Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(62)

“I—I don’t.”

“Liar.” She taps her forehead. Her cloak shifts around her like bat wings. “I saved you that day, Britta.”

Every bit of me recoils from hearing the scratched way she says my name. I fight to keep my face expressionless. “Why have you come here?”

Finn coughs. She made me forget he was across the dungeon.

“Don’t you desire freedom from the dungeon?” Phelia asks in a casual way as if she’s offering bread and ale.

“Freedom in exchange for what?”

“The guards will release you if you agree to stay at the castle.”

“Until when?”

She paces the width of my cell. “You will work alongside me until you’ve learned to master your Spiriter gift.”

No time frame? That’s ludicrous. Not that I’m tempted. I’d be insane to make a deal with someone like her, a murderer and manipulator. And yet, I cannot help but wonder if she would keep her word. I’m a quick learner. I could master my ability.

Which is madness. It must be a trap.

“You need time to think about it,” she says, reading more into my silence than I wish her to.

I don’t respond.

She props the lantern on a wall holder and departs, climbing the stairs and disappearing into the dark. Once she’s out of sight, I glance around. It feels like a miracle that I can see my hand in front of my face. Leaving the lantern is such a small act, one Phelia likely gave little thought to, but the light she left in the room makes all the difference.

I can see the reprieve on Finn’s face as he rests his temple against a bar.

His knees look knobby and cold under his nightshirt.

“She’s your mother?” he asks.

“Yes.” I clench my fist over my belly, holding pressure there until my insides settle. My fingers find the old scar on my chest, the one I always thought was from the woods.

“I’m not like her,” I say, reassuring him. The words are swallowed by the frigid darkness.

I am not like her.





Chapter

27


Aodren


IN THE LAST FEW HOURS SINCE I MADE IT TO MY secret room, I’ve rubbed my fingers raw by reaching so many times for the loophole window slits. At any sound of voices or horses in the stable yard, I look out, hoping to glean information about Jamis’s next move.

Death carts covered in big tarps leave the yard, assumedly carrying the bodies of the slain noblemen and -women. Soldiers come and go. I sit in my stench and try to memorize their faces so later I don’t confuse one of my loyal men with a traitor.

Time is running out. My best bet at finding a change of clothing, which I desperately need, is the servants’ quarters, because they’re less likely to be guarded. No hidden passage leads there, but there are a few passages I could use that will get me close.

The moon isn’t full, so my journey along the parapet is marginally less noticeable. Or so I hope. Crouched down, I scuttle to the north tower, shaking my head the entire time at the situation. A king, fugitive in his own home. Ludicrous.

Once I reach the second level, I backtrack through the suites that have servants’ passages connected to their garderobes. Attendants typically travel in these passages to clean out the privy.

The north tower is quiet as a tomb. Only the steps from a guard near the bottom floor can be heard now and then. To ensure he’s not alerted to my presence, my descent is slow, each step achingly measured until I reach the second level.

I press open the door and it squeaks.

A thousand curses run through my head as I rush out of the stairwell and into the hall, knowing the guard surely heard. I reach a suite. Back the direction I came, someone calls out in the hall. I sneak through the door and open the next one that leads to the passageway behind the privy.

Seeds and stars, the stench. My sympathies go to the castle workers. I cannot imagine anyone would stomach this job for long, and yet I’ve heard men value this position. Madness.

I squeeze along the servants’ walk and take the steep stairs downward.

When I reach the door that leads to a small yard, I pause and press my ear to the wood.

I hear nothing. The servants’ quarters, protected by the exterior walls of the castle, are similar to the guards’ training yard in that they’re bordered on one side by a cliff. It wouldn’t be feasible for enemies to attack the castle from the servants’ quarters so this area of the castle is typically unguarded.

I’m counting on it.

I push through the entry. It’s a relief to find no one waiting or watching. A small stretch of grass spans from the cliff to the castle wall where thatched roofs sit atop stone quarters. There, all the windows are dark.

I’m not sure how many servants made it through the attack. I’m not sure if those who did are loyal. But though it seems as if no one is around, all the unknowing fuels my caution.

Though I’ve spent years sneaking around my own castle when I don’t want to be seen, it still requires effort. It’s a balance of weight and movement. It makes me more fully appreciate the grace Britta engages to hunt stealthily in the woods.

I pass the first few doors, thinking that if someone was still loyal to me, though hiding in these quarters, they would most likely pick the door farthest from the castle to stay low. It may be faulty reasoning, but it makes me feel marginally smarter about my choices.