Wyatt, Grady, and Derning drew their blades and Hadrian took a step closer to Thranic.
“Stand down, gentlemen!” Wesley shouted. At his order, they paused. “You are quite correct, Sentinel Thranic. Your office does influence how I treat you. Were you an ordinary seaman, I would order you flogged for your disrespect. I am well aware that upon our return to Aquesta you could ruin my career, or perhaps have me imprisoned or hanged. But let me point out, sir, that Aquesta is a long way from here, and a dead man has difficulty requesting anything. It would be in my best interest, therefore, to see you executed here and now. It would be a simple matter to report you and Seaman Defoe lost to the dangers of the jungle.”
Bernie looked worried and took a subtle step away from Thranic’s side.
“I would have thought I could rely on your family’s famous code of honor,” Thranic said in a sarcastic tone.
“You can, sir, and you are, as indeed that is all that keeps you alive at this moment. It is also what you can count on to have you executed should you threaten Seaman Melborn again. Do I make myself clear?”
Thranic fumed but said nothing. He simply turned and walked away with Bernie following.
Wesley exhaled loudly and straightened his vest. “How is he doing?” he asked Hadrian.
“Sleeping at the moment, sir. He’s weak, but should recover. And thank you, sir.”
“For what?” Wesley replied. “I have a mission to accomplish, Seaman Blackwater. I cannot have my crew killing one another. Seamen Derning and Grady, take a few others and bring Mr. Staul’s body back to camp. Let us not leave him to the beasts of this foul jungle.”
CHAPTER 15
THE SEARCH
I think I saw him.”
Arista woke at the sound. Disoriented, she did not know where she was at first. Turning over, she found Thrace illuminated by a streak of moonlight. The empress was dressed in her wispy, thin nightgown, which fluttered in the draft. She stood straight, hair loose, eyes lost to a vision beyond the window’s frame.
Nearly a week had passed since Gerald had invited Arista to the empress’s bedroom, and she wondered if being here was a sign that she was on the right path. If fate could speak, surely this would be how it would sound.
Thrace saw to her safety, guarding her like the mother of a newborn. Soldiers stood outside her door at all times, now in pairs, with strict orders to prevent the entry of anyone without permission. Only Amilia and Nimbus ever entered the chamber, and even they knocked. At Thrace’s urging, Nimbus carried messages to Hilfred.
In her nightgown, Thrace looked almost like the girl from Dahlgren, but there was something different about her—akin to sadness, yet lacking even the passion for that. Often she would sit and stare at nothing for hours, and when she spoke, her words were dull and emotionless. She never laughed, cried, or smiled. In this way, she appeared to have successfully transformed from a lively peasant girl into a true empress—serene and unflappable.
Yet at what cost?
“It was late like this,” Thrace said, looking out the window. Her voice sounded disconnected, as if she was in a trance. “I was having a dream, but a squeaking noise woke me. I came to the window and I saw them. They were in the courtyard below. Men with torches, as many as a dozen, wheeled in a sealed wagon. They were knights, dressed in black-and-scarlet armor, like those we saw in Dahlgren. They spoke of the man inside the box as if he were a monster, and even though he was hooded and chained, they were afraid. After they took him away, the wagon rolled back out of the courtyard.” Thrace turned to face her. “I thought it was a dream until just now. I have a lot of unpleasant dreams.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“Three months, perhaps more.”
Shivering, Arista sat up. The fire had long since died and the stone walls did nothing to keep the chill out. The window was open again. Regardless of what time of day it was, or how cold the temperature, Thrace insisted. Not with words—she rarely spoke—but each time Arista closed the window, the girl opened it again.
“That would coincide with Gaunt’s disappearance. You never heard anything else about this prisoner?”
“No, and you would be surprised how much you hear when you’re very quiet.”
“Thrace, come—” The sudden tilt of Modina’s head and the curious look on her face stopped Arista.
“No one calls me that anymore.”
“A shame. I’ve always liked the name.”
“Me too.”
“Come back to bed. You’ll catch a cold.”
Thrace walked toward her, looking at where the mirror had once hung. “I’ll need to get a new mirror before Wintertide.”