Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [90]
A dungeon cell, then.
Ignoring the wet, slipperiness of the stone floor, Arya sat and waited.
Then, after a long time-she couldn't see the sun, but it felt like half a day-Arya heard a door open with a long, rusty rattle. It slammed shut a moment later. Arya flinched at the bang and her head exploded in sharp aches. An involuntary gasp escaped her lips.
There were footsteps in the dark, and she became aware of a tiny spot of light slowly approaching as though down a long hallway. Arya had no choice but to stay still and try not to suffer any more pain until the light arrived.
When it finally did, she looked up to see a dim lantern held by a gaunt man in Greyt family livery. Arya's heart fell further when the man swung the lantern a little to the side and illuminated another familiar face, this one wearing a cruel smile.
"Ah, my darling niece," Lord Greyt said. He turned to the lantern holder. "This is the one, Claudir." He took the lantern and waved the steward away. Claudir padded off. If the butler felt any unease about wandering back through the lightless tunnels, he did not express it.
Arya scooted away from the cell door as Greyt opened it. She huddled back into the farthest corner of her cell, ignoring the damp and sticky feel of the wall behind her. She tried to scream at him to leave her alone, but her tongue felt thick and dry. Instead, she extended her feet to ward him off, though she realized she probably could not have injured him with a kick in her weakened state.
"Now, now," said Greyt. "What kind of monster do you take me for? You are my niece, after all." He reached into the folds of his robes and Arya's eyes widened. Then, to her vast relief, Greyt withdrew a skin and uncorked it. He held it out to her.
Arya looked at him suspiciously, but Greyt only smiled. Hesitantly, she edged closer to him, keeping her eyes locked on his face. When he had not moved, she brought herself into a kneeling position and looked up. He tipped the waterskin and cool water rushed into Arya's mouth. She drank frantically. To her parched throat, it tasted like the nectar of the gods. She could not catch all the water and a great deal splashed over her dusty face and undertunic.
"I'm so glad you could rejoin us, little Nightingale," said Greyt as he took the waterskin away. "We have so much to discuss, you and I."
"What do you want from me?" she asked coldly.
"Merely to explain myself," he said. "And it seemed meet to tell you of your defeat. Walker is dead. Amra and Unddreth are gone. Stonar is alienated. I win, little knight."
Arya looked up at him. "You wish to gloat over me?" she asked. "Save your breath, Lord Singer. I am a Knight in Silver. More than that, I have justice on my side." She set her mouth into a wry, bitter line. "And more than that, I'm a stubborn, defiant daughter. You think my father could break me, much less you? You will not vanquish me until the last breath leaves my body."
Greyt smiled at her jest. "Humor in the face of certain death? I respect such courage," he said. "Until you breathe your last, eh? Such could be arranged, even 'ere you be hanged…" He reached for the dagger at his belt.
She did not flinch, even chained and helpless before him. She may as well have been standing over him with a drawn sword for the look in her eyes.
"You won't do that," she said. "You can't."
"Is that so?" he snapped. He bent down, putting his face not a hand's breadth from hers. He drew his knife and pressed it against her cheek. "You know me so well, little wench? Then you must know that I am a hero-"
"Not a hero," she said.
"A villain, then!" Greyt roared in her face. "Bane of all that draws breath! Nothing but pain and death!"
"No." Arya prepared herself, body and mind.