Chapter
25

Aodren

I ALMOST MAKE IT ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE bridge when the link to Britta changes in a way I didn’t know was possible. It bows and bucks. My palms turn clammy.

For a moment I wonder if that’s my own internal reaction to having killed a man. The sight of the guard on the ground, eyes open and glossed, will be in my head forever. He would’ve killed Britta.

Each step from the castle causes my heart to pound, a war drum resounding in my chest. Leaving Miss Flannery is wrong. I don’t know why or how I know, but I cannot shake the feeling that I need to turn back. Now.

Gods, this night is one bad decision after another.

I dismount and give my horse a hard smack on the rump. She takes off for the woods, the moonlight catching on the gold and silver royal equine adornments. If anyone is looking for tracks, perhaps they’ll find hers and think I’ve escaped.

Keeping an eye on the gate, I run the length of the bridge, back toward the castle. Men have gathered in the outer yard. They weren’t there before, and there’s no telling if I can trust them. Staying out of eyeshot, I sneak around the side of the guard tower and over the wall. I hold myself with my fingers and boots wedged in the lip of the stone bricks.

“They caught the girl.”

The guards talk and I pause, body clinging to the wall.

The man laughs. “And ta think she was fixin’ on bein’ called a lady.”

No. Britta has been captured.

“I’ll make ’er my lady.”

“You gonna do that in the dungeon?”

My knuckles whiten against the stone, the only thing preventing me from plummeting a quarter league to my death. Jamis has never been a merciful man. The thought of what he might do to Britta has me moving along the external wall, slowly, ensuring each foot placement and handhold is secure.

Each arm span takes me closer to Britta as I make my way toward the waste chute. Years have passed since I snuck out of the castle this way. I never imagined I’d use the waste hole to sneak back in. The smell wafts to me on a breeze. I try not to heave.

Commotion echoes from the castle. Every now and then someone yells. The slow going gives me too much room to think. The knowledge that I’ve let my people down weakens me to my core.

But I will fix this.

Whoever’s taken my castle will pay.

Jaw clenched, breath held, I hoist myself into the tight square opening that leads into the castle. The waste hole has been used frequently lately, no doubt in preparation for the Winter Feast. Crawling through the grime and sliminess has to be the worst kind of torture. Surely, every chamber pot in the castle must’ve been emptied today.

Pausing in the chute beside the servants’ stairwell, I listen for others. Hearing nothing, I push myself out of the hole and land on the stones of the narrow staircase.

The staircase leads to a number of suites. I pick the one I think has the best chance of being empty. Since I can remember, the doors have been locked to the queen’s suite. I move from her privy to her study. Cobwebs stretch across shelves like someone has thrown gossamer drapes over the books to keep them from dust. Though they are not effective. Dust lies everywhere. No one has been in this room in over twenty years. Not since my mother passed giving birth to me.

I take advantage of the quiet, needing a moment. Each time I blink, a mesh of gore, screams, and nobles I’ve known since childhood fill my head. Lord Tadmier, Lord Crenlin, Lord Greggor . . . ashen faces, blood dripping from lips, wives fallen beside them.

I grasp the edge of a chair, needing the brace. My fingers leave smudges behind. I am filth-covered and I smell like offal. I grapple with the horror, the memories, struggling to lock the evening into a manageable cell and push it behind what I must do. I cannot just stand here and break down. I need to locate Britta.

Though barely any light cracks through the drawn curtains, I squint to make out my mother’s quarters. Out of respect, I never broke in here. Now, I scan for something useful. A weapon. A change of clothes.

All there are to be found are women’s gowns and underthings, books, a hairbrush, and old powders that reek of rotten roses. I consider rubbing some over me to get rid of the fecal odor. Instead, I shed my coat, leaving it on my mother’s chair, and use one of her gowns to wipe the muck off my pants. She’d forgive me for this . . . so I tell myself.

I take my sword and dagger off my belt and start rubbing the cloth all over, wiping off the grime. It doesn’t do much for the stench, so I’ll have to deal with that later.

I grab my sword and dagger and move to leave when my knee bangs a table. A pewter goblet falls over and clangs on the wood. Before it rolls to the ground, I grab it, noticing how the inside is ringed with crust. When my mother passed—when they closed her rooms—there must have been liquid inside.

I bring the cup to my nose and inhale dust. It holds no clue as to what type of woman my mother was. I put the goblet back down and head for the door.

When I’m certain the hall is clear, I undo the old lock on my mother’s room and exit. The hall outside her suite leads to a spiral staircase. No sounds echo from above or below. Everyone must be down on the main floor, fighting. That is, I hope they’re still fighting. How many men were loyal to me? How many have died?

Pushing the anxious thoughts to the back of my mind, I keep moving, heading for the dungeon.

Halfway down the spiral stairs, two guards emerge from one of the connecting hallways. They see me, and for a brief slice of time, we all freeze. My sword bobs in my shaky hand. What are the chances these men truly serve the crown?

Any hope for fealty is crushed the moment they draw their swords. One of the guards mutters a command to the other, and then they rush me.

Captain Omar and Saul Flannery were expert swordsmen and they trained me well. Even if I haven’t experienced much true combat, I’m a better swordsman on the training field than any of my guards.

I draw my sword and shift my weight to the balls of my feet.

One man charges ahead of the other. I sidestep his movement and slam the pommel against the base of his head. He stumbles forward, hands crashing into the wall.

I turn to find the second guard and almost lose an eye. An arc of my sword parries an oncoming blow. He recovers and his blade slices up. I dodge it only to catch the tip as it comes back down. The sword slices clean through my shirt, but doesn’t hit skin.

My pulse gallops through my veins. I block another hit and cut through his jacket with an upward swing. Swords clang. We scoot up and down the stairs.

The guard falters against my speed, and I manage to get the upper hand. My blood recoils in my arms, as if begging me not to deliver a killing blow, but the urgency in the link to Britta takes away my hesitation. A thrust to the chest and I’ve effectively killed a second man. He drops on my sword, falling into me.

Before I yank it out, I spin us around to use the man’s body as a barrier. The remaining guard’s sword slams into the man’s body, giving me a chance to pull out my blade. Once it’s free, I shove the dead guard off me. He crashes into the second guard and they both tumble down the staircase. A sickening crunch tells me I’ve likely added a third death to tonight’s toll.

My innards go slick. A heave works through my chest.

I grit my teeth and force myself to hold it together. My steps are slow and cautious down the winding staircase, my movement almost silent as I head to the main level of the castle. The stairs wind to lower levels where the kitchens are located, but there’s no passage through the mountain base on which the castle was built from the kitchens to the dungeon. The only way to reach Britta is by exiting the stairs here, sneaking past the Great Hall, and taking the arcaded hallway to the dungeon.

I can sense Britta now faintly somewhere in the depths of the castle below. If I can get to her, I can get us both out. And the Mackay boy, if he lives. I do not allow myself to consider that one or both of them might be too injured to run.

“Bet he’s killed them by now.”

A voice from the hallway stops me from making my move. It belongs to a man—probably a traitorous guard.

“He’s gotten rid of them somehow. Plan was to get ’em to the cliffs.”

The other guard says something I cannot hear.

“He could do it.”

“Not all five.”

“What do you know? I’d wager the hunter and the captain.”

My stomach drops to my knees. One of the guards who went with Omar is a traitor. I rack my brain to think of whom Omar mentioned while we were in the dungeon—Cohen, Leif, Wallace, Ulrich, and one more man, Geoffrey.

“Naw, captain’s got ears like a mountain cat.”

“Whose side are you on?”

A snort. “Jamis’s, course.”

His name settles in my stomach like a millstone. I’d already figured he was part of the rebellion, but now I know for certain.

I peer out of the stairwell.

The dress shirt I’m wearing is whiter than a full moon compared to the muck on my pants. In the darkness of the courtyard, it’ll draw attention faster than a waving white flag. I put my hands on the floor of the stairwell, hoping to gather dirt. I rub what I can on my chest, though it doesn’t help much.

When the men leave, I dart out of the stairwell and continue along the ground floor. The quiet in the corridor amplifies each step. Each breath. Each beat of my heart as it tries to box its way up my throat.

I reach the west entrance to the Great Hall. Everything in me cries to stop and see the damage that was done, to see if I can help others trying to flee. But I force myself to move toward the dungeon. There’s too much risk of getting captured near the Great Hall.

Time is critical. There’s no telling what torture Jamis will inflict on Britta.

Two steps into the arcaded hallway, and voices echo from the direction of the dungeon. I duck into the draperies, hiding in the thick brocade fabric that puddles on the granite floor, grateful, for once, for my father’s extravagance.

The pounding of their steps vibrates underfoot as they near my location. I flatten myself against the window.

From their conversation, I can distinguish at least four separate men, but the clatter of their steps sounds more like two dozen people. As they pass, I peek through the curtain, surprised to see four guards surrounding at least thirty teenage girls. Jamis’s weapons. Their skin is splotchy. Some have gaunt eyes, while others are nearly swollen shut presumably from crying. All of them have bound wrists.

What can I do?

I wrap my fingers around the hilt of my sword. I stare hopelessly at a young girl in the back of the group. She’s wearing no shoes. Cuts mar her feet, and blood stains her skin. I sink against the window, letting the curtain swallow me. How can I possibly save them all?

Not a second after they leave, a snap sounds against the stone wall at my back.

I spin around.

Outside the castle walls, three guards have spotted me through the window. At the bottom of the hill, one has his longbow nocked. Bludger.

I leap out of the way. The window shatters as I scramble from behind the curtains. No doubt the guards just heard the noise.

I lurch into the nearest tower. Keep moving. I have to keep moving. The shouts get louder and soon the small group sounds like a herd of men. But I’m already taking the stairs two at a time, jumping through the doorway to the second level. There, I slip into a study, praying that no one has taken occupancy in this old room.

No one has, and in seconds I’m behind the tapestry beside the fireplace, shimmying down the narrow passageway that once was my playground.

Nobody knows this castle better than me. They can hunt, but they will not find me. Not before I free Britta and Finn.