by E G Radcliff
Cynwrig took a deep pull on the cigarette, and the smell of it reached Áed’s nose. “Well,” he mused, smoke encircling the same words Boudicca had used earlier. “I suppose we have all night.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In the same way Áed knew if a gambler had a good hand, or that Boudicca was trustworthy, or that Ronan was too scared to speak, Áed knew that Cynwrig was far less sympathetic—and less impulsive—than his sister. In that moment, Cynwrig’s eyes looked less like water and more like ice; their blue was deep and calculating. It would be wonderful if Boudicca were sober, but she had, unfortunately, begun to snore.
Áed could read people. It wasn’t something he’d learned, but rather something that he had always instinctively relied upon, and now, he tried to discern what Cynwrig’s reaction would be to the truth. Something honest and unyielding made itself known in the set of Cynwrig’s face, something in the openness of his gaze and the tightness around the corners of his mouth that suggested confidence and told Áed he shouldn’t attempt to lie.
“Boudicca let us stay when we were caught in the storm,” he said truthfully. “She invited us to join her for the Festival of Fire, and we plan to leave tomorrow.”
Cynwrig scrutinized them both and took a long drag on his cigarette. “Interesting.” He let the smoke pool in his mouth like he was tasting it before he spoke and it blew out. “So, I want to hear your long story.”
Áed couldn’t exactly say that they were visiting cousins, because that wouldn’t fool Boudicca’s brother. There was motion mounting in Cynwrig’s body language, a slight tensing of his fingers and shifting of his shoulders that said he was preparing for something, and what came out of Áed’s mouth was neither a lie nor a truth. Instead, he blurted, “Please don’t do anything extreme.”
Cynwrig raised an eyebrow. “I promise not to do anything extreme, on the condition that nothing warrants extreme behavior.” He tapped ash off the end of the cigarette into an empty mug on the table. “Áed, may I see your hands?”
Áed pressed his lips together. “Why?”
“Mm. No reason.” Cynwrig didn’t bother trying to hide the falsehood in his tone.
As he could neither refuse nor comply without seeming strange, Áed brought his hands hesitatingly from his pockets. Cynwrig appraised them with a nod, unsurprised, and Áed’s stomach clenched.
“Of all the places to take shelter,” Cynwrig said with a sigh, tapping more ash off his cigarette, “this one was inopportune.” He pushed himself to his feet and dropped the cigarette butt into the mug. “Did Boudicca not tell you who I am?”
Áed shook his head wordlessly. Apprehension tugged him toward the door, instinct telling him to run, but he was frozen in place by Cynwrig’s ice-hard gaze.
Cynwrig had shrugged his coat onto the back of his chair, and now he reached into an inside pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper. Fingers deftly opening it, he cleared his throat and read. “Two males, one a young man, one a boy, with blond and black hair, respectively, travelled toward the Southeast Quarter and entered one of the shops there. Pursuit was impossible, as they locked the door behind them. Later, the building’s residents alleged that they had seen nothing out of the ordinary. Distinctive markings: Blonde man’s hands impossibly mangled. Red eyes. Young boy with green eyes. Clothes tattered, filthy. Carrying a burlap sack.” He re-folded the paper and slipped it back into the pocket before raising an eyebrow at Áed. “Now, that was a report from two of my Guard. Sound familiar?”
A nerve was jangling in the back of Áed’s skull and sending shards down the length of his spine. “Your Guard?”
Cynwrig’s blue eyes bored into him. “As General of the August Guard, they are, in fact, my Guard.”
Áed could only mouth the words. General of the August Guard. How had Boudicca neglected to mention that her brother was the general of the Guard that sought them?
Cynwrig glanced to his sister, asleep on the table. “Did she know who you were when she took you in?”
Áed shook his head quickly. He wouldn’t incriminate the person who’d risked so much to be kind to them. “No.”
Cynwrig looked a little relieved, but his face manifested the expression only in the slight relaxation of his brow. “Good.” He had drawn himself up tall, shoulders back, in a movement so natural that it made Áed feel small, and stepped around the table. “Tell me, where are you two from?”
“Here,” Ronan squeaked, but Cynwrig was unimpressed.
“Which Quarter? Which district?”
Neither Áed nor Ronan had anything to say.
“Do you deny that you have infiltrated this city from the land called Smudge?” His voice had fallen into the pattern of a script, and Áed knew with certainty that Cynwrig, General of the August Guard, planned to arrest them there and then.
“I was trying to secure a better life for Ronan,” Áed said. Ronan, who deserved to be happy. Ronan, for whom Áed would stay up a thousand nights.
For the briefest of half-seconds, the ice of Cynwrig’s eyes thawed, but then they frosted over again like gullies in midwinter. “Your motivation is not the current concern. Trespassers are brought to King Seisyll.”
Cynwrig moved toward them again, and Áed stepped instinctively in front of Ronan. “Wait.”
To his surprise, the General did.
“We didn’t know your laws,” Áed said quickly. “We’ll go. We’ll leave, and you’ll never see us in your city again.”
Cynwrig shook his head and reached for Áed’s arm, and Áed’s stomach tumbled as he quickly moved away. With the tension this high, he could almost feel the sparks on his skin. “Don’t touch me,” he snapped, and Cynwrig must have heard the warning in Áed’s tone, for his hand hesitated.
“What would you do to us?” Ronan asked quietly. His voice was barely a whisper.
“I will bring you to King Seisyll, who will do as he sees fit.”
At the harshness of Cynwrig’s tone, tears gathered in Ronan’s eyes.
Áed was still considering the odds. If they bolted, could they make it to the crowd of people in time to disappear before Cynwrig caught them? And what from there? Despite what he’d told the General, leaving the White City was not an option; there was no place to go but the woods or the churning Sea. “I’ll fight,” Áed said bluntly. “And Ronan will run, and you’ll never find him.”
Cynwrig raised an eyebrow at Áed, surely taking in the way his skinny frame swam in his too-big clothes. “You’ll fight.”
“Áed,” Ronan choked. “You can’t.”
Áed did not slip his eyes from Cynwrig’s handsome face, and he spoke with quiet certainty. “I can.”
“You and what army?” Cynwrig said, matching his assuredness. “I don’t travel without men. They’re downstairs. There’s nowhere to go.”
The feeling of being trapped resonated behind Áed’s breastbone. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how many men Cynwrig had, or if he was bluffing, or what it would cost to take the chance. If he reached for the power smoking in his chest, would he control it, or would it burn until the building was skeletonized with the people inside it? If they ran, slammed the door, how many seconds to the stairs, to the flower drapes, to the obscurity of the night? How many hands waited ready to catch at their fleeing bodies?
Ronan’s crying had roused Boudicca, who lifted her head blearily from the table. “What’s happening?” she asked groggily, eliding her words. “Cynwrig?”
Cynwrig turned to his sister. His face revealed no frustration, nor anything else. “You’re awake.”
“Uh-huh.” She scrubbed at her eyes. “What’re you doing?” A frown creased her lips, and she tried to push herself up, but her eyes slipped out of focus. She staggered into Cynwrig’s arms.
“Boudie,” Cynwrig sighed. “Don’t trouble yourself with this. Go to bed.”
But Boudicca was inebriated and uncomprehending. “When did you meet Áed and Ronan?” She didn’t resist as Cynwrig eased her
back to a seat. “I met them yesterday or two days before…”
“They’re from Smudge,” Cynwrig explained with surprising gentleness, and Boudicca’s forehead wrinkled. “They aren’t your friends. I’m going to take care of it, okay? How about you go to bed?”
She shook her head so hard that her hair flew loose. “They’re staying with me.” Ronan was still sniffling, and Boudicca looked to his face with a gasp. “You made Ronan cry!” She clumsily smacked at her brother’s arm. “What did you do that for?” And with that, tears began to bubble in her eyes and stream down her face.
Cynwrig ran a hand down his face as Boudicca dissolved into crying, and Ronan redoubled into even-harder tears. “For Gods’ sake, Boudicca.” He turned to Áed, anger finally showing on his features. “Did you let her drink this much?”
“I stopped her from drinking more,” Áed snapped.
Boudicca, unsteadied by crying, slipped off her chair, and Cynwrig had to catch her before she became a vermilion-dressed puddle on the floor. With his sobbing sister’s tears soaking his sleeve and Ronan choking on cries behind Áed, the man broke.
He deposited Boudicca rather roughly back into her chair and threw up his hands. “Fine! Fine, Boudicca, pitch a fit, you win.” He whirled around to Áed and Ronan. “You can stay the night here, and I’ll take care of you in the morning.” He strode over to the door and leaned into the hallway. “Ahearn! Killough! At the door!” As he slammed his way back into the room, Áed heard two sets of footsteps tramp up the stairs and take up position by the entrance. Cynwrig glared at Boudicca, and then at Áed. “Congratulations.” The word was frigid on his tongue. “You just borrowed some time.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Due, no doubt, to worry, Áed couldn’t sleep. Beside him, washed in blackness as deep as drowning, Ronan slept peacefully. He was a curl of a person, his knees tucked nearly to his chin, and his face was as placid as a still pool while he snored softly.
Áed knew he wouldn’t drift off. A twitchy restlessness was building in his fingertips and legs, and he needed to move.
He padded silently past Cynwrig’s long, bulky form on the couch, past the bookshelf whose volumes’ contours cast shadows like crooked teeth against the wall. A faint shine from the kitchen indicated a candle that hadn’t been extinguished, and Áed squinted at the glow as he stepped into the room.
He almost jumped out of his skin when a soft sound penetrated the shadows. “Who’s that?”
“Boudicca.”
“Ah.” His heart slowed a bit, and he sighed. “You scared me.”
“I gathered that.” Her voice sounded clearer than it had before, but sort of low.
“How are you feeling?”
“Sick. And still just drunk enough to be disoriented.”
She sounded miserable, so Áed lowered his voice. “Headache?”
Boudicca just nodded, and he noticed that her complexion was faintly green even in the warm orange glow. “I’ve already thrown everything up, but I’m still horribly nauseous.” A wretched moan escaped her lips, and she slid down the cabinets, dropped her forehead into her hands, and tucked her knees up to her chin. “I feel awful.”
“This isn’t something you do often,” Áed guessed, and she shrugged.
“Sometimes. Festival nights, parties. Always starts out fun, doesn’t it? Have you ever been sick like this?” She said it like the conversation was a pleasant distraction, but Áed thought that soon enough, words would feel like hammers on the inside of her head. He kept it short.
“A few times.”
She rolled so her shoulder hit the wood of the cabinet, like she was trying to find a comfortable position that didn’t exist. “It’s horrid. Why do I never remember this part?”
“After the first drink, you don’t really consider it.” Áed retrieved a glass from the cabinet and, gripping it between both hands, he filled it with cool water from the sink and then brought it to her. She looked up with dull eyes, but brightened a bit at the offering and took tiny, pathetic sips as Áed returned to his spot on the counter.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “That was kind.”
“Of course.”
Still holding the glass, she leaned forward so her elbows rested on the ground, and dissolved into a miserable heap. “I’m never drinking again.” She sighed heavily, shoulders rolling in. “‘Course, I say that every time.”
Áed bit his lip. “Boudicca, how much do you remember from last night?
“What?”
“Do you remember your brother coming over?”
She frowned up at him. “Cynwrig came?” Then she flattened her palms into her closed eyes. “Oh, Áed, I was so drunk, that could have gone poorly. I should have told you…”
“That he’s the General of the August Guard?” Áed finished grimly. “I know. We’re going to need some backup tomorrow morning.”
She dropped her hands and stared at him, horror-struck. “What?”
Áed leaned back on the counter. “He’s still here. You cried so much when he tried to arrest us that he let us stay the night, but it isn’t going to last.”
“He tried to arrest you?” Boudicca moaned painfully and folded forward to press her forehead onto the floor. “He knows who you are. And I was too drunk to do anything—damn!” She let out her breath all at once. “I’m sorry, Áed, I didn’t think it’d be a problem. Cynwrig hardly ever visits, and I thought I’d be able to convince him to ignore you even if he did. He listens to me, he always listens to me, but I was so drunk...”
“Shh,” Áed said. “Let’s get you back to bed, okay? You can’t think right now. We’ll figure something out in the morning.” He bent down to help her up, and together, they crossed the flat to her bedroom.
When he eased her to a seat on her bed, she curled onto her side and cradled her head in her hands. “Thanks, Áed,” she mumbled, her curled arms pushing the pillow into her face. It looked like she was trying to hide in it. “I’m so sorry.”
He nodded despite the fact that her eyes were already closed. “We’ll fix everything in the morning.” When she didn’t answer, Áed returned to the guest room.
The sack of his and Ronan’s possessions sat on the dresser, still full, and, resigned to being awake, he took it down and looked inside. What junk, compared to Boudicca’s flat. Still, all who had touched the hodgepodge of items had left their invisible mark: Ninian’s lips on that tin cup, Ronan’s hands on that little coil of thread.
Áed lifted out the yellowing scrap of paper that, along with his name, was all his mother had left him, and he spread it flat on the dresser. Perhaps a trace of his mother lingered on it the way Ninian or Ronan did on everything else, but he couldn’t tell any more than he could tell the meaning of the writing scratched onto its surface. Lying on the dresser the way it was, the fading light of the bonfire down the street set its wrinkles into shadow and made the writing even starker against the paleness of the paper. Áed liked seeing it in the firelight. Somehow, the flickering illumination made the letter more real, so he let it lay there when he went over to sit by the window and wait out the night.
✽ ✽ ✽
Áed almost slept in the time between the death of the bonfire and the rising of the sun, but every time he nodded off, he thought of Cynwrig beyond the door. His blood chilled, and he looked to the window (too high to jump from) and the door (too well-guarded) before pressing his lips together and trying to think of what to do.
The icy certainty that the General would arrest them with or without Boudicca’s intervention spread like creeping hoarfrost in the pit of Áed’s stomach and made his weary body tense. The ember in his heart flickered at the chill as if to remind Áed what was at his disposal, but Áed refused to think of it. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He didn’t want Ronan to fear him. He didn’t want to be afraid of himself.
Blush had begun its spread across the sky, the color of heather, and dawn was far too close.
The best course of action, if
there was such a thing, eluded him.
And the sun kept rising.
Cynwrig was already seated at the table when Áed and Ronan quit their room and ventured into the bright flat. Not knowing what else to do, Áed hesitantly placed himself at the table as well.
Cynwrig looked up at Áed, and his ice-blue eyes chilled Áed as sharply as chips of steel. Immediately, Áed was ready to fight or flee. “I feel for you,” the General said, and Áed, not expecting this, blinked. “I know that Smudge is the lesser of the cities,” Cynwrig continued, and his chilly stare swept over both of their faces as he spoke. “And that by coming here, you believed you were doing yourself and your ward a service.” He leaned back. “But the laws of Suibhne are for Suibhne’s sake, and it’s to this city that I swore my oath.”
There it was: the separation. My people or your people.
At that moment, Boudicca poked her head around the corner from her room, and, as it was her peculiar talent to captivate a room, everyone’s attention turned to her.
Her hair, a frizzy, tangled disaster, emphasized the great blue bags beneath her eyes, and her fingers grasped the edge of the door for support. Wrapping her arms around her robe-cloaked middle as if she was cold, she shuffled slowly over to the table, where Cynwrig offered her his seat.
The silence draped heavily as she scrutinized the expressions on all of their faces with puffy eyes and a faintly sick expression.
Finally, she spoke in a voice that was broken and gravelly, a voice that commanded focus. “Alright. Tell me exactly what’s happened.”
Ronan hopped up chivalrously to get her a glass of water, though Áed suspected that he really wanted to escape the strain of the room. In his absence, Áed stayed quiet as Cynwrig explained the situation to his sister, softening everything to sickening simplicity. Indeed, Boudicca looked faintly nauseous, though it was as likely due to the last night’s alcohol as her brother’s honey-tongued explanations.
“I promise, Bou,” Cynwrig was assuring her, leaning forward. Her smaller hand was sandwiched gently between his callused ones, and the similarities in their long, slender fingers became evident side-by-side. “You love Suibhne, don’t you?”