The Sanctuary

CHAPTER EIGHT

I paused at the prisoner’s doors with a tray of root vegetable stew, taking a moment to exhale. The prisoner had been in the Sanctuary for nearly five days. Madame Widow was due back from another recruitment trip in another few days and I was running out of time.

I needed him to tell me who he was. It was all I had, to keep in Madame Widow’s good graces and to get the leverage we needed to win this fight against Farsay. But I wasn’t sure if I could keep calm. Every conversation, every argument made me want to hit the Farsay fool. My control was slipping and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could do it.

With a sigh, I opened the door. I lit a candle, holding it up as my eyes squinted to adjust to the darkness.

He was sitting in his usual spot, up against the wall. I had given him a change of clothes the last time I had visited, and was surprised to see him looking somewhat clean. I had gotten used to him covered in his blood soaked shirt with the arm ripped off. The tunic he wore now was plain white, stretched over the muscles in his back and arms. I blinked.

Shaking my head, I refocused myself. Saying nothing as usual, I set about preparing his food.

“What is your name?”

I froze. I thought I was hearing things. Then I realized he was looking up at me. He was asking me. I wondered if he had fallen sick but he was looking at me expectantly. 

I thought about not saying anything. I thought about spitting at him angrily. I imagined dumping the food on the ground and walking out. I wished I could knock him out with a hard jab to the temple.

 “Alaya,” I finally said, looking away from him to pretend I was busy with his food tray. An internal struggle ensued inside of my head, furiously wondering what in god’s name was wrong with me.

“Alaya,” he repeated.

I snuck a confused look at the prisoner, but he seemed caught up in his own world, looking to the walls in a distant manner. I realized, distinctly, that the room had no sun holes, no way to see outside. It was dreary, depressing.

The perfect prison.

Clattering the wooden dishes around the tray, I tried to appear as nonchalant as I could. “Yours?” I asked, attempting to dispel the hesitancy that crept into my tone. I was his jailer. I had the power here.

He didn’t respond for a while, so I snuck a peak at him. He was looking at me quite peculiarly, and I quickly glanced away.

 “Ray.”

Surprised, I nodded quickly in response as the silence between us stretched again. That could not be his real name. He knew the only reason he was alive was because we thought he was valuable.

I wondered if he felt any remorse for the words he said against Forbiddens. It was the expected Farsay response, a response that had me punching a training bag full of hay for hours in a frustrated craze.

Lifting the tray of food I had been fiddling with for far too long, I walked towards him and set the food down on the floor, a few feet away from him.

He ate in silence, as I sat there, watching him. His black hair fell in wispy bangs around a set face, hair too long for a farmhand or a blacksmith. His hands knew weaponry training, that was for sure – but they did not know physical labour.

He had to be part of the inner group. There was absolutely no way he was a farmer’s son or a blacksmith’s son. He had to be of wealthy blood. But who was he?

Suddenly, it struck me. I was going about this the wrong way. Pushing him to say it straight out would never happen, that was clear. If I could just get enough hints…