Page 54 of Nightingale

Castil surmised that it was another scheme to get him killed and nothing more since he was sent to the front lines far more often than any of his other siblings. Brioc volunteered to go, Regulus only fought when he couldn’t worm his way out of it and Rian was too prized for their father to risk him.

So Castil was sent more than any.

There was that fraction of him that didn’t mind it so much, because it removed him from his father’s vicious vicinity. Allowed him to breathe and feel, respected by the men he led and fought with. Even if it was a way to get him killed, it felt easier.

It hadn’t worked so far.

But his attempts were getting cleverer, even if they were also more obvious and desperate. One day, he’d find the root of the reason. As for now, he couldn’t find enough of a reason to care. One of his brothers was going to take him down or his father would do it himself. There was also the possibility that he’d outlive them all and help Rian rule from the sidelines if it came to that.

Castil had stopped to sleep before his skin fell off his bonesand his mind would halt working altogether on the fifth day, nearly tumbling from Atlas’s back.

Enough was enough.

So he’d stopped and unfurled his bedroll, finding a comfortable position before falling deep into a black sleep. Exhaustion was such a drain on his system that he didn’t have time to make a fire before slumber took over.

He woke to the blinding autumn sun as it crested over the mountains, took a quick wash in the nearby river that was colder than a drift of sparkling snow and changed into a fresh pair of clothes before hastily washing the ones he’d been wearing and shoving them into his pack on Atlas’s rump.

The horse had been fed and watered, as had Castil and after he relieved himself, he swung back up onto the high height of the mount and began again.

He didn’t continue the draining pattern, instead stopping each night to rest and eat, to recharge himself before starting up again come the dawn. When he reached the scattered bodies oftwelvemen, he stopped riding only to see what had happened.

It was clear from the mismatch of clothing that they all wore that they’d stolen them off the backs of other men, which meant that they were bandits. It wasn’t uncommon for this part of Carylim, especially not in the mountains. They had different weapons alongside them, tossed and thrown aside as if they’d flung them as soon as death claimed them. There was dried blood everywhere, a horrific sight for any one who wasn’t used to the crimson liquid.

He traced the fight back to the start, eyes flicking to the very first spot where blood marked the jagged rocks that were perfect for a vantage point. He saw his sibling’s practised moves in his head as he watched it unfold in perfect replication.

Rian had been attacked first, which caused him to strike back. Two sliced fingers lay at the base of the stones, which was one ofhis brother’s favourite things to do when provoked. From there, Rian shifted into a double defense as several men rushed him at once.

Castil walked through the battle, one step at a time until he found himself standing face to face with the tall wall of stone splattered with red at a high point.

Too high for an arrow to have reached.

Unless the attacker had been halfway up it.

Immediately his brain allowed him to see the entire picture, as an imaginary Princess scaled the top of the wall like she had the sides of Hawksmoor Keep without fear or faltering. He couldn’t imagine doing such a thing himself, where courage and balls were both required for a daring feat of strength.

Castil smirked as he pictured the fierce female drawing arrows from his brother’s bow unquestioningly as Rian never went anywhere without it, and Vrea hadn’t shown a fondness for that sort of fighting before.

True, she hadn’t been given the chance.

He played out her countermoves inside his mind, and it was as real to him as if she were standing there in front of him. From the clearing on the mountain side, she’d shot down a good number of the attackers, even if there were no remaining arrows as indication of which.

It was still highly impressive that they’d managed to take on all twelve rogues and live to tell the tale. At least he assumed so, since neither of their bodies were anywhere around here.

He was thankful for that.

Castil took a look at every fallen foe, searching their figures for any additional supplies that he could use on his way and collected all of their weapons. It wasn’t like they were going to use them and if he was going to face the Blackleg Spiders by himself, he would need as many advantages as he could get.

He knew for a fact that if he’d asked for any company, the Kingwould have turned him down. There was already a lingering suspicion that he’d forbid anyone from offering their assistance, or even agreeing to it if Castil approached them about it himself.

Which was why he didn’t bother.

If the spiders didn’t kill him, Casta would.

She thirsted for Moordian blood to paint her halls, to spill before her feet, to drink out of a gilded goblet. Honestly, the two ruthless rulers held more in common than either cared to admit. It was the reason that the war had ravaged on for far longer than it should have. They were both filled to the brim with pride and selfishness, unwilling to give up a single inch on the borders.

From one side of the continent to the other, tents lined the front. In Niroula and Carylim. Over the last ten years, neither side gained an inch into the enemy’s territory. They were both determined fighters, savage soldiers and fearless men who would risk it all for their countries, even if nothing but death had come of it.

Castil wondered what the outcome of a meeting with Casta and his father would be, if either would walk out afterwards or neither would. If one of them would draw the first blood and what their method of murder would be. His father was fond of poison, proven time and time again, but he’d heard stories about the wicked Casta who often rode out to fight herself.

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