Chapter 14
The room was dark when Archer returned to it.
A servant had lit a fire in the hearth and a few candles were lit for him to see, but the moonlight didn’t reach his room through the clouds.
The moment he entered his chambers, he leaned against the door with a soft sigh, giving his length a sympathetic squeeze.
He was still painfully hard, but the memory of River spread out under him like that was still fresh in his mind, and as soon as he would be in bed, he would make sure to make good use of it.
For now, he walked past the forechamber, where a sitting room had been laid out for him when he moved rooms, and entered the bedroom.
He stretched his arms over his head, languid, slow, relishing in the lengthening of muscles.
His hands reached for the vest that he had neglected to button when he left River’s room and carelessly tossed it aside.
But just as he was walking over to the washbasin, something caught his eye—a movement, or perhaps a suggestion of it, in the shadows.
He whipped around, his hand reaching for his blade, and the attacker immediately showed himself, knowing he had been seen—a shadow himself, a figure cloaked in dark fabric, hooded so that his face would not be visible.
The clouds parted and a sliver of moonlight illuminated Archer’s bedroom. It did little to help him identify the man. All he could see was his shape, and even that was little more than a lump of fabric as he moved, approaching him.
“Who are ye?” Archer growled, but had no time to say anything else before the figure charged at him, almost pushing him off-balance.
Archer struggled to keep himself upright, planting his feet on the stone floor to keep his balance as his arms blocked the figure’s first blow.
Steel flashed in the night, the blade catching the fire of the candles.
As the other man pushed him, they stumbled into the four-post bed, Archer’s back colliding with one of those pillars.
He let out a grunt, the shock reverberating through him, but he quickly recovered.
With a grunt, he kicked the other man wherever he could reach—and the kick connected with his shin, forcing him to stumble back with a growl.
This time, it was Archer who charged at him, trying to grapple him before he could get away.
He managed to wrap his arms around him, but the man was tall, if not as broad as him, and his strength matched his own.
He violently tried to twist in Archer’s grip, desperate to get himself free, and he managed to do so when he forced them both back and Archer hit his back again on that very same spot, the impact knocking the wind out of him.
His arms slipped for just a moment, but that was enough for the other man to escape his grin.
Still, he didn’t try to run. Instead, he squared up in front of Archer, pulling himself to his full height, the blade held tightly in his hand.
Could this be a hired killer, Archer wondered? Could this attack be related to his accident?
Would that make it not an accident, then? Was Keir right to be suspicious?
But this was clearly not River, and Archer would never be convinced that it was someone she had sent in her stead. Why would she spend these nights with him? Why would she open up to him, even a little? No, the River he knew would never do something like this.
Whoever this was, he either had a personal issue with him or had been hired by someone who did.
The stranger slashed again. Archer caught the attacker’s forearm and drove them backward into the wall hard enough to rattle the stone, and the hood shifted slightly, but all he got was a glimpse of pale skin.
Fury ignited through him at the thought that this might be someone he knew. He must have been, he thought, if he was there in the middle of the night. The castle was heavily guarded, especially since his accident. How could anyone have slipped through all his defences?
No, no one could have; this was someone from inside the castle, someone who roamed the halls freely.
Archer drove forward with brutal force. He and the other man crashed across the room, overturning a chair, the clatter loud in the quiet of the night.
Archer blocked another knife strike and punched the stranger across the jaw, forcing him to stagger.
The blade slipped from gloved fingers and clattered across the floor.
Archer wasted no time before he seized the opportunity. He tackled the attacker to the ground, the floorboards creaking underneath them, and pinned the stranger’s arm with one knee as he struggled to break free.
“Enough!” Archer barked. “Who sent you?”
There was nothing but silence. The man didn’t speak. He only thrashed while making sure to keep his hood in place, even as Archer reached for it and tried to rip it off his face. The figure bucked upward violently, nearly throwing him off, but Archer held on fast.
“Look at me!” he growled and slammed the man’s head down onto the floor in an attempt to get anything out of him.
Still, he said nothing; only cried out once in pain and then there was nothing but the sound of breathing, harsh and angry and vaguely familiar.
Archer reached for the hood again but the stranger was too quick. Before Archer could tell what was happening, he suddenly drove a concealed hilt upward and directly into the healing wound at the side of Archer’s head.
Pain exploded through him, white-hot and blinding.
There was no more hope for him to hold on, to fight.
The older wound was still too fresh, the damage too much for his body to handle, and now it had opened again, warm blood pouring out of it and over his face.
Archer cried out as the room tilted violently sideways, his grip loosening instantly.
A sickening wave of dizziness crashed over him.
It was the same wound, he thought distantly. It could only mean one thing.
This was the same man who had attacked him in the first place.
The attacker shoved him backward and scrambled free. Archer tried to rise, but his legs failed under him and he dropped hard to one knee, one hand against the floor as blood ran warm between his fingers.
The room spun again, unable to remain still. The hooded figure stumbled too. Archer had hurt him badly—he was leaving a trail of blood behind him, and his breathing had become uneven.
Good.
The assassin hesitated near the window. Was this how he had come in?
With his vision swimming and the room going dark at the edges, Archer couldn’t see whether the man had a rope or any equipment with him, but this was the eastern wing—quieter than the other parts of the keep, and though still heavily guarded, it didn’t have as many inhabitants.
Within moments, he was gone, disappearing into the darkness of the balcony.
Archer stumbled behind him, trying to at least catch a better look, but his legs wouldn’t hold him.
His head was pounding, and he felt as though with every heartbeat, he was beaten with a hammer over the temple again and again, in a merciless rhythm.
Pain lanced through his skull so violently he nearly blacked out and he fell onto the floor, face-first on the plush carpet.
Blood dripped steadily onto the fibres, painting the green hues deep red.
Suddenly, memory surged forward in his mind, foggy and fragmented, and he knew this wasn’t the first or even the second time he had been attacked like this. There had been two more instances in his life, at least.
He remembered small, bare feet slapping against cold stone. He remembered the sound of something crashing to the floor. Most of all, he remembered the fear—the kind of fear that only a small child could experience, all-encompassing and world-ending.
Archer squeezed his eyes shut as another piece of memory surfaced. He was older this time, fourteen, perhaps fifteen years of age, training in the yard at dusk. He had been sparring when one of the practice weapons had been switched for real steel.
The strike had nearly split his neck open.
It had been ruled an accident then, but now, he was not so certain about it. What if this was the same person trying to end his life ever since he was a child? How many more times had he been attacked and he couldn’t remember it?
Did anyone else know? Did anyone else remember?
Archer pressed trembling fingers harder against the fresh wound, inadvertently drawing more blood as he tried to stop the pounding in his head. Someone had wanted him dead for years, and the thought hollowed him out more than the pain did.
A sudden pounding sounded at the door, matching that of his temple.
“Archer?”
River.
Before he could answer, the door burst open, and River froze at the sight of him, all the color draining from her face. She rushed to him immediately, her hands hovering over his head as if she was trying to decide what to do, as if she feared she would do more damage.
“Och God…Archer!”
River dropped to her knees beside him, hands shaking as she grabbed the blanket from the bed and pressed it against the blood running down his temple in a desperate attempt to stop the flow of it.
“What happened?” she demanded breathlessly. “What happened?”
“Visitor,” Archer mumbled weakly.
River looked around wildly at the destroyed room—the shattered desk, the overturned furniture, the blood on the floor, and her expression shifted into a mask of terror.
“Someone attacked ye?”
Archer nodded once, but quickly stopped, as the mere motion made him nauseous. At least this time, he figured, he still remembered everything—and had even gained some of his old memories back, no matter how unpleasant they were.
“Ye’re bleedin’ too much,” said River.
“I’ve had worse.”
“This isnae the time to pretend ye’re indestructible.”