Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(58)

There’s no air to breathe. I suck at nothing, just as I did on the roof with Lirra.

My vision wavers. Blackness crowds in.





Chapter

25


Aodren


I ALMOST MAKE IT ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE bridge when the link to Britta changes in a way I didn’t know was possible. It bows and bucks. My palms turn clammy.

For a moment I wonder if that’s my own internal reaction to having killed a man. The sight of the guard on the ground, eyes open and glossed, will be in my head forever. He would’ve killed Britta.

Each step from the castle causes my heart to pound, a war drum resounding in my chest. Leaving Miss Flannery is wrong. I don’t know why or how I know, but I cannot shake the feeling that I need to turn back. Now.

Gods, this night is one bad decision after another.

I dismount and give my horse a hard smack on the rump. She takes off for the woods, the moonlight catching on the gold and silver royal equine adornments. If anyone is looking for tracks, perhaps they’ll find hers and think I’ve escaped.

Keeping an eye on the gate, I run the length of the bridge, back toward the castle. Men have gathered in the outer yard. They weren’t there before, and there’s no telling if I can trust them. Staying out of eyeshot, I sneak around the side of the guard tower and over the wall. I hold myself with my fingers and boots wedged in the lip of the stone bricks.

“They caught the girl.”

The guards talk and I pause, body clinging to the wall.

The man laughs. “And ta think she was fixin’ on bein’ called a lady.”

No. Britta has been captured.

“I’ll make ’er my lady.”

“You gonna do that in the dungeon?”

My knuckles whiten against the stone, the only thing preventing me from plummeting a quarter league to my death. Jamis has never been a merciful man. The thought of what he might do to Britta has me moving along the external wall, slowly, ensuring each foot placement and handhold is secure.

Each arm span takes me closer to Britta as I make my way toward the waste chute. Years have passed since I snuck out of the castle this way. I never imagined I’d use the waste hole to sneak back in. The smell wafts to me on a breeze. I try not to heave.

Commotion echoes from the castle. Every now and then someone yells. The slow going gives me too much room to think. The knowledge that I’ve let my people down weakens me to my core.

But I will fix this.

Whoever’s taken my castle will pay.

Jaw clenched, breath held, I hoist myself into the tight square opening that leads into the castle. The waste hole has been used frequently lately, no doubt in preparation for the Winter Feast. Crawling through the grime and sliminess has to be the worst kind of torture. Surely, every chamber pot in the castle must’ve been emptied today.

Pausing in the chute beside the servants’ stairwell, I listen for others. Hearing nothing, I push myself out of the hole and land on the stones of the narrow staircase.

The staircase leads to a number of suites. I pick the one I think has the best chance of being empty. Since I can remember, the doors have been locked to the queen’s suite. I move from her privy to her study. Cobwebs stretch across shelves like someone has thrown gossamer drapes over the books to keep them from dust. Though they are not effective. Dust lies everywhere. No one has been in this room in over twenty years. Not since my mother passed giving birth to me.

I take advantage of the quiet, needing a moment. Each time I blink, a mesh of gore, screams, and nobles I’ve known since childhood fill my head. Lord Tadmier, Lord Crenlin, Lord Greggor . . . ashen faces, blood dripping from lips, wives fallen beside them.

I grasp the edge of a chair, needing the brace. My fingers leave smudges behind. I am filth-covered and I smell like offal. I grapple with the horror, the memories, struggling to lock the evening into a manageable cell and push it behind what I must do. I cannot just stand here and break down. I need to locate Britta.

Though barely any light cracks through the drawn curtains, I squint to make out my mother’s quarters. Out of respect, I never broke in here. Now, I scan for something useful. A weapon. A change of clothes.

All there are to be found are women’s gowns and underthings, books, a hairbrush, and old powders that reek of rotten roses. I consider rubbing some over me to get rid of the fecal odor. Instead, I shed my coat, leaving it on my mother’s chair, and use one of her gowns to wipe the muck off my pants. She’d forgive me for this . . . so I tell myself.

I take my sword and dagger off my belt and start rubbing the cloth all over, wiping off the grime. It doesn’t do much for the stench, so I’ll have to deal with that later.

I grab my sword and dagger and move to leave when my knee bangs a table. A pewter goblet falls over and clangs on the wood. Before it rolls to the ground, I grab it, noticing how the inside is ringed with crust. When my mother passed—when they closed her rooms—there must have been liquid inside.

I bring the cup to my nose and inhale dust. It holds no clue as to what type of woman my mother was. I put the goblet back down and head for the door.

When I’m certain the hall is clear, I undo the old lock on my mother’s room and exit. The hall outside her suite leads to a spiral staircase. No sounds echo from above or below. Everyone must be down on the main floor, fighting. That is, I hope they’re still fighting. How many men were loyal to me? How many have died?