Octavius frowned. “I don't have much time today, but I'll leave you with this: Vern doesn't hate you. No, listen to me. He is practical to a fault and currently sees you as a threat. That is all. As soon as you prove you've broken free of the trance, he’ll consider you safe again. An asset, even. He protects those he cares for, and he brought you back unharmed. Anais loves you. I hope you won't dispute that. By extension, Vern would sooner cut off his hand than hurt you.”
As the healer gathered his books, Castien lifted an arm, letting the rattling chains speak for him.
Without Anais' command, he would already be dead.
Octavius next visited when he was in the bath. His back was always turned to the guards – he likedsomeprivacy – but he'd heard the familiar, heavy cadence of the healer's footsteps echo through the hall. Before Octavius entered, he dried off and dragged on a shirt. The rough linen was no Escorts’ blacks, but they were clean.
Castien tied off his trousers as the healer spoke quietly to the guards. Two armed and armored rose guards hovered beside the doorway. The healer always dismissed them before he set up his table. Octavius, as usual, carried his whip and a dagger on his left hip. No armor.
Castien rounded the pool toward the healer. “Here to take me back to my cell?”
Octavius unfolded a pair of chairs beside his table. “We’ll talk in here today. Have a seat.”
Here, in the baths, the only place where he wasn’t wearing chains. The healer had always trusted him too much.
Nodding, Castien kept his eyes on the floor as he walked. Two more steps. His heart pounded.
One lunging step and he reached for Octavius’ dagger. His fingers closed around the hilt. The blade cleared the sheath. He drew his arm back.
And stabbed.
A wound in the upper arm would slow the man without – hopefully – causing lasting damage. Then he would have an Escort as a hostage.
He had braced himself for the weapon to pierce flesh, for warm blood to seep around the wound, for the shock of pain and betrayal on Octavius’ face. He had put enough force behind his arm that the guard slammed flat against Octavius’ shoulder – but there was no wound, no blood, no shock.
The Escort grabbed Castien’s wrist. Glaring, he growled, “Next time, aim higher. Here.” He shifted the weapon. The guard slid upward. Castien stared into the man’s hard eyes.
Octavius’ grip tightened. His bones groaned, and the dagger fell. Octavius twisted his arm and shoved him back. He stumbled, his feet slipping on the wet floor. Into the waters he splashed.
Sometimes, he forgot the man was also a master-at-arms.
As he surfaced and gasped for air, he heard the healer grunt, “I’m glad we’re making progress.”
“Progress?” Castien choked. “I just tried to stab you!”
Octavius pressed a finger against the tip of the dagger. The blade retracted into the hilt. He sliced his palm without leaving a mark. The fake weapon wasn’t even sharp. “I was wondering when you’d get your head out of your ass.”
“My head out of…? I wanted to hurt you!” Climbing out of the water, he stormed up to Octavius. “I could’ve killed you!”
The Escort turned his back on Castien – briefly, but it was still insulting. He didn’t consider the courtesan a threat at all. He shifted back and shoved black silk into Castien’s arms. “With how you insist on anything and everything to ensure you cannot harm those you care about – no, you did not want to hurt me. Change your clothes. Don’t catch a chill.”
Castien tossed the silk onto the table. “I'm fine. Did Vern mention I drew a knife on him in my sleep?”
Octavius didn’t look surprised. He lowered himself into a chair. “He said you were trying to get a horse. Was he mistaken?”
Pacing the short length of the water’s edge, Castien ran a hand through his hair. “Perhaps. Yes. I don't know. It doesn't matter. This isn’t going to work, Octavius. You tried once. I can’t do this again. I won’t.”
“I didn’t know then what I do now.”
“You don’t know everything. Fine. No one does! What else did they do to me that we don’t know? I can’t trust myself. You shouldn’t.”
“I can’t always promise to cure an illness or heal an injury. Will you let me try, anyway?”
Castien waved a hand. They were wasting time. The healer had patients hecouldhelp, but he was here instead. Castien sat heavily in the open chair. He needed a new plan. Something the Escort wouldn’t expect.
Octavius pushed a box across the table. “Wear the blacks and your bracers. The way we present ourselves affects how we see ourselves.”
Castien crossed his arms over his chest. “A costume won’t change anything.” Truthfully, he was cold and miserably wet, but he’d rather shiver than touch the silks. To forestall the lecture that was certain to accompany the healer’s frown, he said, “The Queen said one of the Escorts made an attempt on her life. Do you know if they’ll speak to me?”
