“It’s a fair question,” I argued. “You both hate the Queen. Don’t bother denying it, I saw the look on your face when you spoke about her. You may decide not to give me all the details, but I’m not an idiot.”
In the flickering candlelight of the Grotto, Casimir’s golden brown skin appeared unusually pale. “Don’t speak about things you don’t understand,” he ground out.
“What did she do to you?” I asked, more gently this time. “Were you exiled from Ethervale as well?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “All you need to know is that I would never help Devereaux, even if we loathe the same ruler.”
“Prove it,” I challenged.
His answering expression was full of ironic contempt. “Just as you’re unable to demonstrate your abilities to detect liars, I have no way of proving my loyalty.”
“Try honesty,” I snapped, my temper rising in spite of myself.
His shoulders were stiff and coiled with tension. He seemed to waver over his decision, and then the words tumbled out all at once. “Twenty-two years ago, Devereaux staged a rebellion against Nymara Pax, hoping to reclaim his rightful place on the throne,” he said, the words coming out in a harsh, almost guttural rasp. “I was fourteen… I didn’t want any part in it. It wasn’t my choice. I did it for someone else. But that was before Devereaux ruined everything. It was unforgivable.”
Anguish distorted his features before he averted his eyes, as if he didn’t want me seeing whatever darkness lurked within. When he finally lifted his gaze to mine, my breath caught in my throat. Warm amber had been replaced by a fathomless dark that spoke of untold agonies.
Speaking about this most traumatic incident had shattered his impenetrable façade, rendering him uncharacteristically fragile. A raw nerve exposed to the surface.
“Devereaux betrayed me in the worst way someone can,” he went on. “He promised to protect her and then he reneged on our agreement. The worst part of it was that nothing I did made any difference in the end.” He gave a short, humorless laugh that made my blood curdle.
“Who did he fail to protect?” I breathed.
Casimir pressed two fingers to his forehead and closed his eyes before he replied. “Someone I loved.”
He didn’t need to speak the truth aloud for me to read it etched in every line of his agonized expression. “Can you tell me about them?” I asked tentatively.
“No,” he ground out, his expression abruptly hostile. Closed off. “I—” He struggled for words. “She was the only person I needed to keep safe, and Devereaux—he was reckless. Out for blood. He’s partly to blame for what happened to her.”
I stared at Casimir, who, in the span of a few moments, had shed his carefully collected mask to reveal the grieving shell of a man. His vulnerability was the thing that put me over the edge. For now, this display was enough for me to trust him, even if I couldn’t taste his lies. He fought to compose himself, dragging a furious hand through his hair, and before I could do more than give a gasp of shock, he yanked off his jacket and began tugging at his shirt-sleeve. My eyes landed on a ghastly scar branded into the underside of his left bicep. Harsh red lines formed the shape of an eye.
??
Pinkish-red and inflamed painfully, it was the kind of scar that only resulted from searing human flesh.
“Casimir,” I began warily, “what’s that mark on your arm?”
Glancing down at the brand, he gave a short, humorless laugh that made my blood run cold. “It’s called the Moros. It was given to me as punishment for past transgressions. A reminder that they are always watching.”
“Who are they?”
He didn’t answer, but as my eyes traced down the length of his arm, I realized there was another symbol, this one in the shape of an inverted V.
Λ
“This one is a Threxian rune,” he explained, not meeting my gaze as he tugged the sleeve back down, concealing the scars once more. “It’s the Ethervalean rune for ‘burden.’ It means I owe someone a debt.” Like the eye branded into his bicep, the Threxian rune appeared painfully red and inflamed.
Drawing his gold case and lighter from his pocket, he placed a cigarette to his lips and lit it with trembling fingers. For once, I held my tongue.
“Fuck,” he swore under his breath. “I don’t like talking about this, Farrow.”
I let him smoke for several minutes before resuming my interrogation. “Who branded you with the eye—the Moros?”
He looked at me for a long moment, and then stamped out his cigarette on the velvet seat. “What does it matter?”
“It matters.” When he did not reply, I switched tactics. “What did Devereaux do during the rebellion to put your loved one in danger?”
He shook his head. “Next.”