Chapter 16
FIVE MINUTES
IMOGEN PUSHED THROUGH THE DOOR of the Crowned Doe and let the night’s quiet conversation wash over her.
She’d had a missive delivered to Vulgren informing him she was leaving the Stronghold for the evening.
Imogen didn’t give him the chance to reply.
She wasn’t asking permission. She was a damned elder, not a Fate, not a prisoner. And she needed some air.
Imogen suffered no illusions. She knew she wouldn’t be permitted to leave permanently, nor would she be allowed to go alone. The armed guard followed behind her, shadowing her every move as she stepped into the tavern and chose a seat at a secluded table against the far wall.
She’d wanted to check in on her mother but couldn’t bring herself to enter Mender Alcuin’s clinic, Light House.
What if her presence ignited the queen’s ire?
She didn’t know if Vulgren was aware of her agreement with Queen Serebine, but if not, she wouldn’t risk advertising it.
Imogen had gotten as far as the front entryway lit with hopeful lanterns, before she retreated into the darkened Asteros streets and headed for the tavern.
One of the barmaids greeted her. Imogen asked for an ale and a meal and sank into the wooden booth. She glanced sidelong at the guard standing stiffly beside her table.
“Can I get five minutes without your hovering?”
“No, Elder Imogen.”
She sighed. “Look at me.”
Tentatively, he did. He was young. Barely even a shadow of facial hair peppered a jawline recently chiseled by manhood’s arrival.
She’d specifically asked for him. He was the only guard who’d offered her the hint of a greeting, a flicker of kindness in that deplorable stone prison.
Gen had seen the way he stole glances at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.
She was a wretch for it, but she’d use whatever female persuasion she possessed if it granted her even a moment of freedom from her enemies’ ceaseless scrutiny.
“What is your name, sir?”
His light brown eyes widened infinitesimally before he straightened. “Second Lieutenant Prestyn Gore, Elder.”
Second Lieutenant. Not an entry-level soldier, but only just advanced in rank. “Prestyn,” Imogen dared. His shocked attention flicked back to her. “Please. Look around. You are the only guard here. The tavern is emptying.”
He scanned the room.
“I am only asking for a moment of peace. I promise I have no ill intentions.”
Lieutenant Gore hesitated.
“Five minutes,” Imogen pleaded. “And then I will return to the Stronghold with you.”
“Five minutes,” he echoed. “No more.”
She gifted him a weak smile and nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
Prestyn Gore strode grimly to the bar across the room and sat, angling himself with obvious intent so that Imogen remained well within his field of view.
Imogen leaned her head against the booth’s backing and closed her eyes. The sounds of the tavern and the few remaining patrons’ quiet conversations lulled her, though there was no true relaxation to be had. Not within the scope of her current circumstances.
I am bound by my promise to another. The sound of rattling chains echoed in her memory. Bound.
Oh, Karrick.
She shouldn’t have run. She should have stayed in the dark with him, welcomed the pitiful warmth of that flickering flame that did little to banish the chill in his cell.
But she’d panicked. Imogen had been too overwhelmed with her own selfish emotion to think beyond her pain.
The pain of seeing the male she loved chained in the shadows.
The pain of knowing the future they once wanted was exactly what he’d said: a fantasy.
Her thoughts drifted to Felíne, and worry carved at her.
She sat for what must have been more than five minutes, letting her concern settle.
If only she had some way to right all of these wrongs.
Every consideration caused her pain. Even if Felíne were found, Imogen would be forced to deliver her to Karrick.
The thought sent a fresh wave of anguish washing through her.
Perhaps this was the best she could hope for.
Perhaps she was destined to live a life pervaded by misery.
She’d been so consumed with her own agonizing solitude that she hadn’t even accomplished what she’d meant to. She’d wanted to show Karrick he wasn’t alone. Instead, she’d left him. He told her she should have run, and without even meaning to, that’s precisely what she’d done.
The sound of fabric sliding across wood startled Imogen out of her reverie. She opened her eyes and stiffened.
A slightly hunched, hooded figure sat across from her. Her gaze shot to the bar where Lieutenant Gore should have been watching. He was nowhere to be found. Imogen flattened a palm on the tabletop, ready to launch out of the booth.
“The guard is unharmed, Elder Imogen,” a smoothly cultured voice said. “Merely taking a brief, contrived respite.”
Imogen froze halfway out of her seat. She recognized that voice. “Mender?”
Mender Alcuin did not lower his hood but angled so that its interior caught the flicker of dim light. His weathered face appeared somewhat strained, but kind concern twinkled in his blue eyes as he studied her. “Hello, my dear.”
Imogen sank onto the bench. “But, Mender, how…”
“I have many eyes in this city, Elder,” he explained. “Though we do not have time for lengthy explanations. Your assiduous guardian will not sleep for long, I am afraid, and my presence here must not be discovered.”
Imogen leaned forward, lowering her voice.
“You said you were leaving. The monarchs believe you have gone.” She believed he had gone.
He was supposed to have been traveling to meet with a colleague, hoping to secure treatment for her mother’s worsening condition.
Queen Serebine had been furious that he’d gotten out of the city before King Domitan’s lockdown had gone into effect after Felíne’s disappearance.
He nodded sagely. “And I would have that belief endure. For now.”
“My mother—”
Mender Alcuin reached out a withered hand and gripped hers with surprising strength.
“She is mending, Imogen. Still weak, but her condition is improving. I did not mislead you. I had every intention of seeking my colleague, but alas, unexpected events have claimed my attention. Rest assured, I sent a trusted, quite capable friend in my stead. I have every intention of curing Miriam’s ailment. ”
Imogen released a shuddering breath.
“Elder, I must ask, do you know what has happened to our Felíne?”
Gen’s throat worked on a swallow. “I do not.” She relayed her conversation with the king and queen. How she’d returned to the royal villa to find the Prima had gone. How the king’s hunters searched tirelessly for her. Imogen had received no news as to her whereabouts.
Mender Alcuin’s expression grew grave, thoughtful. “She must be found,” he said. “I must make additional inquiries. Regardless of risk.”
Imogen hesitated, wondering how much she should reveal to the old mender. Felíne had trusted him. She’d said as much. This man was believed to be gone, yet he sought information hidden from the crown’s persistent gaze. Clearly, he didn’t trust the King and Queen of Asteros.
Imogen told him about Madame’s. She explained Felíne’s request to learn about life beyond the villa walls.
She told him about the tunnels under the city, their unorthodox lessons, and her missing Fate’s cloak.
Every detail she could recall that might be pertinent, she shared without reservation, the information spilling out of her in a rush.
Mender Alcuin absorbed every word with unwavering focus.
When Imogen was finished, he reclined. “My Felíne,” he said with a small, sad smile.
“Ever the eager pupil. She carries a terrible burden. An impossible burden.” He shook his head.
“Thank you, Imogen. You may not be able to inquire after her, but this provides me with some direction.”
Mender Alcuin readjusted his hood, once again concealing his features, and stood.
Imogen hesitated again, wondering whether or not she should reveal Karrick’s identity as the Primordial Male. She hesitated too long.
Mender Alcuin held a hand out to her, inviting her to stand.
“Lieutenant Gore will wake shortly. He is there, at that far table, and will not remember dozing off. Go back to the Stronghold, Elder. If you can get away again in the next week, I will find you and relay any updates I obtain. Take care of yourself, dear.”
With that, the old mender wove deftly between the tables and disappeared out a rear exit.
Imogen sidled up to the table where Prestyn Gore slept, cheek pressed to the wood, a trickle of drool gathering in the corner of his open mouth. She eased into the seat opposite him.
He woke within moments, blinking confusedly, and dragged a hand across his mouth.
Imogen smiled softly at him. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” she said. “You only just fell asleep. I’m sure your shifts are long and don’t allow much reprieve.”
Prestyn’s eyes darted about the room.
“No one saw, and I will not tell a soul, Lieutenant Gore,” she assured.
Imogen rose, hands clasped demurely before her. “Would you escort me back to the Stronghold, sir?”
Prestyn nodded once, curtly, clearly not trusting himself to speak. The poor man must have been horrified by his perceived lack of dedication to his post.
As they made their way through the darkened streets, Imogen mentally replayed her meeting with Mender Alcuin.
She hoped whatever he’d gleaned from her revelations would help him locate Felíne.
As much as she dreaded the Prima’s presentation to the Primordial Male, she wanted to know her friend was safe and unharmed.
After all, it wasn’t Felíne’s fault Imogen had unknowingly fallen in love with her intended.
Imogen’s friend held no responsibility for the way the crown and Vulgren had manipulated their lives, inevitably entwining a young Fate’s emotions with a male ultimately forbidden to her.
The night seemed to darken further as they rounded a corner, and the unmarked entrance to the Stronghold loomed before them. They passed another set of guards before Prestyn led Imogen in and down.
Always down.
Melancholy enveloped her.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Imogen whispered.
Lieutenant Gore’s next step faltered only slightly. They progressed several more paces before his near inaudible reply drifted to her. “You’re welcome.”
Imogen held fast to the quiet sincerity in those words. She had a feeling she would need Prestyn Gore again.