Tarfel turned back to the confessor with a helpless look, a shrug forming. The confessor’s hood gave a firm nod, one hand reaching for the thin mace dangling from the rope belt. The gaoler caught the movement, shifting her focus from the hapless prince to the confessor, her furry brow now lowered in bullish suspicion. Chel edged closer to the bars. The light was weak, his view blocked, but the confessor looked small to his eye. His pulse quickened.

The gaoler had risen to a half-crouch. ‘Is there something else I can help you with, highness? Perhaps you’d like me to call for someone?’ The dungeon bell was two paces away, the far side of the brazier.

Tarfel swallowed. His torch arm was beginning to tremble.

‘Give me the keys. Please.’

‘I don’t think that would be appropriate, highness.’

‘I’m a prince!’ His voice rose in panic. ‘You have to do what I say!’

‘Perhaps I should check with the duty prelate. I’ll call for him.’

The gaoler stood, already lurching toward the bell. The confessor pushed past the prince, mace in hand, blocking the gaoler’s path, dwarfed by her.

‘Are you lost, brother?’ the gaoler sneered. ‘Stand aside.’

Tarfel had his free hand out in desperate placation. ‘Now there’s really no need for—’

The gaoler swung, the poker whistling in an arc and smashing shards from the stone beside the stumbling confessor’s head. The mace swung back, pinging from the poker as it came back around. It flew from the confessor’s grip and skittered across the icy flagstones.

With a gleeful chuckle, the gaoler advanced on the confessor, who scuttled and dodged back and around the bleating prince. The gaoler followed, the bell forgotten, swiping with the poker like a butcher swatting flies. The confessor scrambled around, kicking snow, before standing before Chel’s cell, back pressed to the bars.

The gaoler lunged, the confessor ducked, and something shunted Chel aside. A ringing clang filled the hallway, a muffled grunting in its echoes. Chel looked back to see the gaoler’s beefy arm dragged through the bars, held fast at a punishing angle in Rennic’s unyielding grip. His other arm was through the bars in the other direction, wrapped around the wide-eyed gaoler’s neck, jamming her back against the rusty iron. The poker dropped with a clatter.

Rennic’s eyes shone white in the gloom. ‘Get. The. Keys.’

The confessor pushed out from beneath the gaoler’s shadow and stood, a touch unsteady. A quick hand snapped the keys from the gaoler’s belt, another beckoned Tarfel and his torch over to find the right key. A moment later, the door clanked open and swung wide. The gaoler looked around with wild eyes, her every attempt to speak or cry choked by Rennic’s grip.

Rennic peered over her at the confessor. ‘Lemon, is that you in there? How the fuck did you get in?’