54. Cassiel
Ireturn to my room alone. Anne is there, cleaning my room. She’s holding the pile of Wren’s clothes when I enter. I look at her wildly, gesturing for her to put them down, out of sight, which is just as well, because the moment Fellwood sees her, he barks at her to leave.
“Prince Cassiel is under house arrest,” he tells her. “You are to bring him his meals, but have no further conversation with him. Is that understood?”
Anne looks at me, like she’s waiting for me to countermand the order.
“It’s all right, Anne,” I tell her.
“Very good, Sire,” she says, offering me a bow. She scurries away with barely a look at Fellwood.
I kick Wren’s clothes further out of sight as Fellwood stares at me.
“There’s no reason to hover,” I tell him. “It’s not like I can turn into a bird and fly away.”
“Who’s to tell what you can do now, after fucking that—”
I smack Fellwood in the nose before he can finish that sentence.
Fellwood staggers back a step, more from surprise than the force of the blow. Blood spills quick and bright from his nose, and for a second—just a second—I think he’s going to hit me back.
He doesn’t. Instead, his hand slams into my chest, shoving me back hard enough that my shoulders crack against the stone wall. Before I can recover, his forearm is across my throat, pinning me there. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs.
Robin barks. I hiss at him to stay down. The last thing I need is for Fellwood to lash out at him, or have him removed from my side as well.
I grip Fellwood’s wrist on instinct, but he’s stronger, leverage perfect, rage sharpening every movement.
“Careful, Prince Cassiel,” he says, voice low and vicious, breath hot with iron. “You don’t exactly have your mother’s protection at the moment.”
I force a breath in around the pressure at my throat. “Then hit me back,” I manage. “Go on.”
His grip tightens.
For a moment, I think he might actually do it. There’s something unhinged in his eyes.
“You’re half the man your brother was,” he spits.
“On that point, Captain Fellwood, we completely agree,” I hiss back. “But he wouldn’t want this. You’re a fool if you think he would.”
His lip curls, but he doesn’t respond. Somewhere in his eyes, something flickers. His rage doesn’t abate, but his grip loosens enough that I can finally drag in a proper breath. His arm drops away from my throat.
He steps back, wiping the blood from his nose.
“Only one fool here, Your Highness.”
“Another agreement, Captain. See? We have more in common than we thought.”
He watches me a moment longer, jaw tight, before that rigid composure snaps fully back into place.
“House arrest,” he says, flat. “Don’t test it.”
He turns and leaves. The door slams hard enough to rattle the frame, and a heartbeat later, I hear the lock turn. I’ve gone from being the keeper of the keys to a prisoner in my own home.
Silence settles over the room. I stand there for a long moment, staring at the door, feeling the ghost of his grip still pressed into my throat.
I swallow against it, willing my heart to settle.
My gaze drifts to the corner of the room where Wren’s clothes lie in a crumpled heap. Robin nudges them, whimpering softly.
I cross the room, crouching to gather them up. My movements are careful, almost reverent, like I’m handling something fragile instead of worn fabric. I fold each piece slowly, smoothing creases that don’t matter.
I don’t want her to come back for them, but I need her back nonetheless.
Fellwood would likely order them burned, like I did with all of her other belongings back when I thought I hated her, but now all I want to do is press them into paper like dried flowers and keep them forever.
Probably not wise. I don’t care. I’ll take whatever scraps of her I can get.
I carry the garments through into the adjoining room. It was my closet, once, but we cleared it out after I was blinded and repurposed it as my bodyguard’s room. Never once have I felt the need to claim it back from her. It is her room, now. It always will be.
I move to the bed and set the folded clothes down. Her boots follow, placed neatly under the cot as if ready for her return.
I huff a quiet breath at myself. Ridiculous. She’s not here.
She might never be here again.
Still, I linger a moment, staring at the space like she might step out from behind the door, whistle at me, and make some kind of glib remark. Perhaps I’ve folded them wrong, or the clothes aren’t worth the trouble. Perhaps she’ll tease me for being so sentimental.
I think Wren actually always liked that about me.
I leave before the thoughts can settle too deep, stepping back into my own space and staring around the room.
It’s been a while since I’ve had nothing to do, but I’m no stranger to it—a year in darkness teaches you that. At least I can read now.
The thought is almost bitter. I cross to the desk and reach for the nearest book, flipping it open—
—and stop.
Wren’s in here, too, the cadence of her words pressed as keenly to paper as the ink.
I hear her voice now before my own. How many countless hours had I listened to her read, coaching her how to tell the stories and read the poems in the right way?
I used to snap at her. She used to huff.
I’m fairly sure she mimed throttling me, once or twice.
But then her voice got softer, and so did mine. She’d chastise me for interrupting, but there was no bite to her voice. She grew more patient, and so did I.
Sometimes she even read when she thought I was asleep.
I close the book and set it down, picking another. It’s no better. She’s stamped there too.
With a quiet exhale, I pull one of the older volumes toward me instead—one of my father’s. The leather is worn, familiar beneath my fingers. I open to the first page and trace the inscription there.
His handwriting is impossibly elegant.
For Cassiel. Learn to see what others miss.
My throat tightens. I’ve read that inscription a hundred times, eked out meaning from all his words, and yet this one makes a different kind of sense, now.
He was speaking at the time of little details, particularly when it came to drawing.
I remember him giving me this book and delivering a lesson on how to outline at the same time.
Fabric is never flat. A torso doesn’t end in a point like a triangle. People’s heads aren’t circles.
But I took his word to heart in other ways. It was how I became a tactician, noticing the little things that could make a difference. I never could have foreseen the other ways I’d learn to see what wasn’t apparent to others.
I run my thumb over the ink.
“He’d be proud of you,” my mother had said.
I let out a quiet, humourless breath. Would he? Or would he see what Fellwood sees?
I close my eyes briefly.
Evander wouldn’t care about any of this. He’d want it over. He trusted me to follow through his wishes, to end the fighting forever.
I open my eyes again.
Enough.
As soon as the idea forms, I take a red cravat from my dresser and tie it to my window. If a blue item meant I need you, I’m hoping Wren understands that red means to stay away. We’re used to our signals. Surely she’ll know what it means.
The fabric catches the morning air at once, snapping lightly in the breeze.
Don’t come.
Please don’t come.
I secure it tight, tugging once to be sure it won’t come loose. My chest feels too tight, like I’ve been running.
It’s all I can do for her for now.
Returning to my desk, I pull a sheet of paper towards me. Ink follows. The familiar weight of a pen settles into my hand, and something in me steadies with it.
If I can’t leave this room, I’ll move everything else. I never needed any skills on the battlefield to affect the outcome. I never even needed my sight to make a difference.
I will find a way to end this.
One way or another.
The crates start arriving the very next morning. I would have missed them entirely if my gaze hadn’t been fixed on the window at that moment, on every flicker of movement in the sky. Twice now, I’ve spotted archers shooting at birds in the sky. They haven’t caught anything yet.
The sound of wheels against stone pulls my gaze from the battlements. The portcullis is raised. Two carts trundle into the courtyard.
I shift my chair just enough to see without being obvious, watching the way the men carry them—two to a side, sometimes four.
Weapons. Explosives, if I’m not mistaken. Why else would they treat the boxes with such care?
Fellwood glances up at my window and hurries the supplies along. Within minutes everything is ushered inside, out of sight.
Out of my sight.
I note it anyway. Three crates. No—four. One smaller, brought in later.
What are you planning, Mother?
I rise early the next morning. I’ve little to do after it gets dark but sleep, and it’s not hard to wake with the dawn.
The scarf still hangs where I left it, a sharp line of red in my peripheral vision.
I don’t let myself look at it too often, but it’s hard not to. My days are stuffed with boredom. It’s worse than when I lost my sight, because at least then, half of my heart hadn’t been torn from my body and was lost and alone. I was safe in my misery.
Wren is not safe.
I will keep you safe, I whisper to her. I will find a way to save you.
Like she saved me.
More crates arrive. More able-bodied people, strong and eager, all young enough to wield a sword or learn how to.
My mother is calling in recruits.
I track their numbers, along with anything notable about them. One drags his left foot slightly. Another keeps adjusting his grip like his shoulder’s bad. Little details and small things that some people would overlook, but I don’t.
You never know what might be helpful.