‘I’m your commander.’
‘I thought you were my friend, my brother.’
Swinton was increasingly aware that somewhere in the dark, Athene could hear every word. He ran his fingers through his hair, sweeping it back off his face. He couldn’t win this.
‘I am,’ he said.
Fiore shook his head. ‘You don’t trust me.’
‘What? That’s absurd.’
‘Is it? You don’t tell me things anymore, Dimitri. You have too many secrets. And you’re keeping them for the wrong people.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Swinton stood and took a step towards Fiore.
‘You’re blinded by your loyalty to the king and your incessant need to match your father’s greatness.’
Swinton sucked in a breath. ‘Take a walk, Fi,’ he managed.
Fiore nodded, and stepped back. Heat flushed Swinton’s face as Fiore walked away. He stood there, shocked. There had always been things left unsaid between them, ever since Eliza, but he didn’t know that was what Fi really thought of him. Swinton had never told anyone about Eliza. It was too painful, and she was a weakness he didn’t want others to know he had. Back then, he knew Fiore had noticed the change in him, but had likely decided Swinton would come to him when he was ready, and he never had. It tended to bubble to the surface in other ways now, and Swinton knew Fiore’s moral compass was the main catalyst.
He found the hammock he’d slept in the night before. He unlaced his boots and placed them neatly beside one another beneath one of the supporting trees. He peeled off his jerkin and folded it, leaving on the rest of his garb. He wouldn’t be caught unawares by the kindred. Finally, he slipped into the hammock. Its material was soft and comforting, moulding to his shape and enveloping him in darkness. He wasn’t tired; his mind was brimming with all manner of worries, but he had to try to get some rest while he could. He needed to be refreshed for the journey, and he needed to have his wits about him in a place like this.
The next morning, Swinton woke tangled in the hammock. Blinking, he looked around and saw the campsite through a pink-and-orange filter.
‘You coming?’ said a familiar voice from above. Fiore blocked out the sun.
‘Coming where?’ Swinton croaked. He felt queasy, and stumbled as he tried to swing himself out of the hammock. Fiore held the ropes firm and handed him his boots.
‘Athene said they need help with a new training circuit.’
‘What do you mean?’ Swinton steadied himself against the nearby tree as he leaned down to pull on his boots.
‘I don’t know, Dimitri. They asked for help, so let’s help.’
‘We’re not here to run chores for the Valians.’
Fiore threw his hands up in defeat. ‘Well that’s where I’ll be. May as well make myself useful.’
He left before Swinton had finished lacing his boots.
Bleak and Henri were nowhere in sight, and although none of the other kindred spoke to him, he knew they were monitoring his every move. He felt eyes boring into his back, even when he went to relieve himself. He found an unoccupied part of the keep, and ran through a series of exercises with his battleaxes, and stretched. He wouldn’t allow himself to lose his edge just because they were out in the middle of nowhere. By noon, however, his discipline and patience were wearing thin. Frustrated, he realised that Fiore was right. They had nothing better to do than to make themselves useful here.
He found them working in the canopy, a fair distance from the heart of the keep. An impressive system of pulleys and levers brought planks of pale timber up onto the scaffolding above. He gripped the thick vine rungs of a long ladder that reached up into the trees.
Don’t look down, don’t look down, he chanted as he hauled himself up. The ladder swung as he climbed. It was clearly designed for far more lithe frames than his own.
‘You came,’ Fiore said, offering a hand when Swinton reached the top of the ladder. He grasped his friend’s hand and heaved himself onto the platform, quickly stepping away from the edge. Swinton merely nodded, trying to focus on the framework of the construction site, rather than the height of it.
‘This is Bren,’ Fi said, gesturing to the Angovian, who was kneeling by the edge of the scaffolding, shirt off, with a mallet clutched in his big hands. Bren looked up and nodded to Swinton.
‘Can’t say it’s nice to see you again, Commander,’ he said, ‘but we’ll make do.’
Swinton could have sworn he saw Fi chuckle at that. But the Battalonian straightened his face and pointed to a stack of wooden planks.
‘We’re laying the flooring,’ he said.
‘I can see that.’
‘You always did catch on quick.’
‘Where do you want me to start?’ The question was strange on Swinton’s lips. It wasn’t often he asked others for instruction.
Fi didn’t hesitate. ‘Start from that side there, and we’ll meet in the middle.’
Swinton nodded, and balanced his way across the timber beams to the furthest side. A box of nails and a mallet awaited him there, and he knelt down to put the first plank in place. He lined it up meticulously with the existing flooring and hammered the first nail through it and into the support beam. There was something oddly comforting about the way the little piece of iron sank through the grain of the timber, disappearing but for the round head. It also felt good to hit something.
In the background, he could hear the warm banter between Fiore and Bren. The familiarity of their tones and the bursts of deep laughter drove him to focus solely on the work at hand. He hammered the pieces in place, working his way across the scaffolding, and occasionally looking back to admire the smooth floor he’d laid. He forgot about the dizzying height and concentrated on levelling each new plank with the rest. If he was going to do a job, he was going to do it right. From what he could see of Fi and Bren’s side, they weren’t as concerned about quality as he was. The physical work helped him take his mind off things, and his body relished the exertion. His shirt was damp with sweat, and it clung to his body as he raised the mallet.
‘Dimitri,’ Fi called out, waving a flask at him from across the platform, ‘want a drink?’
Swinton shot him a look of annoyance. Fi knew Swinton preferred to be addressed formally in front of strangers. But as usual, Fi ignored the look and simply threw him the flask. The water was warm on his parched tongue, but he drank it anyway.
‘We should set you up with a sword or something,’ Fi was saying to Bren.
Bren laughed. ‘I’ve never been one for fighting.’
‘You never know when it’d come in handy.’
‘I wouldn’t say no to some free tips, if that’s what you’re offering.’
‘Sure, why not? You’re built like a Battalonian, I could teach you a thing or two.’
‘Built like a Battalonian?’
Fi flexed his bicep. ‘You got bulk, old friend. Throw that weight around and you could do some damage.’
Another loud laugh came from Bren, and he nodded to Swinton. ‘What about the commander, what’s he built like?’
‘A knight,’ answered Fi, gesturing to Swinton’s tall and limber frame.
Swinton went back to work. He could do without the horseshit men’s bonding, especially when it was at his expense.
‘Come on, Dimitri,’ Fi said, mopping his brow.
‘Let’s just finish this.’
They worked well into the evening. Swinton didn’t meet them in the middle; he laid flooring well over onto their side. His work was level and precise, theirs was mediocre at best. The two of them continued their jovial teasing and chatter.
Who cares, thought Swinton, you won’t see each other again.
The days wore on, and Swinton hammered into place more than his fair share of timber planks. Fiore spoke less and less with him, and had taken to training the Angovian fisherman in the evenings after supper. At first, Swinton watched them swing their practice swords at each other, Fi teaching the you
ng man a range of revered Battalonian techniques, ones that Fi had taught Swinton himself what felt like a lifetime ago. Except that Fiore and Bren laughed while they trained, something that Swinton had never allowed himself to do. He left them, and despite his dislike of heights, returned to the unfinished training circuit in the canopy. There he sat, looking up at the inky blanket of sky, tens of thousands of stars glinting down at him, as he wondered what tomorrow would bring.
Chapter 22
After the incident with Sir Caleb, Olena had looped her arm through Dash’s and practically dragged him into the great hall.
‘It’ll be more suspicious if you’re not here now,’ she had hissed, plonking herself down at her seat and pointing sharply at the chair beside her. ‘Everything’s okay,’ she said more kindly, patting his hand, ‘you just got overexcited is all.’
‘That’s not —’
‘Shhh, not here, Dash!’
Dash didn’t say another word throughout the feast. And he didn’t look at Sir Caleb as the king addressed the room in his honour. The food Dash had looked forward to so much all day tasted like parchment, and the expensive material beneath his armpits was wet and uncomfortable now. He needed to get out of there. But the feast had lasted for hours, as course after course was brought out and wine goblets were constantly refilled. The great hall was loud, filled with drunken, well-wishing nobles and their bratty children.
Who had that girl been? Why was she sailing into the mist? Or was Olena right? Perhaps he really was just overexcited at the prospect of meeting Sir Caleb. But somehow, deep down, he knew that wasn’t true. It had been strange. More real than a dream. He had felt the spray of the ocean on his skin. Like he himself had been transported somewhere else.
That had been days ago. Now, Dash rushed to meet Olena in the gardens.
‘Please don’t be mad,’ he begged, sitting down beside her and grabbing her hand. ‘I know I was stupid. I’m really, really sorry.’
He hadn’t seen Olena since the feast to explain what had happened. He still didn’t understand what had happened himself when he’d shaken the knight’s hand. Olena, whose posture was usually straight-backed and formal, was sitting with her shoulders caved inward, her cloudy eyes staring off in the direction of the cliffs. She took his hand from hers and placed it back in his lap.
‘Please, Olena, I’m sorry. I hate it when you’re mad,’ he said.
‘I’m not mad,’ she said stiffly, rearranging her skirts. ‘I’m engaged.’
Dash baulked. ‘What?’
‘Engaged to be married.’
‘I know what engaged means. But that’s silly, you’re … You’re only fifteen.’
She nodded. ‘The wedding won’t happen until my seventeenth birthday, but Mother and Father wish to send me to Belbarrow, so I can get to know my betrothed.’ Her voice was steady, but Dash saw her bottom lip tremble.
‘Who is he?’
‘King Roswall’s son, Prince Nazuri, heir to the crown of Battalon.’
‘But how? I don’t —’
‘They told me after the feast. I’ve been in detailed lessons about Battalon ever since.’
So that’s why he hadn’t seen her these past few days.
‘But he’s so … old, Olena.’
‘He’s twenty-five.’
‘That’s old.’
She smiled sadly and took a steadying breath. ‘It feels that way, doesn’t it?’
‘But … You can’t go, Olena.’
‘I don’t want to,’ she managed, her voice cracking before the tears spilled over.
Dash moved to put his arm around her.
‘Hands off the princess, boy,’ said one of the guards.
‘She’s upset,’ Dash argued.
‘Don’t touch her.’
‘It’s okay, Dash. Just leave it.’
But Olena couldn’t go; she was his best friend. And to marry someone so old? What if the prince was mean to her? She would be a whole continent away.
‘How do we stop this?’ Dash whispered.
Olena shook her head. ‘We don’t,’ she said. ‘They have wanted this for a long time. I didn’t realise. Only when Mother allowed you to come to the feast did I think something was going on. She was being so nice to me because she knew what was to come. They’ve created a brand-new wardrobe of gowns for me in the Battalon colours. An escort is on its way here now, ready to take me there in a few days. Nothing can be done, Dash.’
Olena didn’t stay long with him in the gardens, and she didn’t talk much. Dash didn’t know what to say to her, didn’t know how to make it better. He couldn’t understand how a princess of the realm could have so little power over herself and her own fate. He thought the whole point of being a royal was that you could do what you wanted. And all this time, he’d thought she’d been mad at him about Sir Caleb.
Dash realised he was still sitting on the garden bench, long after Olena had taken her leave. He looked down at his boots and was startled. A single red flower, the same as those in the maze, blossomed in the grass by his feet. He swallowed and looked around, checking to make sure no one else could see it. Something wasn’t right. Trying to keep calm, he stood. He needed to tell someone. Ma – Ma would know what to do. Dash took off from the gardens, finding no joy in the run this time. He went around the back of the castle, dodging a cart that was being unloaded into the kitchens. He came face to face with a pinched set of angry eyes.
‘You,’ said the castle cook, and lunged.
Dash tore away from the woman. He wouldn’t survive another belting so soon after his most recent one, he was sure of it. But she’d left him no option but to take the entrance to the kitchens. He sprinted inside, slipping past a number of servants bringing in fresh food. He heard a crash behind him and winced, not daring to look back.
No, no, no – he wouldn’t be caught. Not this time. He turned and leapt up the grand staircase to the second floor of the castle. He could hear the cook’s, or maybe the guards’ thundering steps behind him, but he bolted down an unfamiliar hallway.
Where can I go? He tried a door to his left – locked. And a door to the right – locked as well. He was running out of time. Whoever was chasing him was bound to round the corner soon, and he knew he was in so much more trouble now. A set of double doors appeared as he rounded another corner. Books were carved into the dark timber. The old library – this had to be the old library. Dash pushed the door. It creaked loudly, but he ducked inside. The room was filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves, lined with hundreds, maybe thousands of books. But Dash didn’t have a second to spare. He raced down one of the aisles, eyeing a small, dark cupboard against the wall at the end.
Please don’t be locked. He grasped one of the handles and heard the groan of the doors from the other end of the library. Without another moment, he flung himself into the cupboard, heart hammering, and gently pulled the doors closed after him. Darkness swallowed him as the latch clicked in place. Inside the cupboard, Dash tried to stop panting. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his throat as he attempted to push down his fear. If they found him now, who knew what they’d do. He breathed in the musty air that smelled faintly of paint, and adjusted his position slightly, feeling soft sheets beneath his hands. This must be a linen closet …
The quiet click-clack of heels on the floorboards sounded. Two pairs, no urgency. Dash strained to hear over the pounding in his chest and through the muted effect of the cupboard doors. Voices drew nearer, murmuring softly. He pressed his head back into the side of the cupboard, trying to peer through the narrowest gap where the door hinges sat. Green skirts blocked the view. And then, the voices were nearly on top of him.
‘— send her away?’ It was the crisp voice of Queen Vera. ‘She’s only a young girl. She belongs with us, Arden.’
‘I have worked tirelessly to ensure our daughter has a suitable match. This has always been our intention,’ replied the king.
Dash squeezed his eyes shut. Oh no, no – he couldn’t b
e here. If they found out … He just couldn’t be here. But he was trapped.
‘I didn’t think you meant for her to leave us so young. She will be with child before the time she’s eighteen.’
‘A child will give the girl purpose. What does she have now but her disability for company?’
‘The girl is your daughter, Arden. She is more than a breeding vessel.’
‘Of course she is,’ snapped the king, ‘but this is the way of the realm. With this match, we’re allied with Battalon for good, which makes us the strongest continent in the whole realm.’
‘Your daughter’s happiness truly means nought to you?’
‘Not nought, but not enough to sway this decision. It is done, Vera. I suggest you stand behind me.’
There was a pause. ‘I live to serve you, my king.’
‘Good.’
‘What of the Valian? I worry about inviting her into our home.’
‘It wasn’t an invitation. It was a summons. She has to answer for her crimes.’
‘I fear for our children. Especially Olena. You know she is impressionable.’
‘Impressionable as she may be, what can she possibly do? The girl is as blind as a bat.’
The queen was quiet at this, and the king sighed.
‘It’s the one thing those savage Valians do right – banish the weak.’
Dash swallowed.
‘You don’t mean that,’ the queen said.
‘It would have been a mercy to the girl.’
‘Arden —’
The king sighed again and took the queen’s hand in his. ‘You shouldn’t worry, Vera. You trust my judgement, yes?’
‘Of course, you are my king.’
‘Then do not worry yourself over such matters. All will be well, I promise,’ the king said, bringing her hand to his lips.
Dash heard the layers of skirts rustling once more, and the soft click of her heels as the queen left the old library. His legs were cramping up and he was worried he was going to run out of air in the tiny cupboard, but the king was still standing there. Still as anything, now leaning against one of the shelves.
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