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Curiosity—and sudden wariness—had Bennick nodding. “Of course.” He left Venn watching Clare, confident his friend would keep her safe.
He walked with Kashif Hassan to the nearest exit, shouldering through the crowd until they reached the empty corridor. Once there, Ser Hassan’s stride increased, and Bennick hurried to keep up. “What’s happened?” he asked, his voice low even though they were alone in the hall.
Kashif’s shoulders tensed. “There’s been an incident. My men found Serai Jabar in the library. She’s suffered a blow to the head. She hasn’t come around yet, but I thought you’d want to question her personally.”
Bennick’s gut tightened. Fates, he couldn’t imagine anyone striking the old woman. “Has a physician been sent for?”
“Yes. And my wife is with her.” His fingers twitched at his sides, betraying his anxiety. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do.”
“How long ago was she discovered?” Bennick asked.
“Not long—minutes, only.”
Bennick frowned. He should send a message back to Venn. This didn’t necessarily mean Clare was in danger, but it increased the risk.
Before they passed a servant or guard he could send back to the ballroom, they reached the library.
“I need you to send someone to Sir Grannard,” he told Kashif. “Just to advise him of the situation.”
The man nodded, rubbing his forehead. “Of course. I’ll do that at once.”
Bennick pulled open the door and strode into the room.
Bookshelves lined the walls, and a settee and chairs were gathered in the center of the room. The library was shadowed, with only one lamp burning near the settee.
Serai Hassan was seated on the end of the couch, facing away from the door. She twisted to look at Bennick over the back of the settee, fear clearly outlined in her pinched expression. “Captain Markam,” she said, her words tangled with emotion. “Please help us.”
Her terror—and her husband’s anxiety—made sense when Bennick remembered they’d lived through the brutal attack in Duvan. The panic they felt now might be an echo of what they’d suffered then. Old attacks could haunt a soul for years.
“Everything is going to be all right,” Bennick reassured her, keeping his voice calm and even.
He came around the settee and saw Serai Jabar lying on the cushions, her head in Serai Hassan’s lap. Blood congealed at her temple, clumping her hair. The sight of such an injury on an elderly woman made his blood boil.
He crouched beside the settee, studying the wound. “Has she stirred?” he asked.
Serai Hassan shook, tears now rolling down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Captain.”
Bennick’s scalp prickled. He shot the woman a look. “What?”
“We had no choice,” she rasped, crying harder. “He has Sidrah.”
The library door clicked shut.
Bennick straightened, his hand on the hilt of his belted sword as he eyed Kashif, who now stood in front of the closed door.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered brokenly. “I wish this hadn’t happened.”
A blade pressed against Bennick’s back—right on the scar where he’d been run through.
He stilled.
From too close behind him, a familiar voice said, “For all the flowers that old woman grows, can you believe she doesn’t grow roses? I had to get them in the city.”
Anxiety flared, but instinct took over. Bennick rammed his elbow into Zilas’s gut, ignoring the rasp of the assassin’s blade as it sliced harmlessly over his uniform. He shoved Zilas back, creating space to draw his sword.
Serai Hassan cried out and her husband jumped in front of Bennick, his hands outstretched as he gasped, “Don’t! He’ll kill Sidrah!”
Bennick leveled his sword at the Mortisian nobleman, his breathing tight.
