“You’ve met him.” Rakos twists his wrists in his bonds as Daromir approaches with a key. “He told me you cornered him at the bloodmasque.”
Both Vana and Daromir freeze at that, sharing an inexplicable look of confusion. Vana’s lips part in uncharacteristic shock. “Minstrel,” he repeats, slowly. “Rakos, do you not know who that is?”
It’s Rakos’s turn to stare in confusion. “Of course? He’s…”
A minstrel who never sings. A traveler who can’t ride more than a few days in a row. A sweet, fragile young man with one of the most powerful magical talents Rakos has ever encountered. Silaisan.
The love of his life, and Rakos doesn’t even know his family name.
Vana braces himself against the back of the stone chair, as if he needs it to stay upright. “Rakos, that wasn’t a minstrel. That was Bellamy Sandry.”
Rakos absorbs the syllables one by one. “Impossible.”
“I met him at a diplomatic event when I was fifteen,” Vana says. “I recognized him immediately.”
Memories flash through Rakos’s mind. Bell’s laughter. Bell’s jealous glares. Bell’s exasperation at Bastard. Bell’s insistence that the mysterious blackberries were safe. The illusion of a root wrapped around the wyrm’s hind leg.
Rakos swallows. “I’ve been traveling with Bellamy Sandry?”
“Do you see why I didn’t trust you with a secret plan?” Vana almost laughs. “I could hardly believe it when Indra said…”
Older memories resurface, about another Sandry prince. Fighting Audric at the border. The time Audric’s vines nearly knocked him from Sarka’s back. The time Rakos nearly blasted Audric’s head off. Every skirmish, fight, and near-death experience.
“I’ve been fucking Bellamy Sandry?” Rakos asks, dazed.
“Yes, you’ve—” Vana’s eyes grow enormous. Daromir drops the key. “You’ve beenwhat?”
“Never mind.” Rakos slumps back in the chair, head spinning. “That’s none of your business.”
“Yes,” Vana says faintly. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that so neither of his brothers have cause to murder me.”
“Oh, fuck.” Rakos feels faint too. “His brothers.”
Vana covers his face. “Daro, hurry and unlock him. We need to get out of here.”
Daromir unfastens Rakos’s shackles and finally the null-collar. Rakos stands up slowly, aware of his own weakness and the bloodguard’s rabid devotion to his master.
“Indra will lead you out of the castle,” Vana says. “Where you go next is up to you. I’m going to leave first, but then—”
A tiny, chirping creature appears on the floor in front of them.
Daromir jumps in front of Vana, but Rakos recognizes the tiny miscreant. “Hey, Bastard. What are you doing here?”
Bastard blinks to Rakos’s shoulder. Her whiskers tickle his ears before she vanishes again. Moments later, a shadow passes over the high, narrow windows.
Rakos whirls in time to catch a glimpse of bright teal scales just as a familiar presence resettles itself in his soul. All his exhaustion fades away, replaced by warmth and strength. Certainty.
A disbelieving grin spreads over Rakos’s face. “Your Highness, tell Indra I don’t need an escort out. Also, you might want to back away from the wall.”
The next instant, the entire building rocks around them.
Daromir swears and ushers Vana into the hallway as claws screech against stone, an unmistakable, familiar sound. Rakos stumbles back too, heart pounding with excitement, relief, dread, as the outer wall crumbles beneath Sarka’s claws.
Stone opens to reveal sky and scales before Sarka’s elegant head fills the opening. She clutches the edge of the wall with her claws, wings spread as she balances in place. Bastard perches on her forehead, backlit by morning sunlight. She braces between Sarka’s brow ridges, then blinks to Rakos’s shoulder.
“Sarka,” Rakos says, his hand coming up to help Bastard balance.
She answers him, her voice quieter than he’s ever heard it.Rakos.