He began to move, testing his arms. They felt weak as he pushed himself up.
“Ah, the Mad Thief wakes at last,” said a voice with a strange lilt. A voice so close that Jack could have reached out and touched its owner.
Someone was in the cell with him.
Dread pierced his chest like an arrow as he slowly angled his head to the left.
A fellow male prisoner sat against the wall, legs extended before him and crossed at the ankles. He was young and pale with a hollow aura about him. A scar marked his cheek, drawing up one corner of his mouth into a permanent grimace. His hooded eyes caught the sheen of torchlight as he regarded Jack.
“Where am I?” Jack said, his voice croaking. He tried to swallow again.
“A curious thing, to not know where you are. Although they did say you possessed only a shred of your wits.”
Jack merely stared at his cellmate.
“You’re in the dungeons of Castle Kirstron, Mad Thief,” the man said with a sigh.
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
“It’s what we do here. We call each other by our crimes. Think of it as a whetstone, sharpening you every time you hear it.”
Jack rolled his lips together. He was full of countless retorts and questions and emotions, all of which he wished could escape from him, like steam. But he was caught in a web, and panicking would only draw the spider toward him sooner.
“Then what do I call you by?” he asked.
His cellmate tilted his head to the side, a fringe of dirty blond hair shifting over one of his eyes. “I’m Thief too. Most of us are here.”
“Not mad, like me?”
“No. You should be honored that you garnered such a title. Whatever did you steal?”
Jack glanced away, settling as comfortably as he could on the ground in a sitting position. His right ribs smarted in pain, and he gingerly touched them, wincing. He must have been thrown over Rab’s horse, then bruised by the gallop to Kirstron.
“I stole nothing,” Jack finally said.
“Ah. You’re one of those kinds,” mused his cellmate.
“What kind is that?”
“The ones who are in denial when they come. It may take a few days or weeks, depending on how stubborn you are. But you’ll soon admit to your crime, if only to see the moon and stars one last time. To look upon the face you love in the crowd, even from a distance.”
Jack’s attention sharpened as he tried to make sense of the man’s words. “Is there a way for an innocent person to get out of here? A trial, or a proceeding?”
His cellmate snickered. “Oh, there’s a way. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.”
“I’m not from these parts. Do enlighten me, Thief.”
The man smiled, his scar puckering his cheek. “There are many ways to enter these prisons, Mad Thief. But there are only two ways out. The first? You die of the cold and the damp. The second? You face the culling.”
If there was one thing Jack was truly bad at, it was hand-to-hand combat with swords. He could make rocks sail with alarming accuracy with his slingshot, and he was good at sneaking from one place to another. He could even shoot and handle a bow decently. But he had never been strong at spars when he was a student in Sloane, taking classes with the other isle children. Those hours of practice on the castle green had been difficult and often humiliating for him. Which was rather hilarious to think about, considering how much Jack had once aspired to become one of the East Guard.
He sat against the wall of his prison cell and mulled over all the details of the culling Thief had given him. It didn’t sound real, and Jack had initially wondered if his cellmate was trying to have fun at his expense and was teasing him for his lack of knowledge. But Jack had to remind himself that he was in the west and in the thick of the Breccan clan. It shouldn’t surprise him that they died by their swords as they lived with them, and that an honorable death was still important to them, even to criminals.
According to Thief, the culling was held in an arena, and most of the clan attended as witnesses. Fighting for your life before hundreds of eyes was terrifying to imagine, but it was also the only ray of hope Jack had at the moment. If the clan attended the event, there was a very good chance that Adaira would be present. At the very least, the laird would be there and Innes would recognize him.
So Jack needed to be chosen for the next culling. It was the only way he could see himself escaping this place if the damp cold didn’t kill him first. He was so desperate to get free that the thought of being slain in the arena didn’t rattle him. Yet.