Griselda held up a hand for silence, then looked directly at the prisoner. “Did you talk to the knight before you stole his heart, witch?”
“Aye, I be a grand listener.” The prisoner’s answer rattled like sand scattered across a windowpane, sending a chill through Lyra’s spine.
“Are you, now?” Griselda’s profile offered a glimpse of her scowl, although her usual arrogance held a tremulous air. “And what did he say?”
“Me ears be attuned to a dyin’ soul’s breath, not their words.” The witch scowled in return, her fanged teeth biting into her lip and drawing blood. Her forked tongue sloughed away the black, oozing liquid, leaving her lips slimy like earthworms.
Lyra barely managed to look at Sir Nicolet’s murderer. With her scales and split tongue, the prisoner was a horrifying sight. Her snaky features and skin brought to mind drawings of legendary drasilisks in the kingdom’s history scrolls—hybrid gargantuan creatures that had the head, wings, and front legs of a dragon and the long, coiling serpentine body and venomous fangs of a basilisk.
“Filth and foul.” Griselda glared at the soldiers. “Do you not know anything? This harrower witch is an immortal . . . descended from gargoyles. She has an impervious hide and is immune to poison. She doesn’t age and she can’t be killed. How are we to force her to admit to anything?”
“We could try torture, Your Grace. Her tongue is vulnerable enough. The choke pear might prove helpful.” Lyra watched the soldier take down a silver tool hung upon the wall. Four metal blades, curved inward to meet at the center, separated like razor-sharp petals as he turned a screw at the top. “Not exactly sure how to use it. We could send for the dungeon master and have him bring new torches, too. The broom sedge in these is stale and damp. The light won’t last much longer.”
“Bah. We’ve time aplenty.” The other soldier plucked the torture tool from his companion’s hand. “Any simpleton can use it. We shove this end down her throat, turn the screw, and gore the truth out.”
Lyra shuddered at the gruesome thought, tightening her arms around her cramped legs to silence the rustles of her dress.
“No!” Griselda’s dark eyes reflected the torches’ flames. She grabbed the choke pear. “One twist too far, and you could cripple her tongue and render her speechless. Don’t I already have enough of such nonsense in my life? Go fetch fresh torches and the royal mages. It takes magic to break magic.”
“May-let it’s ye at risk of breaking, yer grace.” The witch’s threat caused the soldiers to halt at the door. “May-let ye should strike a bargain to save yer perfect self.”
Griselda barked a throaty laugh—a sound that raised the hairs on Lyra’s neck. “You have no authority to demand bargains. You are not under the employ of this kingdom, so your magic is unsanctioned, and you’re accused of murdering King Kiran’s First Knight!”
“I follow death, but ne’er bring it. If ye wish for witness to me character, ye can question the fox who ate yer good Sir Nicolet’s heart.”
Passing a smug smile over her shoulder to the soldiers, Griselda rotated the screw on the choke pear, forcing the silver petals apart. “How inconvenient for you. Your pet is your only witness? Some simple beast of the field can’t articulate his thoughts any better than my niece.”
Lyra’s eyes stung hotter at her words.
The witch blinked her own cloudy brown eyes—a filmy flash of skin both unsettling and mesmerizing. “Ah, but this fox be no one’s pet. And I be given to understand ye’ve already spake with him at length, many a time, afore yer elm’s leaves turned red in the garden. May-let he ne’er showed you his four-legged side. He didn’t have much use for it—what when he could fly. But now it serves ’im well enough.”
Griselda paled and she cast another glance over her shoulder at the soldiers. “Didn’t I command the mages be brought? Why are you both still here?”
“Are you sure you should be alone with her, Your Grace?” the tallest one asked. “She’s speaking in riddles. And we don’t know what spells she’s capable of.”
Griselda turned back to face the prisoner. “Her magic is limited to those already dying. More a parlor trick than anything. She obviously can’t use her words to vanish into thin air or break her chains. Otherwise you’d never have managed to drag her here.”
The two men exchanged glances then bowed to Griselda. “At your command.” They left the cell, pulling the door half-closed.
“And bring the dungeon master, too!” Griselda shouted after them.
“Ye won’t be needing any mages or masters.” The witch’s husky voice scraped along the stone walls as the men’s footsteps faded up the stairs. “I be glad to tell ye what I know.”
Griselda tapped her palm with the choke pear, simpering. “Of course. The promise of torture can bend any creature’s will. But, just so you understand, once you confess, you’ll still be our guest. The dungeon master needs a new plaything. And I want to hear more about this . . . fox.”
The witch huffed. “Nay. I won’t be stayin’ on for yer hospitality. Ye’ll set me free afore yer soldiers return.”
“And why would I do that? I’ve no fear of the nightmares you wield.”
“Me weapon be reality. Yer dyin’ knight was alive enough to share his final moments with yer kingly brother. I heared the details of the treaty—afore the two be attacked. Should ye want to hear who killed ’em, or better yet, keep what we both be knowin’ between me and ye, I bid we bargain now.”
Lyra crinkled her nose at the witch’s cryptic taunts. It hurt to hear the mention of her father, but it felt important she listen.
Griselda stiffened, her hand fisted so tight around the choke pear her knuckles bulged. “I think instead I’ll gouge out your tongue so you will never speak again.”
“I needn’t have a tongue to imprint a memory. And this memory will win accolades to them who holds it, be sure. The king’s final words to his knight will salvage yer kingdom from another war neither ye nor the night realm can e’er win.”
A tense pause stretched between Griselda and the prisoner. Lyra’s arms and legs twitched from their awkward positions beneath the box and the dust threatened her nostrils with a sneeze, but she forced herself to stay rigid.
“All right, give over the memory to me, and I will free you. With the understanding that should I ever need your services, you’ll return and pay your debt.” Though Griselda’s words were a command, Lyra had never heard her voice so unsure.
“Nay, the debt I owe not be yers. It belong to King Kiran’s royal seed. And I don’t be seein’ his child here. Unlessen . . .” The witch tilted her head in Lyra’s direction. “Unlessen that’s her breaths be mufflin’ beneath the box.”
Lyra slapped her palm across her lips. The moths darted from their hiding places and fluttered around Griselda as she stormed toward Lyra’s corner. She scattered them with the choke pear, then tossed it down with a clank. Lyra didn’t have a chance to protest before her hiding place was lifted off.
“You wretched little ferret! Always the perfect princess. Tender-skinned and docile. Never heard, only seen—” Griselda stopped short at the sight of Lyra’s dirty hands, grungy bare feet, and ruined clothes. “Why, just look at you!” She caught Lyra’s hair and tugged it hard enough she had to stand on tiptoes. Lyra yelped at the throbbing in her scalp, but the beautiful sound only fed Griselda’s rage. “Playing in the dungeon like the filth you are. You’re no proper princess at all. You’re a stain on our kingdom’s name! I’ll put you on display for all to see . . . strap you up like a dirty sheet and let everyone beat you clean.”
Lyra covered her face. There was no escape without ripping out her hair by the roots. The prisoner’s chains jangled and caught both their attention.