Page 27 of Nightingale (The Broken Kingdoms #1)

C astil caught wind of their trail soon enough after leaving Hawksmoor Keep. It wasn’t difficult considering that most didn’t choose to take the mountain pass, but those who wanted to avoid suspicion, avoid the guard checkpoints layered throughout the main road did. It was a longer trek to take the secluded path, only by six days but far more dangerous as well.

For two people on the run however, the risks were worth it.

If they’d been spotted on the main road, Rian would have been recognized without a shadow of a doubt. His red hair was far too noticeable and Vrea’s Niroulian complexion would have been called into question by his side. They wouldn’t have been able to make it two days, let alone twenty-seven. Carylimians didn’t bear the sepia skin tone, nor the wider eyes that tilted upwards at the very ends. They didn’t have the thicker hair or the natural curls that she did. Even her rounder face shape would have caused some suspicion since his people were known for their long faces, the almond eyes, the paler sets of colours. There were a handful of her people that had crossed over the border for a better life, ones that all went through vigorous interrogations to prove that they weren’t spies, sent by Casta.

Perhaps Castil just paid more attention to Vrea’s features than most would, but he still held a seed of worry for their journey. There was a part of him that was glad to chase after them, to make sure that they arrived without harm.

For the first four days, Castil didn’t stop.

Not to sleep, not to break, nothing but to empty his bladder and feed his stallion in order to keep up his energy. He threw back a few morsels himself as Atlas ate and drank, but nothing more than a handful of nuts and sun-dried apricots, a few slices of roasted meat with salt or a few berries.

Every heir of Hawksmoor was granted a special breed of horse, known as a Carylim Riekner. They all varied in different colours and markings but the stamina was incomparable to any other breed of horse imaginable. They could run for seven days straight without the need to rest. Their legs were corded with muscle and their bodies were designed to carry more weight than any other beast.

It was one of the rare things that they all looked forward to when reaching their fifteenth name day.

If they reached it.

It was almost like a reward, to live past a certain point. A cruel goal to reach, a savage mindset to have, a wicked way of life. But it was the only one, one that they had no choice but to follow. It was either be weak and allow the others to crush you under their boot, or fight to survive.

Survivor, he’d told Vrea.

Fighter.

Wounded and broken and beaten.

Castil allowed those things to stoke his fire, his will to live, to survive. To prove to others that he wasn’t as fragile as they thought him to be. His shell of a silent watcher only protected him so far, enough to stay alive within Hawksmoor but not enough to stand up it seemed. Because if it had, then he wouldn’t be here, tracking his brother and the pretty prisoner.

Atlas rode hard, his nostrils flaring as Castil pushed him even faster. They were making good time, but it could be better for the breed. He loved his mount and was surprised that his father even let him pick one in the first place thanks to the disdain that the King didn’t bother to hide.

Brioc had selected a mare that was as tall as the stallions, with a tan coat that was spotted with white and fur that tufted over the grey hooves. Regulus, unsurprisingly had gone for the second largest out of them all, a sable male named Shade that was from the same sire as their father’s pitch-black horse. Rian picked a grey stallion that he named Kohl, finding it beneficial to choose one with more girth than height, understanding that there was a possibility for more power within. Even Orla, on her rare occasions out of her secluded room, had been allowed to choose a mare for herself.

A pretty brown mare that never got taken out by anyone other than the stablehands that hated to see a beautiful beast wither and fade away. The same should have been said about his sister.

But Castil had found a similar expression in Atlas’s stygian eyes that he felt within his own. One that immediately had him claiming the tallest of them all. And within the years, Atlas had proven himself to be the best out of all the stabled Riekners.

Including their father’s.

Atlas could run twice as fast, double the distance and carry thrice as much as any of the horses in Carylim.

Hence why they were flying.

If Castil had to guess, he’d place good money on betting that he was only a day behind them or so, if the winds were kind and stalled the winter until after he reached his destination. Rian would have to make the journey back in the blistering snow, but the cold had never seemed to bother his sibling before.

They’d both fought in multiple battles during the winter before, something they were used to by now. In the last five years, Castil had personally served in seven. He’d fought at the front lines of two, saving the day with Polaris and wiping out more than a dozen of Niroula’s vanguard personally. Three of the fights had been on a whim as he’d happened to be in the area and hear the horn blow for aid. The last two had come as a direct order from the King, sending him out to war once again.

Battles that he’d remained inside the main tent, meant for any of the visiting royals and plotted a plan of attack with the captains and generals that were more than capable of handling the war on their own. They never complained about the presence of an heir, nor did they fight it but it was clear in their annoyed expressions and irritation in their voices whenever they spoke late into the night that they would have preferred for the Princes to stay at Hawksmoor Keep.

But the King insisted.

Castil surmised that it was another scheme to get him killed and nothing more since he was sent to the front lines far more often than any of his other siblings. Brioc volunteered to go, Regulus only fought when he couldn’t worm his way out of it and Rian was too prized for their father to risk him.

So Castil was sent more than any.

There was that fraction of him that didn’t mind it so much, because it removed him from his father’s vicious vicinity. Allowed him to breathe and feel, respected by the men he led and fought with. Even if it was a way to get him killed, it felt easier.

It hadn’t worked so far.

But his attempts were getting cleverer, even if they were also more obvious and desperate. One day, he’d find the root of the reason. As for now, he couldn’t find enough of a reason to care. One of his brothers was going to take him down or his father would do it himself. There was also the possibility that he’d outlive them all and help Rian rule from the sidelines if it came to that.

Castil had stopped to sleep before his skin fell off his bones and his mind would halt working altogether on the fifth day, nearly tumbling from Atlas’s back.

Enough was enough.

So he’d stopped and unfurled his bedroll, finding a comfortable position before falling deep into a black sleep. Exhaustion was such a drain on his system that he didn’t have time to make a fire before slumber took over.

He woke to the blinding autumn sun as it crested over the mountains, took a quick wash in the nearby river that was colder than a drift of sparkling snow and changed into a fresh pair of clothes before hastily washing the ones he’d been wearing and shoving them into his pack on Atlas’s rump.

The horse had been fed and watered, as had Castil and after he relieved himself, he swung back up onto the high height of the mount and began again.

He didn’t continue the draining pattern, instead stopping each night to rest and eat, to recharge himself before starting up again come the dawn. When he reached the scattered bodies of twelve men, he stopped riding only to see what had happened.

It was clear from the mismatch of clothing that they all wore that they’d stolen them off the backs of other men, which meant that they were bandits. It wasn’t uncommon for this part of Carylim, especially not in the mountains. They had different weapons alongside them, tossed and thrown aside as if they’d flung them as soon as death claimed them. There was dried blood everywhere, a horrific sight for any one who wasn’t used to the crimson liquid.

He traced the fight back to the start, eyes flicking to the very first spot where blood marked the jagged rocks that were perfect for a vantage point. He saw his sibling’s practised moves in his head as he watched it unfold in perfect replication.

Rian had been attacked first, which caused him to strike back. Two sliced fingers lay at the base of the stones, which was one of his brother’s favourite things to do when provoked. From there, Rian shifted into a double defense as several men rushed him at once.

Castil walked through the battle, one step at a time until he found himself standing face to face with the tall wall of stone splattered with red at a high point.

Too high for an arrow to have reached.

Unless the attacker had been halfway up it.

Immediately his brain allowed him to see the entire picture, as an imaginary Princess scaled the top of the wall like she had the sides of Hawksmoor Keep without fear or faltering. He couldn’t imagine doing such a thing himself, where courage and balls were both required for a daring feat of strength.

Castil smirked as he pictured the fierce female drawing arrows from his brother’s bow unquestioningly as Rian never went anywhere without it, and Vrea hadn’t shown a fondness for that sort of fighting before.

True, she hadn’t been given the chance.

He played out her countermoves inside his mind, and it was as real to him as if she were standing there in front of him. From the clearing on the mountain side, she’d shot down a good number of the attackers, even if there were no remaining arrows as indication of which.

It was still highly impressive that they’d managed to take on all twelve rogues and live to tell the tale. At least he assumed so, since neither of their bodies were anywhere around here.

He was thankful for that.

Castil took a look at every fallen foe, searching their figures for any additional supplies that he could use on his way and collected all of their weapons. It wasn’t like they were going to use them and if he was going to face the Blackleg Spiders by himself, he would need as many advantages as he could get.

He knew for a fact that if he’d asked for any company, the King would have turned him down. There was already a lingering suspicion that he’d forbid anyone from offering their assistance, or even agreeing to it if Castil approached them about it himself.

Which was why he didn’t bother.

If the spiders didn’t kill him, Casta would.

She thirsted for Moordian blood to paint her halls, to spill before her feet, to drink out of a gilded goblet. Honestly, the two ruthless rulers held more in common than either cared to admit. It was the reason that the war had ravaged on for far longer than it should have. They were both filled to the brim with pride and selfishness, unwilling to give up a single inch on the borders.

From one side of the continent to the other, tents lined the front. In Niroula and Carylim. Over the last ten years, neither side gained an inch into the enemy’s territory. They were both determined fighters, savage soldiers and fearless men who would risk it all for their countries, even if nothing but death had come of it.

Castil wondered what the outcome of a meeting with Casta and his father would be, if either would walk out afterwards or neither would. If one of them would draw the first blood and what their method of murder would be. His father was fond of poison, proven time and time again, but he’d heard stories about the wicked Casta who often rode out to fight herself.

To stand with her men and inspire them.

His father occasionally did as well, only to keep their men in line. To keep them fighting, is what he really meant. What good was fighting tooth and nail for a King that wanted nothing to do with them?

Castil heard the talk from the tired Carylimians, of how they were ready for the decades long battles to stop at long last, for everyone to lay down their arms. If only that were possible. But it seemed as if it radiated from camp to camp, spreading over to the Niroulians as well, since the tents were close. Some of the more daring men even went so far as to share wine and food with the other side during the peaceful breaks that seldom occurred.

Nights where ideas were passed back and forth.

For a little bit of time, sides were forgotten and weapons were laid down. The borders didn’t exist and neither did the ongoing war. They never lasted long before the generals rallied the fighters back to their sides and the battles started up once more, but it was nice for the time it did last.

In those scarce hours, talk of rebellion was heard.

It was always brief, like a tiny bug in the wind one moment only to flit by the next, as if it had never been there in the first place.

Whenever his hearing picked up on the whispered ideas, his mouth was sealed shut. If his father caught a whiff of one word of an uprising, every single man within the area would have been slaughtered in a vain attempt to pause any rebellion. Which was why Castil never spilled a single sound about it.

He didn’t care.

Let the men talk.

They were dying for a cause with no end in sight. What did it matter what they said whilst the groans, grunts and screams of the dying filled the air? What was angry talk compared to never seeing one’s wife and children again, or to the loss of a limb that would never be returned? Talk was cheap, and didn’t mean anything unless backed up by actions. Something that none of them dared to do.

They never would.

Not with his father on the throne.

Castil knew why Rian was doing what he was doing, why his plan was set the way it was. It was brilliant, far more daring than any of them could have hoped to achieve.

But it wouldn’t be him who saw it through.

Not as he strode away from the fallen foes and slung himself back atop Atlas. Not as he pushed his horse hard as they rode for the lands of Niroula, for Vrea and Rian. Not as Castil rode to take his brother’s place.

Rian would be furious.

Castil would be too.

He’d be stuck by the side of the woman he was supposed to hate, captured in a life that most certainly meant his end.