Long shadows were cast across the stone walls and paths, the only illumination coming from the sporadic torchlight, and Alistair, freshly escaped, could not help but feel like a criminal. His mother finally led her behind a wall and crouched down low, out of sight of the guards, and Alistair squatted down beside her. They crouched in silence, listening, watching the guards pass by, and Alistair prayed they would not get caught. Erec’s mother had waited until nightfall to lead her here, so that they would not be detected, and they had twisted and turned down the series of labyrinthine streets and back alleys that led the way from the dungeons to the royal house of the sick, where Erec lay. Finally, they were close, close enough that Alistair, peeking around the corner, could see its entrance. It was well guarded, a dozen men standing before it. “Look at that door,” Alistair whispered to his mother. “Why would Bowyer keep it so well guarded if he was really convinced I am the one that tried to kill Erec?
