Page 94 of Thorns and Echoes

They didn't bother to take out the gag.

At Vern’s signal, the guards left. He stood outside the cell.

Don't let her see me, Castien begged with his eyes.Don't let her try to save me again.

Vern spoke. “Cooperate with Octavius. Tell him everything, Escort. This is your only warning.”

I'm not an Escort. I can't be.

Octavius would have to see that. If the healer’s heart was too soft, Castien would convince Vern. The army traveled slowly. He had at least a week, probably two, to wear down the steward’s loyalty and appeal to a father’s protectiveness.

Death wasn’t the only solution. If they sent him away – if they told her he had escaped – there would be no one to blame. She’d look for him, but the world was large. There was more beyond the five nations. He could find some distant land to live out the rest of his days. Perhaps he could find a cure.

As long as he wasn’t able to harm her and those she loved, it didn’t matter where he ended up.

Chapter 31

Vern

Grand entrances were for the vain, the pompous, and the self-important figureheads. Occasionally useful for impressing ambassadors, he supposed.

The only ambassador at court today was roasting her toes in the hearth.

The unfortunate lady’s screams were muffled behind a thick gag as two guards dragged her along the hot coals. If Vern recalled correctly, Baroness Paula Grishen had the dubious honor of being one of the last Nadraken emissaries alive. Two decaying corpses hung at the gates, their clothes still bearing a charred but recognizable nine-pointed star. As soon as he retrieved the bracelet from Satryani, he’d order them taken down. Death was permissible; filth was not.

The lady he’d been waiting for stepped into the Great Hall. Her dress was the red and gold of Drantar’s colors, voluminous and flowing. Six guards flanked her. The nobles bowed as she sauntered toward the throne.

The duchess was allowed to display the royal colors, accept the obeisance that was due the bracelet on her wrist, even sit on the throne. She could throw an ambassador on the coals and command the palace courtesans to dance.

None of that was worth his attention.

What stood out was the freshly cut rose pinned above her right breast.

While Satryani Kipos was technically a member of the royal family, she and the court were well aware that privileges did not extend beyond immediate family. Even Anais’ siblings knew better than to wear too many roses in their rare appearances at the palace.

And here was the duchess flaunting the flower like she was the Queen in actuality.

He had seen all he needed to see.

Security was lax in the Great Hall. Wearing the pale brown leathers of a guard’s uniform that Trishve had sent to the dungeons for him, he slipped in and out unnoticed. A few exhausted courtesans and servants paid him no mind as they trudged back to their halls. He separated from them toward the nobles’ apartments. Keeping his head down, he bowed to the few courtiers roaming the palace. They only saw his uniform, and the guards only cared if anyone attempted to access a room.

Vern stepped into the small garden off the middle of the hall. A single torch cast shadows across the path. He walked into the darkness, letting his eyes adjust. Other than insects, it was silent. The hallway was empty. Crouching and leaping, his fingers found purchase on the tops of the stone walls, and he pulled himself up. Throughout the rest of the palace, metal spikes adorned the walls, courtesy of a too-agile rebel boy. The nobles had declined such unsightly modifications, citing the guards and outer walls as more than sufficient protection. In this instance, Vern approved of the nobles’ decision.

All the better to sneak into the duchess’ chambers.

Hours passed. Patience was an assassin’s closest companion, and he had never had trouble sitting still and silent. He removed the metal bracers of a guard and replaced them with Escorts’ leather. Naturally, he’d chosen a comfortable chair in the corner. The windows let in little light with the moon hidden by theclouds. Only thin streams of torchlight edged through the cracks in the door.

Shadows cut off the light. Two thin feet. The door opened.

A servant – a young man – walked in, carrying a lit candle in his hand. Vern leaned forward and pressed a finger to his lips. The studs of his bracer flashed, eliciting a gasp and a hurried bow from the servant. Glancing at the candles in the room, then at the Escort’s dismissive gesture, the young man quickly departed.

The next figure to block the light swept through the door with a curse. “Why is it so dark in here? Guard, light the damned candles! Find and whip the lazy bastards who failed their simple tasks tonight. How did they miss my chambers!”

A guard entered with a torch and began lighting candles. Vern allowed the lady her tirade. Light flared by the door before he rose to his feet and bowed. “By my command, Duchess Satryani. Punishment won’t be necessary.”

The lady let out a far louder sound of shock than the servant had. Her hand flew to her chest. “Who dares–! Oh. Count Vern.”

Two more guards had rushed inside – her personal guards, by the emblem on their armor. A man to his right, a woman to his left. They had swords drawn, blades aimed at his chest. He raised his brow. They blinked in recognition and shared an uneasy look.