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“But should he? If treaties have been signed, successions agreed upon, borders defined, is it right to change them on one man’s—or woman’s—whim?”
“You sound like Captain Dunois, and I will not tolerate such treason in my own son.”
Beast laughs outright at that, a great rolling sound that fills the dungeons. “As you said, there is no proof that I am your son. You have no power over me.”
“Don’t I?” The general’s musing question sends goose flesh down my arms. “I may not be able to question the queen, but it will be easy enough for me to question the girl. She lies more than most women, and is better at it. There are many answers I wish to have from her. And as she is an assassin trained, I suspect it will be a challenge to convince her to spill her secrets.” He leans in closer to the window of Beast’s door. “Have I mentioned how much I enjoy challenges?” My heart is now beating as rapidly as theirs. Not in fear, at least not for myself, but for Beast. Cassel is baiting him as surely as a hunter baits a bear.
A low growl rumbles through the dungeons, echoing off the stone walls, chasing away any memory of his former laughter. There is a clank of chains and a roar as Beast slams into the door of his cell.
Cassel steps back, watching with fascination and growing excitement. “Such power you possess,” he murmurs.
Beast’s enormous hands grasp the iron bars in the small window of the door, bulging and straining as they try to tear them from their moorings.
With taunting patience, Cassel turns to the small table behind him, looking carefully before picking up one of Beast’s own knives from it. Does he think to hack at Beast’s fingers?
“It appears anger awakens this strength of yours. Does pain make you angry? Would it allow you to break free of that cage?” The cool dispassion in his voice is more unnerving than any battle lust could ever be.
I was raised by a man such as he—a man who held cruelty and superior strength in high regard. A man who felt any matter was best settled by fists or swords or crushing force, and that peace came only after you had salted the earth or slain all who survived. I spent an entire lifetime being ever watchful in a household full of men precisely like this one. They are capricious, and that unpredictability makes them even more dangerous than their strength.
“Should we kill him?” Gen’s whisper against my ear is naught but a slight movement in the air as she asks the very question I am struggling with. Would Beast care if I killed his father? I think not, but the complications would be nearly insurmountable. I shake my head and point at Gen.
She nods. “You wish me to do it?”
I put my lips to her ear. “No. The king would immediately suspect you, and in a choice between you and Cassel, I am not certain where the king’s heart would fall.”
Her nostrils flare in irritation—an irritation I share. In spite of my warning to her, I take a step, thinking to intervene in some way, but Gen’s hand clamps down on the back of my gown.
“Is everything all right, General?”
I freeze, then shift to peer in the armor’s reflection. It is one of the guards. Gen tugs my arm again, more frantically. Her eyes are wide and she thumps her hand silently against her chest, then points to her ears. She hears his heartbeat.
He’s going to die.
“We heard a . . . a noise and thought we should check.”
“It was nothing but this beast. We are about to see just how strong he is.”
The guard’s head rears back, clearly startled. “But, sir, the king gave the order that he wasn’t to be—”
There is a whisper of movement, followed by a muted gurgle. In the silver reflection, it looks as if the general and the guard are embracing. Until the general shoves the other man from him and lets go, leaving a knife protruding from the guard’s chest. Beast’s roar of fury rattles the lanterns on their hooks as the guard slumps to the floor.
Cassel looks down at the dying man and nudges him with his boot. “It is too bad our prisoner’s battle lust rages so out of control. How were you to know that the others failed to relieve him of all his weapons, or that he could reach through the bars of his cage and kill you?” When next he speaks, I can hear the smile in his voice. “And when he hears of it, the king is sure to let me question you the way I wish.”
Chapter 64
As Cassel strides back toward the main part of the floor where the other guards are, I hear him call out, “It’s nothing. The prisoner is simply earning his nickname. Your man will stay with him for the next few hours until he settles down. The rest of you remain here at your posts.”
Before he has finished speaking, I hurry over to the fallen guard. Gen kneels beside me. “Can he be saved?”
I shake my head. “He was stabbed in the lung. Even now he is drowning in his own blood.” There is another rattle and thud against the door as Beast, still in the grips of his battle fever, reacts to this news.
“That is horrible,” Gen says. “And all for trying to follow the king’s orders.”
The guard moves his lips, trying to say something, but only red bubbles emerge. He begins to cough. I grab the end of his cloak and wipe away some of the blood. “Easy, now.”
Gen’s face is pinched white, her shoulders hunched slightly.
“Are you all right?”
She nods. “It is just so loud—the beating of his heart.”
He coughs again, his heart beginning to race in panic even as it does not have enough blood to do so. “It is an ugly way to die,” I murmur. And certainly not a death deserved by someone who tried to act so nobly.
My hand tingles with the memory of the fallen guard back in Rennes, so many months ago. He, too, had been handed an ugly death for equally noble deeds. Without pausing to think, I gently lay my hand on the man’s chest, just over his heart. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Your honor saved one I love from great agony. Your spirit will live on with my enduring gratitude.”
The beating of his heart eases somewhat, as if no longer terrified. How? I pray. How may I ease this man’s plight?
Just as before, the answer comes from deep within, filling me with a presence that is not wholly my own. I do not question whose voice it is, know only that it is wiser than I and allow my hand to settle more firmly.
“Go,” I whisper. “We will see that justice is done.”
With my words, he gives one last, shuddering breath, then grows still. Gen stares at me open-mouthed, but before she can say anything, his soul clambers from his body, much like a man who has been buried alive might claw his way from the dirt. He is distraught. Angry. Outraged. The soul starts to flit down the hall, as if it means to go after Cassel, then changes its mind and heads for Beast’s cell, pausing in confusion before whirling around and hurrying back to his body, rubbing against it like a cat, as if trying to put itself back in.
“Three days,” Gen says, staring down at the man. With her face downcast, it is hard to tell, but I think there are tears shimmering in her eyes. “He must endure this for three days. All for trying to stop that rutting monster.” Her fists clench. “I will tell the king. I will tell him what I saw with my own eyes.”
I grab her arm and give it a gentle shake. “Stop and think. You will only put yourself at risk. He will likely not even listen to you. Not after your conversation yesterday.”
“We must do something.”
“We will.”
“We cannot let Beast get blamed for this.”
“We will not let that happen.”
Her gaze falls back to the dead man and the soul that is thudding uselessly against its old body. “But none of that will help him.”
It is her nature to act, I realize. She needs to act as most people need to breathe. “Here. Let us try something.” I take her hand.
She resists. “What?”
I sigh. “I would show you a way to help him. We do not have much time if we want to keep Beast from being falsely accused, but the dead are also our responsibility. Do you remember you aske
d how I was able to make Fremin’s soul disappear?” She nods. “I did not have time to tell you then, but I will tell you now. Blood and bone. Ours. The same stuff that gods were once made of. Let us see if it holds true for you as well.”
“Show me.”
When I have explained it to her, she takes one of her own knives, makes a tiny cut on the top of her wrist, then turns her arm over so the blood drips upon his forehead. As soon as the blood touches the body, the soul stops its desperate thumping and grows still, waiting.
As Gen smears the blood with her thumb, she murmurs, “May the Nine grant you peace.” For the briefest of seconds, the quivering tension leaves the soul and then it is simply gone. Vanished.
Gen sits back on her knees, her eyes and mouth open wide with wonder.
I give her exactly one minute, then gently cuff her on her head. “There is no time for that. We must move this body before the blood soaks through his cloak and leaves a trail on the stone.”
“What about one of the other cells?” she asks.
“It would be best if the body wasn’t found for a few days.”
She hops to her feet and disappears down the corridor while I place the dead man’s arms upon his chest, then reach for his cloak. Fortunately, it is one of the long, wide cloaks of the palace guard, and I am able to wrap it twice around him, which will prevent any leakage for a while longer.
Gen reappears just then. “There’s a large drain. Just around that second bend. There is a grate on it, but I think we can pry it loose.”
