“Noted,” Stel muttered breathily, feeling annoyed at this impromptu lesson. While it was late, and she really didn’t like this whole idea in the first place, she hated it even more when people critiqued her, and these Strategists were apparently the most judgmental and picky people in all of NNR. “But you just said that I’d be good in Immortale court. I distinctly heard you say that you doubted your pick of an inside-person.”
“True. I think you would do great in Immortale court as you. As Stel Hathaway. But you can’t be Stel Hathaway there, because Stel Hathaway is not the famed Immortale spy who was planted in the palace close to the king to extract NNR’s inner-most secrets from him. Stel Hathaway was not the spy who killed King Calix. Stel Hathaway doesn’t exist in the Immortales’ minds, and we are keeping it that way. You are Arleyene Crawford.”
“That’s where you are wrong. I am Stel Hathaway, and no amount of polishing and reforming is ever going to change that. You can’t expect to force someone into intensive training for a month, and then send them on a mission where they are supposed to be someone else successfully. You can’t change someone. I can’t change.”
“Well, you have to.” Fey said, plainly and detached. Stel moved her glower from Jan to Fey, but the girl didn’t flinch.
“Also, tip number two about lying,” January piped up, as if Stel didn’t just unleash some of her fury on him. “Stick with your story. When you lie, make sure your story flows. You implied that you hadn’t heard the conversation we were having, but you then explicated stated that you heard me say something, and then proceeded to quote it. Suspicious Immortales are not things you want on your back.”
Of course, it wasn’t like he would ever have to deal with one.
Stel sighed, accepting that this constant training and critiquing was now part of her daily routine. Part of her was willing to give up warm showers for running away from shopkeepers, but she was still pretty desperate for hygiene, and was starting to get attached to the kitchen staff’s creations.
“That should be enough midnight learning for today,” Celine abruptly announced, and Stel was momentarily shocked, almost forgetting that Celine and Z were still there, they were so silent.
“I’ll walk you down,” Z volunteered, an amused smirk gracing his face, and it took all Stel’s will power to not smack him, instead taking the classy way that Celine was teaching her. Apparently, it was imperative that Immortale spies were mannered. So she just smiled at him as she discretely pinched him. Hard.
“Stel!” A voice called her, making her turn back and lose another second of precious sleep where she could dream herself to be in an alternate reality. And of course, it Fey goddamned Downcley, who already stole so many hours of her sanity, that had to steal yet again, another one. “We start training tomorrow at 5.”
“PM?” Stel asked hopefully, but she knew her answer before the brunette girl shook her head.
“It’s weapons training,” Agent Downcley said, a wicked grin that Stel had fondly grown to hate, splitting across her face.
Stel groaned.
…
The next time Stel was waiting outside of Downcley’s door, eavesdropping, was almost embarrassingly a few days later. But given the fact that Stel was being forced into playing the role of an Immortale spy on a mission that would likely get her killed, she figured she earned the privilege of getting some information; by whatever means that were needed to acquire it.
By now, Stel was quite familiar with everyone’s voice, so she knew it was Celine and Fey talking. In a quite serious conversation, if their hushed tones gave any indication, so Stel tried to temporarily shut down her feelings so she could listen and learn with minimal outbursts.
“Are you alright?” It was Celine asking that question, and Stel was struck by the maturity in the girl’s voice. While Celine Hollingsworth was by no means immature, at the moment her voice was much older than one belonging to that of a young woman. But Stel understood; she knew a bit about growing up too fast, after all.
“No.” Fey replied, voice clipped. “But I’m not dead, am I?”
“You’re on your way. How much worse?”
“Quite a bit. But you are just as bad as me. Coughing up-”
“Please don’t, Downcley,” Celine cut in. “But I’m heading away from death’s door, while you skip towards it, flowers in hand.”
“And I’ve accepted that Celine. You should too.” There was brief pause, an interlude for Stel to collect her racing thoughts, before Agent Downcley spoke up again. “Some mornings, I can barely wake up. God knows for what.”
“I think we all know for what.” Celine said, her voice light, yet unmistakably challenging in the silent night’s air.
There was a silence after that.
“I need to not fail,” Fey finally said, her voice somewhat weaker, and Stel couldn’t quite figure out why. But maybe she did and just refused to acknowledge it. “A nobody affecting everybody.”
“You’re being so hard on her, Fey. That’s not you.”
“The difference between Fey and Agent Downcley, is the difference between failure and success,” Celine made a sound of disagreement, but Fey forged on. “I’m not just pushing her to her limit, I’m redefining that limit. And if it means that I need to forget that I have a heart and be Agent Downcley for a month to succeed, so be it.”
“Well,” Celine started, her voice tinged with dashed hopes and sadness. “She’s missing out on a great person.”
“Thanks, Hollingsworth,” the Manaroan girl said wryly, though there was a warmth in her voice, before it shifted again, now musing and thoughtful. “I need to do this. Only then, may blessed release be upon me.”
Stel quietly left, her eyes filled with secrets in shape of tears that she couldn’t understand.
…
“You’re being too loud,” That was about the sixth time January had told her that exact same sentence within the past 3 minutes.
“Maybe it would help if you actually taught me how to be quiet,” she shot back, grumbling as the grass crinkled underneath her feet. They were both in a forest god knows where, where Jan was trying to teach her about Stealth and Other Sneaky-Ass Tactics Involved in Spy Missions and Stuff (Fey had immediately reprimanded her the last time she called stealth lessons that, so now Stel made it a point to call it that). Apparently, teaching someone how to be quiet was the most effective when in a noisy place, where only January Kurata-Tormont—who she swore was a ghost—could move through silently.
“I’ve been teaching you for the past two weeks. And I know when you train with Fey, you actually do use what I’ve taught you, but you’re determined to stubbornly not implement them here.”
“We’re in a forest, it’s impossible to not be loud. Also, if you know I can be stealthy, why train me even more?”
“Because you are not perfect, and you have to be if you want to save your hind.” Stel gnashed her teeth together in annoyance, reminding herself that it was for Fallon, and she was not going to let Jan get to her. Apparently, he caught on and relented a bit, pulling out a knife and handing it to her. “You have Hollingsworth’s lesson afterwards, correct? Well, I’ve caught wind that your next exercise requires a full course meal, so if you can get through 5 successful simulations, we can call it a day for now.”
“You can’t call it a day for now, and then not call it a day later on in the same day,” she muttered, but she took the knife from his outstretched hand, trying to position it in the grasp that Agent Downcley was trying to teach her. “What is this for?”
“There’s a tree painted with a white ‘x’ northeast of us,” Stel swerved in the direction, and true enough, there was a tree decorated in the white letter. “If this was your only weapon and you were in enemy territory, what would you do if needed to get to that tree without alerting the enemy?”
“And you have assailants hiding somewhere here?”
“The only assailant for today is beside you.”
“You?”
Stel asked, disbelieving, and Jan only shrugged. “Fine, but where’s your weapon?”
He raised his hands. “I need none. I’ll go hide, and remember; do not alert the enemy.” And then he was soundlessly off, and Stel cursed her luck for landing her with some of the weirdest people in her acquaintance. Who actually noiselessly pranced off into the forest, ready to fake attack someone with a knife, when all they had was their apparently enough bare hands?
It’s for Fallon, she reminded herself, taking a little more crouched position, treading lightly and carefully. She was jumpy, and her over-keen senses went wild with the littlest bit of sound, whether it was from the howling wind, rustling through tree branches, or the twigs underfoot, snapping as the dirt shifted. Suddenly, there was a clear movement to her left, a sound that was too sound to be an insect.
She turned slightly, and that’s all it took for Jan to catch her in a headlock.
“Always be alert,” he harshly whispered, before letting go of her. Stel warily massaged her windpipe, and he raised his eyebrow at her. She maturely stuck her tongue out at him. “Come on; again.”
…
“I would have never thought manners to be my strong point,” Stel said, picking up her soup spoon daintily, scooping the scalding liquid away from her, and bringing it up to her lips to sip it delicately.
“Same for me. I don’t know why I was assigned to etiquette, but again, it’s not saying much. We’re all savages here.”
“Hey!” Z protested, striding into the dining room. His eyes went wide at the sight of the food, and he grabbed a roll, wolfishly scarfing it down. “I’m not a savage,” he said, mouth filled of food.
“Thank you for proving my point, Z.” The mechanic half-hearted glared at her before focusing on his roll again. “Now,” Celine announced, turning back to Stel. “Which one is your salad fork?”
The lesson was more of a free pass really, Celine herself admitted to that, and by the end, everyone had come down and it was more of a communal feast than a lesson (to be fair, they were apparently moving onto mannerisms and accents next week).
By the time Stel had stuffed herself completely (all with the right cutlery, mind you), everyone else at the table looked bleary eyed as well, full and sighing in satisfaction.
“I better rest up before hours of coding,” Stel announced, pushing herself away from the table, discretely stuffing a roll in her hand, but before she could walk away, Celine put out her palm, reading a document and not even looking at Stel.
“Put the roll back, Stel. You don’t need rations.”
Stel sighed, and resignedly gave Celine the roll, deciding not to put up a fight, lest her growing collection of rolls in her room were discovered.
Z gave her a wolfish grin though, and she rolled her eyes at him as she turned away.
“Nice try, Hathaway,” he called out.
Nice try indeed.
…
“This is impossible,” Stel announced, massaging her temples. “Coding was created to destroy mankind.”
“True,” Z agreed, laughing. “But what if Fey—sorry—Agent Downcley was teaching you?”
Her eyes went wide, all sleep forgotten. “I am suddenly extremely grateful that you are my teacher.”
He grinned, leaning over to shut off the monitor.
“What was that for?” she asked as he stood up, extending his arms.
“You did enough for today. Besides, you should rest up; I heard that you’re doing hand to hand combat tomorrow with the lovely Fey.” Stel’s head slumped, and Z patted her back reassuringly. “You’ll get through it. She’s been going through more than you know.”
…
Stel was apparently an exceptionally light sleeper, because for the third time in two weeks, she found herself standing outside of Fey’s door again. Except this time, it wasn’t a conversation that she was hearing, rather than hacked coughing.
She hesitantly knocked on the door, pushing it open when she received no reply.
What she saw, terrified her.
Fey Downcley, normally composed and put together, was a mess. Sweat coated her face, her eyes were bleary and lidded, and she was routinely letting out dry, rasping coughs.
“Fey! What’s happening?” Stel asked, because she decided that ‘are you okay’ would not only be useless, but painful to receive an answer to as well.
“Stel?” her voice was raspy and faint, weaker than Stel had ever seen the girl before. So vulnerable.
“Yes, it’s me. Let me get some-”
“No.”
“No?”
“They already know,” Fey explained. “I’ve been suffering from an-” she hesitated, “illness, for all my life.”
“Is it—is it life-threatening?” Stel found herself asking, feeling deep twinge of discomfort, because she knew the answer already.
Fey nodded, and Stel suddenly found herself not being able to deny it any longer. She knew it from the moment she heard Fey and Celine talking in that exact room. She knew it then, that Fey was dying, but Stel didn’t accept it. Because while she understood, she didn’t want to, because it was so much easier just giving Fey a boxed personality and dealing with her like that. It was so much easier to think of Fey Downcley as a bad guy, as a cruel person with harsh tendencies, but people only turned out a certain way because of certain events.
In Fey’s case, it was the need to do something before her terminal illness ended her.
“Oh.” Stel said, a one syllable sound to describe all her racing thoughts, all of her presumptions, and the knowledge that she couldn’t live in that simpler world any more.
Fey tried for a smile, but she winced. “It’s alright, really Stel. But if you can, let’s keep this between us, okay? Please?”
Forgiveness had to start somewhere. “Of course. And I can get Celine or Z, or Jan, or anyone really, to help me with combat tomorrow. You need some rest,”
Fey smiled.
“Thank you.”
Forty-Six
“WHAT the hell happened to you, Jaxcon?” Jo asked as soon as they were out of imminent trouble, eyes trained ahead, hands gripping the joystick tightly.
Jax sighed, leaning his head against his seat, sagging as he scratchily said in his mouthpiece, “Rebels,”
“You mean the ones who were on the roof?”
“Somewhat? It’s complicated, Jo,” he muttered, and his cousin picked up the cue, dropping the conversation. It was one of the many things he liked about her—she knew boundaries and she respected them. When Dmitri was harsh, she was soft, and where he was lax, she was strict. She knew the nation better than most, and not for the first time, Jax found himself cursing whatever gods decided to play the cruel joke of making Dmitri the older one.
But while Dmitri’s and Jax’s relationship had always been volatile, a crate marked fragile, he knew he could rely on Jo. This was, after all, the same girl who played hide and seek with him and Mayble when they were younger, and held his hand when he would start to cry in his sister’s memory. Sometimes, she would cry too, and he remembered the sight of her Gallagher blue eyes welled with tears that refracted the light of that autumn afternoon. Surely this woman in front of him, with her jumper and armband clearly marking her as a member of the Royal Air Force and blonde hair tinged with the same red as Mayble’s, wasn’t the same girl he used to know?
But what did he really know anyway?
“That explains your absence. It’s been 2 and a half weeks, and-”
“2 and a half weeks?” Jax sputtered out, his body flinging itself to uncomfortably face his cousin, injuries flaring in agony, but that was the least of his concern. “There’s no way I was out for that long,” he protested.
“You were, Jaxcon. Riots have been sparking around NNR. The disappearance of their king; people are suspecting something sinister at play here.”
“Not like they’re wrong,” he muttered angrily, trying to work out the crick in his neck in the small confines of his seat. “How did
they contact you? —wait, no. Never mind, that’s a stupid question; the question is more; how did you react when rebels were people to contact you with the knowledge of where I was?”
Jo always understood him a bit more than other people, and she caught onto his tone immediately, her blue eyes much like his own, widening.
“What?” Jo asked, sounding dumbfounded, and Jax actually pushed back a small laugh. Much to his relief, he actually remembered how laughing worked. Jo’s head whipped off the sky to look at him for a second, confusion clear in her blue eyes. “You know, don’t you? You always do.”
“I guessed,” he confessed, a small grin working its way onto his face. “Dmitri would likely swoop onto the throne like a vulture at my alleged disappearance, but I doubt he’s worked himself there yet. You, on the other hand, have probably spent your time trying to make sure that your brother doesn’t get on the throne, and have been open to any means possible. Hence, you need me and most probably have been frantically scrambling around trying to find me over this period of time.”
He needed no confirmation from Jo to know that he spoke the truth. When he was fading in and out of consciousness in that rebel stronghold, crumbling as much as he was, he never for a second thought that someone would be looking for him. But that was because in those moments, he was not the king of a nation, but a human being in suffering and pain and without much hope. But of course, Jo Gallagher would be on constant watch for him; he was needed to keep Dmitri off the throne. And while he knew that Jo was a god person, he couldn’t compliment himself so much as to say that she did it because he was Jax rather than King Jaxcon Emory, House of Gallagher, Ruler of the New Nations of Resistance.
Because being king meant that he was truly nothing else.
“True,” she agreed slowly, though her eyes were unwavering as she looked at him again. “But the most important reason is that I needed you to be alive. Not because you are the king or because you’re keeping my dimwit brother off the throne, but because you are more than my little brother than cousin, Jaxcon Gallagher.”
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