CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

 

They say that the worst scars are the ones a man carries on the inside.

Maybe that’s true and maybe it isn’t, but say this for those hidden scars—

They damned sure don’t bleed as much.

—Healer interviewed after battle during the Fey War

 

Cutter came awake to be greeted by a host of aches and pains, some minor, most not. He opened his eyes slowly. It was dark, and he could make out footsteps padding closer to him. Someone leaned down over him, no more than a silhouette in the darkness, and he reached out, clamping his hand around the figure’s throat.

“Prince…it’s…me…” a strangled voice gasped.

Cutter grunted, letting go. “Chall?” he croaked.

“S-sure,” the man said, coughing, “or what’s left of me. Stones and starlight, but for a man who nearly died you’ve got a damned strong grip on you.”

“Sorry about that,” Cutter said. Then with a grunt of effort, he rose to a sitting position. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, he was able to make out more of his surroundings, and he glanced down at himself and the fresh bandages wrapped around…well, just about everywhere.

“Like your new outfit?” Chall asked, rubbing at his throat. “The healer came by and saw to you. I don’t mind tellin’ you, you missed a lot of headshaking and muttered curses. Not that I know what the man’s complaining about. Long as you’re around, there’s plenty of job security for the crotchety old bastard.”

Cutter winced then noted another figure sitting on the floor in the corner of the room, his arms draped across his knees. “Fel?’

“It’s me, brother,” the man said. He gave a rueful smile, only just visible in the darkness and held his hands out to his side. “Accommodations fit for princes, are they not? Still, all things taken into account, I think I prefer them to the throne just the same.”

Cutter grunted. “Where are we?” he asked, thinking he knew the answer already.

“The dungeons,” Chall said.

“The dungeons,” Cutter repeated, then turned back to the mage. “What happened?”

The man winced, avoiding his gaze. “Well. Now I can’t be for sure as you didn’t tell me—weren’t really in much of a talking mood, at least before you passed out. But it seems you took a bit of offense to that bastard of a captain killing Belle out of hand.”

Feledias snorted from his spot in the corner. “A bit of offense? Gods, mage, but you’re underselling that a bit, aren’t you? I’d heard you were an accomplished liar—no surprise, considering you’re an illusionist—but that’s a damned bold one.”

Cutter cleared his throat, rubbing at it.

“You alright, Prince?”

“Sure,” he said. “Just…well, my throat hurts.”

Feledias gave a second snort. “And so it would after all that screaming.”

“Just leave him alone, will you?” Chall asked angrily. “It’s not like he doesn’t have enough on his plate just now.”

“Screaming?” Cutter said. Then a sinking feeling overcame him. “Where’s the captain…Revan, wasn’t it?”

Feledias barked a harsh laugh. “Which part? Last I saw—before you fell unconscious and we were spirited away with such fervor by the remaining guardsmen—you’d scattered pieces of him damned near over the whole courtyard.” He shook his head. “If you hated the décor so much, brother, you could have said as much; why, we might have even hired someone to do the work—no need to have set about the task of doing it all yourself.”

“You mean…I killed him?” Cutter asked.

Feledias finally winced, as if ashamed. “Yes, brother,” he said quietly. “You killed him most…convincingly. I must confess that, since meeting you again after these long years, I had begun to wonder if the beast you carried inside you had expired. Now…now I do not.”

I am fire, Cutter thought. “What happened next?” he asked, turning to Chall.

“Prince,” he said hesitantly, “are you sure you want to…”

“It’s fine, Chall,” he said. A lie. “I’m fine.” A bigger one. “Now, tell me what happened.”

The mage nodded slowly. “Well, the guardsmen took a bit of offense at you goin’ after their captain and all. They were all set to kill you—you passed out about the time you…finished up—but I talked them out of that much at least, said the king would make any man suffer who dared to lay a hand on his father.”

Cutter wasn’t at all sure that was true, not considering the way Matt had been acting lately. In fact, he wasn’t at all sure that it should be true. He thought perhaps it would have been better if the men had been left to do their work, but he nodded. “And then?”

Chall shrugged. “Some still wanted to kill you, but they had a bit of a talk and decided on the dungeon as a sort of…compromise.”

“I see,” Cutter said. “But…then why are you both here? You didn’t hurt anyone.”

Chall winced. “I wouldn’t say that was exactly true. Some of the guards, before the talking was done, got a bit…excited about the whole killing you thing. Me and your brother here…well, we sort of…I guess you’d say we talked them out of it.”

Cutter blinked. He wasn’t surprised that he had screwed up again, wasn’t surprised that the anger he always carried around with him had gotten the better of him once more, but the idea that Feledias had helped him was surprising. “You mean…the two of you…Feledias…”

“I did nothing,” his brother barked. “Don’t take it to heart, brother—I wouldn’t have been all that upset to have seen those men bring their blades to bear on you. Only…well, I thought the best way of figuring out this whole conspiracy was to keep you breathing for a bit longer.”

It was Chall’s turn to snort. “Did nothing, is it? Well, there’s two guardsmen, one with a broken nose and another with a broken arm that’d likely disagree with that.”

“I see…” Cutter said. “And…I’m sorry. To both of you. You didn’t deserve to be put here and…well. Thanks.”

Feledias grunted. “Save your thanks and your apology both, brother. One is useless and the other silly. After all, only a fool would expect an apology when he sticks his head in the lion’s mouth and finds its teeth clamped around him. All manner of creatures, beasts and mortals, even the Fey, I think, act according to their nature. And your nature, brother, is blood. It always has been.”

“He’s wrong, Prince,” Chall said, but the weak sound of his voice made Cutter think that that was a lie hard to swallow even for one of the world’s greatest illusionists.

Cutter knew, in fact, that his brother wasn’t wrong, just as he knew that Chall knew it, but he decided to let it go for now. After all, there were other things to think about. “What of Maeve and Guardsman Nigel? Any word?”

Chall winced again. “I’m…not sure.”

“What the fat man means, brother mine,” Feledias said, “is that, as it turns out, jailers are rarely free with information to their prisoners.”

“Right,” Cutter said.

“Do you…do you think she’s okay?” Chall asked, doing his best to sound casual but botching the job completely.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Cutter said, also doing his best to sound casual and, he suspected, botching the job completely.

“But…if it’s as bad in the castle as we think,” Chall said, “then it wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility for someone to send assassins after Guardsman Nigel, and we left her alone with—”

“Easy, Chall,” Cutter said, rising slowly and putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Maeve can take care of herself—better than most. Likely better than any of us. If an assassin was sent, then I pity the poor bastard.”

The mage nodded, giving him a small, fragile smile but saying nothing. “Why don’t you have a seat,” Cutter said, “relax.” He motioned to the cot that he’d been lying on when he’d woken. “You look exhausted. I’d get some sleep, if you can. There’s no telling how long we’ll be here.”

The mage grunted. “Don’t think I’ll manage any sleep, not with Maeve out there somewhere, but probably my feet could use the rest.”

He sat down, leaning back against the stone wall of the cell, and despite his words he was asleep within minutes. Cutter watched him, making sure he was sleeping, then, started toward the corner where Feledias sat, keeping one hand along the wall to maintain his balance.

“You’ve looked better, brother,” Feledias said as he drew close.

“We both have,” Cutter agreed. “Anyway…about the captain. That is…you’re sure he was dead?”

Feledias stared at him for several seconds as if seeing him for the first time then, finally, he nodded. “Yes, brother. I’m sorry but he was dead, there is no mistaking it.”

Cutter nodded, sliding down to sit with his back against the wall beside his brother. “I see. Well…thanks, Fel. I know you said you don’t want it but…thanks anyway.”

His brother gave a grunt. “Anyway, what’s the plan now? Beyond being executed, I mean.”

Cutter shook his head. “I don’t think we need worry about being executed. Matt wouldn’t let that happen.”

“No?” Feledias asked, meeting his gaze. “Look, Bernard, I don’t know the boy, not like you do, but from what I’ve seen of him, he’s changed quite a bit since he got here. Why, I hardly recognize him as the youth we put that crown on.”

Cutter winced, not offering any argument. Mostly because he couldn’t think of one. “I’ll admit,” he ventured finally, “that Matt has been…acting strangely.” He paused, remembering the castle servant with her bruised face and busted lip. “Been acting…badly,” he went on. “He’s been going through something, though I’m not sure what. But going through something or not, there’s no way he’d have us killed.”

Fel gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “If you say so, brother. And if he does, well, I suppose there could be worse things. After all, if the Fey have infiltrated the entire kingdom as much as they have seemed to then it might be best we die. Wouldn’t do to be two princes without a kingdom, would it?”

“That’s not going to happen,” Cutter growled.

“My brother the optimist,” Feledias said then gave a snort. “It’s an odd look on you, Bernard. Anyway, what do you mean to do?”

“What I can,” Cutter said. “And it’s not as bad as you seem to think, Fel. We’ve got Guardsman Nigel back to the castle, and Maeve’s watching out for him. When he wakes—”

“You mean if he wakes,” Feledias corrected. “Your mage told me some of this guardsman. I don’t know much about poisons, but it seems to me that the whole point of using them is so that people will never wake again, isn’t it? And if the poison doesn’t kill him, well, whoever is behind all this has already proven that they don’t mind taking the more…direct approach to silencing those who stand against them.”

“He’s got Maeve watching over him,” Cutter persisted. “She’ll—”

“Fight bravely and with great honor, I’m sure,” Feledias said, his tone thick with sarcasm, “but what difference will that make, in the end, brother? We have no idea how many men this unseen conspirator commands—for all we know, the entire castle guard and staff might serve him. Is the woman supposed to somehow stand against so many, should they come for the guard? Assuming they even do, of course. Were I the conspirator, I think I would stop hacking away at the snake’s body, as it were, and aim for the head.”

Cutter frowned. “The head? What do you mean?”

His brother gave another small shrug. “Why, the king, of course.”

The king. Matt. The thought sent a chill of terror through Cutter. He couldn’t allow anything to happen to Matt. Not just because he had promised Layna that he would protect him but also because he was his son. His son and, his strange, recent behavior excluded, the realm’s best chance of having a leader worthy of it. “No,” he growled, tightening his fists. “No. I won’t let that happen.”

“And how would you stop it, brother?” Feledias asked, not mocking now but earnest, almost sad. “You are strong, yes, but even you are not so strong that you might bend iron bars and walk out of here. No, Bernard, I am afraid that we, and the kingdom, are doomed.”

Cutter considered that. Things looked grim, that was true. A king acting erratically, conspirators in the castle, guardsmen seeming to be trying their best to cover it all up. “No,” he said again. “You’re wrong, Fel. Things are bad, but they’ve been bad before, for both of us. How many battles did we fight, battles that looked to be lost only to turn around in the end?”

“Too many,” his brother answered. “But while winning battles is all well and good, brother, you only have to lose the once.”

“Yes,” Cutter agreed, rising to his feet and doing his best to ignore the pains that shot through his body as he did, “but we won’t lose—not this time.”

“And what of Maeve? Do you really believe that she’ll be okay? That she and the guardsman will survive the night?”

“Yes,” Cutter said.

“But…why?”

Because I have to, Cutter thought. “If you knew Maeve as well as I do, you wouldn’t have to ask me that question. I’d get some rest, if you can, Fel. Tomorrow’s shaping up to be a long day.”

“Aren’t they all?” his brother countered, but he leaned his head back, closing his eyes and, in moments, was asleep.

 

***

 

The half-conscious guardsman’s weight was growing heavier and heavier by the moment, his arm draped over her shoulders feeling as if it were made of stone, and Nigel himself muttered intelligible words that Maeve did not understand, likely ones that he himself didn’t understand.

She paused at a corner, glancing around it and down either direction of the hallway. Empty, at least for the time being, but she couldn’t count on it remaining so for long. It was too much to hope that the two assassins were the only ones in all the castle that intended her and the guardsman ill. Far too much. So she clenched her jaw, shifting and pulling at the man’s arm in a vain effort to disperse some of the weight pressing down on her as she hurried around the corner.

Panting breaths hissing between gritted teeth, she shuffled down the hallway until she came to the door she’d been looking for. Maeve heaved a sigh of relief and gave it a knock. No one answered and, after a moment, some of her relief began to fade. Had the man chosen now, of all times, to go for a midnight stroll?

Readjusting the guardsman’s arm on her shoulders—which ached as if she’d spent the better part of the day dragging an ox cart behind her—Maeve tried again. Still no answer came, and she began to feel the first rumblings of panic. She glanced back down the hall. Still empty, for the moment at least.

“Come on, damn you,” she growled, knocking a third time, hard enough that her knuckles ached where they’d rapped on the door.

This time, she heard muttered words from inside the room followed by the soft sound of footsteps. A moment later, the door slid open a crack.

“I’ll have you know that you are interrupting the chronicling of the kingdom’s history, a most important task and—” The voice cut off, and the face of Petran Quinn, the once-exiled but recently reinstated Historian to the Crown leaned forward, blinking at her.

“Fire and salt, Lady Maeve, is that you?”

“It’s me, Petran.”

“But…what are you doing at so late an hour and who is your…companion?” he asked, frowning as he stared at the delirious, slumped guardsman.

“Oh, you know,” she said through gritted teeth, “I just thought I’d take a stroll and this fine gentleman offered to accompany me.”

“A…a stroll?”

“That’s right.”

“And you are aware, I’m sure, that it is several hours past midnight?”

As she stood there, exhausted and afraid, sure that any moment an assassin—or likely several of them—would appear in the hallway to finish what their companions had started, Maeve couldn’t help but marvel at the fact that the historian had survived as long as he had. “The thought had occurred,” she managed. “Now, are you going to let us in or not?”

The man blinked, his eyes wide. “O-of course, please…come in.”

He moved aside, swinging the door wider, and Maeve brushed past him, struggling under the weight of her burden. She heard the sound of the door shutting behind her as she guided the guardsman to the bed. “You’ll want to lock that.”

“Lock it?” Petran asked, as if she’d spoken a different language. “Why um…why is that?”

She heaved a heavy sigh as she lay the guardsman down, stretching in an effort to work some of the stiffness out of her shoulder and back. Then she shrugged, turning to look at the historian who still stood by the door. “Well, we wouldn’t want to make the assassins’ jobs too easy for them, would we? This way, they at least get that warm feeling of accomplishment after dedicating the few seconds it’ll take them to break it down.”

“Break it…down?”

“Sure,” she said. “A lot harder to stab us to death from the other side of the door, don’t you think?”

“Stab…” The man cleared his throat, his face paling in the light of a lantern sitting on the room’s desk. “Forgive me, lady, but…would you like a drink?”

“What I’d like is a good night’s rest, but since that doesn’t appear on offer…yes, a drink would be fine.”

Petran moved to the desk, sliding open a drawer and retrieving a decanter then set about the task of pouring their drinks, obviously making an effort to remain calm. “Forgive me for pressing, Lady Maeve, but who did you say your friend is?”

“You mean the not-quite-but-very-nearly dead man currently unconscious on your bed?”

“I…yes,” the historian managed in a croak. “That’d be the one.”

“A loyal guardsman, that’s what.”

“I…see.”

“I know, I was surprised too. I thought they stopped making them. Anyway. You heard of the assassination attempt on Cu—that is, Prince Bernard?”

The glass slipped from the historian’s fingers, smashing on the floor, and he let out a yelp of surprise, though whether at her words or at the broken glass it was hard to say. “An…assassination attempt, you say?”

“I do,” Maeve said, frowning. “Wait a minute, do you mean to tell me this is the first you’ve heard of it?”

The historian’s back was to her, but she saw him tense. “Well. I mean, I’ve been a bit busy, you understand.”

“A bit busy,” Maeve repeated. “Too busy, it seems, to notice assassins running amuck in the castle?”

The man gave an embarrassed laugh. “Well, I’m sure you must be exaggerating a bit, surely not amu—”

“Amuck,” Maeve repeated. “I know what I said.”

He cleared his throat, his hand shaking as he poured the first drink. “And…what…that is, is everyone okay?” he managed in a dry croak as he reached for a second glass.

“Maybe you finish pouring our drinks before I tell you the rest,” Maeve suggested. “Otherwise, like as not, we’ll both be drinking straight from the decanter.”

The historian winced but gave a nod. “Likely a wise suggestion.” He continued pouring the drinks and, if Maeve was any judge, doing just about as slow a job of it as he was capable. Finally, though, he was finished, and walked back to the table, placing the drinks on its surface with exaggerated care. “Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the table’s single chair. “And tell me all about what’s happened.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Maeve said, “but if you really don’t know what’s been happening lately then maybe it’s best if you’re the one who sits. No offense, Petran, but you don’t seem all that steady on your feet.”

“Are normal people steady when hearing of assassins in the castle?” he asked.

Maeve shrugged. “Probably not, but then I don’t know a lot of normal people, more’s the pity.”

The historian inclined his head as if to acknowledge a point then sat. “So,” he asked in a timid voice, looking at her as if she was about to pronounce his death sentence, “about what’s happened…”

“Are you sure you want to know, Petran?” Maeve asked. “You’re just a historian after all. Chances are you could remain safe enough in this room—I don’t imagine anyone would bother you overly much. No need to trouble yourself.”

“Ignoring the ‘just’ for a moment,” the man said, offering her a small smile, “I would have to disagree with you, Lady Maeve. You see, it is exactly because I’m a historian that I must know. I admit that I am no warrior, but just because the truth scares us does not mean it is not worth pursuing. It is always better to seek it, always better to know.”

Maeve frowned, considering his words. “You really believe that?”

“I hope so,” he said, giving her another timid smile. “After all, it is an idea that I have based my entire life’s work around.”

Maeve nodded. “Very well, Petran, but understand that knowing the things that I will tell you…it might put you in the bad graces of some very powerful people.”

The historian favored her with a crooked smile, a bit more confident this time. “Forgive me, Lady Maeve, but I have spent the better part of the last fifteen years in a cell, being beaten regularly for no other reason than the guard’s amusement, eating moldy bread when I ate anything at all. I know something of the disfavor of powerful people.”

Maeve winced. “Right. And I know…that is, I know what you went through, Petran, it must have been terrible, but understand that the people behind what’s been happening…if they decide you’re a threat, I don’t think it’s likely you’ll see the inside of a cell again.”

“Well, that’s good at lea—”

“They’ll just kill you instead.”

The historian’s face paled at that, and he cleared his throat. “Ah. Right.”

“Still want to know?” she asked.

The man took a slow, deep breath. He looked scared—and that, at least, Maeve couldn’t hold against him for given what was happening with the kingdom, any sane person ought to be. Finally, though, and to his credit, he gave a single nod. “Yes, Lady Maeve. I would hear what you have to say—if you would tell me.”

“Very well,” Maeve said, and then she began recounting the events that had transpired in the castle in the last days, telling the man of the assassination attempt on Bernard, then moving on to the rescuing of Guardsman Nigel at his home—at least, what she hoped was his rescue, there was still no way to know whether the man would succumb to the poison or not. Then she moved on to discussing their meeting with Ned, though she left out the man’s name, seeing no need to put the driver or his wife in any more danger than was necessary.

When she finished, she leaned back, tired and exhausted and more than a little scared herself.

The historian said nothing for some time, his face pale as he struggled to process everything she had told him. He was still, statue still, and the first movement he made was to reach for the glass and finish the drink in one long pull. He set it down, spilling droplets on the table. “Forgive me,” he said in a whisper, “I…I am usually tidier than that.”

“Sure,” Maeve said, “but just this once—don’t go making a habit of it.” She said it lightheartedly, or at least as much as she could, hoping to inject some much-needed levity into the conversation.

Apparently, it worked, as the historian let out a heavy sigh. “Thank you, Lady Maeve,” he croaked. “For…telling me.”

Maeve sighed. “Don’t thank me yet. Anyway, that’s where we’re at.”

“And you have no news of Prince Bernard or Challadius?”

She frowned. “No, I don’t, and I thought they’d be back by now. I’m…worried.”

“And…what of the assassins? Did they have anything that might tell you who they worked for or…”

“Not so lucky as that,” she said, offering him a small smile. “Speaking as a one-time assassin, I’m afraid they generally make it a rule not to carry around something that would betray who they work for. At least not in the open—such things are usually kept in a secret, hidden place in case their employer decides to do anything…rash.”

“Right,” the man said, swallowing, “I apologize…sometimes it is easy to forget that you were once the most celebrated assassin in the realm.”

Maeve shrugged. “Times change. Besides, it isn’t a part of my life I’m particularly proud of, if you want to know the truth.”

“Well, I would not worry overly much about Prince Bernard and Challadius surely. As for the prince, well, he can take care of himself, can’t he? And Challadius…”

“Challadius can barely take care of getting out of the bed every morning,” Maeve said, doing her best to hide her worry for the mage and failing miserably, even to herself. “As for Bernard, he’s strong, sure—none stronger. But even he needs other people, needs friends…even if he won’t admit it.”

The historian nodded at that, his brows drawn down in thought. “Still, I find it strange…” he said, speaking quietly, almost as if to himself.

“What’s that?” Maeve asked.

“Well…” He paused, clearing his throat, “I, of course, do not know anywhere near as much of the assassins’ art as you, but it seems to me that if these men were able to so easily infiltrate the castle—not once, but twice, you understand—and if their goal really is to destabilize the kingdom so that the Fey might more easily overtake us…well. It seems to me that they would be better served going directly for King Matthias.”

Maeve frowned at that. She’d been so busy reacting over the last several days that she’d given the situation little thought other than how to get her and her friends out of it alive. Now that the historian had pointed it out though, it seemed like the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re right,” she said. “That would be the easiest way to hurt the kingdom. Killing the lad would force the kingdom to look to Bernard or Feledias to rule and neither of them are exactly loved by the people of the Known Lands. Why, there’d likely be riots in the streets. But…if that’s the easiest way then why wouldn’t they use it?”

“Perhaps…” The historian paused, thinking. “Perhaps it is because they know that the king will be better guarded, and they don’t think it would be possible to make it to him?” he ventured.

Maeve considered that for a moment then shook her head. “No. No, these men, whatever else they are, aren’t afraid, that much is sure. They wouldn’t let a couple of guardsmen stop them.”

“So…why?” Petran offered. “What reason would they have to avoid going for the king?”

“I can’t think of any,” Maeve said after a moment, but that wasn’t exactly true. She could think of at least one, but the very idea made her sick to her stomach. The only reason she could think that the men wouldn’t go for the king was if the king were in on it somehow. But…no. That couldn’t be possible. True, Matt had been acting strange lately, but he had only arrived in New Daltenia with her and the rest of them. Even if the lad had wanted to take part in a conspiracy to overthrow the realm—ridiculous by itself—he was from a small village on the outskirts of the realm. He didn’t know anyone in New Daltenia. How would he have even begun such a thing? And even more to the point, how would he have had the time?

No, it couldn’t have been Matt. There was simply no way it was possible for the lad to have orchestrated the assassination attempts on Cutter or Guardsman Nigel. Not to mention the fact that, beyond any of that, Priest had been with the boy the entire time, his shadow. If Matt was up to anything, Priest would have known and told her and the rest at once. “Damn,” she said. “What a damned mess.”

Petran nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “And I think, perhaps, that we could both use another drink.”

He rose then, headed toward the desk to retrieve the decanter. Maeve watched him for several seconds and then came to a decision. “I’ll have to skip that drink, Petran.” She said, rising.

“Oh?” the historian asked, turning back to look at her.

“Yes,” she said. “And I need to ask a favor—I wonder if you couldn’t watch over our friend here for a while?”

The historian blinked, turning to regard the unconscious guardsman lying in the bed. “O-of course, Lady Maeve, but…are you sure you wish to venture into the castle once more after so soon facing the assassins?”

“I have to,” Maeve said. “For one, I need to find Cutter and Chall—they should have reported back by now and the fact that they haven’t…” She paused, giving her head a shake and doing her best to push her fears aside. After all, they would serve no purpose now. “Besides, the longer I’m here, the greater chances the assassins—if there still are any—start searching and find us. And somehow I don’t think these are the type of men who let a little something like a locked door keep them from doing their jobs.”

The historian nodded reluctantly. “Still…perhaps I could go with you?”

“No,” Maeve said. “I need you here, watching over Guardsman Nigel. Besides, if it comes to a fight—and I don’t mean any offense, Petran—you’d just get in my way.”

The man sighed. “I suppose you’re right. But…at least let me summon some of the castle guards. There’s greater strength in numbers after all and—”

“Castle guards like the ones who tried to assassinate Prince Bernard so recently?” Maeve asked. “No thank you, Petran, I think I’m better off on my own.”

The man seemed mollified by that, and he gave a nod. “As you say, Lady Maeve, but I still confess that I feel most terrible, allowing you to go out into the castle amidst such dangers by yourself.”

She gave him a small smile. “If it’s any consolation, Petran, you couldn’t stop me if you wanted to. Besides, like I told you,” she said, patting her tunic to make sure the knives she had secreted there were secure and easily accessible should she find the need to draw them, “I work better alone.”

And with that, she opened the door, turning back to look at the historian who resembled nothing so much as a frightened child. “Keep this door locked and don’t open it for anyone except Prince Bernard or myself. Understand?”

“Y-yes.”

Maeve gave the man a nod and, with that, turned and walked out the door, closing it behind her. Standing in the hallway, out of Petran’s sight, she stared at her hands, saw the tremor there. She had not wanted to admit it to the man as it would have done no good and only served to worsen his own fear, but Maeve was afraid. Bernard and Challadius were late, and assassins were seemingly coming and going in the castle as they pleased.

Still, she told herself that she had faced worse in her time and survived, even if she had been a lot younger and a lot dumber then. But even that did little to console her. After all, most of the time, during the war, she had not been alone but had been able to count on Bernard and Chall and Priest to have her back. And despite the words she’d said to Petran, no one worked better alone.

But Chall and Bernard were missing, and the only lead she had on their whereabouts was the dungeons. And considering the fact that the two had headed there and, since, had been conspicuously absent, she didn’t much like those odds. After all, anything that was enough to deal with the world’s greatest warrior and one of its greatest mages—even if he was a perpetual pain in the ass—was more than enough to handle an old woman well past her prime.

As for Priest, he had not left the king’s side since Bernard had given his orders and, likely, was there even now. An idea began to form then. True, she didn’t like her chances of going to the dungeons in search of Bernard and Chall alone, thought it far more likely she would run into assassins before seeing either of her friends. But if she made it to Priest and Matt, then they could decide what to do together. After all, Priest was a clever man, not to mention one of the best in a fight she could hope for. And as for Matt, well, it was true that he’d been acting strange lately, but was that any real surprise, given how much his life had changed recently? It couldn’t be easy realizing that the people you thought were your parents weren’t and going from being just another village boy to king of the Known Lands. And whatever might be bothering him, he loved Cutter, that much she knew.

Yes, that was it. She would find Matt, find Priest, and together they would discover what had happened to Cutter and Chall. The decision made, she felt better, safer, but not so safe that, as she began making her way down the castle hallways, she neglected to keep her hands near her knives, in case she needed to draw them.