It had been dark when they arrived. Octavius didn't visit the first night. He slept on a cot, metal clanking every time he shifted. His nightmares were not kind.
Chains, again.
The dark and cold, again.
His wrists were cold. He was cold, chilled, but not quite shivering. The heavy irons around his wrists never warmed, as though they drew in the cold of the night air and maintained it throughout the day.
Octavius didn't visit the next day.
At least he wasn't hanging from the ceiling. If he didn't move, the chains didn't rattle. It wasn't until he woke that the discomfort in his jaws outweighed the discordant noise of clattering metal rings. Moving as little as possible, he slowly pried out the knot of his gag.
He was allowed to bathe in the morning. They even brought him his personal soap. The guards remained in the room, of course. A courtesan didn't need privacy to bathe. He was glad they watched him so closely. Just in case.
When the guards delivered his third meal, he considered the possibility that he would be forgotten in the dungeons. The guards refused to speak to him. They rarely spoke at all. He considered talking to himself, but he wasn’t quite that desperate yet. He could sing. He didn’t feel like singing.
The second day, he tested his range of motion. At the castle, training had relaxed his body and quieted his mind. On horseback, travel had exhausted him so that he was too tired to dream. He stood up and stretched. The metallic ring of chains echoed through the cells. As much as he abhorred the sound, he needed to move. Restlessness filled his limbs.
The excess energy was terrifying. His legs wanted to run. He wanted to get back on a horse.
He wanted to travel south, to warmth and sun, sands and grass. To–
“Castien? Can you hear me?”
He froze. Sweat trailed down the side of his face. In the midst of his routine, he had turned his back to the bars. He hadn't heard Octavius' footsteps, had no idea how long the healer had been standing there.
Wiping away sweat, he faced the front of the cell and dipped into a natural bow. His voice was harsh from disuse. “Escort Octavius. Yes, I– Forgive me. Thank you for seeing me.”
Two guards normally stood against the far wall. They were absent. The healer was alone. Escorts' blacks melded with the dim lighting. Torchfire flickered off the metal studs of his bracer where his hand touched a small table set outside the bars. Beside his hand were several books.
Octavius lowered himself into a chair. “Have a seat, Escort.”
Chains constrained Castien’s wrists, not bracers. He opened his mouth. Inhaled. Shook his head. When he dropped to the bench, he discovered his hands were shaking. “How is the palace? Is the Queen’s Wing still safe? Is everyone…”
“I'm here to talk about you.” The healer removed a book from the stack and opened it. “But yes, everything's fine. Vern is taking care of it.”
Castien let out a breath. The steward was fixing the mess he'd caused. He had no right to any more information than that.Poisoner, spy, traitor. His fingers curled into fists. “Listen to me. You need to get me out. Not this cell, I don't care about the dungeon. Find a ship. That'll be fastest. Use my funds–” If they hadn't been confiscated. He swallowed.
“Slow down. We’ll get you out of this cell soon. First, I want to know how much of this,” Octavius tapped the book, “is accurate. For example, can anyone use your trance words?”
Anais had. “Yes, but that won’t be a problem if I’m not here. I don’t want out of the cell – I need to get away from the palace. Send me far enough, and no one will know that I can be used. I won’t harm anyone. The compulsion is only–” He caught himself. “I won’t harm anyone. I swear.”
Octavius wrote in a notebook. “That's good to hear. If you won't harm others out there, then we can work on the same here.”
The healer wasn't listening.
Castien leaned back, his head thumping against the cold stone wall. Cold seeped through his shirt. He welcomed it.
Octavius resumed his questions. “Does the trance force you to do anything you’re told?”
If Octavius refused to see him as a threat, and Vern refused to see him at all, he needed another way out.
“Yes. Direct commands from whoever activated the trance. The simpler, the better.”
He had been trained like a dog.
The other man glanced at his book. “Except for Queen Yelena. She doesn’t need to use the words?”
Mistress.
