Nathan gasped, jolted awake as someone forced a thick liquid past his lips. He swallowed without thinking and the taste of lemon seared down his throat. He was blindfolded and hanging by his wrists from heavy chains, arms screaming in numb fury as he tried to get his feet under him.

"He wakes, slave." The speaker's voice was nasal, an adult whining like a spoiled child. "You are certain he cannot escape?"

"Yes-lord-magic-will... that is, yes, lord. Magic will beyond him for a long while, and he is helpless without it."

"J?" Nathan whispered. "Where is Maggie?"

"The homunculus belongs to me by right of blood, wizard," the nasal voice answered. "Though we lack the power in your veins the Alcrin line is descended from wizardkind. Your friend was created to serve my ancestors, and thus serve me."

Impossible, Nathan thought. He was created by a barren witch who wanted a child...

He was lying to you.

No, that... Jabberwisp had told the truth. Nathan didn't know how, but somehow he knew the cobbling hadn't been lying. This guy can't be descended from wizards... Could it be a trick?

Has to be, J is just shucking this guy, waiting for a chance... Even as his feeble hopes rose his last memories of the courtyard returned. Jabberwisp's voice, when the cobbling had been left behind with Orison. The blinding pain at his temple. He played me. He's playing both of us.

Nathan began to laugh. Even he didn't understand why, as there was nothing funny about it. If anything, Nathan felt much as he did when the revenant had been about to kill him all those weeks ago. The same cold, wrenching despair. The only real difference now was the blindfold.

"Let me guess. Alcrin, right? The little shit just turned up one day, too good to be true? Just happened to be there at what happened to be the perfect time? What, were your taxes getting a little stiff? Bad habits getting you in trouble with the king? And at the last second in he flies, promising that he lives to serve, shelling out all the advice you could ever want. That's it, isn't it? Tell me, J, were all of you in on it? Cain? Belias too? That creepy bastard couldn't play his part if he was, but you... damn, you are good, you little Judas."

Nathan could almost see Alcrin: a quivering blob of a man, nervous eyes flicking from his prisoner to his slave and back again. Laughing harder and more angrily with every second, Nathan watched as the pieces fell together with a sickening clarity.

"It's the demon, isn't it? You want to summon a mountain for Alcrin, don't you? Catch some big nasty and use me for the box, just like you said. Damn thing may even want it. Good luck with that. If it’s anything like the one that’s been harassing me it’s going to eat the both of you like Twinkies."

"Lies, lord." The cobbling's voice soothed even Nathan for a moment, but now that he was looking he could feel the strings being pulled. There was something in the cobbling's voice, something that lulled you into trust, caught you like a fish in a net. No wonder he hated Maggie: no way this would work on her.

"Nothing but lies. I serve you for the love I bore your ancestors, and tonight we call forth a mighty spirit to bless you and bring all your prayers to light."

"Yes..." Alcrin replied, his voice fading into the distance. "As you promised, an angel. An avenging angel to grant my prayers, to smite my enemies. The throne will come to my house, as it was in ancient times."

"Even so, my lord, even so. By your leave, we must begin. The witch who brought him must be prepared."

"Where is Maggie? WHERE IS SHE?" Nathan roared.

"It does no good to shout. They are already gone, wizard. Permit me to say that you speak very aptly to my husband."

The voice came from below and behind, a weary, crumpled sound that made it easy to picture the speaker as a small woman huddled in the corner, so still and silent she was almost part of the stone.

"Husband? Alcrin's your husband? What are you doing here?" Nathan asked.

"My first two children passed in childbirth and the one I carry now is a girl, or so the midwives say. As such, my lord husband wishes an annulment of the marriage. This was the best he could do on short notice."

Miserable as he was, Nathan still found himself admiring the woman: she spoke as though they were discussing the weather. "You're pregnant? Here? When is the baby due?"

"Soon, wizard, very soon." Nathan heard the pad of bare feet on stone as she approached.

"I'm not a wizard, lady. I'm nothing but a boy stupid enough to trust a stranger."

Nathan’s eyes slowly adjusted as the blindfold lifted from his face. A large chamber of pale stone lit by a single torch in the distance, rusty chains dangling from the ceiling and strewn across a filthy floor. It was open to the air, a yawning chasm between them and an empty guardroom on the far side. A few long, rough-hewn planks lay at opposite edge of the gap, their ends shaped to match grooves cut in the floor. A bridge, Nathan thought.

A soft hand gently cupped his cheek. Lady Alcrin was Nathan's age at most, her features plain but proud even under the filth of what looked like weeks of prison. The dirty shift she wore curved over her belly, enough for modesty but barely enough to fight off the damp chill of the dungeon. A heavy blanket, a luxury that seemed out of place, was draped over her shoulders.

"I trusted my father to find me a good marriage. I trusted my husband would earn the love I have never felt for him. I trusted them and they failed. I trust my brothers to protect me. They are outside the walls even now, preparing to bring them down for me. It is never foolish to trust, wizard. It is only foolish to continue trusting those who show you they don’t deserve it."

"Then I am a fool," Nathan replied "for I've done nothing but shell it out since I got here."

She smiled wryly. "And have you learned?"

Nathan blinked. "I... I suppose I have."

The duchess laughed with him, resting her hands on her belly. "Then you will not make the same mistake again."

"Nope. At least, not for a while." Nathan said. "Not that I have a while."

"There is always hope, wizard."

"Hope?" Nathan asked. "How can you talk about hope in a place like this?"

"Faith, hope, and love abide, wizard. So I was taught, so I believe. Do you not know the words?"

"My..." Nathan swallowed. "My brother knew them. They were his words, not mine."

"I see the lie in your eyes, wizard. You know them well." She smiled up at him. “Faith, hope, and love. You know all three, I see it. They’re not gone out of you yet.”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Nathan wasn't sure what to say. "Um... why is it that you have such a nice blanket, if you don't mind my asking? Aren't we in a dungeon?"

She shook her head. "Jorgesen."

"What?"

"Jorgesen, Baencroft's jailer. A simple soul and terrified of my lord husband, so he will not risk helping us even had he the wit to do so."

"Us, huh?" Nathan bit his lip. "Simple... you mean stupid?"

"No... naïve. He has never been outside these walls. I doubt he even knows how children are made."

"Naïve..." Nathan nodded at a bucket near the edge of the chasm. "Say... is that the... uh... the bathroom?"

She followed his gaze and shook her head. "That holds our water." She walked to the bucket and took a wooden cup from inside it. "Shall I bring you some, wizard?"

Nathan's eyes widened. If... then... maybe... yes! "No, but I have an idea..." He smiled. "I have hope, lady."

She grinned back. "And trust? How can you trust a stranger so soon after all you have endured?"

"Eh," Nathan sighed. "At this point, what have I got to lose?"

Jorgesen had never had an easy life. Like his father before him he was one of Baencroft's jailers, which in his father's day meant little more than sitting at a table and watching men in the oubliette die by inches. Unlike his father, Jorgesen was cursed with a gentle disposition.

Beaten almost as often as the prisoners he grew up tending, Jorgesen could never find it in himself to act as his father insisted a proper dungeon master should, selling prisoner rations for easy coin, denying them even the most basic of dignities, taking whatever pleasure he pleased in their suffering and degradation.

Too kindly and cowardly by far, it was only the duke's habit of executing criminals rather than jailing them that let Jorgesen get away with his unseemly good heart. Only the pettiest of crimes, those beneath Alcrin's notice, warranted time in Jorgesen's care.

And care it was. There were other dungeons in Baencroft but none of their keepers provided their charges with a bucket of fresh water every day or slipped them hot food whenever they could. Jorgesen even gave offending women blankets to ward off the cold. Women were a fearful mystery to the jailer: having spent his sheltered life in the dungeons he regarded women with the same awe reserved for gods, dragons, and the nobility. The only beatings Jorgesen ever gave were reserved for prisoners who spoke rudely to the women in his care.

When the duke sent the lady duchess down to the cell the poor dungeon master's sweet heart very nearly gave out. He was careful to seem cruel whenever the duke was present, but Jorgesen all but tripped over his own feet trying to make her stay as pleasant as any in a dank, filthy dungeon could be. If nothing else, Jorgesen could be counted on to keep his dungeon pridefully, diligently dank and filthy.

Tossing fitfully on his little straw mat, Jorgesen couldn't find it in himself to sleep, not after what he had just heard. Only an hour ago he had been shaken out of bed and ordered to chain the poor young man who had just arrived, and in the ceiling manacles too. He had done so, consoling himself that at least the duchess would have company in that big, empty space, and then gone back to his chamber.

Jorgesen had overheard the duke and the little stick-man talking as they left. The boy was a wizard! Such hadn't been seen since the olden times, and there was one in his own dungeon! Jorgesen dithered for a while before he decided that he must have another look. Donning his rags the dungeon master skittered out of his room and back to the ledge, peering at his charges. Jorgesen briefly considered hallooing but decided that, as always, no one wanted to talk to their jailer.

Just then he heard the duchess gasp. The floor beneath the duchess was soaked, as was the front of her shift.

The wizard turned towards the sound, eyes suddenly wide. "Holy crap! Her water broke!"

The duchess moaned and Jorgesen acted on the only thing his simple mind knew of women: where a woman cries, you fix. In a heedless rush he slammed the long boards into place and stumbled over the bridge, rushing headlong to her side and babbling comforts, intending to carry her to someone who knew what to do.

Nathan waited until the ugly little wretch was close enough, then took his chains in hand and pulled, hoisting himself in the air. He lashed out, took the jailer's throat between his legs, and squeezed. The man staggered under the weight and gasped, face purpling.

"Give her the keys! Do it now, or I..." Nathan tightened his hold and Jorgesen flailed, fingers scrabbling at Nathan's legs. Nathan almost gagged: long, unmentionable stains streaked his clothes wherever the jailer touched him, setting up a rancid stink of sweat and cheese.

"Don't hurt him!"

Nathan stared at the duchess. "What?"

The woman rose from the floor and stepped forward, reaching out to the jailer. "Jorgesen is going to help us, aren't you, Jorgesen?"

From the moment the duchess spoke Nathan might have been a flea for all the attention Jorgesen paid him. The little man shook as though having a fit. "I can’t, I can’t, they will beat meeeee..."

Nathan fought the urge to squeeze again, sickened by the creeping whine of Jorgesen's voice. "The keys, pal."

The duchess put her hand to the jailer's face. "Please, Jorgesen."

His whining stopped so suddenly she might have flipped a switch. The jailer searched his belt for a moment, then offered the keys to the as though offering a gift to baby Jesus.

"Thank you, Jorgesen," she leaned forward and kissed the little man's cheek as she took the keys.

Jorgesen collapsed in a dead faint.

"...Wow."

"Poor thing," the duchess said. "I heard stories, but..." she looked up and noticed Nathan's stare. "What?"

"I can’t believe you kissed him."

"He deserved it," the duchess sniffed, reaching up to set Nathan loose. "The people do not call him Kindly Jorgesen for nothing. How my husband knows nothing of his nature is beyond me."

Nathan rubbed his wrists, grimacing as flecks of dried blood fell away. "Sure you don't wanna come?"

The duchess smiled. "In my condition, I think it best I stay away from excitement. No. Either my brothers will save me, you will be back, or my lord husband will have his day. All will be as it will be, wizard. Trust in that. Please chain him so nothing seems amiss should the worst happen... You said you had a plan, wizard?" She frowned. "It must be a good one, if you intend to storm the castle by yourself."

Nathan smiled coldly. "No plan. Just a call to make."

Maggie was in the courtyard, sounds of the army beyond the wall rustling like steel leaves whenever the wind rose. She guessed it was almost morning: some flavor of the air hinted at the beginnings of sunlight. The assault would come at dawn, she knew, and the sense of tension in the men and women of the fortress was palpable.

Or maybe she was tense because she was trussed like a Christmas turkey, blinded with lichroot, gagged, and laid out on a smooth slab of stone that felt uncomfortably like a dinner table.

Or an altar, she thought.

"You had best be certain, slave." Alcrin's voice. "Glass is expensive, and to destroy the chapel's windows..."

"It is a sacrifice, lord. All sacrifices must be of importance or they would not be worthy. Is it not so?" Jabberwisp's cringing tone was unmistakable, and Maggie seethed.

"But I bought them to please my wife," the duke whined. "And now... this..."

"To please your wife. And yet she is in such disfavor that you have thrown her in an oubliette," the cobbling replied, the faintest shade of disdain peeping through his words. "One must wonder at your regret, lord."

"It is to be a girl child, or so the midwife says." Alcrin sniffed. "No woman will inherit from me while I draw breath. I have many sons, many worthies, but I cannot name a bastard heir while lawfully wed. When the angel is in my power, no law shall stop me from choosing the son I want."

"Indeed, lord, indeed... the time approaches. Make haste, but do not rush. The rite must be performed exactly as I instructed, lest the angel escape."

There was dull pattering that moved in a slow circle around her. The scent of ash and incense filled the air, and then there was the unmistakable scrape of steel leaving a sheath. A rough hand seized her own and forced it open, a point of fire suddenly blooming at the ball of her thumb. A rough circle blazed around her palm, and a moment later another was carved in her left hand. She screamed, the sound almost lost in the gag filling her mouth.

Jabberwisp's voice echoed from someplace high above Maggie, as though the cobbling had climbed a tree. "Begin the chant lord, just as I taught you. Now, while the stars are aligned!"

Alcrin's reedy voice stumbled through a series of ugly syllables, halting and uncertain, and Maggie suddenly knew that everything here, the incense, the altar, even the ritual bleeding, all of it was a lie.

Her father had told her of the ancient magics. The spells of the wizards, the rituals of demon-worshipers, the prayers of the shamans from the Southern Isles: Suicide's incarnation had seen much and more of the folly of men and mages alike. While not a mage herself, Maggie understood the principle. Magic at its most fundamental level was nothing more than raw imagination given life, an almost instinctual act.

She’d touched the duke’s mind. Alcrin had all the imagination of a barnacle.

No matter his props or preparations, no matter how hard he believed in it, even the blood of a child of Death would not change Alcrin's attempts at sorcery from what they were: the feeble games of a soft-headed man-child. There was no power in his voice, no magic in the knife that had opened her flesh, no spirit attending to what she was suddenly certain was only gibberish pouring from his lips.

This is a farce, Maggie thought, blinking tears of pain from her eyes. One Jabberwisp wants. This ritual, Alcrin, me, all of it, it's nothing but a show for someone's benefit.

It's bait.