Page 112 of Thorns and Echoes

—

His fingers trailed up the edge of the window. “This is a test, isn’t it?”

Placing his books on the table, Octavius glanced up. “What is?”

Castien tapped the shutters. “Vern's given me a way out. Another way, I suppose.” He gestured at the dagger resting on a small nightstand.

Behind him, the healer cleared his throat. “I advised fresh air. My recommendation was misinterpreted, I think. But since your thoughts are headed in that direction–”

The courtesan chuckled dryly. “No need to worry. I’m just not looking forward to our session.” Octavius refused to confirm who had designated this particular room to be his new cell, andVern always clarified before misunderstandings could occur. But if the assassin wanted him dead, he would need to do it himself.

The healer said, “I can return later.”

Castien slid into a seat and braced himself. “Proceed.”

During the last few days, Octavius had used his trance words and instructed him how to resist. Theoretical instructions, anyway. Frances had notes about what worked and what did not – they were using the things that did not. The man had not cared to experiment in ways to resist or remove the trance.

So far, nothing had any effect.

Since numbing his mind bolstered the trance, he was supposed to talk through the feelings of his capture. He clenched his fists as he recounted Queen Yelena's touch. The anxiety that accompanied his memories was manageable. The first time, a year ago, had been more difficult. This time, he'd almost acted like a courtesan. It had been more bearable.

The hollow ache was harder to put into words.

Intellectually, he knew what he felt for the Nadraken Queen was false. The compulsion was weak lamplight through a fog compared to the blazing sun that was Anais' smile. But a part of him was desperate to pierce the fog, to chase after the lamp like a moth. It felt like betrayal. The worst part was, he wasn't always certain who he was betraying.

Sometimes, in the middle of a sentence, when he was focused on his frustration, Octavius threw out his trance words. He fought. Using every ounce of torment he’d suffered, every moment he'd thought Anais was dead, he fought. He could not kill her again.He would not.

But he always lost.

Pain was his only reward.

The rattle of chains came first, dragging him screaming into the dark. His screams would echo back at him, growing in volume until he could hear nothing else.

When he finally regained control of his body, he was usually sitting in a hot bath, shivering despite the rising stream.

Other times, he was told to analyze his body's reactions. If his muscles tensed while retelling which nobles had been in court as he kneeled beside the Queen, he should take a break, breathe and relax. Control his emotions through his body. Take control of his own mind.

Octavius used the words more cautiously in these instances. Only when he was ready, when he was calm.

The pain didn't care how gently he was eased into the trance. If he attempted to take control, to fight, to resist – his own mind was there to punish him.

Twenty times, Octavius triggered the trance. Twenty instances, Castien would have poisoned her all over again. And again. And again.

Weeks passed. Anais visited every day. Two guards accompanied her. At first, he thought she had come to pass judgment on him. The guards entered first, then the Queen swept in, her emerald eyes pinning him where he stood. He wasn’t afraid. He held still to avoid rushing to her side, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in her hair – and very likely earning a sword through his neck from one of the guards. Might be worth it.

One day soon, when Octavius determined the trance was permanent and impossible to remove, the Queen would come to sentence him.

Until then, it was these visits that kept him going.

She brought the plants from his room, knives and wood, paper and ink. Like a servant, she bustled around while he sat terribly still. Watching her was a pleasure on its own. The wary guards faded into the background. A trail of floral rose drifted after her. If he didn't disturb her, perhaps they could both forget,for a moment, where they were, why he was here, what he’d done.

She didn't seem to mind his stillness. Some days, she only stayed for a few minutes. Every second was a gift. When she left, he closed the window and just breathed, pretending she stood right behind him. At least twice a week, she sat across the table and recounted events in court. Tea or wine would swish in her cup with each animated wave of her hand and disgusted curl of her lips.

Her voice was more relaxing than a sunrise or a bath. He could be anywhere, and, if he closed his eyes and simply listened, he’d be home.

“Are you listening, Escort?”

A faintly amused smile stretched his lips. “Always, my Queen.”