Chapter 14

The sun had nearly vanished beneath the horizon by the time Kosha hauled himself out of the copper tub.

The water, once luminous with a dazzling and distinctly unnatural shade of green, had settled into something resembling murky dishwater. Terrified that someone might glimpse the magical residue, Kosha hurried to dispose of it.

Drawing water was exhausting enough that he normally saved the runoff to scrub the barn the following morning. Tonight, however, the thought of leaving this particular concoction sitting out made his skin crawl.

He draped a thin linen gown loosely over his slender frame and vigorously rubbed a towel through his dark, naturally curly hair. Neglected for months, the heavy mass spilled well past his shoulders, while his damp bangs brushed the tip of his nose. Longer hairstyles had recently become somewhat fashionable among the men of Izeland, but Kosha’s unruly, frizz-prone mane strained the limits of what society would tolerate.

Should I cut it?

Yet the untidy length served a vital, paradoxical purpose. It made him conspicuous enough to become invisible.

To the townsfolk, Kosha was not truly a person. He was merely the local oddity, an unpleasant little lump they could laugh at and dismiss. People loved mocking what repelled them, but they rarely bothered to examine it closely.

His late nanny had taught him that particular survival tactic. Ever since the two of them had begun living alone, his hair had never touched a pair of shears.

Still debating how much he ought to trim, Kosha retrieved a cracked mirror from the cupboard and blew a thick layer of dust from its surface. He stood before the hazy glass, brushing his wet bangs behind his ears as he tried to judge their length.

CRACK!

A deafening impact shook the little house so violently that Kosha thought one of the main support beams had snapped in half. The mirror slipped from his trembling fingers and shattered across the floorboards.

“Mage!” a gruff voice thundered.

A broad, heavily built intruder filled the entrance, looming amid the wreckage of the front door, which now hung pathetically from a single splintered hinge.

Shock locked Kosha’s throat. Not even a squeak escaped him.

He scrambled backward on instinct, but his bare legs became tangled in the gown, sending him crashing hard onto his backside. A muffled hiccup tore from his chest as he stared up at the enormous man.

“Ma… ah, hell. This is insane.”

The intruder’s stormlike fury vanished the instant their eyes met.

A weighty silence descended over the ruined entryway. Then the man jerked his gaze aside, the tips of his exposed ears burning a deep crimson.

Breathless and utterly bewildered, Kosha remained frozen on the floor. The stranger shifted his weight and flexed his massive hands as though he had no idea what to do with them. After an awkward pause, he crossed the cramped room in barely five strides, snatched a crumpled blanket from the armchair, and flung it over Kosha’s head.

Sudden darkness swallowed him.

“At least put some clothes on,” the intruder stammered.

“Pardon?”

“Wear the damned thing properly.”

Only then did Kosha realize that the flimsy knot securing his linen gown had come completely undone, exposing his chest and thighs to the cool evening air.

Heat flooded his cheeks, mirroring his abductor’s embarrassment, but the man allowed him no time to recover his modesty. With rough, military efficiency, he bundled Kosha in the heavy blanket like a parcel of cargo and hoisted him over one broad shoulder.

Kosha thrashed desperately, but a low, gravelly voice cut through his panic.

“There’s something wrong with His Highness Lucien.”

Only one word registered.

Lucien.

That name drained every ounce of resistance from Kosha’s trembling limbs.

“I don’t know what the hell you did to him,” the man growled, menace dripping from every word, “but you’re going to answer for it.”

Kosha’s stomach plummeted. The icy dread pooling in his gut had little to do with the hulking man carrying him and everything to do with the horrifying implications of that royal name.

A massive warhorse waited outside in the chill evening air. The abductor dumped Kosha over the saddle like a sack of grain and mounted behind him.

Night had swallowed the world by then. The dense forest, a treacherous shortcut toward Osterbrache Castle, yawned before them like a lightless abyss. Without a moment’s hesitation, the horse plunged straight into the darkness.

It was well past midnight when they finally breached the eastern side gate of Osterbrache Castle.

Kosha tumbled from the horse and struck the cobblestones on both knees. The relentless, bone-rattling journey had left him violently motion-sick, but his captor gave him no opportunity to retch. A gauntleted hand seized him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him onward.

The blanket unraveled as they moved, twisting around Kosha’s limbs before slipping away altogether. It was left behind in the dirt, where passing boots and hooves trampled it into the ground.

The fortress corridors formed a bewildering labyrinth. Kosha possessed a notoriously poor sense of direction even under ideal circumstances, and within minutes, the dim torchlight and endless turns had completely disoriented him. He half ran and half stumbled in the man’s iron grip, struggling to keep his footing on the uneven stone.

“Eydric!” someone shouted from the gloom above.

Urgent footsteps echoed through the corridor. A man carrying a torch raced down the gently curving slope that ran parallel to the outer wall. This time, the dancing flames illuminated a face Kosha recognized.

“Sir Gosrick,” his abductor, apparently named Eydric, acknowledged.

“The cavalry stationed at Oullet has been spotted on the move,” Gosrick reported between ragged breaths.

“At this hour?”

“They’re flying the banners of Marsas. Bastian is behind this.”

Gosrick’s words died abruptly as his sharp gaze caught on Kosha.

Eydric followed his commander’s stare. Kosha, utterly deaf to the political significance of Oullet, Marsas, or Bastian, could only clamp a hand over his mouth as nausea churned violently through his stomach.

“A… mage?” Gosrick murmured.

His voice sounded oddly hollow, disconnected from the military urgency of the moment. He studied Kosha with naked disbelief, his gaze passing over the captive’s damp, tangled hair and exposed collarbones before he turned away sharply, as though he had witnessed something forbidden.

Panic surged through Kosha. He hurriedly patted the front of his gown to make certain it had not fallen open again. Thankfully, the fragile knot remained secure.

Gosrick regained his composure first. “His Highness is in no condition to move, so you’ll have to take the left wing. Bring the men.”

“Understood. But…”

Both soldiers looked at Kosha.

Gosrick clicked his tongue in profound irritation. He stepped forward, seized Kosha’s slender forearm, and dragged him deeper into the fortress.

Mercifully, they did not travel far. After rounding several corners in rapid succession, they reached a narrow spiral staircase ascending through one of the towers.

“Go up.” Gosrick shoved Kosha toward the stone steps. “Keep climbing until you reach the door. Find Mailot. He’ll open it for you.”

Kosha stumbled against the first stair.

Gosrick leaned closer, his voice dropping into a vicious rasp. “If you even think about running or trying some magical trick, I’ll slit your throat myself.”

This was nothing like the composed man Kosha remembered. The soldier’s killing intent pressed against him with suffocating force, leaving no room for argument. Kosha nodded rapidly, his eyes stretched wide with terror.

“I must be out of my damned mind to trust a mage,” Gosrick muttered. “Move.”

Kosha scrambled up the winding staircase on his hands and knees, his heart pounding an uneven rhythm against his ribs. Pleading was a luxury he could not afford. One wrong move, and he had no doubt Gosrick would kick him back down the tower shaft.

Something is wrong with Lucien again? But that shouldn’t be possible. The magic binding the potion should have broken down and disappeared weeks ago.

Fortunately, the tower was not especially tall. Kosha soon reached a weathered wooden door reinforced with heavy iron bands.

He pressed one trembling hand against the damp stone wall and tried to steady his ragged breathing. For several moments, he could only stare at the threshold.

“Um… Sir Mailot?” he called.

Oppressive silence answered him.

Kosha swallowed and rested a hand against his churning stomach before forcing more air into his lungs. “Sir Mailot? Sir Mailot!”

He rapped quickly against the thick timber.

The pitch-black isolation made him unreasonably anxious. What if something terrible has already happened inside?

Blood-soaked possibilities flooded his imagination. His pulse roared in his ears, and his knocking became frantic.

“Excuse me? Is anyone there? Sir Mailot! Sir Gosrick sent me!”

Without warning, the door swung smoothly inward.

Kosha’s fist sailed into empty air. Because he had thrown his entire weight behind the blow, he pitched forward. He flung out both hands to stop himself and caught a fistful of solid fabric, narrowly avoiding a collision with the floor.

He looked up.

Their eyes met.

The landing lay in heavy shadow, and the figure before him was silhouetted against the warm light spilling from the inner chamber. Even so, Kosha knew at once that this towering man was not Mailot.

Faint candlelight illuminated Kosha’s pale, terrified face.

The stranger’s cool ash-blue eyes narrowed. In the space of a heartbeat, they swept from Kosha’s tangled hair to his bare feet.

“Oh…”

Only then did Kosha realize that his fingers were still tightly knotted in the fine silk of the man’s shirt. He snatched his hand away.

The man chuckled, low and velvety, as a thin, perfectly shaped smile curved Lucien’s lips.

“Just as I thought,” he murmured. “So this is the real one.”