Page 95 of Sword & Sacrifice

Silas looked at Griselda, silently asking for her opinion.

Her nose scrunched in annoyance, but she crouched next to Silas and inhaled deeply. “Smells more like rot than shit,” she replied, rubbing her nose and quickly standing. The medic handed her a handkerchief, and she blew her nose into it to rid herself of any lingering stench.

“Quentin claimed Jacoby had cursed him,” Silas explained.

“That little rat definitely wasn’t a mage.”

Silas considered Quentin’s story, then amended, “Maybe it wasn’t so much that Jacoby laid the curse, as he took advantage of a curse that was already there. Quentin was bitten by one of the spiders that had escaped Alistair’s box of documents.”

Griselda’s lip curled at the memory. “That would probably do it. Surprised it took so long to kick in though.”

“Maybe because Alistair’s dead?” Silas suggested. “Do curses outlast the caster?”

“How should I know? That’s Adelaide’s territory.”

Restlessness throbbed in Silas’ muscles. He felt incompetent, cut off from everyone except a surly group of soldiers. Quentin’s death was too fresh for the body to rot, yet a persistent stink filled Silas’ lungs, making it hard to breathe in the small room. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

“No, sir,” the medic replied promptly.

“Good. Prepare him for cremation. If you find anything else, alert me right away.” He turned his back on yet another traitor and walked out of the room.

Griselda left the arrangements to Emera and walked beside Silas. Langley stayed a few steps behind, giving them the illusion of privacy.

Since Silas didn’t know how long he could hold Griselda’s attention, he took the opportunity to ask, “How is the retraining going?”

Griselda rubbed her nose, trying to rid herself of the persistent scent of death. “Better, now that we’ve isolated the troublemakers. Darian’s presence helps—the ones who are wary of us can look to him for direction, and the young’uns seem to like him. While his pandering teaching style might not be fit for kings with a dozen enemies trying to kill them, it works for the girls who’ve never held a sword before.”

“Are there lots of female recruits?” Silas asked, picking up the pace. Hurry, hurry, hurry, screamed through his veins, though he couldn’t figure out why. Am I late to a meeting?

“More every day, though they only make up a quarter of the numbers right now.” A few inches taller than him, Griselda easily matched Silas’ pace. “I like the bakers and the cooks best—calloused hands, swift reflexes, and they’re not afraid to handle something sharp.”

Silas thought of the old palace cook’s hands, calloused and tough yet gentle as they’d held his. I wish she was still here with me. She’d been one of the few people Silas always trusted, even when the world wanted to grind him to dust. Which was why Alistair had targeted her, treating her like just another thing to take away from Silas.

“You know,” Griselda said, her breath coming a little faster. She pressed a hand to her side, the only sign she gave of her healing injury. “If the dawn exercises aren’t enough, you can always join us on the training field.”

Silas’ brow furrowed as he looked over his shoulder at her. For the first time realizing he was, in fact, jogging. “I—” he cut himself off because he didn’t really have an explanation.

Griselda inhaled deeply, her nose wrinkling. “You smell like—”

Something snared Silas and tugged him forward. He broke into a run, bolting straight through the palace gate, heading down toward the coast.

Griselda and Langley both shouted after him. The guard’s running footsteps were heavy on the cobblestone as he chased Silas. Langley’s training helped him catch up to Silas quickly, but he didn’t try to stop him. He only kept pace, his eyes scanning the road ahead of them.

Silas looked toward the harbor, where the merchant and passenger ships were docked.

A new ship had just pulled up to the last dock, the crew crawling over the deck like ants as they settled in. From that distance, Silas couldn’t see anyone’s faces clearly, but one figure at the rail stood out to him. Familiar auburn hair wafted in the strong breeze like the ships’ flag, proclaiming her identity.

Emmaline.

Someone held her arm and dragged her forward, toward a ramp to disembark.

Griselda’s voice growled through Silas’ head: Might have something to do with the rat bastard who sired Em. The person with her must have been the ‘rat bastard’, or someone who worked for him. They’d already captured Em. They were taking her away, and if Silas didn’t reach her soon, they would disappear in the crowd of sailors.

In a new burst of speed, Silas raced straight for the ship and tackled Emmaline’s captor around the middle. Gasps and shouts rose around them as Silas and the mercenary bastard slipped straight off the ramp.

Water closed over their heads. Panic filled Silas’ chest as he remembered the last time he’d almost drowned—the water pouring into his mouth and nose, filling his lungs. Being dragged further and further below the surface by one of Alistair’s icy creations. Forgetting about the bastard he’d dragged down with him, Silas frantically kicked and surged toward the surface. As soon as his head was above water again, he sucked in a lungful of fresh air.

On the dock, the shouting rose to a full uproar. Langley stood near the edge, his back to Silas as he searched the waters on the wrong side. Griselda had finally caught up to them. She held a dagger out in front of her, yelling at someone else to drop their weapon. The harbor master stood off to the side, his hands clasping a clipboard as he stared wide-eyed at the commotion.