If Tristan had to see that look of distress on Nim’s face for one more second, he was going to lose his mind. But he couldn’t punish Tor either. And they had to get the fuck out of there.
He reached down and grabbed the fallen sword, recognizing it as King Geraint’s as he lifted it. Once, that might have bothered him, but none of that mattered to him anymore.
He spun it swiftly and pressed the grip into Nim’s small hand, gently closing her fingers until he felt them tighten.
She was still standing circled by Mathos’s arm, but he leaned as close as he dared and looked her in the eye. “He’s not here to hurt you. No one will hurt you. I promise.”
Nim never stopped looking at him. And for a moment, it felt as if they would stay, staring at each other like that, forever. And then she gave a tiny nod and took a small step forward.
Her trust nearly broke him.
Tristan spun around before he could do something fucking stupid, like rip her out of Mathos’s arms and kiss her, standing right there in the king’s study. He got himself under control and grunted the order to move out.
Tor moved first and then quickly gestured through the door that everyone should follow. Tristan joined him, sword drawn, Mathos and the women behind him, and then Jos, supporting Val.
Tristan turned them away from the clattering chaos of the distant courtyard and led their battered little group at a run down a richly carpeted hallway, past a series of shadowed reception rooms, and into the bleak stone and gloom of the servants’ wing.
As soon as they were all moving, Tristan fell back, letting the others pass him until he could bring up the rear, trying to keep their bedraggled group together while propelling them forward as fast as possible, all while keeping a lookout for anyone coming up behind them.
They pushed their way into the shadowy kitchen, sweltering despite the banked fires and eerily quiet with most of the staff already asleep or having wisely made themselves scarce when the first horn blew.
Those few night servants still working rapidly averted their eyes and ducked their heads at the sight of four Blues and three prisoners.
Tor swung open the back door, and the brisk night air flooded in, fresh with the smell of herbs from the kitchen gardens, clearing the air and making the fires spark. Shadows rippled along the walls as they hurried forward.
“Hey! You can’t go through there!” an indignant matronly voice demanded behind them.
Tristan spun, already forming a vaguely polite response, but his movement cleared the way for the woman to see behind him. Her eyes widened at the sight of Val being half carried through the door by Jos, and without taking a breath, she started to scream.
Her panicky shrieks triggered something in her staff, who immediately joined in a loud howl of outrage and fear, and a small boy ran for the kitchen door screaming for the guards.
“Move!” Tristan threw himself through the door, pushing the others in front of him, and whirled to slam it shut behind them.
Fuck, all the bolts were on the inside.
He was torn. Should he stay and try to hold the door closed or run with the others? It would be a matter of only minutes before the screeching in the kitchen brought the guards.
He hesitated for only a moment. There was no way he could hold the door alone. But he could carry someone.
It took mere seconds to catch up to Jos and Val. They were moving so slowly that it looked like they were stuck in treacle.
Without stopping to explain, he grabbed hold of Val and swung him up into a rough carry hold over his shoulders. He grunted under the weight, struggling to find a good grip on Val’s skin as his friend’s tortured wings flopped brokenly toward the ground.
They had wrestled hundreds of times as boys. Thousands, maybe. Picked each other up. Stumbled around carrying one another. Dumped each other in the icy water of the nearby river.
But never had he imagined carrying Val’s broken body as his friend shuddered and groaned in agony.
Or, in his worst nightmares, considered that he might one day so misjudge his friend. That his own lack of faith would leave Val alone, abandoned to the cruelty of two sadistic torturers.
He had brought Nim to the palace to prove to her that she was wrong about her brother. That people lied and betrayed. And instead, he had to face the truth—hehad betrayed Val when he had walked away.
A deadening bitterness that settled over his heart as he recognized that there was no way that he could ever atone for what he’d done.
Nim and Val would never—should never—forgive him. But he could still get them free. And he could spend the rest of his life keeping them safe.
He half ran, half staggered down the graveled paths as Jos rushed forward and threw an arm around Keely, dragging her faster, while Mathos helped Nim. The women struggled to run, restricted by the clanking chain strung between them.
A massive wall loomed above them in the darkness and Tristan knew they were nearing the Old Tower, the ancient castle keep that the rest of the palace had grown up around.
