Chapter Forty
Another day, another dead body. Silas stared down at the lump on the barrack’s floor, covered with the white sheet from the bed.
At least the medic had prepared him for what he would see this time.
He crouched down and grabbed the edge of the sheet, tugging it off to reveal Quentin’s face, eyes cloudy and skin tinged slightly blue.
In life, Quentin had always been jittery and nervous, even before he’d been accused of murder. Now he lay still, his slack face the most relaxed Silas had ever seen it.
“Be honest with me, Griselda,” Silas said, his voice low. She stood behind him with Langley, Emera, and the medic who had declared Quentin dead. More witnesses than they should have for this conversation, but they were all people the general trusted. “Did you order someone to kill him?”
Griselda snorted. “If you’re hunting snakes, you want to keep a few live rats on hand. Quentin had the most information about Jacoby and the night of the fire.”
“Varro had information, and you wanted to kill him,” Silas replied.
“Varro also had an army of sycophants willing to blow up a prison to free him. As we can all see, Quentin was in more danger from his own allies than he was from us.”
The medic cleared his throat and said, “Actually, he died from natural causes.” He pointed at the fresh bandage on Quentin’s neck. “When he returned yesterday, I treated the infection, but it had already entered his blood. Probably the only healer who could have saved him was the Witch.”
Silas’ shoulders tensed at Adelaide’s title.
Several days had passed since he’d received her cryptic messages and he still hadn’t heard from her, or from anyone else.
Archer, Penn, Valerian—everyone’s silence made Silas feel like he was lost in a fog, shouting until his throat bled, but never hearing a reply.
Swallowing the surge of loneliness, Silas tried to focus on the problem of Quentin. “Was the spider bite some sort of curse?”
The medic’s brow furrowed. “Not that I’m aware of?”
Silas looked at Griselda, silently asking for her opinion.
Her nose scrunched in annoyance, but she crouched next to Silas and inhaled deeply. “Smells more like rot than shit,” she replied, rubbing her nose and quickly standing. The medic handed her a handkerchief, and she blew her nose into it to rid herself of any lingering stench.
“Quentin claimed Jacoby had cursed him,” Silas explained.
“That little rat definitely wasn’t a mage.”
Silas considered Quentin’s story, then amended, “Maybe it wasn’t so much that Jacoby laid the curse, as he took advantage of a curse that was already there. Quentin was bitten by one of the spiders that had escaped Alistair’s box of documents.”
Griselda’s lip curled at the memory. “That would probably do it. Surprised it took so long to kick in though.”
“Maybe because Alistair’s dead?” Silas suggested. “Do curses outlast the caster?”
“How should I know? That’s Adelaide’s territory.”
Restlessness throbbed in Silas’ muscles.
He felt incompetent, cut off from everyone except a surly group of soldiers.
Quentin’s death was too fresh for the body to rot, yet a persistent stink filled Silas’ lungs, making it hard to breathe in the small room.
“Is there anything else you need from me?”
“No, sir,” the medic replied promptly.
“Good. Prepare him for cremation. If you find anything else, alert me right away.” He turned his back on yet another traitor and walked out of the room.
Griselda left the arrangements to Emera and walked beside Silas. Langley stayed a few steps behind, giving them the illusion of privacy.
Since Silas didn’t know how long he could hold Griselda’s attention, he took the opportunity to ask, “How is the retraining going?”
Griselda rubbed her nose, trying to rid herself of the persistent scent of death.
“Better, now that we’ve isolated the troublemakers.
Darian’s presence helps—the ones who are wary of us can look to him for direction, and the young’uns seem to like him.
While his pandering teaching style might not be fit for kings with a dozen enemies trying to kill them, it works for the girls who’ve never held a sword before. ”
“Are there lots of female recruits?” Silas asked, picking up the pace. Hurry, hurry, hurry, screamed through his veins, though he couldn’t figure out why. Am I late to a meeting?
“More every day, though they only make up a quarter of the numbers right now.” A few inches taller than him, Griselda easily matched Silas’ pace. “I like the bakers and the cooks best—calloused hands, swift reflexes, and they’re not afraid to handle something sharp.”
Silas thought of the old palace cook’s hands, calloused and tough yet gentle as they’d held his.
I wish she was still here with me. She’d been one of the few people Silas always trusted, even when the world wanted to grind him to dust. Which was why Alistair had targeted her, treating her like just another thing to take away from Silas.
“You know,” Griselda said, her breath coming a little faster. She pressed a hand to her side, the only sign she gave of her healing injury. “If the dawn exercises aren’t enough, you can always join us on the training field.”
Silas’ brow furrowed as he looked over his shoulder at her. For the first time realizing he was, in fact, jogging. “I—” he cut himself off because he didn’t really have an explanation.
Griselda inhaled deeply, her nose wrinkling. “You smell like—”
Something snared Silas and tugged him forward. He broke into a run, bolting straight through the palace gate, heading down toward the coast.
Griselda and Langley both shouted after him. The guard’s running footsteps were heavy on the cobblestone as he chased Silas. Langley’s training helped him catch up to Silas quickly, but he didn’t try to stop him. He only kept pace, his eyes scanning the road ahead of them.
Silas looked toward the harbor, where the merchant and passenger ships were docked.
A new ship had just pulled up to the last dock, the crew crawling over the deck like ants as they settled in.
From that distance, Silas couldn’t see anyone’s faces clearly, but one figure at the rail stood out to him.
Familiar auburn hair wafted in the strong breeze like the ships’ flag, proclaiming her identity.
Emmaline.
Someone held her arm and dragged her forward, toward a ramp to disembark.
Griselda’s voice growled through Silas’ head: Might have something to do with the rat bastard who sired Em.
The person with her must have been the ‘rat bastard’, or someone who worked for him.
They’d already captured Em. They were taking her away, and if Silas didn’t reach her soon, they would disappear in the crowd of sailors.
In a new burst of speed, Silas raced straight for the ship and tackled Emmaline’s captor around the middle. Gasps and shouts rose around them as Silas and the mercenary bastard slipped straight off the ramp.
Water closed over their heads. Panic filled Silas’ chest as he remembered the last time he’d almost drowned—the water pouring into his mouth and nose, filling his lungs.
Being dragged further and further below the surface by one of Alistair’s icy creations.
Forgetting about the bastard he’d dragged down with him, Silas frantically kicked and surged toward the surface.
As soon as his head was above water again, he sucked in a lungful of fresh air.
On the dock, the shouting rose to a full uproar.
Langley stood near the edge, his back to Silas as he searched the waters on the wrong side.
Griselda had finally caught up to them. She held a dagger out in front of her, yelling at someone else to drop their weapon.
The harbor master stood off to the side, his hands clasping a clipboard as he stared wide-eyed at the commotion.
Silas’ attention turned toward the ship, and his eyes widened as he met the steely gaze of a female sailor, her loaded crossbow pointed directly at him.
“Silas!” Emmaline’s voice rose above the ruckus as she spotted him. She dropped to her knees on the dock, holding out a hand to help him up.
“Oh sure, help him but ignore me. It’s not like he started it or anything,” an annoyed voice grumbled behind him, accompanied by splashing water as the person approached.
Silas turned around, raising his fists to block an expected strike. The motion dipped him under the water again and he almost inhaled a lungful before his kicking feet brought him back to the surface.
The person staring back at Silas had blond hair clinging to their forehead and wide hazel eyes. For a moment, Silas thought he was looking at a younger version of Valerian.
Instead of attacking, they swam past him and pulled themself up onto the dock.
“Moira, for gods’ sake,” a voice called from the ship. “Lower the crossbow so he can get out of the water without worrying about you accidentally shooting him.”
“He attacked my first mate.”
Em pursed her lips as she glared up at Moira, then held her hand out to Silas. “She won’t shoot you,” she promised.
“Not unless she wants her whole ship burned to ashes,” Griselda growled.
Afraid he would drag her down into the water, Silas ignored Em’s hand and pulled himself up onto the docks.
A wet puddle formed around him as he caught his breath and looked up at the ship.
More than just the captain had a weapon trained on him—half the crew had already drawn their swords, waiting for the fight to begin.
The captain kept Silas in her sights as she growled, “You have five fucking seconds to get away from my ship and my crew before I shoot you.”
“Captain!” the harbor master shouted, gaping in shock. “You can’t barge onto my harbor and threaten people!”
She didn’t bother arguing with him, just spit out a hate-filled, “Four seconds.”
“Moira, you can’t shoot the king.” Now that Silas was firmly above water, he recognized the voice.