by Cayla Kluver
I had little to do as time marched onward. Seconds passed, turning into minutes, followed by more seconds and more minutes. My longing for something to occupy me increased, for my unfocused mind wandered in unpleasant directions. I did not like having this opportunity to reflect, for I could not help wondering if my kingdom still existed, could not help thinking of my parents, my friends, my people, couldn’t help thinking of Narian, who had saved London and my sister, but probably lacked the power to shield others, perhaps even himself, from the Overlord.
Then I remembered Galen’s marriage of only a few months—he hadn’t let a thing show, but inside he had to be aching. And back in the city, if Tiersia were still alive, she would have no idea where Galen was and would probably assume him dead. She would cause herself so much unnecessary grief. But was it unnecessary? Trapped out here, were we not as good as dead? We would never be going back. And that reality was more than I could stand to consider.
I came to my feet, determined to find something to do to ward off despair. Deciding I might feel better if I cleaned up a bit, I heated some water. If nothing else, my hair desperately needed to be washed. I ran a hand over my head, my fingers snagging on snarled locks that had escaped the bun I had fashioned before we’d left. I tried to release the remaining coils of hair, but had to tug repeatedly to get them to come loose. Some of my hair pulled out in the effort, and I let it fall into the fire.
My mane, as it could truly be called, presented a significant dilemma. Now that it was down, it made me cringe to feel it against my shoulders and back. It was beyond dirty, for it contained bits of twigs and leaves and was impossibly tangled in places. If I were going to attempt this, I would need to cut off the matted pieces. I pulled the dagger Steldor had given me from the sheath on my forearm, recognizing the incongruity in using the weapon he had unenthusiastically provided to shear some of the tresses with which he loved to play.
I carried the pot of hot water with me to the pool at the base of the waterfall, adding some cold so it would be the proper temperature, trying to decide the best way to approach this task. I had nothing with which to brush my hair and nothing other than warm water with which to clean it. In frustration, I snatched up the dagger and hacked off one of my front tresses at the shoulder, letting it fall in a clump at my feet. I picked up the dark brown lock that was lifeless and devoid of sheen and came to a practical decision.
Tossing the lock aside, I gripped another handful of hair, likewise slicing it off. I continued, cutting it all, piece by piece, to the length of the first. After examining my reflection in the water, I took up the blade again, shortening my hair from shoulders to chin, the length at which the High Priestess wore hers. A gasp from behind startled me, and I swiveled to see that Miranna had awakened and was walking toward me.
“Alera, what are you doing? Your hair!”
I put a finger to my lips to remind her to keep her voice down.
“I had to do it, Mira. Come see, it’s not so bad.”
She fell to her knees beside me and picked up a lock from the cave floor.
“But short hair…” she tremulously began.
“It will grow back.”
Miranna had been going to remind me of the associations there were with short-haired women in our kingdom. Shearing the hair above the shoulder was a common punishment for prostitution and other misconduct, identifying women who should be jeered and shunned. Although I began to feel nervous about what the others would think, I knew that I had done the right thing, the necessary thing. After a few weeks of living like this, my hair would have been unsalvageable anyway, and besides—what society did I have to judge me now?
“Mira, I think…to be sensible…”
I reached out and tried to detangle some of her untidy tresses, but she snatched the hair back, knowing what I was proposing.
“No,” she snapped.
“It’s only hair,” I said gently. “And you’ll be much more comfortable once it’s shorter. You can braid and keep what I cut off.”
Water was pooling in her eyes, and I understood the reason—Miranna had always loved her hair. It was bouncy and beautiful, styled or otherwise, and she played with it constantly, twirling it around her fingers. Boys watched it swish as she walked, her friends adored fashioning it and it had been a source of regular praise from our own mother, whom Miranna was smart enough to realize we might never see again. Nevertheless, as I gazed at her, she nodded and turned her back to me, tears streaming down her face, and bottom lip stuck out like a little girl’s.
I again took up the blade and began to cut, not making my sister’s hair as short as mine. Shoulder length would be manageable, and yet leave her with some of the exquisite tresses she cherished. She cried silently while I trimmed strand after strand, until finally it was done. I raked my hands through the curls that remained, then tied them back using the ribbon that had held my bun in place. I wouldn’t be in need of it anytime soon.
“There,” I pronounced. “That will be much easier to care for, and it isn’t even terribly short.”
She reached around and felt what I had done, still sniffling, simultaneously examining her reflection in the water. I waited for an opinion that did not come. Instead, she picked up the strawberry blond hair I had bunched together for her and retreated to her bed in the corner, where she curled up, still clutching her precious locks, and lay still.
I monitored her for a time, feeling both regretful and sympathetic, then rinsed my head with the warm water. After combing through my hair with my fingers, I rumpled it agreeably. Though my neck felt exposed, the look was fresh and exciting, at least as much as anything could be in our current state. I felt as though cutting my tresses had freed me to be a different person from the pampered princess, then Queen, I’d been in Hytanica. Out here I could be capable, respected.
I sorted through the pieces of my hair, braiding and tying the least tangled before tucking them into the pocket of my breeches so I would not lose them. I was certain Miranna would do the same when she had recovered from her shock.
After a little while, I went to sit by my sister and managed to entice her into a conversation. We spoke only of happy times, for I was not confident what her mental state would allow, and because sad times were not worth remembering.
My attention was pulled from my sister by the sound of Steldor stirring, and I saw that he was turning his head restlessly from side to side. I went to him at once, reaching out a hand to touch his brow, but his eyes opened and he pulled slightly away.
I wasn’t sure what to do, for he seemed more discontented than he had the last time he’d awakened. He was pushing at the quilts that covered him with his left arm, trying weakly to remove them.
“Steldor?” I said, checking for alertness.
“What?” There was a snap to his voice that assured me there was no issue with his mind. “Are you all right?”
“I’m too warm.”
He shifted to the extent his wounds would allow, unable to find a comfortable position, and I worried that he had developed a fever.
“Let me get your father,” I said, then realized Cannan was already getting to his feet. He came over, taking up position on Steldor’s other side and pressing the back of his hand to his son’s brow.
“I’m too warm,” Steldor repeated, this time for Cannan’s ears.
“You’re perhaps too close to the fire,” the captain reasoned, doing away with the coverings Steldor no longer wanted. “But I can’t move you on my own.”
“Where’s Galen?”
As Steldor asked the question, I examined him, noting that he was not sweating; perhaps Cannan was right that he was simply too near the heat.
“Galen’s fine,” Cannan answered, and Steldor’s expression revealed that his question had not been posed because of his discomfort, but out of concern. “Just on guard duty.”
Steldor swallowed and nodded. “Everyone else?”
“The others made it here safely, but Davan doubl
ed back to find us. He led the Cokyrians who were tracking us on a false trail.” Cannan paused, then finished, an edge to his voice. “He hasn’t returned.”
Steldor nodded but did not speak further. The captain turned his attention to me, a quizzical expression crossing his face at sight of my sheared hair.
“Alera, bring some water for him to drink,” Cannan said, offering no comment on my appearance.
I hurried to the pool, snatching a cup on the way, relieved to have the captain in charge. As I filled it, he spoke again to his son.
“You didn’t eat much before. Food is necessary for your recovery.”
“I know,” Steldor answered, sounding unusually vulnerable. “I’m just not…”
He trailed off, hurting and too tired to bother with excuses.
“Understandable,” Cannan acknowledged. “Still.” His tone indicated that Steldor was expected to get something of substance into his stomach.
“Do we have anything other than gruel?”
“Not a lot of choices. London has gone hunting, but until he returns, it’s bread, gruel, a few dried fruits and hard tack. Take your pick.”
In addition to the cup, I filled a bucket with water, bringing both back to Cannan. For the second time, he hooked his son beneath the arms and lifted him toward a semi-sitting position, but Steldor cried out in pain and his breathing grew rough.
“Easy, boy,” Cannan said, right arm around his son’s chest to steady him, left hand upon his forehead, disheveling his dark hair. “Easy now. You’re all right.”
Steldor calmed at his father’s reassuring tone, though his breathing remained uneven. I handed the cup to Cannan, and he assisted his overheated son to down all the water, then passed it back to me so I could fill it again from the bucket. After asking me to bring some dried fruit, gruel and a rag, he again helped Steldor to drink. When I returned, he dipped the cloth in the bucket and sponged the cold water onto his son’s face and neck. Having better positioned Steldor, he coaxed him to eat, achieving greater success than had I. When he was satisfied with the amount consumed, the captain eased him back onto the animal hides so that he could drift into sleep once more.
“Do you think he’s all right?” I asked, wondering if Cannan would share his true thoughts now that Steldor would not overhear.
“He cooled off faster than he should have if he were ill,” the captain replied, again checking for a fever. I averted my eyes as he pulled Steldor’s shirt up to check how the injury was healing. “The wound itself may be mildly irritated, but there’s no cause for alarm yet.”
I didn’t comment on the captain’s use of the word yet as he repositioned both the bandages and his son’s clothing. He then nodded toward my sister where she sat on her bedding, staring into space.
“How is she?”
“She’s…different. Changed.”
“She’s dependent on you then?”
I made a noise of confirmation, at the same time confused by his somewhat odd question.
“I’m just trying to determine who could manage in a crisis without assistance,” he explained, reading my reaction, and my skin prickled.
“Do you expect a crisis?”
“Yes. It’s the only way to be prepared for one. But no, I don’t believe we’ll be discovered here.”
Before I could respond, he stood and moved toward the bed he had made for himself.
“Steldor will sleep for quite a while. I’m going to try to do the same.” He considered me for a moment, and a smile played most unusually upon his features. “And, Alera, short hair is clearly not always a mark of shame.”
CHAPTER 24
DYING FOR THEIR KINGDOM
WHEN LONDON RETURNED HOURS LATER, HE was not alone. Galen had descended from his watch post to bring the meat—venison—into the cave, but when my former bodyguard stepped through the crevice, he had Lord Temerson in tow. The boy was exhausted and filthy, and the shredded remnants of his clothing hung on his body, covered halfheartedly with a dark cloak.
“I found him wandering the forest a ways off,” London told us, tugging him farther into our sanctuary. “He’s not quite right,” the Elite Guard added, with a vague but significant gesture toward his own head.
Indeed, Temerson seemed as dazed as Miranna, but when his eyes fell upon her, his demeanor changed. He jerked free of London to stumble toward me and my sister, who had come to her feet and taken a couple of steps in his direction.
“Mira,” he murmured as he stopped in front of her, surprising me by his use of the nickname I had adopted for her. He bowed his head, cinnamon-brown bangs tumbling forward, but Miranna reached out her hand to brush them back, drawing his eyes to hers. He looked near tears, and I could not conceive of what he had endured before London had stumbled upon him.
The men were spread throughout the cave—London at the center, Galen by the food stores and the captain, having awoken when the men entered, standing near his bed—and all were staring at the new arrival, trying to comprehend Temerson’s presence. Steldor was asleep, more content now that he was no longer as heavily covered, and I surmised Cannan would make no effort to move him.
Miranna and Temerson stayed exactly as they were, not speaking, she touching his hair, he gazing into her eyes. I felt as though I were imposing, but there was no way in our present living conditions to give them privacy. After a few minutes, Miranna retreated into the corner with the young man who had been courting her, and Cannan approached London.
“What happened to him?” he muttered.
“I don’t know. He never has been particularly talkative, and recent events have not persuaded him to be otherwise. I haven’t tried to question him. I wanted to get him to safety first.”
“All we have is time right now,” Cannan replied. “We can afford to give him a little.”
“And Steldor?”
“He woke a couple of hours ago, complaining he was too warm.”
London’s eyes met Cannan’s, understanding the potential significance of this seemingly casual statement.
“He ate a little bit, not enough,” Cannan continued, “but he’s resting peacefully now. Time will tell with him, too.”
“Shall I take the next turn on guard?”
“No, I will. It’ll do me good to get out of the cave for a while. Just…”
“I know. I’ll watch him.”
Cannan nodded, and London strode toward Galen to offer assistance in preparing the venison. I followed, needing something to do and wanting to give Temerson and Miranna some time alone. As I drew close, both men glanced at me with raised eyebrows, having noted the new length of my hair.
“Breeches, horseback riding, short hair…what next?” London asked, a tease in his voice.
“I hope the ability to cook more than gruel,” Galen responded.
The three of us laughed, greatly in need of a way to relieve stress. I looked at London, wondering what his true opinion might be, and he gave me an approving nod.
“Let’s face it, Galen,” he said more seriously. “We can use all the warriors we can get. Now let’s get some food in everyone’s stomachs.”
Meat was like a miracle—I hadn’t realized until it was in my mouth how much better it tasted than gruel and dried, hard foods. We congregated near the fire pit, using stones the men had gathered as stools, enjoying our feast. Cannan had forsaken his guard post to join us, his eyes sweeping occasionally toward his son’s still form, but he did not wake him. Steldor could always eat later.
Miranna and Temerson sat close together like two broken-winged birds sharing the same perch, bolstering each other without sound. He had washed and changed clothes, improving his appearance, but not his mental state.
As we finished the meal, Temerson’s eyes darted between the three fit men, knowing they would soon start asking things of him. He seemed resigned to this, however, entwining his fingers with Miranna’s for security and courage.
“Do you want to tell us how you came to be lost in the woo
ds?” Cannan asked, his voice free of expectation and pressure. Scaring the boy was not the way to proceed.
Temerson sat motionless for a long time, staring only at Miranna’s hand in his, and no one tried to spur him. Finally, he raised his head, his countenance unexpectedly hard.
“I ran away,” he told the captain, his trademark stutter oddly absent. “The Overlord—he came to Hytanica, just as everyone said he would.”
At our dreaded enemy’s name, Miranna gave a small whimper, and Temerson clasped her hand tighter. My blood pounded in my temples, for I was eager and yet terrified to hear Temerson’s story.
“Narian was at his side as he demanded that the King and Queen come before him to negotiate our surrender. King Adrik and Lady Elissia came to the Grand Entry to speak for us when the Overlord’s soldiers forced the door.
“He was horrifying, like the devil. Tall, broad, dressed all in black. Anyone who got in his way he knocked aside with some invisible power from his hands. King Adrik tried to speak with him, but the Overlord was furious. He said that he had been ‘looking forward to breaking our boy-King’ and that His Majesty’s absence, his cowardice, did not invite his compassion. Then he asked King Adrik how much we would be brave enough to sacrifice. The King told him anything would be given for the sparing of innocent lives.
“The Overlord for some reason looked at Narian before he answered the King. ‘I have already sworn to protect the innocent,’ he said. Then he told the King to call forth every officer in our military. He said their lives were forfeit, or he would not be so merciful with our troops.”
Everyone in the cave seemed to have stopped breathing. The rank of officer included every Elite Guard, every battalion commander, every soldier no less than a lieutenant. While the Overlord’s pledge to protect the innocent had no doubt been extracted by Narian, he had probably not anticipated how his master would treat the soldiers who had surrendered.