once, Niya had been grateful that Welwyn Culp did not like an audience for his art, for Kreb was just the sort to stand there, hard as a rock, storing up the images for later. Now the underjailor could only stare at Niya in impotent anger, his hand trembling toward his keys. Just as well. Culp intended to beat Niya down, and the ache in her head told her that he was slowly and surely making progress.
“Sit down, Father,” Kreb said, his voice reverting quickly back to dog-slobbering obsequiousness. The chair creaked as the priest sat down, and Niya gave a large snore.
“I know Master Culp would like to have welcomed you himself, Father,” Kreb went on. “But he’s sleeping. It is very late.”
“Indeed it is,” the priest said, and at the sound of his voice, Niya’s body jerked involuntarily. A better guard might have seen it, but Kreb was too busy falling all over himself; he noticed nothing. “But we find that the early hours are the best time to attempt such redemptions. In the depth of night, these poor wretches see the dark gulf that awaits them.”
“Of course, Father! Would you like some water or ale while you work? Or we have cheese—”
“Confessions are private, my son,” the Fetch replied, and Niya could not help but admire his skill: perfect mimicry of the rich, compassionate tones of an experienced confessor priest, the very sort the Arvath would send for one final wheedle at a traitor’s broken soul, so that the Church could announce yet another miraculous repentance and conversion. “Please leave us alone, so that I may do my best to save her corrupt soul.”
“Yes, Father . . . yes, of course. I will be outside. Let me know if you need anything.”
Kreb retreated, and Niya heard the low boom of the door that separated the cells from Culp’s house of horrors.
“Great God,” she whispered. “You’re alive.”
“I am not an easy man to kill.”
“Good thing Kreb left when he did; I was worried he might piddle on your pretty robes.”
“Me as well,” the Fetch replied with a chuckle. But all humor vanished from his face as Niya rolled to sit up. Half of her face was sheeted with dried blood from the scalp wound she had taken yesterday. One of her thumbs and her third finger were missing. Her arms and legs were crusted with burns; Culp liked to play with flame. There were more bruises beneath the stained grey shift she wore, and they made it hard to sit up. But Niya did so, grunting, scooting backward so that she could lean against the wall.
“Welwyn Culp did this to you,” the Fetch said flatly.
“Yes, but hopefully not for much longer; I think he is tiring of me. How did you get in here?”
“Why, through the front door, of course. Father Morrow, at your service.”
The Fetch swept her a low bow, which made Niya smile. But his usually merry eyes were hard as flint, and now Niya saw that her injuries were not the only problem. The shadow that had always lain over the Fetch, that shadow that demanded that he take responsibility for all of the ills of the Tearling, was there, and darker than Niya had ever seen it. The Fetch looked like a man damned. Niya wanted to tell him that it was all right, argue him out of it, as she always did . . . but she was so tired.
I’m ready, she realized, wondering at her own calm . . . she, Niya, who had always fought like a cat when cornered! It had taken four Queen’s Guards to subdue her in the end, including Elston, and Niya’s only regret was the injuries she had dealt them: a broken arm for Galen, and a kick to Elston’s jaw that had shattered most of his front teeth. She had hated hurting them, hated that they thought her a traitor, that they would never know why.
“What news?” she forced herself to ask the Fetch.
“Things go well,” he replied. “The rebellion in the Almont is still strengthening. Our people have joined with them, demanding reforms. We have a good chance.”
Lies, Niya thought. The Fetch was an excellent liar, but she had known him too long, and his tricks no longer fooled her. Something had happened, and if the Fetch would not tell her about it, then it could be nothing good. But she did not press him, for the shadow that lay over him was dark