Incarceron Part 71

"He wants it."

Keiro sat up now, quickly.

"You saw how he looked, when Gildas laughed at him? There was a coldness in his face then, a flicker of something. He wants the Key."

Finn sat on the floor, knees up.

"He'll never get it."

"Where is it?"

"Safe, brother."

He tapped his coat.

"Good."

Keiro lounged back.

"And keep your sword with you. This scabby Sapient makes me uneasy. I don't like him."

"Attia says we're his prisoners."

"That little b.i.t.c.h."

But Keiro's remark was preoccupied; as Finn watched, he rolled off the bed and stood, s.n.a.t.c.hing a quick look at himself in the faceted window gla.s.s.

"But don't fret, brother. Keiro has a plan."

He tugged his coat on and went out, peering cautiously around the door. Alone, Finn pulled the Key out and looked at it. Attia was asleep and Gildas was restlessly searching the books, as he seemed to have been doing since they came here. Quietly Finn closed the door and put his back against it.

Then he activated the Key. It lit quickly. He saw a chamber strewn with clothes, and there was light there that made his eyes sting; sunlight through a window. Beyond the circle of the Key was a large, heavy wooden bed, hangings, a wall of carved panels.

Then, breathless, Claudia. "You have to give me more warning! They could have seen you! "

"Who?" he asked.

"The maids, the seamstress. For G.o.d's sake, Finn!"

She was red-faced, her hair tousled. He realized she was wearing a white dress, the bodice elaborate with pearls and lace. A wedding dress. For a moment he had no idea what to say.

Then she sat next to him, crouched on the rush-strewn floor. "We failed. We opened the gate, but it didn't lead to Incarceron, Finn. It was all a stupid mistake. All I found was my father's study." She sounded disgusted with herself.

"But your father is the Warden," he said slowly. "Whatever that means."

She scowled.

He shook his head. "I wish I could remember you, Claudia. You, Outside, all of it." He looked up. "What if I'm not really Giles? That picture ... I don't look like that. I'm not that boy."

"You were once."

Her voice was stubborn; she squirmed to face him, the silk rustling.

"Look, all I want is not to marry Caspar. Once you're rescued, once you're free, then our engagement ... well, it doesn't have to happen, that's all. Attia was wrong; it's not just about me being selfish."

She smiled wryly. "Where is she?"

"Asleep. I think."

"She's fond of you."

He shrugged. "We rescued her. She's grateful."

"Is that what you call it?"

She stared ahead at nothing.

"Do people love each other in Incarceron, Finn?"

"If they do, I haven't seen anything of it."

But then he thought of the Maestra, and felt ashamed.

There was an awkward silence.

Claudia could hear the maids chattering in the next chamber; could see beyond Finn a small room with a frosty window, through which glimmered a dim, artificial twilight. And there was a smell.

As she realized, she breathed in sharply, so that he looked at her. A musty, unpleasant smell, metallic and sour, air that was trapped and recycled endlessly. She scrambled to her knees. "I can smell the Prison!"

He stared. "There is no smell. Besides, how-"

"I don't know, but I can!"

She jumped up, ran out of his sight, came back with a tiny gla.s.s bottle that she uncorked and sprayed lightly into the sunlight. Minute drops s.h.i.+mmered in dust. And Finn cried out, because the smell of it was rich and strong and it sliced into his memory like a knife; he clasped his hands over his mouth and breathed it again and again, closing his eyes, forcing himself to think. Roses. A garden of yellow roses. A knife in the cake and he was pus.h.i.+ng down, cutting, and it was easy and he was laughing. Crumbs on his fingers. The sweet taste.

"Finn? Finn!"

Claudia's voice swayed him back from endless distance. The dryness was in his mouth, the warning p.r.i.c.kle crawling in his skin. He shuddered, forced himself to be calm, breathe slower, let the sweat cool his forehead.