The Prophecy by Hilari Bell Page B

pulling up clumps of grass. “It’s a sewer, a small stream that runs right under the castle. The grating is almost rusted away. Father keeps talking about replacing it, but he never does. That’s what made me think of it.”
    “The old sewer, I hope? It hasn’t been used in years?”
    “Sorry,” said Perryn. “But this is the side that flows into the castle so it shouldn’t be too bad.” The bars of the grating hardly made a sound as they broke under his hands.
    “You didn’t come out this way,” the bard observed softly.
    Perryn shook his head. He took off his spectacles and tucked them into his belt pouch.
    “Then why aren’t we going in the same way you came out, Your Highness?”
    “Because they pulled up the blankets. Follow me.” Perryn lowered himself into the mud and wiggled through the opening.
    The sewer culvert seemed very long. At times the mud was so deep that Perryn had to turn his head sideways against the ceiling to keep his mouth above the water. Finally his searching fingers touched dry stone, with open space beyond, and he pulled himself out onto the cold floor.
    There was no light at all. Perryn took out his spectacles, rinsed them in the stream, and put them on, but he still couldn’t see anything except darkness. He heard splashing as the bard struggled free of the culvert, and groped for his hands to help him out.
    “It’s a good thing we didn’t try to bring Prism with us,” said Perryn. His mud-soaked clothes clung to his body.
    “Where are we?” the bard demanded. “I can’t see a thing. How are we going to get out of here?”
    “Find a wall and follow it,” Perryn told him. “This corridor goes straight to the wine cellar stairs. But don’t go through any doors. This is the old dungeon and there are oubliettes in some of the cells. Most of the trapdoors are pretty rotten too.”
    “What a nasty thought.” The bard groped for a wall.
    “No one’s been dropped into them for, oh, centuries now,” said Perryn. “And even in the old days, Idris’ kings were more inclined to chop peoples’ heads off than to starve them to death.”
    “How do you know all this?” Lysander asked. “Were you a clerk here?”
    Perryn sighed. “It’s the easiest way into the castle.”
    “Then why did Your Highness have to climb down blankets?”
    “Personal reasons. Are you afraid of rats?”
    “Not particularly.”
    “Good, because I am. You go first.”
    There were rats. Perryn could hear them, scuttling away from the noise of their footsteps. Claws scratched on the stone flags and small bodies rustled in the dark. Sweat broke out on his muddy face. There must be hundreds of them! He ran into the bard’s back.
    “What are you doing? We have to keep moving! They’ll come if we’re quiet.” Perryn stamped his feet furiously.
    “Don’t make such a fuss,” said the bard. “It’s only a few rats. I’ve run into the stairs but I can’t find a railing.”
    “There probably isn’t one; this is the oldest part of the castle. Get going!”
    The bard hesitated a long moment before starting up the dark stairs. The rats seemed to grow fewer as they climbed, but Perryn was shaking when they reached the top.
    “No more steps,” said Lysander.
    “Th-this is the wine cellar.” Perryn’s teeth were chattering. “Keep following the wall.”
    “You really are afraid of rats, aren’t you?” A hollow thud echoed softly. “Ah.” The bard sounded pleased. “Wine barrel. You were right. I’ve been here before.” He moved faster, thumping the barrels as he went.
    “I know; I heard about it. Were you really down here stealing the wine?”
    “Just a few bottles,” said Lysander. “The steward here is a most miserly man. I mean, even if the king wasn’t in residence to hear me play, this is the palace! And I should have been paid accordingly.”
    “But why wine? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink more than a mug of beer—and not often even that.” Accustomed to