‘Are you awake?’ he asked, his voice low. She opened her eyes.
‘Yes. I love you.’
‘And I you. More than life.’
‘Why did we never wed?’ she said, her throat dry, the words rasping clear. She saw him pale.
‘Is that what you wish for? Would it make you well?’
‘It would . . . make me . . . happy,’ she told him.
‘I will send for a priest,’ he promised.
*
She found him on a grim mountainside where winter winds were howling through the peaks. He was frozen and weak, his limbs trembling, his eyes dull. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘Waiting to die,’ he told her.
‘That is no way for you to behave. You are a warrior, and a warrior never gives up.’
‘I have no strength left.’
Rowena sat beside him and he felt the warmth of her arms around his shoulders, smelt the sweetness of her breath. ‘Be strong,’ she said, stroking his hair. ‘In despair there is only defeat.’
‘I cannot overcome cold stone. I cannot shine a light through the darkness. My limbs are rotting, my teeth shake in their sockets.’
‘Is there nothing you would live for?’
‘Yes,’ he said, reaching for her. I live for you! I always have. But I can’t find you.’
*
He awoke in the darkness amidst the stench of the dungeon and crawled to the door-stone grille, finding it by touch. Cool air drifted down the corridor and he breathed deeply. Torchlight flickered, burning his eyes. He squinted against it and watched as the jailer tramped down the corridor. Then the darkness returned. Druss’s stomach cramped and he groaned. Dizziness swamped him, and nausea rose in his throat.
A faint light showed and, rolling painfully to his knees, he pushed his face against the narrow opening. An old man with a wispy white beard knelt outside the dungeon stone. The light from the tiny clay oil lamp was torturously bright, and Druss’s eyes stung.
‘Ah, you are alive! Good,’ whispered the old man. ‘I have brought you this lamp and an old tinder-box. Use it carefully. It will help accustom your eyes to light. Also I have some food.’ He thrust a linen package through the door-stone and Druss took it, his mouth too dry for speech. ‘I’ll come back when I can,’ said the old man. ‘Remember, only use the light once the jailer has gone.’
Druss listened to the man slowly make his way down the corridor. He thought he heard a door shut, but could not be sure. With unsteady hands he drew the lamp into the dungeon, placing it on the floor beside him. Then he hauled in the package and the small iron tinder-box.
Eyes streaming from the light, he opened the package to find there were two apples, a hunk of cheese and some dried meat. When he bit into one of the apples it was unbearably delicious, the juices stinging his bleeding gums. Swallowing was almost painful, but the minor irritation was swamped by the coolness. He almost vomited, but held it down, and slowly finished the fruit. His shrunken stomach rebelled after the second apple, and he sat holding the cheese and the meat as if they were treasures of gems and gold.
While waiting for his stomach to settle he stared around at his tiny cell, seeing the filth and decay for the first time. Looking at his hands, he saw the skin was split and ugly sores showed on his wrists and arms. His leather jerkin had been taken from him and the woollen shirt was alive with lice. He saw the small hole in the corner of the wall from which the rats emerged.
And despair was replaced by anger.
Unaccustomed to the light, his eyes continued to stream. Removing his shirt, he gazed down at his wasted body. The arms were no longer huge, the wrists and elbows jutting. But I am alive, he told himself. And I will survive.
He finished the cheese and half of the meat. Desperate as he was to consume it all, he did not know if the old man would come back, and he rewrapped the meat and pushed it into his belt. Examining the workings of the tinder-box he saw that it was an old design, a sharp piece of flint that could be struck against the serrated interior, igniting the powdered tinder in the well of the box. Satisfied he could use it in the dark, he reluctantly blew out the lamp.