by Anna Holmes
"What reason would that be?" I ask, leaning against Maribelle's neck, entirely disinterested in her tantrum.
"Nothing that concerns you."
Typical. "I thought not. You were only going to blurt it out if I cared enough to goad you."
"I was not—" She inhales sharply, and the collected, polite, deadly princess is back. "So where is it you were planning to hold me hostage?"
Gods, I thought she'd never ask. Thankfully, it isn’t far from her trail to the back gate of the lower town, and she’s quiet as she follows me. In town she can't rail at me in earshot of everyone. Passersby give us few looks. A couple glance twice, but she keeps her face turned away under her hood, and her horse’s edges seem to meld into the shadows, making him seem a little more reasonably sized. I bring her to the tunnel entrance. She looks at the battered wooden doors skeptically. "A grain dispensary."
I ignore her and will the doors open so I don't need to dismount. Maribelle shies a little from the dark. I summon a ball of flame in my hand behind her head so as not to frighten her. I half expect Navigator to rear, but I should know better. He is a war horse. He has seen and heard death all around. A little fire in the hand of an idiot boy would not move him.
The princess peers down the narrow stone shaft. "I have warned you, fool. If you make so much as an attempt to harm me, I shall split you from your very center as though I am but slicing a dinner roll and with about as much thought."
All in the same diplomatic voice with a smile that would charm the devils themselves. A worse idea by the second.
Chapter Four
Caelin
Navigator doesn't like the dark. He'd never let on, since he's a big tough battle horse, but I feel him balk as we carry on. I provide my own light source in my skin—a bit of a disadvantage in a battle, but in this abandoned tunnel, a boon. I can ride ahead of the buffoon who thought he could abduct a princess with nothing but his wits and a bum leg. "Steady," I say to my horse.
I hear a rushing sound ahead. Water, probably from one of the mountain springs. This tunnel is nothing I remember from the tours of the city before my father died, before the Legion weasels coaxed my mother and me out to the countryside. "We built this for the siege," Alain says grudgingly.
"Of course you did." My back is stiff, both from the saddle and from apprehension. "Who else is coming?"
"No one."
"I doubt that."
"In all honesty—it's only me."
Had I been the sort of quailing princess people—including my advisors—seem to expect, he might have succeeded. I should be careful, the ghost of years of Riley's nagging reminds me. This boy is powerful, and he is unhinged. He admits to hating me, and I know he craves vengeance. The bizarreness of his ransom note unsettles me, though.
There were no stipulations in his businesslike letter. No cost in gold, no threats on my life. Just a demand that my council free the slaves we’ve kept over the course of the war. The threat is implied, I suppose.
He is thin, like I imagine a slave would be. But it is impossible. It's counter to everything the Resurgence stood for, and I never would approve something like that. Riley's stepfather keeps much from me, but I would know if such a thing existed. Wouldn't I?
Of course I would. It’s one thing to throw their weight around in the Councilroom, moving my coronation date and speculating about my heirs, and quite another to hide entire slave camps. Foolishness must be catching. I shake it out of me.
We draw closer to the source of the rushing noise and emerge in a wide cavern. A waterfall tumbles along the north wall.The high east wall has been hollowed to hold shelves of provisions and supplies. The jars are dusty now and I'd not trust their contents, but their pantry indicates that they could have survived here for a long time.
Clever Legion. A source of water and a stockpile of food. Apparently this oaf is not indicative of his army's ability to plan. "We'll stop here," he mutters.
I dismount and let Navigator drink from the stream, pausing to consider how far we've come from the castle. We are likely at the outermost edges of the city, if not outside the walls altogether. And still no warning bell. I doubt the dirt would muffle the sound enough to miss that. "Do you wonder if they miss you?" Alain snaps.
"Shut it." I always did wear my fears on my face. I only mean to be gone long enough to panic them a little. I'll emerge, dirty, possibly a little battered, and tell stories of how I escaped my crazed captor, whose fate I've yet to decide. I'll need a few days—perhaps even a week—of bedrest to recover from my ordeal. And I'll insist on having Riley at my side for that. I doubt they'll deny me. In fact, I'm counting on the fact that they'll be so relieved at my return that they'll not deny me much. I'll insist on being more involved so I can understand the threats that were made to me. I'd like to know what the devils is going on.
I kneel at the edge of the stream and peer in. "Is what you wrote true?"
"Of course you claim ignorance." He crouches and gathers some water into his hand. It is rough—he is accustomed to work. Strange for a magician, whose talents are usually enough to earn a living without such hardship.
"Claim? More like profess."
"If you insist on making light of everything, I'd just as soon not talk."
It is late, and I assume he's as tired as I am, if not more so. "I'll take first watch," I offer.
"Why? So you can run off?"
Well, yes. I don't know how he is planning to take delivery of his imaginary ransom. It is strange that he's not asked for money or something a little more tangible—I shake myself. "No. I want to be here, remember?"
He frowns. "How can I forget?"
I sigh. I'm going to need to earn his trust if I’m to run off while he sleeps. It's like coaxing a wild animal—like the first time I approached Navigator. Kelvin was certain he'd never be able to make anything of him. He was too severe. Navigator needed a firm hand, certainly, but obedience is never earned with whips. "You think me a spoiled child."
"I know it."
"You know nothing." Too harsh. I soften my tone again. "You can't have been too old when you joined the Legion."
Not every Legion soldier is a demon. This one is mad, certainly, but I don't doubt that it was the war which made him this way. He stares into the stream and mutters, "Not at all."
"And I was young when a Resurgent was made of me."
He jumps up deftly. The injury must be fairly recent, as the rest of his body doesn't seem to know what to do with it. He walks to the shelves and pulls down a sealed jar. He runs his fingertips along the seal. The metal peels away like a ribbon, and he releases the lid. The smell of freshly baked rolls wafts out from the jar. I even see a little steam. I make a mental note to ask my advisors how the Legion object casters managed that. Alain pulls a roll out and holds it in his hand as though it is delicate and he cannot believe its existence. I have seen that look before. He is hungry, desperately so. "Pace yourself," I warn him. I've seen too many starving people make themselves sick by gorging, thinking they'd make up for lost meals.
Prudently, he tears small pieces off the roll. I don't ask for any. I'm not hungry, and I don't want him to think me demanding. I need him to trust me enough to sleep.
And above, still no warning bell.
He eats his roll in silence and starts another. "Fine," I try again. "I'll take second watch."
"You'll take none. I don't want you sneaking away."
I sigh. "Very well, then. I'm tired anyway. But I'm a light sleeper, so try not to make too much noise."
He scoffs. I retrieve a blanket from Navigator's pack. I make a large show of spreading it on the ground, removing my armor, and tucking in. I shut my eyes and rest, but do not sleep. Instead, I wait.
I hear Alain pace the cavern for a time, the leather of his boots creaking unevenly as he goes. At length, it stops. I roll over in my pretended sleep, sword hip up, and peek through my eyelashes. He sits on the stone walled edge of the pool and leans his back against t
he cavern wall. Mistake, fool. It is not long before he stops fighting the silence of the cavern and the rushing of the waterfall, stops slapping his face to keep his eyes open, stops resisting the siren call of sleep. His chin tucks in. He falls still except the slight rise and fall of his chest. Even so, I leave him for a time, I let him nod and mutter until at last his breathing goes soft and deep.
Now it is time to move. I can lash Maribelle's lead to Navigator and head back. I'll tell the guard where the idiot boy lays. I'd wanted to stay away longer, but the lack of alarm has me concerned. Perhaps I have run away a time too many.
Noiselessly, I move through the cavern to collect my things. Alain has only touched the rolls and left what he doesn’t need, and something about this makes me pause. I don't doubt that he has been through much at the hands of those who would see me crowned, and I hardly blame him for his blind hatred. It makes him foolish, but there is something to him which makes me wonder. Foolishness and madness mingle, but I saw the flash to his eye. He is honest—at least, he thinks he is.
Every tiny hair on my body stands up, every muscle pulls at me, tells me to turn for the home I fought for and he fought to take from me. ButI can’t shake the earnestness with which he scrawled out that note. Yes, I should run off. With a muttered curse, I instead choose to search him.
At first I proceed gingerly, but the depth and regularity of his breaths tell me that he has given over to exhaustion. I open his pouches, one at a time, but in each, the same story: nothing. I sit back, confused. The pouches and his boots are new, but the rest of his clothes are old. Even a poor man stuffs his pouches with small treasures—useful twigs and fruit and rocks.
I am about to close his last pouch and leave, but a flash of red against bluish white catches my eye. I sit back on my heels and look for it again. I am ready to give it up when I find it peeking from under the cuff of his unadorned sleeve. Raw, blistered, angry skin. I pull the cuff back gently with the tip of my finger and find a wide band of it sitting underneath. On the other side, the same, as though…but it couldn't be. Perhaps he'd been locked in some prison—he obviously has no regard for the law. Manacles would be used there, too.
And then I see the welts across his chest, just visible in the part of his shirt. I lift the edge cautiously, and instinctively jerk my head up to see if he’s woken. His head is still bowed, bobbing slightly with each breath. I look back at the long, raised gashes.I’d only seen their like once before, on one of our troops freed from a Rosalian prison. A flogging. I ensured, having seen that man's flesh so shredded, that no one in my realm uses the whip. The rescued man bore a reasonable hatred for the Legion, and yet, I didn't want to send him back to war, despite his pleas, for fear of what that hate might make him do. I see his eyes again, in my mind. They remind me of Alain's.
I see two possibilities: he's been sent from a Legion prison as punishment, since they'd never send someone they would miss to do something as overwhelmingly, stupidly dangerous as this.
Or he's telling the truth.
I need to talk to Kelvin.
Chapter Five
Alain
I jerk awake, unaware even for a moment that I fell asleep. "Blast," I curse. What time is it? My body has been without sleep for a long time and it aches for more. I punish it by stumping over to the water and throwing a handful of it into my face.
At last I remember what it is I've done. My tired haze of confusion lifts, and all that remains is cold dread and a little bit of leftover anger. The princess. My gaze flies to where she curled up. There she still lays, a piece of hair drifting in and out of her face with her breaths. I take a step toward her, then away, then back again. I reach out to grab her shoulder, but find my hand softening at the last moment. It’s more of a nudge than a grab. "Wake up," I tell her, but it sounds weak. "Come on, get up."
She stirs, regards me drowsily, and hits the blanket again, this time pulling the edge over her. I resist the urge to aim a kick at her. I'd only fall over, anyhow.
"Hey—" My gut turns over. I have to rush back to the stream to get some water. I'd tried to go easy, faced with more food than I'd seen in months. It seems my stomach doesn't remember how to handle being full.
The dread washes me over again like a wave. I may have been an enemy before, but now I am an outright seditious criminal. I whirl to look at the princess and gauge the likelihood that I'd be able to run away before she has the opportunity to chase me down. Unfortunately, I managed to shake her from deep sleep, and now she sits up. "See?" she mumbles, spreading her arms. Her messy braid has turned into sloppy strands of hair sticking out every which direction, her eyes barely open. She yawns, "I’m still here."
"Yes, I see that." Why? She can throw her tantrum without me now. Though it is convenient to have me for insurance, someone to blame, I am sure that she tires of my company. I slide her the biscuit tin. "You should eat."
She says nothing but accepts a roll, delicately pulling it apart as though she doesn't eat on the ground on a horse's blanket. I can't even think about eating, between my uneasy stomach and uneasy conscience. Starvation does seem to lead one to bad choices.
After only one roll, she stands and places the tin on the wall where I sit. An offering? She walks over to the horses and sets about feeding them from muzzle-sized bags she slips over their faces. She wanders about the cavern, stretching her arms and neck, miming a few feints with the sword still safely sheathed. "Where were you held?" She asks abruptly.
"I don't need to answer that."
"Believe me, it would behoove you to do so." There is an edge to her voice I've not heard yet. She's found everything so wonderfully funny so far. "If you are in fact telling the truth."
I hesitate still. When my answer doesn't come, she walks to the wall of supplies and grabs a metal box, removing a roll of bandages and an ointment. She thrusts them both at me and yanks up one of my sleeves.
I hadn't given the marks any thought. They were just always there now. Even the stinging pain is normal. She settles to the wall, one leg propped up on it and her forearm rested on her knee. Her eyes fix on me. Slowly, I set about wrapping my wrists, but select the proper ointment before dressing them. "The islands to the south," I tell her at last.
"Under whose command?"
"Yours."
Now she's up again, wearing ruts in the stone with her boots. Her jaw sets, but she doesn’t snap. "Not mine."
"Someone acting in your name, then, I suppose?" I say, grimacing. The wounds sting more with the ointment than they did under the fabric of the shirt.
"They act without my name or my knowledge, that much I can assure you. If you are telling the truth."
I throw my hands upward. "What reason have I to lie? I'm going to die anyway."
"Die?"
"I knowingly and willingly committed treason. Unless the gallows in the slave camp is just for show, I’ve accepted what this means."
She looks at me, and her expression shifts several times. I understand none of it. At last, she blurts, "Yes. Die. You would die. Unless."
"What now?"
"Show me," she says, for once completely serious. I balk. The princess leans forward. "Come on, then. You’ve got me out of the tower. What were you planning to do with me? Stash me in a basement until a public apology is made? You’re not going to get one. Not from them, anyway."
"And I suppose I’d get one from you?"
"Shut up," she says abruptly.
"That’s what I thought," I mutter darkly.
"No, seriously," she hisses, dropping to a squat. She places her hand flat against the ground. At once, I go perfectly still, perfectly silent. I lift a hand, and the sword comes right back out. "Drop the spell. Drop it."
I ignore her and summon the air from down the tunnel to us, dragging the sound with it. As she seems to have suspected. Hoofbeats ring out against the cavern walls, along with the telltale jingling of manacle chains. I’d know this sound anywhere. "Guards," I mutter.
She siz
es me up a minute, then jerks her head in Maribelle’s direction. "Get on the horse."
Instinctively, I move to do as told, then freeze. Why should I do as she wants just because she says to in an authoritative tone? That’s what got us into this. I could correct this mistake of mine right now. I’d be arrested again, of course. Beatings are assured, execution all but guaranteed, but I knew that when I decided to do this.
I turn to face the direction from which the guards will come. The princess stops in her preparations. "Fool, do you want to get caught?"
I wet my cracked lips and hold fast. No, this is for the best. She goes home, the guilt I feel at what I’ve had to do will be made patently obvious, and maybe I’ll use my last words to let the monarchists know exactly what I’ve lost in their victory. Maybe someone will hear, and maybe someone else will succeed where I’ve failed. And I’ll see Jori again.
A sharp metallic whine splits the air, the point of her sword meeting my neck again. "I was hoping we wouldn’t have to do it this way," the princess says. "Move."
My eyes shut. I’ve already failed my people, but if I die here, in this spot, nobody will know that except for me. "What will you do?" I ask at last. "When we get there and you see that my kind are being worked to death? Will you order them released?"
She casts nervous glances back at the tunnel. "Yes, yes," she says hastily.
"You lie poorly, Princess."
She turns her head to look at me, lowers her sword, sheathes it again. "I will," she says seriously. "I won’t have slavery. It’s everything I fought against."
I can’t help it. I let loose with a snort. A laugh is rare enough these days that it feels like a foreign object lodged in my throat. "I’m not sure we were in the same war."
The princess’ face turns back over her shoulder again. "Look, I know you don’t trust me, but if you dawdle here, you’re not even going to have the chance to find out if I’m lying. You want slaves freed? It’ll be easier if I don’t have to argue to my advisors that they exist in the first place. That would take years."