The Hostage Prince by Jane Yolen

dark room she’d just entered, cleared its throat. Or maybe it growled. She couldn’t tell the difference. But her heart sank all the same.

ASPEN FALLS
    T he girl’s screams tweaked Aspen’s princely instincts—his
Seelie
instincts—and he took two steps toward the sound before stopping abruptly.
    â€œWhat am I doing?” he asked the darkness. He received no answer. “I have to escape, not rescue damsels in distress. If she is screaming that way, there is more than one tormentor involved. And
I
am out of time!” Those were
Unseelie
thoughts, but he didn’t acknowledge that aloud.
    Besides,
he thought, picturing all the horrid creatures that made up most of the Unseelie Court,
the screamer is unlikely to be a damsel. It could be a banshee or a wolf girl or a morrigan or . . .
He turned away from the screams and headed back toward what he hoped was the midden pile and freedom.
    The screams faded and finally stopped. He tried not to think about whether he was just too far away to hear them anymore or whether they’d stopped because the girl—
creature!
he told himself—could no longer draw breath. He tried not to think of himself as a coward.
    â€œI could not help her,” he muttered, then corrected himself again. “I could not help
it.
Whatever it was.”
    The stench of the midden pile was strong now, and the rock wall he dragged his hand over was rougher with occasional patches of moss. All signs that the corridor had turned to tunnel and the exit was near.
    â€œAt last.”
    The flight from his room, the long trek in the dark, the screaming creature—he was afraid that, all together, they had finally fractured his nerves. He needed to get outside in the fresh air and pull himself together.
Even if the fresh air holds the stink of the midden.
    He still had a long night ahead, and he had to find the Water Gate before whatever Old Jack Daw had done to “indispose” the guards wore off and he was then left with no means of escape. Stopping for a moment, he pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve to cover his nose—the smell of the offal steaming in the nearby midden was suddenly enough to burn his nostrils. Briefly he wondered how the midden lads stood the smell, then shrugged because it was an unprincely thought. Besides, they were bred up to it, as he was bred up to . . .
    His mouth twisted with the next thought.
As I was bred up to be a hostage.
    He was
not
making a good job of it.
    From up ahead, between him and freedom, Aspen heard talking.
    â€œI hates the ones that screams likes that.” The voice hissed and sputtered like a wet torch.
    Aspen stuffed the handkerchief back in his sleeve and looked around desperately for another route to the outside. It was a remarkably futile gesture, for the passage remained pitch-dark and he still couldn’t see a thing.
    â€œBut they all scream when Master Geck puts the questions to ’em,” a low reply growled.
    â€œAnd I hates them all,” the first replied, not distinguishing whether he meant the screams or the dungeon master or someone else.
    Aspen tried to back quietly away, but when he heard the voices again they were closer.
Much
closer. If the voices belonged to trolls or drows or woodwose, they’d smell him out in another few steps, even with the stench of the midden up their noses. Trolls and drows and woodwose, who made up most of the castle guard, were scent hunters. If he’d been worried before, he was terrified now and thought he could hear his heart thudding madly, nearly bursting through his tunic. He wondered if they could hear that, too.
    He tried to think of a bluff, something to say to them, something to silence them with the Princely Voice, full of authority and snark. Usually, the underfolk could be cowed that way. But he doubted if anything but a squeak would come out of his mouth now, and they’d be on to