Half-naked with one wrist chained to the wall, the Escort held a dagger in his free hand and a metal key in his teeth. Red lines marked his chest. There were probably matching lines on his back.
When Jerome didn't lower his blade, Castien dropped his. Metal clattered to the ground. “Let me help you. Let me unlock you.”
The Escort frowned but slowly dropped his hand. Castien took the key. As soon as he was freed, Jerome transferred the dagger to his left hand. His right wrist was purple and swollen.
“Thank you,” Jerome said.
The captain wasn't exactly a friend, but he was a friendly face. All the Escorts were important to Anais. Castien asked, “Is our Queen here? In the dungeons?”
Jerome shook his head.
Good. Castien inhaled and picked up his sword. “Did Frances– Did they give you anything?”
“No.”
Another wave of relief. The people she loved would be fine. The people who knew her best, who could protect her, would be fine. “You need to get out. Can you walk?”
“Yes.”
Chatty, as always. A smile twitched onto his lips, then disappeared. “Last I saw the Queen, she was on the second floor. Guards were after her. If she hasn’t escaped, she’ll need help.”
The sounds of fighting continued. There was another exit staircase, but it led to the barracks.
Castien bent and took the guard’s sword. “Who else is with you?”
A moment of silence, then, “Vern.”
The steward was fighting off an army.
Castien pressed the hilt of one of his blades into Jerome’s arms. “You need to go. Get out. I'll distract them so Vern can leave–”
“You need to come with me.”
He wanted to. Every bone in his body ached to walk out of this dungeon and find her, hold her, kiss her.
He stepped back. “She's more important. She's… injured. She needs you.”
Jerome’s brows drew down. “She came for you.”
Castien smiled without humor. “I can't go back, Jerome. I can't.”
Shouts came down the hall. Closer.
The courtesan turned. “We don't have time to argue. The Queen needs you more than I do. Go! Now! I'll get Vern!”
Without waiting to see if the captain was convinced, Castien sprinted toward the clamor. Jerome always did what was best for Anais. He would go to her. Vern would return to his daughter. They would keep her safe. They would love her.
It had been a privilege to love her. To be loved by her.
Now it was time to earn it.
The hall narrowed toward the back stairs. Flames flared wildly, stirred by a breeze. A torch had been knocked onto the ground. Fire licked at a stone wall.
Framed in the red-orange glow was a single man dancing, his entire body in fluid motion. Both arms weaved a deadly pattern. His feet moved little, the shift of his hips and bend of a knee more than sufficient for his dance. Bodies littered the hall in front of Vern. A half dozen soldiers and guards crowded the space, but only one could engage him at a time. He cut; they bled. Every inch of ground he gave was painted red.
But even Vern would tire eventually.
A few steps away, Castien called out, “Escort! Help Jerome get out! His wrist is broken–”
