night. He did not believe any of them could be breached without considerable noise.
Denoriel allowed a soft sigh of relief to ease past his lips. Whatever Aleneil had felt had not happened yet. But despite that assurance, inside he was as taut as a bowstring. It would happen . . . soon. How soon? Denoriel stood in the shadows, staring out along the road that led to the outer gate.
It took a moment for his eyes to recover from that glance at the torches and he had to restrain an impulse to "tch" with irritation and shake his head. What in the world could those guards expect to see if their eyes were accustomed to the light of the torches? And mortals were near blind at night anyway. But that was irrelevant.
The road was empty and silent. Denoriel shrugged. No one would be admitted to the palace at this time of night, at least not without considerable fuss and bother. So either the danger was already within or it would arrive in the daylight tomorrow . . . or the next day, or the next.
He felt like howling with frustration. Within. He sighed. Yes, he could get within. He had witched a window—fortunately that had had only had a small metal catch—near FitzRoy's apartment during his "official" visit to Windsor, when he