Page 12 of The Rising Wave

The dungeon was at the very bottom of them—the only way out was up.

She started to climb, trying to keep her steps light and silent, as much to hear someone coming as to disguise her own presence.

When she reached the first turn in the stairs, she found they continued up, but there was also a passage that stretched out in front of her.

There was no screaming that she could hear, to her relief, but she remembered what Banyon had said about the noise. She knew Herron would not have a room where there was a possibility of screaming being heard in the main part of the castle. That would be a little too revealing. Questions might be asked.

And Herron was seldom ever questioning someone he had permission to.

If she had been put on the lowest level, then the question room could well be just one floor above.

She hesitated for a moment, the keys she had taken from Banyon a heavy weight in her pocket. Her fingers tightened on the mop.

She smiled suddenly to herself. Who was she fooling?

She was going to look for him.

She would take the warlord with her, if she could.

Chapter 3

He hurt.

Luc cracked his eyes open a little, keeping his head down, and tested the strength of the ropes tying him to the chair.

They rubbed against his already raw skin and he felt a trickle of blood run down his wrist.

The room was empty.

Well, he thought it was empty, but he couldn't see behind him. He'd been raised in the hell that was a Chosen camp, where they would play games like making you think you were alone all the time. Then let you know—painfully—that you were not.

It meant you could never lower your guard.

He had exceptional hearing, and exceptional eyesight, gifts from his mother and her people, and he heard the light, quick steps coming down the passage toward him long before they slowed to a stop at his door.

He tensed, still unsure there wasn't someone sitting absolutely still behind him. There were people like that. People who even those with almost magically-heightened senses like himself couldn't detect.

People from Lustre and even Kassia. And Grimwalt.

The footsteps were those of a woman or a young boy, and he was surprised when he heard the faint chime of keys and the scratch of iron turning in a lock.

He dropped the pretence of unconsciousness and looked up as the door opened. He actually gaped as Ava stepped in, awkwardly holding the keys and a bucket and mop.

She looked around the room as she closed the door behind her, and he relaxed when she focused back on him without any cry of alarm at someone being in the room with him.

“You have the strength to run?” she whispered, her gaze going to the bruises on his face and then lingering on the black mottling on his chest and sides.

He nodded as she shoved the keys into a pocket, carefully put the bucket and mop down so they didn't clatter, and then brought out a small knife.

“Don't know how sharp it is.” She crouched beside him and he was left staring at the dirty rag she'd tied over her head.

He felt her slide the small blade between his wrist and the rope, pulling it toward her.

The fibers give easily.

“Very sharp.” His voice cracked as he spoke. He wondered where she'd got it. She hadn't had it before, he was sure of that.

She gave a final tug and the rope dropped to the ground. He flexed his hand as the blood rushed back and Ava shuffled around him to work on his other wrist.

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