Page 177 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“That was my thought,” Duncan said. “But he spends little time at court. A fortnight each season, if that. A true informant would need proximity. Access. Banholt lacks both.”

Isander leaned back. “Consider Gleister. Wolmer’s secretary. He reads every petition, arranges every audience, sits quietly at the edge of every audience. He looks unremarkable enough to be invisible. Exactly the sort of man one should never ignore.”

“You are both wrong, I think.”

Duncan and Isander were on their feet, hands on steel. The window latch scraped. The casement swung inward, and Merrick slipped through, landing lightly on the floor as though entering that way were a perfectly acceptable form of knocking.

“You should be considering the Moonwarden.”

Duncan lowered his blade, though tension still thrummed through him. “Firrigan?”

“He is ever at Wolmer’s side,” Merrick said. “Close enough to hear what others cannot. A man born second, raised to watch another wear the mantle. Yet ambitious. That breeds a particular hunger. Offer him the promise of something greater and he might listen.”

“And how,” Duncan asked evenly, “could you possibly know that?”

Merrick’s mouth curved, half bright, half warning. “I have people in my employ who can blend into walls and walk with shadows. Servants who are not servants. Guards who are not what they seem. Court likes to imagine it controls information. It does not.”

A thought struck Duncan. He stepped closer by instinct. “The palace is sealed—”

“I am aware,” Merrick interrupted lightly. “I heard.”

“Kora is in there,” Duncan said. Saying it hurt. “Do your people know a way inside?”

“Yes,” Merrick said without hesitation. He paused. “Not easy. But yes.”

Duncan searched his face.

“Because it’s you,” Merrick added, smiling casually, “I will go myself.”

Chapter 82

Elara

The cell block was so dim it seemed to swallow its own edges. Hours passed without markers or meaning. At intervals Elara caught the groan of chains or the muted click of pipes, fleeting reminders that life continued beyond these walls. If she listened harder still, she could make out the muffled crash of waves against rock far down below.

The other captives barely spoke, each locked inside a private horizon.

Gavriel unraveled under it. There was no gentler phrasing left. Each day he retreated further into the trauma carved by Niverna and deepened here. He would rock with his head bowed, murmuring broken fragments that might once have been memories, or press himself flat against the wall, shrinking from the smallest sound or briefest touch.

“Stay with me,” Elara whispered to him. She lowered her palm to the cold stone and bowed her head. “We should never have asked this of you,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

“He’s already gone.”

Elara lifted her head and looked across the narrow corridor.

A woman sat against the opposite wall, blond hair knotted into uneven strands. Her eyes were mostly green, threaded faintly with brown. Lines creased her skin in a way that suggested terror more than age.

“What do you mean?”

The woman regarded Elara with grim sympathy, then tipped her chin toward Gavriel. “Men survive flesh wounds and shattered bones. But when something cracks in the mind…” She paused. “That is near impossible to mend.”

Elara’s gaze returned to Gavriel. He lay there now, eyes shut, breath heavy through his nose. A tremor ran through him, as though bracing against something only he could see.

“And when they give him the drug,” the woman continued, “there will be no bringing him back. Not any of us, really. But especially not someone who has already let go.”

“He hasn’t let go,” Elara said quietly, mostly to make herself believe it. “He will fight.”

The woman let out a soft breath. Not mockery. Weariness.