“How does one get selected for this culling?” he asked.
“It depends,” Thief replied. “Sometimes they go by how long a prisoner has been here. Sometimes they do a random selection. But it’s why they put you in the cell with me. I’ve been selected to fight tomorrow.”
Jack had to bite his tongue to hold back his eagerness. He breathed once, twice, before saying calmly, “Would you be willing to let me go in your stead?”
“You want to die tomorrow then?” Thief countered.
“I can hold my own with a sword,” Jack lied.
“It’s not you. It’s the one you’d be facing tomorrow, should I let you take my spot.”
“I thought you said prisoners who won the spars were pardoned and welcomed back into the clan.”
“Not Oathbreaker.”
The hair rose on Jack’s arms. He shivered, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from rattling. But that name was familiar, roused in a memory shaped by Mirin’s voice. They called him “Oathbreaker” and stripped him of his title and name.
His father was here, somewhere in the dungeons. Sitting alone in the cold dark, breathing the same dank air as Jack. He was here, and he had fought time and time again in the culling. He should have been pardoned many times over, but something or someone was holding him back, waiting for him to finally be slain.
“I take it you’ve heard of the old tragic Oathbreaker,” Thief drawled. “Since you’re not pestering me with questions.”
“How many times has he fought in the culling? Why hasn’t he been freed?”
“More than I can count. And the laird doesn’t wish it. Simple as that.”
“How just of her.”
“Careful, Mad Thief. Don’t forget where you are. Don’t speak ill of the laird.”
Jack fell silent, grinding his molars as he imagined his father fighting, killing, shackled, unforgiven. Over and over and over. Jack didn’t even know what he looked like—he had never seen Niall Breccan—but would his father know it was him should they meet in the arena? Would Niall see all the traces of Mirin in Jack’s features?
Jack raked his fingers through his hair, distressed. It was a dangerous risk to take, and he could taste it in his mouth like blood. It would be foolish for Jack to face his own father. A man who was so strong and angry that he was undefeated in the culling. A man who had seen and held him only once when Jack was a small bairn.
“Will you trade places with me?” he asked again.
“Perhaps,” Thief replied around a yawn. “But perhaps I’m tired of being in this cell. Perhaps I want to try my luck tomorrow in the arena.” He moved to bed down on the hay. “All I know is this: don’t wake me while I sleep, Mad Thief. Or I’ll kill you myself.”
Time seemed to melt in the dungeons.
Jack didn’t know if it was morning, noontide, or night. He paced the cell to keep warm. He thought about the letter he had sent Adaira. It should have reached her by now, and he wondered if she would read between the lines. If she would realize he was here in the west, and if she would look for him.
She would never think to check the dungeons. Or would she?
A clang echoed down the stone corridor.
Jack paused, glancing at the iron door.
“Mealtime,” Thief explained. He had scarcely moved from his place on the hay, but he sat forward on his haunches.
Jack approached the door, trying to see as much of the corridor as he could. A guard was pushing a rickety cart full of dinner trays, stopping at every cell to slide it under the door. When the man reached Jack’s cell, he paused.
“Get back,” he barked impatiently.
Jack startled at the gruffness but eased away from the door. “May I speak to Lady Cora?”
“Pierce said you would ask that. No. You can’t speak to her.” He roughly slid the dinner tray beneath the door.
It looked like a slice of bread with a burnt crust, a bowl of watery soup, a mealy apple, and a wedge of cheese. Thief leapt to hoard the tray, taking it back to his corner. He began to shove the bread into his mouth, but he watched Jack with glittering amusement.
“Please,” Jack said to the guard, unable to temper his desperation. “Cora will want to see me. I promise you.”
The guard ignored him and moved on to the next cell.
Jack sagged against the wall, exhausted. He slowly slid down to the floor and stared absently ahead of him. He was so far away in that moment that he nearly forgot about Thief, even as his cellmate slurped the entire bowl of soup.