Raðenn was moving on his hands and knees across the floor of the cell. Against his palms he felt dampness, stickiness, the encrusted muck of ages. But he persevered, feeling carefully over every inch of the filthy stones. He had searched his own and Mal-Den’s clothing, but found nothing that could be used as a tool of escape. So he had made his way to one corner of the cell, dropped into the posture of a starving dog that noses through the rubbish of the streets, and begun to finger his way back and forth across the space. It had seemed small enough when he paced it round, but grew infinitely huge as he felt carefully over the flags. About halfway through the task he came to where Mal-Den lay, and gently moved the priest onto an area of the floor he had already searched. In spite of the warm cloak that wrapped him, Mal-Den was beginning to feel alarmingly cold to the touch, and he responded with only a faint noise when Raðenn shifted him. Sighing, the prince went on with his search. Just as his feet backed into the wall opposite his starting point, he felt an irregularity in the joint between two of the flagstones.