Without another word, I put my day’s work to good use, and I pull the handle to snap the barrier smoothly back into place.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

GREY

When Rhen spoke of liberty and hospitality, he clearly meant it. I sleep fitfully and wake long before sunrise, but despite the early hour, I’m provided with anything I request, from a shaving kit to a platter of food to a pair of boots that fit better. Out of curiosity, I request a dagger, and the servant bobs a curtsy and says, “Right away, my lord,” before dashing off.

While I wait, I stand at the window and stare out at the dawn sky, quickly brightening as the sun breaks across the horizon. The castle grounds are alive with color, from the snapping gold and red pennants to the flowers that bloom everywhere. I spent so long trapped in an eternal autumn that I’d forgotten the beauty of Ironrose at midsummer.

Lia Mara has pulled the brick divider in the hearth closed, but I found myself studying it last night. The handle is hot when I put my hand against it, the barrier heavy enough that I’d have to brace against the brick wall to pull it wide. I’m impressed by her strength and ingenuity. I’m not sure I would have even considered it.

A knock sounds at my door, and I move away from the window. “Enter.”

Instead of the serving girl, Dustan pushes though the door and allows it to fall closed. “Why do you need a dagger?”

“I was curious to see how far the offer of hospitality would extend.”

“This far, it would seem.” He doesn’t seem irritated. If anything, he seems amused.

“Who is my jailor to be today, Commander?” I ask him. “Am I confined to my quarters?”

“You are free to roam as you please.” He pauses, then folds his arms. “And your ‘jailor’ is me.”

“Then I’d like to see Tycho,” I say.

Dustan nods. He leads me past the other rooms on this floor to the staircase that descends to the lowest level.

I frown. “Where is he?”

“The infirmary.”

I’d been worried he would say the dungeon, but this is worse. “He was injured?”

“No. You’ll see.”

The infirmary is not large, and it was mostly open space when I was in command of the Royal Guard. A dozen cots had lined the back wall of the room, and a small bench of supplies sat near the front.

In my absence these last few months, the infirmary has been transformed. The cots—now double in number—are larger, with more plush cushioning, and a white sheet hangs between each, affording patients some privacy. The bench has been replaced with two long tables full of rolled muslin and stacks of fabric, backed by corked jars of every color. The few wall sconces that once lit the space have been replaced by large overhead chandeliers, brightening the infirmary to a space where few shadows can linger.

Near the center of the room, a pale, shirtless, middle-aged man sits on a cot, cradling his arm in his lap. Sweat glistens on his brow. On a stool in front of him sits Noah, facing away from us, and beside him, on a chair, sits Tycho.

“Touch here,” says Noah, gingerly pressing his fingers against the man’s shoulder. The man winces but holds still as Tycho’s fingers follow the same path.

“You feel that bony mass?” says Noah. “Broken clavicle. That’s the beginning of new bone formation over the fracture line.”

“Broken clavicle,” Tycho echoes.

The man winces again. “Is that bad?”

“No,” says Noah. “I’ll give you a sling.”

“You’ve made quite a place for yourself, Noah,” I say.

He glances over his shoulder. “What else was I supposed to do?”

There’s a chilliness to his voice, but it’s overshadowed by Tycho spinning in his chair, smiling wide. “Grey!” But then his eyes settle on Dustan, and the smile melts into wary regard. “Are you well?”

“I am well,” I say. “I’m glad you’ve found a friend.”

Noah rises from the stool and moves to one of the tables, where he picks up a folded length of muslin. “Tycho’s welcome anytime. He’s a quick study.”

Tycho glances between Noah and me, and then his eyes flick cautiously to Dustan. “Can we go home?”

As if Worwick would welcome me with open arms. Then again, he always did like a spectacle.

These thoughts are useless. I won’t be going anywhere at all.

“Not yet,” I say.

At my side, Dustan gives away nothing through his expression.

“I promised Princess Harper she could demonstrate her newfound skills,” I say. “Shall we go see if she is receiving visitors?”

Tycho’s eyes go wide. “You know the princess?”

Noah rips through the length of muslin. “They go way back.”

I frown at his tone, but Tycho’s curiosity is already taking over. “What kind of skills?”

“The kind you’ll like.”

We meet in the courtyard at midmorning, while the sun beams down to fill the air with heat and the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle from the flowering bushes surrounding the stable. My leg is beginning to ache from all the movement, but I’ll probably be chained to a rack later, so I ignore the pain.

Harper grins at me and palms three knives. “Watch. Are you watching? Watch.”

Her enthusiasm is almost infectious. I can’t help but smile in return. “I am watching, my lady.”

Zo stands at her back, her expression full of the same suspicion and disappointment I find on the face of every guardsman I knew before.

You too swore an oath to protect the Crown, I want to say. You would understand if you knew.

Or maybe they wouldn’t.

Harper flips one knife in her hand, then lets it fly. It sails into the space between two cobblestones, driving into the dirt with enough force that the handle vibrates.

I remember the day she first asked me to show her this, how the very act of learning weaponry seemed to be an act of defiance. At first, I thought it was against Rhen, but it didn’t take me long to realize she’d grown up thinking she could never learn to defend herself. The defiance was toward herself. Or who she’d thought she was.

She flips the other two knives, and they land in quick succession in an almost straight line. She turns to curtsy.

I smile. “I’m impressed,” I say, and mean it.

“Zo and Dustan helped me a lot.” She pauses. “I’m still not very good at the sword stuff, but I’m getting better.”

She wears a sword on her hip today, bearing the weight of the weapon and armor as casually as Zo does beside her. “Show me.”

Their blades fly and crash together in the sunlight, but she is right. The swordplay is more clumsy and less graceful than the knives she threw into the ground. Harper struggles with balance and strength in her left side, an effect of the cerebral palsy she says has challenged her since birth.

Tycho stands nearby, hanging closer to the castle wall, silent as a ghost, but his eyes are locked on the match.

Dustan moves closer to me. He’s been little more than a shadow all morning, so I’m surprised when he speaks low to say, “What has happened to the boy?”

“Perhaps he watched as you put an arrow through my leg and took him prisoner.”