“We would—”
Tor cut him off. “This way, we get our uniforms back—”
Tristan started to growl, and Mathos grabbed his fist before he could swing. “What the fuck did I say?”
He took a step back and tried to stay calm. He could listen. He could force himself to do that much.
Tor shook himself off and stepped away from the wall. “Not like that. I mean we can get back in. That’s what our uniforms get us. The run of the whole damn palace.”
Tristan froze as his mind swept over the implications of Tor’s statement. It was true.
As soon as he’d seen Val hanging on that wall, he’d known that there was no way that they were going to get him out of there.
And that understanding had been followed swiftly by the terrible insight that Ballanor would never have hung a guilty man on his wall. The king would have marched Val in front of the Nephilim Justices, proven that he was a traitor before their Truth Seekers, and had him executed on the spot—the queen following him rapidly afterward.
Standing in the hall, watching Ballanor torture his friend, he had had to face the distinctly uncomfortable truth that he hadn’t really expected to find Val at the palace—the rumor that his friend was chained to the king’s wall had seemed impossible—and even as he had slowly realized how corrupt and dishonorable the Blues had become, a part of him had still rejected the idea that his king had looked him in the eye and lied.
He had still been hoping that he could take Nim into the palace and prove that Val had been correctly tried and found guilty, and then sneak her back out again.
Gods, he was an idiot.
There had never been a chance to get Val out of the great hall with Nim. But now, with the whole team inside, it just might be possible.
He looked at Tor and across to Mathos. Back to Tor. Fuck, he owed him. He met his friend’s eyes. “Thank you.”
Tor gave him a brisk nod. “We understand.”
Tristan eyed them skeptically. The entire squad was relentlessly committed to being single. How could they possibly understand the hell that he was in?
And just like that, his mind was back to playing a horrific reel of Grendel, Ballanor, and Nim.
And then Mathos was there, hard hand heavy on his shoulder. “Pull it together, Captain. Your woman needs you.”
He grunted and tried to ignore the white-hot agony that stabbed his heart. She would never be his again.
But that didn’t change that Mathos was right; she needed him.
He pulled himself together. “What’s the plan?”
“It’s just arriving.” Mathos gave a bloodthirsty grin and turned toward a loud clattering of hooves. The rest of the squad had arrived, already wearing their Blues.
“Tor sent out a runner while you were making your way into the hall,” Mathos supplied as the others climbed down and tied their warhorses up on the posts along the side of the square.
“Jeremiel and Garet, you’re with the horses,” Mathos commanded. “Rafe, take Reece, find us a safe house, somewhere downriver. That leaves four of us to go back in. Get your asses moving.”
“Just a moment.” Tristan’s voice came out rougher than he intended, but everyone stopped in their tracks and turned toward him expectantly. “There’s no going back after this. If we go into the palace in our uniforms and take Nim out of the king’s bedroom, that’s it. After this, we’re outcasts. If we even survive.” He met each man’s eyes. “Be sure.”
The men looked at each other silently, and back to him. Horses jostled each other, and a night watchman called in the far distance, but otherwise no one moved.
Of course. He couldn’t expect them to do this. The risks were immense, and the chance of success negligible. It was only sensible that they should take this chance to get as far away from him as they could.
Just as he opened his mouth to tell them that it was alright, that he understood, Mathos spoke. “Hey, didn’t we have to sit through this speech once already? Gods, you and Nim are exactly the same.” A few people snorted as he continued, “Anyway, I’ve never liked this uniform. It pinches.”
“True,” Jos agreed with a sage nod. “And I’m sick to death of rations. Could do with some civilian food.”
“Yes,” Reece joined in. “I bet women would go mad for a mercenary. With the added bonus that they couldn’t possibly expect one to stick around.”
Everyone laughed.
