Page 22 of Nightingale (The Broken Kingdoms #1)
C astil threw shirt after shirt in, angry at himself and angry at his father who demanded he chase after Vrea and Rian. The two people in the world that he cared about, a mistake in itself since they were both being used as pawns against him by the one person who could. The one person in either realm that seemed to not have a single human emotion, empathy or anything like it.
He shoved his pants in, not caring enough to fold them in an orderly fashion. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he was coming back here. Not by any reason except his execution, chucked over the war camps like Daria had been, which he was completely prepared for. He was ready for a fast death, which was unlikely considering where he was headed, or one on the road. He thought about ending it himself and letting things fall into their natural place. If it could even be called that in the Kingdoms where natural selection was taken up by whoever felt up to the task, choosing who lived and who died themselves like a voluntary god of death.
Castil tossed his sword atop the pile, a blade named for the brilliant steel that was a mirror of his long hair.
Polaris, like the star pattern in the sky.
It wasn’t the brightest ball of fire to be seen, but one that stood out to him the most. He kept it close at all times, thanks to the murderous trait of familicide that they were all trained to participate in like some sort of sick entertainment. As if their father marked their scores on a piece of parchment and moved them up by rank depending on how fantastically they wiped their kin out.
He wouldn’t put it past the cruel, vicious bastard.
Kinslayer seemed a more appropriate name for his sword, since they were all urged to wipe out as many as possible before they were wiped out themselves.
He packed a second pair of boots, knowing full well that the road would be rocky, even if he intended to take his white stallion for most of the journey. He tucked in vials of his favourite poisons, the ones that his body couldn’t last without now thanks to his small doses that he took three times a week. He made sure to wrap them in his tunics to protect the glass jars instead of leaving them to roll and clutter around his bag and break into shards that could cut him if he wasn’t careful. He could easily restock on the exact types anywhere, since they weren’t uncommon. The supplies would last him the length of the journey, perhaps a bit longer.
That wasn’t all he added, either.
Castil fingered the last vial, eyeing the crimson plant on the inside, the one he’d been tending to in the garden for two years now as he nurtured it to grow and thrive, to bloom. He’d even given it a name, one that he was proud of.
Nightbane.
A hybrid plant between a poison that his father was tolerant to, mixed with another to create a new sort of subspecies that he couldn’t avoid. It still needed to be tested on someone without mithridatism tendencies, hence why he’d snipped two flowers off the shadow-veined stems and placed them in a transportable vial for his trip, just in case he needed them. It wouldn’t hurt to use it against his enemies, either. He’d given strict instructions to the few servants he trusted that took care of the garden as well, to keep it alive just in case of a miraculous return.
A play on the name of the plant that his father had tried to kill him with, too. The irony of it being the one thing that would kill him.
But if Castil didn’t return, then using it on Greenvasses wasn’t the worst. Eamin most certainly was the first target to appear in his mind, for the letter he’d sent ahead of his sister.
The one that had alerted his brother to her presence and plan, with a specific description of her looks to keep an eye out for her. Regulus had shared the letter with him, only for the sake of laughing and mocking the inside traitorous acts that occurred with the Greenvasses. Killing each other was one thing, but working alongside the enemy was another.
A line that once crossed, could not be returned from.
Castil pondered over if Regulus was still in league with Eamin, if the two were working side by side to create a havoc-ridden world where they were placed on either throne, ruling opposite with a fucked up kind of respect for the others.
The Kingdoms would burn if that was the case.
The broken, shattered territories that were only becoming more damaged with each battle, each prolonged extension, each tally of death they were stacking up. Neither was excused from their share of the blame.
He considered putting Regulus out of his misery before leaving, finding it not to be as terrible of an idea as before. Just like with ending their father, Regulus had been up next on his killing list, even if there was no time limit alongside his name.
He was done packing his supplies, finding his sword on the bed and staring deeply at it as if it would come alive and tell him the correct thing to do.
In this world, there was no correct thing.
Without a second to think about it, Castil grabbed Polaris, throwing his bag over his shoulder and striding out the door.
If his father was going to force him to leave, then he’d sure as hell stir up some commotion before departing. One last fuck you to him before he was out of the King’s life for good. A final act of disobedience to show that he was just as strong, as devious as any of the other heirs. Just as worthy of the throne and crown, even if he was only the fourth Prince and third in line to rule.
Second, after this.
It only secured his decision.
He didn’t mind Brioc, and he didn’t want to be the one to end Rian. Truthfully, he hoped it was Rian on the throne of Carylim at the time. The man might have some terrible ideas, wretched plans and horrible thoughts of how to lead but he was the least amount of evil out of them all. Castil would take it up happily, but Rian wanted it more than he did- so stepping aside and letting him have it wasn’t an issue.
Rian had shared more of his plan with him before Castil left, stewing over the detailed, wonderfully devoted steps and contemplating joining them on the journey. He decided against it at the last moment, knowing full well that Vrea would be able to handle herself if something happened. She didn’t need him by her side like the White Knight he was made out to be.
She didn’t want him.
She wanted Rian, if the heated, half-dressed encounter in the corridor was any indication. Rian could take her home, enact his ideas and bring about an end to the war.
He wouldn’t kill her.
That was all Castil needed.
Castil stalked down the hallways of Hawksmoor, his home for the beginning of his life. He passed busy servants who glanced in his direction, noticing his supplies and rushing to find others to gossip about his leave. He didn’t give them any heed, centering his attention towards the end of the long corridor, turning left and then tapping down the singular set of stairs of wide stairs.
He pushed off the last marble step and found himself a couple feet from Regulus’s door, halting just before in case any part of him wanted to turn around and ignore the moronic idea of manslaughter. He checked with every part of himself, dug deep to the root of his soul and searched each inch of his heart to find nothing that held him back.
Perfect.
Murder it was.
Castil didn’t bother with the formality of knocking; instead twisting the handle around and swung the door open, propping himself against the frame like a sly fox as his older brother poked his head out of the adjoining bathing room to see who’d bothered him.
“Go away, I’m in the middle of something.” He said by way of greeting. He flicked his fingers in the air in a weak dismissal. As if that would do anything to dismantle his reason for coming here.
“Don’t you mean in the middle of someone?” The fourth Prince corrected with a disapproving lick of his tongue. “I could hear her all the way on the floor above.”
Truth.
A feminine squeal of horror mixed with embarrassment sounded and a high, masculine laugh followed a second later. Regulus didn’t bother to shut the door behind him as he appeared fully naked in the bedroom portion of his chambers, bedecked in rich gold things and red furniture that contrasted quite well.
He’d never been shy about his body, even if he lacked the girth in certain areas. Regulus claimed it didn’t matter, since he knew how to use it properly.
It wasn’t very big.
“Why are you here?” His almost black eyes dropped to the bag at his siblings’ side. “Are you leaving?”
Castil nodded once. “The King’s ordered me off.”
“Have fun getting away from this place. The last time Father sent me on a trip, well I came back with a few more scars than before.” Regulus reached behind him and grabbed the girl by her forearm, yanking her out of the bathing area and playfully shoving her towards his large bed with a firm slap on her curvy backside.
She flipped around so that less was revealed to Castil, but there was still enough of her ebony skin on plain display. He saw that it was the same girl that entertained Rian a couple weeks ago, even if her shining head only bore a scented oil instead of silver swirls. Which meant that their diversion plan to distract their errant brother from entertaining the idea of bedding Vrea, had worked far more brilliantly than either had thought.
Though with who they were related to, they truly should have taken that into consideration.
“I have no doubt that if I return, much will have changed.” He set his bag down by the door within easy reach and began to toy with Polaris, like he was fascinated in the weapon.
The handle had been beaten into submission in a design that curved around his hand like an additional guard, with intricate swirls that followed in rapid succession. Ebony leather had been pulled tight around it, a star cast into the silver at the hilt. Castil had used the pointed addition several times, jerking it down into a rivals’ neck in a time of haste.
“Where are you going this time?”
“Niroula.”
“Like Rian?” Regulus questioned, a sign that he’d been the one to inform the King about the disappearance of their brother, as well as the missing prisoner.
If there was any hesitation on his part, it vanished like wavering smoke in the air with that tiny detail.
“Follow up on Rian, actually. The King, our dearest, darling, most affectionate father, wants to make sure things are done a certain way.” Castil removed himself from the door frame and withdrew his sword, bending the blade back and forth as Regulus fell silent.
Unnaturally so for someone who loved to hear himself speak. To make any noise, actually. Regulus wasn’t a fool, even if he acted like it at times.
Castil glanced upwards to find that his assumption was correct. That was reluctant understanding that quickly settled on the tanned skin of the long face in front of him.
“Don’t do it, Castil.” He croaked quietly.
For once, Regulus dropped any act of arrogance, of self-love and the way he held himself up as if he were better than them all and he wanted them all to know it as much as he did. A different person stood before him, one that Castil might have been guilty for contemplating death.
If it hadn’t been an act solely for the purpose of convincing his younger brother not to kill him in cold blood. It was only a matter of time before Regulus tried to put him out of his misery, as he boasted about several times. When he was one or two cups of wine too deep, the male often bragged about how he’d kill them all and take a vicious sweep of them all in order to secure the throne.
“As for my reason for coming here, I’ve come to kill you.” He said it as if it was nothing, just a friendly visit from one brother to another instead of a final farewell and the slip of silver to skin as it created scarlet in seconds.
Regulus had no chance.
There were no weapons within his arms length, which was a mistake on his part. All of them should have slept with something handy, for this exact reason.
“Very funny, brother.” He tried to joke, his eyes nervously shifting around the room for anything he could use to defend himself with.
“Is it?” Castil inquired. “I’ve never been the humorous sort.”
“Extremely.” He said dryly, still laced with terror that reeked like piss and poor choices. “Now put the damned sword away.”
“No.”
The girl on the bed watched with an eager fascination that belonged to a bloodthirsty beast, a lion waiting to pounce. Perhaps she wasn’t here on her own accord, as Regulus was often fond of doing. In order to survive in Carylim, one must be as brutal and ruthless as the land itself, to do whatever was required to thrive. It was no place for fragile little does and captured songbirds to sing songs of misery and ballads of heartbreak.
Seemed it ran through their family.
“ Don’t do this,” He repeated, low and scared. “You won’t take the throne, so what does it matter if I live or not? It’s of no consequence to you.”
He was rambling, a terror in his tone.
Castil took pleasure in that.
“I really don’t have to,” He started, as if he might tuck Polaris away, turning around and forgetting that this little incident ever occurred. “But I really want to.”
Regulus’s face paled, turning to a shade of ivory that almost matched the carpets. “Why? I’ve never tried to kill you before. I talk a big game, that’s all. If I really intended to do that, don’t you think I would have already?”
“Because I can’t let you be King. Because you and Eamin devised a cunning little plan to take both Kingdoms in a few strategic moves.” Castil said, and struck faster than a venomous serpent. He plunged Polaris into his brother’s chest with a swift motion so quick that Regulus didn’t have the chance to duck out of the way. There was a slight pressure, an intense heat that poured over his hand and then the wet gasp that came next.
“Guess you’re moving up.” He grimaced, blood running from the corner of his mouth as he held onto Castil’s shoulder for dear life. Not that it would do him any good. Castil knew where to efficiently strike. “I guess if any of you were going to kill me, I should have known that it would have been you. Brioc’s as dumb as a rock, and Rian is too… nice to kill any of us again.”
He twisted his sword even deeper, earning a broken groan in return. “I think you underestimate him. Rian is more than capable of murder, even if you buy his bullshit story about the accident and Raj. He planned for that all along, even went so far as to goad him into trying to kill him.”
The girl on the bed grinned, swinging her legs off and standing. She tipped her head in silent appreciation at him before strolling to the bathing room to collect her clothes and leave.
“And here I thought you cared for him.” Regulus wheezed, his eyes rolling towards the back of his head as his body went stiff, then limp.
The sickening rush of it poured over him, the finality in his actions. But when the crash of killing a man tore into him, he found no regrets in his actions.
“Don’t get me wrong, I do . But only because he’s the least terrible out of you all.” Castil uttered down at him, gently lowering him to the floor, “But that’s not a very high standard now, is it?”