Page 83 of Shadows and Roses

Satryani glanced away. "Of course, Queen Jana."

Anais raised a brow. "Are you feeling well, my lady?"

She turned back. "Hm? Oh. My apologies. You are so like your mother, I forget sometimes. Like one soul in another body."

Her eyes were strangely intent. Anais had no idea what to make of it. "You must be tired, my lady, to speak of this nonsense."

"Is it nonsense?"

Anais stifled a sigh. "My mother is quite dead,Lady."

"Ah, yes. Goddess rest her soul."

Anais and the Dark Queen were in agreement for once. "Delia’s goddess can rot. I’d not known you to give that useless drivel a moment of your time."

Satryani’s smile was just on the border of mockery. "The Goddess and I have more in common than I knew. Besides, at my age, it seems prudent."

Perhaps her aunt truly was becoming senile. Anais stood. "Good night, Duchess."

As the day passed, the strange conversation weighed on her. Satryani loved power and violence. The lady would never dirty her own claws, but she’d gladly send soldiers to their deaths. She hosted a tournament on her estate every moon, her colosseum’s battlefield often filled with starving and desperate peasants. The Goddess demanded blood and sacrifice. Perhaps that was all it was, a convenient joining of two similar ideals.

However, letting that vile religion take root was not an option. Delia’s appalling ways needed to stay far, far away from Drantar.

Anais summoned Laureline, the lady arriving with a teapot and a cup.

"Sorry," Laureline waved her teacup. "Can’t let this steep for too long. Gets a bit strong. What can I do for you, dear?"

Many years ago, Anais had demanded the lady address her by her title, as all nobles should. Laureline laughed, spilled some tea, and had her dagger at Anais’ nose before the liquid hit the ground. Each and every one of the Escorts knew well how to defend themselves. All except Castien.

"It could have waited a few minutes," Anais said. "Satryani spoke to me today. I’m wondering if she’s just behaving strangely or—"

As Laureline tucked herself into a seat, a guardburst into the study.

"My Queen! My lady." He bowed quickly, panting. "The steward— Lord Vern says to tell you— The back entrance— Your Escort—"

Anais was already out the door when he finally said, "They’re bringing Escort Castien in now!"

The servant’s entrance was quiet. She rushed past soldiers lining the hall, noted Vern and Octavius. It was too quiet.

Anais went still. "Is he…"

Vern murmured, "Almost here. A scout was sent ahead. He’s alive."

She could barely breathe. She wouldn’t quite believe it until he stood before her. Soft clattering and clopping drew closer. Horses, a wagon. The noise stopped.

Thakris ushered in two men carrying a stretcher. Anais stared as they hurried past.

"Octavius…" She couldn't find the words.

"I have him, Anais." The healer shot Vern a glance, who caught her before she knew she was falling.

She closed her eyes and curled into his arms, but the image of the man on the stretcher wouldn't leave her mind.

Gaunt, hollow-cheeked, skin and bones—she'd seen healthier looking corpses. And his skin—crisscrossing, rough white lines on previously smooth and unblemished muscle. Every inch of him was marked, only slightly lighter on his face. Recognizable. Barely. His wrists and ankles held old scars under the new raw redness from straining against his bindings.

He hadn't been cooperative, aware, or sane—struggling and pleading incomprehensibly as they carried him past. Their eyes had met for a half-second, and she’d hoped he’d recognize her, say something, anything—but he had only grinned, cracking dried lips that oozed fresh blood.

She'd seen this too many times, the madness and conditioning of torture. Castien, her beloved Castien, broken, his mind shattered beyond her reach.

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