Unlike My Enemy ( MxM )

32. The Mistake

I open my eyes with a start, and right away, I know something is wrong. The fire is out, and the room is dark. It was dusk when Syra came to visit me. It's night now.

I spring up from my chair and pull my boots on. For how long have I slept? An hour? Less? More? Surely more than it would take Hadrian to get to the kitchen, fill a bucket with hot water and come back. Where is he, then? Where is Syra?

I fling the door open and rush down the stairs.

Despite the hour, there's plenty of people in the kitchen, and it seems a late party is taking place, alongside the cooking for the next day. One of the younger cooks walks by me, and I grab him by the sleeve.

"Have you seen Syra?" I only realize that I'm shouting when most of the conversations around go quiet, and people turn to stare. "Has Hadrian been here? When did he leave?"

"Hadrian?" mutters the cook, carefully extracting his sleeve from my fingers. "Here?"

"I didn't see him," says someone. "Nor Syra, and I've been here for hours."

I turn around and run out of the kitchen.

Outside I stop, my heart hammering. I should notify Oliver. Raise the alarm. Admit that I screwed up, letting the last heir to the throne escape—something that Oliver feared the most.

Or perhaps I should try and find him myself.

The main gates are closed for the night, so he couldn't have left through them. The walls around the castle are too high for someone to jump from, and landing in the dry moat would earn him nothing but broken bones. There is a smaller gate at the back of the castle but he would need to pass by the barracks full off soldiers on his way there, and since they're likely still awake, he could be spotted and recognized. Even if he wasn't, he would still need to go through the guards at the gate.

Then it hits me. The secret passages. If Aurelia knew about them, so did the rest of the royal family.

I'm still figuring this out as my feet carry me towards the Eastern Tower. The passageway through which I entered the castle the first time would have been the most likely choice for Hadrian, given that there's an entrance to it just three floors below his chamber. How could I have forgotten about it?

The corridors haven't been cleared of rubbish yet, and in my hurry I stumble a few times and curse under my breath. It probably would be wiser to raise the alarm instead of wasting my time here, but the shame of having made a mistake outweighs everything else. If I find Hadrian, I might still make things right.

I enter the stairwell and descend the steps leading to the little storage room. I unsheathe my sword and hold my breath as my eyes adjust to the darkness. There familiar logs are still there, some of them stacked against the wall, but most are lying in a pile on the floor, likely the result of the looters searching the castle.

The other wall is unrecognizable. Against it, a pile of rocks reaches almost up to the ceiling, covering the area with the secret door. Some of the rocks are so big it must have taken a few men to carry them here. A single man wouldn't be able to remove them, surely not Hadrian. He couldn't have left though here.

I scan the heap of stones, frowning. I didn't know Oliver ordered the secret passages sealed, but it does make sense. If we entered through them, so could our enemies. But the point is, if I didn't know the door had been sealed, so didn't Hadrian. Has he been here? There's no way to tell. Now that my eyes have adjusted I am positive there is nobody else here but me. I turn to leave.

A barely audible moan makes me stop in my tracks.

Another sound comes from under the heap of logs on the floor.

In one leap, I reach the pile, and begin to remove the logs one by one, the sword still is in my hand. A familiar face appears, pale enough to be distinguishable in the dark. Syra. The braids around her head are unmistakable. Her eyes are closed, and her face seems frozen. My blood goes cold as I notice what looks like a black blotch of dirt on her temple.

I hurl my sword away and proceed to remove the logs with both hands.

"Come on," I whisper through the lump in my throat. "Syra, answer me. What happened?"

She doesn't move. The last log removed, I reach down and pick her up. A part of my brain registers that she's completely naked, save for her laced boots. Her clear skin untouched by sun is almost shimmering in the dark. Why is she naked? Why is her body so limp in my hands? She can't be dead. I heard her moan.

I get up the stairs and struggle to open the door with one hand. In the corridor outside, I pause. In the light of a nearby torch I can see that the black spot on her face is, just as I feared, not black but dark red. She's been hit on the head, a blow strong enough to draw blood.

She needs a doctor, and, luckily, there is one close enough.

It takes a minute of running through the dirty, stinky passageways until I reach the little room assigned to Philto, the pupil of the deceased Mortimer. He's not allowed to lock his door, so I just kick it open and rush in.

The room is so tiny it only has space enough for a bed and a table, stacked high with books. One particularly thick volume lies open, and a candle is burning next to it. Philto sits up in his bed, looking at me with alarm, his high bald forehead gleaming in the light of the candle. The last few days he's been constantly threatened by the rowdy rebels seeking help with their wounds, but his medical skills must have served him well. Still, he doesn't feel anywhere near safe, as his scared look clearly testifies.

"Move," I bark, and he rolls to the floor, his feet tangling in his long nightgown, and then gets up and stares at the naked woman I place on his bed.

"Her name is Syra," I say. "She is --"

"I see." The shock in his eyes is quickly replaced by professional interest as he squints at the blood on her forehead. He turns her head one way, then another, looking closely, then gives me the candle. "Hold it steady. No, right here, so I could see."

I hold the candle, my hand shaking. I want to beg him to save her, to do something, and his slow examination feels like torture. If she dies, I will never forgive myself.

"Bring me that knife. I will have to shave some of her hair off to get to the wound," he says. "What happened? Lovers' quarrel?"

I blink at his question, but then realize that's what it must look like to him—a panicked man, a naked woman with a bloodied wound on her head.

"No, no," I say. "Hadrian must have hit her with something before he escaped."

"Hadrian?" he looks at me, his expression momentarily switching from concentration to what looks like...hope? "Escaped?"

I remember the first time I saw him, in Hadrian's chambers, agreeing to steal the examination for him. Was he in love with Hadrian, or just fantasizing of getting into his bed one day, like many others did? Were they lovers already? The Whore Prince hadn't earned his title for nothing.

"I'm going to find him," I say. "You save the girl."

"Why is she naked?" He nods at her body, all small breasts and slim hips. "Hadrian wouldn't want to --"

"He didn't want her," I say as the picture of what has happened finally clicks together in my head. "He only wanted her clothes."

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