Free Prisoner of the Iron Tower by Sarah Ash Page A

until it hit the water far below. She leaned out over the ragged rim of the well to check that the bucket was full. The water was alive with ripples and her reflection broke up into spinning circles.
All those poor, dead children.
She shuddered as she strained to wind the heavy bucket up again. The Drakhaons of old had committed terrible atrocities as the Drakhaoul drove them to seek out innocent blood to feed their cravings. Like as not, the ghost-children were victims of the Nagarians’ uncontrollable lusts. The rebuilding work in the disused East Wing must have disturbed the place where their bones had been buried. Except . . .
    She heaved the bucket up onto the top of the well, cold water sloshing over the top and splashing her dress. She yelped and hastily pinched the water out of the thick folds of cloth.
    Except for that endless span of blue. She had never in her life visited the sea, but she had seen it in Lady Elysia’s portrait of Lord Gavril, the portrait that had caused her to fall in love with him long before she had ever met him.
    “Kiukiu!” called Sosia from the kitchens.
    She divided the well water between her buckets.
    “Kiukiu, where’s that water for the soup?” called Sosia again.
    A small wisp of a sigh escaped. She wished she could stop herself thinking about Lord Gavril. Was he deliberately avoiding her? They had barely exchanged more than the briefest greetings in the past few days. But then, he had been so busy organizing the rebuilding work.
    If he truly loves me, he’ll speak when he’s ready, she told herself as she braced her legs to pick up the buckets again. Or was that just the kind of foolish self-delusion that servant girls indulge in when telling love-tales around the kitchen fire?
    “Why have you brought me here? Can’t you hear my boy’s blood crying out for vengeance?”
    “Grandma?” Kiukiu recognized her grandmother’s voice, shrill with fury and hatred. What was she doing here? She had left her in the care of the monks at Saint Sergius’s monastery; the damaged kastel was far too drafty and damp for an elderly woman.
    “And where’s my granddaughter? Tell her I want to leave tonight.”
    She hurried to the courtyard to see two of the monks helping Malusha down from their cart. Brother Cosmas, from the Infirmary, looked utterly bewildered by her vehement protests.
    “There you are, Kiukirilya,” he said, his worried frown melting into a smile of relief. “Your grandmother insists she wants to go home. But Brother Hospitaler says she’s not strong enough to make the journey alone.”
    “Nonsense!” insisted Malusha. “Kiukiu, go and get the sleigh ready.”
    “It’s too late to set out now, Grandma,” Kiukiu said. She would have to use her strongest powers of persuasion. “Come inside and I’ll make you some tea. Tomorrow we’ll plan the journey together.”
    The monks nodded gratefully at Kiukiu.
    “Stay here?” Malusha cried. “I’d rather you turned me out on the moors.”
    “Just one night,” Kiukiu pleaded.
    “Then put me in the stables with Harim. I won’t cross that bloodstained threshold.” Malusha spat on the flagstones.
    “There’s a little drying room in the laundry. Warm. Near the stables.”
    “Near the stables? Well, I suppose it’ll have to do. . . .”
    Kiukiu realized from the heavy way Malusha leaned against her that, in spite of her show of defiance, her grandmother was utterly spent.
             
    Kiukiu settled Malusha underneath the hanging sheets in a chair in the drying room and knelt down to tuck her blanket around her.
    “Let me look at you, child.” Malusha leaned forward and tilted Kiukiu’s chin to one side.
    Kiukiu instinctively raised a hand to cover her throat as her grandmother’s gnarled fingertips touched the ragged scars left by the Drakhaoul.
    “Why are you still here, Kiukiu? How can you bear to stay under the same roof as the man that mauled you?”
    “You know very well,” Kiukiu said