(Chapter 2: A Second Chance, cont.)

  The guards came at midnight.

  Ean had expected them all evening, and every hour that crept by was its own unique agony. He was almost relieved when the door to the cellblock swung open and heavy footsteps entered the hall, at least a dozen guards by the sound. He got to his feet.

  The guards stopped at his cell door, and he wasn’t surprised to see the black uniforms. He even recognized some of the faces. These were the same Night Sentinels that had arrested him. They unlocked the door and stepped into his cell, shackles in their hands. He didn’t resist. He could take on a dozen men easily, even a dozen soldiers if needed, but a dozen Night Sentinels? They were too well trained, and they were all on high alert. If he attempted to escape now, he’d just be hastening his death. He let them lock his hands behind his back. They shackled his ankles next with a short length of chain between his feet, effectively hobbling him. Two guards took his arms, fingers tight and bruising, and led him out of the dungeons, prodding and shoving when he couldn’t match their unfettered strides.

  He expected to be led to the wall. He expected to be pushed to his knees, maybe offered a blindfold. He expected to stare at blood-stained stone while a sword was raised above his head. The fear returned. It turned his stomach and seized his limbs. He was grateful for the cold breeze that swept through the hall and cut through his prisoner’s garb. It offered an excuse for the shivers that ran through his body.

  Dark stars, he didn’t want to die.

  He expected the guards to turn left, towards the exterior passages that led to the castle gate. Instead, they turned right and took him further into the castle. He glanced about, recognizing the route. They were headed towards the royal offices.

  Perhaps an execution at the hand of the Night Sentinels wasn’t enough for his crime. Perhaps the King would demand torture. His heart skipped a beat, and then thudded into a painful double-time.

  The guards led him up a curved staircase towards a set of rooms he’d actively avoided during his reconnaissance. These were the Royal Mage’s chambers. Ean could move in shadows and creep along battlements well enough to remain hidden from the naked eye, but he had no ability to hide from magic. His steps slowed in trepidation. The Sentinels tightened their grip and dragged him into the Mage’s study. It was dimly lit; the only sources of light were a few candles on the desk and the remains of a fire in the grate across the room. The Mage sat at her desk, silent and still. The white of her hair shone in the darkness. The crystal on her tall staff glittered.

  Ean balked a moment, eyeing the crystal. It earned him a cuff to the back of his head, hard enough to make him curse and his eyes water. He was prodded into the open space in front of her desk, right onto a curling mosaic patterned in the tile floor. He tried to shuffle his feet off it. He wasn’t sure if it was decorative or some sort of magical sigil, and he didn’t want to find out.

  The Mage turned to the captain. “Release him. And then you are dismissed.”

  “Madame?”

  Her lips curled into smile. “He’s hardly a threat to me. And we have some… private business to discuss.”

  Ean’s heart lost another beat. What possible business could the Royal Mage have with a shadow-walker? And an apprentice at that?

  The guards obeyed, albeit reluctantly. They unshackled his chains with rough hands and sent him dark looks as they left. The door locked behind them.

  Ean cautiously turned his eyes onto the Royal Mage, Aldine Ironstone. Her skin was red-brown and lined with age, but when she got to her feet and walked around the desk, her movements were fluid and easy. Her spine was straight, her shoulders unbowed. Magic had a way of preserving and extending life. She had served many generations of kings; Ean had no idea how old she really was.

  “You’re Ean,” she said. She had the voice of a pipe-smoker, cracked and raspy. “A shadow-walker apprentice. We’ve written your teacher.”

  Ean pictured Felix in his mind, receiving the letter. His eyes would pinch at the corners. He’d fall silent, retreat to his room. Would he grieve for him, or would disappointment win out? Guilt rose up, too heavy to bear, so he pushed the thought away.

  “You must understand the severity of your crime,” she said.

  Ean didn’t answer. He was pretty sure she was lecturing him, and he didn’t see the point, not when he was about to die. He looked about the room instead, squinting into the deep shadows. He could make out a few bookshelves and tables. He smelled incense and old parchment.

  “The punishment is death.”

  A flicker of movement drew his attention to the small sitting area behind the Mage. Two large chairs faced the fireplace. Someone was sitting in one, barely visible over the tall back. The executioner, then. Or the torturer. His mouth went dry.

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  The Mage fell silent. From beyond the door, Ean could hear the Night Sentinels, their feet shifting in restlessness as they guarded the study. The silence stretched further. He finally looked at the Mage and raised his eyebrows, wondering why she was taking so long to pronounce his death sentence.

  “A unique opportunity lies before you,” Aldine said. “Your services could be of use to the kingdom.”

  Ean felt his chest flicker with a glimmer of hope, even though he knew it had to be a false one. Nothing could expunge his crime. She was joking; she had to be. He glared at the Mage, feeling a spike of anger at her sick sense of humor, but she didn’t laugh. She folded her hands, awaiting his response.

  Ean was suddenly aware he hadn’t spoken yet today. He cleared his throat. “I’m not a sell-sword.”

  The figure in the chair moved. A hand dropped onto the armrest, fingers tightening over the carved wood. “Not a sell-sword?”

  The voice was hard, commanding. Ean immediately recognized it, even though he’d only heard it once or twice during his reconnaissance of the palace. King Justus pushed himself up from the chair and turned towards him. With his back to the burning coals, his face was cast into shadow, but Ean could hear the anger in his words, could read the tension in his body. It was instinct to slip his right foot behind his left and soften his knees—a defensive stance.

  The King spoke again. “If you are not a sell-sword, then why are you residing in my dungeons without a letter of protest from your guild? Your actions prove you are for hire, and I will hire you.”

  Ean’s hands curled at his presumption. “I am a shadow-walker. Any job I take is at my discretion. I cannot be commanded.”

  “I do not need to command you. Your life was forfeit the moment you baselessly attacked the Crown and now I hold it in my hands.”

  Ean tightened his fists, anger flaring. “Do you expect me to beg for mercy?”

  The King straightened; his voice dropped. “Wiser men have.”

  Ean felt his face go hot. Wise men probably did beg, but he had far too much pride.

  Aldine interjected before he could retort and ruin whatever second chance he was being offered. “We are not asking you to take a life. We are asking you to protect one.” She cast a reproving look towards the King, like she was chiding him for being rude to a guest.

  The back of Ean’s neck prickled with unease. There was something unspoken that passed between them, some silent game they were playing. There was no other reason for the Mage to scold the King in the presence of a prisoner.

  Aldine gave Ean a placid smile. “I understand that shadow-walkers can be hired as bodyguards.”

  It was true. Ean and Felix had taken such jobs before, but what could she need with a shadow-walker when she had access to the King’s Guard?

  He gave her a side-long look. “Who would I be guarding?”

  “The Prince.”

  Ean couldn’t help the startled bark of laughter that burst from his mouth. The King lurched forward with three quick strides, and Ean could read his expression now. He was furious. Ean stepped back, already turning his head to ease the expected blow, but the King stopped short. Ean watched him take in a sharp breath.

  The King’s anger could only mean he and the Mage were in earnest. They truly wanted Ean to protect the Prince, the same Prince he’d just tried to assassinate.

  “The Prince will be leaving on a journey,” Aldine said. “It will require a good deal of secrecy. The Guard would draw too much attention.”

  “You want me to accompany him,” Ean surmised.

  “If you wish to keep your life,” the King said.

  Ean narrowed his eyes. “What does the Prince think of it?”

  Neither the King nor Mage answered, which was answer enough.

  “You didn’t tell him,” Ean said in surprise.

  “Prince Leonid is aware there was an attempt on his life,” Aldine said. “But apart from the Night Sentinels, no one knows your identity. You will simply be a shadow-walker who has been hired for additional protection.”

  It still didn’t make sense to him.

  “Where is the Prince going?” he asked.

  “You don’t need to know,” the King said.

  Ean pursed his lips. “What’s the threat?”

  “Unknown at this time.”

  The King was being deliberately obtuse. Ean tried to keep his growing frustration off his face.

  “How long will he be gone?”

  “Uncertain.”

  Ean scoffed. How was he was supposed to protect the Prince if he was to be given no information?

  The King dropped his hands onto Aldine’s desk with a heavy thud. “I am being more than generous considering your crime. And, as it was my son you tried to kill, I like this deal far less than you. But my advisor has informed me that I ought to take advantage of the shadow-walker currently in my debt. If it were my decision, I would not be so benevolent.”

  The anger on his face was unmistakable. And righteous. Guilt clawed up from Ean’s gut, hot and uncomfortable. He couldn’t hold the King’s gaze.

  The Mage clucked her tongue. “We still have need of him, Justus. Don’t make him refuse out of spite.”

  Ean recognized the banter in her voice and flicked his gaze back up. He knew the game they were playing now. The King was playing hard; the Mage was playing soft. It was a tactic he used with Felix when they were interrogating a hostile subject. Felix would threaten and intimidate, and Ean would provide sympathy and understanding and coax the mark into spilling their secrets. But why were they using it on him? Did they need his services so desperately?

  The Mage pushed forward a piece of parchment. Ean could see it was a contract, already drawn up. She reached for a quill, and then a small knife. A blood-oath. Ean wasn’t one to break his promises, but a blood-oath would eliminate any opportunity to cut and run if things got ugly. Blood-oaths had power in them. Not true magic, but enough to keep all parties honest.

  Ean hesitated, mind-racing and stomach-churning. The mission would have to be dire if the Crown Prince was overseeing it, and it must be truly perilous if he, the Prince’s would-be killer, was coerced into joining. He might be better off asking for a quick death at the hand of an executioner.

  “Your answer,” the King demanded.

  Ean let out a breath. It didn’t matter that he was being played. It didn’t matter what odds were stacked against him. He was a coward, and he would take any chance to save his life, no matter how small.

  He reached for the knife.