Chapter 9: The Prisoners Walk Out

"Pick it up, Papa," I said.

My father's eyes came to my face.

"Ilsa."

"I don't want you to serve him. I want you to serve the people in those cells."

The hall stirred.

I kept my eyes on my father's.

"Somebody has to stand at those doors who I trust," I said.

"Somebody who won't hit first. Will you?"

He looked at Roan, and at the sword, and at me.

Then he bent and picked it up.

He didn't buckle it on.

He kept it in his hand.

"For you," he said.

"Not for him."

"I understand that," Roan said.

I turned my head.

"Now take me to the cells."

Roan stepped up beside my chair and didn't reach for me.

"Ilsa."

I remembered, and I smiled a little in spite of myself.

"Ask."

"May I carry you?"

"Yes."

He carried me down the same stairs I had been dragged down three days before.

The stench was still there, blood and rot, but someone had thrown open every door and window along the passage, and cold air moved through it.

My father walked behind us with the sword in his fist.

Edric went ahead of us with a ring of keys.

"I don't like this at all," Edric said cheerfully, as he reached the first cell.

"It's very irregular to free the whole lot at once, and I'm told I'm supposed to feel conflicted."