“And?”
“And . . . this seems like an unusual request.” He glanced at Kara standing behind Magnus. “Your highness, is everything all right?”
A word. A single word: No. That would be all it would take to end this.
Magnus touched his neck where Kara had pressed her blade. He despised being told what to do without any choice in the matter. Add to that threat of death if he didn’t comply and the accusation that he was a liar and a coward who didn’t know how to fight . . .
The heir to the throne needed to be respected by all, no matter what that respect required. His father showed him that with every command, every action, every execution he ordered. Every law he created. Every time he struck Magnus, it had been to help make him stronger.
Magnus tried to tell himself this every night before he went to sleep, a sleep that was often plagued with nightmares—including those of Calum’s face that snowy night as he was parted from his daughter.
One day, however, the throne would be his, and he would be the one strong enough to create laws and demand executions. A king would not allow himself to be threatened by a mere slip of a girl carrying nothing but her father’s dagger and a mouth full of empty threats.
One word from Magnus to this guard, and this unpleasantness would be over.
He sent another glare over his shoulder to see that there was a sheen of perspiration on Kara’s brow. Her hands were hidden under the folds of her cloak, presumably also hiding the dagger. Her gaze darted from the guard to him. Magnus’s mind flashed to that snowy night ten years ago. She wore then same look on her face as she did now—her blue eyes wide, her lips in a thin, straight line.
She was frightened.
Magnus turned fully toward the guard. “What is your name?”
“Francis, your highness.”
“Francis, it sounds a great deal like you’re arguing with me. Are you?”
“Arguing? No, your highness, not at all.”
“I said I wished to go into the dungeons, and yet the door is not open for my entrance. Perhaps my father should know about your hesitation to do exactly as I tell you to do.”
“Not at all, your highness. Apologies.” Francis went to the door, put his gloved hands on the handle, twisted, and, with muscles flexing, pushed the door inward.
“Good.” Magnus nodded as he entered the dungeons. “You will accompany us. My friend and I are seeking a prisoner here by the name of Calum Stolo. Allegedly, he’s been down here for ten years.”
The guard frowned. “Calum Stolo . . .”
“There must be a registry, some form of organization. I must admit, I have no idea how this dungeon is run, but I assume you do.”
“Yes, of course. I will check immediately.” Francis bowed, and the large guard scurried off to do as the prince commanded.
There was silence then in the dark corridor, and Magnus glanced around at the tall ceiling above them, chiseled into the cliffside. The drip of water was a constant sound here, and voices echoed against the stone walls. Three tunnels led from the corridor, and Francis disappeared down the middle one.
Kara hadn’t said a single word since he left. She also hadn’t drawn her crimson dagger from its hiding place again.
“You’re really going to help me,” she finally whispered.
“I’m going to try.”
She drew in a shuddery breath. “Prince Magnus . . . thank—”
He held up his hand. “Don’t thank me yet. Frankly, no gratitude from you is necessary, ever. If I’d known that your father was still alive . . .” He sighed. “I don’t know what I would have done, to be honest. But if I can make it right today, I will try my best.”
She nodded as the guard returned with a scroll.
“You said Calum Stolo,” Francis slid his index finger down the page. “Yes, here is record of him. It seems that he died two years ago, killed by another prisoner.”
“No!” Kara cried out.
Francis tensed at the sound of her cry. Magnus couldn’t meet her eyes. In fact, he wanted to look anywhere else but at Kara.
It couldn’t be over. Not so easily as this. The sound of Kara’s cry of grief would haunt him for the rest of his days.
Magnus clenched his teeth. “Check again.”
Francis clutched the parchment close to his chest. “Your grace, I just checked and—”
Magnus lunged forward, gripping the front of the guard’s tunic in one hand. “Check again,” he snapped.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Francis smoothed the ruffled paper out before him. The guard’s forehead wrinkled. “No, no. Apologies, my eyesight isn’t as good as it used to be. That was the entry above this one. Calum Stolo is here . . . yes, going on ten years.”
The tightness in Magnus’s chest eased by a fraction. “Why was he spared execution for so long?”
“Your highness, I don’t know. Usually when someone has been here for many years, it means simply that their existence has been forgotten.”
“Take me to him,” Kara said firmly.