She frowned, chewing her lip. “The guards have to switch at some point, right?”
Dess, shrugged. “I guess. Why?”
Thran watched Thia carefully. “I’d expect them to change at dawn. What are you thinking, lass?”
She blew out a breath. “I’m thinking if three of us go in, four of us going out is going to be suspicious. But if we go in twos and wait for the guards to switch, maybe they won’t notice.”
They would have to time it right, maintaining the charade for most of the night. Thran noted that an alarm would sound after Oskaren was discovered missing, which meant they probably had minutes to get her out in pairs.
Who was she kidding? There were far too many things left to chance. It would never work.
“It’s a good plan,” Thran said, surprising her.
Dess shrugged. “It could work,” he reluctantly agreed. “It’s not what I would do, but it could work.”
Thia bit down the urge to tell them that what he would do—fighting their way in and out—would get them all killed. It wasn’t unlikely her plan would have the same results.
She swallowed, forcing her mind to empty. If she started thinking about the fact that their lives were in her hands, she would crumble.
“Let’s go.”
They left Mavrel in the woods after Thran said he would likely be taken to an aviary if they arrived with him in tow. The walk through town passed quickly, Thia’s anxiety building with every step. When they reached the manor, it was late afternoon. The portcullis was open, but a guard stood in the entrance, holding a hand to stop them as they approached.
She spoke before he could, keeping her voice haughty. “I am Thia Sanbrooke, Witch-Slayer. I am dirty and tired, and in the name of the Mage King Caradoc, I demand shelter for the night.” She met his eye, willing her face not to redden as it usually did under pressure. Against her will, heat pricked her skin.
The guard snickered. “Witch-Slayer, eh? And I’m King of the Losrohir.” His eyes flicked over her, from her sweat-induced halo of frizz, to her boots that were too tight in the calf. She had never felt so small and soft in her life.
But the guard next to him nudged his companion. “My cousin works in Cyning,” he said quietly. “Said it was all the talk last week. A girl killed Asha Würmeart, and King Caradoc thanked her ‘imself.” He bowed his head to her. “Lady,” he said. “Tales of your prowess precede you.”
She inclined her head, glaring at the first guard. “I am pleased that at least one man here understands civility. Now, if you don’t mind, I am tired of standing out in the cold in this godforsaken town, when the king himself hosted me mere days ago.”
“Of course,” the first guard said, properly chastised. “Forgive me, milady.”
Thia expelled a breath.
“Come with me,” the second guard said. “I’m sure Mayor Henson will want to see you personally.” He held out a hand. “Your weapons.” He had the good grace to look sheepish. “You may retrieve them when you depart.”
Thia obligingly turned over her sword and bow. To her relief, no one patted them down and, as they followed the guard through the gate, Dess and Thran remained armed under their shirts.
Inside, the layout was simple, a rectangle of straight halls and large, stony rooms. The guard kept up a steady stream of chatter, asking about their journey so far and what it was like to face Asha. Eventually Thia interrupted, eager to glean what information they could in turn.
“Do you like being a guard?” she asked pleasantly.
“Oh yes, milady,” he said. “It’s difficult work, but it pays well. It can be very exciting.” She didn’t even have to prompt him, because he added, “Why just today, we thought we were taking in a common thief. Turns out, we have Oskaren Alinac in our grasp! We’ve had her warrant notice from the king himself pinned up in the barracks for two years.”
Thia struggled to keep her breathing even.
“Dunno what she’s done,” the guard continued, oblivious to the look Thran and Dess exchanged. “If you ask me”—he bent conspiratorially toward Thia—“she tried to kill the king.” He paused. “But my comrade back there—Jran—thinks Alinac was involved with the Phantom Guard.”
Thia could feel her forehead creasing. She forced it smooth, voice light as she asked, “The Phantom Guard?”
The soldier raised an eyebrow. “Them that want the Dómgeorns back on the throne. You must have heard the tale?”
She nodded. “Bits and pieces in my travels. But I gather you know more than I.”
He seemed pleased by that, puffing out his chest. “Well it was about say, twenty years ago now? Maybe not quite. Anyway, rumors spread one of them Dómgeorns was still alive. We had another mage at the time—Melina, I think her name was. She formed the Phantom Guard to find and put that one back on the throne. ‘Course, King Caradoc made short work o’ that.” He grinned, and the air rushed out of Thia’s lungs.
Her mother wasn’t just killed for bearing the Storm Crow. She was what, ahero?
