Chapter 12 Wren #2
He snorts. “Hardly. This is an escape route. The Queen wanted me to let you know about it. Only a select few guards know this place exists. If Caerthalen’s ever under siege, this is how you get Prince Cassiel out.”
The seriousness in his voice cuts through any teasing I might have managed. I step inside after him, boots scuffing against the uneven floor. The air smells of earth and old stone.
“The tunnel takes you out past the outer walls,” Dain explains. “Down near the river. There are usually horses tethered in a hidden grove nearby—at least, there should be.”
I nod, committing it all to memory, even though the chances of me ever having to use it are slim. If the castle’s ever under siege, I won’t be getting Cassiel out. I’ll be handing him over.
The idea doesn’t fill me with anything like joy. Instead, it fills me with something like shame.
We walk on. Sunlight appears in the distance, illuminating an iron door. It’s barred in multiple places. Near the entrance, I spot something gleaming against the wall—a small, iron lever tucked almost out of sight.
“What’s this?” I ask, reaching towards it.
Dain smirks faintly. “Disables the iron ring.”
I blink at him, certain I’ve misheard. “The what?”
“You know, the iron ring. The one that prevents fey from passing through—”
“I know what it is,” I clarify. Of course I do. It’s the entire reason I’m here. “I meant… why would you have a way of disabling it?”
I could understand having a way to do so at the front entrance in case they wanted to transport prisoners (or, in the past, entertain fey dignitaries) but having a back entrance for them seems… risky.
My grandmother would kill for this knowledge. She would, and she won’t have to. Because surely, I’ll tell her as soon as I can.
Is this why I was sent here? Is this the sort of thing she wants me to discover?
Dain leans casually against the stone, arms crossed. “Rumour has it a former monarch—Prince Cassiel’s ancestor a few generations back—had a fey lover. Built the tunnel so they could come and go without... complications.” He grins, all bright mischief. “Scandalous, isn’t it?”
I laugh despite myself, glancing down the length of the tunnel. “The Aurelthane royals have their secrets, it seems.”
“You’ve no idea,” Dain says.
I let my fingers brush the lever once more, then draw back. I imagine my grandmother’s pleasure when I tell her about it.
Then I imagine what will happen if I do.
After a moment, Dain straightens. “Come on. Let’s get you back to the Prince. He’s doubtless missing your charming company.”
When I arrive back at Cassiel’s bedchamber, lunch has just been brought up. Cassiel sits at the table, tapping restlessly at the surface.
“Ah, good, you’re back,” he declares, after the door swings shut. “Come, sit. Eat.”
“It was nice of you to wait for me.”
“The food was hot,” he insists.
“These are sandwiches.”
“Gosh, are they really? If only someone had been around to tell me that.”
I take a seat opposite him and pluck one of the sandwiches from the plate. It’s melt-in-your-mouth beef with grainy mustard and softened onions. I bite back a moan of pleasure.
“You and I both know you could have worked out what these were on your own,” I tell him. “Is this your way of telling me that you missed me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps. “The tour merely went on for too long. You aren’t being paid to go gallivanting around with Ser Hollowbrook.”
“We weren’t gallivanting,” I insist. “Although it was nice to spend time with someone who actually seems to enjoy my company, for a change…”
Cassiel purses his lips. He snatches up a sandwich and doesn’t say another word until he’s devoured the whole thing. “Does he enjoy your company?” he says eventually.
“I’m a delight,” I tell him, mouth full of food.
“Your manners are far from delightful.”
“I make up for it in other ways.”
Cassiel eats another sandwich, followed by a slice of cheese and a handful of grapes. I’m almost annoyed that he’s eating so much. There will be less for me to finish off.
“Don’t eat too fast,” I warn him.
“I know, I know.”
I bite my lip. I didn’t warn him because I wanted his food. I warned him because I didn’t want him to get sick again.
If I tell my grandmother about the tunnel, will they all be dead by morning?
“What sort of things do you like, Thornvale?” Cassiel asks, before I can fixate on such a thought.
“Are you looking to get me a present?”
“I’m looking to understand you a little better.”
I’m almost as surprised by this as I am by my concern for his general wellbeing. “Hmm, well, let’s see,” I start, ticking things off on my fingers, “I like riding, and long baths, and besting frustrating princes—”
“Be serious.”
“I seriously enjoy beating you.”
He smiles. “I mean… what do you want? Big things, little things—it doesn’t matter.”
“I would like a magic potion that makes my hands soft,” I tell him.
There’s no need to mention that the fact that I want it is because I’m very aware of how tough my skin is, especially compared to my faerie brethren.
They don’t scar. Their hands don’t get callouses. And Cassiel’s too are as soft as veal.
I do not like being different, and different is all I’ve ever been.
“I would also like a feather mattress. A super-soft blanket. A new pair of boots. Thigh high. Ooh, and a beautiful dress with gossamer sleeves and gold trim.”
“Awfully fancy. I didn’t think you were the type.”
“I know you wouldn’t think this looking at me, but I do, in fact, like fancy things.”
“You’re right,” he says dryly. “I definitely wouldn’t think that, looking at you.”
It suddenly occurs to me what I’ve just said, but Cassiel’s face is turned upwards in a smile. I laugh, and he laughs too.
He has the look of someone who used to laugh a lot.
“What do you think I wear?” I ask him, curious.
“Billowing shirts,” he says, not even pausing. “Tight bodices—brown, dark green. Leggings and strong boots. Lots of belts. Leather vambraces.”
It’s a description so startlingly accurate that for a second I wonder if he’s been faking the whole blind thing.
I’m wearing my guard’s uniform at the moment, but the vambraces are my own.
They’re etched with symbols of ivy and moons.
Zephyr gave them to me for my last birthday.
It goes very nicely with my father’s bird-hilted dagger.
“That is astonishingly accurate.”
“I don’t know, Thornvale. I imagine most of the guards wear the same thing when they’re out of uniform.”
It’s an astute observation. Impressively so.
Of course, sometimes, in the Moonhollow, I’d don dresses for revels: spider-silk gowns, petals in my hair, barefoot on the grass with nothing but paint on my legs.
I’d wear capes that looked like butterfly wings or feathered collars, black as crows’ wings.
I’d smear moondust over my features, daub my skin with clay, wear clothes so faint and insubstantial they were almost made of mist.
I can’t tell him any of this.
I lean across the table, take his hand, and place it against my wrist. “Feel that?” I ask him.
His fingers move over the etchings. “Ivy?” he queries, “and um… half circles?”
“Moons,” I clarify.
“That makes a lot more sense…” He continues to explore the pattern, tracing over the stitching, the swirls in the leather, before he reaches the cuff of my sleeve.
His fingers ghost my palm as he pulls away.
I decide not to tell my grandmother about the secret entrance.
Not today, at least.