**Note: As this is a rough draft of my story and still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.**

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It was late when Faeryn finally tip-toed out of her room down the long spiraling staircases, dressed in a long dark cloak and hood to conceal her identity, and carrying a basket with some of the fruit from her dinner.  Not many were about the castle at this hour, and all the way to the dungeons no one saw her or stopped her.  It was unnerving, though, when a board would creek beneath her feet, or she would imagine that she heard footsteps behind her.  When that happened she would press herself into the wall, trying to blend into the shadows.  It would have worked rather well, had anyone passed, but no one did. 

            The dungeons were another matter though, and Faeryn had to draw upon her extra reserves of courage to even draw near to them.  They were always guarded, even though there were usually only a few prisoners, and the guards could be nasty at times, especially during the night shifts.

            Faeryn’s heart was racing as she approached the entrance, but when the guards stopped her and asked her business, she calmly replied;

            “My brother, Prince Eranhart, sent me to give these fruits to the prisoner Byerron and to relay a message to him in private.”

            The guards seemed to take that as a fair answer, and one of them removed his helmet and bowed.  The other one was a little more disgruntled, and he grumbled a little as he unlocked to door leading to the cells.  “He’s near the far end, my lady.”

            “Thank you,” Faeryn replied softly as she stepped through the door.  She had made it this far!  The rest of it shouldn’t be too hard.  Except, of course, trying to get back out again.

            She tread silently -- a little too silently -- down the row of cells, an overreaction caused by her fear.  Walk normally, she told herself.  Act as if you belong here, not like you are sneaking in.  She forced herself to resume a normal pace, but when she did her steps echoed violently off the harsh stone walls and low ceiling.  It seemed as though everyone in Orotaek should be able to hear her walking into a dungeon she didn’t belong in.  Her limbs quavered a little, and though she couldn’t quite stop it.  She was playing the part that she had set for herself, but part of her refused to pretend that she wasn’t afraid. 

            Though Faeryn had been expecting to not see very many other prisoners, she was still surprised at how empty the dungeon was.  She passed one old man in a cell near to the entrance, and by his unkempt beard she guessed that he had been there many years.  Upon searching her memory, she recalled that Rendreik had told her once that there was a man in the dungeon who had tried to lead a rebellion years ago.  He had been caught before anything serious had happened, and he had never left the dungeon after that.  Faeryn wondered if the old prisoner she saw was the same man. 

            As Faeryn came toward the end of the passageway she saw a hunched figure in the far corner of one cell.  The figure rose as she approached and startled her, and she saw that it was Byerron.  He came towards where she was standing.

            “Come to view the prisoner, my lady Faeryn?” he asked in a sad, almost cynical tone.

            Faeryn struggled to figure out how to answer.  “Ah…Yes.  How did you know who I was?”

            “The king makes it no secret that his daughter is the fairest in the land.  I saw you in the Great Hall and assumed you were the one he spoke of.”

            “You assumed correctly,” Faeryn said, stating the obvious in an attempt to cover her surprise.  Byerron had seen more than just the king when he spoke in the Great Hall, although to Faeryn it had seemed that his eyes had never strayed to observe anything but her father.  Faeryn wondered how he had managed it. 

            Byerron said nothing, following the custom of never asking a question of one of higher rank, and Faeryn stood there awkwardly for a minute trying to think of something to say. 

Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.