Chapter 6 #2
Slowly, a section of wall swung inward, revealing a sliver of dim light. Nero peered through the narrow opening, assessing the space beyond.
"Clear," he whispered, easing the door wider.
They emerged into a small alcove partially concealed by tall bookshelves. The library lay in darkness save for a single oil lamp burning on a distant table, its flame throwing long shadows across the dusty tomes.
Casteel oriented himself quickly. "This way," he murmured, leading Nero between the towering shelves. "The kitchen passage is behind the astronomy section."
They moved silently across the library floor, freezing at every creak of ancient wood beneath their feet. Casteel felt strangely light-headed—whether from the bonding, the tension, or simple hunger, he couldn't tell.
"There," Casteel whispered, pointing to an unassuming door partially hidden behind a shelf of star charts.
Just as they reached it, voices echoed from the main entrance. Nero pulled Casteel behind a massive bookcase, one hand pressed against his chest in a silent command to remain still. Footsteps approached—at least two people, moving with purpose rather than stealth.
"—must be prepared by dawn," came a familiar voice. High Priest Doran. "The announcement cannot wait. Send a guard to check on them."
Casteel's heart thumped so hard he could imagine it breaking his ribs. They had mere moments.
"The bonding may require time to stabilize," replied another voice he didn’t recognize, his tone measured but firm. "Rushing them before the connection settles could cause harm."
"The people need their savior now, not when it's convenient," Doran snapped. "The drought worsens. The eastern provinces report new cases of the blight. We cannot afford delays."
Their voices grew clearer as they moved deeper into the library. Casteel pressed closer to Nero, both barely breathing as the priests passed within arm's reach of their hiding place.
Their voices faded as they moved toward the far end of the library. Nero's eyes met Casteel's in the darkness, a silent message passing between them: we need to move, now. They didn't have time to forage for anything.
They slipped through the small door into another narrow passage, this one mercifully lit by small air shafts that allowed thin moonlight to filter through. The kitchen smells grew stronger—yeast, smoke, and the lingering aroma of the evening's meal.
"We need to go quickly," Nero murmured as they approached the passage's end. "With any luck, the kitchen will be empty now, even as we are nearing predawn."
The passage opened into a small pantry adjoining the main kitchen.
Moonlight streamed through high windows, casting silver pools across stone floors and wooden worktables.
The massive hearth still radiated residual warmth, though the fires had been banked for the night.
A single kitchen boy slept on a pallet near the ovens, his soft snores the only sound.
"There," Casteel whispered, pointing to a row of cloth sacks hanging from hooks. "Those are used for market runs."
Nero shook his head. "No time. Just bread and we have water. We need to get out." Casteel filled two leather pouches while Nero discovered a drawer of kitchen knives, selecting two with practical, sturdy blades.
"Servants' clothing?" Nero murmured, glancing at the sleeping boy.
Casteel shook his head. "Laundry room, one level down. But there's a faster way." He moved to a large cupboard and opened it carefully, revealing neatly folded stacks of simple garments. "Cook keeps spares for her kitchen boys."
"We need to go," Nero said, securing their provisions.
"The stable yard is through that door and across the courtyard," Casteel whispered, gesturing toward a heavy wooden door. "But there will be guards."
"How many?"
"Two at the gate, maybe one patrolling," Casteel replied, adjusting the straps of his supply bag. He felt Nero's tactical mind working, calculating angles and possibilities.
They approached the door cautiously. Nero pressed his ear against the wood, listening for movement beyond. After a moment, he nodded and slowly lifted the iron latch.
The courtyard stretched before them, bathed in silver moonlight. Stone pathways wound between herb gardens and storage sheds toward the outer gate. Everything appeared quiet, peaceful even.
"There," Casteel breathed, pointing toward a shadowed alcove near the stables. "We can use that building for cover, then approach the gate from the blind side."
They slipped through the door, keeping low as they moved across the open space. Gravel crunched softly beneath their feet despite their careful steps. Halfway to their destination, Nero suddenly grabbed Casteel's arm, pulling him to a halt.
"Something's wrong," Nero whispered, his warrior instincts flaring. "Too quiet."
Casteel felt it too—an unnatural stillness that raised the hair on his arms. No guards visible, no sounds from the barracks, even the usual night insects had fallen silent.
"We should go back," Casteel murmured, but even as he spoke, torchlight flared to life around the courtyard's perimeter.
"Going somewhere?" High Priest Doran's voice cut through the darkness like a blade. He stepped from the shadows near the gate, flanked by a dozen armed guards. More emerged from behind buildings, their weapons drawn but not yet threatening.
Nero's hand moved instinctively toward his concealed knife, but Casteel caught his wrist. Through their bond, he felt the older man's rage and frustration. They were surrounded, outnumbered, with nowhere to run.
"Did you truly think we wouldn't anticipate this?" Doran continued, his tone almost paternal in its disappointment. More guards emerged from the kitchen door behind them, cutting off their retreat. The Captain of the Guard stepped forward, his scarred face grim but not unkind.
"Drop your weapons and supplies," he commanded. "No one needs to be hurt here."
Nero's jaw clenched, his fingers still hovering near his knife. Casteel could feel the desperate calculations running through his mate's mind—angles of attack, chances of success, acceptable losses. All of them leading to the same conclusion.
"Nero," Casteel whispered, his voice carrying a wealth of meaning. "Not like this."
For a heartbeat, the courtyard balanced on a knife's edge. Then Nero's shoulders sagged slightly, and he raised his hands in surrender. The kitchen knife clattered to the stone at his feet.