wavenovel 105. Father and daughter meet
105. Father and daughter meet
His name was Valen, Simondo's second-in-command, a man known for his suspicious nature.
"stop."
Edric did not stop; the bell continued to ring.
Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
"I said stop," Valen raised his voice, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Edric then stopped.
He turned around and, with an almost arrogant slowness, looked Valen up and down.
"Who are you?" The old pastor's voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear.
"Valen. Lord Simondo's second-in-command. Ordered to guard the dungeon."
"On orders?" Edric raised an eyebrow. "On whose orders?"
"Lord Simondo."
"By whose orders does Lord Simondo act?"
Valen paused for a moment: "His Highness Simien's order."
"Whose orders does Prince Simien act on?"
This left Valen speechless.
He opened his mouth, and his face turned ugly.
This was a question he dared not answer. Where did Simeon's power come from? From the king, or from usurpation?
Either answer is a trap.
Edric did not wait for his reply.
He took a step forward, his voice low and calm: "I am Pastor Edric of the Church of Light. Three years ago, I prayed for the son of Lord Simondo during the plague. Go back and ask your master if he still remembers that he owes me a life."
Valen's expression changed; he clearly knew about this.
A barely perceptible smile appeared at the corner of Edric's mouth.
"Child, I have spent forty years in the Church of Light, I have been to dungeons ten times darker than this, and I have escorted prisoners ten times more brutal than these. I am acting on the orders of the God of Light, are you going to stop me?"
Valen loosened his grip on the sword hilt.
He stepped aside and remained silent.
The procession continued forward.
As the group passed in front of Valen, his gaze lingered for a few seconds on Eve, who was wrapped in bandages.
Eve held her breath, feeling that gaze pierce her face like needles.
"Wait a moment."
Valen suddenly spoke.
Eve's heart skipped a beat.
Valen walked up to Eve and leaned close to her face.
His nostrils flared like a hunting dog sniffing out its prey. The scent of herbal ointment, the smoke of frankincense, and the lingering smell of blood from the bandages mingled together, forming an impenetrable barrier.
"Who is this person?" Warren asked.
"Ignorant," the stretcher-bearer priest replied dismissively, his tone flat. "Holy radiance needs to be bound. Not everyone is like you, abandoned by God and shrouded in darkness."
Valen stared at the calm eyes beneath the bandages for a moment.
Eve turned to look at Valen, her eyelashes not even moving.
She could feel Valen's breath on the bandages, carrying the stench of onions and ale.
Her fingers curled slightly at the edge of the stretcher, her nails digging into her palms, using the pain to suppress her trembling instincts.
Valen took two steps back.
"Let's go," he said.
The stretcher resumed moving.
The torchlight flickered overhead as the stone steps descended one by one, the air growing increasingly humid and oppressive.
The smells of mold, rust, blood, and some indescribable stench of decay mingled together, like an invisible hand covering the mouth and nose.
Eve opened her eyes, which were still bandaged.
They went deep into the dungeon.
Then comes the third obstacle, the iron gate.
Three large locks.
A guard sat by the door, leaning against the stone wall, dozing off.
A bunch of keys rested on his lap, swaying slightly with his breathing.
Edric did not wake him.
The old pastor put down the copper bell, took a thin wire from his sleeve, bent down, and inserted the wire into the keyhole.
His movements were light and practiced, more like those of a seasoned veteran than a priest.
Click.
The first lock opened.
The guard turned over and mumbled something in his sleep.
Click.
The second lock opened.
The pastors carrying the stretcher looked at each other, their eyes filled with surprise.
Edric remained unfazed and inserted the wire into the third keyhole.
Click.
The iron gate slowly opened, letting out a deep sigh, like some ancient behemoth awakening from a long slumber.
Edric glanced back at Eve, said nothing, and simply nodded slightly.
He then stepped aside, gesturing for the priests carrying the stretcher to also step back.
Eve stepped out from beside the stretcher.
She peeled off the bandages layer by layer herself, leaving the sticky feeling of the ointment on her fingertips.
First, her chin was revealed, then her lips, then her nose, and then her eyes, which were already brimming with tears.
She saw it.
I saw the figure huddled up on the haystack.
Marquis Tanstin lay there like a pile of abandoned rags. His prison clothes were stained with blood and dirt, his hair was a tangled mess, and dried blood clots were stuck in his beard.
His left eye was still swollen and he couldn't open it, while his right eye was half-open and half-closed, with a vacant gaze, as if he were looking at some non-existent place.
His chest was still rising and falling, but the rise and fall was very shallow, like the last ripples on a winter lake.
"Father……"
Eve's voice was forced out of her throat, hoarse and unlike her own.
Marquis Tanstin's body trembled.
The once-distracted gaze began to refocus, like a lamp about to go out being relit.
His right eye turned, toward the source of the sound, toward the figure kneeling beside the haystack.
"I...F?"
His lips moved, his voice as soft as the wind blowing through withered leaves.
Eve knelt down beside the haystack and took her father's hands in her own.
The hand was cold and rough, the knuckles covered in cuts from the shackles, some already scabbed over, others still oozing a clear fluid. She pressed those hands against her face, palms against her cheeks, the cuts pressed against her skin.
"It's me, Father, it's me."
Marquis Tanstin's lips trembled, as if he wanted to say a lot, but only a muffled sob came from his throat.
Tears welled up in his right eye, sliding down the deep wrinkles at the corner of his eye and dripping onto the moldy straw.
He tried to raise his hand to touch his daughter's face, but his arm was too weak.
Eve took his hand and helped him press his palm against her cheek.
The calluses on his palms were rough and hard, the result of holding a sword hilt for decades.
Eve remembered those hands, those hands that lifted her above her head when she was a child, those hands that gripped the reins tightly when she was learning to ride a horse, and those hands that clumsily adjusted her skirt when she attended her first court ball.
Those memories surged up like a tide, overwhelming her.
"Eve," Marquis Tansten's voice suddenly became clearer, as if in a final burst of energy, "you shouldn't have come."
"I should come." Eve's tears dripped onto her father's hand. "I had to come."
"Princess Xinlai...he..."
"He brought me here."