Mercy, Unsettling

Wren and Rowan walked out of the room.

Silas was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his closed eyes turned toward the ceiling. He pushed off the stone and fell into step beside them without a word.

Bram and Lisa led them through the hallway to another room. A metal door. Heavy, cold, bolted into the rock. They opened it and stepped aside, letting Wren and the others pass through.

The room was small. A bed. A chair. And Old Man Pryce was sitting on the chair.

His eyes lit up as he saw the door open. He rose slowly, his cane clutched in one hand, his other hand pressing against the arm of the chair for support. For a moment, he just stood there, his gaze moving over Wren's face as if checking that she was real.

Wren ran to him.

She crossed the room in three steps and threw her arms around him. Pryce staggered back, caught off guard, then wrapped his arms around her with a strength that surprised her. His hand pressed against the back of her head, holding her there like she might vanish if he let go.

"Wren." His voice cracked on the word. "I'm here. I'm here."

"Wren's sorry." Her words came muffled against his shoulder. "She's so sorry."

"Don't." He pulled back enough to look at her face. "Don't apologize. Not for this."

Wren's eyes were stinging, but she held the tears back. She looked at him properly now. He was thinner. There were new lines on his face, shadows under his eyes. But he was alive. That was what mattered.

She reached up and touched the side of his face, the way she'd seen Della do to her a hundred times. "They didn't hurt you, did they? If they did—"

"They didn't." Pryce caught her hand and lowered it gently. "They fed me. Gave me water. Kept me in this room." He paused, a wry smile touching his lips but under it he was barely holding back, Wren could see it. "The service was better than most inns."

Wren let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Don't joke. Wren was so scared."

"I know." His voice softened. "I know you were."

She hugged him again, tighter this time, her fingers gripping the back of his coat like she used to. She could feel the familiar smell of him — ink and old paper and the faint trace of the herbs he brewed for her headaches. It was the smell of home. It was the smell of everything she'd been afraid she'd never find again.

"Wren thought she'd lost you," she whispered. "Like everything else."

Pryce's arms tightened around her. "You didn't lose me. I'm right here."

Rowan stood near the door, his arms crossed, his eyes averted to give them space. But there was something soft in his expression, something that might have been relief. When Wren finally pulled back, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand, he stepped forward. "Glad you're in one piece, old man."

Pryce let out a tired laugh. "It takes more than a glass box to finish me off, boy."

Silas, still standing near the door, tilted his head. "The Choir's hospitality isn't what you thought to be, is it?"

Pryce glanced at him, then at Wren, then back at Silas. "Who's he?"

Silas smiled. "Name's Silas. I'm the one who's going to get you all out of here without dying. Probably."

"That's reassuring," Rowan muttered.

The moment held, warm and almost normal. A small pocket of light in the dark of the stronghold. Then Wren looked toward the door.

Bram and Lisa were gone.

She moved to the door and stepped out into the hallway. It was empty. No torch-bearers. No guards. No footsteps. Nothing.

"The whole hallway's empty," she said quietly. "There's nobody here."

Rowan came to the door beside her. His hand went to his sword. Pryce rose from the chair, his cane tapping against the stone floor. Silas straightened, his smile fading.

Some light was coming from up the staircase. Faint, pale, filtering down from the world above. The entrance they had come through — the one Bram had sealed with stone — was open.

It all felt wrong.

Wren's expression was uneasy. Rowan's jaw was set, his eyes scanning the shadows. Pryce looked drained, his grip on the cane too tight. Silas, for once, was quiet. Even he seemed slightly unsettled, his closed eyes tilted toward the staircase as if listening for something that wasn't there.

Wren thought to herself, Where is everyone?

They started ascending the stairs. The stones that had been set there by Bram were not there. The entrance was open.

The air grew warmer as they climbed. The light grew brighter. And still, no one appeared. No ambush. No voices. Just silence, and the long climb upward.

Wren turned to Silas. "They're letting us leave. Why?"

Silas responded, his voice lower than usual. "I don't know." Even he was confused, his usual ease replaced by something quieter.

They got out. The evening light caught their faces, pale and uncertain. The open space outside the stronghold was still. The trees stood motionless. The air was cool and carried no sound.

Rourke was not there.

Rowan looked around the field, his head turning sharply in every direction. "Where's Rourke?" He raised his voice, calling out. "Rourke! Rourke!"

But there was no reply. Not from the treeline. Not from the path. Not from anywhere.

Silas gestured for the three of them to gather around him. His voice dropped to a murmur, so low they had to lean in to hear.

"Don't look around much, and listen." He paused, then pointed at himself. "There are two men watching us from behind me."

Wren's eyes naturally moved toward the treeline behind Silas.

Silas raised his voice a little, but it came out half whispered. "Don't look." The words started sharp and ended in a hush.

"Who are they?" Rowan asked, his hand resting on his sword.

Silas replied, "I only noticed them now. Two heartbeats in the ash trees. I don't know who sent them."

He added, "Now we walk straight ahead and see what they do." He paused, his closed eyes tilting slightly toward the darkening sky. "Let's search for Rourke."

They went ahead.

The path beyond the stronghold was uneven, hemmed in by dark trees. They kept close to the treeline, moving slowly, their footsteps soft against the damp earth.

Wren could still feel the weight of unseen eyes, though she could no longer tell if the two men were behind them or if they had melted back into the forest. Every shadow seemed to shift. Rowan walked close beside her, one hand resting near his sword. Pryce kept pace with them, his cane tapping quietly against the ground. Silas moved like a ghost, his closed eyes tilting slightly now and then as if listening for something.

They searched the underbrush, calling Rourke's name in low voices. The only answer was the rustle of leaves and the distant call of a night bird. Wren glanced back once, then twice. The two figures were gone, or hidden too well to see. The silence made her skin prickle.

Silas spoke up. "I don't think they are following us."

Wren added, "Who were they?"

Silas did not answer. He only shook his head once, his expression unreadable.

Then, in some distance, they saw smoke rising from the forest ahead. It curled up through the trees, pale against the darkening sky.

They went toward it. The trees thinned, and the smoke led them into a clearing. A small campfire had been built there, its flames low and steady. Rourke was sitting beside it, his back against a fallen log, his red hair catching the firelight.

The sun was setting. The sky had gone the deep blue of early night.

Rourke looked up as they entered the clearing. He got to his feet quickly, his eyes moving over each of them. "Are you all right? I was starting to think something had gone wrong."

"We're fine," Rowan said. "We found him."

Rourke's gaze settled on Pryce. His expression softened a fraction. "Good. That's good." He turned back to the fire and gestured for them to sit. "The Crown sent officials to watch the perimeter. They're keeping their distance, but they're out there."

Wren's stomach tightened. The two men from before. That could be them. She looked at Silas, then away. If the Crown officials saw them come out of the stronghold, they saw Silas, if they recognized him, this whole mission could fall apart before they even got back to the road. This could turn bad.

She said nothing. She sat down near the fire, the warmth pressing against her face.

Rourke passed around what food they had left. Dried meat, hard bread, a few withered apples. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

Rowan took a piece of bread and tore it in half. "Considering the level of your patience I really thought that you left."

Rourke gave him a flat look. "I have better patience than that."

Wren almost smiled. Almost. But her mind was still turning over the officials in the trees, the missing watchers, and the weight of what had happened inside the stronghold.

Rourke let the banter settle, then looked at her. "What happened in there?"

Wren stiffened.

She felt the question land like a stone in her chest. She looked at Rowan, then at Silas. No one spoke. Rowan stared into the fire. Silas examined the back of his hand. Pryce was silent, watching the flames.

The quiet stretched.

Rourke's expression shifted. The easy composure he had worn a moment before was gone, replaced by something tighter. "What happened in there? Why isn't anyone answering me?"

His eyes moved from Wren to Rowan to Silas. No one met them. The only sound was the crackle of the fire.

"What—" his words were cut-out by something quiet.

"I'm sorry, Wren."

Pryce sat still, his gaze fixed on the flames. Then he turned to Wren.

Wren looked at him. "Why? What happened?"

Tears welled in Pryce's eyes, spilling over the deep lines of his face. His face was not just tired now. It was heavy with memory, the way a room is heavy with dust before it is opened. He looked like a man standing at the edge of a truth he had carried too long.

Rowan stepped up. "What happened, old man?"

Pryce turned to Wren. His voice was low, and it shook.

"Wren. I need to tell you something. It's about your past. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for hiding it. I was scared."