family was, she still loved Bronson, and she had to save him. She could not live with herself if she did not.
Luanda bit her lip and moved on. She worked her way through the mob, down winding, narrow back streets, through squares, past taverns, whorehouses, streets filled with mud and waste, dogs running everywhere. A rat scurried over her bare foot, and she kicked it off and stopped herself from crying out at the last second. She had to be strong. She only prayed her husband was still alive, and that she could find a way to get them out of here for good.
Before she’d been dragged off to the dungeon, Luanda had watched Bronson get tied up in the town square, made a public example by his father, a laughingstock; she assumed that’s where he still stood. She hurried down street after street, trying to remember the way, hoping she was going in the right direction as she followed the thickening crowd. She figured that crowds always flocked towards misery and torture and spectacle.
There came a distant cheer and she assumed she was nearing the city center. Soon it grew more distinct, raucous, and she knew she was getting close.
She walked quickly, trying to keep her head down, hoping no one would notice her. She passed an old woman’s stand, draped with various clothing, and as the woman turned away to tend to her dog, Luanda swooped in and snatched a long brown cloak.
She turned the corner and quickly put it on, covering her cold body, and covering her face. She looked every which way, and saw that no one had witnessed her take it, and already she felt better. She tucked the dagger she had stolen into her waist and moved on, slinking through the crowd, and feeling as if she were racing the clock. It was only a matter of time until they discovered she had escaped—and when they did, all of McCloud’s men would be on the lookout for her.
Luanda turned down yet another street, the shouts growing louder, and as she did, to her relief, she spotted it: the city square. A huge mob pressed in, swarming around its center; they all looked up and she followed their gaze and was horrified to see, up on a scaffold, her husband bound, his legs and arms each tied in four directions, on a huge cross. He was missing one of his hands, where his father had cut it off, now just a charred stump, and Bronson stood there, head hanging low, body limp. The crowd threw vegetables at him, and he could do nothing but suffer the indignity, as they all heckled him every which way.
Luanda flushed with rage at his treatment and she hurried forward, frantic to get closer, to see if he was alive. From this distance, she couldn’t tell.
As Luanda got closer, she noticed him momentarily lift his head, just a tiny bit, as if in her direction, as if maybe a part of him knew. Her heart soared with relief to know that he was still alive. There was hope. That was all she needed.
Luanda realized she would probably get caught trying to free him, and die in the process. But she didn’t care. She had to try. If she went down dying, so be it. After all, she was the firstborn child of King MacGil, of a long line of MacGil kings, and it was not in her nature to leave someone behind. Especially her husband, and especially after he had been injured trying to save her life.
Luanda took in her surroundings, desperate to formulate a plan. She didn’t know what she would do once she actually saw him, and now that she did, and knew he was alive, her mind raced.
She realized she needed to wait until all these people disappeared, and she needed to wait for the anonymity of night. She didn’t know if he would make it until then, but she had no choice. There was no way she could even attempt to get him out in front of this mob of people.
She wormed her way into the town square, walking alongside a stone wall, and searched all the nooks and crannies in the wall until she found one she liked, deep and low to the ground, embedded into one of the ancient stone walls. She tucked herself in it. It was several feet deep, and she sat down, slumping on the ground, and wrapped the cloak tight