by Anna Holmes
But Fram has always been a steadying hand in a troubled unit. Upon my appointment, he'd congratulated me with sincerity and encouraged others to do the same. He spoke of a fiancee, and a hope for children someday, and I can't leave him there. He wouldn't leave me. I shake my head back at Marsh and lunge forward, scooping up his uninjured side and hauling him to his feet.
It takes some magical help—Fram is not small—but eventually, I convince the air to give him an extra push over my shoulder and I'm struggling off to the medics stationed at the far bank of the stream just below the castle. "Helen," Fram gurgles. It's an axe wound, and deep.
"You'll see her soon, friend. Come on." I hoist him higher, hoping that I'm telling the truth. Sometimes it's hard to tell the lie from honesty.
Even the medics are beset upon from all sides, and I stiffen in anger. My units never attack the injured. Why did I think the Rebels would have the decency to do the same?
I manage to hand Fram off, and I think I reassure him some more, but with the shouts all around me, my own voice gets lost. I think to return to Marsh, but I don't see her anymore.
Someone shouts my name. Jori. I almost smile, but she's not shouting to let me know she's there. A man swings a sword behind me, and I duck at the last second.
As I do, I see the archer.
I can see he's spotted Jori even across the riverbank, knows she's leading these troops. He reaches around his back for an arrow.
It's as though something has made us all terribly slow. I look to her. She's turned away from me for a half a second, wiping at her mouth. The swordsman behind me drops, felled by someone else. And still I haven’t moved.
The archer fits the arrow to the string.
I have to do something.
I have to kill him.
He's young, like me. I could very well have gone to school with him, played at swordfighting in the back alleys on the way home.
I can't kill him.
My mind races as he adjusts the heft of the arrow. I have to do something.
My eyes shut and as though the decision has been taken away from me already, I say the words and grasp for his leg.
He screams and falls.
I scream, too.
The arrow still flies.
"No," I breathe. "No. No."
It's quiet here—no shouting, no whistles of arrows, no crackling of fire. Even our campfire is burnt out. But terror still grips me. I still feel as though I will die as she does. My heart still thrashes against my chest.
And someone’s hand clamps over my mouth.
I inhale sharply. My panic doesn’t fade. I catch a hint of light and reach out with a shaking, damp hand to tuck a strand of Caelin's hair back into her hood, pulled down as far over her face as she can. I need to mask her face. They've probably already heard me.
I hear movement from the other occupants of the camp. Caelin removes her hand, and I try hard to concentrate. I have to make her look Plain. I have to keep her hidden.
But I can't. I still see Jori, eyes open and staring upward, body still.
I still feel my body coursing with pain as though I'd walked straight through the fire.
I still hear the archer's cries.
I still can't breathe.
"Like you've never had a nightmare," Caelin snaps at the others. I can only stare straight up at the underside of her chin. "Go back to sleep."
I can help with that. I reach out and feel the bandits—even Gavroth and his brother, who are now on watch, even Tressa—and I will them to sleep. One by one, they sag, leaving me alone with Caelin, precisely as she's supposed to look.
I allow myself to slump against the tree I tried to sleep beside, trying to return the air to my lungs properly. She looks cautiously at the inert camp, and I lower her hood. "Let me look at you," I manage. "Please. I just need an honest face."
She swallows, slightly frightened. Of course she is. She's no reason not to be. She thinks that Rosalia sent me to worm my way into her life, to get near to her, then be her undoing.
The worst part is, I think they might have.
Maybe the prince doesn't have the sort of power Rosalia needs to overthrow Caelin, but the girl who searched him out, tracked him in the guise of a bandit, wounded him to slow him down? It’s not unreasonable to think I’d find my way out of the slave camps, and Jori would have told them so. Maybe Jori did make it to Rosalia after all. Maybe they made it to her. I don't know. But something about all of this is wrong.
Of course Caelin’s frightened. I'm raving like a madman over something that never happened. "It's not real," I heave.
"Yes, it was," she insists. "That was how you lived it, so it was very much real."
"She's not dead."
"But you were made to think she was. That is enough for a nightmare."
It was always the same one—always the battle. Tonight, it was different. "I did that," I gasp. "It was all there if I only paid attention to her. She told me, but—"
"Alain, you're not to blame for her decision."
"If I drove her to it—"
"You should always listen more than you talk. I know, I am terrible at it; those are my father's words, but he was wise, so I’ll borrow them. You cannot take responsibility for someone else's horrible ideas, even in the absence of an ear."
"What happened to forgiving her mistake?"
"I was being generous. This is no mistake. Leaving you to…" she turns her face from me. "This is cruel, and if I see her, I'll be more generous with reproach. Or maybe my fist. Whichever she demands."
I can't help the smallest laugh now. I know she's being serious, which makes her surly when I laugh at her. But it's not wholly amusement. It's partially disbelief. I'd never thought such an entirely irritating person could also be so—
I stop myself.
Jori.
No, not Jori. I'm finished with her.
Then why do I stop myself?
Caelin’s Resurgence.
She's distanced herself well enough from the monsters, as I have mine.
Then what stays my hand?
Tentatively, slowly, I trace the edge of her face, the light of her cheek making my pasty bluish skin pearly rather than mottled. Her eyes fix on mine, and she draws closer. I sit up now, too. Her skin is unbelievably warm under my clammy fingertips—not at all unpleasant. I let my fingers slide into her hair at least as far as the webbing will allow. Her forehead rests against mine.
All at once, she pulls back, taking my hand from her face and squeezing it in both of hers before setting it back in my lap. "Not now," she says, smiling even though the words she says are what neither of us wants to hear.
"Caelin—"
"I don't mean never," she continues, casting her gaze on the very beginnings of dawn between the thick clouds, back again. "Just not now."
This is about the Rosalian prince, I think. As earnestly as my little liar's soul can muster, I tell her, "Caelin, I'm not going to kill you." She shakes her head, and I insist, "I'm not. I could never—"
"I—I know. But somehow it's easier to imagine you doing that than…" she points nervously in the vicinity of her cheek where moments before I’d set my hand. "It's nothing to do with any of this prince business, anyway."
"What can I do? What do I have to do to convince you?"
She huffs, a piece of her bronze hair floating up from her forehead and back again. "Just listen to me, Alain." Slowly, I close my mouth. Her voice softens. "You've had a confusing day. You need to heal."
I open my mouth to protest, but everything that might come out of it sounds like the words of a child. But I don't want to. I'm not confused, I just—
I am confused. She's right.
I take her hand up again—she's let it linger near mine, despite the restraint she professes. I hold it for only a moment, to let the feeling of warmth seep into my always cold hand. And then I let it go.
She pats my hand heavily and draws her hood up again. "Try to go back to sleep."
I fall back against the tree. She settles back to the grass, huddled under her cloak. For me, at least, sleep is not likely to visit again. I may as well watch the dawn.
Chapter Twenty-One
Caelin
What happened in the early morning could very well have been a dream and I'd never have been the wiser if Alain weren't so bloody awkward.
I wake up Plain, which makes me think he never went back to sleep. He looks like it, eyes sallow as he discusses plans with Tressa and Gavroth. And then he glances up, sees me, and turns blue.
He blushes blue. His anger is reddish, but his embarrassment is blue. I salute to remind him of the charade. Me, reminding the liar.
It's explained to Gavroth's band of rogues that we approach the slave colony to confirm its existence and find out about its inhabitants. This much is not a lie, but it stokes the flames of their visions of an impending coup. They gab about freeing prisoners. Whatever gets us there faster.
Indeed, Gavroth says he knows of a path. I send Tressa to check up on it discreetly under the guise of hunting for breakfast. Irritatingly, Fiora insists on going along. She has some fixation on watching Tressa shoot. At first I think it's simple prejudice, but as their conversation wears on, I think the Legion spread something about kinship between archers. I ignore it. Tressa can handle herself.
Gavroth's brother August sits poking at the fire, trying to rekindle some sparks that have died down to embers in the cold of the morning. As I pass by, he catches a glimpse of the hilt of my sword underneath the fold of my cloak. "What kind of sword is that?" he asks curiously.
I draw the blade and allow him to see. "Forged in the cryst caverns of the Great Mines. Its previous owner was from the region. In lightness and balance, there are none its equal."
Its previous owner was my mother. Everything I tell him is true.
He flinches as I sheath it again. "You…took it."
"It was surrendered." This sounds suitably menacing without letting him make a demon of me. In truth, she gave it to me when I joined the Resurgence. It was the only sign she made of her blessing. I look him over. "What of yours?"
Poor lost lammie. His mouth wavers, and he casts his face, still broad with the extra puff of youth, down in embarrassment. "It's only a village sword."
I hold out a hand. "Let me see."
Reluctantly, he removes it from its hastily assembled sheath, cobbled together out of whatever scraps of leather he'd had lying around. He's correct—the maker was no master, likely a village blacksmith more accustomed to shoeing horses than to arming soldiers. I examine it in the weak morning light. The metal is Elyssian, from the lower forges of the Southern Plain. August is a long way from home. The path Gavroth wants us to take forks east and north, and only a few miles' journey would have us veering northward to Alain's shore.
I swing the sword and find myself pleasantly surprised. It wobbles a little on the upward slash, but its downward motion is smooth enough. It's heavy, but its cuts are quick. I parry an imaginary foe and whirl to slice at another, and turn around again to face August. His eyes are wide. "I didn't think it could do all that," he said.
I flip the blade up and catch it by the steel, handing the hilt to him again. "With the right training, even the dullest blade can become a weapon to be feared." Is this what a Legion officer sounds like? I hope so. It's partly a load of nonsense.
I am not prepared for the response. He bows to me. "Thank you, Lieutenant."
Oh. He thinks I'll teach him. "After the colony," I say brusquely, and his face lights up. I wish I hadn't promised it.
He's too young for all of this. The Legion must truly have been desperate, to accept a boy such as he is. The baby fat in his face and the red of his hair are all that mark him as Gavroth's brother—August is all elbows and knees and long skinny bones in between, and he's clearly not grown into himself yet. I sigh. Perhaps I'll take him back with us. Enroll him in the Academy, get him a shot at some decent training. Certainly he'll hate me for what I'll likely have to do with his brother, depending on what Tressa finds of his background, but maybe someone can speak to him and pull him out of banditry. Riley seems to have a steadying effect—somehow he gets me to behave on occasion. Maybe he can reach August.
Riley. I haven't thought of him in a while, consumed with the questions of Alain and an uprising and slave colonies. All worthy distractions, but now I wonder what he thinks of our upcoming nuptials. I wonder if he even knows, if he’s left the Northern Shore to make preparations. I wonder if he paces his quarters dreading the holiday, wondering what on earth he'll do for Alora. She likely sits heartbroken somewhere, furious with me, or worse, dutifully ceding what is hers to her princess. I force a shuddering breath and look down the way to the path. I could turn for home now—I think that I've enough to levy an accusation about the keeping of slaves. I could ease Riley and his lady's anxiety, if any, about All Kings' Day.
But it's not enough for me, wretched, selfish, contrary brat that I am. I need to see it for myself. I need to know that I am being undermined so that I can rage accordingly.
I walk over to Alain, giving Gavroth and Cole the most disdainful look I can muster along the way. He catches my eye and goes blue again. "Sir," I bark. Alain nearly jumps. "I suggest that we carry on as quickly as possible. I think we may have roused suspicions in Mountainside."
Gavroth chuckles slightly. "It would be a rare person indeed in Mountainside who'd care even if a revolution brewed under their noses. As long as they carry on being insufferably happy, they're content enough."
"In the light, anyway," says Cole. I give him the universal officer look that means explain, now. He shirks back. "T-The back alleys of the leeward side are less cheerful. You know its designation.”
"We were stationed elsewhere," I say as though it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"It was an outpost, and they haven't been able to rout us from there."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tressa return and her eyes narrow and her nostrils flatten. "All the same," I continue icily, "I know the prince is anxious to get on with our mission."
This budges them. The campsite is packed up, and after a hasty breakfast, we're on our way. I look to Tressa, who gives me the slightest nod. The road is safe.
Alain makes his way to Maribelle, taking pains to disguise the severity of his limp. I don't know why; everyone here was present when his leg was stabbed. The woman who did the stabbing is not with us, and I am glad—it would have been much more difficult to convince Alain to pretend if she were here.
Navigator is none too thrilled with the extra company. The Legion rejects trail behind us, and once Alain manages to seat himself, we're on our way.
He clears his throat slightly as he pulls alongside me. "I think we'll—er, well…"
I cast a glance over my shoulder, but the bandits are too busy talking to each other and laughing over something. My Resurgent imagination automatically assumes it's something crass, probably laughing over how many of us they've killed. I shake myself. They're people. They're idiots, idealistic and foolishly attached to their cause, but they're only people like us. Misguided, tired, and broken.
It's August who bothers me most. He should be in school, making friends, fumbling around with his first sweetheart, but the Legion at his brother's behest is robbing him of all of it. The Resurgence stole all that already from me, and if I can save him from it, I ought to try.
"You know, you do a remarkable impression of Commander Marsh. It's frightening, actually."
"And you thought me a tyrant before. I learned how to avoid sounding drunk on power by listening to people who were."
"Well, er—keep it up. For now."
"I don't want to frighten you off," I tease.
He turns blue again, and I spur Navigator forward. This is going to be impossible.
The wind flings itself into my face, and I smell salt. The ocean is close by. Gavroth's path winds into a dense group of trees, and though I c
an't see the shore, I can tell that this grove is the last obstacle.
Navigator doesn't like it, and I know that I'm going to have to tug him along. I jump down. Alain stops suddenly. "I'm fine," I assure him as Gavroth and his band draw near. I remember to harden my voice and finish, "Horse doesn't want to go through the trees."
"Perhaps you'd better turn him loose, then," Gavroth says, a bit of a smirk under that great red beard. He must've seen Maribelle while we were on the run.
I know his look well. He thinks himself to be my replacement. Gavroth is used to being in charge, and knows how to get there. He'll be sadly disappointed with Alain, I think. I hope, anyway. I don't think Gavroth will make him turn blue like I seem to. I'm not about to let him think it will be easy, either. I give him the look Kelvin always used to pin troublemakers to the wall. "I think not," I say simply.
He works his jaw and stares at the ground, offering nothing further. I shouldn't be as pleased as I am that this works. I've always tried to be more encouraging than terrifying, but terrifying does work when it needs to. He keeps quiet now as we carry on further. Alain rides close. I will say this—Navigator seems to have grown used to Maribelle's company, and he loses some of his agitation with her near. For a horse the Resurgence counted a lost cause around horse and human alike, he's outgrown that well enough.
Alain's back grows stiff as we ride on, and I shoot him a questioning look. The bandits are too close now, so he shakes his head. Tressa seems to share his trepidation. She's the first to speak. "Where are we going? This is not what you showed me this morning."
"This way is safer," Gavroth says simply.
Tressa trots closer to me, the three of us in the front, the four of them behind. There’s an invisible barrier of silence between us. I don't like this arrangement.
I pretend to fumble for Navigator's reins as though he's pulled free of me. Alain slows, too. The bandits halt. Damn. I was so hoping that they'd take up the front without any prompting. "Go ahead," I tell them brusquely. "He's going to take some calming." Right on cue, Navigator snorts and stomps.