Free The Still by David Feintuch

in comfort, and seemed oblivious to my rage when I threw him off. Lord knew what the nobles must think of me, after I’d carried on, and suffered a boy’s embrace.
    Rust asked, “When do the Seven meet?”
    “Tomorrow, at the third hour.”
    “Where?”
    “I’m not sure. In the great hall, I think.”
    “Odd your uncle didn’t tell you.”
    “Roddy?” Elryc. “Ow! Let me up, I’ll be quiet. Stop, Rust!”
    Rustin cuffed him again, inquired of me by a raised eyebrow. I nodded. Released, Elryc curled in a corner of his bed, knees drawn tight, his mien sullen.
    We sat in silence, until I drew a sharp breath. “Rust ... How is Uncle Mar to give me the Vessels, if we have the key to the vault?”
    “He doesn’t know you have it.”
    “He certainly knows he doesn’t have it.”
    Rust pondered. “They’d have searched the Queen’s chamber.”
    I nodded. “Hester told them nothing, I’m sure of it. A team of horses couldn’t draw tidings from her when she’s in a mood to be obstinate.”
    “Which means he knew he couldn’t keep his promise to you.”
    I stood. “Let’s go.”
    “Where?” Elryc.
    “The strongroom, of course.”
    “At this hour?” He yawned. “Why?”
    “I want ...” I wasn’t sure what.
    Rust said, “It’s unwise. They ought not see you’re interested—”
    “Come.” I was out the door, and Rust had little choice but to follow.
    “What about me?” Elryc’s wail pursued us.
    “To your bed, brat!” We raced down the stairs.
    The strongroom was reached through winding passageways from the kitchens and winery. Perhaps the builders thought such design would make the chambers less tempting to invaders, but the builders were tasting earth these many generations, and couldn’t be asked.
    Rust and I wandered casually into the kitchen, as was our custom, and Rustin helped himself to an apple from the cold bins. Out to the hall, with no one in sight. We raced giggling down the stairs, through the tunnels.
    When I was a toddler my father scared me with old tales of brave men imprisoned in the cellars, but now I knew better. We rushed past the chamber that held our casks of aging wine, supposedly a torture room in the days of my great-grandfather Varon of the Steppe. We turned past the armory, silent at this hour of night, found the double doors of the passageway leading to the strongcellar. From the far end, a murmur of low voices.
    I slowed, tiptoed my way along the musty corridor lit at either side by a smoking torch. Something chill ran down my back; I’d been here before, but only by day. Though day and night were indistinguishable in the dank cellars, somehow one knew the hour.
    “It’s around the corner.” My whisper echoed.
    “What do we do?”
    Stroll into the anteroom of the vault, as if we boys always skulked the cellars at night? Creep along, cheek pressed to the wall, and peer carefully round the corner? That didn’t suit my royal station.
    “This is my castle. I want a look at the chamber door.” Boldly, I strode like a prince to the intersecting corridor, stopped just short of the corner. With an apologetic shrug I dropped to my knees, then my stomach, inched forward until my forehead was at the turn. I peered out.
    A handful of guards. Two dozed outside the closed wrought-iron gate some paces from the vault, while the others inside played at dice. A peaceful scene.
    A hot breath on the back of my neck. I jerked, sucked in air.
    “Quiet, dunce.” Rustin pressed his palm into my back, his face just above mine as he knelt at my side. “Where are the locks?”
    “Past the gate, see the two square holes?” The vault’s thick bronze door was pierced by handholes at either end. The locks themselves were recessed an arm’s length within the door; it was said a false key triggered a blade that slashed down, severing the offender’s hand. When I’d asked Mother, she merely smiled, and said it would have to wait until I was older.
    “We’ve seen it. Now