Chapter 118: Food For The Prisoner
By the time she reached the corridor outside the kitchen, Rowan’s breath was coming in gasps.
She made it to an alcove near the servant stairs before her legs gave out.
She sank down onto the cold stone floor, and the tears came.
They came in waves....desperate, anguished, absolute.
She cried because those girls were right. Morgana was in the dungeons. Morgana had been accused of theft. Morgana might actually be executed.
She cried because she knew, with absolute certainty, that Morgana was innocent. That her friend had been framed. That something terrible had been done to her.
She cried because she was helpless.
There was nothing she could do. She was just a kitchen maid. She had no power, no authority, no influence. She couldn’t free Morgana from the dungeons. She couldn’t prove her innocence. She couldn’t change what had happened.
And most of all, she cried because she didn’t know how to tell Morgana’s mother.
Because Elara didn’t know yet. The news from the palace to the village took time. There were probably letters being written, messengers being sent. But Morgana’s mother didn’t know that her daughter had been arrested. Didn’t know that she was in danger.
Rowan buried her face in her hands and cried harder.
She cried for Morgana. She cried for Elara. She cried for the injustice of it all, the way the powerful could destroy the powerless with nothing more than a lie and some false witnesses.
Eventually, her tears began to subside.
She sat on the cold stone floor, her entire body shaking with the aftermath of her emotional collapse.
And slowly, her despair began to transform into something else.
Determination.
She couldn’t free Morgana from the dungeons. But she could see her. She could make sure her friend knew that she wasn’t alone. She could tell her that people believed in her. She could be there for her, even if it was just for a few moments.
Rowan wiped her face and stood up on shaky legs.
The only way a kitchen maid could get into the dungeons was if she had a reason.
A reason like delivering food.
Rowan made her way back to the kitchen, moving quietly, trying to look like she had simply stepped out for a moment and was now returning to work.
No one seemed to notice or care.
She moved to the section of the kitchen where prisoner food was prepared...simpler than regular palace food, less flavor, more filling. She gathered bread, some ham, some cheese, and placed it all on a wooden tray.
Then, before anyone could stop her, before she could second-guess herself, she picked up the tray and headed toward the dungeons.
***
The dungeons were below the main palace, accessed by a series of spiraling stone stairs that descended into increasing darkness.
The air grew colder as Rowan descended.
At the bottom of the stairs stood a guard...a large man in palace livery, his posture alert, his expression bored with the routine of his posting.
He looked up as Rowan appeared.
"What’s your business?" he asked, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword more out of habit than any real threat.
Rowan forced her voice to remain steady, though her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst through her ribs.
"Food for the prisoner," she said, holding up the tray. "From the kitchen."
The guard studied her suspiciously.
"Why are you the one delivering it?" he asked. "What happened to the person who usually brings meals?"
Rowan’s mind raced. She needed an answer that would sound believable. Something that would make sense. Something that wouldn’t raise further questions.
"She’s busy today," Rowan said, her voice carrying the weight of irritated duty. "There’s been extra work in the kitchens since the arrest. The head cook sent me instead."
The guard was still suspicious, but it was the kind of petty suspicion that guards often had, more about not wanting to be bothered than any real concern.
He gestured for her to come closer.
Rowan did, holding out the tray.
The guard took a piece of bread from it and bit into it, tasting it, checking for anything unusual. When he was satisfied, he handed it back to her.
He shook his head, indicating that she could proceed.
Rowan bowed quickly, her hands trembling slightly, and moved past him.
She could feel his eyes on her back as she walked deeper into the dungeons, but he didn’t stop her. He didn’t call after her.
She had gotten past the first barrier.
Now she just had to find Morgana’s cell.
***
The dungeons were darker than Rowan had imagined.
Torches hung from the walls at intervals, providing just enough light to see by but creating more shadows than illumination. The walls were bare stone, cold and ancient. The air smelled of dampness and despair....the accumulated weight of years of prisoners, of suffering, of lost hope.
Rowan’s footsteps echoed off the stone as she walked deeper.
The cells were arranged in a row, each one barred with heavy iron. Most appeared empty, their interiors too dark to see clearly. But as Rowan walked, she began to see signs of habitation, a huddled form on a cot, the glint of eyes watching from the darkness.
She didn’t know which cell held Morgana. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. She had just assumed she would somehow know, somehow find her way.
But the dungeons seemed endless.
She passed cell after cell, peering into each one, trying to make out the occupants in the dim light.
And then, at the far end of the row, she saw a familiar silhouette.
Morgana was curled up on a cot, her back to the cell bars, her entire body drawn inward in a posture of absolute despair.
Rowan’s breath caught.
She moved closer, approaching the cell slowly, as if Morgana might disappear if she moved too quickly.
"Morgana," she called out softly, her voice barely above a whisper.