A woman screamed in the darkness of the dungeon.
It was a raw, hoarse, ragged sound, the scream of someone who had been screaming for a long time and had very little voice left to do it with. It rang off the stone walls and went on and on, until it broke apart into sobbing.
Jocelynn knew that voice.
She clutched Ashton tightly, and she ran toward the sound.
The gallery stretched out before her, twenty paces of damp flagstones lined with cell doors of thick oak, each one banded with heavy iron straps. The stench of the dungeon rolled over her in a wave. Rotting straw and unwashed bodies. Lamp oil and old blood and the sour reek of waste buckets that no one had bothered to empty.
Only one door stood open. Torchlight spilled out of it across the floor in a long, flickering stripe.
Jocelynn stopped in the doorway, staring in horror at the sight within.
Adala hung from the ceiling.
