Devvyn's palms itched, just like they always did when he was doing something wrong. Devvyn wiped his hands against his pants. Somehow, they came away still wet, which, since the room he stood in was almost frigid, he could only attribute the perspiration to nervousness or fear. He tugged at the collar of his coat; somehow, it felt tight and claustrophobic. But he couldn’t unbutton it just yet; he had to maintain this look at least until the 5 individuals seated across from him decided his fate.
Devvyn shuddered, remembering how he had gotten to this point. He had been asleep in his cell, shivering from the cold draft that seemed to float in like a wraith in the early hours of the morning, when bright light from a flaming torch bathed him in welcoming warmth. It had been a whole escort of guards.
They had taken him to the baths first, where they watched him closely as he scrubbed himself viciously, trying to get the grime and feel of the dank cell off his body. Then they had marched him to a room where his hair had been cut, and he was given a salve to rub on his injuries. The yellowish balm had smelled like berries but stung like a hundred wasps. But he had refused to cry out.
Then he had been ushered into a small, warm kitchen where the smells of honey cakes and roasting pheasant had almost made spittle leak from the corners of his mouth. He had devoured two helpings before he finally remembered to chew. Then they had placed him in a comfortable room, with stone walls and a small bed; but it was more comfortable than his cell by far. He had fallen asleep the second his head hit the pillow, waking up to find formal clothes and black shiny boots deftly arranged by his bedside.