56. Cassiel
On the third morning, I wake to a shot cracking through the air.
I flinch hard enough that I almost topple out of bed. Robin growls.
“Is there a problem, Sire?” comes the voice of the guard posted outside.
I ignore her, on my feet before I realise I’ve moved, staring out of the window, searching the sky. A bird spirals down into the courtyard, struck clean through.
Not a wren.
I breathe a sigh of relief, collapsing into my chair and rubbing Robin’s ears for comfort.
The guard pokes her head in through the door. “Sire?”
“It’s fine,” I tell her, as my heartbeat steadies. “Nothing… nothing to worry about.”
Below, one of the guards laughs. Another retrieves the arrow, shaking his head like it’s a game.
I take another moment to study my breathing before returning to the desk, Robin trailing behind me.
Archers posted. Rotating. Competent.
The words look too neat for the way my pulse won’t settle.
It happens again the next day, and the next.
Each time, the same crack of the bowstring. The same sharp intake of breath I can’t seem to stop. The same desperate race to the window, to see, to make sure.
Not a wren.
Not her.
Once, they hit two in quick succession. Small, dark shapes drop from the sky like stones. I watch the bodies on the floor, straining to see what they are, praying to the fates and the saints alike that they don’t transform.
They don’t.
I stand at the window, staring at the skyline until the laughter dies down, until my breathing evens out again.
I make more notes on the archers. Who they are, where they patrol, how competent they are.
Days pass in this fashion. Ru tries to come to see me, but is denied entrance.
She’s permitted to take Robin out for a walk, and sometimes I spy her through the door, but we can’t exchange more than a few worried smiles.
She tries to sneak a note in at one point, attached to Robin’s collar, but the guard rumbles her.
I don’t see her again after that.
If only Dain had stayed. I can understand why he didn’t, why he couldn’t pretend to hunt for Wren for fear of actually finding her, but I need an ally in this place. I try to speak to Anne about delivering a message, but she’s too nervous to meet my eyes, and the guards keep watch constantly.
I should have pretended. Why couldn’t I just pretend?
Over the passing days, the courtyard fills and empties in patterns I start to understand. Crates. Servants. Guards. Fellwood keeps everything moving, never letting anything linger long enough for me to see too much.
It doesn’t matter.
I see enough.
I track crate numbers. Variations in size. Delivery times. Which doors they use. Which guards get lazy near the end of their shift. Absolutely anything that could be of use.
I sit back, rubbing at my eyes, the room dimming as evening settles in. The scarf is gone now. Fellwood caught sight of it at some point and had it removed, certain that it was a sign. I can only hope Wren’s been and gone by now, that she’s safe, wherever she is.
Be safe, Wren, I beg the fates. Be safe until I can be with you again.
After nearly a week of this, I can handle the uncertainty no more. I have to do something, to get word to her somehow.
I wait until late into the night, when the courtyard is empty and the guards few, tired and drowsy.
I don’t light a candle. I don’t need one. The darkness is my ally tonight.
It’s almost comforting.
My eyes adjust quickly to the thin gloom, pulling shapes from shadow, mapping the room the way I learned to when I had no other choice.
I cross to the wardrobe and pull my clothes free. I hadn’t dared to start this task earlier, too worried about a maid finding them or a guard reporting me to Fellwood, but I had measured how much I would need.
I work quickly now, tying together sheets, tunics, shirts and breeches into a rope, testing each knot with a sharp tug.
I need two of them.
Finally, I take one of my chairs into the next room and break off one of the legs with some difficulty, tying it to the end of one of my makeshift ropes and slinging it over my shoulder.
I secure the other one to the end of my bedpost, winding it tight, bracing it low where the strain won’t snap the wood. The other end I carry to the window and swing it over the edge.
There’s no hesitation. Earlier today, I charted the steps during the light, calculating how long it would take. Many would be uncomfortable scaling down a building at night, but I’m used to the dark.
Climbing in it is a little unusual though. My boots scrape briefly against the stone, then find purchase.
The first stretch is the hardest—awkward, cramped, the rope biting into my palms as I lower myself out of the window, my second rope looped around my torso. The chair leg digs into my back.
Grip. Lower. Brace.
Grip. Lower. Brace.
Grip. Lower—
The castle wall is cold beneath my fingers, rough enough to steady me. The wind pulls at my clothes, tugging at the rope, but I keep moving, counting my steps, measuring how much further I have to go.
When my boots finally hit the battlements, the impact jolts up my legs, but I absorb it, crouching low, listening.
Nothing.
No shout. No alarm.
I breathe a short sigh of relief, leave the rope dangling, and move along the battlements, keeping low, hugging the shadow where the torchlight doesn’t quite reach. I know this path. I’ve watched it for days—guard rotations, blind spots, the places where the light fails.
The perfect spot lies ahead of me. There are two guards, but they don’t overlap their rounds. For a handful of seconds, the wall is empty.
I slip through, silent as I can make myself, heart hammering harder with every step. The stone beneath my boots feels too loud, too exposed, but no one calls out.
No one sees.
I reach the outer wall.
This is the worst part. The highest drop. The most exposed.
I swing myself over before I can think better of it, attaching my rope to the swallow-tailed merlons.
This time, I do look down, but all I see is darkness.
The ground is a long way off.
I climb down anyway. My muscles burn before I’m halfway down, fingers slipping once before I catch myself, breath punching out of me in a sharp gasp.
I freeze, straining my ears for the guards above me, but they say nothing.
I pray they don’t notice my rope, either.
When I finally drop the last few feet, I hit the ground harder than I’d like, knees buckling slightly on impact. Pain flares—but nothing breaks.
I’m outside.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring up at the castle walls.
I could run. I could keep going. Disappear into the dark. Find my own way out of this.
Find her.
But how?
I don’t know where she is. I don’t remember the path to the cave. Would the Duskfen take me to her? Would something else find me first?
And if I leave, I lose access to information.
No. I force the thought down. Hard as it is, I need to return.
Just not yet.
I turn away from the castle and start moving, making my way into the city.
It’s quieter at this hour, but not empty.
A few lanterns still burn. A few doors still open.
I keep to the edges, head down, moving like I belong here even with my hood drawn up, like I’m not a prince climbing out of his own prison.
The Rosey Duckling, which Wren occasionally frequents, is too far. I won’t make it there and back before dawn without being noticed.
But I don’t need to. I just need someone who can.
It takes longer than I’d like, but eventually I find one—a courier half-asleep against a wall, cloak pulled tight, waiting for work that probably won’t come.
It does now.
He startles when I step into the light.
“I need to have a message delivered,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Somewhat urgently.”
He eyes me, suspicious at first—then sees the coin in my hand and finds himself suddenly very eager and alert.
“Where to?”
“The Rosey Duckling,” I say. “Ask for Magda. No one else.”
I press the coin into his palm.
He nods.
“Fine. What’s the message?”
I hesitate before placing the letter in his hand, aware of all I’m trusting this stranger with. If my mother finds out what I’ve been doing…
Well, the second part of my idea might be out, but it’s not like she’s going to kill me.
Wren is in far more danger. I have to risk it.
I hand over the letter. By the time the courier looks up again, I’m already gone.