mighty mean blow he’d taken to the head.
The light moved as the small lad stepped to the side and raised the torch. Shadows quivered as the boy took in the sight of a skeleton wearing meager rags and even less flesh. It sat at the back of the cell with its arm raised, its wrist dangling from a ring in the wall.
Long Legs, Quinn noticed, turned his head away, but slightly. And though he refused to look at the body, it seemed as if he were concentrating on it just the same.
Quinn could not resist prodding. There was a story here. He would hear it.
"Would you look at that?” he said. “He's thin enough now to free his hand, and yet he willna flee. Perhaps he has come to love The Gordon's famous dungeons and prefers to stay."
Long Legs swallowed. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with emotion, though he tried for nonchalance.
"Famous? My father's dungeons are famous?"
So. Long Legs was a son. And here was yet another chance to mess with a Gordon's head. Besides, the damned prophecy, the one that had shaped his life, might make the difference for him. If they believed he had real power, they might free him in the end. He needed only plant enough seeds of unease. And if they wanted to be rid of the unease, they’d need to be rid of him. He only hoped they would believe it was safer to release him, than to burn him.
And Long Legs had already proven that he was a sucker for rumors.
"Aye. Famous. Five hundred years from now, folks will still speak of these dungeons by the sea. Tell me of this fellow,” he pointed to the skeleton. “Perhaps he is also famous. Or will be."
The light quivered harder than before. Apparently he'd done a better job of scaring the young one than an emaciated corpse had done.
Long Legs stood for a moment, staring into Quinn’s eyes. He opened his mouth once, but thought better of it, Quinn supposed, because he soon turned and walked away.
"Come," he said to the torchbearer.
The lad backed away, as if he was too frightened to turn his back on Quinn.
"Leave the light, Son of Gordon. I care to stay awake for a wee while. And I meant what I said, about getting firelight from the devil if I must."
Long Legs snorted and spun around. "It is my leave to deal with you as I will. You are my prisoner, not my father's. So I will leave you the light—if you answer my question with the truth."
"Ask it,” Quinn said, pleased a seed was already taking root.
Long Legs nodded to the lad who walked to the wall and dropped the torch into a loop, then he shooed him to the entrance and the lad hurried up the steps and away. "Leave us," he said to the old man, who followed, albeit slowly, after the boy.
Long Legs walked back to the cell but stood away from the bars as if Quinn might jump to his feet and get a hold of him. Quinn tried not to smile.
"You want to know if what I said was true, if the Runt's child ends up ruling your clan."
Long Legs shook his head.
"Truly?" Quinn was surprised. The sons of clan chieftains often fought wars over their father's power. Why would the Gordon’s sons, of all people, be different? "What do you wish to know?"
Percy shook a dismissive hand. "Cinead is an ambitious bastard. He has much to prove, as ye well ken. I was not surprised to hear his seed would one day rule the clan, but I would know how ye ken this is to be. And do not think me daft. I will hear the truth of it, not silly tales of the devil whispering in yer ear. For if the devil is all the threat ye have, ye'll get nothing, including yon torch. The devil will be easier to appease than my father."
So much for playing on the man's superstitions. But there was a weakness there, to be sure. If he told this man the truth, would he win an ally?
Suddenly he was struck with an idea.
"What is your name?" he demanded.
"Percy."
"Percy Gordon, I will tell you the truth, if you think you can bear it?"
The man smirked. Close enough.
The only sound was that of the fire, fighting itself at the end of the torch. Percy was as quiet as the guest in the next cell. Quinn felt the