They made it out of the castle with few obstacles. Perhaps Vern had slaughtered enough soldiers that they had been ordered to be cautious. Perhaps they were chasing Anais; a Queen was a more important target. Only one guard stood watch at the top of the stairs. Vern added to his kill count and brought them out through the stables. At some point, there was a rushed conversation with a clipped female voice. With detachedamusement, Castien evaluated that this woman could infuriate Vern with little effort.
He didn't pay attention to the conversation until Anais' name penetrated his mind.
“…Either you trust me and take my advice, or don't. I helped them both. I'm offering to help you. Gate by the barracks. Ten minutes.”
He had heard that voice somewhere before. Memorizing voices, names, and faces was essential to a courtesan’s trade. If he reached, hers would be there. But he was exhausted. There was no point.
Ten minutes later, he was tossed onto a horse. They rode through a side entrance and disappeared into the city.
The darkness of night covered their movements as they weaved through the streets. They stopped in a narrow alley.
A low voice murmured, “The lady stepped out.”
This name came from too many memories to be forgotten. Pelios. But why was Pelios in Nadraken?
Vern replied, “I saw her. She's taken care of.”
“My apologies. She appeared asleep, and the maid needed–”
Hands pulled him off the horse. “Take him. I don’t need your explanation.”
Through a back door, they carried him upstairs into what appeared to be a room in an inn. He was tied down to a chair.
Pelios attempted to speak to him. Inane platitudes, nothing that mattered. In the last few weeks, he had learned to shut off his mind. It felt like a natural state while he drifted from trance to compulsion to sleep – only to begin all over again.
Eventually, the rebel sighed and stepped away. “I need to check on Zara. Is the Queen…?”
“We were separated, but she should be on her way. I will wait an hour.”
The assassin prowled the room with an utter silence that was disturbing even in Castien's resigned state of mind. He checked the small window. He walked the length and width of the short walls. At the door, he tested the lock and hinges. Only then did he see to his wounds. It was fascinating to watch the man work. Far better entertainment than his dark thoughts.
He should pretend to be under the trance.
Performing was second nature. They had only seen him under the trance for a few moments. If he didn't speak, didn't react, or behave normally, they wouldn't be lulled into a false sense of security. They wouldn't hesitate when he inevitably turned on them.
Five minutes short of the hour, the door opened, and a figure slipped inside.
He shouldn't have looked. A part of him wished for the distance of the trance, and he was immediately angry at himself. But the sight of her was worse than a knife to the heart.
Hope flared higher than it had any right to. She was alive. Everything would be alright so long as she was alive.
And how much longer would that be if he were allowed to live?
His eyes fell. Her leg was bandaged. Would she have suffered that injury if he hadn’t weakened her? She wouldn’t be here at all.
Vern should have ended it. There was loyalty, and then there was foolishness. A traitor’s continued existence was not a logical decision. This was a terrible time to be sentimental.
Behind Anais, Jerome stepped inside and shut the door.
“Castien,” she breathed.
His name on her lips twisted the knife in his chest.
Her father slowly spun a dagger in one hand. “We cannot trust him.”
Ah, finally, some sense.
She didn't even glance at Vern.
