Page 89 of Sword & Sacrifice

Quentin hesitated for a long time before admitting. “They’d left it in the door. Why would they care about it when they never intended to return here? It wasn’t as if they could rob the same vault twice.”

Silas nodded slowly. “And did you know Jacoby was alive when you left?”

The blood completely drained from Quentin’s already pale face. “No … he was dead. He was definitely dead.”

Instead of arguing with him, Silas pulled out his keyring and unlocked the Vault door. The crank was heavy and difficult to turn, so it took time to get the door fully open. When he did, Silas leaned against the heavy steel and gestured to the scratch marks. “He was alive, Quentin. The medic’s best estimate is for half an hour afterwards, perhaps an hour.”

Confronted by the evidence of his part in his mentor’s murder, Quentin swayed on his feet.

“You didn’t check for a pulse or to see if he was breathing. You just left him to suffocate to death.”

Quentin stared blankly at the Vault door for a long time before asking, “Do I get the reward?”

The question threw Silas off guard. It was an odd echo of the same thing the soldier had asked in his memory. “What?”

“Jacoby was a traitor,” Quentin said, his voice faint. “I … I saved the kingdom from a traitor, so I should be rewarded.”

“Quentin,” Silas said slowly. “You didn’t save the kingdom from a traitor. You should have reported to me immediately when Jacoby contacted you. Instead, you helped him hide from justice and rob the kingdom—”

Quentin lunged, the chain of his manacle stretched taut as he wrapped his arms around Silas’ neck. Silas’ back slammed against the wall and the chain pressed against his throat, choking off his air in a startled yelp. “You said you would be lenient!” Quentin shouted.

Silas’ hands instinctively jerked toward the chain, but Griselda’s voice barked in his head: “No use scrabbling at the rope. It’s the bastard holding it who is trying to kill you.” Silas pressed his palm against Quentin’s face and shoved his head to the side. The chain loosened from around Silas’ neck, allowing him to breathe again. While Quentin was off balance, Silas hooked his ankle behind Quentin’s knee and yanked.

Quentin crashed to the floor with a startled yelp.

Langley pinned him with a foot on his manacle chain and the point of his sword against his neck. The guard’s chest heaved as he looked at Silas, wide-eyed with awe and respect. “Where’d you learn that?”

Silas rubbed his tender throat. His voice came out raspy as he said, “Griselda made me practice that move until I could break free every time.”

“How long did that take?”

“Sixteen tries.”

Langley whistled low in response. He looked down at Quentin and asked, “What would you like me to do with him, sir?” The point of his sword crept ever closer, a silent offer to eliminate the threat, just as his general had taught him.

It would have been one thing in the heat of the moment, but since they’d easily subdued Quentin, killing him now felt cold and unnecessary. Silas rubbed his eyes. “Have someone take him back to the barracks.”

“Are you sure, sir? He tried to kill you.”

“If I executed everyone who’d ever tried to kill me, I wouldn’t have much of a kingdom to rule over,” Silas replied dryly.

As Langley dealt with Quentin, Silas looked back at the scratch marks on the Vault door. He would never know if Quentin’s story was true—if the visions Silas had seen were memories or a manifestation of how Quentin wished the events had unfolded. The not-knowing was a persistent itch in Silas’ mind, one he would simply have to live with.

It was just one item in the long list of questions he would never have real answers to.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Penn aimlessly wandered the dream halls of Causley Estate. Only those rooms he’d visited himself seemed to exist: the guest suite, the drawing room, the dining room, Lord Edgar’s office, and the cellar. The hallways were an endless stretch of the same painting, the same side-table, the same rug, repeated in an infinite loop. Only those details his mind had noticed and filed away.

With Alistair absent, the house was empty. Even when Penn invaded Lord Edgar’s study and focused on his memories of the man—pouring himself drink after drink, proudly boasting of how he served his kingdom—the lord himself never appeared.

Restless, Penn stopped in front of the study’s bookshelf, thinking he’d find a book to pass the time. But when he tried to focus on the titles, the words became illegible squiggles. As he stroked a finger over the words, trying to chase the lines into something recognizable, the texture slowly shifted from worn leather to cold metal.

The books faded away, offering a glimpse of the steel wall beneath.

My mental shield, Penn realized.

The more he focused on it, the more solid it became under his hand. The estate disappeared piece by piece until the only thing surrounding Penn was his own shield. Once the dreamscape fully fell away, he could see the giant gash in the metal wall where someone had ripped their way in.