make the guard’s eyes widen in fear, or at least shock.

“No, my lady. Forgive me, my lady.”

“Be quiet and open the door for me,” Genevieve said. “I’m here to see one of the prisoners.”

“I’m sorry, my lady,” the guard said. “But I’m not to let anyone in to see the prisoners. Not without permission from—”

“From the king?” Genevieve cut in. She summoned up the nastiest smile she could manage. “The king who is my husband’s closest friend right now? The king with whom I have spoken more times in the last day than you will have in your lifetime?”

“My lady,” the man said. He stood, but still, he hesitated.

“I want to speak with one of the prisoners,” Genevieve said. “The new one, Garet, that’s all. I’m not planning to indulge in any torture, or demand that you escort him to the gate to free him. I want to talk to him. He knows me, and he’ll tell me far more than he ever would anyone else. Do you think the king will want to hear that you obstructed something to gain us information?”

Now Genevieve could see the fear on the man’s face. There was a kind of power in that, and in the things that it was possible to do with just words. He moved quickly now, hurrying to the door, unlocking it with one key, then another, lifting a bar before opening the portal there to reveal dark depths within. There was a candle set in a bracket by the door. The guard lifted it and offered it to Genevieve. Genevieve took it, moving close to the man, close enough that she could smell the rankness of his breath.

Close enough that her hand could snag his collection of keys.

“What—”

“I will need to go into the cell with him,” Genevieve said as the guard noticed. “I will let myself out when I am done. Unless you have an objection?”

It was obvious that he had plenty of objections, but didn’t dare to voice any of them.

“He’s in the cell at the end, my lady.”

Genevieve brushed past him before he could gather the courage to say anything. She set off into the depths of the dungeons, moving quickly, knowing that she would only have so much time before the guard realized that he should probably check if she was actually allowed down there. At some point, he would think to ask the king—probably he already wanted to—and Genevieve could only hope that it would be a long time before he summoned up the courage to abandon his post to do it.

Genevieve made her way down into the dungeons, down a winding set of stairs that was slippery in spots with mold, while she was sure she could hear water dripping from somewhere close to her. She could hear more than that too: screams came from somewhere deeper inside, and she just had to hope that they weren’t Garet’s.

Genevieve could see nothing beyond the small circle of light that the candle offered her. It was a dim and flickering thing, providing her with a view of just a few yards of stony corridor in any direction. There were doors on either side, oak and with iron bars set at eye level so that the jailer could check on the prisoners.

There were probably prisoners in several of the cells, and a part of Genevieve wished that she could free all of them, but she knew that there would be no way to do it. She might, might be able to sneak Garet out, especially if she could find a place to hide with him until her sister’s messenger returned. There was no way she would be able to get a procession of prisoners out of the place, though.

She made her way down to the last cell, grateful that she didn’t have to look into each one to try to find Garet. Genevieve wasn’t sure she would be able to keep her heart from breaking if she had to see every person they had captured and tortured.

She reached the last cell in the line, holding the candle up and looking through the eye hole. Its light wasn’t enough to see things clearly, but she could make out that there was a figure there, lit a little more by the light coming in through a narrow window. He was huddled over, half wrapped in a cloak that Genevieve thought might have been Garet’s. That was enough to make hope rise in her heart.

“Garet?” Genevieve called out to him. “Garet, it’s Genevieve.”

He didn’t answer, but then, he and his brothers hadn’t wanted to talk to her when she’d gone to them back in the old duke’s castle. They thought she had betrayed them, betrayed Royce. Garet probably thought she was helping Altfor now.

“Garet, please talk to me. I can help.”

Genevieve fumbled at the keys she’d taken from the guard. It took her several attempts to find the correct one, and to hear the click of the lock as the door opened. Genevieve stepped into the cell, hoping that Garet would see that she was alone; hoping that he would be willing to try to make an escape even if he didn’t yet believe she was there to help.

“Garet, I know that you think I’m helping Altfor, but I’m not,” Genevieve said. “I’m here to help you. I’m here to help you escape.”

Still, there was no response from the figure huddled in the corner. Genevieve found herself hoping it wasn’t because of what they’d done to Garet here; that they hadn’t tortured him to the point where he couldn’t speak to her.

“Garet, please,” Genevieve said. “I’m on your side. I want to get you out of here. I know that so many of the things I’ve done look like I’m with Altfor, but I can promise you that all of them have been because I love Royce. I’ve even sent messages to him, telling him about Altfor’s plans. Do you know that he plans to make the southern attack a feint; that he will send an army around to the north in ships?”

“I do,” the figure said, and just those two words were enough to make Genevieve’s blood freeze in her veins. She knew that voice, and it wasn’t Garet’s.

The figure stood up, letting the cloak fall from him. Altfor stood there in the half-light, his grin only made more evil by the candle’s glow.

“I thought you might do this,” he said, advancing on her. Genevieve was so stunned that she didn’t even react as he plucked the keys from her hands. “I thought that the presence of the boy might get you to show your true colors, give me an excuse to do as I wished.”

Genevieve knew what he was threatening, and instantly her mind fled to the one shield she knew she had. “I am your wife.”

“A wife who loves my enemy!” Altfor roared. “And also a traitor. Being a noblewoman won’t protect you now.”

“I’m carrying your child,” Genevieve pointed out.

“Yes,” Altfor said. “Yes, you are.”

He stepped past her to the door, through it and gone before Genevieve could react. His face appeared at the viewing slit.

“I will decide what to do with you,” he said. “Maybe I’ll wait until you bear my child and then have you executed. Maybe I won’t. Rest assured though, Genevieve, that you are going to die for this.”