The Breccans’ fortress, built on a hill and surrounded by a moat, was ugly yet practical, its solitary bridge accessible only from the city. Sprawled across a valley, the city was a web of buildings with lichen-covered roofs, strung together by dirt streets, with a forge smoking on every corner.
It must have been nightfall, because torches were burning from iron brackets. Moray stole a plaid to drape over his head and entered the city easily without detection. He moved from shadow to shadow, glancing over his shoulder every so often to see if Torin was following. When he smirked, Torin knew Moray could still see him, and he wondered what he looked like. Was he a mere etching of gold, or did his mortality cast a faint illumination, giving him away?
“Keep up, bastard,” Moray said just before he ducked into a tavern. Torin rolled his eyes as he entered through the stone wall.
Moray had escaped from the dungeons, traveled from east to west, eaten a handful of flowers, stolen more flowers off a cliff, and was now retreating to a pub. Torin could scarcely believe this was happening.
The tavern was empty save for a young man sitting glumly in the corner, drinking a bottle of wine. The chairs and tables around him were mismatched, the glazed floor was strewn with hay, and a sad fire burned in the hearth.
Torin watched as Moray approached the man. His ruddy face was marked by a wound that looked freshly stitched, and he was taking a sip straight from the bottle when Moray converged on him.
“Rab?” Moray hissed. “Rab, it’s me.”
Rab choked. He wiped a trickle of blood-red wine from his mouth and gaped up at Moray.
“Moray? What are you—”
“I need you to sneak me into the castle. Now.”
Rab sat up straighter, but his eyes darted around the tavern. “How’d you get out?”
“It’s a long story and I don’t have time to tell it,” Moray replied, but he frowned. “What happened to your face?”
Rab seemed to sink a little lower. “Another long story. And if you want me to smuggle you into the castle, you’ll have to pay me something I can’t refuse. Because if your mother finds out I helped you . . .”
Moray reached into his pocket. He withdrew a handful of the small white flowers and forcibly set them into Rab’s beefy hand.
Rab blinked down at them, his fingers shifting as he counted the icy blossoms. “You went far, didn’t you?”
“Where the tide meets the rock,” Moray said. When Rab still seemed to hesitate, he continued: “You once rode at my side, through night and storms and raids. You were a shield and a friend to me, Rab. A brother. One I trusted. One I still do, or I wouldn’t have come to you like this.”
Rab sighed, but he tucked the white flowers away into his pocket. “All right. I can sneak you in on a wine delivery. But we’ll have to hurry. The portcullis drops at the next bell.”
Moray held out his hands. “Let’s go.”
Torin trailed Rab’s wagon across the bridge. Moray was stowed away in a hidden compartment, which made Torin think Rab smuggled many things into the castle that he shouldn’t have. He also must have been someone of importance, because the guards at the portcullis let him pass without question.
Rab drove his wagon through a courtyard, over moss-spangled flagstones, and down a winding road to a lower quadrangle. He brought the delivery to a halt once he reached an arched passage. By the look and smell of it, the route fed into the castle storerooms.
Rab shifted a few wine bottles, opening the compartment for Moray.
“What is it you plan to do, Moray?” Rab asked in a low voice.
Indeed, Torin wondered.
Moray didn’t seem to hear. With Orenna’s power continuing to course through him, his pupils were still dilated, and his hands quivered at his side, as if he were anxious or thrilled. He cocked his head to the side, listening to the faint echoes of the castle.
He left Rab standing in the passage, completely forgotten.
Torin followed.
They wound through corridors and up flights of stairs, pausing in shadows when guards or attendants were nearby. At one point, Moray snagged a pitcher and washbasin full of water and continued on his way, eventually coming to an iron-latticed door.
He slipped inside, fumbled around in the dark for an enchanted dirk on the hearth mantel, then struck it to make a flame, lighting a chain of candles. Torin could see it all perfectly, his eyes unaffected by the night, and he realized that they must be in Moray’s personal chambers. There was a bed with a blue canopy, jewel-toned tapestries on the walls, a wardrobe full of clothes and boots, a rack of weapons in one corner, and a wolf pelt draped over a chair.