Chapter 14 The Test
1093 Words
Elara didn’t ask what it was.
She sat up just enough to peek, from the bed, at the lines scrawled on the paper in unfamiliar handwriting: “The chest is safe.” The knife had missed. The note had not.
Kael hadn’t slept for two nights.
His body needed sleep. His ribs, his neck, the dull ache behind his eyes all said as much. Exhaustion had stiffened the nape of his neck and made his hands heavier, but it hadn’t dulled his clarity. That, at least, he continued to hold onto with the same discipline with which he kept his voice steady in front of the soldiers.
But sleep was a luxury he could not afford.
The study was lit by three low lamps. The golden light fell on the open books, the maps of the palace, and the still-incomplete reports on the explosion. Shadows gathered in the corners, behind the bookshelves, and along the drawn curtains. The smell of burnt wax mingled with that of fresh ink and well-thumbed paper. Every sheet contained a partial version of the truth. Every account added one detail and erased another.
Kael was tired of half-truths… which was why he had decided to create one. And now that lie had nearly killed the one who was never supposed to know anything.
The door opened without the servant announcing anyone.
Roland entered with the stride of someone who had run, fought, and chosen not to show his exhaustion. There was blood on his sleeve, just enough for Kael to see. The dark fabric did little to hide it, because fresh blood had a different sheen—brighter, more vivid, almost defiant. His hair was disheveled too, damp at the temples, but his back remained straight and his chin firm.
Kael looked up.
“The girl?”
It wasn’t the first time that question had come to him before the others. For two nights now, her name had been slipping in among the reports, the orders, and the memory of the shattered shield.
The question came before the report. Kael set the pen down.
“Alive. Frightened. But alive, like her father. And unharmed.”
The answer came too fast. Kael left a silence after it. Roland could hold his gaze. Men who looked away were poor liars. Those who held their gaze were better liars.
“Tell me.”
Roland gave him the report without softening a word.
He added no emotion. He omitted no details. He spoke of the guard struck down at the infirmary door. Of the hooded man. Of the short blade. Of the direct entry into the room. Of Thomas, awakened by Elara’s scream. Of the assailant’s escape down the eastern corridor. He spoke with dry precision, without raising his voice, but he kept his voice even. His jaw did the rest.
Kael picked up his pen again, but didn’t write. “I was hoping for an attempt.”
“Against the infirmary.”
“Against what the assassin believed was in the infirmary.”
The pen stayed in Kael’s hand. He still didn’t write.
Roland took a small step forward, just enough to step out of the position of a mere reporter.
“I had let the guards know that the two gardeners had information about the second explosion.”
“Information they don’t have,” Roland pointed out, raising an eyebrow.
Roland’s jaw tightened. Then his face went carefully blank.
“You used them as bait,” the soldier concluded at last.
“I used a lie to find out if the enemy was eavesdropping among my guards,” the crown prince nodded. “And the enemy was listening.” He said this with less confidence than he wanted to show.
“Because someone went and killed them...”
Roland stood motionless. For the first time in that conversation, something akin to irritation rose in his throat. The fingers of his right hand clenched slightly, then relaxed back along his side. Kael didn’t miss the fingers clenching at Roland’s side.
A knock at the door broke the silence.
“Come in,” Kael ordered.
The guard who had chased the assassin appeared in the doorway. He was out of breath, his cheek scratched, and there was a bloodstain on his collar. Not all of it was his. His boots had left small dark marks on the polished floor of the study—irregular traces of dust, mud, and congealed blood.
He took a single step past the threshold.
“My lord, I was ordered to report immediately to Officer Roland or to you,” he explained, kneeling and fixing his gaze on the floor.
“Speak.”
“I lost him near the north gallery. Someone had left the service passage open. I found bloodstains leading up to the internal staircase, then nothing more.”
Roland spun around. “Someone?”
The guard hesitated. “The door can’t be opened from the outside.”
Kael let that statement sink in.
There was no need to explain it: someone on the inside had set up the escape.
The guard lifted a dark cloth.
Inside was a blade.
Short. Slender. Still stained with blood along the edge. The hilt was simple, without gemstones or visible crests. A weapon designed to enter a room and leave without leaving a trace. The metal gave back almost no light. Old scratches dulled the edge.
Roland picked it up first, with a caution he’d learned during his palace guard training. He held it up to the light. His thumb stayed away from the blade, but close enough to gauge its weight and balance.
“It’s not a mercenary’s sword,” he said.
The guard swallowed. “It was on the floor. Near the staircase.”
“Go to the captain of the sentinels,” Kael said. “No one must know you recovered this weapon. No one.”
“Yes.”
When the door closed behind him, Kael rested both hands on the edge of the table.
Kael rested his hands on the table. His knuckles turned white. He looked at the map of the infirmary. He had chosen that room himself.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
Roland still hadn’t truly come to terms with the fact that the prince had involved an old man and a young girl in a deadly plan. But those two words hit him like a punch in the stomach, so sudden. They were words he hadn’t heard often and never expected to hear from a nobleman.
Kael slowly looked up.
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