It took a few moments to pull off the man’s clothes and on over his own. The layers may have looked a bit strange, the soldier scrawny and younger, but when he shifted his appearance it would mostly work. The only problem would be Damien’s scar—when he cast an illusion on himself, the old wound wasn’t going anywhere. Thankfully, blood arcana could assist with that.
After tying the man up in the middle of the trees so that when he woke, he couldn’t go running back to the keep, Damien hustled toward the road in the soldier’s clothing, the symbol of Brineberth across his chest and the sword strapped on a baldric over his shoulder. He’d cut himself more liberally than needed to cast the spell on his skin, shifting his features about to look like the younger man, and then smeared the excess blood over the unalterable scar on his face.
As the entry to the keep opened for him, another man stood there looking aghast. “Arthur, what the fuck? Thought you were just getting water?” He swept his eyes out on the moor behind him.
“Bird,” said Damien, lowering his voice though he didn’t know why—he had no idea how this Arthur he was meant to impersonate spoke—and pushed past the soldier and into the keep.
“Bird?” The man kept stride with Damien as he took stock of the courtyard, counting the others. A few looked up, but most paid little attention. “Were you attacked?”
“Yes, by a bird.”
“What kind of—”
“Big one,” grunted Damien, wanting to run him through with the very human sword strapped to his side, but instead just tried to shake him. “Piss off and send someone out in my place.” That was one way to get rid of at least one of the men in here, though there were so many that one might not make much of a difference.
The soldier fell back, mumbling about everyone’s temperament going to shit lately. Damien walked with a purpose, acting as though he belonged while he took stock of the lean-tos where a few worked on armor and weapons, a pit where others were training, and a curious contingency of robed men having a whispered discussion.
There were numerous small buildings built into the outer wall of the courtyard, but he knew Amma would be kept in the largest one at the back—it seemed like it would be most difficult to escape, and Cedric wouldn’t give her any chances, especially if he had any idea how wily she could be.
Damien strode across the courtyard’s center, boots sinking into the wet earth, slowing him. Noxscura swirled under his skin uncomfortably, and then he was hit with another wave of that magic, the darkness he’d felt in The Innomina Wildwood, and his stomach twisted. E’nloc and Cedric were connected somehow, he’d known it since he’d glimpsed the name on paperwork in the marquis’s office, but he had to focus to keep the mask of the guard up, so he pushed the urge to reach out and investigate away.
Inside, the small hall was lit lowly with braziers, fortunately darker than it had been outside, but there were a number of men sitting at tables and eating a morning meal, shouting loudly at one another in the cramped space.
“Aye, Arthur, lose track of time out on the moors again?” an amused voice called to him from the nearest table. “Thought you weren’t on scouting duty this morning?”
He glared over at the man and made him start when he fully showed his face, the blood he’d smeared down it surely grisly coupled with the old scar that the actual soldier didn’t have.
“Fuck.” The man stood, dropping the hunk of meat he’d been gnawing on. “Is that Gilead’s doing? I didn’t believe Fergus, but…” The other two men at the table turned toward Damien, mouths hanging open, and the attention of the next table over was also drawn on him.
“Bird,” repeated Damien. “Pissed it off.”
When the men traded confused glances with one another, Damien continued deeper into the hall, passed the long tables and benches, and cast his gaze up the stairwell to an open walkway above. The smell of greasy meat and burnt potatoes wafted from a closed-off room nearby, and there was another door tucked off to the side looking to lead to someplace smaller.
Amma would surely be behind a closed door, but which?
Damien chanced calling up arcana, reaching out for her blood beneath the roar of the voices all around, struggling to maintain his disguise and being sure to avoid alerting anyone who might be arcanely inclined like those robed men outside.
“You look like you could use some food, Art.”
Pulled out of the spell, Damien growled and glanced at the man who had spoken to him, now come up to his side and offering a plate. He was shorter and slighter than some of the others, a bow strapped to his back.
“No,” said Damien, concentrating again.
“Come on, ya never turn down a meal. What, you caught the crazies out here too? You’d be the third one this week not counting the little lady.”
Damien was about to walk away from him, but his blathering had finally come to something useful. “Lady?”
“Yeah, they brought the baroness back, not that she acts rescued. You ain’t seen her last night? No, I guess you were on duty, huh? Surprised you didn’t hear her—she was screaming up a storm, mad as a cat in a wet sack—but at least we finally got some ass to look at around here.”
Damien knew his disguise flickered when he eyed the man again. “Where is she?”
“Ha, well, I know the rumor going around,”—he took a bite of the meat he’d been offering and raised his brows—“but me and you are gonna have to do some real heavy lifting if you think Caldor’s gonna give either of us a turn with her before the general or—”
Damien grabbed the front of his tunic, jerking him forward, plate clattering across the floor. “I know that the restraint I am showing by not slaughtering you right now is beyond your minuscule comprehension, but understand now that if you spew another word of that thought, I will bury this sword so deeply down your throat, it will only be retrievable by way of your asshole. Tell me where she is. Now.”
The man’s eyes had gone wide. “Gilead really did fuck with you, didn’t—”
There was a scream that pierced the air, followed by the name Damien had come to loath,Cedric. Though the voice was low and masculine, Damien dropped the scrawny man and followed its sound. A small retinue of soldiers had beat him to the staircase, and more were on his heels, and they all fell in together, pushing their way down a hall to an open door.
