Chapter 9

Thunder rolled from afar, a low groan that hinted at ominous things to come. Strange, then, that there had been hardly a cloud in the sky that morning. Montero frowned as he lifted himself up from his Throne. His father stood before him, looking older and sicklier than he had ever done before. The old man's time was nearly up. What a relief it would be. For both of them.

"I don't understand your question, father," the young King said, trying to force as much sincerity as he could into his voice. It was, he realised, very difficult. He flicked a glance over at Impa, standing away at a respectful distance. Her face was an expressionless mask.

"Do not toy with me," Ganondorf said in-between a series of coughing fits. His voice was raspy and his hair was losing its vibrant colour. "I asked you what you were up to."

Montero shrugged. "What I'm supposed to be doing," he said impatiently and sitting back down. He was already in a foul mood and he cracked his knuckles to ease the tension. Their voices echoed throughout the Throne room and the King waited until his had faded away. "Running the state. What else would I be doing?" The thunder rumbled, sounding a little less distant.

Ganondorf snapped his head around towards his son, his coppery eyes fiery. "No!" he spat. "No. All this activity. All these little trips that you go out on. You are planning something, boy." He coughed, and Impa took a step forward. Waving her away with a snarl, he continued, "Do not ruin what I have built, son. I will not see the Dragmire name stained as it was in the past."

The King leaned forward, unable to keep the sneer from his face. His patience was slipping faster than sand through an hourglass. "You won't, I assure you."

Ganondorf twitched, catching the hint. "Whatever it is you are doing," he said, softening his tone. His face sagged with weariness, the many summers catching up to him quickly. "Make sure it is for the good of the people."

Leaning back, Montero waited to see if his father had anything else to add. The thunder was now a steady, continuous rumble. He frowned again, puzzled.

"How goes your training with the Assassin's League?" Ganondorf asked with a sigh. "I heard you sent them out on a mission."

"Yes," Montero replied, a knot of pain twisting his forehead. How had his father known that? The mission was a secret. Clearly the old man wanted to show that he still wielded some influence in the Castle. The King stopped himself from chuckling. Let the decrepit fool wallow in his delusions.

"Have they completed it yet?" Ganondorf said. His heels squeaked on the polished floor.

"No," Montero replied simply. All he had asked the squadron to do was keep Link away from the city. If Servion was correct, the prophecy of the Hero recorded in the most ancient of scrolls referred to this boy. Unlikely though it was, Montero was not taking any chances. The boy would not be harmed though, unless, of course, he became a direct threat to his plans.

Servion, on the other hand, was a different prospect altogether. As soon as the notion of possessing the Triforce had tickled Montero's fancy, he had brought the Hylian Chief into his confidence. The opportunistic weasel had been trying to worm his way into Montero's favour for many summers. It must have shocked the man to have been summoned so abruptly. Surprisingly Servion had been all too willing to share all the information he had had at his disposal. That, in itself, had disturbed the young King. What exactly had the Chief been planning for so long for him to have come across all this knowledge? Still. It would do him no good. Servion had pledged himself to Montero. When the time came for the Chief to be discarded, it would be done quickly and swiftly.

"I see that you have a lot on your mind," Ganondorf said, turning towards the door. "I bid you good day."

"And you," Montero said. "Do not worry, father. I will not shame our name."

Ganondorf threw him one last warning of a look, before striding out of the chamber.

Montero beckoned to Impa to come forward. "Where is it?" he asked. "Where is the Triforce of Courage?"

Impa kept her gaze level, not flinching from his heated stare. "I don't know. For the thousandth time, I do not know."

"Who else would want it?" the King said, more to himself than to his attendant. "Who else even knows about it?" He smacked his fist against the side of his Throne. The chair shivered under the impact and the sound rang out in shimmering waves.

"It's hard to say," Impa said slowly. Her voice was neutral, having become used to his recent outbursts. Perhaps she had finally learnt her true place in the world. "All records of it were stored in the Castle library. And it was clear from the state of the scrolls that they had not been disturbed for many a summer."

"Maybe...maybe if we could find the source of the Triforce's power..." Montero said, ideas flitting through his mind.

"Hardly," Impa said bluntly. "It is said that it contains the power of the goddesses."

Montero snorted, a harsh chuckle escaping his lips. "Blasphemy," he spat. "Magic. Goddesses. Childish superstitions from a people who didn't know better." He shook his head. "No. This Triforce...whatever it is...must be coated with the blessings of the One, Unseen. It's His power that is behind it. Just like His power is behind everything."

Impa raised an eyebrow. "I didn't take you to be the religious type," she said, her words laced with sarcasm. "The priests would be proud with a sermon such as that."

"And what?" he snarled. "You believe the superstitions?"

Impa gave a quick shake of her head. "No," she said. "You're right. But regardless of its origin, it is not in our hands just yet."

"No," Montero said thoughtfully. "It is not." The King sighed, rubbing the bristle on his chin. His single-minded devotion to his present task had eaten up all his time and he hadn't even had a chance to attend to himself. This wouldn't do. This wouldn't do at all. Some sort of action was necessary. The frustration tore at him from within, making him jittery and irritable. "Bring the Harkinian traitor to me," he said. "He might know something." An idea occurred to him, one that would give him a chance to ease his restlessness. "We need to redouble our efforts in finding the Triforce of Power. I personally will lead the search."

"Yes, Sire," Impa said, bowing her head slightly. If she was surprised by his decision she didn't show it. Her voice echoed around the chamber. "Is there anything else?"

"Kisho and his squad," he said with a lazy wave of his hand. "What news of them?"

"They have tracked the boy to a village nearby Prison Complex G," she replied.

Montero's heart skipped a beat and his eyes narrowed to slits. "Where the Princess is?"

"Yes."

"He's been kept alive long enough. Make sure he doesn't get any further."

"Understood," she paused, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

"Yes?" the King asked.

"Sire," she said, pausing again as she sought for the right words. "They may be unwilling to strike one of their own. Perhaps another team...?"

"No," Montero said, cutting her off. "I want him broken. They don't have to kill him if they don't want to." Scorn coated his last words and he coughed to regain his composure. "Just make sure he doesn't get to the Princess."

"Understood."

The King tapped his fingers against the side of his Throne. Thoughts whirled around his head. Everything was so precariously balanced. He had believed, somewhat foolishly, that becoming monarch would give him greater control. Instead, he found that affairs were as chaotic as usual. It irritated him, that. Everything needed to be brought into line. It was what he was born for, he was certain.

The thunder was throbbing now, as though it was organic, growing and pulsing with life. Voices were mixed within it, shouts and angry cries. The thought jolted him out of his musings. This was not thunder. He shot a panicked look at Impa. Their faces froze and their eyes locked. She realised it too. "What is that noise?"

Someone rapped at the door urgently. Impa pulled her gaze away from the King and strode towards the entrance, quickly removing all trace of fear from her face. Montero saw this, thanked her silently for it, and did the same.

She opened the door. A Messenger boy stood there, his face contorted with terror.

"Speak," Impa demanded.

"It's madness. The blood, the carnage."

Montero rose to his feet and stepped down to the floor. "Spit it out, man," he bellowed. "What's going on?"

The Messenger took a step back, cowering, and glanced from one to the other, his lips flapping, but no words coming out. "The Hylians," he said finally. "The Hylians are rioting."

...

"I need to get inside."

Moonlight stained the night sky, casting a pale, silvery glow on the foreboding looking building that stood in front of her. Tiny flickers of torchlight seeped out from the slits in the dark, crumbling walls and Sheik could see the hint of movement from high up in the ramparts, knowing that the guards placed there were watching and waiting for the slightest suspicion of escape. Sheik, though, wasn't interested in escape. At least, not yet, that is.

"Inside there, missy?" a voice called from behind her. "Whatever for?"

Sheik turned around as an old, Calatian woman hobbled over to her, back bent and toothless. Carissa and her fellow traders had found Sheik in the ditch where Impa had left her. They'd nursed her back to health over the past few days, providing food, a change of clothes and much needed company. They had not, however, removed her mask and had forced water through the ragged bandages wrapped around her face so that she could drink.

Sheik felt the warm flow of gratitude fill her heart for their respectfulness. They had not discovered that she was a Hylian and she found that she wasn't too troubled with the prospect of their ever finding out. They were good people, and they had helped her cheat death. Now she had to grasp that opportunity and get to the Princess. Not that she wouldn't still be careful, though.

"I have a friend there," Sheik said. "She doesn't deserve to be in there. I need to get her out."

Carissa studied her with warm eyes. "It'll be dangerous, missy," she said with a sigh.

Sheik smiled under her mask. The old woman wasn't going to ask any questions and again she felt a surge of gratitude. They were good people indeed, and Sheik felt certain that they had come as an answer to her prayers. She shuddered inwardly as she pondered over what manner of people could have found a relatively defenceless young girl. Memories flooded back from a time long ago, but she bit down to push them away. She had seen the darkness that lurked in men's eyes - seen it, faced it, and beaten it.

Sheik hugged herself, to protect herself from the biting chill on the outside and the frost that had coated her heart at that moment. "Can you help me?" she said. "I know I ask much. And that you have been more than hospitable towards me." She bit her lower lip, frustrated. "If there was only some way I could repay you."

"Hush, little one," Carissa said, making Sheik flinch involuntarily. The voice that had come to her, thick with evil and prodding at the edge of her consciousness, had called her that too. It was gone now, but she could still sense it slumbering at the deep centre of her mind, waiting for the moment to awaken. "What is it that you need?"

Sheik blinked, the old woman's question bringing her back into the moment. "Weapons. Daggers, I don't know if you can find them." She glanced over at the prison complex. They had stopped here to fix a wheel on the cart. Apparently, they were not too far away from a village that they had planned to rest overnight in. "I need a way in."

Silence fell as Carissa looked towards her fellow traders. They were buzzing around the broken cart as though it were an injured animal. Full of good cheer, they applied the same care to it as they had done to Sheik. A fire burned in one corner of the clearing, golden sparks floating into the sky and coating them all in a reddish glow. Their clothes had no coherency to them, patched together as they were from many different sources. Multi coloured rags that were now faded, but still somehow suited them perfectly, seemingly able to mesh with the simple contentedness that the traders exuded. Sheik wore the same clothes as well, shedding her usual 'uniform' that she wore whenever she had to venture outside. Her old clothes were torn, soaked in blood and filthy. The new apparel, despite the mismatched colours, was another thing for her to be grateful to the traders for.

"We can do both," Carissa said softly, turning back to Sheik.

The young Harkinian raised an eyebrow, the night breeze playing with her hair. She wondered what, exactly, was the true nature of Carissa and her friends. She hadn't spent much time with them, and all she had done so far was rest, sipping on the hot, spicy, soup that they brought her as their cart and bounced and rattled over the uneven path. She had spoken to them, their warm company a soothing balm, but had never enquired as to the nature of their business, so taken had she been with their infectious cheerfulness. As a child she had heard stories of the Wandering Ones, people with no home and living in great hardship, but whose hearts were not brittle enough to not aid others if they merited it. She had always thought them to be a myth. But perhaps she was wrong. She had been wrong about a lot of things recently.

Her time with the traders had been rejuvenating. Their nights had been long, spent around a crackling fire that drove away the chill as they told stories and sang songs. For long moments during those nights Sheik had felt an aching sense of belonging that had reminded her of times past. Still. The Princess lived. She still had someone.

Sheik opened her mouth to speak, but Carissa held up a hand, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Sssh," she said. "We ask you no questions. We expect the same in return."

"I understand," Sheik replied with a smile. "How soon can everything be ready?"

Carissa shrugged. "Mid-morning, tomorrow." She looked down for a moment, as though she were ashamed about something. "You realise, little missy, that you have to do this on your own."

"I always work best alone." She winced, not really knowing why she'd put so much steel into her voice. The memory of Kafei's betrayal was still raw and chafed her soul.

The old Calatian woman didn't seem to be too vexed; in fact, she appeared to be quite relieved. "Are you sure you're up for this, missy?" she said, her voice filled with concern. "You're still recovering."

Sheik was a little sore. Her joints still ached, and the spot where the arrow had hit her was red and tender like lightly cooked meat. She was no longer stiff though, and whatever ointments Carissa had rubbed on her wounds these past few nights had worked miracles. She could move. She could use a weapon. It was enough. "I'll manage. Thank you."

Carissa smiled, holding out a hand. "Then let us spend one last night singing and telling stories." Her fingers curled around Sheik's and her face, illuminated by the fire, took on a melancholy look. "We will miss you, young missy. It's been a while since we enjoyed the company of young ones." She paused again. "I hope all goes well for you. May the One, Unseen protect you."

Sheik felt her heart tighten at the unexpected show of affection. She hadn't spent that long with them, but already she had grown attached. They had done more than soothe her body. They had soothed her soul as well. Smiling, she let herself be led back to the others.

When they reached the cart, Carissa motioned for her to stop. "I need to show you something first."

Confused and curious, Sheik watched as the old Calatian rummaged about in amongst all the goods, muttering happily to herself. It was a large vehicle, pulled along by three horses, and room enough for four people alongside all their merchandise.

Finally Carissa gave a cry of triumph and pulled out an odd looking contraption. She blew some of the dust off and unfolded it to its true length before presenting it to Sheik to inspect. Animal skin had been stretched expertly into the shape of wings, wooden rods holding everything in place with tightened coil. Leather harnesses hung limply from the rods, the metal clasps tinkling with every movement.

"What is it?" Sheik asked, a little nervous.

"This," Carissa said with a twinkle in her eye, "is what we folk call a glider." She smiled, showing her rotted gums. "This is your way into the prison complex." She laughed, as though she had just uttered the most humorous thing in history. "You're going to fly, missy."

...

Tarn Redscorch was proud of his little inn. He had been born in the tiny converted cottage, grown up there, married and lived there. Spending his childhood following his parents around as they had tended to the guests, he had picked up all their mannerisms; their warm hospitality, their generous ways and, most of all, their sharp eye when deciding which guests were suitable enough to stay. Because of all this, when the time came for the cottage inn to be handed over to Tarn himself no one had batted an eyelid; indeed, they all commented on how little things had changed. Tarn felt his heart swell at that. That's the way he wanted it. He had maintained his parents high standards and, so, had fulfilled his purpose in life. All that remained was for him to pass on what he knew to his own children.

The sounds of the inn washed over him now, basking him in a warmth that no fire could equal. Everything was as it should be - the murmur of the patrons, the scraping of chairs and the light tinkle of cutlery. The maids swept the floor to make sure that not even a speck of dust could have a moment's rest, the hems of their skirts swishing in time with their motions. The laughter and the energy indicated a business still in its prime.

Tarn sat at his desk in the main dining area and surveyed his kingdom, content with all that his hard work and careful organisation had achieved. He knitted his fingers together and sat back, sighing happily.

A shadow fell across the desk breaking Tarn out of his reverie. He looked up and grimaced immediately. Many summers of practice had told him how to recognise an unsuitable customer almost instantaneously.

"Yes?" the innkeeper said, looking the young man up and down. The visitor was little more than a boy, dressed in black and, Tarn noticed immediately, sporting a dangerous looking crossbow that dangled from his waist. Dirty blond hair peeked out from under his hood, unkempt just like his clothes.

The youngster grinned, his eyes sparkling. He placed his palms flat on the desk and looked down at the innkeeper. "Morning, good sir," he said, a little too cheerily. "Some rooms for a party of four." He nodded towards a table in one corner where three others sat - a woman with a spiked ball and chain, a big man with two foils and an old man with an even older bow. They were dirty and their clothes were ragged. Tarn felt his face crease with revulsion. No. This was not acceptable at all.

"M'lord," Tarn said, trying to swallow the distaste from his mouth. "We only serve..." he coughed, clearing his throat. "We only serve respectable folk here."

The young man's grin grew wider. "Good! Glad to hear it!" he said. "Now, where do we ink the contract, my good man?"

"M'lord." Tarn could feel his head start to ache. "You misunderstand." He let out a breath, wondering how to phrase his next words. Tarn decided it would be best if he went straight to the point. He cleared his throat. "We do not cater to...to...ruffians and miscreants."

The youngster stood up straight, frowning. Tarn gulped, wondering if he had pushed the brute too far.

"Ruffians and miscreants, you say?" the young man said, rubbing his chin.

"Yes," Tarn said bluntly. "Ruffians and miscreants." His eyes flicked over to the little group and he noticed their armaments once more. "Your weapons..."

"...are very nice aren't they?" the young man finished, the easy grin returning to his face. "Those swords on the big man there? They did this." He pointed to the slit in his tunic. Tarn leaned forwards, curious despite his reservations. A thin red bruise had blossomed on the youngster's chest.

"Your...friend...did this?" the innkeeper said, failing to keep the doubt from his voice.

The youngster licked his lips and leaned forward on his elbows. He glanced from left to right as though searching for enemies. He beckoned Tarn to come closer, and then began whispering in a conspiratorial tone of voice. "The big man," he said, cocking his head towards his friend. "He's a bit mad."

Slowly both Tarn and the young man turned their heads in unison to look over at the object of their conversation. The big man waved back. Tarn turned away.

"In fact," the youngster continued. "They're all a bit mad. It's the cold, you see."

Tarn turned his head towards the table once more. The trio all grinned back.

The innkeeper stood up straight, tiring of the conversation. "No, m'lord," he said, letting out an exasperated breath. "I mean to say that you cannot bring your weapons here."

The young man gazed at him, a look of mock-hurt etched on his face. "No weapons?"

"No," Tarn said bluntly.

"Then how are we supposed to defend ourselves?"

"Defend yourselves from what?"

"From 'whom', you mean."

Tarn blinked. He felt his head ache more violently. "Defend yourselves from whom, m'lord?"

"From ruffians and miscreants, my good man."

"As I have already mentioned", the innkeeper said testily. "There are no ruffians and miscreants here."

"There will be."

"There will?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

The young man grinned once again. "Because after I tell all my fellow ruffians and miscreants that they're not welcome here, I'm sure they will be aching to pay you a little visit." He winked.

Tarn opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He tried again, but this time all he could manage was a squeak. "Sir," he said, when his voice finally returned. "Do you have any coinage?"

"Why, yes, my good man," the youngster said. "We do."

...

"We have rooms," Link said as he returned to their table and slid into an empty chair.

Fran gazed at him impassively. "Was that really necessary?" he asked.

"Was what really necessary?" the assassin replied.

The old man waved his hand towards the innkeeper. "The theatrics."

Link looked at him with a serious frown. "He thinks we're simpletons. Therefore, he'll underestimate us." The young man glanced over his shoulder. "But he also thinks we're dangerous and so he won't bother us." Link gave a little nod, as though he was completely satisfied with the proceedings. "See?"

"This is what they teach you, lad?" Fran asked, his voice laced with doubt. Something was bothering him about Link's behaviour.

"At the castle?" the young Hylian replied. The bubbling chatter of the inn filled the air and Fran had to crane his neck forward to catch Link's words. "Assassins have to be subtle. Deception is a part of that."

Fran leaned back with a sigh and studied Link carefully. He wasn't sure about the truth of the boy's words, but what disturbed him the most was the glow in the youngster's eyes. The near crazed look of someone that had sloughed off all the burdens in their life and was tasting unbridled freedom for the very first time. Without restrictions or reservations, like a serpent uncoiled.

Fran had known that, despite the dangerous nature of his profession, Link had led a somewhat sheltered life. Both his sister and, in their own way, his former squadron had cared for him and tried to protect him as much as possible. The boy had grown up to be a somewhat stoic and serious adolescent. The old man had often wondered how Link would develop once he was let loose on his own. He had imagined that, with a little guidance from himself of course, the boy would naturally turn into the Link he had known so many summers ago. But the reality that faced him now was very disconcerting. A young man, skilled in all the wrong things, brimming with confidence, a sharp tongue and questionable motives. Could Fran really blame the lad though? Link had been through so much in the past week, and it was clear that he was not mature enough to cope with it all. He had thought that Link would retreat further into his shell. Instead, the exact opposite had happened.

"Doesn't this..." the big man said.

"...draw attention to us?" the woman finished.

The Marauder Twins, Eagle and Rya, days after attempting to kill both Link and Fran were now their allies. The Calatian bounty hunters had been swayed first by their defeat at Link's hands and then by the money Fran offered them to aid in their mission. The Twins hadn't been in the least bit disturbed that their new clients were Hylian. Fran, on the other hand was troubled. The Twins and the rooms they had just hired all added up to one thing - that they was fast running out of money, especially as he had had to offer the bounty hunters more than what the King was offering for Link's head.

"That's the beauty of it," Link said, slouching back in his chair lazily. His voice had that soft twinge to it that indicated a lifetime spent amongst the silence of shadows. "The innkeeper won't suspect those that are under his very noses. There's an art to being deceptive." The assassin looked up, noticing the looks of disbelief on the Twins' faces. "What about you two? How do we know you won't scarper at the first sign on danger?" His cocked his head to one side; his mouth curling into what was now becoming a familiar grin. "It's dangerous, see. You don't know what you might find there. Ghosts. Moblins. Spooks." He paused, his face creasing as though he doubted his words were having the right effect and so he had to search desperately for the killer blow. "Rabid cuccos."

Fran closed his eyes and shook his head.

"We assure you, young master..." Eagle said, his tone biting.

"...we will complete the contract we have with you," Rya continued. "We will collect our fee..."

"...or die in the attempt. From now, from the moment we enter this prison you speak of, our blood is yours until this undertaking is over."

"Excellent," Link said absentmindedly. "You two can go in first, then."

"Link," Fran said, glaring. The boy was not coping at all. He was hiding what he really felt behind bluster and foolishness. Clearly he was trying to push people away. Or, Fran thought after a moment's reflection, he was trying to protect them.

The youngster shrugged. "I'm just getting into the spirit of things, Fran," he said. "Seeing how we're on an insane mission in the first place."

An awkward silence fell over the group at that moment. They were still not familiar enough with one another to be able to voice their concerns over Sahasrahla's proposed task.

"How is it," Link asked abruptly, "that the two of you knew how to find us?"

The Twins exchanged glances. "We had information," Eagle said.

"We were told that you might venture out towards this prison," Rya said. "That we were to scout the paths and wait for you."

"Information from the King?" the young Hylian asked.

"No," Eagle said, the tone in his voice indicating that he was unsure as to whether or not he should be speaking on this at all. "Other sources."

"They did not reveal themselves to us," Rya said.

Fran narrowed his eyes. He felt fear grip his heart and his stomach churned with nauseous ferocity. Servion. It had to be. The Chief was aware of their plans, or had, at the very least, second-guessed them. But how? And why?

Blinking his thoughts away, Fran turned to the Twins. "We need ideas," he said. "How do we get into the prison?"

"Do we know..." Rya said.

"...where exactly this 'princess' is being held in the building?"

"No," Link said, flicking at the table. "We have no idea. Sahasrahla didn't tell us much." He looked over at the Twins. "Friend of his, see. Very close." He paused as the Twins waited for him to elaborate. "Tried to kill us."

The Twins frowned. Fran cleared his throat. "Ideas?"

The village they were currently in wasn't too far away from the prison complex; in fact, the large, many towered building dominated the horizon, casting a dark shadow over the surrounding area like a dark sentinel. They had to plan now and execute it on the morrow. Fran and Link only had enough money for one night.

Eagle pursed his lips, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening. "It would seem wise to take the young master's lead..."

"...and utilise the art of deception," Rya finished.

Fran sighed once more. He had a sinking suspicion he knew where this was going. "The simplest plans are always the best, aye?"

Eagle smiled, giving a small nod.

"Right," Rya said.

"I take it Eagle will be the prisoner," Fran said. "While we are the guards?"

"That is..." the big man said.

"...correct," the smaller woman finished.

Fran closed his eyes, trying to stop his head from spinning. The hustle and bustle of the inn didn't aid him much in his task. It still took him a moment to adjust whenever he spoke to the Twins, their strange speech patterns making his eyes and attention flick from one to another until he felt dizzy.

"What about clothes?" he asked. "We need to blend in."

"We will..." Rya said.

"...handle that," Eagle finished.

"Bounty hunters..."

"...are always prepared."

"What about documentation?" Fran asked as he mulled the plan over in his mind. "They'll want to see something official."

"I can fake the papers," Link said, idly scratching at the grooves on the wooden table. Still so easily distracted, Fran thought. How in the world did the boy ever become an assassin? Still. It comforted him to know that he hadn't changed completely.

The others all turned to Link. The young man looked up, surprised. "I just need a quill and some ink." He stopped, noticing that the others wanted him to explain further. "It's another assassin trick," he said sheepishly.

Fran licked his lips, thinking. "So that's how we get in," he said slowly. He scratched his chin as all the possibilities danced in his head. "Then we find the Princess. And get out."

"We do not know..." Rya said.

"...what the Princess looks like."

Fran opened his mouth to speak. Despite what Link had said earlier, Sahasrahla had given them some information.

"She's Hylian," Link said, cutting the older man off.

"So?" Eagle asked.

Link leaned forwards, pretending to tire of the conversation. "So she has pointy ears."

"My friend told us only two Hylians were being taken to this prison," Fran said quickly. "It shouldn't be too difficult to find them if that is the case."

"If...?" Rya asked.

Fran ignored the question. "We still need to find out how to release her. There will be guards, soldiers..."

"Rabid cuccos." Link added.

The older man grit his teeth, fixing a hot stare on the young assassin. The Twins squirmed in their seat, as though they could feel the temperature dropping slightly.

"Link, if you have nothing use-"

"It's simple," the assassin said, suddenly taking on an air of seriousness. "We release all the prisoners. My crossbow can break the locks. Therefore, there will be complete chaos and the guards will be distracted. We sneak in. We find our Princess. We walk straight out. See?" He stared at Fran, his eyes daring the older man to dispute him. "Meet you all here at dawn?"

Fran continued to stare back, trying to fathom exactly how committed Link was to this endeavour. He felt his cheek twitch. The boy clearly didn't believe in their mission, and in that aspect he was a far cry from the Link that Fran had known. The young Hylian sitting before him was still a picture of stoic calm. Fran nodded at the Twins. "Aye, at dawn," he said, getting up and gathering his supplies. "Be ready."