Lyara jogged at her husband’s side, struggling to keep up with his long stride. Dradge didn’t seem to notice. He walked with his brow furrowed and eyes downcast, straight towards the walls of the prison like he intended to storm them all by himself. That wound still hurt him—it’d only been two weeks, Fidelis were healers not magicians—but he hid the limp.
The structure was a part of the castle Avtalyon, one of the many towers jutting from the mountain side, although this one stood out thanks to its lack of windows or banners. A terribly dull building—a flat grey, even in the bright autumn sunlight—it didn’t live up to the majesty of the others. Maybe it shouldn’t.
A messenger had met Dradge at the gates this morning, as soon as they’d rode back into town at the conclusion of the campaign. The boy hardly dared to look any of them in the eye, and apologized profusely as he handed over the letter. Hilderic had thrown Rhowan—her husband’s father—in prison. That was as much information as the letter offered; it was a threat, not an instrument intended to convey fact.
Dradge had said little, since—just hurried off to confront the issue. He hadn’t told her she couldn’t come, so Lyara tagged along, unsure of what to make of the sadness in his eyes. She couldn’t say he held the same worry she would if her father was the one in prison, but then again he was a better soldier than that.
She did want to meet her father-in-law. And, well, even if the circumstances weren’t ideal, she’d try to make the best of it. Dradge had invited him to the wedding but he never showed—she still had his gift, a painting of Dradge making general, from one of her proper sketches. She’d entreated one of Dradge’s men to fetch it from her parent’s house, and carried it rolled up in her satchel.
That sort of thing would make for a good first impression, right? She was surprised to find herself nervous. It wasn’t like she had to win his approval; she and Dradge were already married, there was nothing he could do about it. His stepmother had shown to authenticate the wedding—she was a curt woman, with a taste for wine, and while Dradge smiled and spoke with her like he should, they seemed anything but close.
The two soldiers guarding the prison tower saluted as Dradge approached and pushed open the doors for both of them. Lyara nodded to the two men with a smile, but they met her gaze and nodded back as an afterthought—they opened that door for her husband, she just also happened to be there.
This first room was open, a spiral stair at the far side wound to the upper and lower floors, the space filled with a large but well-worn wooden table. The chairs held council members—Lords and Ladies dressed in fine colors and flashing jewels—with Hilderic seated at the head. Next to them, he looked like a lump of blue cloth with a dandelion wisp for a head.
The King rose, cheeks flushed red with anger, and pointed a finger at her as he glared at Dradge. “You disrespect me again? This council will not be privy to prying ears!”
Dradge stopped stiffly at her side. “Surely, my liege, my wife is not suspect?”
The King laughed, the sound devoid of mirth, as he sank back into his chair. “Is she not? Your father is the one printing those papers about me, I know he is!”
Lyara cringed, then tried to pretend she hadn’t. Gods, if her periodical had landed her husband’s father in prison… she didn’t even want to think about it.
Lady Tanith released a delicate sigh, tugging at the wide brim of her hat. “My King, calm yourself. Remember your health.”
Hilderic turned his scowl on her. “My health? If you cared about my health you’d find each and every person responsible for printing that vile Whisper and see them all thrown in prison! Or, better yet—hanged!”
Lyara cringed again, hand drifting unconsciously to her neck.
Lord Therburn rubbed his bushy mustache. “Your majesty, whether you like it or not, the people have their own minds. Surely you can stomach it if a few voice them.”
Hilderic rose from his chair again, pointing a bony finger at the aging councilman, but the eloquence of his rage eluded him.
Dradge glanced at Lyara with a pained smile, gently placing his hand on her back. “I think it would be best if you waited somewhere else until we sort this out. Shouldn’t be long.”
Lyara nodded, gathering her skirt and her satchel before her, and scurried down the back stairs. Her husband probably meant for her to step outside again, but that would be too boring—she wanted to find a place to eavesdrop, and what was better for that than basements and darkened stairwells?
A single torch lit the staircase, and after winding in a sharp loop it ended abruptly on the lower level. This space was open like the floor above, but iron bars divided it into prison cells. Lyara froze, fist clenching the strap of her satchel. She had expected to find a root cellar, or at least a collection of storage shelves.
Some cells were empty, but most housed a single person. The air was dank, the floor dirty, and each poor soul wore threadbare clothes that hadn’t been washed in weeks. The nearest cell contained a young girl, maybe eleven. She had her face pressed against the bars, but looked up at Lyara with a lopsided grin.
“What they yellin’ about?”
Lyara straightened her shoulders, stepping towards the girl—a false display of confidence, as she didn’t want those other criminals sensing weakness. “That periodical, The Whisper in Brief.”
“Oh.” The girl laughed. “I like that one.”
“You’ve read it?”
The girl shook her head. “Looked at the pictures, though. Pretty funny.” She made a face, puffing up her cheeks to mimic the Hilderic cartoon.
Lyara chuckled, then glanced down at her satchel—there might be something better for her to do here than eavesdrop. She rummaged to the bottom and produced her handy travelers’ sketchbook. “Why are you in here?”
The girl shrugged. “I think my Da owes taxes? I’m stuck here until he pays them.”
Lyara’s hand froze, charcoal pencil hovering over the empty page. “You… Hilderic is holding you here as leverage over your father?”
The girl shrugged.
“Is that even legal?”
The girl shrugged again.
“No, it ain’t!” an old man in the back shouted. Lyara stepped around the girl’s cell, following the narrow hall down the center until she spotted him. He sat hunched in the corner, his beard long and ragged, his clothes worn through at the elbows and knees. “But, better your kid than you, huh?”
“You have debts, too?” Lyara asked.
The man nodded. “Only I don’t got no family. So I’m in here until I can pay it back.”
“And how do you earn money behind bars?”
He scoffed. “I don’t!”
Lyara glanced around the prison in disgust. “Are all of you here like this?”
The prisoners began to shout, each of them over the other, some of them slamming their hands against the bars. Lyara stumbled back, clutching her sketchbook, desperately trying to pick one—any—particular story from all the others. The cacophony rose like that of a rioting mob and she began to wonder if she’d made some foolish mistake.
“Hey!” Dradge’s stern voice carried from the bottom of the stairs and the prisoners fell silent. He eyed each of the cages, then offered a curious smile as he met her gaze. “You… making new friends?”
Several of the men in the back shouted something, but fell silent when Dradge frowned at them.
Lyara strode back to the stairs, wrapping her arm around his as she returned the smile. “A few.”
He shook his head, his smile fading too quickly, then nodded towards the stairs. “My father’s on the second floor.”
She held more tightly to his arm and followed at his side as they walked. “Did you work it out with Hilderic?”
He nodded. “The man has no evidence—of any kind, don’t worry. The council is not interested in prosecuting anyone on their King’s whim, they’ve been burned too many times on that as it is.”
She nodded, thoughtfully. “…when’s the last time you saw your father?”
Dradge peered ahead. They reached the lighted main floor—the King had apparently stormed out of the council room entirely, but the Lords and Ladies still mingled. They all looked to Dradge as she trudged up the second stairs beside him, each giving a cordial—respectful—nod of their head.
“…eight years?” Dradge said softly as they continued climbing. The torchlight cast his face in shadow. “Might be nine. We haven’t spoken since I dropped out of university.”
She rubbed his arm. “I’m here, alright?”
He nodded again, then took her hand in his, lifting it so he could kiss the back of it. “I think he’d like you. Really. If he gave you the chance.”
They stepped onto the second floor. It was a mirror of the basement, only emptier and cleaner. Each occupied cell also had its own guard. Additional torches burned on the wall, lighting the space a bit less ominously, although perhaps a prison should embody that sort of energy. Dradge let go of her hand but she still clung to his arm—married couples were allowed to parade around like that, and she had no intention of letting him go.
The nearest cells were empty, but a single man rose from his bench seat on the far wall. He was tall, with Dradge’s same broad build and bright green eyes. It might just be her prejudice, but his face seemed to lack his son’s kindness; his brown beard hid hardened edges, his furrowed brow expressed judgment instead of concern.
Rhowan turned to look at them and Dradge nearly wilted under his gaze—she could feel her husband tense at her side. He stood his ground, though, straightening his shoulders, and led her to stand before those bars.
“Father,” Dradge said, with a nod nearing a bow.
Rhowan’s eyes narrowed. “You playing at politics now, boy, or is the threatened destruction of my livelihood the only goad worthy of prompting a visit?”
Dradge drew in a breath, then motioned to her. “This is Lyara, I sent letters—”
“That lowborn girl, from the neighborhood we left behind? You know I had better lined up for you—”
Anger flashed in Dradge’s eyes and Lyara gently tugged on his arm.
“It’s alright,” she whispered.
Rhowan fixed that gaze on her for a moment, before turning it back on her husband. “You expect to walk in here like I don’t remember how you spat in my face?”
This was a horrible man. A horrible, terrible man and she suddenly no longer wanted his blessing at all.
Dradge shrugged, and tried to offer a smile. “We’ve got to start somewhere, right?”
Rhowan just scowled. “That university was our birthright. It was denied me, but I got you in. My life’s work, I got you in.”
Dradge ran a hand across his face. “Da, I don’t learn that way! I never could! I thought you’d finally understand when you had to start bribing my teachers to pass me, but you didn’t.” He turned his shoulder towards the bars. “Look at these patches on my coat. Look at this gorgeous woman on my arm. I have almost everything I’ve ever wanted and I’m good at what I do. Isn’t there something in that to be proud of?”
Rhowan studied him, unyielding. “Anyone can swing a sword. You were meant for more than that.”
Dradge hung his head, eyes clenched shut, hands balled into fists at his sides. Lyara pulled him closer, resting her cheek on his upper arm, as if she could will the pain from him. Maybe it worked because he heaved a sigh instead of speaking.
Dradge stepped back, making eye contact with the guard beside the cell door. “Release him.”
The soldier immediately did as commanded, but Rhowan frowned. “What are you doing? I’ve been charged with sedition—”
“A war crime,” Dradge said, face stern. “Hilderic can levy charges as he likes, but it’s my jurisdiction to see those punished. He would’ve known that if he bothered to understand how his country functioned instead of just ordering it around.”
A hint of surprise flickered across Rhowan’s face. “You’re punishing me?”
“Yes. A fine of twelve hundred firri, to be given to the Corner Street orphanage.”
Rhowan stared at him. “I already give them as much, every year.”
Dradge grunted. “Funny, that.” He turned towards the door, and Lyara let go of his arm, giving him a gentle smile.
“I’ll be just a minute.”
He stared into her eyes—for a moment she thought he’d forbid her from staying—but in the end he nodded, then stalked down the stairs and didn’t look back.
Rhowan hadn’t moved from his place in the cell, so Lyara stepped towards him to stand in the threshold.
Anger flared in his eyes, colder than her husband’s. “What do you intend to do, argue for him? My son is more than capable of speaking for himself.”
Lyara fished her painting out of her satchel. “He saved a seat for you, at the wedding. He pretends otherwise, but I know it hurt him to see it go empty.” She placed the rolled canvas in his hands. “I was in charge of choosing the wedding favors, and fortunately they keep longer than a son’s naïve hopes. Most fathers would be proud to display this.”
She left him to stew in that, following after her husband down the flight of stairs, but as she turned the corner she paused in the shadows where Rhowan wouldn’t see. Listening. The canvas creaked as he unrolled it. She waited as long as she dared, but she never heard him close it up again.