Once his hand lifted, I fell to the floor, unable to draw a full breath and soaked with sweat. That was nothing compared to what he could have done; I had felt how much he was holding back. But still, that was far worse than I'd expected.
When he was called, Simon entered, though I only saw his boots through my blurred vision.
"Sir Henry's daughter will spend time in the dungeons," Endrick scowled. "She knows the one way to get herself out again."
"Yes, my Lord." I felt Simon's arms around me, lifting me, and almost entirely carrying me from the library. He had his satchel, and I tried to remember if there'd been anything in it before that could dull the kind of pain I was still experiencing. No, there wasn't, but at least the worst was over. It didn't matter where I was going next. Anywhere was better than here.
I didn't hear the smallest sigh from Kestra the entire time we walked down to the dungeons. Silence from her was almost always a bad thing--I'd certainly come to understand that. But this time, it was an entirely different kind of bad.
We had to walk through the servants' workstations to access the interior entrance, a place I remembered far too well. Those servants who saw Kestra stared and whispered about what she might have done, but she didn't seem to notice.
The dungeons were connected to Woodcourt by a thick wooden door with an even thicker lock. I knocked on the door, and it was opened by a guard who looked and sounded annoyed until I explained the lady of the house was to be their prisoner. The guard's eyes drifted to Kestra like a vulture's might, and I pulled her closer to my side. With a hungry smile, the guard said, "Down the stairs."
"Thank you," she whispered.
At first, I thought her words were directed to the guard, but she was looking at me, her face full of gratitude. Was she being genuine? Thanking anyone at all seemed unlike the Kestra I knew.
Maybe I still didn't know her. Maybe that was the point.
When the door widened, the stench hit me like a cannonball; a combination of decaying flesh, human waste, and mildewed walls all vomited from the bowels of the dungeons. I'd seen these soot-covered rock walls before, and the steepness of the stone steps that descended into near blackness. I'd been pushed down them after the whipping.
At the bottom of the stairs, Kestra's feet braced against a rock, as if she could not make them go any farther. I stopped with her, tightening my hold on her waist, a reminder that she was not alone. After a deep breath, she nodded, forcing herself onward.
"Careful." Despite my warning, she slipped on the damp soil. Her hand found mine and she gave it a quick squeeze. Was that more gratitude? Or confidence in me to help her through this? I wasn't sure, but it'd be a lie to suggest that her touch wasn't working its way inside me. Tenger had ordered me to pretend to be her protector, as part of the plan. But now it was different.
Now I was her protector.
We came to an open area where another two guards stood. Their faces were pale, and light from the torches on the walls cast their appearance in harsh, unfriendly angles. The stone floor was moist, where the groundwater beneath Woodcourt made its way inside. It would be worse below, down the slope where the dungeons themselves were.
"What is that smell?" Kestra dug her nails into my arm and her breathing became harsh again.
Kestra had obviously never been to the dungeons before, probably never even opened the door to them. The Corack in me was glad she was seeing them. Maybe she would finally ask herself about the hundreds of people who had come through here on their way to execution.
But every other part of me wished she had never seen this place. It would change her, create a memory in her that she could never erase.
"This is Sir Henry Dallisor's daughter," I said to the guards. "She won't be here for long, and you will give her the finest place to stay."
The taller one wrinkled his nose and laughed. "The finest place? Do you prefer the cell with the woven tapestries, or the one with the thickest rugs?"
Above the guards' mockery, Kestra mumbled, "Put me in cell number four."
My brows knitted as I looked at her. Lord Endrick had done something terrible to her in that library, something that was still causing her pain, but maybe more was happening than I had realized. Could she have wanted to be sent here?
I repeated her words. "Cell number four." When the guards hesitated, I added, "She's still a Dallisor. Give her what she wants."
"That's a horrible place," the shorter guard said. "I wouldn't put my worst enemy in there." But he led us there anyway, down the steep and muddy slope, where Kestra nearly slipped more than once.
The cells were randomly spaced apart on either side of the slope, built wherever a natural cavity existed in the rock. Any expos
ed sides were closed in with thick brick walls and a locked wooden door with a small carved hole to let in the tiniest amount of air and light.
Kestra seemed stronger now, not by much, but she could walk on her own, holding my arm for balance. Still, I sensed hesitation in her every step. The lower we went, the more toxic the stench became, the darker our surroundings. Torches were set into the walls, but their dim light only added to the gloom of these cells. No, not cells. These were tombs.
Soon we came to a door with four scratches on the front, like a claw had swiped down it. Cell number four.
Kestra stopped at the open door and dug her nails into my arm again. The room was large enough to fit three or four people, if everyone stood, but they wouldn't be able to stand to their full height, and the reeking air had no circulation.
"Don't make me go in there," she whispered. "Please, Simon."