Cool cloth dabbed at his forehead. Hands closed around his arms, lifted him to his feet. The world spun for several seconds. When his eyes focused, the prince had vanished.
Frances snapped his fingers in front of Castien's face. “Awake? Yes? Good. Let go of him. Can you walk?”
The alchemist’s scowl faded after a few steps. He waved his hand, gesturing for Castien to follow.
Training was done for today, then. As he walked, his renewed clarity latched onto the alchemist's back. By the angle of thesunlight, his midday brew was due. Whatever he was being dosed with didn't muddle his mind as much. Perhaps it was only a healing tonic. The Nadrakens still didn't trust him, though – they always checked him for weapons after training. They had forgotten to check today.
Which didn't matter since he wasn't hiding a weapon. But he could have. Then, when the guards stepped away, and Frances turned his back…
They walked down the hall leading to his room. He turned the idea over in his mind. With the desire to stab Frances came the realization that he hadn't wanted anything for himself since he'd left Drantar. He'd only wanted to serve the Queen.
As he sat on his cot, he imagined taking a blade to the Queen’s throat. Revulsion and horror immediately shot through his body. No, of course, he would never harm his Mistress. Breathing deeply, he flexed his muscles to hide the shaking.
There was still something wrong with him. He swallowed Frances’ brew. One week. He was afraid to die. But he should obey his Mistress.
Yet she hadn't exactly commanded his death, had she? Just a tournament. A duel. The prince had been the one to threaten him. He could win the duel. Somehow.
A meal was set in front of him. Castien ate with only a passing awareness of the hot stew and fresh bread. His thoughts were slow. It felt like there were barriers in his mind. The sensation was familiar. Someone had helped him take down the barriers before. A friend. A friend of the Queen? Not his Queen.
The spoon paused mid-air. A fragment of memory solidified.
“The mind is the strongest and weakest part of our bodies. It lets us control our animalistic instincts. Or enhances those traits and makes us monsters.”
Who had said that? Lightning bright pain shot across his eyes. He gritted his teeth and pushed through it.
“You must understand something about our Queen. She … she’s a monster.”
Octavius would never say that.
Octavius. He grasped at that name. Images of tall grasses surrounding a cottage flooded his mind. The healer had told him not to push. To let the barriers fall by themselves.
Sharp pain faded to dull as Castien resumed eating. He had a terrible feeling that he didn't have the time to wait for the barriers to fall.
Chapter 20
Anais
Tavern noises were reminiscent of her court, she mused. Shouting, laughter, the clatter of silverware, and the thump of mugs hitting wood. Less screaming, however. Her nobles wouldn't like it.
The city sprawled outward in all directions from the castle, confined only by encircling stone walls. Almost right through the gates, the market began, the main street lined with vendors and shops, beggars and guards. The guards at the gates had waved them through after a glance at their claws. Duchess Isabel had scowled. Likely, she normally entered with more ceremony. The first time one realized that nobody really remembered your face could be disappointing.
The lady was resting upstairs, finally in a bed. Vern kept an eye on her. He had already given his opinion of Anais’ plan.
If she were a few years younger, her father's constant disapproval might have been distressing.
Pelios drank from his mug. “I’m only asking one day to find our contacts, no more. Why bring me all this way if you don't intend to use me?”
Her claws tapped the table. Quite a few scratches marred the table. “I made that decision before the delays. But very well – you have the rest of the day. I'm going in tomorrow morning, regardless.”
Sitting beside her, Jerome shook his head. Both of her Escorts were upset with her. All the rest of them would be, too, if they had the chance. It was a good thing that only the two were here. A few pointed remarks from Laureline, a heated argument with Darius, and some far too detailed descriptions of potential injuries from Octavius might have swayed her. The weight of Jerome's displeasure meant a little less without Madeline throwing anxious glances at him.
Of course, Vern's criticism was the most effective. It mirrored her own logic, her own concerns.
She could be captured. A Queen imprisoned by another Queen – war was certain, then.
She could be killed. Even if by an overzealous guard mistaking her for a thief, she'd still be dead. Once again, war.
Vern’s parting observation was, “And Jerome and I are not invulnerable.”
