Page 39 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

Castien

Damon opened the door to his apartments, gesturing for Castien to enter. Dirt flicked from his hand, and in his other hand was a trowel. Castien took it as a sign of recovery. Gardening was good for the soul.

"Castien. You know, sometimes I look up and expect to see Kevam walk through that door or around the corner. It's slightly terrifying."

His friend snatched a wine cup. Unfortunately, Damon also often took to drinking now, at least in private.

There was a book on the table. Castien glanced at it while Damon poured. A Chronicle of Kings and Emperors.

Odd. Kings and emperors. Both ancient, dead words. He raised an eyebrow. "Reading fairy tales?"

"History," Damon replied. He shrugged at Castien's incredulous pause. "Or so the author claims. Kings ruled a thousand years ago, and he writes about a line of emperors from another land far beyond the seas."

"Sounds like a fairy tale. Did they fly and have magical powers?"

Damon scowled. "Is it so ridiculous to imagine that men once ruled?"

A bit, but it looked like Damon was going to argue, and this was not why he was here.

Castien shrugged. "I suppose not. We have dukes and counts, why not a… king." The word always sounded strange. "How are you doing, Damon?" He glanced at the bottle of wine .

Damon's scowl darkened. "Who's asking? Is the Queen worried I'll talk too much when I drink?"

"Anais' said nothing. I'm concerned, Damon. Your friends are worried."

"And they sent you ? You hardly know me anymore," he scoffed.

"No, they didn't ask me or even talk to me. I overheard them saying that you do this sometimes—sulk and drink when something terrible happens."

Damon laughed. "There wouldn’t be a sober day in my life, then. When is this world not a terrible place?" He waved away Castien's frown. "They would have told you to leave me be. I'm fine."

"If that's what you want. But I do understand something about how terrible the world can be. If you want to talk, you know how to find me." Castien got to his feet and stepped toward the door.

"Castien."

He turned to find Damon holding out the book.

"Humor me. Read it. Maybe it won't be as ridiculous as you think."

Castien accepted the book.

—

The Queen was gone.

She’d taken a contingent of soldiers to investigate the rogue legions—officially, she was visiting a few nearby estates. Jerome used more words than Castien had ever heard the man speak, grumbling about his injured arm that prevented him from being by her side.

While waiting for her return, Castien trained, gardened, and read the book. It was a dry, dull read. History tended to be a list of facts, and this one did that too, he supposed. If the author was to be believed. Primarily, it expounded repetitively on the virtues of societies in ancient times—the freedom, the lack of want, the total eradication of social class. It portrayed a utopia for the common person that had been crushed by the rise of clawed women.

The author equally emphasized how it was these women's fault for everything thereafter. Multiple passages about claws were underlined. The tiresome writing painted a picture suggesting that the claws themselves were the root of all problems—remove the monstrous bits, and perhaps the female might be salvaged. Like gelding a stallion.

Partway through the book, he set it aside in disgust. Plenty of men ruled their demesnes with the same or worse cruelty to match their female counterparts. Perhaps this was something Octavius would want to see. But it was just a book.

—

He decided to talk to his friend first. Damon’s door was slightly open, and he was digging in his garden again.

"Damon—"

His friend spun, trowel held like a blade, eyes wide. Then he blinked and his shoulders relaxed. "You startled me."

"Apologies." Castien fingered the book. "I wanted to discuss this… history. It seems, perhaps, a bit biased."

Damon brushed off his hands and stood. "Hmm. I need some wine for this sort of talk. Come."

They settled into his chambers. Castien didn’t touch his drink.

With one swallow, Damon half-emptied his glass. "Tell me what you’re thinking, lordling. "

"Well, not all noble ladies are so terrible. Surely, you can see that Anais can be trusted, and the women of her Inner Circle."

"She does her best." Damon waved a hand. "But it’s not enough. Her methods are too slow. These plans of hers may take another half a lifetime. And it’s already claimed her mother’s life; who will pick up the pieces if Anais dies?"

"She doesn’t want to do more harm to the people in the process."

Damon leaned forward. "Sometimes the wound needs to be lanced, the limb cut off. There is no saving the nobility, no redemption, no way to convince them of change. There will be chaos now, but change will come so much faster. Is that not better than waiting an indefinite number of years filled with half-compromises at best—change in word but not deed?"

"Drantar is already a better nation than it was fifty years ago. Changes are already happening."

A bitter laugh. "Generations of slow change is exactly the problem, my friend. Change will come—it always does. But why should we wait for it, when we can make it happen now? We have the power to make so many lives better now . At the small price of—at most—a few years of chaos."

Damon's eyes lit up as he spoke. He sounded just the same as he did eight years ago. He just hadn’t had the power then.

"Have you discussed this with the Queen and the Escorts?"

His friend shrugged. "They won't listen. They're like you. Comfortable, worried, afraid. I don't blame you—you've always lived such an easy life."

Skeptical, Castien nonetheless offered, "They're good people, but they've been at this for a long time. Perhaps they need your perspective."

Damon smiled. "Maybe you're right. Kevam used to tell me things like that."

Castien's eyes widened. "Are you accusing me of saying something wise?"

Damon grinned. "That does seem a bit unlikely, doesn't it? Don't worry, Cas, you'll understand someday."

"Oh, good. I was worried there for a moment."

Damon contemplated him. "Have you finished the book?"

Castien scratched his head. "Ah, no. One of those things I'll understand someday, perhaps?"

"Finish the book. 'Someday' will be 'never' if you don't try."

"Right." He paused. "Where did you find this, anyway? You never spoke of such things before."

Damon shrugged. "I’ve never lived in a palace with an extensive library before."

This didn’t seem like something the royal library would leave around for casual reading. Castien liked reading, though a flash of his last memory amongst the shelves sent a guilty warmth to his cheeks.

"Right. The library, of course. Good night, then." He ducked his head and left.

—

He played with the wolf pup. She had grown to nearly full size, a beautiful grey wolf, and she was still highly protective of the nursery. Her den, now.

Castien’s presence didn’t seem to be missed at court. He spent time with Octavius and in the training circles, instead. Actually training, this time. They were attempting to break him of the habit of blocking with his arm. The leather bracers were good enough to be armor, but that wasn’t their intended use, and they were a bit small .

Progress through the book was slow. The writing did not improve and he did not understand it any better. Even worse, halfway through, the author spent a dozen pages on dragons. Damon couldn’t possibly believe all of this. Developing a headache, he set it down again and considered patrolling the court. Alarmed that the court sounded better than the book, he nonetheless wandered the halls.

While he walked, his eyes caught on the nobles. A lord's whip came down no less hard on their victims than a lady's. Male and female servants were used alike, neither suffered particularly more or less.

As his aimless feet approached the nobles' apartments, he hesitated. The Escorts avoided this area, implicitly allowing whatever happened within. An unusual sound convinced him to continue.

Someone was sobbing. That was common enough. The unusual bit was the voices offering condolences.

He glanced at his guard and strode through the wide open doors of the hall. The voices came from the nearest room on his left.

Several lords and ladies sat in the sprawling, opulent sitting room. They all turned and scowled at his entrance.

One stood. "Escort. Are you here to investigate this horror?"

What would these people consider horrible? He lazily raised a brow. "I was only curious about the tears. What happened?"

Their faces were grim. The lord who spoke pointed into the bed chamber. "A child was murdered."

Castien blinked. They didn't give him their usual smug twist of their lips at his surprise. He gestured for his guard to remain in the room. Jerome wouldn't like that, but the captain wasn't here.

Another group surrounded the window in the bed chambers. Ensconced within their circle, a couple leaned over the bed, sobbing over a white-silk-wrapped body.

"What happened?" Castien asked again, softer.

The lady looked up. Her hands trembled as she silently stepped away from the silk.

"No," the lord beside her groaned. She turned to hug the man to her chest as Castien stepped closer, the crowd allowing him passage. Her somber eyes followed him.

Gently, he pulled back the cloth and froze.

Mutilated hands.

A girl. Small fingers made shorter by a blade. A clean cut for some. Other claws had been ripped off, leaving a torn, ugly clawbed.

His mind analyzed what his eyes couldn't stop staring at. Someone must have cleaned the blood. There were no other wounds, though her lips were blue. Strangled—no, suffocated. She couldn’t even scream.

His lungs refused to draw air. His arms felt numb, his head light.

Someone sniffled beside him.

Escort. He was an Escort and they were watching him.

Lips thinning, he nodded at the lady.

Then he asked, "Who did this?"

An older man standing beside the couple scowled. "Isn't that why you're here? Find out, Escort! Find the beast who did this!"

Castien beckoned his guard. "Gather what information you can. I'll report this to the steward. And yes, I'll summon another guard for myself." Both Jerome and Anais had been insistent on guards at all times. He had to admit they were comforting.

The table in the main chamber was scattered with bottles of wine and stronger liquor. Angry murmurs of Nadraken and Delia drifted through the room. They would drink and there would be more death soon. The Queen's count would be high this week.

He walked through the halls, but not to find Vern.

The girl’s claws had been removed.

With claws so fresh in his mind, he inevitably thought of the book and its owner. But Damon wouldn't do this. His friend wouldn’t do this.

Yet someone had.

Perhaps Damon had shown others the book, or someone had given it to him. The nobles seemed an unlikely source, but the factions that Damon had mentioned—some among them were more extremist than even those who had attacked. Damon believed he had them under control, but if not? He should be warned.