Page 85 of Sword & Sacrifice

“Sir! I’ve got Ada—” Norwin gasped as he stumbled onto the scene, Adelaide’s arm thrown over his shoulders.

“Wake her up,” Archer growled.

Norwin’s eyes darted down to the dagger still buried in Archer’s stomach. “You’re hurt—” As he spoke, he seemed to remember that Adelaide was a healer. He shook Adelaide, frantically babbling, “I don’t know if they’ve drugged her or if she’s wounded.”

Adelaide’s eyes slowly opened, and she raised her head. “Archer?” she asked, her voice soft and muzzy, as if coming out of a dream. “What are you doing here?”

“I came home,” Archer murmured, stepping toward her. Every movement sent a fresh spike of pain through him. “Like you asked.”

A relieved smile spread over her lips until she saw the blood steadily spreading from his wound. “You’re injured.”

“We have bigger problems,” he said, nodding toward the fire.

Adelaide murmured something to Norwin, who released her. Standing on her own, she tilted her head back and looked up at the sky, lips moving.

The air around them thickened as clouds gathered. A water droplet splashed against Archer’s cheek. More soon followed until her magic called forth a full downpour.

Archer leaned against a nearby tree and closed his eyes, allowing the cool rain to wash over him and carry him into the darkness.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

After Quentin’s slip up with the key, they couldn’t get a single word out of him. When it became clear he wouldn’t cooperate, they moved him to the barracks, where some of the rooms had already been converted to prison cells to hold the suspicious soldiers. It’d been two days, and the only response they’d gotten from Quentin was soft, pitiful sobs.

“He’s quite the performer,” Emera drawled as she escorted Silas through the barracks. “As soon as he hears anyone approaching, he begins wailing like a baby. But if you soften your steps …” She held her finger to her lips and padded ahead of Silas on quiet feet. Aside from the ambient sounds of people going about their daily business, it was silent.

As Silas followed her, his own footsteps echoed in the hall.

Immediately, a trembling whimper and audible sniffle leaked through the room’s door.

A soft snort came from behind Silas. He glanced back at his usually stoic personal guard, but Langley stared back at him with a perfectly blank face, boldly pretending he hadn’t made a sound.

Silas knocked on the door and called out, “Quentin?”

A prolonged wail answered him.

Emera flinched and twisted a finger in her ear. “Hate when he does that.”

Two can play that game. Silas heaved a beleaguered sigh, “I wanted to offer leniency to a long-time, respected palace employee, but if you refuse to speak to me—”

The wailing cut off immediately. “Your Majesty! Please, I can explain everything!”

“You couldn’t have done that sooner?” Emera whispered.

“I’ve been busy,” Silas replied. Just as murder investigations didn’t stop when the sun went down, a king’s work didn’t stop simply because he’d found a gooey corpse in his Vault. Actually, it increased, because on top of normal kingdom business, fine-tuning the alliance with Arnsveld, and palace reconstruction, Silas now had to coordinate both cleaning the Vault and accounting for all of its contents. Several of the boxes within the Vault had been pillaged, and while a fair amount of the stolen gems and coins had ended up underneath the body, some of it was still missing. Since they hadn’t found the funds stashed away in Quentin’s rooms, the theft was another problem added to Silas’ ever-growing list.

Emera gestured for Silas to stay where he was. “Stand back from the door,” she ordered, raising her voice to be heard clearly. “Do not approach the king. Keep your hands visible at all times.” She pulled a pair of manacles off her belt and listened.

Langley shifted closer, hand on his sword as he watched the door.

Shuffling footsteps moved away from the door. Satisfied, Emera unlocked it and stepped inside. Quentin obediently held his wrists out to her, though he flinched as the manacles closed over them.

Once he no longer posed a threat, Silas stepped into the room. It was a much nicer prison cell than the one Alistair had stuffed him into. A simple bed with a thin mattress and clean sheets. No windows, but a lantern on the table illuminated the space. Sparse, but almost anything was better than soiled straw on a hard stone floor.

“Would you like some fresh air?” Silas asked.

Quentin blinked at him. “I … what?”

“This room is a bit stuffy, not the most pleasant place to hold a conversation.”