Gabe shook his head. “Did you really want to get into this discussion now, General? Don’t you have a war to go to or something?”
The general conceded with a small smile. “And your breakfast has just arrived. Please, eat.”
A plate of food was set down in front of Gabe. There was sausages, toast and rice with beans. The smell was the best thing Gabe had ever experienced, only exceeded by the taste. Du Serres let him ease his initial hunger before talking again.
“Demon or not, I would like to know what you did to incite the Abbess’ declaration.”
Gabe put down his spoon and finished chewing. He took a long drink and wiped his mouth. After a long, slow exhalation, he said, “I’ll tell you what I did if you tell me what you think is the real reason behind this war.”
“I like you, Mage Castillo. You’re not at all what I expected to find here. But, and I must stress this point, you are in no position to bargain.”
Gabe grabbed the sausage and savagely bit off the end. Around the half-chewed meat, he replied, “And I’ll tell you again. I don’t know much of anything so you may as well throw me back in my hut with the other prisoners.”
“I think you know more than you think you do. Bring him over, Captain.”
Modisetto directed Dem to the table. The young man sat, wincing as the motion pulled on his injured shoulder. He kept the arm in the sling close to his chest, head bowed as Modisetto and a soldier stood close behind him.
Gabe shoved aside his half-finished meal, suddenly not hungry.
“Dem,” Gabe said softly.
Dem raised his head and met Gabe’s gaze. His face was a mass of bruises and cuts, lips split, eyelids puffy and red, nose broken but reset. This wasn’t due to the fight in the tunnels. It was purposeful. Someone had worked him over very well.
“What happened?”
A shudder wracked Dem’s shoulders and he glanced, involuntarily, at Roulier before ducking his head again. Breathing shallow and fast, he murmured, “I was caught in the tunnels. Me and a couple others. They... they made us talk.”
Gabe suppressed the urge to growl. “And you told them who Rafe was.” It came out as a snarl and Dem flinched, though Gabe wasn’t angry with him. He didn’t blame the boy for giving in to torture. No, he blamed those who would resort to it.
A hand slammed down on Gabe’s shoulder. The strong fingers dug into his skin and muscle, making him flinch. He looked up and found General du Serres standing over him, scowling.
“You know the identity of the man we’re trying to find.” It wasn’t a question, grim certainty etched in every line of the general’s face. Just what that conviction would mean for Gabe, he had no wish to find out in a hurry.
“It wasn’t that hard to work out,” Gabe admitted. “When I thought about it.”
The grip on his shoulder got harder. There would be bruises. “And does anyone else in the camp know? Have you told anyone?”
“I haven’t told anyone. As for if anyone else knows, I’m not sure.” The pressure on his shoulder increased to the point Gabe thought du Serres’ fingers would break skin and push directly into his flesh. “Ah, shit, no, I don’t think anyone else knows. He told me some things when we were alone that let me work it out.”
“Good. See that it stays that way.” Du Serres let Gabe go, stepping back to his chair and sitting as if nothing had happened.
Gabe sagged in relief, his shoulder throbbing with deep aftershocks, profoundly grateful he’d kept his revelation to himself in the hut. He shuddered to think what du Serres would have done if he’d opened his big mouth in front of Botello, Pio and Victor.
“These things the prince told you when you were alone,” du Serres murmured thoughtfully. “Was one of them the reason why he was here?”
Rubbing his sore shoulder, Gabe grimaced. He knew a reason, but he was starting to think it wasn’t the only one, or even a real one, not if Dem hadn’t revealed it along with Rafe’s identity. “I’m sure I don’t know. Didn’t you ask him?” He motioned to Dem.
“We did,” du Serres admitted. “He doesn’t know, either. Said the prince wouldn’t tell him so that if they were caught, young Demetrio here could claim misguided ignorance.”
Dem ducked his head so far down it was like he wanted his shoulders to swallow it completely.
“So, we sent Demetrio back to the Delaluzian encampment to find the prince.”
Gabe swallowed hard. Dem had been the soldier returned after the ambush. Had he been coerced into betraying the battalion?
As if reading his thoughts, Dem said, “I was only to find out where Rafe was and then let Colonel Roulier know.” His voice hitched on the Alarian officer’s name. “He wasn’t there, though. They’d sent him here, to you. I didn’t know they would attack the encampment.”
The last was said on an ebbing tide of fear, exhaustion and pain sapping Dem’s emotions. There were tears in his eyes as he sank back into his chair, nursing his injured arm.
Softly, eyes downcast, Dem added, “If I’d known what the Alarians were going to do, I would never have done it, Mage Castillo. I would have told Colonel Cabrera everything. Rafe and I, we never thought anything would go wrong. He assured me that once we were with Negron Battalion that it would be all right. He thought we would be safe here.”
“Safe from what? From his father? Because of... your friendship?” Gabe asked gently.
“In part, I guess. But there was something else, something that frightened Rafe even more than...” Dem glanced at du Serres, then sighed. “Than losing me. Our relationship was the least of Rafe’s problems he thought he could solve by coming here.”
Gabe felt a surge of relief. Rafe had lied to him, but at least he hadn’t lied about his feelings for Dem.
“Just why the prince came here anonymously,” du Serres said, “isn’t as important as the fact that he is here. I’m sure you can see why finding him would be advantageous to Alarie. When Demetrio informed us he had been taken from the encampment and brought here for healing, it was decided I would pursue the prince while Supreme General d’Ancar delayed for time by calling for peace talks.”
“Two days,” Gabe said to du Serres. “Between the tunnel ambush and your arrival here, you had two days to plan and pull this off. How did you manage it?”
A humourless half-smile curled du Serres’ lips. “We’ve been planning this for much longer than two days. We’ve been aware of the underground caves in this part of the Valley for a long, long time and as soon as the war began, we started mapping them. Our original idea was to get our troops behind de Ibarra lines, attack from both sides. But when Demetrio made us aware of Prince Ramiero’s presence, we changed our tactics. So, please tell us, where is Prince Ramiero de Ibarra?”
“I didn’t treat him,” Gabe admitted. “When he was brought here I was too tired from healing... the other wounded soldiers. Then it was too late to do anything for him because you attacked the encampment and we began our evacuation. Even then I couldn’t have done anything because…” He trailed off as realisation hit. “Because he’d escaped. Only he didn’t escape on his own, did he?”
“No, he didn’t. Two of my most highly trained scouts were sent in ahead of the troops to secure the prince.” Du Serres turned to Dem, a little chill entering his voice as he continued. “Demetrio was with them, to ensure they found Prince Ramiero.”
For a brief moment only, passionate resolve hardened Dem’s bruised and beaten face. “I had to do it. I couldn’t let you capture him.”
“What did you do?” Gabe asked warily.
“I fought.” Dem’s tone couldn’t decide if it was proud or shamed. “I did what I had to make sure Rafe got away.”
After leading the enemy right to him, but Gabe kept that to himself. It was clear Dem was intimately familiar with the conflict. Gabe had studied, very briefly, the effects, both physical and spiritual, of torture. Gabe couldn’t blame Dem for his actions.
“The timing of these events,” du Ser
res said into the terse silence, “means the prince did not leave on one of the dirigibles. He escaped my soldiers, but he didn’t escape this camp.”
Gabe spread his hands. “Then where is he?”
“You worked out who he was. Perhaps someone else did as well and secreted him away somewhere.”
“The camp isn’t that big. Surely you would have found him by now.”
“Despite having searched from top to bottom, side to side, the prince remains missing,” the general said.
“Perhaps he was with the dead you had Dean Rios burn,” Gabe muttered.
“Demetrio checked every dead Delaluzian before they were burned. No,” du Serres declared, “I believe the prince is still alive and I also believe someone within this camp is hiding him.”
“Who?” Gabe asked sarcastically. “By the time you were done with your attack, there were only thirteen of us left. One you killed and three you had me put to sleep. That leaves nine of us out of a potential hundred personnel from this camp who could have taken Rafe. Not good odds, general.”
“I believe we can improve those odds, Mage Castillo.” Du Serres nodded to Captain Modisetto. “See the mage returned to his compatriots and then organise the first demonstration.”
“Yes, Mon General,” Modisetto said.
As Gabe stood up from the table, du Serres speared him with a barbed look.
“Oh, and unless you wish to provoke a fight between your vastly outnumbered and unarmed people and my army, I would suggest you keep the prince’s identity to yourself, Mage Castillo.”
With that grim warning sinking in his gut like an anchor, Gabe was escorted out of the tent by the captain and two soldiers.
“What demonstration?” Gabe asked as they walked.
The captain gave him a disapproving frown. “You’ll soon see.”
At the hut, the door was opened and Gabe shoved through. Inside, his three companions had been joined by Ismael. The Dean was wet and sat against the wall, shivering. A couple of bowls of mostly eaten porridge sat next to him.
“Where have you been?” Botello demanded.
Ignoring the Second-Lieutenant’s tone, Gabe gave them a quick version of events, omitting certain parts of his conversation with the general—Rafe’s identity, Dem’s unwitting part in the attack, and the fact he’d eaten far better than they had.
“What demonstration?” Pio echoed Gabe’s question.
“Apparently we’ll soon see.” Gabe crouched by Ismael. “You all right?”
Ismael, knees pulled up to his chest, nodded.
Gabe made the Dean look at him. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy with sleeplessness. There was a dullness to them Gabe didn’t like, as if Ismael were retreating, going inward.
“Have you eaten?” Gabe asked him gently.
Ismael shook his head, suppressing a retch.
“That’s all right. We won’t make you.” He felt the small man’s robe. “You’re soaked and cold. Get out of your robe. We’ll get you something dry to wear and then I want you to sleep.”
Ismael shook his head. “I couldn’t.” His voice was dry and rasping, having prayed over every body he’d hauled outside during the night.
“You need to. You’re exhausted. I’m a Bone Mage, I know these things. Come on, get undressed.”
Weak and compliant, Ismael unfastened his robe and Gabe helped him pull it off. Assessing the complete lack of everything in their hut, Gabe asked Botello for his jacket. The lieutenant grumbled about regulations but gave up his adorned jacket. As Gabe was helping the small man into the far too big garment, a small pouch dropped to the ground. Black velvet, small enough to be concealed in a hand, it was the same one Gabe had seen the night he and Ismael had got drunk together. The pouch, Ismael had slurred, that contained his life. The Dean didn’t realise he’d dropped it, so Gabe picked it up, feeling a single object inside, perhaps an inch long and round. Before his curiosity could get the better of him, Gabe pressed it into Ismael’s hand.
Ismael jerked, as if he didn’t know what it was, then relaxed, closing his fingers around it with a little sigh.
“Thank you,” he murmured, then added, “I rolled him into one of the holes opened up by the Alarians outside the camp.”
“No one saw you do it?” Gabe asked.
“No. He’s safe.” Quiet and sad, the small man curled up and within moments, was sleeping.
Gabe sat by him, worried about more than the physical ramifications of Ismael’s long night.
The men quietly discussed the likeliness of the Alarians finding Rafe. Pio baited Botello, asking him if he still thought it was a Nameless commoner the Alarians were after. Pio and Victor came up with a list of the Second-Lieutenant’s personal items that might mean victory for either side of the war. Gabe snickered at several of the suggestions but put a stop to it when Botello’s face turned as red as his jacket and his fists began to smoke.
“But if they haven’t found this person yet,” Victor said, “where could he possibly be?”
“With Botello’s stash of stolen goods,” Pio offered.
That conversation made no forward movement either before their guards came to fetch them for the demonstration. Gabe and Pio had to help the exhausted Dean as they were marched out of the hut.
All of the prisoners were gathered in the central yard, the mesquala’s skeleton jutting up in their midst, clinking and clacking in a growing wind. Dark, low clouds massed on the western horizon, stretching north to south as far as the eye could see. Kimotak had been predicting an early wet season and the clouds seemed more than enough to bring an entire season of rain at once.
Gabe did his best but couldn’t see either Dina or Pena in the crowd, though Captain Meraz was accorded a position of honour at the front of the prisoners, her hands bound behind her back.
General du Serres, Colonel Roulier and Captain Modisetto stood before the command tent. The yard was surrounded by at least three hundred Alarian soldiers in full battle readiness. A quick estimation of Delaluzian numbers made Gabe’s stomach clench. When you provided a ratio of three guards to each prisoner, you weren’t expecting a happy response to whatever demonstration you were conducting.
At the front of the crowd, Roulier motioned to Lieutenant Carufel who, accompanied by two soldiers, walked into the crowd of seated prisoners, looking them over carefully. Gabe watched him closely, trying to work out what was happening, getting nothing from the carefully expressionless expression on the officer’s face.
Carufel stopped close to Gabe’s group and his gaze slid over them slowly and settled on Victor. The clerk swallowed hard.
Then the lieutenant moved on. Victor let out a long, shaky breath.
Finally, Carufel found his man. He pointed out a soldier to his men and the two Alarians hauled the young Delaluzian to his feet and steered him through the crowd to the mesquala’s pole. The prisoner was bound hand and foot to the pole, facing the command tent. The feet of the skeleton dangled just above his head, clean bones tapping against the wood. As soon as he was secured, the poor man began protesting, struggling and demanding to be let go. Carufel and his men returned to the front of the crowd.
General du Serres stood in front of Meraz and held his hands up for quiet. The murmurings of the prisoners died away and the bound man’s pleas seemed so much louder.
“I am General Nicodeme du Serres,” he announced to the crowd, “of the Alarie Royal Forces. As I’m sure you are all already aware, you are prisoners of war and will be accorded the honour your bravery and loyalty deserve. But know this, if any of you disobey orders from Alarian personnel, if you are found to be working against us, if you dare to attempt escape, you will be punished.” He nodded to Modisetto, who in turn waved toward someone beyond Gabe’s view. “This is your first, and only, warning,” du Serres said. “Look closely.”
Two Alarian soldiers brought Lieutenant Pena into view. She walked between them, head high despite being topless and that with each step she couldn’t quite hid
e the pain. Her hair had been hacked off close to her scalp and stuck up in dried-sweat spikes. There were bruises and abrasions on her face that showed she hadn’t capitulated without a fight.
The silence of the gathered prisoners deepened in shock as Pena was turned around, displaying her back for them.
Gabe bit his lips in disgust. Her back was cut to ribbons. Twenty lashes had left her skin raw and weeping. Slashes extended from the very base of her back to her neck, from shoulder to shoulder, curling around her narrow waist.
Given a full, clear view of the atrocity conducted on one of her people, Captain Meraz stared fixedly at Pena, as if following the general’s instruction to ‘look closely’. Gabe couldn’t see Meraz’s face but he could imagine the expression. A stoic blankness that wouldn’t hint at the seething fury inside. General du Serres kept an eye on the captain, his expression just as unreadable.
“Twenty lashes,” he said loudly, “to anyone who displeases me. More if I’m in a bad mood.”
The lesson adequately instructed, Pena was led away. As she disappeared from sight, Gabe found he had to consciously force his left hand to unclench. It ached with remembered pain from all the injuries he’d healed, sparked by the thought of Pena going unhealed. How she must be suffering, with that bone-deep, tearing agony of so many open wounds. And yet, she hadn’t given in, hadn’t succumbed to the pain or the indignity. She had walked into the yard on her own and out again, defiant of Colonel Roulier’s assertion the lingering pain, physical and spiritual, was what would break her.
“To any of you who hold out hope your army will come to your rescue,” the general continued, walking along the front row of prisoners, “I will say this. Don’t. As I speak, every frontline engagement in this war has called a truce and Alarie’s Supreme General d’Ancar is in discussion with your General Baez de Ibarra regarding Alarie’s retreat. Terms of this discussion include a complete cessation of fighting and a communications ban between Delaluzian camps. No one from Negron Battalion escaped in order to warn your superiors. There will be no rescue.”
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