Prince Aldric Thorne's Arc

Chapter 5 of 8

Aldric hid the dagger in the straw before Owen was locked out for the night. He pushed the blade under the wall where the stone met the floor, then dragged the thin pallet over the seam. His shackles rattled with every movement. He stopped, waited, listened. Owen had lingered at the door longer than usual. He had said one word before the bolt: "Careful." Aldric did not know if it was warning or advice. He sat back against the wall and waited for the corridor to go quiet. It did not stay quiet. Boots came down the corridor near midnight, more than one pair, and a laugh Aldric had learned to read in his father's halls. A drunk laugh with money behind it. Torches passed the bars, then stopped. A noble stood at the door of the cell, tall, wine-flushed, a barbed whip coiled at his belt. He held the whip like a favorite dog's leash. Behind him, a bored guard fumbled with keys. "This one," the noble said. "The pretty one. Open it." Aldric read the room the way his father had taught him at seven. Drunk. Angry at something not in this cell. Wanting to be watched being cruel. If he drew the dagger now, the guard behind would see it, and the whip would come down, and the blade would be gone by morning along with any plan. He slid his hand off the straw. He put his eyes on the floor and made his shoulders small. He let his hair fall forward. He did what he had done since he was twelve. He smiled once, quick and shy, the way that had always worked on men like this. The noble laughed. He stepped in, boots loud on stone, and lifted Aldric's chin with two fingers. The whip stayed at his belt. He said things Aldric did not answer. He pulled a ring off his own finger and pushed it onto Aldric's, then tapped Aldric's cheek hard enough to sting. "Tomorrow," he said. "I'll send for him tomorrow. Clean him." He turned and left. The bolt shot home. The boots went away. Aldric sat with the ring on his finger and vomited quietly into the straw. He wiped his mouth and pulled the dagger out from under the stone. The blade was still there. The plan was still there. But the noble had marked him, and a summons was coming, and whatever chance the corridor offered had shrunk to the space between now and tomorrow's bell. Aldric wrapped the dagger in the hem of his tunic and tied it against his thigh under the chain. When Owen came at dawn, Aldric would have to decide, finally, whether the guard was the honest man Amfridus hoped for, or the next man the blade was meant for.