Page 36 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

Castien

The nobles’ touch became abhorrent. Their lies, their scent, their avarice. They were not Anais. They did not have her peculiar mix of dangerous ice and fire that burned and melted him, seared and calmed him.

That didn't mean he avoided court. There was nowhere else to go. His friends no longer trusted him, and he hardly blamed them. Neither Damon nor the Queen needed his presence destabilizing their wary peace.

It was worse in the Queen's Wing, where the Inner Circle cast suspicious and judging looks his way. As he deserved.

The next time he saw her there dragged a jagged knife across his heart. Her smile had faded and her court mask lowered. The Queen looked at him. Not Anais, not the woman who laughed with children and danced with joy. Jerome openly glared. The captain gripped his sword and took a step toward him, only stopping at the Queen’s command. Castien wondered if he would have bothered to defend himself.

He stayed out of the Queen's Wing as late as possible, heading straight to his room and ignoring everything else. Especially the children. He shouldn’t—couldn't—be near them with his volatile temper and filthy hands.

—

The dining halls were fuller than usual. Spring harvests made for grander feasts—bait for the cruel mice. A pity there was no trap.

Castien glided his way through the crowd with a full plate in hand. While searching for a seat, he spotted Marlow at the same time the eunuch noticed him. Marlow changed course to stand before Castien, the Master’s hand reaching up and hovering in midair.

"Oh, even with those scars on your face, you’re a pretty boy. But your skin, a travesty." His face was a caricature of sorrow as he examined Castien’s exposed chest.

Before he could think, Castien snatched the man’s hand from the air and brought it to his lips. He kissed the palm of Marlow’s hand. The man froze.

"At least I’m still whole," Castien murmured. The cold words seared his heart the moment they left his lips. He dropped the hand and turned away.

Thin leather snapped around the eunuch’s wrist.

"Are you done with this creature, Escort? I’d be pleased to remind him what a man looks like." Not waiting for Castien’s reply, the noble leaned in close and pressed his lips hard against Marlow’s mouth.

Marlow’s whimper was filled with fear. Castien’s chest heated, fire spreading as he studied the Master’s wide, panicked eyes. This was not who he was, could not be who he was.

He turned back. "No, I’m not done."

The courtier frowned. "My apologies, Escort." The whip fell and the noble walked away.

Marlow rubbed his wrist and glared. "What do you want with me?"

"Nothing." His appetite had fled, but he found a relatively isolated seat and ate anyway.

The eunuch followed .

"Do something," he hissed in a low voice. "Slap me, hurt me, I don’t care what. Maybe you haven’t been paying attention, but Escorts don’t just save the likes of me."

"Clearly, I’m different."

His lips twitched into a sneer. "No, you’re not. Whatever’s bothering you doesn’t make you any less an Escort. I don’t know what she does to you all, that you’re so… cold. Just do whatever you’re going to do."

Marlow was afraid of him. And he was right—Castien had gone cold. The other Escorts kept a careful distance to avoid confrontation, refused to react to anything lest they react to everything.

Castien had struggled with that distance. Before. But now he wore it like armor, like a wall that blocked out everything.

The Master of Courtesans was shaking. Castien sighed. "Marlow, I’m not going to do anything. You… were kinder than the nobles, before I became an Escort. Call it a settling of scales. Nothing more."

The man’s breathing slowed, his hands shaking less violently. "Nothing more?"

"Go away, Marlow."

Another sidelong glance and the eunuch rushed off.

It had taken him too long to notice Marlow’s fear. Castien contemplated the courtiers, who turned aside after a glance at his bracers and grim expression. At the next table, the man’s lips moved but his companion stole glances at someone else. At another table, a lady held the leash on a woman who smiled prettily but her shoulders were too tense.

He hadn’t lost the ability to read people. He just hadn’t been looking. At anything. Quickly finishing his food, Castien strode out of the hall.

Long, swift steps brought him to the practice circles. Few people occupied the area, but Octavius examined a pile of leathers in a corner.

Castien stopped, hesitating.

"What do you want, boy?" Octavius snapped without looking up.

He suddenly wasn’t sure.

"Speak!"

"I— Octavius—"

The Master-at-arms stood, swiftly closing the distance between them.

"Is this what you want?" Octavius stopped less than a foot away, his thick, furrowed brows cast down over dark eyes and with what must be disgust thinning his lips. His rough hand shot out to grip Castien’s jaw and force his head up.

Meeting hard eyes, Castien found a bitter taste crawling up his throat. A day ago, perhaps even an hour prior, he would have returned that judging gaze with cold mockery and met those twisted lips with his own in a soft kiss. He was still tempted to, but now it was all wrong.

A few soft snorts rose from the others in the area, though none looked their way.

Whatever Octavius saw in his eyes turned his dour expression thoughtful. He dropped his hand and stepped back. "Finally," he grumbled. "Follow me."

"...What?"

"Not here."

Dazed and lightheaded, he trailed after the Master-at-arms like a lost puppy. The warrior barged into the Queen's Wing, hardly acknowledging the guards. He pointed at the fountain in the courtyard.

"Sit down."

Castien sat on the edge of the stone. "Why— "

The warrior sat beside him. "Shut up and breathe. Just breathe."

They’d done this often at the cabin. Meditation helped at first, then frustrated him until he grew angry whenever Octavius told him to breathe.

Now, warm air rushed into his lungs. The crisp scent of the burbling fountain and a faint wisp of roses swirled around his head. Some tiny, hard, frozen ball deep inside his chest… melted. He went still, mind and body.

"What’s wrong with me?" he whispered.

A drop of liquid fell on his lap. He stared at it. A tear? He hadn’t cried since…

Chains. Metallic rattling, an incessant drip of water, footsteps—boots, his cell door clanking, creaking open—

"Nothing." Octavius placed a hand on his shoulder, bringing him back to the bright late-spring day.

He was outside. There were no chains. Another tear fell.

"You’re still healing, and you’re human. We make mistakes," the healer rumbled.

Too many mistakes?

"I don’t know what to do."

Octavius found a relatively clean rag he’d been using on the leathers in the practice circles and offered it to Castien. "Everyone’s different. I knew you weren’t ready but I didn’t know how else to help you. You had to find your own way. You had to be willing to ask for help."

His throat tightened. His hands were shaking. He clenched them.

Unaware of how much time had passed, Castien twisted the moistened rag and croaked, "Please help me."

"I will."

Castien swallowed. "Does Anais…" He could hardly say the words. "I haven’t slept with any of the nobles. Since returning, I mean. Does she know—"

Octavius snorted. "She’s too busy to care who you sleep with, boy." Catching the courtesan’s dejected look, he scowled. "That’s not what I meant. She is busy, but— Don’t listen to an old, grumpy fool. She cares about you."

Her delighted laughter and door closing echoed in his mind. Care, not love. Castien nodded. "Thank you, Octavius."

"I’m glad you found your way back to us. We were worried about you."

Castien’s lips twisted. "I think Jerome wants me dead."

"No, that would be Vern. Jerome just wanted you out of the Escorts."

He grimaced, then frowned. "Vern?"

Octavius raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "Don’t worry about it now, but he’s our Master of Assassins. And, well… Just go see them; they’ll forgive you."

Castien paled and nodded slowly, falling silent. The fountain’s soft, consistent splashing along with the occasional songbird and gentle breeze gradually soothed his raw nerves.

"Is there something I can do? More than training. Something useful," he asked.

"There is… something." Octavius scowled again, but not at him. "It feels a touch disloyal, but I—and most of the Escorts—don’t trust the rebels. Especially Damon. We need them, fine, but we’ve accepted them too quickly. And Damon gets along too well with the nobles—anyone who is friendly with the court is hard to trust."

Castien winced.

Octavius snorted. "You weren’t friendly."

Moving away from that thought, the courtesan asked, " You want me to spy on my friends?"

"Bluntly, yes. We trust you. It was a bit rough recently, but we don’t blame you for that."

"I’ll think about it."

"That’s all we ask. Don’t do anything stupid or dangerous."

"Yes, sir." Castien smiled.

He found the other Escorts throughout that day and the next. As Octavius said, they readily forgave him. Thakris gave him a sassy, exasperated look. Laureline gave him a hat. He politely accepted the monstrosity and vowed never to be seen in public with it. Jerome wasn’t so kind, but Octavius must’ve spoken to him. The captain just went from suspicious and stern to curt and stern. Dependable man, that one.

Castien hesitated to approach Vern after the healer’s comment, but the steward listened. The cold in his eyes gradually lifted while Castien spoke, like a fog when the sun rose. Vern had offered a hand, his grip firm.

"We were watching you, Escort. There is a line some of us were waiting for you to cross. I’m glad you didn’t. You’re forgiven." Then his hand tightened.

"But hurt my daughter again, and I will personally cut out your heart."

Castien had stared, unable to respond. Daughter ? Vern gave him a small, amused, faintly smug smile.

Vern was her unacknowledged father. Unacknowledged, safe father. The court didn’t know, but the Escorts must. He searched his memories for conversations—they were never explicit, were they? It was why they deferred to him. Not only because he was the steward. That had been enough reason for Castien, but the Escorts were family, not rank.

Assassin, the healer had said. It made sense. Vern’s anger was a slowly creeping fog that had completely enveloped him, only waiting to strike. Castien had noticed Vern’s eyes on him in the Great Hall. It chilled him as the steward walked away, how he would have never seen a protective father’s knife in the dark. An assassin’s knife.

Well, if he ever felt like being an ass again, that was one good reason not to.

But he still hadn’t approached Anais. If he examined his efforts to find her, he’d know they were half-hearted. He’d bow to her in the halls while nobles trailed after her during her daily appearances. By the time he returned from training, she would be in a meeting. But he didn’t visit her chambers in the early mornings or late nights when she was most likely to be alone. She needed her rest, after all.

Instead, he went to the children when she was in the gardens. The wolf pup had accepted the children as her pack and seemed to find him acceptable. She sniffed his hand and eyed him warily but didn’t protest when a girl ran up and hugged him.

He’d half-expected the guards to refuse him entry to the nursery regardless of his bracers. Bracers allowed by a Queen whom he’d barely spoken a few words to since returning to court. He couldn’t forgive himself—how could he ask her to? So he learned her schedule and kept busy. If she needed him, she’d summon him.

Confronting his friends was only marginally easier.

They spent most of their time in the barracks, a section allocated to the newly conscripted troops. Damon and the rebels he’d chosen as his guards had seen him since he returned to court, but Castien had never sought them out—ignored them just as much as the Queen. They would have heard the nobles talking about the state he’d returned in moons ago, and seen the way he acted since then. Like one of the nobles they hated.

It would be most difficult with Damon.

Deep breath.

"Damon."