samuel crumpled to the floor the moment his shackles were undone, his frame too weakened to stay upright without the harsh metal keeping him in place. he did not look at the woman again before she left, though his anger at her words roiled within him long after she had gone. the food was eaten quickly, hungrily, water spilling down his chin as he threw back the cup he had been given. finally, he was able to think clearly.
he had to get out. he had to warn the king of these traitors, of their mock-court, the usurper who seemed so sure of the outcome of this conflict. samuel bided his time, nursing his raw wrists and sore shoulders, slumping against the rough walls whenever a guard passed the barred door of his cell. they grew careless, after a while, convinced he was dying or ill or both. the door was left open for longer, hips carrying keys turned toward him instead of away. at the perfect moment, in the dead of night, samuel pounced. executioner's hands slammed the guard's head into the brick wall of the cell. he was the smallest of the guards, a young man clearly trying hard to grow a beard and failing. he slumped to the ground with ease, chest still rising and falling when samuel bent down to take his keys. someone would find him soon enough.
the palace was a maze, but by some miracle he managed to find his way to the stables, where he bridled and saddled the first horse he encountered, a grey, strong-looking mare. he rode. long & fast & hard, samuel drove the mare down the same path he knew florian had travelled, to the banks of lake glamlisle, where a grand summer palace now concealed and housed florian and his court. he had refused to hide out anywhere less comfortable than this place, which belonged to a friendly duke away on trade business.
samuel did not reign in the horse, galloping it through the gates and past the guards, until he had reached the centre courtyard of the summer palace. the guards posted at the doors recognised him, giving him wide-eyed, astonished looks as he rushed past them and into the throne room, where a still sleepy-looking florian sat conversing with his ministers.
his heart surged. " your grace. " his voice was not as steady as he would have liked, barely-concealed elation at his reuniting with florian shaking his words. samuel fell to his knees by his seat, fingers gripping the armrest as he spoke in quick, rushed sentences. " your grace-- i-- you must listen to me. " he had never been this forceful with florian before, but these were desperate times. " your brother-- midas-- he has erected a mock-court not but half a day's ride from here. he means to usurp you throne. he meant to torture me, to-- to force me to reveal your whereabouts. " samuel swallowed, hard. the ride and the exertion it took had drained him. " he has a mistress of whispers, your grace. he has tasked her with finding you. "
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