Silently, Isobelle and Gwen went on. The passages below the castle itself were hewn out of solid rock, and the builders seemed to have gone out of their way to make the place miserable. Jagged edges were waiting to snag the unsuspecting passerby, and drops of something cold and too slimy to be water fell from the ceiling at unpredictable intervals. Their footsteps sounded far too loud, echoing off the walls as they made their way past the first few empty cells, the doorways thrown open like big, black mouths waiting to swallow you up.

Then they found a doorway blocked by a huge metal grate, and Isobelle slowed to a halt, squinting through the bars for a glimpse of anyone inside.

Gwen took a torch from its sconce and handed it to Isobelle. “Hold this,” she murmured. “I need light to work with.”

Isobelle angled it obligingly, and Gwen dropped to a crouch to inspect the lock on the doorway—made of metal, it was well within her wheelhouse. And making new friends was within Isobelle’s, so she began her appointed task.

“Ladies?” she whispered carefully. “Are you in there?”

A form appeared from the shadows—a woman all in black, or else so filthy she might as well have been—shielding her eyes from the flame. “Who the hell are you?” she asked, wise enough to keep to a whisper as well.

“Friends,” Isobelle said simply. “The guards are asleep, for now. Have any of you seen which guard holds the key, or where they keep it?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” someone muttered from farther back in the cell. “Rescue finally arrives, and it’s fancy ladies playing at being spies.”

Gwen looked up from her work. “You would be very surprised by what a fancy lady can get done,” she murmured, amusement warming her voice. “There’s steel under all that gilt.”

“Oh, that’s a lovely thing to say,” Isobelle whispered, flushing. “You know, so many people think—”

Gwen cut her off gently by taking hold of her hand and giving it a squeeze that said let’s focus on the task at hand, shall we? and Isobelle gave her a squeeze back to convey that she quite understood, but very much appreciated the compliment. Gwen then redirected Isobelle’s hand so the torchlight fell back on the door, which she continued to examine.

“Right,” Isobelle said. “Keys?”

But the women just shook their heads numbly.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Isobelle asked gently of the woman closest to the bars. “To you, to your village? Where did you say you were from?”

“Aberfarthing,” came the soft reply. “Just outside the village proper, most of us, to the south, toward the new mines. I didn’t see much, myself—but I heard it.” She gave a bone-deep shudder. “The roaring, the screams.”