Well, not anymore. She marched the silently protesting Cato through the Archives to the storage cabinet where they’d been keeping the manacles that Cato had reacted to with such a strong show of discomfort. It all made sense now, why he’d been so reluctant to be cut off from magic he claimed not to be using. The manacles had stopped his coven of co-conspirators from being able to watch his every move, to listen to his every conversation… she felt herself burning at the thought that their nights together might have been subject to the same scrutiny…
No, she thought firmly, putting that thought away. She’d scream and rage later. Right now, she had a job to do—work she’d been allowing herself to neglect for far too long. She gestured for the reluctant Cato to turn around and secured the manacles to his wrists behind his back, hearing him grunt softly as the rusty latch clicked shut and the magic, presumably, took effect. They may have been ancient, but rusted or not, the metal was thick and the cuffs tight enough around his wrists that she was confident his escape was unlikely. For good measure, she inserted the rusted key into the lock on each manacle and twisted it until a soft clunk sounded somewhere deep in the mechanism. The clasps no longer moved when she attempted to lift them. Good.
Part of her wanted to hurl the key as far as she could into the vanishing gloom of the Archives, but instead she slipped it into her armor for safekeeping. She didn’t intend to release this monster from his captivity while he lived… but perhaps the manacles would be of use after his death.
With Cato secured, shut off from the source of the magic he’d sworn he hadn’t brought with him, it would be safe to bring him before the Queen. Still, she felt an odd trepidation as she marched him down the hallways again, headed for the Throne Room. Did she really want to let him loose before the Court again? Last time, he’d charmed them so well that he’d almost convinced them all that he was telling the truth about who he was. What if he wriggled his way out of his just punishment again—or worse, trapped the assembly in so much debate and confusion that they couldn’t prepare in time for the attack?
She was still wrestling with the issue when she hauled him into the room. The Queen was just settling into the throne, though the ornate cloak she’d clearly thrown on hurriedly wasn’t quite hiding the fact that she was still in her bedclothes. The Alpha sat beside her, hiding a yawn behind his hand though his eyes were watchful. No sense waiting any longer, Acantha thought, leaving Cato behind her with her head bowed as she stepped forward to fill them in on the details of the conversation she’d heard Cato having with the very boss he’d claimed to have come to them to escape.
There was a ringing silence once she’d finished. Seth’s face was a mask of fury, though he was holding himself deliberately still. Queen Lana was more sanguine, though Acantha knew better than to assume that appearances reflected her true feelings.
“How long do we have to prepare?” was all she asked.
“Less than a day,” Acantha replied grimly. “The attack is scheduled for sunset tomorrow—and dawn is only a few hours away. I’ve sent word for the Palace Guard to be roused and readied to mount their defense, and we’ll organize a civilian militia once the sun has risen.”
“What are we up against?”
“People like him,” she replied, jerking her head towards Cato, who straightened his back. “I don’t know how many, but it’s in our interests to overprepare given our present lack of insight into their capabilities.”
“That insight could be gained, could it not?” That was Seth, the wolf’s silver eyes cold as his gaze slid over to Cato. But Acantha scoffed.
“With respect, Alpha, I’ve attempted twice now to put my trust in the words of this man. I won’t make the same mistake a third time.”
“You’re rather quiet, Cato,” Queen Lana remarked, her casual words belied by the steely undertone in her voice. The mage shrugged his shoulders helplessly, and Acantha couldn’t help but feel a dark satisfaction that her threat still held.
“I’ve made it clear he’ll lose his head if he speaks another word, false or otherwise,” she told the Queen, who nodded her understanding. “I won’t stand in the way if you want to hear from him—only emphasize that not a word he says can be trusted.” If she was honest, she’d prefer never to hear Cato’s voice again… but not just because of the deceit. It was because she’d come to like the sound of it… and every reminder of what she liked about the mage sent a fresh burst of pain through the wound he’d torn in her. But her feelings were not going to interrupt these proceedings. If the Queen wanted to hear from Cato, so be it.
Lana was studying her face intently, and for a moment Acantha was reminded eerily of her sister. She returned the gaze as blankly as she could, suddenly concerned that something of her interior life was being given away by her expression… that had been happening a lot more recently, to her dismay. Cato’s fault, she seethed. He’d wormed his way in behind her defenses and torn her apart. But she’d heal. She’d have plenty of time for healing, once his band of mages were vanquished and he’d been banished permanently from their territory, never to be allowed to return—that was, unless the Queen thought a more severe punishment was in order.
“We’ll hear from him later, if there’s time,” Queen Lana said dismissively. “For now, our focus must be on preparations. Seth? The attack is on our mountain, but your wolves ought to be alerted…”
Acantha stood at attention as the discussion continued, ready to be called on if necessary, doing everything in her power to ignore the burning presence of Cato at her side. Gradually, the Throne Room was filling with sleep-tousled Palace residents—Prince Conrad hurried in shortly before the scholars Arric and Hartwell, who looked at Cato and Acantha with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Acantha was grateful that Queen Lana filled each new arrival in on what was happening—the story had been hard enough to live through once, let alone to have to recount it over and over. The scholars, in particular, looked stricken by the news, and Acantha wondered—uncharitably, perhaps—if they were more upset at the betrayal, or at the realization that this would mean their favorite new source of research would no longer be at their disposal.
By the time dawn was approaching, the Throne Room was fuller than Acantha had ever seen it. Word had spread, messengers dispatched to summon residents or enact instructions. Acantha’s deputies were taking care of defensive preparations, stationing soldiers at all of the entrances to the cavern, well-known and secret alike. There was no way of knowing how much the mages knew of their defenses, how much they’d seen. Cato had explained that the use of scrying magic had been what allowed him to appear in the Archives the way he had, and that led them to some worrisome conclusions about how much their enemy might know. Still, the ambiguity was frustrating.
“We do have a source who could theoretically provide more insight on the matter,” Seth pointed out quietly, a little after dawn. “Captain Acantha, I understand your hesitations, but it would be remiss of us not to explore what Cato might have to share.”
She felt her shoulders stiffen and made a conscious effort to breathe, grateful at least that her armor would hide some of her tension. “I understand, Alpha. I only worry that a man so versed in manipulation will know what kind of lies to tell to mislead us, even knowing as we do that he’s lying…”
To her surprise, Hartwell sat bolt upright in his chair, his face vivid with the clear urge to speak—Arctic shot him a sidelong glance, confusion giving way to an identical expression of urgency. Acantha couldn’t help but be distracted by the sight, and Queen Lana gestured at the scholars to speak, a faint smile appearing on her face.
“Forgive me,” Hartwell said quickly. He was less accustomed than his colleague to speaking in such crowded public settings—which spoke volumes about what he was trying to say. “But in our work with the—the suspect, the prisoner, the—him—we learned of the properties of an artifact we’d hitherto presumed was kept for some abstruse sentimental purposes—”
Cato shifted, and despite her reluctance, Acantha glanced up at him. His gray eyes had widened and for the first time since he’d realized she’d heard his treacherous conversation with his coven, he looked energized. He was nodding his head furiously, but he froze when he caught her glare.
“The artifact, it’s simply a leather collar, possessed the curious property of preventing its wearer from speaking falsehood.” Hartwell flushed a little. “I’ll admit, unprofessional as it was, certain… practical tests were conducted, on the item in question.”
Acantha, despite her mood, hid a faint smile. That was one way of putting it. She could remember the day the archivist was talking about, remember the worn leather collar that they were referring to. They’d taken turns wearing it and attempting to answer questions untruthfully—it had been comical to watch each wearer struggle against the force of the magic. Acantha had eventually put a stop to the game when it became a little undignified… but not before she’d had a turn. It was a truly fascinating experience, to feel one’s own tongue refuse to obey commands.
“To speak plainly and to the purpose,” Hartwell concluded, his face flushed with the effort of speaking in front of so many people, “if we place the item on the—the prisoner, the—him—we can be reasonably certain of the veracity of his—uh—statements.”
Queen Lana was frowning thoughtfully. “It was Cato who first informed you of the properties of this object?”
“I follow your reasoning, Your Majesty,” Arric put in, clearly sensing his colleague was spent. “As it was Cato who told us of the object’s properties, we must consider the possibility that he lied. However. Having had… firsthand experience of the object… I would suggest that, for our purposes here… which of course, in any other circumstance I’d request months at least to conduct an exhaustive investigation of the—”
“Master Archivist,” Queen Lana said kindly.
“Apologies. When I wore the collar, I simply could not lie. Nor could Hartwell, nor could our research associate Morgan—”