Chapter 60
Carver
They were nearly to the prison. Carver ignored the stinging cut on his ribs as he ran down the hall, urgency pulling him to move faster. Ford, Ivan, Samuel, and three soldiers followed, none of them protesting the rapid pace.
Ivan and Samuel had told them everything as they’d rushed through the deserted corridors of the palace. Amryn had been sent to help free Jamir. The rebels were relying on her to get them into the prison. Clearly, the king of Xerra was more important to the Rising than Jamir had led them to believe.
Carver’s head was still spinning with how utterly wrong this night had gone.
He hated the thought of Amryn being isolated with the rebels.
Of having to lie and pretend. She may not be in immediate danger—thank all the Saints the plan was for her to remain at Jamir’s cell while the others fled—but he knew she must be nervous. Scared.
I’m coming, sweetheart.
His pounding footsteps matched the pounding rhythm of his pulse as the prison entrance came into view.
Two guards were stationed there, as expected. Their faces registered shock as they saw Carver and the others tearing toward them.
“Open the door!” Carver shouted.
One of the guards fumbled the keys, but hurried to obey. Carver focused on the other as he drew closer. “My wife—was she here?”
“Y-Yes,” the guard stammered. “She said she had a message from—”
“How long has she been down there?” he demanded.
“I—I’m not sure.” Flustered, the guard glanced at his older companion, who was just swinging open the unlocked door. “Less than a quarter of an hour, surely.”
Carver’s heavy breathing thinned. Too long. “She was going to Jamir’s cell?” he confirmed.
“Yes,” the guard holding the door said. “I tried to dissuade her, but she was determined.”
Carver ground his teeth. “I need an escort to Jamir’s cell. Now.”
“I can take you,” the older guard offered at once. He stepped into the prison, grabbing a lit lamp that was hanging on a hook. Carver and the others hurried to follow.
“She had her guards,” the younger guard called after them. “And Chancellor Janson went with her.”
Carver froze mid-step.
“Janson?” Ford’s confusion mirrored his own.
But beneath the confusion, unease whispered. Something wasn’t right. Saints, none of this was right. Janson showing up at the prison when the Rising was orchestrating Jamir’s escape was too coincidental. Carver’s instincts were screaming.
He couldn’t dwell on it right now.
The rush to the prison’s lowest floor took far too long. Carver couldn’t move fast enough. Especially when he saw the two downed guards right outside the most secure hall in the prison.
The prison guard in front of him cursed and rushed to check the still bodies.
Carver’s gut churned as he darted past them. “Amryn!” His shout seemed amplified in the narrow hall, but there was no response. Dread gripped him.
The second door on the left stood open. Carver grasped the doorframe and peered inside, but Jamir’s cell was empty. Amryn wasn’t here.
Panic seized him.
“She was supposed to be here,” Ivan said, his voice clipped. “She was supposed to be left in Jamir’s cell.”
Ford’s hand landed on Carver’s shoulder, his grip hard. “We’ll find her. She can’t be far. Maybe she tried to find her way back upstairs and got turned around—”
“Carver!”
They all turned at Samuel’s shout.
The prince of Wendahl was kneeling before one of the bleeding guards. This one was propped against the wall, pale as death but somehow still breathing. Samuel was applying pressure to the man’s side, but he looked up at Carver’s approach. “He said they took her.”
Carver’s heart clenched. He crouched beside Samuel, one hand going to the guard’s shoulder. “What happened? Where did they take her?”
The guard stared at him, eyes glazed with pain. A tongue darted over dry lips. “She . . . she didn’t let them hurt me anymore. She protected me.”
Carver tightened his hold. “Where did they go?”
“The Rising,” he said, blinking slowly. His thoughts seemed to be as sluggish as his words. “She was one of them, but . . . she didn’t want to go with them.”
The images that inspired caused Carver’s teeth to grind. “Where are they going?” he repeated, more forcefully than before.
“They’re . . . taking her to the Rowan.”
“Is that an inn?” Ivan asked from behind him, his voice low.
“No,” Ford said grimly. “Not in Zagrev, anyway.”
Carver leaned in, trying to hold the guard’s clouded gaze. “Please,” he begged. “I need to know where they took my wife.”
A thready breath escaped him. Then, “Separate entrance.”
Samuel’s brow furrowed, but Carver had his answer.
“Thank you.” He shoved to his feet. He turned to the older guard who had escorted them.
“Send reinforcements to the west gate.” If the Rising was fleeing through the prison’s direct entrance, then they would doubtless use the nearest gate to enter the city.
“I’ll stay with him until a physician comes,” Samuel offered. “Go.”
Carver was already running.