Chapter 10 One More Day
Castien grasped ahold of the rope of his consciousness and drug himself out of sleep. Wren’s melodic voice was the first thing to greet him, right before the pounding of his head and aching of his limbs. The former was a balm for the latter.
“I know you are sleeping, so you have not heard any of the story, but this is the most foolish woman I have ever heard of. She has only just met this man—on her balcony, where he was spying on her—and she believes herself to be enamored with him. Her stupidity is boundless.”
Castien stifled a laugh and blinked open his dry eyes. The action burned and added to his overall discomfort, but he wanted to see her. Wren’s expression was that of extreme disdain. She turned the page and shook her head.
“Is that not how you would have written the tale, Storyteller?” he rasped.
Wren startled at the sound of his voice, then settled when she realized it was him speaking. She snapped the book shut with a huff.
“Certainly not. One cannot expect such fierce emotion to develop so quickly.”
The irony of her words. If only she knew how Castien felt about her. Judging by her contempt for this fictional woman, he doubted she would be happy. He recalled his conversation with Finn. Hopeless. Castien was pathetic and hopeless.
“Finn would disagree. He falls in love every week.” Castien jested to hide his agony.
Wren laughed. “Finn has never felt love for a woman, only minor affection, I am sure of it.”
“Perhaps the woman in the novel feels the same for her suitor?” Castien proposed. “You cannot fault her for that.”
Wren rolled her eyes. “I would not, if she weren’t making ridiculous decisions because of it.”
“What is love and affection without the absence of a sound mind?”
“I would not know,” Wren said lightly, but Castien caught the hitch in her voice. “I’ve never known the emotion beyond that for my brother.”
Castien tried not to let her words penetrate his heart. If he did, he was liable to let his despair slip into her notice.
“That love led you here. Would you consider your decision wise?” he asked out of curiosity.
Wren looked at the fire as she pondered his inquiry. Her curls were pure gold, refined to perfection by the light of the flames.
“Time will tell,” she said after a moment of silence, then returned her indigo eyes to him. “You sound as though your strength has returned in some measure. Do you think you are able to walk?”
Castien drew in a long breath, then pushed himself up so he was sitting instead of lying on the couch. His body protested the movement, but he knew they could not stay any longer than they had. The risks were mounting by the hour.
“I believe so, though I want you to hold your dagger as we walk,” Castien instructed her.
Her expression turned wary, but she nodded.
“We’re headed to your study?” she asked.
Castien pushed his hands through his hair. It was the last place he should take Wren, but it was the only way of reaching anyone aside from heading back aboveground. He needed Heathford as his aid if he wished to return Wren to her house.
“Yes, and though I know you are unlikely to listen, please don’t touch anything in the room once we are there. I want a chance to explain before you see something and make your judgement.”
Wren’s open expression shuttered at his words. His chest pinched. The softness they shared was fleeing at the reminder of the secrets they each had. Wren would regret having taken care of him, instead wishing she would have left him or not shown up in the first place.
Castien supposed he should be upset with her for expecting him to bare his soul when she would not do the same, but he could not find it in him to do so.
Especially considering he had her journal.
Who was he to ask anything of her? He deserved her contempt.
Her ire. A dagger through the heart if she so wished.
Yet still he yearned and longed to see her forgiveness and trust blossom.
If she allowed such beautiful blooms to grow before him, he’d be a dedicated caretaker.
Not so much as a petal would fall in his presence ever again.
“I will make no promises,” Wren said in a tight voice.
Castien sighed. “At least you are honest.”
He stood, and Wren took hold of his arm when the room started to spin.
Her touch burned through the chill, and a craving for more overcame him.
He heard Wren gasp. His gaze snapped to her face, analyzing, calculating as best he could in his disarray.
Did she feel something? Had he given himself away?
Tides, please, no. He begged his walls to stay standing.
He hadn’t lost her yet. If he could make it through the night without her running from him, he would count it as a victory.
One more day. He just needed one more. Though he knew that he would ask for the same tomorrow.
And again and again until the end of his time.
“Let us go before you lose your energy again,” Wren said quietly, her gaze transfixed on his collar rather than his eyes.
He nodded his agreement, then waited for her to grab her bag and the dagger off the table. After she had gathered her things, he reached down and plucked a different blade from a harness around his ankle. Wren stepped next to him as he grew dizzy once more.
“Lean on me,” she said in a gentle tone Castien felt he did not deserve.
He slung an arm over her shoulders and allowed her to aid his balance, though he did not put any true weight on her.
They walked to the door, and Wren unlocked it so they could step back into the hall.
Castien left the lantern behind. There were torches throughout the passageways to light their path, and he did not want anything to further hinder his ability to protect Wren.
They walked, the only words spoken from Castien directing their turns a few steps before they arrived at each juncture.
It was not a far walk to his study. They stepped into the passage where Wren had run into Castien’s arms the night before.
Wren’s muscles tensed beneath Castien’s arm. She must have recognized the area.
“Right here,” Castien said quietly, before stepping away from Wren to unlock the door with a key he had hooked onto his belt loop before coming down here.
Castien tried to keep the key in a different spot on his person each day, so that no one could determine a pattern that would aid in them stealing it.
The metallic shift of the lock signaled the door was able to be opened.
Castien reattached the key, then grasped the knob.
Only, he couldn’t bring himself to walk inside.
His physical and emotional state prevented his Gift from working at full capacity, but it still reminded him in violent strokes of gold of the mistake he was making.
Castien would—and had—entrusted his life to Wren, but the secrets beyond this threshold?
He suspected she would use whatever she found to aid in her search for her brother’s killer.
So be it. He wished to help her in that endeavor—but not at the risk of everything he had built.
His legacy. The one that his father and grandfather had written before he was even born.
The one he had spent his entire life forging.
Castien’s blood and sweat may not be visible in the study they were about to enter, but the walls may as well have been painted in it for how much he had given of himself.
“Castien.” Wren laid a hand between his shoulder blades. He shivered and suppressed a groan. “You’re shaking,” she murmured. “I can wait out here if I must, but you need to ring for help.”
Castien shook his head no, though the action pained him.
Not saying anything in reply, he opened the door.
The inside of his study was dark, as he had no intention of coming down here until the academy settled some.
He set his dagger down on top of a stack of parchment, then grasped a jar of matches and began lighting the candles on his desk.
Darkness expelled, he grasped the rope located in the corner of the room and tugged.
The action would ring a bell in Heathford’s quarters.
Percilean had designed it last semester.
It had taken careful work so as to not alert anyone other than Heathford, but the Gifted engineer had made it happen.
“There might be more books in here than in the library,” Wren commented as she surveyed the room.
Castien sunk into the large wingback chair behind his desk. He saw that Wren had shut and locked the door without his notice. Tides, he needed sleep. Perhaps a healer, as well. He scrubbed his face with his hands and leaned back in the chair.
“They are historical accounts,” Castien murmured, watching her.
She looked the most like an investigator that he had ever seen, in her wool coat, dagger in hand.
Those impossibly blue eyes of hers were keen.
He knew she would not miss a single detail.
What surprised him, however, was that she had not moved from the center of the room.
She did not reach for any of the tomes, nor did she move closer to attempt to read the spines.
“Of?” she inquired.
Castien hesitated. Wren let out a huff of a laugh, her breath creating a puff of white in the cold room. He needed to tend to the hearth—he would not ask Wren to do so again—but he lacked the physical prowess required for the task.
“Why were you in the tunnels, Wren?” Castien asked instead of answering her.
She met his gaze. Her eyes were the center of a flame.
“To find my brother’s killer.”
Castien raised his brows as if he did not already know this. He wanted to see how much she would give him. It would determine what he would disclose in return.
“How did you find them?” he tried.
She shook her head.
“Answer me first.”
Her challenge was a blazing gauntlet between them.
“I brought you in here. Surely that’s enough to warrant one more answer?”
Wren crossed her arms over her chest, letting the dagger hang from her right hand.
He chuckled, then regretted doing so as it gave way to another cough. Wren took a step forward but paused when Castien’s hacking abated.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you menacing with that dagger in your hand,” he teased in a raspy voice.
“You are not the only historian at the academy,” Castien continued after clearing his throat.
“I write the history of the school, specifically regarding a certain percentage of its occupants.”
Wren’s eyes grew wide. “So it’s true,” she whispered.
“What is?”
“The Order.” Castien stiffened at her words. “It exists.”
Castien’s Gift swirled before him, connecting pieces of evidence. It was as he suspected. Heron had given his sister far too much information in that journal of his. How much did she know? What risk did she pose?
A knock sounded at the door, making Wren jump.
“Your Highness, it is I,” Heathford called through the wood.
Castien watched Wren walk to the door, the dagger clutched in her fist. His storyteller had stumbled across a tale that wasn’t hers. And now he needed to figure out how to keep her from sharing it with anyone else.