"I'll tell you when you're older," Skandra grinned.
There was no chance they were taking any of these men to the castle. The old man had been comforting his wife, but he'd made his way out of the kitchen now. In his common room a lance hung above the fireplace; a simple thing of wood and wire but the trident head shone brightly in the firelight. His steel skullcap was a remnant of another age, when armor was not the thing it was now, and yet the old man managed to gather both of these to his person with little trouble. He even managed to avoid looking ridiculous with that cap atop his head. It was a solemn bow he made, on one knee, with the lance pointed toward the heavens. Standing as he was on the threshold of his own kitchen it seemed like nonsense.
But Ithacles was a prince, after all.
"I will guard them with my life," he intoned. "They shall not leave this place until you send for them, your highness."
"That's great," Skandra enthused. "Maybe poke one of them. Let 'em know that you remember how to use it."
The disgusted look that the old man spared Skandra was withering, but it didn't touch the Immortal's soul. Instead he was thinking to himself. All of this, a red herring meant to draw them out and trap them so a coup could take place. But what was the goal of it all? Did they really think Ithacles would be that different from his father? Did they really think that Pathacles would have been? It didn't matter. The implication was clear. Lethe and Ithunvel were meant to die, tonight, and who knew how many were in on the game? Skandra doubted they'd get any useful information out of this bunch.
Which left them only one task. Somehow, they had to breech the castle walls without being seen - because he doubted the men at the gate were trustworthy fellows in this current atmosphere.
"It's raining," Skandra went on. "That'll make it easier than impossible, but not by much. Let's go."