A Writer's Love

You broke your vows, oh son of the morning star. Your eyes desired what you could not have and your hands stole what did not belong to you. Poisonous words seeped from your lips. You would make yourself like the Most High and your throne would rise above the heavens. You longed to be Our God and We, your servant. So We cast you from Our sight and threw you into the very pits of hell.
-The Book of Ueje, The Words of the Attiyq, The Ancient of Days.


Hidden secrets betray us and become our masters – King Broden, first King of Ezasu in the year 256 from the Chronicles of the King, Volume I, Passage 16.

The regent-queen of Ezasu reduced Conell De Caprise, the son of the deceased king, to a filthy prison cell. He pressed his back against the cold stone wall and stared at the dark ceiling. Five long years of hearing the shrieks of the tortured prisoners splitting the air in the dark, damp halls. Of sleeping with large rats, their red beady eyes staring at him day and night and crawling insects scurrying across his arms and legs as he tried to sleep. The stench of rotting corpses and mold hanging in the chilled stale air and five years of knowing the regent-queen who betrayed him ruled on father’s throne.

And his hand turned the prison key.

He let out a deep sigh. Which tore at his soul more? The stench of the prison or the stench of his foolish mistake made as a child? A mistake that stole Father’s throne and led him to this cell, left to die with the rats and fleas.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, then brought up his knee and dangled his wrist over his knee cap. But this nightmare would be over once they escaped. His redemption lay beyond these prison walls.

Émer, his captain of the guards, slid the last brick into the stoned wall and brushed the dirt from the surrounding bricks. He stepped to the side and placed his left hand on the wall, then with his right, pressed dirt from the floor into the cracks surrounding the stone. He smoothed down the filling and gently blew away the residue. “There,” Émer said, turning to him. “Hopefully, they will not see the lines.”

Conell nodded and gave his captain a small smile. Obsession was always Émer weakness. “You have made it invisible.”

Émer shrugged. “I can still see the lines, but I think the guards will not see it in the dim light.” He looked around the room, gauging the torch light, then reexamined his work.

The young prince raised his eyebrows at his older friend’s critiques, but nodded. “Still, the Maúl would be pleased.”

“My clan is dead, so it makes no difference if they are pleased,” Émer said, stuffing more dirt into the cracks.

Conell shook his head and let out an exasperated breath. Sometimes it was best if he gave up these battles. Émer, the last of the great Voobo-Maúl warriors. He claimed he did not care what dead men thought, but in reality, his heart beat with Maúl blood. Being a true Maúl warrior meant more to him than the rising sun. It meant following his father’s footsteps back to the great Anu, the first of the Maúl, five hundred generations of warriors, each serving the king from Broden to Conell.

Conell watched the young man erase the finger marks on the floor in front of the wall. It never made sense to Conell that warriors often described as ghosts and phantoms died so easily the night of the attack. Émer often told stories of the Maúl, warriors slipping up from the ground and killing the enemy by surprise, yet no one rose from the earth that night. The barbarians came and killed all the great warriors including Émer’s father and clan, their once strong bodies lay in pools of blood, scattered around the castle that morning.

“As I said, it will be good to leave this place,” Conell said, leaving the dead in their graves.

He closed his eyes. How many times did he sit on this bench and silently tapped the back of his head against the stoned wall? If only, if only, if only came the words over and over. If only he used wisdom that evening long ago, buried his anger towards Father and told him of the overheard plans to attack the castle. But he kept silent that evening.

And they came.

The sun shined warm when they buried Mother and Father in the red flowered field near the castle. Mother loved warm days and she would have sat among the red blossoms until the sun set. She lay in her velvet-lined coffin as if she slept. Her eyes closed, her hands softly folded over her bussom. A seven-year-old Conell stared at her chest, hoping to see it rise and fall. But her chest was still.

He laid her favorite dark-blue wool cloak over her body just in case she grew cold. Émer stood beside him, his arm draped over Conell’s thin shoulders. “Do you think it will keep her warm?” Conell asked, looking up at him. Émer, three years his senior, smiled at him, “Yes, Moji, she will stay warm.” Conell’s face scrunched and he buried his tearing face in Émer’s chest. He was not as brave as his friend. Émer never cried at his father’s funeral. Maúl warriors never weep. But betraying children do.

If Émer knew the truth of what had happened that terrible night, Conell would lose his friend forever. No one stood with the house of Broden except the last Maúl. No one soothed away his sobs in the night except the young captain, no one gave him support while he watched his days tick away in a dark cell, knowing an axe lay at the end of this journey.

Émer loved his father more than his own breath and only his father could teach him the ways of Maúl. Now there was no one to educate him. Yet he put all of that aside to support his King. How could he betray such loyality by exposing his guilt? No, keep things locked away, hidden. Émer must never know of his sins, only of his repentance. He locked the door to the past as one boards up a door to an abandoned house, leaving it to the ghosts who haunt it.

“What of Frigg?” his captain asked as he stepped back and examined his work.

Conell glanced at the prison door. Hours ticked by since the guards hauled the young man from the prison. A prisoner dragged away meant torture, sometimes for information, other times for sport. Frigg grew strong in the prison, but how long would such strength last under the sting of rods?

He pursed his lips. He owned so much to so many including Frigg. Thank Someone, Anyone young Frigg survived the attack. The morning after the massacre, he and Émer found the three-year-old tramatized child shivering under a desk in Father’s study.

Émer picked up the boy and carried him from the room, telling Frigg to keep his eyes only on his face and not the gore surrounding them, while holding Conell close to him. He buried his face in Émer’s waist, not looking at the arms, heads and corpses sprawled on the staircase and lying against the walls. He caught glimses of the bloodied bodies of the Maúl warriors and Émer’s father as did the ten-year-old warrior. But he walked past them, guiding the children out of castle and into the city.

Poor Frigg. The barbarians killed Pol, Frigg’s father, and with his mother dead, left the boy an orphan.

But now it would be Conell who led the way to safety, away from this nightmare, away from her and away from his sin. “Hopefully he can walk. He has to walk.”

The cell lock jingled and the door swung open. Ruárc, a prison guard, stood in the doorway, his fat body filling up the doorframe as it always did. A fat sneer crossed the guard’s fat lips. A fat man living off the goodness of the Witch-Queen.

A rage rose up in Conell’s chest. Ruárc. The traitor. The betrayer to the house of Broden, siding with a regent queen who shed innocent blood. Ruárc would one day rot in this same cell while the prince sat on his father’s throne.

Émer straighten and glanced at his prince; Conell raised his hand, keeping his captain in his place. His eyes focused on Ruárc’s fat body, watching his hands, face, legs anything that could become a potential threat.

Ruárc grabbed a person, smaller than Frigg, who stood beside him and tossed the prisoner into his cell. “Here is company for you, your Highness,” Ruárc said. “Her name is Chuoha.” Conell glanced up at Émer. A woman in Queen Jezebel’s prison? Even the queen refused to put women here and if she did sentence them to this prison, they did not last long. Why would Jezebel order her here? Émer shrugged.

The girl’s legs stumbled beneath her, but she regained her balance and twisted to face Ruárc, her small body trembling in the dim light. Ruárc blew her a kiss, then slammed the cell door, his laughter bouncing down the hallway.

Émer made his way to Conell. “Who is Chuoha?”

“MY NAME IS IMOGENE KATHERINE REAZLEY!” The young girl rushed to the door, then pounded and kicked the wooden surface, sending echoes across the stoned cell.

Conell raised his eyebrows. Ruárc seemed to know the girl and her actions seemed out of place. Women of Ezasu never act in such a shameful way. “Take care, my Captain,” he said in his native tongue, keeping his voice low. “This could be a trick from Jezebel.”

“Perhaps,” Émer replied. “Or maybe she is just as innocent as us.”

Finally the girl grew quiet and leaned her forehead against the wooden surface. Soft whimpers crossed the room. Conell stared at her small form. She wore blue pants like a man and a yellow top that hung on her thin frame, but exposed her arms. Women of stature always covered their arms and never dressed like a man. He snorted. She acted more like Ruárc’s spurred lover.

“Let us test this small one,” Conell said, placing his hands on his thighs and rising from the stoned bench. “Well, Chuoha, it is good to know you have strong lungs.” The girl grew silent and stared at the closed door. Her shoulders rose and fell. “Now you are silent? Chuoha, you must learn to take one or the other.”

“Moji,” Émer said, giving him a jab in the ribs.

The girl slowly turned and faced them. The torch near the door spread its dim glow over her pale face, leaving him in the safety of the shadows. She looked younger than his seventeen years. Tear paths trailed down her dirty white cheeks and leaves stuck in her shoulder-length curly blond hair. She must belong to the Northern Territories, perhaps a spy from Jezebel or Toál. He leaned to Émer. “We approach this with caution.”

“But -,” Émer said. Conell held up his hand. The girl’s wide gaze followed the moldy stoned walls to the ceiling where the spider webs draped like lace. She cringed and ducked, covering her head.

“Please help me,” she whispered, squinting at him. She placed a shaking hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the harsh torch light. “That man brought me here. I‘m not suppose to be here,”

Conell rose an eyebrow. Not be here? Ruárc’s spurred lover angry over her new accommodations? Perhaps his bed would better suit her.

“Not supposed to be here?” he asked, taking slow steps towards her. “My, my, my, you think you are better than me, Chuoha?” His footsteps crunched on the dirt floor, forcing her to press against the cold wooden surface. “Perhaps you prefer Toál’s bed instead? Or has he thrown you from his arms?”

“No!” Her voice sounded more like steam escaping a pot. “I just want to know . . . where am I? Why am I here?”

He blinked. How could she not know she sat in Jezebel’s prison? Everyone within the land feared this place of hell. Some even preferred the sword over the death stench that clung to this place. If she belonged to Ruárc or her eyes watched for Jezebel, then she would not survive long amongst enemies. He pressed forward, making her shrink from him. No woman possessed such childlike qualities, especially a woman who preferred a fat guard.

Her gaze lingered on his eyes, then dropped to the ground. She swallowed hard. He leaned forward and she grimace, bringing her fingers to her nose and turning away her face.

“Where are you?” he asked, whispering in her ear. “Ioole Chaj, leep to aeepa vozo.”

Her brows knitted together and her lips moved, but said nothing.

“Be careful, Moji,” Émer called. “Do not let the stones hear you using the Forbidden tongue. You know the witch forbids us to speak it, even here. Speak the queen’s tongue so the girl will understand.”

The prince flipped his fingers. “I will not let Jezebel rule me. I will speak as I please.”

“Again, watch that tongue,” Émer said, leaning against the wall. “You might find it missing one day.”

Conell grunted.

“I don’t understand what you said,” the girl whispered.

He stepped back. Jezebel prohibited her slaves from speaking the Language of the Attiyq. But even they understood the Forbidden tongue. How could she not understand?

His fists pressed against his side. Her screams would alert Ruárc and Toál, especially if she belonged to Ruárc. But what did her eyes seek? The guards planned to execute him and Émer tomorrow, so why send a watcher now?

He turned to Émer and said in his language, “The girl is a watcher, be careful what you say.” Then he turned back to her and said in her language, “’Witch Prison, home of the forgotten.’”

“Why am I here?” she whimpered. A tear inched down her face.

Conell sneered. Many women used tears to break his heart; Ruárc’s lover would fail in her quest. He leaned into her, placing his forearm against the wooden frame, locking her in place. “I am sorry, Chuoha,” he said softly, cocking his ear to her face. “I did not hear your words. You must speak up for me.”

“I want to go home. I want my mom,” she whimpered, her teary gaze locked on the dirt floor. Her arms trembled so hard, her nails knocked against the wood.

“I am afraid that is impossible. You are in Jezebel’s Prison,” he said, straightening and crossing his large arms over his chest.

“Who’s Jezebel?”

“Jezebel is now the queen of this land. She has sat on my father’s throne for ten long years.”

She lifted her wet face to him and shook her head. “A queen? What queen? There’s no queen over us. We have a president.”

Conell flicked his fingers and strolled away from her. “Ruárc must have picked an insane lover.”

The girl’s face twisted. “I’m not his lover! That’s gross!”

Émer stepped into the light and led her to a stoned bench. “Maybe you should sit down.” She squealed and jumped onto the bench as a large black rat scurried from under a blanket tossed onto a pile of dirty hay.

“My name is Émer Muiris Amgrets, son of Cadoc Ailill Amgets” Émer said. “Captain of the Prince’s army. And he is Moji, prince in your tongue, Conell De Caprise, son of Efuko De Caprise, last reigning king of Ezasu. He is . . . dead now.”

“Is this hell?” she asked, sitting on the bench.

“Some have used that word before,” Émer said, taking a seat beside her. She brought up her legs and wrapped her arms around her shins. “You are in Iool Chaj a prison for those who fight against the Witch-Queen Jezebel whom as the Moji said, now rules this land,” Émer continued. “You must have wandered into Yoem Eoko, Demon Forest. Only those who escape from the prison or rebels seeking to attack the guards wander into that cursed place.”

She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know a Jezebel and I didn’t wonder into any Forest and I’m not that guy’s lover. I was in Glen Oak Park,” she said, stressing each word. “Then I was in the woods. There is no Demon Forest around here.”

“What is this Glen Oak Park you speak of?” Émer asked.

“It’s a park where people go to have fun; you know picnics, Frisbees, playing with dogs? Fun stuff!” Her voice rose with each word.

Conell leaned against the wall beside Émer and nudged him in the shoulder. “What is a park and Frisbees?” he asked in his native tongue.

His captain shrugged. “What were you doing in this ‘park’?” Émer asked her.

“I was there because I broke the law,” she said, twisting her fingers. “I did what they wanted me to do; I followed all of the judge’s orders. This isn‘t suppose to happen. I had an hour left and then I was going home for my sweet sixteenth birthday or what was left of it. I’m supposed to be home now. I‘m not supposed to be here!”

“Calm down,” Émer said, patting her arm.

Conell straightened. “What orders?”

“I know it was wrong,” she said, gazing at the floor. A cockroach scurried across the straw covered stoned floor. She brought her knees closer to her chest. “But I wanted the others to like me, so I went along with them. They wanted to spray graffiti on the school building, I knew I shouldn’t have gone, but I did, I wanted them to think I was cool. I want to be cool. But when the cops showed up, they found a bag of weed on my friend and they arrested us. The judge said since this was my first offense, he’d let me off with one hundred hours of community service, I did what they wanted, cleaning the park, when I found this.” She pulled a large medallion hanging from a gold chain from around her neck and passed it to Émer. Conell’s gaze flickered to his captain.

“I found it in a bush,” she said. “I reached for the gold chain and it . . . wrapped around my wrist. I fell into a pit or something, and then I landed here. But I’m not supposed to be here. Then it found its way around my neck, I didn’t put it there. That . . . man . . . found me.” She placed her fingers on her throat. “He put a knife to my throat. I thought he was going to kill me. . . I just want to go home. I want my mom.” She brushed away the tears from under her eyes and smoothed her face.

Émer wrinkled his brow and frowned. “My Lord, have you seen such a thing?” he asked, handing the necklace to the prince.

Conell held the medallion under the dim light and squinted. The warm trinket filled his palm. A large purple stone sat in the middle of a larger circle enclosing a smaller one, separated by the strange markings. His fingers traced the engraved writings, making his fingertips tingle. “It looks very old, but I am unsure of the age. The writings look like those in my father’s ancient scrolls.” He held it up allowing it to dangle from his fingers.

Father sat in his study listening to the Maúl elders reciting these very words. The wind blew the thin white curtains into the room; an angry Maúl elder said something about the angels of the Attiyq stretching out their hands to him. Father glanced at the window, then mother called Conell from the room. The young boy left, but turned back to catch a glimps of the angel’s hands. They reached for him and a chill slipped down his back. He shook the memory away. “But I can not read it. The language is of the old tongue.” He gave it back to the girl.

“I don’t want it,” she said, pushing it way. “I wanted to sell it, get some cash for it. But I‘ve changed my mind.”

“I think it should hang around your neck, not mine,” Conell said, slipping the chain over her head. The medallion dropped to her chest. She glanced down at the round trinket, then up at him.

The prison door swung open. Ruárc strutted into the room like the king who ruled the castle. His younger brother and fellow guard Toál, stood in the doorway, holding Frigg’s limp body by his arm. Ruárc’s fat belly, larger than his brother’s, jiggled under his sweat stained black shirt and his sword swung from his hip. The captain rose from the bench and planted his feet before the guard. Conell glanced down at the wide-eyed girl, then pulled her from the bench. If her eyes watched for the queen or if she shared Ruárc’s bed, then he wanted her close to him.

Toál tossed Frigg into the room and Ruárc threw him to the ground. He landed with a sickening plop. A deep moan escaped the young man. He tried to rise but his elbows buckled. The girl moved toward Frigg, but Conell held her arm.

Conell’s stomach ached like a boulder fell upon him. The fault lay at his feet, as if his hands lashed at his friend’s back. And now Frigg paid for his foolish mistake. His closed his eyes. His goal feathered before him, taking Émer and Frigg to the safety of the Southern Borders. The girl could stay with her lover.

Ruárc smirked at Émer and took three steps toward the Prince’s guard. Toál leaned against the doorway and used the tip of his knife to clean under his nails. “Take care, big brother,” Toál said, glancing up at Ruárc. “You stand before a brave Maúl.” He snickered.

Ruárc grunted. “I do not fear this tiny Maúl fly.”

“Well, well, well,” Émer said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Jezebel’s dogs have come to visit us. Did the witch run out of scraps for her pets?”

Ruárc narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps I can give a message to your father and brother warriors? I am sure they would love to hear from one who is forgotten.” He shook his head and frowned. “Forgive me, captain; I am the one who has forgotten.” His hard gaze rose to meet the Captain’s. “They met such a tragic end. Such a shame,” Toál said, shaking his head. Toál laughed, his grating echoes bouncing down the hall.

Émer narrowed his eyes and slightly lifted his head, but said nothing.

Ruárc caught Imogene‘s wide gaze and sneered. “Hello, Chuoha, I apologize for the poor dwellings. Perhaps we can take a walk along the path again?” He grinned and winked. Toál chuckled and nodded his head.

Conell glanced down at her. Her face turned ash-white and she grabbed his arm as her legs buckled beneath her, then she buried her face in his arm. He furrowed his brow. Did she play the part of the woman in distress or did Toál really hurt her?

Émer stepped in front of Ruárc, blocking her view. “I heard you enjoy placing your steel against young women’s throats: perhaps you are man enough to do that with me since I am forgotten and the last of my kind?” he asked, spreading his arms wide and bowing.

Conell snickered. “Well said, Émer.”

Toál gritted his teeth and reached for his sword. “Do not speak to my brother with such ill words!” But Ruárc grabbed his arm and dragged him from the cell. “Save your anger, Toál,” said Ruárc, shooting an angry glare at Émer. “Tomorrow our swords will taste their blood.”

Before leaving, Ruárc wiggled his fingers at the girl. “Do not fret, Tiny Chuoha. Tomorrow you will share my bed as well as my brothers’.” Her nails dug deeper into Conell’s arm.

The guards stepped out of the cell and slammed the door, then the loud click from the lock bounced off the walls. Their muffled laughter drifted away. Émer and the prince rushed to the young man on the floor. Gingerly, Conell turned Frigg over and brushed back his red hair. Frigg’s young freckled face wrinkled in pain. “Frigg, what happened?” Conell asked.

A soft groan rose from his chapped lips. “My Liege, I do not know what they seek. They beat me with staffs, yet asked no questions.”

“Here, let me help him,” Imogene said, kneeling behind them. She squeezed in between them. “I know First Aid.”

Conell glared at her. “First what?” Her determined eyes faced his, framed in her pale white face. Her hands trembled.

“Please, I can help him,” she said, pushing him aside. “I work as a Candy Stripper in a hospital. The doctors always let me help in the ER.”

“The doctors do what?” Conell asked, growling at her.

“You need to move,” she said, shoving him with her elbow.

Conell stood over her, glaring at this small betrayer.

She gently rolled Frigg to his side and lifted his shirt. Blood dripped from the thick purple slashes that crossed his shoulders down to his lower back.

“I will get you some water,” Émer said.

“No,” she said, grabbing his arm. “The water here must be very dirty. If we place it on the wounds, they may become infected. He could die. No, I need something to stop the bleeding, a clean cloth, if you have one.” She gently pulled Frigg’s shirt aside and grimaced. ”I’ve never known of a prison that beats the inmates so severely. I’m surprised the lawyers aren’t screaming over this.”

Émer and the young prince exchanged fleeting glances, but said nothing. The captain slipped off his gray shirt and handed it to her. “This is all I have. It is not clean as you asked. There is nothing else here.”

A blush covered her cheeks and although the corner of her eyes lingered on his bare chest, she quickly diverted them, then turrned Frigg over onto his stomach. Then she bunched the dirty shirt into a small ball and gently pressed the fabric against Frigg’s back. His body jerked as she placed more pressure on the wounds. “I’m sorry,” she said, wincing. After a time, she lifted the cloth. The bleeding stopped and she lowered his shirt. Émer and Conell lifted the young man to his feet and led him to the stoned bench.

“Be careful,” she said, sitting beside him. “He may start to bleed again. He really needs to see a doctor.”

“A doctor? What is a doctor?” Conell growled. This game grew tiring.

“A doctor. You know, someone who heals others using medicine,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “Have you heard of med-i-cine?”

A snicker escaped him. “You are a stranger to hell, Chuoha. ‘Doctors’ do not live in Ioole Chaj.” He sat on the other side of Frigg and snatched the cloth from her, then lifted Frigg’s shirt and dabbed his friend’s back.

“Stop that,” she said, reaching behind the young man and pulling the bloody shirt from his fingers. “You’ll make it bleed again. He needs to rest so he can regain his strength.”

Émer stood over Conell and frowned. “Moji,” he said in the Forbidden tongue. “The girl’s mind has fled and you know I cannot leave her behind to suffer from the hands of Toál and Ruárc. You know what they would do to her.” He paused and gestured to her. “Listen to her words, my Moji. They are . . . strange, insane. No one with a well mind would speak such things. We must take her with us.”

Conell looked up at him. “Has your memory left you so quickly? Remember how Jezebel befriended us, only to confine us in Father’s prison? Do her betrayal and the betrayal of those who followed us flee your mind? I will not give my hand to another so quickly.”

“I made an oath before the elders of my tribe when I sat at my father’s knee,” Émer said, crossing his arms over his chest. His purple eyes darkened and his soft face hardened. “And I will not break that oath even though they are dead. The girl is ill and the Attiyq demands that I show mercy to the ill. I will follow His words. Do not make me choose for you know my answer.”

Conell knew that hard stare. A stare that would someday lead the young captain to the executioner’s slab, his young neck pressed upon the bloodied block and a sharp axe removing his head from his body. Prayers to the Attiyq falling from his lips, until he no longer spoke. He broke the stare. Yes, he did know the answer, but yet to trust another . . .

“Ok, enough of this,” she said, jumping to her feet. Her young face grew taunt and she shoved her small hands on her hips. “It’s obvious that you’re talking about me. Please have enough courtesy to say it to my face.”

Conell sat back and rubbed his chin. For a spy, this little one has a great spirit. Ruárc would enjoy taming her. “Well, Little Chuoha, we speak of escaping tonight and what to do with you. Émer thinks your mind has fled and the ways of the Voobo-Maúl demand that he cares for you, so we must take you with us, yet,” he paused and crossed his arms over his chest. “I wonder if you truly are insane.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, dropping onto the bench and staring at him. The stoned wall seemed to engulf her small trembling frame.

He rose and towered over her, making her shrink against the stones. “Jezebel sent you. Or perhaps your heart belongs to Ruárc?”

She shook her head and rose from the bench. “No! I told you what happened,” she said, gesturing to the door. “I don’t even know a Jezebel! And I’m not that guy’s girlfriend. He’s gross, disgusting, nasty. I’d become a nun first!”

“Ah, yes,” Conell said, nodding his head and slipping his hands behind his back. “You grabbed a strange medallion, which magically brought you here from the place of parks, doctors and what words did you use? Ah, community service. A very imaginative story.”

“But it did happen!”

“We could bind her with some strips of cloth,” Conell said, motioning to the blanket on the straw. “We would still have a day’s journey ahead of them.”

“Moji,” Émer said, stepping in front of the girl. “I will not leave her in the hands of Ruárc and Toál. Plus we die tomorrow, why would the witch send a watcher now? And I do not think her eyes wander to Ruárc. Again, do not make me choose.”

“If I were a spy, why would I help him?” she asked, leaning around Émer and pointing to Frigg. “Would I honestly help if I belonged to that nasty thing? I mean, seriously! What is wrong with you?”

“Her words hold wisdom, Moji,” Émer said, raising his eyebrows.

He glared at his captain then back to her. “And what if your eyes watch for the witch-queen and you convince me your heart beats pure, then you betray me?”

“I swear,” she said, gritting her teeth. “If you don’t take me with you, I will scream at the top of my lungs and tell the nasty guard everything.”

“She has you in a net,” Émer said, grinning.

Conell growled. He pushed Émer aside, making her step back. “I could break your tiny neck, then who would you tell?”

“Go ahead,” she said, standing on her toes, meeting his stare. Again, he raised his eyebrows. “Kill me now,” she said. “I’d rather die then rot in this hellhole. Anyway, how do I know you‘re not just a bad dream?”

The prince’s rough fingers coiled around her small chin. Her brown eyes grew wide. “If you long to join us, I will take you with us. But if you betray me or my friends,” he said, drawing her trembling face towards his. “Then I will break your tiny neck and leave you to die alone. Then you will plead for Ruárc’s arms.”

“I promise you,” she whispered, her face turning white. “I won’t betray you. Please. I just want to go home.”

Conell released her, then turned to Émer. “Watch her. Chuoha,” Conell said. “Émer and I both will have our eyes upon you.”

She nodded and clenched her trembling hands together, then plopped on the bench. “I promise I’ll do whatever you want.”

Conell exhaled a deep growling breath then leaned against the door and glanced through the small barred window. The guards had left, leaving the corridor deserted. The man in the cell across the hall stared at him through the cell window, then turned away mumbling to himself. “Show her,” Conell said to Émer, nodding towards the opposite wall.

Émer nodded and made his way to the back wall. He extracted a brick, then another, making a small hole. “Come here, Imogene Katherine Reazley.”

“Please, call me Imie,” she said, giving him a small smile. “It’s what my friend calls me. And what is or are the Atteek?”

He smiled. “The Attiyq is our God. He is holy, merciful and just. He commands that the Maúl must care for the ill. I belong to the Maúl clan, so you have no worries. See the large hole? We discovered it a few days ago when the guards put us in this cell. We found a loose brick, then a small tunnel. The previous prisoners must have dug it. We believe it leads into the woods behind the prison, although we are not certain.”

She peeked into the black hole. “How did they know about the tunnel?” she asked, gesturing into the black space.

He shrugged. “King Broden made many tunnels that lie beneath the land. His soldiers used them years ago during the war with the Southern Lands. The prisoners may have known of them, then dug into it. They must have worked on it for a long time, but I do not know. The guards executed them before they could use it.”

“Why didn’t you guys use it earlier?” she asked.

Émer gave her a tight smile. “Because we have only sat in this cell for a few days, tomorrow is our day of execution. We must leave tonight.”

“How do you know it’s safe? And how did you find it? And where’s the dirt?”

Conell glanced at Émer who shook his head and raised his palms in surrender. “Émer found a loose brick,” Conell said, checking off the answers on his fingers. “The dirt lies in the main tunnel. And if you would prefer Ruárc’s company . . .” He raised his hands and shrugged.

She took a deep breath and shook her head, a small withered leaf floated to the ground. “No, of course not. But how do you know which way to go?”

“You ask many questions for one who wishes to leave, Chuoha,” Conell said, cocking his head. “We do not know, but as I said, we will leave you with Ruárc and Toál if that is your choice.”

Again she shook her head, then plucked another leaf from her blond strands and flicked it from her fingers.

“We leave tonight,” Émer said, replacing the brick and stuffing dirt between the cracks. “Tomorrow the prince turns eighteen and is also our execution date. We have no choice.”

The girl looked back at the brick wall, then at the door. She bit her trembling lip, but avoided his eyes. Perhaps her words rang true regarding her innocence or maybe he trended into one of the queen’s many traps and their lives would end tomorrow. “The guards will check each cell before retiring for the night,” Conell said, checking the hall again. He walked to the hay pile and picked up the blanket, shook it out and laid it over Frigg. The young man winced as he pulled it up over his shoulders. “We will wait until the last sentry call to leave this hell,” Conell said. “The darkness will shield us.”

“My prince,” Frigg said, licking his dry lips. His eyes struggled to focus on Conell. “I will only hold you back. Leave me here.”

Conell wrinkled his brow and sat next to his friend. “No, my friend, I will not leave you here to die amongst the wolves. If I must, I will carry you to Shes Cheez.”

Imogene cocked her head at Émer and mouthed -Shes Cheezse?

“Mother’s Hills,” he said, grinning at her.

Conell frowned at her, and her cheeks burned red, making her look away.
A hacking cough attacked Frigg. His face turned deeper gray and he struggled to catch his breath. Imogene rushed to Frigg’s side. “Just try to take deep breaths,” she said, pushingk back his hair. He grasped her fingers as his lungs fought to expand. “Now let it out, slowly,” she said. He nodded and the coughing ceased.

The prince laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Be strong, Frigg, by tomorrow we will be safe.” He stared at the girl. Either his decision would become his worst mistake or a great blessing. Of course, trusting Jezebel became his worst mistake, but would this be worse?