The Way We Fall

Chapter 81 (Roche)

Roche's head ached. She groaned to life, a dank odour filling her nostrils. Someone clattered against solid metal, intensifying Roche's headache.

"Stop that," she moaned.

A low chuckle had her cracking open her eyes and wincing against several beams of sunlight.

Sunlight. That couldn't be right, she'd left the castle in the middle of the night. Her memories came over her in a rush. Roche sat up, gasping at the throb in her head that accompanied the sudden movement.

Her skin crackled. Roche looked down to find her arms coated in sticky inkblood, gluing her wrists together. The inkblood covered her arms and legs, binding her in place as well as any rope. She could feel the enchantment linked to the man in front of her.

"Hello there," the man said. He crouched in front of her, like she was a lost child. He was spry and wiry, his pale arms strong with muscle. His skin was so pasty and pale that Roche suspected he'd rarely felt the sun. His icy blue eyes bored into hers, contrasting his ebony black hair. He tilted his head, "You must be Princess Tigris' maid."

Roche blinked at him. She recognised him as the man who had spoken to Harold in the library. All she could intelligently get out was a confused grunt. The man leaned back.

"Where are my manners? My name is Lord Geoff, but I suppose you know me as one of the Council of Seven."

He paused, like the words were some fancy title that Roche was expected to gasp at. Roche repressed her frown.

"Nice to meet you." she said after a beat of prolonged silence. She held up her bound hands. "Can you let me go, please?"

"I'm afraid not. You're trying to release someone that I need. You can have him back in a few hours, of course." Councilman Geoff replied lightly. Roche's mind raced. Based on the sunlight streaming in from the cave entrance, she'd been knocked out for several hours. The tournament must have begun again by now. Roche's heart leapt to her throat at the prospect. Tigris might be fighting Fake Harold. She cursed silently. If the Councilman was still holding onto real Harold, then Tigris probably hadn't been killed yet.

That meant Roche had time left. She had to get Real Harold out of here.

"What do you want with me?" Roche asked quietly, putting on her best innocent face, "I'm just a maid. I came looking for some herbs." As she said this, she pressed her inkblood out, testing her bonds. They held fast. Roche cursed. She wouldn't be able to get out of these restraints without a verbal incantation. Somewhere deeper in the caves, the real Sir Harold bellowed, slamming against the bars of his cell as if he could sense Roche's mounting urgency.

"You're not just a maid though, are you? My spy told me that you have something precious running through your veins. Something that I felt you using earlier." The Councilman grabbed her arm, holding his hand over the gluey inkblood. "Allethaire."

Roche felt the inkblood swarming against her skin like a bucket of flopping fishes. To her surprise, nothing happened.

The Councilman frowned, brushing away some of the inkblood from her wrist to reveal her normal, bare skin. "How is this possible?" he looked up at Roche in shock, "You don't have a concealment charm?"

"No." Roche muttered, "Like I said, you have the wrong girl."

"Impossible." he threw down her arm. To Roche's dismay, more inkblood laced around her. "I can feel you resisting me still. You have inkblood."

Roche frowned. "What was your incantation supposed to do? Stop me from using inkblood? Because Fake Harold already tried that with your freaky chains and it didn't go well for him."