She gasped, keeping low, and then immediately traced its trajectory to a trio of maple trees each as wide around as a pony. A face peered out from behind one of the trees, already taking aim for another shot. And there were more, too: at least four rebels taking shelter behind the trees.
Captain Carr shoved a hand against her shoulder to keep her low. “Stay down, Lady Bryn. Wils, get the damn horses turned around! And pass me your crossbow!”
As the driver struggled to redirect the horses toward the castle, Bryn kept her sights on the trees. Her heart stampeded in her chest.
This was an attack on Carr—but it was also one on her. The rebels had no way of knowing she was on their side.
She grabbed the silver tray, throwing the biscuits on the carriage floor, and used it as a shield. Captain Carr notched the soldier’s crossbow with an arrow and aimed it at the rebels. He let loose the shot.
It sank into the exposed knee of one of the rebels. The man cried out and slumped back against the tree.
As Captain Carr notched another arrow, the driver finally got the horses free of the forest underbrush. He snapped the whip, and the steeds took off in a gallop.
Another arrow slammed into the rear corner of the carriage an inch from Bryn’s hand. Before the carriage thundered away, she caught sight of the man who’d shot it.
I know him.
It was a woodcutter from the village—he was the son of her beloved old seamstress, Mam Nelle.
“Get down, Lady Bryn!” Captain Carr shoved her out of range of the rebel’s arrows, smashing her chest to the carriage floor with the crumbly biscuits, as he fired one last time at their attackers.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
THE SECRET STRANGER . . . a wounded man . . . if the rumors are true . . . a crown in jeopardy . . . rosemary
For the days following the rebel attack in Saint’s Forest, Captain Carr posted extra security around Castle Mir. The number of soldiers was doubled while the servant force was slashed in half to only the most trusted and essential individuals. For all his failings, Carr wasn’t an idiot. He knew the rebels had support among the common folk and it would be highly likely that many of the castle staff were sympathetic to their cause.
He restricted Bryn to the residence floor—her room, the hallways, and the latrine. Whenever she tried to argue that she needed to fetch something from the rest of the castle, he had it brought to her instead.
She had plenty of time to mull over the rebel attack. It was no surprise that such an attack would happen given the general hatred of Captain Carr among the common folk, but it deeply troubled her that she’d been as much a target as him. It was going to take much work to convince the common folk that shehad returned to Castle Mir under false pretenses. They hadn’t believed Elysander when she’d sworn she was on their side. If it hadn’t been for a few soldiers who knew her sister’s position, Elysander would be dead.
Bryn’s only chance was to get a message to the rebels, and soon. Before another attack.
Christof Joster.
It had taken Bryn days of scouring her memory to recall the name of Mam Nelle’s son, the woodcutter she’d recognized in Saint’s Forest. Mam Nelle was among the servants who’d been removed from the castle for security, so there was no hope in getting a message to him through her. Bryn would have to find someone else to carry the message.
One night, when the guards posted at her door changed shifts, she snuck out of her room and into the secret passages. She’d been avoiding the passages ever since discovering evidence that someone else was using them, as it could very well be rebels who had infiltrated the castle, but now she had no choice.
“Kora yoquin.”
Using the spark spell to light her way, she crawled in a direction she hadn’t gone since she was a girl, sneaking down to the kitchen for a midnight treat when the cooks were asleep.
Back then, this passage had been rarely used, and her nightgown had come out black after crawling through dust and grime. But now, as she whispered the spark spell and traced the hex shape in the air, she was disturbed to find that the ground was clean.
Someone has been using this passage recently.
She closed her fist to douse the spark out of caution, listening in the pitch-black darkness. There were the usual creaks and groans of the castle, some vermin squeaking, and the thumping of her own heart.
She needed the cover of darkness, and yet without light, how could she find her way to the kitchen?
She closed her eyes and touched the hexmark on her shoulder.
“Jin jan en veera.”
The finding spell was notoriously tricky. It had led her astray plenty of times before when her mind wandered from the object she wished to find. But now she focused on the big iron stove in the kitchen, letting all other thoughts fall away.
