Page 33 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

Castien

Castien stretched his legs at the end of his third lap around the cottage, his muscles warm with just the hint of fatigue. A drink and another lap, then back to his garden. Verdant flowers and greenery flourished in the crisp spring air.

He spotted an unfamiliar horse tied to a tree. The palace’s weekly messenger was due. Castien was eager for news, and equally interested in Octavius’ report of his condition.

Physically, he felt better. His body moved with a comfortable grace again. He could dance passing well, though Octavius found curious ways to work a sword into his routine. It was not art, not fighting—something in-between that served to strengthen his body. He didn’t hate it.

His mind was a different matter. Sleep was difficult, made worse by nightmares that felt too much like memories. He didn’t protest the physical activity that brought exhaustion; it was often the only way to have a peaceful night’s sleep.

He jogged up to where the healer waited. The cottage door stood open, the messenger sipping a mug of beer within. Octavius held out a scroll. A few weeks back, the healer had started teaching him how to decipher their coded messages. That amount of trust had been surprisingly reassuring.

The scroll contained the usual military and rebel training updates, brief discipline issues for Octavius’ review, plus supply and maintenance notices. The coded message took a few minutes to understand: Queen ill several days. Recovered. Insect bite ? Unconfirmed .

His heart stopped and restarted too quickly. "She’s fine?" He had to be sure he’d read it correctly.

Octavius nodded.

He swallowed and returned the scroll with slightly shaking hands. She’d been ill and he hadn’t even known, couldn’t do anything. And he’d kept her healer too long. Something worse could’ve happened. If she’d been hurt and Octavius couldn’t help because the healer was here…

"How am I doing?" he asked.

Octavius grunted. "Good. You may be ready to leave here soon, if you wish."

"Good sounds promising. Am I ready for court?" Octavius hadn’t given such an optimistic outlook before.

"Eager to dive back into that madhouse?"

Castien picked up a mug of water. "I’d like to see her again." It had been difficult to admit that to himself at first, much less say it aloud. The healer’s honesty expected honesty in turn. Octavius never judged, ridiculed, or rejected his emotions. Even his anger—all he’d had in the first few days—was met with blunt, stern reasoning.

The healer nodded. "So would I. We will. She’s sturdier than a bug bite."

Castien watched him return the scroll to its container. "You never answered me. Am I still an Escort?"

Octavius’ usual scowl smoothed to an unreadable expression every time he asked this. "Do you want to be? Your contract was severed, your bond ended. She will not force you to stay."

His contract. He’d hardly thought about it, had simply assumed he’d return to the palace and her side. Was this what he wanted instead?

A little out-of-the-way cottage in an open field, a garden, time for himself. Peace. Quiet .

Boredom.

"Yes. I want to be an Escort."

Octavius considered him for a few moments. "Go take another lap. Think about it. I’ll answer you when you come back."

He didn’t need to think about it. He wanted to be useful and to be near her. Before he knew her, he’d wanted only his freedom and to run from the palace, before… everything. But he had his freedom now and he was freely choosing to serve. That was, if she still had a use for him, much less cared for him.

She hadn’t visited again.

Perhaps he could help with the rebels, watch over the children, or learn these ciphers.

When he returned to the cottage, the messenger’s horse was gone, and Octavius was saddling his own. The healer hopped onto the mount. "I’m going to the village for supplies. My answer’s inside."

What answer needed to be inside the cottage? It was a simple yes or no. Octavius was rarely cryptic.

More confused than concerned, Castien stepped through the door as trotting hooves faded into the distance. Nothing was different about the room except for an item on the table. A folded white letter sat on a delicately carved wooden box.

Castien,

If you’ll have me,

Anais

His fingers ran over the rose etched into the lid. He opened the box.

A ring sat atop a pile of soft black silk. The golden band twisted in the shape of a long, sinuous dragon with a rose-shaped ruby set in its mouth. Beside the ring lay a pair of emerald and gold bracelets, a matching set to the ones he’d seen adorning her wrists on special occasions.

The Consort’s ring.

She cared. More than cared.

His mind blanked as his fingers slowly extended toward a bracelet. Bracelets for the royal family . The Queen. With his fingertip hovering an inch above an emerald stud, he stopped. Went still. The letter drifted to the ground. He couldn’t catch his breath. His feet stumbled back. An ache throbbed in his wrist, and he rubbed it, tightening, twisting. Faint clanking and laughter echoed as he stared at the metal.

They’re nothing alike , he told himself. Bracelets, chains. His heart sped faster. His Queen didn’t laugh when she tortured people. No, she only wore a cold, cruel smile when her whip cracked through the air. His back twinged, and the air was too thin. Anais would not hurt him. He knew that. She wouldn’t take a whip to his back, carve her claws into his flesh, starve him until he begged for the food and drink he knew was drugged to make him obey.

Out the door he ran, gasping in the cool air and blinking at the bright sun. He sank to the wooden deck, trembling as the sun warmed his chilled and sweaty skin. He wasn’t ready. He wanted to be, but she wouldn’t thank him for pushing himself too hard.

She cared. Anais remembered him, wanted him, cared for him.

After a few minutes in the open air, after his heart calmed, he stepped back inside and closed the box.

Octavius said nothing when he returned. He only moved the box to Castien’s bedside, where it sat untouched for another moon.

—

He stretched, leaped, and spun. It felt so good to dance again. The air was warmer today, and sweat dotted his skin. His lungs and muscles ached with that well-earned exhaustion from a long, wonderful practice session. He stopped and panted, catching his breath. Endurance was difficult to rebuild, but he could feel the progress every day. Not as strong as before, not yet. Soon.

Octavius was restless. Castien thought the healer was only pushing him harder, getting his body into shape so that his mind might follow. He scowled at every message, snapped at the messengers. Octavius never so much as glanced at the box, but Castien wondered. He wondered, and he couldn’t stop looking at it.

How long had he yearned for a woman who wanted him? Not his body, not his skills. Wasn’t that the promise of the box? Consort. Partner.

His eyes ran over the rose and vines. At night, the faintest sweetness of roses drifted to his nose, possibly more memory than reality. He wanted more than a memory.

—

Meticulous in every detail. Miniature silver chains pinned the half-sleeves of his black silk shirt, the buttoned, gold-embroidered front displaying his chest in a deep slit. A few white scars still lined his skin, but most had faded with both regained muscles and Octavius’ care. Shimmering black leather hugged the renewed toning in his legs. He was a bit lean but had been pleasantly surprised to find these pieces fit so well.

Gliding out of the cottage, Castien found the healer brushing his horse. " Octavius. I’d like to return to court."

The Master-at-arms glanced back, his eyes pausing at Castien’s unadorned wrists. Frowning, Octavius grumbled, "You’re not ready."

Anger flicked across Castien’s brow. They had never spoken of the Queen’s offer, but clearly, the other Escort disapproved of his choice.

"Am I banished from court if I refuse her?" There was no hint of temper in his soft voice, murmured right behind the warrior as he gently touched Octavius’ hips. "If I no longer desire a woman’s touch." His hands moved, smoothly rising up the healer’s back, softly massaging as they traveled to his shoulders.

Octavius turned. "No, Castien. That decision isn’t the reason." He stepped out of Castien’s caress and grabbed the courtesan’s right hand. "Why aren’t you wearing bracers? At least a noble’s."

Castien smiled and tugged his hand free to straighten the sleeves of his shirt, his thumb running over the chains. "I don’t need them with you, do I?"

Octavius scowled darker. "Castien."

The courtesan sighed, turning towards the warmth of the sun. "I’ll wear the Escort’s bracers at court. I’m not stupid, Octavius. And I am ready. I need to be around people again, remember how to behave in that ridiculous place."

"Are you sure?"

The air was crisp with last night’s rain, the small birds chirping and chattering. Water hung sparkling from bright green leaves—dewdrops, raindrops, both. Nature was refreshing, endearing, calm. So very calm.

Castien removed the silvery bits of metal and clasped his hands behind his back. He preferred the rose pins anyway. Smirking slightly, he glanced sideways. "Yes. I thought I wanted to be a gardener or forester, but staying out here in this beautiful natural nothing is incredibly boring. And you don’t react at all to my charms; it’s demoralizing."

Octavius’ lips twitched in a faint, brief smile. "Fine. Next week, we’ll return to court. But until then I’ll be your reminder of what that court looks like." He removed a small whip from one of his pockets, slowly wrapping it around his wrist as Castien watched.

The courtesan nodded. "Then I better get used to my bracers."

—

Octavius’ persona shifted like switching a wooden blade for a live one. His gruff nature and concise words gained a sharp edge. Where there used to be kindness, practicality appeared instead. Castien wondered if the healer had more loathing for the pit of snakes or concern for their ailing Queen. No longer ailing, but still.

The ride to the palace passed in a daze. Too many thoughts crowded his mind. What if he wasn’t ready? Octavius wouldn’t let him return if he wasn’t ready, would he? Most of all, Anais claimed his musings. The Queen. He shouldn’t be so familiar with her; he had no right. It had been too long since they’d spoken—no matter that he spent hours every day imagining conversations with her.

Castien stepped into the bustling servant’s hall, the side entrance to the Queen’s Wing. A few maids and guards bowed at the Escorts’ bracers, but that was the extent of their welcome. Octavius excused himself to the healers’ hall, muttering about lazy apprentices and incompetent underlings.

The courtesan found he was grateful for the quiet entrance. Oh, he could have performed if the Queen needed to display him, but he was tired from the travel. Tired of performing, of pretending.

A few day's rest was all that he needed.

His room was the same. Neat, clean, recently dusted. The potted plants beside the window appeared in fair health, their soil slightly moist, sitting in the dimming sunlight of the opened curtains. The scent of long-dried rose petals and other aromatics was a comforting reminder of a place he'd begun to call home.

Perhaps everything else could also be the same. He found the baths empty and stepped in to clean off the road. Lifting an arm above the water, he imagined the bracelets on his faintly scarred wrists. Lips thinning, his arm fell back under the water.

She wouldn't force him to take the ring, of course. But they should talk. She hadn't visited him except once; Octavius had said the Queen was busy. He’d mentioned she had asked after him often, but she'd never sent a letter.

Well, neither had he.

A conversation was necessary. He slid out of the bath and wrapped himself in a towel. Everything in his wardrobe was elegant, but he chose something more casual. Then, slipping on his Escort’s bracers and picking up the box, he stepped back into the hall.

The offer in this intricate box felt too soon, too rushed. Her note had said too little—almost nothing. He was as confused as the first time he'd walked down another hall with a black rose prickling his palm. He had been angrier then, but no more understanding of the meaning behind the object in his hand. He smiled at how angry he had been, and perhaps still was a touch agitated, but it was mostly anticipation now.

Just before he turned the last corner, bright laughter echoed through the hall, shocking him to a standstill. Anais' joy was so rare, that he could never forget the sound. In the few instances he'd seen her laugh, she'd looked surprised, then pressed a hand to her mouth as though trying to put the outburst back in. His fingers had itched to pull her hand down so he could see her smile again.

As he let the sound of her laughter wash over him, next came her rich voice full of warmth and amusement. Loud and slightly reprimanding, yet still with a hint of laughter, she said, "Damon! You terrible man!"

Another low voice murmured a teasing reply, then a door closed and silence rang.

Castien looked down at the box.

This wasn’t her playroom. The only doors down this hall opened to her bedroom.

He remembered the interest in Damon’s eyes, his friend’s casual comments.

Octavius had mentioned Damon’s initiation to court as Lord Damon, the fifth son of a country baron. Octavius had not mentioned that his friend was so familiar with their Queen.

Castien stepped back quietly, turned around, and began the journey back to his room. Upon passing a patrolling guard, he handed over the box with instructions to return it to the Queen.

Of course, the Queen must have an endless crowd of eager suitors and lovers. And of course, she should accept as many as she chose.

They had barely shared a kiss. It had been moons since she visited. He'd been away longer than he'd known her. He shouldn't have presumed.

Nobody loves a whore .

Damon was better for her anyway.

And the Consort's ring? A regrettable moment of pity? Certainly not more than that. He could imagine her hesitating before leaving the box with Octavius, rather than offering it herself. Perhaps that was why her letter was so short. No doubt she would be relieved to receive the box with its contents intact. If he had been foolish enough to wear the bracelets, to think that she could still be interested in him, ever truly cared for him, a broken—

His mind skittered and his heart closed.

He walked blindly, his steps becoming a silent glide honed by anger and self-pity. The Queen's Wing was behind him now but the training circles were nearby. A perfect place to release his energy.

—

Fighting angry was distracting.

Fighting weak, exhausted, and angry was utterly foolish.

Thoroughly sore after being beaten to the ground, Castien wandered into the dining halls. He ached in more places than not, but a visit to the healers’ hall would earn him questions from Octavius that he wasn’t interested in answering.

Still, he almost turned away from the Great Hall. Some of the tables had been pushed aside, leaving the center open. The candles were half-lit at best, but the undulating mass of people was unmistakable.

They were dancing, he concluded while avoiding the bodies and approaching the food. If dancing involved mostly hip gyrations and sometimes multiple partners at once. A few were actually dancing, slowly swaying to the soft tunes of the likely exhausted musicians.

Gathering a sampling of finger foods and a half bottle of brandy, he sat away from the heaving mass and those who had fallen asleep on, around, or near the tables.

The food slightly reduced the odd feeling in his head, as though it was filled with a soft cloth and everything a bit muffled. Not a head injury—it had started before he’d thrown himself into the training circles, sometime during his walk out of the Queen's Wing.

That and exhaustion made him rather numb to the sight of the Great Hall. This wasn’t home, and it wasn’t comforting, but it was familiar. Sipping at the brandy, his wariness grew as several drugged or drunk revelers peeled off from the center. None gave him more than a sweeping glance after spotting his Escort's bracers and his guard.

The guard was new—she had attached herself to him on his way out of the Queen’s Wing. Octavius had mentioned all Escorts were assigned a guard now. She reminded him of his House guard, a comforting, soothing presence. The only good thing so far.

He took another swallow and wondered when she would strip him of his bracers. He didn’t belong here. Not anymore. Perhaps he should hand them over first.

His neck prickled. Castien turned to find a woman sauntering toward him. Lady Marissa. She came up right next to him, fingering her whip.

"Welcome back, you delicious creature. Looks like our Queen really doesn't let anyone else break her toys. You were a walking corpse a few moons ago."

His eyes darkened, then the fuzz in his mind mixed with the brandy, dim lighting, and faint music. He let them settle in.

Marissa was a lovely woman, if a touch older than his preference. Her long, wavy brown hair was almost black in the weak candlelight. She hadn't hurt him in the few instances he'd served her in the bedroom, and he'd never seen her use her whip harshly.

She'd do.

He stood and bowed with a one-handed flourish. "Alive and well, my lady," he crooned, straightening to display a slight curve to one side of his lips. "Care to find out how well?" he asked, extending a hand, palm up, his eyes glancing toward the dance floor.

Her brows shot up and she smiled, licking her lips. "Why not?"

The dancers remained in the same activities. The pair joined a corner of mostly upright couples, Castien leading the lady.

His hands went to her hips and pulled her close, sliding up her back, capturing her arms inside his embrace. She eagerly pressed against him, carefully running her claws along his spine. The muscles in his back tensed. He accepted the sensation. Welcomed it. Groaning, Castien tilted his head down to capture her readily open lips. Their tongues tangled and fought as his hands curled into her hair, keeping her in place.

"I didn’t think you liked me," she gasped when he eventually leaned back.

"My time away taught me to appreciate life while I’m still alive," he murmured into her ear before pressing his lips and tongue to her neck, the spiced cloves she wore a sharp contrast from the rose of the only woman he wanted to touch. He shut down that thought and breathed in deeply. She moaned as her hands tried to rub him everywhere.

"Some of you Escorts are as cold as the Queen. But you, mmm, you’re delicious fire," she purred.

Shut up . He tilted his head and caught her mouth.

Someone cleared her throat nearby.

"You’re late for training, Escort Castien," a gruff, formal tone suddenly announced.

Octavius. Someone from the training circles must have reported on him. Castien growled, his face still buried in the woman's flesh. "What are you talking about?"

"Have you forgotten already? You are assigned extra training until you are fully recovered, Escort. "

Castien glared at the healer, who stared back unblinking. With a soft snarl, he stepped away from Marissa. "My apologies, lady. It appears duty calls."

She snatched his hand and took one of his fingers in her mouth, glazed eyes watching him study the way her tongue swirled. Reluctantly, she let go. "Maybe I’ll see you later?"

"Absolutely." He bowed and followed the Escort.

They walked in silence until they reached an empty hall. Octavius waved their guards back, then turned to Castien.

"What are you doing?" he snapped.

"I’m not allowed to have fun?" Castien drawled.

"Not with them."

"Just because you have no interest in—"

"They will only hurt you."

"And what if that’s what I want?"

The words had slipped, but they felt true. A poisonous truth he had no intention of considering too deeply. Distraction was all he was after. Mindless, pointless distraction.

Octavius blinked. His frown seemed almost pensive. "Perhaps… But not with the nobles. If it’s pain you’re after, choose someone you trust. Thakris, Darius, anyone in the Inner Circle. But not them."

Castien scoffed. "I don’t need to be coddled. This is the only trust I need." He lifted a bracer-wrapped arm. No noble would dare hurt him, not unless he was stripped of his status. By the way Octavius stared at the studded leather, that wasn’t an impossibility. But so what if he did?

The healer’s scowl darkened. He shook his head and resumed walking. "The extra training is still required. You will report at dawn. I suggest you sleep if you intend to participate."

Castien looked back toward the Great Hall. "I’ll be there."

He didn’t feel like sleeping. Distraction beckoned. Sweet, cloying distraction.

A courtesan’s desires were always secondary. He was secondary. Expendable. The client’s needs came first. Ana— The Queen had ended his contract. He had no client, no House to serve, no one expecting anything of him.

But he could still be useful. He needed to not be sent away, to at least be allowed to be near her for a little while longer. Perhaps a week, or a moon, as soon as he could bear the idea, he’d go.

How had he let himself become so attached? His Master would be embarrassed. No one loves a whore.

And that was all he was.

He took a step toward the dining room.

The taste of cloves lingered. Revulsion turned his stomach. There were better ways to gather information. Bedplay was the least of his talents. His head ached. Perhaps sleep was best after all.