The prince snapped, “I know you're not mute. Answer me!”
Memories distracted from swordplay, too. Later. He'd think about it later.
Castien said dispassionately, “I answer only to the Queen.”
Moving faster, the prince made the same stabbing attack, but it was a feint. A sideways flick knocked Castien’s sword out of his hand. The prince was the better fighter. Castien was going to lose his Mistress’ tournament – and his life.
Balak sheathed his blades. Stalking forward, he grabbed the courtesan's arm that held the dagger, and pulled him close. The prince growled low, “Which Queen? Who do you truly serve?”
If he were to die in the tournament, that would be at Mistress’ command. If his death made her happy, he would have to die. There was no other choice.
Castien struggled against the other man's strength. “Mistress owns me. I serve only the Mistress.”
A frown creased his opponent’s brow, and he let the courtesan stumble back. Castien dropped his dagger. The spar was over. He had lost, and he would lose again. Mistress had commanded he train, and so he would, but he wasn't sure what the point was anymore.
“I see. She broke you.” Balak’s lips twisted. He curled one hand into a fist. “Pathetic.”
Pain erupted at the side of Castien’s head. Darkness flooded his vision.
The darkness had been quiet lately. Fragments of memories drifted at the edges of his mind, too insubstantial to catch more than a glimpse. Sometimes, a feminine voice both soft and stern spoke to him. It was nothing like the voice filled with rage and fear. He could never remember what she said. Only a feeling of longing lingered.
This darkness didn’t originate from drug-induced sleep or pain-infused exhaustion. This time, her voice whispered like a cautious breeze against a candle’s flame.
Endure.
The voice was firm, calm, strong. Stronger than he had ever been.
Survive and endure.
He tried to whisper back, “I don't think I can.”
Within a week, he'd be dead. There was no point.
Yes, Castien, you can. You will.
“Please stay with me.”
Silence was his answer.
“Please.”
Silence mingled with murmuring in his ringing ears.
Frances was shouting. The alchemist often raised his voice to servants. Waking up to a loudly snapped command was nothing new. Today, there was an edge of panic that wasn't usually present.
A breeze swirled his cheek. Castien blinked up at bright blue skies. He wasn't in his room. It wasn't morning.
Something cold pressed to the side of his head. The throb at his temple accompanied a rush of awareness – he was on his back in the training halls. That bastard of a prince had knocked him unconscious.
An amused voice replied distantly, “My apologies… he was so weak… I wasn't aware. Forgive…”
Frances snapped, “He is not a common slave or one of your people. He is the Queen's property!”
The prince chuckled. “It was just a spar. Look, he's fine. Aren't you, Drantarian?”
With a huff, Frances moved beside the prone courtesan. “For the last time, he belongs to the Queen. He's not Drantarian anymore.”
“No, he's not much of anything.”
