How long till the next anniversary of Eric’s coronation? I stopped pacing and my heart beat faster. As soon as someone saw that I’d recovered my eyes, I’d lose them again.
Therefore, I’d have to escape before the four years had passed.
How?
I hadn’t thought about it much up to this time, because even if I could figure a way to get out of my cell, I’d never make it out of Amber—or out of the palace, for that matter—without eyes or aid, and neither were available to me.
Now, though . . .
The door of my cell was a big, heavy, brass-bound thing, with only a tiny grille at a height of about five feet for purposes of looking in to see whether I was still alive, if anyone cared. Even if I succeeded in removing it, I could tell that I couldn’t reach out far enough to touch the lock. There was a little swinging gate at the bottom of the door, large enough to push my food through and that’s about all. The hinges were either on the outside or in between the door and the jamb, I couldn’t tell for sure. Either way, I couldn’t get at them. There were no windows and no other doors.
It was still almost like being blind, save for that feeble reassuring light through the grille. I knew my sight hadn’t returned fully. That was still a long way off. But even if it had, it was nearly pitch dark in there. I knew this because I knew the dungeons under Amber.
I lit a cigarette, paced some more, and assessed my possessions, seeking anything that might be of aid. There was my clothing, my sleeping mat, and all the damp straw I wanted. I also had matches, but I quickly rejected the notion of setting fire to the straw. I doubted anyone would come and open the door if I did. Most likely the guard would come and laugh, if he came at all. I had a spoon I’d picked up at the last banquet. I’d wanted a knife, really, but Julian had caught me trying to lift one and snatched it away. What he didn’t know, though, was that that was my second attempt. I already had the spoon tucked inside my boot
So what good was it?
I’d heard these stories of guys digging their way out of cells with the damnedest things—belt buckles (which I didn’t have)—etc. But I didn’t have time to try the Count of Monte Cristo bit. I needed out in a matter of months, or my new eyes wouldn’t mean anything.
The door was mainly wood. Oak. It was bound with four metal strips. One went around it near the top, one near the bottom, right above the gate, and there were two which ran from top to bottom, passing along either side of the foot-wide grille. The door opened outward, I knew, and the lock was to my left. My memories told me the door was about two inches thick, and I recalled the approximate position of the lock, which I verified by leaning against the door and feeling the tension at that point. I knew that the door was also barred, but I could worry about that later. I might be able to raise it by sliding the handle of the spoon upward between the door’s edge and the jamb.
I knelt on my sleeping mat and with the spoon I traced a box about that area which contained the lock. I worked until my hand was quite sore—maybe a couple of hours. Then I ran my fingernail over the surface of the wood. I hadn’t scarred it much, but it was a beginning. I switched the spoon to my left hand and continued until it, began to ache.
I kept hoping that Rein would show up. I was sure I could talk him into giving me his dagger if I really pressed the matter. He didn’t put in an appearance, though, so I just kept grinding away.
Day after day I worked, until I was perhaps half an inch into the wood. Each time I’d hear a guard’s footsteps I’d move the pallet back to the far wall and lie down on it with my back to the door. When he had passed, I’d resume work. Then I had to stop for a while, as much as I hated to. Even though I had wrapped them in cloth torn from my garments, my hands had blistered and the blisters had broken, and after a time the raw flesh underneath began to bleed. So I took a break to let them heal. I decided to devote the time to planning what I’d do after I got out.