by Cayla Kluver
I was gasping for air, my sentences lost between sobs. Cannan again took my arm to lead me inside, but I planted my feet.
“After everything he’s done for us, he doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve this, it isn’t fair.”
Another scream rent the air, encircling us, but this time I acquiesced to Cannan, letting him take me back into the cave.
“It’s a time of war, Alera,” he said, putting an arm around my shoulders, guiding me toward the others who had gathered around the fire pit. “Nothing is fair, and nothing is right, and it isn’t easy to understand or accept. But we haven’t lost yet. London made sure of that.”
CHAPTER 28
MY NAME IS LONDON
FOR DAYS IT WENT ON, BEGINNING EVERY morning when we awoke, and lasting until London presumably could stand the agony no more and fell unconscious, usually after a few hours. It was unbearable, but impossible to block out, affecting everyone, even the High Priestess. With a rescue attempt sure to fail and likely to endanger our people within the city, Temerson finally voiced his dark thoughts.
He set down his bowl of gruel none too gently at breakfast, letting it clatter, and pressed both palms against his temples, fingers in his overgrown cinnamon-brown hair, rocking back and forth. Galen was out on guard duty, and Temerson would soon be replacing him.
“Can’t we just end it—just take his life? This has gone on long enough, I can’t stand it anymore.”
“Who among us could do it?” Halias asked from where he stood near Nantilam. “Call it a mercy killing, and a mercy killing it would be—I still couldn’t aim an arrow at London’s heart.”
Cannan interjected before any more pointed words could be spoken.
“We need to divert the Overlord’s attention. It’s time we act again, repeat our original demands. We have to show him we are not playing.”
“What do you suggest?” My father, like Temerson, had lost his appetite and was pacing in front of the fire pit, wringing his hands.
“He doesn’t believe we’ll do it.”
The voice was quiet, scratchy, but unmistakable. Steldor had awoken and was propped up on his elbows to join the conversation. His eyes were still shadowed by circles, but he was fast growing restless, although with health this time instead of fever.
“Take it easy,” Cannan told him, moving closer, but Steldor shook his head.
“He doesn’t believe we’ll kill her. He’s having his fun, torturing London, without even considering what consequences might result for his sister. He thinks we’re soft.” Steldor’s jaw clenched as he locked eyes with his father, angry and determined. “Take a hand for him. See how soft he finds us then.”
I caught the arch of the High Priestess’s eyebrows and my father’s sharp intake of breath as my stomach clenched. The captain’s eyes narrowed but in consideration rather than outrage, and Halias rubbed the back of his neck. Could they actually be deliberating this? I could never permit them to cut off her hand.
Steldor grimaced, and his father cautioned, “You should lie back down. You don’t have your strength back yet.”
“Not his strength, but his brain,” Halias pronounced, while Steldor dropped back with the tiniest bit of exasperation for the state of his body. I stared at the blond-haired deputy captain, who had been Miranna’s bodyguard since birth, whose blue eyes were generally kind, who was known for both his competence and his generous, easygoing nature, and wondered what had brought him to the point where he would endorse such a suggestion. Was the Overlord managing to change us all, to remake us in his own image?
“I did save your King’s life, if you recall,” Nantilam interjected, making a good point. “I have thus far been cooperative—try to take my hand, and you will see how that changes.”
“If it came to it, we would not need your cooperation,” the captain replied, eyes flashing.
Though she spoke the truth, she was still our prisoner and a Cokyrian, not one of us.
“Please, no,” I mumbled, taking a deep breath to dispel my queasiness. “You can’t do that. You can’t cut off her hand. We may be at war, but we can still be humane.”
“The Overlord scoffs at humane, Alera.” Steldor, though he had taken his father’s advice, was not interested in keeping his opinions to himself. “If we want his attention, we have to respond in kind.”
“Perhaps you’re tired,” the High Priestess said sharply, and I could feel ire rising inside me, both because of the cruelty of his suggestion and because his argument, though I did not want to admit it, made sense.
“So we have to become like him in order to fight him,” I harshly concluded. “We have to be malicious and heartless and sink to this sort of violence in order to stop it. Is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Steldor had pushed himself up on his elbows again to scowl at me. “Think of it like a language, Alera. He won’t understand unless we speak his.”
I wrung my hands, floundering, but Cannan interrupted the two of us.
“I believe I told you to lie down,” he said to his son before turning to me. “Alera, try not to get emotional. No decisions have been made.” Then he walked toward the cave entrance. “Halias, I need to speak to you alone.”
Halias nodded curtly, casting his eyes over Temerson, my father and the High Priestess. Probably deciding she was more capable militarily than any of those who would be left to watch her, he stooped to tie Nantilam’s hands in front of her.
“Keep your eyes on the prisoner,” he instructed, glancing around at us. “We’ll be right outside if she tries anything.” This last sentence was meant as a warning for our captive. With one last check of her bindings, Halias followed his captain, and I suspected they had gone to continue the conversation without our input.
Still annoyed with Steldor, I turned toward the fire, spotting a plate of food that Cannan had readied for him. I picked up the goblet of water beside it and surreptitiously dumped out its contents, refilling it with wine to which I knew crushed oak had been added. It was probably wrong, but a little herb-induced sleep certainly wouldn’t hurt him.
I carried the goblet to him and pushed it into his hand, intending to walk back to retrieve the generously filled plate, but he grasped my wrist.
“Your hair…” he slowly said, brow furrowed. “It’s…”
“Short,” I finished, reaching up self-consciously to rake my fingers through it.
“It looks fine,” he said, and I knew, for him, that was quite a compliment, for he had always loved to play with my long locks.
“Drink,” I suggested, and he obliged, unsuspecting. I waited a few minutes, then retrieved the plate of food, handing the dish to the High Priestess instead, who, like Steldor, had not yet eaten. She glanced at my husband, for whom she knew the food had been intended, slightly puzzled. As she registered his increasingly drowsy state, she nodded to me, deducing what I’d done.
London’s screaming had died off, but as I scrutinized Nantilam, I could still hear its echoes in my mind. It was obvious she could, too, for her somber expression was a reflection of my own.
“I do not commend my brother’s actions, Hytanican Queen,” she said, letting her spoon drop on the plate she was balancing on her knees as she finished the meal. I took the plate from her, wondering if she would say more.
“But by taking me captive, you both gave yourselves leverage and freed him of my control. There remains no one who can inhibit him.”
The air left my lungs at her words, taking with it the coldness I felt toward her.
“You don’t believe he desires you back.” Panic was slowly rising, for if he did not want her back, we had no negotiating position.
“Admittedly, a part of him does not. But the dominant part remembers how he needs me, and that he is not the rightful ruler of Cokyri. He also has affection for me, if you would believe him capable of it.”
The notion was hard to entertain, but I did not have time to consider it.
“There is a story that should be told, to you alone,” Nantilam went on. “You will come to need it most. Sit, if you would hear it.”
I stole a look at the others—Steldor, sleeping; my father on his feet, frowning at us from across the cave, not liking my proximity to the High Priestess; my mother and my sister huddled close together by the fire; Temerson near them staring at the crackling wood.
“Talk,” I acquiesced, sitting down across from her, heart pounding, though I had no inkling of what to expect.
Nantilam nodded, wasting no time in beginning, for our chance to converse would end as soon as Halias and Cannan returned.
“My mother was the leader of Cokyri, its proud and strict Empress,” she said, her voice that of a storyteller. “She alone had been gifted with the divine right to command and punish, and to bless and reward—this magic, of both the dark and light sides, had been passed only from mother to daughter for generations, creating a natural assumption among the Cokyrian people that women were fit to rule while men were not.
“When the time came for my mother to give birth to an heir, something unexpected happened. She gave life to not one child, but two—a boy and a girl. The magic which had been meant for me was split, half going to me and half going to my brother. As we grew and were taught to handle our powers, it became evident that the magic had divided evenly, so that I had no power akin to his and he had no power akin to mine. We were Chaos and Creation, Life and Death. He was Warlord and I was merciful Empress. But an Empress I could not truly be, for I did not on my own possess the full power necessary to govern Cokyri. It was, therefore, determined by my mother that my brother would rule beside me. I was destined to become the High Priestess Nantilam, greatly admired and respected for my political actions and dealings with the affairs of the people, while my brother would become the Overlord Trimion, protecting our lands and leading us to war and victory using the ultimate weapon—his gift for death.
“Ten years after our birth, while my mother was Empress still, a man came to Cokyri, introducing himself as Prince Rélorin of Hytanica, an ambassador sent by his father, the King, to propose a trade treaty between Hytanica and Cokyri. He was no more than a child and a fool, and when he was brought before my mother, his bigotry overcame his reason. He refused to discuss the matter with a woman and his disrespect left my mother with no choice but to end his life and thereby reject the treaty.
“Naturally, the Hytanican King was not pleased at word of his son’s death, and viewed my mother’s actions as ruthless murder. But our forces were strong, and when the Hytanicans attacked, we drove them back.
“By the time my brother and I were fifteen, we had assumed our positions as Overlord and High Priestess. My brother grew increasingly frustrated as the years passed, and your people would not be defeated. There was no logical explanation for the way triumph eluded us, but we continued to fight this violent war for nearly one hundred years, finding ourselves incapable of victory. My powers of life and healing kept both of us vibrant and able, so though we were almost a century old, we appeared the same as we had in our youth.”
The beautiful woman before me, her skin tanned and flawless, her hair red as cherrywood, had been alive since before the beginning of the Cokyrian War. I knew by the Overlord’s cruel demonstrations that his powers were great, but the High Priestess had been born with a blessing…the ability to give and keep life. Her regality was overwhelming, her gift leaving no question as to why she had the love and respect of her people. For whatever it signified, Hytanica had never had a ruler like her.
Nantilam fell silent for a moment, lost in her memory, and I sensed she was about to segue into a significant element of her tale.
“Many years later, a large battle took place in which the Cokyrians greatly outnumbered the Hytanicans. Your people retreated, leaving behind their dead. As our soldiers collected the bodies of their fellow warriors, my brother walked his horse to the place where he had seen a particular Hytanican fall, a soldier of high rank, the one who had ordered the retreat. The way this Hytanican man had waited bravely until the last had reawakened questions within Trimion’s mind that had for years been dormant. What was the secret to the Hytanicans’ strength? Why could he not defeat them when the odds were in his favor?”
My mind was spinning, recalling the history that I had been taught concerning Hytanica’s conception. According to ancient lore, Hytanica’s first King, seeking to protect his foundling home, had been advised by his priests that a sacrifice of blood both royal and innocent would hallow the ground and make his kingdom invincible. The King had then taken the life of his own infant son, placing drops of the boy’s blood at each corner of the land in order to shield the people he loved. But was this more than lore? Had some long-forgotten blood magic made our forces strong?
“My brother found the soldier lying on his side, blood flowing steadily from the gash across his abdomen, his silver hair falling over his blank, pale face. My brother saw the man grimace in pain, and when his warriors informed him that the bodies had been collected and that they would depart at his word, my brother lifted the wounded man, determining to take him to Cokyri.”
She was reciting this as though it were a mere story, reinventing every moment for effect. But in her voice I could hear shreds of regret, of questioning, the proof that this was no work of fiction. It came to me along with the realization of the young soldier’s identity that this was an encounter to which she had given much thought.
“He was strong,” the High Priestess resumed. “I healed him as soon as my brother brought him to me, and by the next day, Trimion had begun to question him, beginning by demanding his name.
“The young officer’s hands were tied before him, and he knelt on the stone floor of my brother’s hall. When he refused to speak, my brother extended his arm to encourage him with pain. As Trimoin’s power struck him, he fell forward, catching himself with his forearms, his body convulsing. Amidst his screams, a whisper escaped his lips. ‘London,’ he gasped. ‘My name is London.’”
The High Priestess met my eyes, which were wide with sorrow and anger. I was terrified of the dark places her next words might explore. All the things London had never revealed to anyone, not even Destari, all his experiences in Cokyri, were within the mind of this woman and upon her lips. Could I withstand hearing what horrors had befallen my bodyguard and friend? You will come to need it most, Nantilam had said about this telling, and, bracing myself, I swore I would not risk that she was right.
“That was the first I knew of him,” she divulged. “When my brother laughed at his quick answer, saying that he clearly did not hold much close to his heart, London swore he would not betray his kingdom. Trimion was delighted. It was a game to him and, the more defiant the prisoner, the more enjoyable it would be to see him fall. And my brother had made so many fall.
“Yet through weeks of merciless torture, London proved resistant. The only thing he would tell us was what we had learned upon his first questioning—his name. Every night, I would visit his cell in the dungeon and heal him enough to prepare him for more punishment, but as time passed, even I could not fully restore him. The Overlord’s power pulsed inside of him, unable to dispel as long as more entered to block its escape. His body became a battleground for our magic, my healing force fighting Trimion’s powers of destruction.
“‘He is useless,’ my brother announced to me after nearly five months. ‘Then let him die,’ I advised, hoping he would agree, for London had borne far more than had any other prisoner. Trimion’s eyes were devoid of sympathy as he vowed, ‘Not until I break him.’
“For two months following, the vile pattern continued. My brother would torment him for hours, and I would heal him so he could not escape into death. I stood aside and observed, day after day, as Trimion growled, ‘Ask for death, London, and I will give it to you. Beg me to kill you, and it will all be over.’ Despite his ordeal, London managed audacity again and again. ‘It appears that you are the one who
is begging,’ he would mutter. And my brother would make London scream more loudly and more terribly than ever I had heard animal or human scream before.
“After eight weeks of this, Trimion reached a decision that shocked me. ‘Never before has anyone resisted me in such a manner,’ he seethed, though beneath his fury resided a measure of respect. ‘I know not what to do with him, except to end his life.’
“‘What if I were to heal him once more?’ I ventured, for another use for London had occurred to me. ‘A man with such impressive will is seldom seen, and it seems a shame to waste his life.’
“My brother was curious and suspicious. ‘You lust after the boy,’ he jeered, but I met his mocking gaze coldly. ‘His spirit is remarkable. I do not desire him for any other purpose than to have his blood run in the veins of my child—for his fortitude to be passed to our heir.’
“Trimion contemplated me for a time, then assented, unable to deny that London had impressed him. I ordered our prisoner brought to my temple, where he was given quarters on the second floor, with a wide window overlooking the city. It would be a long time before he would become aware of the view, but I hoped sunlight in the wake of those dark months he’d spent in the dungeon would help him recover. I began to heal him, several times a day at first, for the serenity I could provide was easily eclipsed by the flood of dark magic that hid within him.
“Had he been anyone else, anyone weaker, he would have died, but though he did not wake for weeks, he clung to life with incredible determination. Often, he screamed and wept, the pain reaching him even in sleep, and I feared that, although I had thus far managed to save his body, there might be no way to rescue his mind.
“It was during this time that my brother’s frustration reached its peak, for he had thought London would provide answers to his questions about the Hytanicans’ invulnerability. He set his scribes to work searching for anything that might enlighten him, and they spent innumerable hours poring through obscure and ancient texts. Then a legend was discovered—”