Page 77 of Thorns and Echoes

Partway down the hall toward the laundry room, between clusters of rushing servants, he tripped and fell to his knees.

His guard laughed. “You don't have a chance of winning the tournament. Can't see why the Queen likes you so much.”

When the guard bent to grab his arm, Castien twisted abruptly. The man's arm popped. Castien leaned harder and threw the guard onto the floor. The loud thump called too much attention. Servants startled. Castien pulled the guard’s dagger. Without hesitation, he drew the blade across the man's neck.

Corpses can't fight back.

His fingers flexed on the hilt. He dropped the weapon just as someone screamed. Snatching up the clothes that had spilled with his fall, he dashed toward the closest stairs.

There were few guards in this part of the castle. That was good. He could probably kill one in a fair fight, maybe even two. But he was feeling a bit queasy, and the blood staining his fingers didn't help.

He had killed before. This wasn't his first time taking a life. But that memory was hazy – different guards, a different palace. He shut it down. All of it.

In a dark, quiet alcove, he threw on the grey-brown servants’ garb. Blood smeared the shirt's hem. It would have to do. He only needed to get past the guards and find the Escort.

He dropped his red clothes behind a pillar and walked quickly but steadily to the stairs. No one passed him. It was oddly quiet. Had all the guards been sent after Anais? She should have made it out by now. She must have.

Ready with an excuse of cleaning chamber pots, Castien entered the guard room. He halted at the stream of red liquid.

The door to the dungeons was open. Slumped on a chair was the guard. Blood spread out beneath the chair.

Bile burned the back of his throat.

Perhaps the Escort had already escaped. Anais would have had plenty of time to come here after he'd told her to run. She had been injured but not too badly.

Swallowing thickly, he unburdened the guard of his sword. He couldn't leave without making certain.

In the open doorway, the stairs loomed. Harsh memories intruded, every step of these stairs intimate and dreadful. The light would dim after five steps. There was a crack he'd slipped on at the ninth. Torches lined the walls sporadically. Their flickering flames danced higher in his mind.

He forced himself to take a step. Just one. Shadows encroached from all sides. Another step. Another. His foot instinctively avoided the crack. Twenty steps in all.Almost there. How many times had he climbed these stairs?Just keep going.

At the bottom, his breath didn't come any easier. Staring straight ahead, he walked past the cells. Chains rattled and prisoners groaned. The reek was another piece of his memory. This first level held petty criminals – thieves, charlatans, anyone who had crossed the path of a noble in a foul mood. None of them were dangerous. None of them deserved to be here. He walked faster.

There should have been at least one guard patrolling. At the opening to the next stairs, there were usually two.

Only one body guarded the stairwell.

It was headless.

Clashing steel echoed from beneath.

Castien gripped his sword tightly and hurried down, almost tripping on another body. This guard had the luck of retaining her head, if not her life. Cries bounced off the walls, sounds amplified and misdirected by the cells. The second floor of the dungeons was where the political prisoners, murderers, and blasphemers were tortured. He only glanced at the cells longenough to ensure they were closed. The prisoners were quieter than he remembered. Faint mockery echoed in his memories. His mouth was dry as he continued on without finding the conflict.

Only more bodies. Several wore a red gash on their necks, blood wet and running. He couldn't avoid stepping in it. A few sported daggers in their hearts.

None were alive.

There was one particular hall he would not go down. If the Escort were there – if Anais were there…

Castien rolled his shoulders and breathed. He wasn't being dragged along in chains. He had a sword. He knew how to use it.

Mistress had called him a weapon. She wasn't here to wield him.

Movement scraped along the edge of a wall. Castien stepped into the shadows and lifted his sword. A few cells down, chains clanked and shook. One of the doors was open. The movement became a figure – a guard in armor stumbling toward the cell.

As soon as the guard stepped inside, Castien rushed behind and thrust his blade into their knee. The guard crumpled. Castien bashed the guard’s head with the pommel of his weapon. Stepping over the prone body, he scanned the cell.

“Jerome!”