Page 93 of Thorns and Echoes

The log settled with a pop and a flare of flame.

In the last few days, he had realized he didn’t want to die. Being near her had made thinking impossible. He had concentrated on willing himself not to hurt her. He had watched her with a naked hunger that had completely replaced his appetite. He had listened to every word and sound she made.

Then there was silence. So much silence. Oh, yes, birds, insects, wind. Horse farts. Nature was horrendously tedious.

And his nightmares had returned like an addiction that had simply forgotten about him for a while.

Firelight reflected off Vern’s knife flipping end over end in the air. He caught the blade between different fingers, flicked, and caught it again. Eventually, he turned his wrist and let the knife fall into its sheath. He whistled.

Ash padded into view, her large paws soundless on the forest floor.

Vern whispered, “Guard him tonight.”

Firm but fond. The wolf was loyal, after all. Castien briefly held the creature’s eyes, then dropped his gaze.

The wolf was also warm.

His dreams were still dark. He was running, searching for something. Skulls and bones lined his path, blood dripped from the trees, and thorns caught his flesh. No roses. No whispers.

A growl reverberated through his chest.

He blinked awake. The sky was pale. Dew gathered on the grass. He was standing.

In his hand was a knife. Why was he holding–

The next thing he knew, air fled his chest, and his back slammed against the ground. Vern pressed a thumb into his wrist. His fingers twinged, the knife fell.

Castien’s bedroll had been across the fire from the horses. Vern slept a few feet away. Except, Castien now lay on the ground on the wrong side of the fire.

He didn't remember getting up. He didn't remember walking.

Around Vern’s forearm was a set of knives. Two were missing. He hadn't picked them up last night.

Castien gasped out, “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…”

Dark, cold fury stared down at him. The eyes of death. Sweat broke out on his back. His heart hammered. He didn't want to die.

Fury simmered into suspicion. The assassin pushed up to his feet, taking the knife with him.

His mouth was dry. He croaked, “Vern, I–”

“Be silent. If you cannot, I will gag you.”

Incredulous, he sat up. “For how long? An entire week? Why can’t I talk? I don’t know what you think a few words will–”

Vern pulled a rag out of his pocket and began rolling it up. Throwing his hands in the air, Castien shut his mouth.

As his heart rate slowed, he lost his anger. The assassin was right, of course. Vern couldn't trust him. Whatever length of leash Anais had convinced her father to give him had just been drastically shortened.

After a cold breakfast, Vern walked over with a coil of rope. They didn't exchange a word as Castien extended his wrists.

—

He walked into the palace this time. Wrists bound and mouth gagged, flanked by four guards, not counting Vern, caging him as he entered through a tunnel beneath the military wing. The stone walls opened to a cavern lined with a few flickering torches, the flames illuminating metal bars and doors.

The dungeons.

Two of the guards shoved him into a cell and untied his wrists, only to lock them into chains. He sucked in a shallow breath.