His leg jumped, his foot tapping the floor. He tensed his muscles, stretched his foot, and forced himself to be still. All he could manage was one word. “Correct.”
As though distance and time had pulled a rope taut around his lungs, he felt like he could hardly breathe. The only way toloosen it, to take a full, deep breath, was to burst out of the palace and ride straight south.
Perhaps he shouldn't leave, after all.
Octavius said, “Tell me about Yelena.”
His mind hissed,Mistress, and the word nearly slipped from his lips. “…Queen Yelena called me a weapon. Octavius, please. Get me out of the palace. Keep me far from Anais. From all of you. I cannot live with myself if I hurt any of you.”
If he hurt Anais again.
Thinking about her was difficult. Impossible. He breathed around the ache in his chest and pushed her out of his thoughts.
“I can help you,” Octavius said, “If you let me. I know that’s not what you want to hear. But we need to know as much as you remember. Not only what happened to you – Coriante Castle, Yelena, conversations you might’ve overheard. Anything could help. Will you do that for me, Castien?”
He leaned forward and nodded, moving his arms as little as possible.
This much, he could do.
He spoke of the Nadraken castle. He spoke of the Queen while whispers of‘Mistress’crowded his thoughts. He moved on quickly from her to Frances, to the bitter brew and training, to the barracks and soldiers. The servants’ corridors and sections of the castle were clearly mapped in his mind. Guards’ schedules, positioning. The nobles’ grievances and bickering. The Queen hadn’t cared what he’d heard. At the time, the conversations had been meaningless, but he recalled them now – along with the feeling of claws on his scalp.
Octavius took notes and asked questions. When the healer wasn’t writing, he massaged his hands. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck while he listened.
At the cottage, Octavius had been much more relaxed. If the healer’s health was anything to judge the palace by, then the servants were suffering far worse. Servants always suffered first.
Octavius left after an hour. Over the next few days, the courtesan scoured his memories. He asked for paper. He focused on the nobles – their titles, their features, their mannerisms – and the way Queen Yelena had responded to each of them. Allies, enemies, people she needed, people she disdained.
The healer wanted to remove his chains. The guards could replace them with leather, rope, or something else. Castien refused.
A wooden practice blade rested against the wall of his cell. It sat there for a day before he picked it up. The chains got in the way. He worked around them.
Answering questions about the way the soldiers trained was easy.
Questions about Yelena were harder.
“You said you have a compulsion to love the Queen of Nadraken. Can you explain how that's different from the trance?”
That was the last thing he wanted to talk about.
Castien was silent for a minute. “I want to speak to Vern. If my feelings need to be interrogated, I want to speak to her father.”
Her father might kill him. It was a risk he was willing to take.
Unfortunately, Octavius wasn't accommodating. “You will speak to me. If you need someone closer to Anais, I can summon Madeline.”
“No!” Fear iced his veins. “Vern – Vern understands. He’s killed… so many.” His fingers flexed, clenched.
Octavius' brow shot up. “And you think I haven’t? You think we all don't have blood on our hands?”
“Not like him. Not like what they made me.” A weapon. A tool.
“Very well, let's talk about Vern. He is good with children, from the youngest to the adolescents. They like him. Do you think he shouldn’t be around them?”
It had been disorienting seeing the sharp edges of the older man softened in the nursery. The only time he smiled was around children – and Anais. He was a good father.
“He would cut off his own hands rather than hurt a child.” Castien chuckled without humor. “If Nadraken had taken him, he would have cut his way through their army and returned home with Queen Yelena's head. Tell me you think otherwise.”
But he was just a courtesan. He was weak. Helplessness tasted bitter on his tongue.
