more than you do. But what am I to do?”
Barty’s reply was so low that Christian almost missed it.
“You were there; you saw. She has already begun to work on Elyssa, and I will not have it. I will kill the witch, if it comes to that.”
“And how will you do that, Barty? Have you been studying sorcery on the side?”
Barty didn’t answer, for the servants brought their dinner then, a simmering tureen of stew that smelled like heaven to Christian. He looked forward to meals more than a guard likely should, but he could not get over the food . . . the variety, the quality. Yet even as he dipped his spoon into the rich dish, Christian found himself glancing sideways at Barty, considering him. A common goal . . . it was the last thing he had expected to find in this place, but it was there. They must get the witch out. The Guard did not like her, but only Christian knew her real purpose in the Keep: to pave the way for Arlen Thorne. In a sharp blink, Christian saw Thorne, as clearly as though the pimp stood before him, his bright blue eyes veiling a wealth of purpose, merciless depth of plan.
“You are not eating, Mace,” Coryn remarked from the far side of the table, cutting through the myriad conversations taking place around them. “Lamb not to your liking?”
“The lamb is fine,” Christian replied easily, taking a bite of his stew. It was more than fine; it was delicious. “But where there are sheep, there are also wolves.”
“Is that what we are?” Dyer asked, digging into his own bowl with relish. “Wolves?”
Christian shook his head, smiling. He did not dislike Coryn and Dyer; they were good men of their kind. But like all Queen’s Guards, they had no way of knowing that they were the sheep: bound by honor and decency and rules, hamstrung in the belief that these things would make a difference. But Christian, not so bound, knew what the rest could not: that the wolf was coming.
Chapter 22
THE LADDER IS DOWN
At the outset, the Almont rebellion was badly overmatched. It was a desolate winter in the farming plains, and the rebels had neither food nor warm clothing. They were able to provision themselves from the castle they had taken, but there was not enough food to last the winter. The rebels had precious little skill with steel or military strategy, no real idea of where to go or what to do next. Defeat seemed both imminent and inevitable.
—Out of Famine: The Almont Uprising, Alla Benedict
Aislinn!” Eamon called from the doorway. “More coming in!”
Aislinn looked up from the dough she was beating with her fists. They had found several massive canisters of flour in the cellars of Lady Andrews’s castle, and every day Aislinn made fresh bread, enjoying the solitude of the task. But now Eamon was leaning through the doorway, his face worried.
“How many?” Aislinn asked.
“An entire village, from the looks of it.”
“Will they never stop coming?” she murmured to Liam, who sat silent at the end of the table.
“You could always bar the doors.”
She glared at him, then realized that he was joking. But the joke wasn’t funny, for she had received just this advice, in earnest, from several of the men who had come in from other acreages. She understood their reasoning: the food and water in Lady Andrews’s cellars would not last forever. Eamon had made a conservative estimate that they had no more than three months’ worth to feed everyone, and more refugees poured in all the time. The castle now held nearly seven hundred people. Clapping the flour from her hands, Aislinn rose from the table and left the kitchen, Liam at her heels.
Lady Andrews’s castle was dominated by a high, hollow central hall, flanked by two massive, curving staircases. These staircases traveled from base to battlement, breaking briefly to create landings for each floor. With Eamon and Liam behind her, Aislinn began the long climb toward the roof. She kept her hand on the balustrade, knowing that once she reached the third or fourth floor, the height would begin to make her dizzy.
“More people will strain our rations,” Eamon muttered. “Perhaps we should—”
“No,” Aislinn said firmly, closing the discussion. Eamon scowled but remained silent. He had come in with a tiny band, only seven people, but his knowledge was invaluable. He had once been a soldier, and he could wield a sword, but more than