Chapter Thirty-Seven

The screech of the portcullis tore through the prison, the ring of metal on metal. Water dripped off the spiked ends, swirling rainbow from grease.

Erik gave my hand a squeeze.

Breathe. Just breathe.

My job was simple. I wasn’t even the one taking the biggest risk. I could do this. I could—

The portcullis disappeared into the abyss above.

Behind it, a galley for the guards. Behind that, the cells. The order of it—portcullis, guards, prisoners—prevented escapes. The portcullis only stayed open if a guard was holding the crank, and the theory was that no guard would ever willingly let a prisoner get away.

But the entire system meant that the galley guards were stuck behind the gate until someone came to take their place. Since no one liked to be stuck, they were usually a little sour.

My job was to distract the guards.

But these weren’t any guards.

The portcullis stopped with a crack . Beyond it, a beckoning gloom, a brittle gloom. A breeze blew over the floor, licking my ankles and whistling over lime-hardened walls. My eyes ached.

Erik shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced up. “Interesting how the guards are locked in here with the prisoners.”

“The prisoners have their own cells.” I grabbed his arm and pulled him into the galley.

The portcullis rattled shut.

And now we were at the mercy of the guards.

One lounged on the stone-slick bench, dark eyes, straight nose. The other shouldered the crank, wide hands and muscled arms shoved under a cotton shirt. Tattoos peeked through the stubble on his head.

“General,” he said, smiling, revealing a split tongue and sharp teeth. “Come to see your friends?”

“She’s here to treat the Sanok king,” Erik replied. It was the cover we’d decided on. He and Bo would shadow walk to search for the boxes, and I’d treat King Christian to buy them time. Erik had escorted me to the castle to treat the queen’s bedsores this morning, so it was good cover. If he couldn’t find the boxes, I’d “treat the king” again in a few days.

But I didn’t have a few days.

I was running out of time.

Dust drifted through eddies in the air. From the hallway of cells, a scrape. A cough.

“Erik?” Bo’s voice. “Is that you?”

Bo.

My stomach squeezed, and I peeked around Erik and down the hall of cells.

We’re here , I wanted to say. We’re going to fix this.

The hellhound clucked his tongue. “Shame.” He lifted one of his fingers. It sparked to life, a flame gnawing at his skin. “They could be out tomorrow. Tonight even.”

I turned to Erik. “What?”

Erik gave a slash of his hand. A warning . Stay quiet. “Not true,” he said to the hellhound.

The hellhound laughed. “Sure it is. You know the price. You just don’t want to pay it. What kind of friend does that make you? Not one I’d want.” He twisted the burning finger, leaving a trail of smoke. “And fealty. Such a simple thing…”

Erik’s jaw ticked, his nostrils flared. He stepped forward, boxing the hellhound in. The hellhound was bigger, bulkier, but Erik barred his teeth. The whites of his eyes gleamed, and he was wild, feral, poised and ready to strike. Lamplight seeped through his hands, his hair. His voice dropped dangerously low. “Take her to the Sanok king.”

We passed through the dim-lit entrance and to a hallway lined with cells. Salt bloomed like spindly flowers, crept up the walls like ivy, streaks of white watching, waiting.

The first hellhound—the one who’d been sitting on the bench—fumbled with the keys. He hadn’t said anything and kept glancing at Erik from the corner of his eye.

Erik kept a stony mask. “I’ll wait up front.”

The cue.

Fifteen minutes.

I needed to keep both guards distracted so Erik could shadow walk with Bo.

Fifteen minutes.

I could do this.

If Erik was caught, the connection could be broken and he would die.

Or I could be trapped. The double-gated prison meant that the guards had to let us out, and King Herleif had made clear he would use the people in Erik’s life as leverage. We’d decided the best way to protect us both was if the guards didn’t know we were working together. As such, I’d made complexion cream to hide all the love marks and resolved to treat him like a stranger, at least while we were down here.

But now Erik laced his fingers through mine, squeezed.

The first hellhound’s gaze dropped to our hands. It lingered.

The door to King Christian’s prison cell swung open.

The warmth of Erik’s hand disappeared, replaced with a rush of cold.

Fifteen minutes.

Time to put on a show.

A kneeling cry tore through the stone. “You’re here!” King Christian said. “The dark devil!”

He scrambled to the back of the cell. Dirt dabbed his cheeks, darkened his hair to a yellow-gray. A tattered cape fluttered around his waist, blue silk studded with emeralds and onyx crystals shaped like pears. No shoes, no shirt. The sores around his mouth had worsened and angry red blisters freckled the side of his cheek, crusting over his ear. His skin flushed fever-red.

“Your Majesty,” I said, dropping to a crouch beside him. I pulled out a mug and a bottle and set them on the ground. Dessert wine. “I brought you something. You love cherries. Remember?”

The king pressed himself into a corner, wrapped his arms around his knees. “I will not drink. Not from your cup of suns.”

I glanced at the mug, the same one I’d soaked my finger in. No suns. Although, maybe to an addled man, the dapples gleamed?

The king puckered his lips and tears rolled down his cheeks. “He makes me drink from the cup of suns, but I do not want to drink.”

I’d thought that by offering him wine, I could get him to spout something interesting to hold the guard’s attention. But now, looking at the way the king’s body trembled, the way he hugged himself…

It wasn’t funny.

It was sad.

I corked the bottle and slid the mug back into my bag. “That’s fine. You don’t have to. Can I look at your face?”

King Christian uncurled from his ball and peeked over his knees, his eyes bright as blackberries. “Will it…protect me? The drink?”

“It might.” I set the s?ven bottle by my hip. Not vinegar. I wouldn’t make that mistake again. “Do you want some?”

The king’s eyes flicked to the s?ven, then to me. S?ven. Me.

S?ven…

Me.

S?ven…

Oh no.

“You’re working with him!” the king screeched. “The dark devil! You’re his helper. You want me to drink.”

He tried to shove past me, but I grabbed him around the waist, hauling him back.

“The bottle,” I said, pushing the king against the wall. “Right—”

“This?” The first hellhound plucked the s?ven off the ground.

Beneath my palms, the king thrashed and writhed.

My grip loosened.

I couldn’t let him leave his cell. If he got away, there was no telling which direction he’d run. Toward the galley, yes, but maybe toward Bo and Kaspar.

And Erik.

I struggled with the king. “If you could— oof —uncork… Thank you.”

I snatched the bottle from the hellhound’s hand and dumped the contents on my sleeve. The cloying scent of strawberries filled the air. My eyes watered.

I shoved the sweater sleeve against his face. He let out another piercing shriek, this one burbled by the s?ven.

His nails raked my arms, my neck. They caught the tail of my braid, his fingers twisting through my hair and—

Breathe. He just needed to breathe. I pressed my sweater sleeve harder.

Something warm flooded around my knees.

I glanced down.

A dark puddle.

Great. He’d peed himself.

The clawing stilled, his eyes fluttering…fluttering… King Christian’s head lulled to the side. He let out a snore.

I pushed myself off.

Pee drenched my skirt, s?ven slicked my sleeve, but all things considered, that could have been worse.

Much worse.

“I guess you’re done?” the hellhound asked. “I mean, the king’s done. We’ll escort you out?”

Shit .

I licked my lips, salty from the beach. “I, um…still need to clean his sores. The ones around his mouth. They’ll fester.”

The hellhound thrust a thumb toward the door. “Great. Well, it doesn’t seem like you need us anymore. We’ll be up front.”

Double shit.

If they went back to the galley, they’d realize Erik wasn’t there. If they realized Erik wasn’t there, they might go looking for him and find him shadow walking with Bo. Even if the connection wasn’t broken, there was no way they would’ve been able to find the boxes that fast.

I needed to buy more time.

“Help me out?” I asked. “We should make him comfortable.”

A second snore tore through the prisons.

The muscled hellhound rubbed his chin. “There aren’t a lot of places to do that.”

I glanced around.

He was right. Stone floor. Straw. A little brass water bucket knocked to one side, a three-pronged dinner fork, and—

“The pallet,” I said. “Help me move him to the pallet. We’ll want to go slowly. Really slowly. He’s, erm…delicate.”

I grabbed the king’s arms while the first hellhound grabbed the king’s legs. We dragged the king across the floor, his cheek lulling, white hair sweeping straw like a broom. Drool trailed behind him.

“Can you go any faster?” the hellhound grunted.

“Actually,” I said, “it would be better if we slowed down. The king…he’s heavy and—”

“It’s just—” The hellhound gritted his teeth. His left leg dragged behind him, the side of his boot hitting the floor with a steady thunk, thunk, thunk . “It’s hard for me to—”

Oh. I stepped over the bucket. “Ouch. I didn’t notice. Is it your foot?”

He let the king’s legs drop. “I’ve heard some men from Rythja talk about you. You cured them from a…” his voice dropped to a whisper, “bowel illness.”

“Worms,” supplied the other hellhound. “Just say it. She cured their worms.”

The king smacked his lips and tossed his head from side to side, still asleep.

I dragged him toward the pallet. “I, um…did. Yes. Their worms. Why?” Almost there. How slow could we go without looking suspicious?

The king grunted.

“Would you look?” the hellhound asked. “At…me?”

“If you don’t have bowel issues, then you don’t have the worms.”

The hellhound glanced away, color rising in his cheeks and staining the tips of his ears a rosy pink. “At my foot. I meant my foot. But you definitely don’t have to. I shouldn’t have asked. Anyway, yeah, let me help you move the king.” He grabbed hold of the king’s ankles, grimaced as his foot took the weight. “You said the pallet?”

He hobbled a few steps.

There was something about the way he dragged his foot behind him, about the way it faltered on the uneven ground. His boot scraped stone and his pant leg inched up to reveal the ribbed hem of a stocking, the cream wool flecked dark blue. There was a fray at the edges, a pucker pulling the seams. Loose threads looped like teeth. And over it, a heart stitched in red, the shape of it crude, as if someone had decided mid-mend to make it special.

I could almost imagine his partner, a handsome husband or a wild-haired wife. Maybe fire crackled up the wall and maybe there was snow—Erik said there was always snow in Volgaard—and I should be afraid of this man, this hellhound with a straight nose and hawkish eyes. After all, hellhounds had destroyed the castle, had taken Bo.

I should be afraid.

He maneuvered his foot around the bucket, wincing, and something in me softened.

Didn’t I know about taking care of feet?

I set the king’s arms on the floor, dragged the pallet across the room, and pulled the king on top. “There. Now let me see your foot.”

The hellhound settled on top of the bucket, eased off his shoe, then his sock. A deformity. Not the foot itself, but the angle. It bowed like the body of a harp, the sole turning toward the opposite ankle.

Clubbed foot.

There’d been an entire treatise about the condition in Harrison’s Ailments of the Feet, which I’d become familiar with after I’d started caring for Queen Margarethe.

“I’ve heard of special types of shoes that are made to guide the foot into the correct place,” I said, touching the skin. “Sometimes they’ll use stiffened leather or plaster. And there are some stretches that may help. Do you…want me to show you?”

The hellhound nodded.

I cradled his heel in my palm and stretched the foot until the muscles would go no farther. This was stalling, only stalling.

But…maybe it was more than that.

Something about this moment reminded me of Queen Margarethe—the pale pink of her room, the rosewater scent of her sheets, the way sunlight skirted through open windows, the rain that flecked the sill.

It was a funny thing to think about, the queen’s feet.

How many hours had I spent studying discourses and diagrams? Remedies for wound care? I probably knew more about that than Stefan, even Jens-Kjeld.

“You want to hold it for five to seven seconds,” I said. “Don’t force it, but don’t keep it comfortable, either.” I eased my hand up the arch, taking care not to tickle his toes. “The goal is to go a little farther every day. It won’t be healed tomorrow, or even in a week, but maybe over time…”

It took me a moment to realize that Erik had reappeared in the cell door. He shouldered the frame, the top buttons of his shirt undone, his head resting against the metal.

Here I was, covered in pee, cradling a hellhound’s foot.

Yet there was a softness in Erik’s shoulders, in the ruffle of his hair.

And pride.

It lit his face like a candle.

Our eyes locked.

Sorry , I mouthed.

He gave a little shrug, a smile pulling at his lips. Take your time , he mouthed back. Then he waved his arm and disappeared into the dark.

“How do you do that?” Erik asked as the screech of the gate echoed through the prisons.

“Do what?”

“Make friends with literally everyone.”

I hauled the medicine bag higher on my shoulder. “I don’t make friends with everyone .”

He cocked a brow. “Half of my men are begging to be smuggled into my tent so they can see you, Kaspar just told me he wished I was you, and, weirdest of all, Tyr is baking.”

“Because I told him he had worms.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s not a great foundation for friendship. Speaking of Bo and Kaspar, how are they?”

“They’re…okay. Mostly. They were wondering when I was going to get them out. Which, fair. I’d be wondering that, too.” He started up the narrow staircase.

I bunched my skirts and tromped after him, our footsteps ringing over the stone. “Bo’s head? Did you pass along the tea?”

“He said it tasted like a bog.”

“You warned him, right?”

Erik grimaced. “So, I might have forgotten…?”

“Erik.”

“Sore. His head is sore.”

“But the Lover’s Boxes? You found them?”

He made another face.

Shit. I jogged to catch up. “Please don’t say we have to come back. I mean, as much as I like palling around with King Christian and the hellhounds—”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

Erik threw open the prison door.

Rain came down in sheets, heavy, blurring the world into a river.

“They’re going to be almost impossible to steal.”