Page 30 of A Court of Masks and Roses (Royal Scout #1)

I move as quickly as I dare, stopping to listen every twenty paces. When the sounds become a consistent if still distant chatter, I must move farther from the guiding road. A dead scout helps no one. Crouching in the skirt of a wide oak, I try to piece together what I’m hearing.

Moans, pleas. The occasional crack of a whip.

“What do you want me to do, shrink the bloody forest?” The low baritone’s very clear and close demand launches my heart into my throat. Someone is coming my way. Likely a guard patrol sweeping the woods.

“I want you to keep the Messenger’s schedule,” replies a second, nasal voice. “We’ve neither men nor supplies to bed a hundred heathens for the night. March them to the temple abbey while the Holy Guard still holds patrol duty in Delta.”

My mouth dries. So these are the prisoners the roses were expecting, and there are a hundred of them. My back presses hard into the bark and I dare not move a muscle, even as a troop of ants marches across my shin.

“Through the dark?” says Baritone. He and Nasal are no more than ten paces from me now.

Nasal growls. “They are whisperers, aren’t they? Have them tune some crystals. If they want to keep their necks in one piece, they’ll keep the bloody things bright.”

Stars take me. Blood leaves my face, a chill settling deep into my bones. I went out looking for Viva Sylthia terror mongers, and instead I found hired thugs dragging a hundred whisperers to be sacrificed into Bahir’s care. Innocents. Like Leaf.

Another wail, this one too high to be an adult’s.

Bile rises in my throat. A child. A precious, rare child.

Little wonder Bahir and the Holy Guard do these harvests by night and in secret—seeing this much suffering up close might turn the minds of even the most devout Delta subjects.

Better for the whisperers to remain a faceless evil, easy to blame and hate.

The promise of a bright future and the love of a goddess gives hope and purpose to those who have nothing left, Firehorn said. Desperate people need someone to blame. The suffering of a few to give hope and strength to the many is acceptable.

My hand shakes. Even if I turn around and race back to Delta now, the king will do nothing.

“Tune crystals? You see a pack full of living stones somewhere?” Baritone demands, the sound finally moving away from me.

“We bed them down and keep watch. Pick one and make an example—that will keep them hobbled. Better one destroyed than several stray. How far do you want to sweep? I think rain is coming.”

“Half mile, no more,” the other replies. The sound of twigs crunching beneath their boots grows fainter until silence reigns again.

Watch and report. Observe. Don’t rush. Don’t interfere. And for stars’ sake, don’t risk exposure. That’s what Lord Gapral would tell me to do. But I can no more obey that than I could let a stable of horses be burned alive.

My body moves without consulting my common sense, taking me closer to the prisoners’ camp with each breath. Moving slyly through the woods is a painfully slow affair, and what would be a twenty-minute hike down a cleared road takes three times as long through untamed wilderness.

An hour. That’s what I think I’ll need to reach the prisoners.

Except I don’t have an hour. The sun is already setting and Baritone was right about the rain, the first drops of which are already pattering the leaves.

With the gray skies and no moon tonight, the darkness is coming faster than it should.

Another fifteen minutes and the forest will turn pitch black, making it impossible for me to continue without breaking a leg.

A light crystal would help, but it would attract the guards like moths.

Which leaves me with two options—do nothing or use the road.

My gut churns at the thought of that exposed path.

The guards who stride along it. Speed, stealth, proximity.

I can’t have it all. I have to choose. Somewhere in the distance, a lone wolf bays a song, clear and defiant despite the lack of moon and pack.

I am a wolf too. Not some girl Trace protects, but a predator. A force against darkness.

With shaking hands, I unstrap Leaf’s satchel from my thigh and slip it beneath the gnarled roots of a dense fir. If I’m captured, the love stone might lead someone back to Leaf, and I won’t risk that.

My heart races as I slip onto the open road and rush forward, pushing myself as fast as my legs can carry, my knives sliding into my hands.

My best—my only—chance now is to beat both the setting sun and the two patrol guards back to the camp.

Once there, I’ll have the element of surprise to conjure enough chaos for the prisoners to melt into the imminent darkness.

It’s all about timing now. Timing and luck.

My feet pound the path lightly, the drops of cold rain splattering my nose and cheeks. Thump, patter patter . Thump, patter patter . I push myself forward. Faster. Smoother. The prisoners can’t be far now, not with a babe’s mewing cry sounding so heartbreakingly clear in the setting gloom.

I’m coming, I shout to the whisperers in my thoughts. I’m coming.

Thump, patter—

I don’t see the guards until two sets of meaty hands clamp on to my arms, slamming me face first into the ground. Razor-sharp steel presses into the base of my skull, drawing blood.

“Who are you?” Baritone demands .

My breath catches. Between the knife at my neck and my face pressed into the dirt, it is a struggle to form words. “Kal,” I pant the word. “Guardsman trainee.”

“Aye, I’ve seen the dimwit at the palace,” Nasal confirms.

My heart stutters in surprise and I try to turn my head to get a look at the man, but the blade keeps me still. A boot steps on my right hand, pulling my knife from my grasp, then repeats the process on the other side.

“Are you not a wee bit far from the keep?” Nasal asks.

“Ran... away.” I swallow, my aching hand tightening around a rock. “My sponsor... He’s a lash-loving bastard.”

“And where were you running to?” Nasal inquires with calm curiosity, as if we were having a normal conversation.

“I was following a stream,” I say honestly. “Then found this wide path. Heard voices. Was going there.”

Baritone clicks his tongue. “Running away never helps things, you know. Usually it just leaves you dead. Allow me to demonstrate.” The knife cuts deeper into my flesh, making a warm, viscous stream run down my neck.

I gasp.

“Wait.” This comes from Nasal.

The knife stops and Baritone makes a questioning sound in the back of his throat.

“You are the one who wanted an example to hobble the heathens,” says Nasal. “Don’t kill him yet, not until they see.”

“True,” Baritone growls under his breath, and the knife withdraws from the back of my neck.

I seize upon the reprieve and swing the stone I’ve palmed into Baritone’s knee. Rock hits bone, sending a satisfying vibration down my shoulder.

Baritone curses.

I scramble to my knees, only to fall back down as a boot kicks my ribs and tips me like a bug onto my back.

I recognize Nasal now—one of the roses who occasionally passed through the keep.

His name is Miles, I think. Not that it matters just now.

Leaning over me, Baritone spits into my face before plunging my very own throwing knife hilt-deep into my left thigh.

A heartbeat later, my other blade pierces the right.

I am not bleeding fast enough.

If they just pulled out one of the knives, I might bleed faster. Might go unconscious. If I’m very fortunate, I might die.

“Bring him closer to the fire,” Baritone orders. “I want everyone to see what awaits them should they try to flee tonight.”

I scream as they haul me forward, the pain exploding through every ripped muscle fiber.

It’s been minutes since I was captured. It’s been hours.

It’s been years. Long enough for the dozen guards in charge of the prisoners to have built a fire beneath a dense tree, illuminating the clearing where the captured whisperers are bedding down for the night.

Long enough for the first demonstration.

“We’ve already discussed the consequences of disobedience,” Baritone tells the hundred hollow faces staring at me through the smoke.

His voice is calm, as if instructing a class of novices, and loud enough to carry over the sobs and retching.

“Before I bid you goodnight, I wish to discuss the consequences of running. Some believe ropes and chains are needed to keep a rabid animal at bay. But that is utter folly. All you need is to hobble the beast. This is how it’s done.

Miles, shatter the boy’s legs, please. ”

The man I’ve called Nasal unhooks an ax from his belt and stalks slowly toward me.

“Why are you doing this?” I yell at him, fear tearing at my throat.

“You are a holy guardsman. You trained beside me, you—” I give up shouting as Miles approaches, struggling instead against the two men holding my arms. They only torque my shoulders until my protests become babbling screams that even I cannot understand.

My eyes are wide, my heart ripping through my chest as my breaths fall in short desperate pants.

The last thing I see before the back of Miles’s heavy ax strikes my shin is his loose shirt collar shifting open and a Viva Sylthia tattoo flashing in the firelight.