“Find the healer?” she asked, shoving her blond braid over one muscled shoulder.
“No sign of her,” he lied, not because he didn’t trust Gwen, but because knowing the truth would only put her in danger.
“I’m going to go out on a limb and say that’s unfortunate for you,” she said. “Here. This came first thing, but no one knew where you were.”
She handed him a sealed letter, and Killian suppressed a sigh as he recognized Quindor’s spidery script. He cracked the wax, reading, We need to talk. Immediately. He should’ve known the Grand Master wouldn’t leave it alone. Killian tapped the letter against his trousers, briefly entertaining the idea of getting the meeting over with before rejecting the notion. If the Grand Master wanted to grill him, then he could damn well find Killian himself. “Get someone to go catch Helene’s dog,” he said, then knocked, waiting for Brin to open the inner bolt of the door.
Malahi possessed the second level of the north wing, and the walls were decorated floor to ceiling with ornately framed watercolors, each alcove graced with a bust depicting one of the Six. Sun filtered in through skylights, winking off the crystal of the chandeliers hanging above and casting rainbows across the ivory walls. Through the open doors of the rooms he passed, balconies stretched over the sea, which was steely grey and frosted with whitecapped waves. There was not another soul in sight until he rounded the curved corridor. Two more guards, Sara and Felicity, stood outside a sitting room, and they saluted before swinging open the heavy door.
“Lord Captain Calorian, Your Highness,” Sara announced, stepping out of his way to reveal a dozen ladies-in-waiting lounging across overstuffed sofas, their faces a study in boredom. Malahi sat in their midst, with Bercola across from her, both with playing cards in hand and stacks of coin on the table before them.
“Your Highness.” He bowed. When he straightened, Malahi was already halfway across the room, heading toward the balcony.
Helene cackled. “You’ve been measured and found lacking, Lord Calorian. Seems to be a common problem for you.”
Killian cast a sideways glance at her. “Your poodle is making a break for it, Lady Torrington. He probably decided that being stuffed in a soup pot was a better fate than another hour listening to your voice.”
She blanched and bolted from the room, and Killian followed Malahi outside.
An icy wind flew in from the ocean, and with the afternoon sun already behind the palace, Malahi was shivering in the shade. Pulling off his coat, Killian draped it over her shoulders, then stared down the hundred-foot cliff on which they perched, watching the waves slam against the rocks below.
“Learn your lesson yet?” Malahi asked, staring out to sea, toying absently with the hole in the elbow of his coat. “If not for that healer, you’d be dead and our plans would be in shambles.”
If not for that healer, the deimos wouldn’t have caught him out in the open in the first place, but Killian decided admitting that part wouldn’t improve this conversation.
“And then you had to let her go.” Malahi’s voice dripped with irritation. “You know assisting a rogue healer is a crime, yes? One punishable by hanging. Honestly, Killian, it sometimes feels like you’re trying to get yourself killed.”
It was tempting to point out that he was committing the same crime by keeping Malahi’s secret, but instead he said, “I didn’t let her go; she escaped out of the window while I was talking to Bercola in the hallway. I’ve spent all day looking for her.”
“Just how stupid do you think I am? Bercola comes in spouting drivel about how she didn’t get a good look at her, while your little network on the streets is apparently spreading word that she was an ancient crone, and you think I don’t see exactly what you’re doing?”
He shrugged.
“This is the problem with you, Killian! You only see the problem right in front of you, not the bigger picture. You might have saved her life by letting her go, but how many will die from injuries gained defending our kingdom that might otherwise have been saved? Sparing her won’t make a difference, just like delivering sacks of palace leftovers to the sewer children won’t make a difference.”
Sewer children? His skin burned hot as his temper flared. “At least I’m doing something more than writing letters. You’re so focused on your big picture, which is really just your quest for