by Sarah Dalton
Stefan froze. This was not good news. If Luca lived, Stefan’s claim to the throne would be lost.
“I am not saying that Luca will be my heir,” the king continued. “Only that I would see him before I make any final decisions. If the boy is innocent of this crime, I must know for myself. Keep your brother alive. That is my final decision.”
“But, Your Majesty, what if we are attacked? What if we lose my brother in battle? Or on the journey back to Estala? What if he is already dead?”
“Those are situations that cannot be helped. Unfortunate, yes, but so be it if God has decided on that path. But I will not have another kin-slayer for an heir. If you murder your brother I will know, and you will not be heir to Estala.” The king’s eyes bored into Stefan’s as he spoke.
He believed his father, but there was a small part of him already thinking of ways for Luca to die an ‘accidental’ death. Stefan could not bear the idea of being so close to the one thing he had wanted the most, only to then have it snatched away. He could not bear that. He would speak to Brother Mikkel and find out what Anios wanted. Anios would want him king, he was sure of it.
“There is another matter.” King Davead took a sip of wine and smiled. “A far lighter subject, at least I hope so. The heir to the throne must have his own heir. You are sixteen years old and it is time for you to take a wife.”
Stefan’s jaw almost dropped until he realised he was a prince and it was not princely to react in such a way. “A wife?”
The king stood up from the table and started to pace the length of the room. “I have made a match. A good match I believe.” He waved to the guard by the door.
Stefan stood and turned to face the door. This was something he had not anticipated at all, though it seemed quite obvious now it was happening. His heart quickened as he waited for the girl to enter. She was shorter than him, which was good. She walked with her head bent low, so that he saw her mousy brown hair first. It was tied back into a little knot of plaits, which he thought comely. She stepped lightly across the room and raised her head, though she did not meet Stefan’s gaze, and Stefan could see the way her chest rose and fell in quick, anxious motions.
“Maria Zimin is your betrothed, Stefan. It is time for the two of you to become acquainted.”
Stefan let his eyes trail over the girl he would marry. She was young, around his own age, and she was plump, but in a pleasant way. Her cheeks and lips were a pretty shade of pink. Stefan found his eyes lingering on her full mouth. They lingered so long that he said a quick prayer to Anios to keep his thoughts pure.
“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Your Highness,” Maria said in a shaking voice. Behind her stood a handmaiden in plain clothes.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Stefan replied. He lifted Maria’s hands to his lips, to taste her sweet flesh.
But as his lips touched her creamy skin, he saw a look of disgust pass along the girl’s face. Stefan quickly dropped Maria’s hand and took a step back.
“Maria’s father is Lord of Irrinthia,” the king said, seemingly oblivious to the girl’s disgust and Stefan’s dismay. “This union will bring the north and south together. That is a great thing.”
The king continued to speak, but Stefan did not listen. He was praying to Anios as his eyes trailed the length of Maria’s body. Had he imagined the look of disgust? Had he misinterpreted the girl’s timidity? Or was he as repulsive as the whispers suggested?
Luca
The sun rose early in the Ash Mountains, making Luca feel he had barely slept a wink. It was the third day and he was still adjusting to the heat, the powdery ash that covered his clothes and skin, and the diet of rice and dates. Xanti people loved dates; they even made wine from them, or ate them with olives and oil. Sometimes they soaked them in honey before serving them with hazelnuts. Luca enjoyed the sweet, plump dates, but he had a feeling he might one day grow sick of them, and that day was not far away.
Luca had hoped to lay low and keep out of the way of the rebels. Unfortunately for him, Geraldo had other ideas, and Geraldo’s word was law in the camp. He had already spent two full days of training with sword and shield, going to sleep in the tent with his body aching and blisters on his hands. But despite the heat and the work, Luca was glad to be here. The physically demanding training forced him to concentrate on his body and the sword in his hand, which brought respite from thoughts of Matias. And at night he dropped into his furs with sleep seconds away. There was no time for contemplation, and no time to feel sorry for himself. Geraldo told him that he must be useful or leave, so he trained, and he worked, and he ate, and slept in between.
Brother Axil introduced Luca as Ludovico, the third son of a Lord back in Estala. His story was that Prince Stefan had discovered “Ludo” as a Menti, forcing Brother Axil to stow him away on a ship to Xantos dressed as an apprentice Brother. It was simple and believable. Luca was now Ludo, which suited him just fine as he was never that keen on being Luca anyway.
Brother Axil also spent some time with Geraldo telling him about Prince Stefan’s increasing attacks on the Menti throughout Estala. Luca had not been aware of any of that. He had spent months in bed fighting his fever—or, as he now knew, fighting the fire power within.
“It won’t be long until Stefan turns his attention to Xantos,” Geraldo said, frowning. He was a man with a constant scowl on his face. He moved in a slow, fluid motion as though every movement was deliberately placed. His words were the same. “We’re a rag-tag team of misfits and one of these days we’ll have to be an army.”
“If I might be so bold as to ask—what is it that you hope to achieve in this camp?” Brother Axil asked.
Geraldo stroked the rough whiskers on his chin before he answered. “That’s not your concern, Brother. Not yet, anyway.”
Luca had bristled at that. How dare the man speak so rudely to his Governor? But Axil nodded to Geraldo in a way that seemed like he knew what was going on, like there was a wordless conversation occurring in between the regular conversation. Luca was not sure what to make of that, but he decided to stay out of it. He did not want to think. That led to feelings he wanted to quell, not dredge up.
Despite his attempts to remain aloof from the rebels, Luca found himself getting to know many of them, especially as there were so many around his age training at the same time. And as he got to know the rebels, he learned more and more about the Menti and what it meant to be one. He discovered Win, a girl of thirteen who shifted into a wolf with dark grey fur and ice-blue eyes. Win was quick with a delicate sword, moved like a dancer, and was even competent with a bow. She was never far from a laugh, and her eyes always smiled. But she ate more than a grown man and broke wind freely. She often roamed as a wolf at night, howling and hunting until the early hours. She was part of a small pack of wolf-shifters who were more aloof. Luca only knew two of the other wolves, Bea and Iggy, two of the youngest fighters in the Menti camp. Geraldo informed him that what they lacked in size they made up for with ferocity.
Shia, a tall boy of sixteen, was a face-changer. He could shift into any person he had ever seen, including Luca. After a long day of training, Luca came across Shia wearing his own face outside his tent. The boy smiled sardonically at Luca’s utter shock. It was not just the fright of seeing himself as another person; it was the sudden realisation that Luca barely recognised himself. His hair was short and untidy, his face was more chiselled, and he even seemed shorter than he remembered. He did not like Shia after that. He especially hated the way the boy’s violet eyes followed him wherever he went.
Jossa was a tall, wiry young man around twenty years old who could move the air. His expression was perpetually serious. He tended to sit with Shia at the end of the night, along with more of the Menti soldiers that Luca had not interacted with yet.
Then there was Tania, with skin as dark as the Ash Mountains themselves. She was so beautiful that Luca blushed whenever he saw her. She was a water-wielder, who could create great swirls of wat
er with nothing but her hands. She could form waves in her wine and splash people when they were attempting to drink broth. She had little patience for sword and shield, but she was good enough to hold her own against Luca. He soon found that most of the rebels held their own against him in training. As a prince of Estala he had been given the best sword master in the kingdom—as had Matias, Stefan and Alberto—but when Luca’s illness had begun three years ago, his training ceased, his muscles weakened. He had spent most of his time resting in bed, rotting away in sweaty sheets.
Luca trained with Nico today, Geraldo’s son. The boy tossed Luca his practice sword, but it fell short, landing a few feet away from Luca. As Luca took a step forward to collect it, he felt Geraldo’s eyes on his back. Geraldo took special interest in training that involved his son, glaring at them with an intensity that made Luca uncomfortable and Nico squirm.
“My son, the boy with an arm like a lass,” Geraldo quipped as he strode towards the two boys. “Get in position then.” Geraldo rolled his eyes as Nico moved his feet into a fighting stance.
Nico was not a fighter, which was plain for everyone to see except for Geraldo, apparently. He was a pale boy, sharing the same Irrinthian features as his father—dirty blonde hair, grey eyes, and a long face—but he was also plump, perpetually flushed pink from neck to cheek, and always slightly dishevelled. Nico fared poorly under the hot Xanti sun. His thin tunics soon stuck to his skin, and his hair was always plastered across his forehead. But Nico tried tirelessly during training. He got up when he was knocked down. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes and repeated the same move over and over again. He never cried when his father berated him. He kept going.
Luca won the fight easily and Nico yielded. The boy was puffing on the floor when Luca offered him a hand to get him back on his feet.
“Thanks,” Nico said.
“You got a blow,” Luca said. “Look, you even caught me through my mail.” He pointed to the spot on his arm that was bruised from Nico’s hit.
“You’re bleeding,” Nico said in surprise. “Hold on, I can fix that.” Nico grasped Luca’s arm over the cut, making him cry out. It stung as sharply as boiled wine on a wound. But after a few moments, the sharp sting faded, and Luca felt the pain ebbing away. When Nico pulled his hand away, the cut was gone.
“I’m a healer,” Nico said.
“It does not hurt anymore. How did you do that?”
Nico shrugged. “I think about healing the flesh, and the power spreads out from my fingers. Quick, my father is coming. We should look busy.”
“Too late.” Geraldo frowned down at them. “What is this? Are you kissing him better, Nico?”
“No.” Nico did not meet his father’s eyes. The pink flush on his neck turned red, and he fumbled with the sleeve of his tunic.
“Seeing as you’re doing nothing but standing around like a couple of girls, you can cook for the camp today.” Geraldo stalked away, yelling commands at Mentis practicing their powers.
“Your father demands a lot of you,” Luca observed.
“He does what’s best for me,” Nico said. The words struck Luca as sounding rehearsed. “Come, I’ll show you where the food stores are. Do you know how to cook rice?”
Luca shook his head.
Nico punched him lightly on the shoulder. “You’re not the son of a Lord no more. You’ve got to learn these things.”
It turned out that cooking rice was not so bad, or so hard, and Luca discovered that he actually enjoyed spending time with another boy his own age. He managed to deflect questions about himself until Nico stopped asking, and he soon fell into the rhythm of stirring rice in the huge pot above the fire. He learned how to pull water from the well and make a fire. Nico was a good teacher. His explanations were concise and to the point, and he had patience enough to let Luca find his way.
At the end of the day, they served their modest meal to the rest of the rebels before sitting in Luca’s tent to eat their own.
“What is happening here?” Luca asked eventually. He had told himself he would not care, that this was a place to hide from his father and nothing more. But he could not fool himself any longer. He was curious, and he wanted answers.
Nico shrugged. “No one knows. Father says a war is coming but he doesn’t know when and how.”
“How does he know about the war?” Luca asked.
“There are those with the sight. They’ve seen a great war between Menti and the royals of Estala.”
“Ahh. That is what he refused tell Brother Axil,” Luca mused aloud.
“I shouldn’t have told you.” Nico’s face turned pale. “Oh no. No. Don’t tell Axil. My father will be mad if he knows I told you. Father is very secretive about his Menti powers. I should go back to my tent. Father will want me to tidy up my mess. I’ll see you tomorrow in training.”
Before Luca could even open his mouth, the boy was running out of the tent and across the camp, leaving a dusty cloud of ash in the evening sky. Luca finished his meal in silence, contemplating what Nico had said to him. There was not supposed to be a great war. He was supposed to hide here away from his father until it was safe to start his life over again. And I am supposed to train my powers while I am here, he thought. No. Not that. He knew Geraldo wanted him to learn the fire power within himself, but he wanted no part of that. He kept blocking it out, hoping no one would call on him.
It was wrong that he had upset Nico. He had not meant to frighten him. In truth, he did not fully understand what it was he had done. Nico had told him Geraldo’s suspicions with little prompting. If it was such a great secret, why would he do that? Nico had trusted him, he realised. In that moment, Nico had trusted him, and let his guard down long enough to tell Luca about this war prediction. But of course, Geraldo did not trust them one little bit, and that was what Nico remembered before he ran from the tent.
Luca decided that he could not sit around for a moment longer. He should find Nico and tell him that his secret was safe. Otherwise, Nico would spend all night worrying about what he had done. At least this way he could reassure the boy. It was the least he could do after Nico taught him so much about cooking.
Nights in the Ash Mountains dropped to bitter cold extremely quickly. Luca regretted wearing a light tunic and trousers as he made his way through the camp. It was dark, but lit braziers and fires spread an orange glow across the tents. He saw Brother Axil sitting by a fire talking to a group of rebels. He laughed and joked and mopped up his broth with a heel of bread. Axil had needed little time to blend into the camp. He was Xanti himself. He spoke the language, he had the appearance of a native; he belonged here. Axil walked around relaxed and smiling while Luca was tense and anxious, forever shouldering guilt and discomfort.
It did not take Luca long to find the large tent belonging to Geraldo and Nico. It was almost twice as large as the others with animal skins stretched across wooden poles. He was about to fold back the opening when he heard voices coming from inside.
“…not tonight. I need a break, father.” Nico’s voice was high-pitched. Luca discerned a tremor of fear as Nico’s voice cracked on the last word. There was a sniffle, as though Nico was weeping, followed by a stifled moan of pain.
Gently, Luca peeled back a portion of the tent flap so that he could see inside. He angled his body out of sight, crouching low to stay in the shadows. The tent was almost completely taken up by a large wooden table. Perhaps that was where Geraldo organised business for the camp; it was certainly where his father would have performed his duties during a siege. Sat at the table was Nico, with Geraldo leaning over him. Geraldo blocked his view, but he could see Nico squirming in his seat and moaning in pain.
“Not quick enough; again.”
“No, Father, please…”
There was a lit brazier to Geraldo’s right, and as Geraldo moved closer to it, Luca realised that an iron bar had been placed in the flames. When Geraldo lifted the iron from the flames with a glove over his hand, the end was bright sc
arlet from the heat. It was a branding iron, Luca realised with horror. He was frozen, his body stiff with fear as Geraldo pressed the hot metal against Nico’s arm. The scent of burning flesh filled the air making Luca gag into the sleeve of his tunic. The plump boy squirmed under the branding iron, screaming through a bit placed between his teeth. Finally, Geraldo pulled the iron away, and Nico clutched his arm with his hand, wrapping his fingers around the wound.
“Concentrate,” Geraldo said. “You won’t get any better if you don’t concentrate.”
Luca backed away from the tent, sick to his stomach and shaking all over. He stumbled back to his tent and fell into his furs.
Reva
It was a week of learning for Reva. She learned that pigs would eat anything, that the nasty little beasts could be as mean as hags, and that the smallest one would always nip at her legs when she entered the sty. She learned that the women in charge of washing clothes would cluck their tongues and finish their conversations as soon as you joined them in the yard. She learned that she could spend all day walking in irons, carrying hay to the animal barns, picking olives from the grove, and stirring great pots of oatmeal and still live to do it all over again the next day. Her ankles were rubbed raw within half a day, and at night she collapsed onto her patch of straw with her body aching and tired. She had no tincture for the wounds between her legs, and nothing for the pain in her belly, but that mattered little now. The aching of her muscles hurt more. The worst from the birthing was over.
“Who are you, Menti?” Sister Valeria had asked on the first day.
“Raina.” Reva would not look at the woman when she spoke. Instead she found a spot on the wall above her head to stare at. “My father was a merchant killed by Prince Stefan’s men.”