"I'd never keep you waiting, my Queen." He left the room, strode down the stairs, and set the tray on the floor for the servants to collect.
Then he stepped out and quietly closed the door.
Jerome’s gaze held a question.
The courtesan shrugged. “She's tired. I made sure she ate and helped her to bed. She needs her rest tonight.”
The captain nodded.
Castien exited the Queen's Wing. It was late. He should be in bed. Anais was waiting–
The candles and torches flickered bright then dim, the flames seeming to dance in a strange distortion between one hall and the next. There was an irritating buzz in the back of his mind. His head ached again. A muffled voice whispered urgently in the back of his skull. While trying to shake it away, he almost bumped into a guard.
The man steadied him. "Sir? Are you alright, Escort?"
He opened his mouth.Help–
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"Yes. Fine. Go about your business."
"Yes, sir."
The stables. He was heading for the stables. When he stood on the straw-scattered dirt path, blinking at the horses in dim torchlight, he almost forgot why he was there.
Someone rushed by him, slipping a small scroll into his hand. He read it.
Ride south. Stop only once a day for provisions. Present this message to the guards at Coriante Castle.
The shadowed knife is summoned home.
The stable master gave him a horse without question. The guards at the gate didn't stop him. No one would dare intercept an Escort as long as he stayed ahead of court messengers. If he were caught, he'd have to kill himself.
Mistress wouldn't like that.
Chapter 8
Castien
An Escort riding alone out of the palace city wasn’t so strange. He vaguely remembered Thakris leaving on errands, though he couldn’t recall the specifics. Secret assignments, likely. What task was he on? He couldn’t remember. He just knew he had to travel south. Once at Coriante Castle, he’d know what to do.
For the first two nights, he didn’t sleep. At the flash of his bracer, provisions were acquired from a castle’s lady. When he needed a new horse, they provided. Only near the border did a minor noble inquire if he would like a guard – since he had no sword.
He should have a sword. And a guard. Several of them. The Queen had assigned two – where were they? And his sword, it was…
Shivering on the ground, Castien awoke to a cold campfire. Only a thin blanket covered him. He rolled and secured it to the back of the horse’s saddle. Rubbing his eyes, he kicked dirt into the campfire. Damon had taught him to make a fire. That had been years ago. Damon would be amused that he remembered. No, wait, Damon was dead. How had he almost forgotten his friend's death?
He wasn't sleeping well, that was all. His dreams were plagued with screams and violence, rattling chains and unbearable pain. Some mornings, he woke with tears on his faceand a hollow ache in his chest. He could never recall the details. Perhaps he dreamt of how Damon died.
Climbing onto the horse, he set off. The narrow, unkempt dirt road was empty, if it could be called a road. The Escort’s bracers hung a bit loose on his arms, and he hadn’t had a change of clothes in days. After avoiding the army and cutting through a forest to cross the border, he'd yet to come across another person.
His thoughts moved slowly. He had crossed the border. He was in Nadraken. The nobles here wouldn't acknowledge his bracers, and he was hungry. The grass was plentiful for his mount, but he had no tools to hunt. Patting the horse, he noted the gold glinting on his finger. A ring. He could trade that.
He shouldn’t. It was important.
Why?
Pain lanced behind his eyes.
