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Post by Elcie on Jan 28, 2015 21:43:52 GMT -5
Twenty years after the events of the Medieval roleplay, change is coming to the kingdom of Courdon. Slaves are picking up arms, fighting back, and even the enkis are growing nervous.
Xavier Lynn, once a slave, once a lord, and now a general, finds he has raised an army. Now he and his family must face the consequences.
**
This is a catch-all thread for the fics GLQ, Carrie and I have been writing about the slave rebellion led by Xavier, Elin, and Lydia in their later years! Newly organized, with chronological index! \o/ AU fics are indicated with an asterisk. |
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Post by Elcie on Jan 28, 2015 21:44:07 GMT -5
Safe Journeys<Late August, 1336> It was for their own protection, they said. Ivy remembered this clearly as the cart trundled down the path, her brother beside her, and with them two couriers who were tasked with sending them to Solis. They traveled lightly, wearing a few layers of clothes for the trip, with their outer clothes and cloaks ragged, giving them the appearance of peasants.
In truth, they were anything but.
Ivy sighed. “This isn't forever, right?” she pondered to her brother.
“Just a few months, till our parents take a trip back, I think,” Ciro replied, staring at the wand in his lap. “It won't be so bad. We'll be in Solis; think of the things we could learn there!”
Ivy put a hand to her chin. “You mean the things you could learn there. I can't cast spells normally, remember?”
“I'm sure they'll have something for you, Ivy,” Ciro responded. “That hasn't stopped you from reading about magic before.”
“I know. I know they will. Maybe I could even read more about what I can do. I just wish I could do more.”
“You can do a lot. You don't have to be a mage to be good at stuff. Muriel's proved that more than enough.”
“Eh, I'm not great at what she does either,” Ivy said. “Not normally anyway.”
“Ivy, look, you don't have to be like either of us to be good at something. You've got your own talents. And risk aside, it's still really cool.”
Ivy smiled slightly. “Thanks Ciro.”
“No problem.” Ciro turned around to the back of the cart, where some of their belongings lay. ”Aciwoo apple!”
There was a rustle in one of the bags until an apple flew into his hand. Ivy shook her head fondly.
“We've got time, Ciro. I don't think anyone would've minded you reaching back there to forage.”
“Eh, maybe. I wasn't going to use magic for anything else today.” Ciro waited for a moment for the rain to wash away some of the dirt on the apple before taking a bite.
“You should still save your magic, Ciro,” one of the guards called back to him. “Just in case something happens.”
Ciro sighed. “Right. I'm sorry.” He turned to Ivy. “You want one?”
“Nah, I'm not hungry,” Ivy said.
They were silent for some time while Ciro ate, and Ivy turned to walking the scene around them. It was largely the same, the same damp forest and the same tiny damp streams that trickled down the road next to them. Ivy drew her cloak tighter around her, shivering slightly at the rain and the autumn air that began to bite at her face.
Ciro frowned as he looked over at his sister and cast another spell. Instantly, Ivy began to feel warmer, and the chill air began to bother her less.
“Thanks,” Ivy said. She sighed. “How much longer is it?”
“Still another two days maybe, and we should be on the outskirts of Solis,” one of the couriers said. Ivy sighed but didn't complain. No sense arguing about something that couldn't be helped. She thought to the book she kept in the back of the cart. Normally, she would be flipping through it and reviewing what she knew, but she didn't want the pages to get wet and the ink to run. Otherwise, she'd have it with her, just as her mother recommended.
Ciro shot a concerned look towards Ivy and threw his finished apple out the side of the cart. “Bored, Ivy?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she admitted. “Nothing much to see or do.”
“Hmm... Well, how about we think more about what's coming up for us in Solis?”
“Well, there's the books they have... I am curious to see their library.”
“Me too,” Ciro agreed. “Maybe they'll have the book that father wanted before he went south. I can look through it for him and see what it has.”
“I've been curious about that too,” Ivy said. “It sounds pretty useful.”
“It should be,” Ciro nodded. “And when we're not studying, maybe I can see what the priests are up to.”
“You and the priests,” Ivy smiled fondly. “I'm hoping to see Fate. I wanna hear what she's been singing lately. And I can show her that drawing I did of her.”
“Yeah. Maybe I'll get to see Ashton and Ramsey. See what they've been up to lately.”
“Yeah,” Ivy agreed. “And it should be interesting to see some of the townspeople too. Maybe we could make some friends there.”
“Well...” Ciro frowned slightly. “Our parents said we shouldn't stray too far from the castle.”
“I think we'll be safe as long as we stay within the city walls, Ciro,” Ivy said. “If we're careful, we should be fine. Besides, I really want to see them.”
Ciro sighed. “Yeah, maybe you're right. Maybe we could go together and--”
”Shh!” One of the couriers suddenly said, throwing up a hand to stop the young teenagers from talking as he pulled the horse drawing the carriage to a halt.
“What?” Ivy whispered.
One of the couriers put a finger to his lip at Ivy. The girl quieted down as the two couriers searched around, scanning the area. They went silent, waiting for something to happen, but they didn't hear anything beyond the pounding rain.
“...Sorry, I thought I heard something,” the courier responded. He snapped the reins again and the horse kept walking. But not long after, the courier stopped the horse again, this time after a resounding snap.
“There is it again!” he said. But once more, it went silent. Everyone on the cart waited with bated breath.
Ciro reached down to the wand in his lap, but just as he was starting to raise it, figures darted at them from the bushes. Their swords were drawn, and they were clothed in leather with bits of foliage attached in attempts to make them blend in with the scenery.
“Bandits,” one of the couriers breathed. He snapped the reins of the horse. “Run, Lightning, run!”
But the bandits got to them first, cutting at one of the supports attaching the horse to the cart. The horse whinnied and tried desperately to run anyway, making the cart run lopsided. The passengers held on desperately to the edges of the out of control cart. But it wasn't long before another bandit caught up before the horse could get too far and cut the other rope. The cart toppled over, sending some of the passengers flying, ready for the bandits to pursue. Meanwhile, Lightning, thoroughly spooked, took off running and was quickly out of sight.
“Ha! Nice one,” one of the bandits called to the other, the one who cut the second rope.
“Looks like they've got a lot. Maybe they've got rich friends. Loot and ransom?”
“I like the way you think.”
The couriers were quick to rise, but the two young teenagers were on their way up. Immediately, one of them shouted to them. “Kids! Run! Get to safety!”
“I can help!” Ciro shouted, pulling out his wand. Ivy, meanwhile, had dashed behind the cart, her eyes flitting to one of the bags strewn on the ground.
“Neither of you are trained for this, and you need to go before--”
”Expelliarmus!” Ciro shouted, aiming at the bandit closest to them. His sword shot out of his hand, landing helplessly on the ground. However, it only made the bandits close in faster, now that the fight had begun. The couriers cursed and drew out blades of their own, one of them rushing to get in front of Ciro and the other running towards Ivy.
“Ivy, come on!” the courier said.
“Sorry; I wanted to get my book,” she said, drawing the slender tome from one of the bags.
“You got it, now get running! I'll come with you.”
“No, they're going to need our help!” Ivy retorted. “Please Jordan.”
Jordan looked up, seeing the other courier trying to fight off the bandits while Ciro casts spells at them, trying to get them to stop, slow down, or at least be vulnerable. With the sheer number of bandits around them, they were struggling. And inwardly, he knew that they may not be able to provide much help, especially with Ivy's limited fighting talents.
Jordan sighed. “We need to run,” he said. “Forget the supplies; our lives are more important. And maybe they'll leave enough behind to last us until Solis. For now, let me get the word to them. You stay hidden.”
“But--” Ivy protested.
”Stay hidden,” he commanded before moving to flank one of the attackers. “Simon, Ciro, we need to run!” he said. “I'll stay with Ivy; you stay with Ciro. We'll find each other later; just find a way out!”
“Alright,” Simon agreed. “We'll help when we--” he was cut off by another bandit attacker, whom he had to focus on.
Jordan pushed back another bandit before running towards Ivy and lifting her up. “Come on.”
Ivy clutched her book to her as she ran alongside Jordan, looking out for bandits coming near them. Sure enough, as one of the bandits drew Jordan's attention, she noticed another coming up behind him. With a determined look on her face as she remembered how she saw the bandits attack, she stuck her book in her pocket and grabbed a large fallen branch. As the bandit drew closer, Ivy rushed in along his side and slammed the branch lengthwise onto the bandit's torso and swinging it at him again as the bandit reeled. The strength of Ivy's attack surprised her and the bandit both, but it wasn't enough. The bandit stumbled for some time, but managed to recover, and now focused his eyes on Ivy.
It did, however, give Jordan enough warning to see the other bandit. He pushed his own bandit back before striking the blunt of his sword across the other bandit's face. The bandit fell to the ground.
“Too close,” Jordan gasped. He turned back as his own attacker recovered, only to have a green light shoot into him. The attacker fell to the ground.
“Ivy, Jordan, go!” Ciro's voice called out in the chaos. “We'll be okay!”
“Ciro, you need to run too!” the other courier shouted, as he held off another bandit.
“Ivy come on,” Jordan said. “We won't get another chance.”
“But Ciro--”
“Simon will keep him safe, now come on.” Jordan grabbed Ivy's wrist and they began running. The bandits pursued them, but they made it into the foliage.
“Don't stop till we're out of sight,” Jordan said quietly to her as they ran.
But Ivy couldn't help but look back, seeing the occasional flashes of magic through the trees as they closed into the forest. Judging by the flashes, it seems that Ciro and Simon were indeed retreating and making progress. She gulped as she forced herself to turn back and focus on where she was running.
She just had to believe they would be okay.
**
An hour had passed, and Ciro was panting for breath as he walked, holding a light from his wand. His muscles ached, his arms felt like they were about to come apart, and every fiber of his being was begging him to sit. But he refused. During the fight, he had lost sight of not just Jordan and Ivy, but also Simon. They had managed to get away, but with the forest as dense as it was and with tensions high, it was easy to get lost. Currently, he was just hoping to find any familiar face, be it the couriers or Ivy.
Finally, Ciro caught sight of something moving through the trees, and a male voice sounding out in pain. A familiar voice. It was Simon. Ciro breathed a sigh of relief and closed the distance between them, catching up to the wounded courier. “I-I'm here. A-are you okay?” He gasped between breaths.
The courier let out a sigh of relief of his own as he saw Ciro. Then he winced again as he clutched a bleeding wound on his leg. “I'm fine. It's just... one of the bandits got me as we were running. I got away, but the run made it worse.”
“Hang on,” Ciro said, dismissing the light spell from his wand. The relief he felt from no longer having to hold the spell was short-lived as he cast another one. “Episky.”
A green light shot from Ciro's wand, and the wound began to close together. As this happened, Ciro cringed and put his free hand to his stomach.
“Thanks,” Simon said. But he frowned at Ciro's condition. “Take it easy with your magic, though. You've already done quite a bit in the battle alone.”
“I know...” Ciro frowned. “I know I shouldn't. But with those bandits, and with us trying to escape...” He rubbed his arm, the brief tug in his torso subsiding. “Where are the others? Ivy? Jordan?”
“Haven't found them yet,” Simon replied sadly.
“They can't have gone too far,” Ciro noted.
“But we don't know which way they ran, and it's easy to get lost,” Simon pointed out. “We might not be able to--”
“We will,” Ciro said firmly. “We have to try. Maybe we can go back to the cart, see if they can meet us--”
“No,” Simon cut in. “There's a chance the bandits could still be there. We'll have to wait quite a while before we risk trying to meet there and recouping what supplies they don't steal.”
“Then we can try to find one of the major rivers,” Ciro said. “We weren't too far from one, were we?”
“Egret river, but it's still a great distance away,” Simon said, frowning. “But I think we were nearing a smaller river branch to that river before they attacked us. Maybe we can try to find it. Hopefully Jordan and Ivy will think the same thing.”
Ciro and Simon spent some time going through the forest, looking for any sign of their lost companions and keeping their ears open for the sound of a river. Nearly two hours passed, but there was no sign of them. Although they began to hear the sound of a river through the noise of the wilds, the rain was weighing them down and they were plainly fatigued. Finally, as they approached a clearing, the courier shook his head.
“It's no use; we can't travel much farther in this, or we'll just tire ourselves.” He gestured to the foliage. “Let's try to get some shelter from the rain. Maybe they'll find a way to come to us.”
Ciro protested at first, wanting desperately to find the others. But he couldn't deny that the rain was weighing him down, and his already tired feet were threatening to collapse beneath him. So he sat down beneath a tree, the canopy shielding them from the rain. They sat in silence, with Ciro keeping a watchful eye on his surroundings, in case anyone—his sister or the other courier or anyone--showed up.
For a long time, there was nothing but the encroaching darkness and more rain. With a sigh, Ciro leaned his head forward, pressing it against his knees as thoughts of his sister took over his mind. He knew she had run, along with the other courier. They had gotten far enough that he was sure that they had escaped. But he couldn't help but worry. He wondered if she had gotten separated from her courier as he had, and if she had gotten lost, and if she would ever be able to find her way back. Or worse, if she had an encounter with wildlife that she didn't know how to handle... They had been warned to stay on the road to avoid most of the dangers, but they must not have counted on bandits coming and necessitating them all to go off-road and separate.
He sighed as he reached below his collar, rubbing his fingers upon a wooden pendent, adorned by a single feather. He closed his eyes as he took it out from beneath his collar, enfolding his hands over it.
“Lord 'Woo,” Ciro whispered. Simon looked over briefly, but didn't interrupt. “Wherever Ivy or Jordan are... Please let them be safe. Give them safe passage. And... Help lead us to them, so we can be united again. Please. Whatever it takes, if it takes all night and all day... Lead me to them...”
Just as Ciro had let go of his pendant, he heard a sudden sound breaking through his thoughts. He couldn't quite place what kind of sound it was through the noise of the rain and wildlife, and the sound was vague and distant, but it sounded like a scream. Ciro shot to his feet, listening again as he heard another scream. This time he could definitely tell it was human. And female.
“Ivy!” he said under his breath, tucking his pendant back beneath his shirt. He didn't know for sure if it was her and if he didn't mishear anything, but he wasn't taking chances. Ignoring his body's numerous protests, he began running.
“Ciro, wait!” the courier called after him, also getting to get his feet and pursuing him.
Ciro ran haphazardly through the forest, following the source of the sound, not caring for what stood in his way or what scraped his legs as he passed, nor did he pay much attention to the feel of the Pull within him. There weren't any more screams after the second one, but Ciro wasn't going to let that discourage him. If there was a chance of seeing Ivy and seeing her alright, he was going to take it.
After all, it had to be Lord 'Woo leading them here... Right?
As he ran, he couldn't help but notice that they were getting closer to the river, and he could just barely see a riverbank ahead when he began to hear distant, vague chatter. The voices were unfamiliar and accented... As Ciro took another step, the courier caught up to him and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Wait,” Simon whispered. “We don't know who they are.”
“My sister could be there!” Ciro whispered back in protest.
“You're not going to help her if you get caught too,” Simon pointed out.
“We're not going to help her if we don't get there,” Ciro retorted. But he walked more carefully, trying his best not to make sounds. He was at best average at this, and the courier cringed at the sounds of the foliage beneath their feet.
But soon, they were able to make out the sounds, and ahead, near the edge of the riverbank, they could see a group of figures—five of them—each looking tough and bearing deadly weapons. They were closing in on a girl—a red-headed, familiar girl--who was clutching her chest and backing away. And on the ground nearby lay Jordan. He was bound, gagged, and bleeding. Alive, but helpless and certain to be taken by the assailants.
“Iv--!” Ciro started to say before the courier clapped a hand over Ciro's mouth.
“Ciro, we stand no chance,” Simon whispered, so low that Ciro could barely hear it. “Jordan's a good fighter, and even he had no chance. And you're too pulled.”
“Mph Mmphm!”
“We can't do anything,” he said. “Maybe Ivy can run, and if she does, then we can help her.”
The assailants moved closer to Ivy.
“Get away...” Ivy warned, her voice cracking with a sob as she tried waving a knife at them. “Get away from me, please!”
“You've traveled too far from home, peasant,” one of the figures said. “And now you'll have to pay for it. Don't worry; your new master will give you board, whomever you end up with.”
They took steps closer, and Ivy began backing away, keeping her knife out in front of her, her other arm pressed to her stomach. As she did so, she seemed to realized something. She brought her free hand up beneath her cloak and yanked, pulling out a green broach. The symbol of House Jade.
“You can't take me!” Ivy proclaimed. Though her mother had strongly discouraged her children from using their noble titles to get what they want, she did include an exception, to be used in case of any real danger, clearly meant as a last resort. To Ivy, this was a last resort, and this was definitely a real danger. “I-I'm Lady Ivy Lynn, of House Jade! If you take me or him, you have to deal with my whole House, and they'll know you're taking free Kythians!”
The slavers paused, looking at each other.
“She does have a point,” one of them said. “We don't need that much trouble for just one girl.”
Ciro began to relax in the Simon's grip. They were going to let them both go. They could still be saved. Thank 'Woo, Ciro thought.
“Hold on,” another one said. And he took another step closer, which caused Ivy to shake even more. “Say your name again.”
“I-Ivy Lynn. House Jade,” she reminded them.
”Lynn?”
Ciro's eyes went wide and he began struggling to get out of the courier's grasp. But Simon held firm.
Ivy nodded. “O-of House Jade.”
The slaver was silent for a moment. “...Where do you get your title from?”
Ivy gulped. “From my father.”
”Who?” he held his sword out, which caused Ivy to flinch. “What's their name?”
“X-xavier. Xavier Lynn.”
The slaver paused, before letting out a laugh.
“Wh-what's so funny?” Ivy asked. “Y-you still can't take me!”
But as she spoke, the man approached, deftly moving his sword to knock the knife out of Ivy's hand. Ivy's eyes went wide, and she began to turn and run, reaching into her cloak. But she was caught off guard, and the man grabbed her by the back collar of her shirt. Ivy struggled, pulling out her book and trying desperately to flip through its damp pages.
“She's a Lynn,” the slaver said, taking hold of her arm. “Grab her; we can get a good bounty with her.”
Ciro struggled harder, and he began to bring his hand down towards his wand. Simon blocked his arm from moving away from his side.
“We can't help her, and you're in no shape to do much more magic,” he warned. “Don't get us killed or get yourself captured too.”
Ciro shook his head, tears coming out of his eyes as he continued to struggle, not listening to the courier. As he did, he gripped his hand on his wand tightly, going through his mental spell list, trying to think of a spell he could still use to help.
As the other slavers approached to grab Ivy, she tried to fight back. While she did manage to hit one of them, the other slaves were quick to grab and ultimately restrain her. One of them twisted her arm until Ivy was forced to drop the book into the mud. Ivy continued to struggle. “Put me down! I told you, you can't take me; it's illegal!”
“It's very well legal,” the man said cooly, letting go of her collar as the other slavers held her in position. “To reclaim our property.”
“Y-your what?”
“Our property,” the man repeated. Then he cocked his head. “Don't tell me your father never told you.”
Ivy's eyes went wide. “...Told me what?”
“...Xavier has been on the top of our bounties list for years. Ever since he first escaped from Talvace, and even more after the Kythians had their little rebellion. And now that he's being so bold and foolish, he's made himself even more of a valuable target. Him and his family. Xavier is the lawful property of Lord Duval, and by our laws, so too are his children.”
Ivy could only stare. “I-I-I...” her breathing became more rapid, as she looked at all of them in quick succession. “B-but... H-he w--”
Ivy's stuttering was met with a resounding slap.
“From now on, you won't speak until you are told to do so,” he said. “Learn your place before your master makes you, and he won't be nearly so kind as I.” He gestured to the other slavers. “Cover her mouth and take the other. Prepare the boats. We're leaving. I promise that when we get back, we are going to be very rich.”
Ciro whirled to face Simon, a pleading look in his eyes. But Simon shook his head.
“Ciro... I'm sorry, we can't,” he whispered so softly that Ciro could barely hear him.
“You sure about taking him?” one of the slavers asked as they picked up the bound Jordan.
“He's weak and wounded. We can take him. ...Oh. And you, girl,” the slaver took the girl's chin. “If you ever try running, you'll be ending this man's life. Cooperate, and he will have a chance to live.”
With that, two slavers held up Jordan as the group marched Ivy down to the creek, just out of sight. The last thing Ciro and Simon could see of her as she disappeared into the foliage was the look of helplessness and horror upon her face.
Ciro was tense, his mind going through the numerous incantations in his head, only coming up with either risky ones to use while pulled, risky ones for the situation, ones he wasn't good enough to use, or ones that were of no use at all. He could only stare at the space where Ivy once stood.
Ciro shook his head, tears running down his cheeks and over the hand of the courier. Ivy...
Finally, Simon let go of Ciro's mouth and loosened his hold, and the moment he did, Ciro tore out of his grasp and ran, coming out of the foliage, heading towards the creek to which the slavers seemed to plan to escape. Simon was quick to catch up, grabbing Ciro again and holding him back.
“Ciro, don't be a fool!” Simon whispered pointedly. Ciro only struggled again before rounding on the courier.
“Let me go!” Ciro hissed. “Th-they took her! I-I have to... We have to follow-- Let me go!”
“Ciro, if I let you go, you're going to run after them and get yourself killed or worse,” Simon said firmly. “There's nothing we could've done.”
“But Ivy--!”
”We can't help her now,” Simon asserted. “Not like this. Not when we're scattered, when Jordan is wounded, and we have so little left for us. We need to save what we can. And we need to make sure we all get to Solis so we can warn them and really help her.”
“...B-but... But Ivy...”
Ciro slumped into the Simon's hold, letting out a strangled sob. Simon sighed, his eyes glistening with tears of his own as he hugged Ciro.
“I know...” Regret<Late August, 1336> “Both of them?” the mage repeated softly.
“Both of them, yes,” Simon said quietly as he allowed the mage to work, merely curled the blanket tighter around himself.
“You didn't try to stop them?”
“You weren't there; there was nothing we could have done.”
“That's not true,” a quiet, solemn voice hitched out. Both heads turned to the young, dark teenaged boy sitting on a cot of his own, a blanket draped around him as he stared at the floor, his hazel eyes glistening with tears.
“Ciro, if we tried anything, it would've been worse for us,” Simon pointed out. “There were five of them, and Jordan wasn't a bad fighter himself.”
“There had to have been a way,” Ciro muttered. “Something we hadn't thought of. Something... something clever. Something that'd get us out alright. Something... Something.”
He leaned over and put his hands to his forehead, shutting his eyes tightly.
“Ciro...” Simon started.
“No,” a hitched voice came from Ciro. “Th-there's nothing you can say. I-I keep thinking of what else we could've done... But too late.” He shuddered as a shed a tear. “Lord 'Woo, please forgive me, for I am an idiot.”
“Ciro, listen to me, you can't blame yourself for this,” Simon retorted at the boy. “There was nothing you could've done, and there was nothing I could've done. Nothing that wouldn't have risked more harm than there already was.”
“But something... W-we're okay, but both of them... Ivy...” He wiped his face with his sleeve. “I-isn't there anything more we can do?”
“I've already arranged to have a message sent to your parents,” Simon said calmly. “To warn them about what's happening. Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll be able to intercept them.”
Ciro looked up briefly, not bothering to hide his tears. “Lucky?”
“...Slavers have been doing things like this long before you were born, Ciro,” Simon said. “Even before your parents were alive. And never officially, even though everyone knows. Even with the rebellion in Courdon, they'll still be able to move quickly to get where they want. We can only hope the rebellion can act soon... And that the message gets to them in time.”
“...But what if they don't?” Ciro asked tentatively, as if it was a question he did not want to dare to voice.
“...If they don't... We know where Ivy will be, at least. And maybe one day, the rebellion will find a way to break her out. On a day when they're strong, and Jisam's defenses are low. But...” He looked up, frowning. “There's a reason beyond your father that they haven't tried attacking it yet.”
Ciro folded his arms around himself. “I-if we send more troops...”
“The House can't show they're involved,” Simon pointed out.
“Then, then something we can do...” Ciro looked up, a determined look on his face. “I-I'll go down there too.”
“Ciro, no,” Simon snapped. “Your parents don't think it's safe for you, and I'm inclined to agree with them. You're still young and inexperienced.”
“Then I'll get more experience,” Ciro continued. “I... I'll learn all I can here. How to use my magic better, spells that can help me... Anything I can use for when I can go. Anything to make up for the fact that I couldn't save her from the start.”
Simon frowned. “...It's going to take a long time before you're fully ready to do anything like what your parents are doing.”
“Then the sooner I get started, the better. If it'll help them, if it'll help bring Ivy back... Then it's worth it. I know it will be.” Ciro's eyes had hardened, and one look into his eyes would show that nothing was going to convince him otherwise.
Still, one of the mages spoke up. “Ciro, remember to take care of yourself as well. You're not going to help Ivy if you work yourself to death.”
“I'm not going to. And I'm safe here. Besides...” He looked down. “It won't be nearly as bad as what Ivy will go through. I'll just study as much as I can. Before it's too late.”
The mage sighed. “At least rest first. You've had a long journey, you just got here, and you both look exhausted. And I bet the priests will want to see you tomorrow.”
“The priests... Yes.” Ciro nodded. “They'll help, I know they will. And I'll rest. I'll just bring a book with me to bed; I need to start right away if there's any chance of...” He trailed off.
“Ciro...” Simon looked over to the boy. “Don't stay up too late tonight, alright?”
Ciro was already eying a stack of books as Simon said this. “Alright,” he said quietly. But Simon wasn't convinced that the young boy had heard him, that his mind wasn't already on the many books he would read, the things he would study, without a thought to how long it would take him, without a thought to the years it takes to fully master some of the more complicated spells, and potentially without a thought to his own health. It was as his parents once told him; once Ciro had an idea in his head, it was hard to talk him out of it. Usually, it wasn't too much of a problem, but this...
They were fully willing to help Ciro learn, Simon was sure of that. But he knew that they would have to keep an eye on him. They wanted him safe just as much as they all wanted Ivy safe, unharmed, and home.
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Post by Gelquie on Jan 31, 2015 19:51:45 GMT -5
Kin<January, 1342> (Content Warning: allusions of violence, implied squick)This takes place about a month after an (attempted) incursion into the Gilded Palace (which will be delved into more deeply into a later fic). Featuring Gerard, now a full-fledged member of the rebellion. Because of character limits and formatting annoyances, we will be posting some fics from now via links to GoogleDocs. Just click the title (up there *points) to read! Don't worry- even if you're logged into a Google account, you'll just show up as an Anonymous animal, so no problems with revealing your real name or anything. =) A Family<January, 1342 (immediately follows Kin)> Gerard explaining to Muriel how he has essentially adopted a puppy child without consulting her. 8D; For background information, during the aforementioned siege of the Gilded Palace, the revolution dragged home a certain brooding royal child-- completely his initiative, not theirs-- who is mentioned in this fic. Details of how, precisely, a full son of Oliver Alaric wound up with the rebels will, again, be delved into more deeply in the actual palace fic that's in progress. 8D
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Post by Gelquie on Feb 5, 2015 21:37:27 GMT -5
JisamCollab with Gelquie, Avery, and Elcie(Content warning: Injury, violence, torture, implied squick, and other unfortunate implications. This is a dark fic; you have been warned.)Notes: Ivy written by GLQ
Rylan written by Elcie
Alyx and Rhett written by Carrie Part 1:The door to Rylan’s chambers were thrust open and two figures came in. In each of their arms were the arms of a young, dark, red-haired, blindfolded girl who could not be older than 13. The girl was limp in their arms, as if she had given up resisting. They marched her over to a standard chair, and proceeded to tie her to it before turning to Rylan.
“Here is the girl, as promised, enki,” the slaver said. “If you’ll talk to her, you’ll find that she’s exactly who we claim she is.”
“Excellent.” Rylan smiled. “If she is who you say she is, you’ll receive a portion of the reward in addition to your usual payment.” He stepped forward, grabbing the girl’s chin and lifting it to examine her face. He didn’t yet remove the blindfold. There was a resemblance, he thought, though his memory of Xavier’s face was not all that vivid. He hadn’t dealt with the boy as much as his father had. “What is your name, girl?” he said, sharply.
Ivy tried to peer through the blindfold at the man that grabbed her, but to no avail. She only gulped.
“I-I…” she started, then went quiet. The slave catcher seemed to think she was valuable because of her name; her last name in particular. If she said it and confirmed it, then she was doomed. But if she didn’t, or if she lied… Maybe she’d have a chance. “I’m, uh…” she thought. “Posy Marcus.”
The slaver growled. “She’s lying to you, Rylan. She told us her real name when we found her.”
Rylan narrowed his eyes. He let go of the girl’s chin and grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back sharply. “Don’t play games with me,” he spat. “Your name. Your real name, and your family’s name. Or should I call an overseer to carve the answer out of you with a knife?” He ran one finger down her cheek. Her skin was darker than he remembered the runaway’s being, but her hair was a similar fiery red. Perhaps the slavers were only trying to cajole him into giving them an additional reward, but the more he looked at the girl, the more he doubted it.
Ivy gasped in pain as her head was brought back, feeling the sharp pull on her scalp. The man had a strong grip, and based on his voice and the way the other slavers had treated it, it seemed like a warning of things to come. She shuddered as she felt his finger run over her cheek. Sure, she could lie again… But she’d also feel more pain, and like it or not, she couldn’t think of any way out of this situation, and she doubted she could get far if she tried to escape, especially if they hurt her too much… And especially after what happened to Jordan. While she hadn’t seen what happened herself, she could guess, and it filled her with dread.
“I-Ivy…” she started. Then she hesitated before speaking so quietly that she almost mouthed the word. ”Lynn.”
Rylan’s face lit up with a downright predatory grin. “Lynn,” he said, almost spitting the word. Because that was what the runaway was calling himself now, wasn’t it? The last name he’d invented so he could pretend to be a nobleman. And now, that name would seal his daughter’s fate.
Lynn. Maybe that was what he would call her.
He pulled the blindfold off the girl at last. “Then let me make this clear,” he said. “You belong to me, little Lynn. I am Lord Rylan Duval, master over the province of Talvace. You will speak only when spoken to and when you do you will call me enki, or Master, because that is what I am to you.” He let go of her hair at last, jerking his fingers free where he’d twined them in the strands. “Do not cross me.”
Ivy gasped as her hair was freed, relieved as the worst of the pain left her, leaving a subtle ache in her head. Enki… She had heard that word before. She’d heard her father and Lydia speak it, often with derision. And now he used the same word as a word of respect, instead of an insult as it was between her father and Lydia. It was… odd.
But… Despite what he claimed, there was one thing he was forgetting. Perhaps the situation had changed, but… Well, she doubted he would know that from all the way in Courdon. She tried to speak with conviction
“...You’re making a mistake. I’m a noble, my father’s a noble.” She knew the slavers had told her differently, but she wasn’t entirely sure if that was true, or just fabricated to further justify taking her. She had spent a long time thinking about it during the journey to Courdon, but had never come up with an answer. But it didn’t matter; false or no, this was all she had. “When my House finds out you’ve taken me, you’re going to be in a lot of trouble.”
Rylan’s eyes narrowed. Without warning, he suddenly lashed out and hit her in the face. “How dare you speak to me like that,” he snarled. “A noble? Is that really what he’s told you he is? Your sire,” he said, pronouncing the word with utter derision, “is a valuable possession of House Duval. By law, he still belongs to us. And so do you.” Rylan’s mouth twisted in a cruel smirk. “No one’s coming for you, girl,” he said. “I have every right to you.”
Ivy reeled at the pain as she hunched over, tears glistening in her eyes. The man had a strong arm and she could feel it from the ache. But more prominent on the surface of her mind was the way Rylan talked to her, and talked about her father that way. Not just insulting… But confirming what the slaver had said. But he was a noble, she knew that for sure… How could he be both?
Ivy shook her head. She wanted to tell him to not talk about her father like that, but she held back; she knew that was a battle she couldn’t win. “But I know he’s a noble… H-he--”
“He isn’t,” Rylan said sharply. “He lied to you, taught you to behave above your station. The sooner you accept that and know your place, the better.” He reached out and stroked the back of her head, a gentle movement which turned threatening when he roughly grabbed the back of her neck. “I’ve been lenient, as I know you are untrained,” he said softly. “But talk back to me again and you’ll get worse than a slap. Do I make myself clear?”
Ivy grimaced at the grab as she stared at Rylan’s face, her mind rushing with thoughts. Her father, a slave… He couldn’t have been lying about being a noble; everyone she knew acknowledged him as such, even with recent events. But a slave? He never told her. If he was telling the truth… But the enki already had her. Why would he lie? And then why would her father…? Why didn’t he ever tell her?
Ivy stared up at the leering man, trying to keep herself calm but unable to keep her tears from welling in her eyes. “...Yes.”
Rylan released her, smiling. “Good girl.” He stepped back and straightened, glancing across the room at his steward who stood near the doorway. “I’ll be having her branded. Make certain the irons are heating.” The man bowed and hurried out of the room.
He bent to untie her, keeping a firm grip on her arm as he pulled her roughly out of the chair. “You’ve done a great service to House Duval,” he added, over his shoulder to the slaver. “My thanks. I will see to it that you’ll be rewarded.”
The slaver bowed. “Thank you, enki,” he said.
Ivy said nothing as she was taken out of her chair. The man’s grip was tight, and the guards around her looked intimidating. Even if she tried to fight, she couldn’t win. All the same, her chest felt constricted, and she had to tell herself repeatedly to not cry. Not in front of them, at least.
She said nothing as she was marched down the halls of Castle Jisam, and merely examined the areas around her as she passed them. If she was going to get around here, she may as well know the layout, even if it didn’t make her feel any better about the situation. But the walk felt like it took forever, and with no idea where she was going, she found her mind wandering to her situation, to what she was about to lose, to her family… To her father…
Did Muriel and Ciro know? Did her mother know?
Did anyone know?
(Why didn’t he tell her?)
Finally, they reached the branding area where Rylan passed the girl off to overseers. He stood to one side and watched, calm and relaxed, as Ivy’s wrists were cuffed behind her back and she was forced to her knees. He didn’t always involve himself with the branding of new slaves, but given who the girl was and what she represented to his family, he was eager to stay and see this through. One of the men crouched behind her to hold her still, a knife against her neck to ensure she didn’t struggle, as the head overseer went to the fire and pulled out the red-hot branding iron.
Matter-of-factly he pulled down the neckline of her dress to expose her collarbone and pressed the iron to her chest, holding it there a few seconds as the other men held Ivy as still as possible.
Ivy shut her eyes tightly and let out a scream of pain as the iron seared into her flesh. Her muscles tensed as she did her best not to struggle so as not to make it worse, and so that she wouldn’t have to bear the pain of the knife as well. Her eyes welled with tears as she tried to block the pain out, wishing for it to end, even as the pain began to diminish.
Then he pulled it away and they released her, leaving her wrists cuffed for the moment. Rylan walked up to her and stood in front of her, arms crossed, smiling slightly as he examined the fresh burn. “Stand up, Lynn,” he said, still deliberately using Kythian so she could understand him, so he could drive home the fact that he owned her now.
Ivy sat on the ground, gasping for breath. The worst of the branding was over, but she glanced down at her wound, and the mark from the burn that was beginning to form. A diamond, with two incomplete triangular wedges beneath it. Just like the scar on her daddy’s arm...
Ivy didn’t react to the command, merely stared at her burn, deep in thought.
“I said stand up,” Rylan snarled. His arm shot out, grabbing her by the neck and dragging her to her feet. “For your own sake, you’d better learn to follow orders,” he snapped. He traced the edge of her brand with one finger. “I have no time to waste on slaves who won’t know their place.”
He shoved her backwards, then glanced at the overseer. “Take her and get her some new clothes. I want her started working today.” Rylan smiled. “And do not hold back if she fails to do as she’s told.”
The overseer bowed. “Yes, enki.” He grabbed Ivy--her wet eyes wide with fear, shock, and pain--and marched her out the door without another word.
They might not have Xavier, the valuable runaway whose loss had always angered his father - but at least Rylan could break the man’s daughter. She would serve as an example. He, Lord Rylan Duval, would always reclaim what belonged to him. Part 2:The new girl was quiet.
Quiet and sad, moving around Jisam Castle like a silent, sullen wraith. She kept her head down and her long, straight hair pulled back in a plait—bright hair, red as fire and smooth as silk, and Alyx thought it would be a real shame the next time lice made its rounds and Lord Rylan made her cut it all off.
Alyx wasn’t sure how long the girl had been at the castle. At least a week, but maybe longer if Rylan had kept her separated from the rest of the slaves at first. Sometimes he did this in case a new purchase came harboring a disease.
Or if he had to break them first.
In any case, Alyx didn’t talk to her. Instead she simply watched sidelong as the girl labored at her side, the both of them scrubbing the floor of Jisam Castle’s great hall in advance of a feast that Lord Rylan was to hold tonight in honor of his wife’s birthday. Alyx hated feasts. Mostly because Lord Rylan always got dangerously drunk at them, and a drunken Rylan was a particularly aggressive Rylan. And a particularly aggressive Rylan was very, very bad for her. Her stomach flipped just thinking about it.
The sound of booted feet snapped Alyx’s attention, and she glanced over her shoulder to see who was approaching. Rhett. One of the overseers. A miserable, red-faced man in his early thirties, Rhett worked the slaves Jisam Castle with a quick tongue and an even quicker whip. Alyx bit her lip and turned away from him, scrubbing harder. Only the gods could help her if Rhett thought that she was slacking.
“You, girl,” Rhett snapped, thrusting a finger at the redhead. “Those rags you’re using are spent. Fetch new ones from the laundry.”
Had such a command been barked at her, Alyx would have been on her feet in an instant, scampering to get new rags. But the redhead simply kept scrubbing, eyes still cast at the floor. Not good.
“Are you deaf?” Rhett growled, seizing her by the end of her long, glossy braid and hefting her up with the sort of tenderness with which one might greedily snatch an apple from a tree. “Rags. Now!”
Ivy grimaced and shifted uncomfortably at the pain, trying in vain to stand in a way that minimized the pull of her hair. She could only stare at the man shouted words that she didn’t understand at her. Her Courdonian was spotty enough that she could only catch the words “you” and “new”.
“I-I don’t know what you’re saying,” she whimpered in Kythian, quickly and desperately, her voice trembling. “Wh-what is it? Show me, please?”
On the floor, Alyx’s heart skipped several beats. That language. Oh gods, how long had it been since she’d heard it anywhere but in the vast depths of her own head—forbidden thoughts in the dark of night, faraway snatches from her life before she was Alyx at all?
As the girl shook in Rhett’s vise-like grip, the overseer sneered. “Don’t speak that tongue with me, girl.” He leaned in toward her, eyes dancing with fire… a look that Alyx knew all too well. As he raised a hand, as if to strike the quivering girl, Alyx made a trigger decision.
“She says she doesn’t know what you’re saying, sir.” Then, to the redhead: “He wants you to get more rags. From the laundry.”
Rhett just spat, the wad landing on the stretch of floor Alyx and the redhead had just scrubbed. “Kythian scum.” He let go of her hair, none too gently, and then said to Alyx, “Are you permitted to speak Kythian, girl?”
Alyx shook her head. “No.”
“I thought not.” With that, he kicked her, the hard toe of his boot connecting with her ribs.
Alyx gasped, the wind knocked out of her, and shot a pleading look up at the quivering new girl. Silently begging her to hurry out and get the requested rags before Rhett turned his fury back on her. And trying not to betray the flood of excitement that had bowled into her upon hearing the girl speak her mother tongue-- excitement now tempered by the ache in her ribs, but present nevertheless. Kythian. Another Kythian!
Ivy’s eyes went wide as she looked at the girl. Her speech, her dialect, her accent… It was familiar, like the language she grew up with. The language that she hadn’t heard since she had been taken from Kyth. And now the man was shouting at her, beating her up for some reason. Ivy’s mouth was stuck open, hesitating, staring between the girl and the man. She seemed paralyzed with uncertainty.
As Rhett swiveled back around toward the redhead, Alyx capitalized and silently mouthed to the girl: “The rags. Now!”
The girl hesitated for another moment, torn between her sympathy for the girl, the girl’s silent request, and her fear. But finally, she turned and bolted, heading straight towards the laundry without another word.
**
Jisam Castle had four massive barracks to contain the slaves at night, and so Alyx knew there was a chance she wouldn’t find the redhead. Nevertheless, after lock-in that night she searched for her, scanning face after face through the inky darkness. She was just about to give up and try to get some sleep when finally she found her, sitting silently in the corner, her face drawn tight.
Cautiously, Alyx padded over to her, trying not to make too much of a scene. About half the slaves in the barracks had already turned in for the night, but the rest were still awake, murmuring quietly in the dark. And although most of Lord Rylan’s slaves had a policy not to eavesdrop on one another, there were still bad apples in the bunch-- those who’d report it to the overseers or the enki himself if they suspected prohibited things were afoot.
Things like speaking Kythian.
Therefore, Alyx’s voice was nothing more than a whisper as she slipped into place beside the redhead and said, “How long has it been for you?”
Ivy nearly jumped at the Kythian address and turned her head. The girl… The girl from earlier. She was silent trying to process the moment. When she did speak, her voice seemed strangled, as if unaccustomed to speaking for quite some time.
“I-I don’t know…” She said quietly. “M-maybe a week? Maybe more… I-it feels so long ago…”
She looked up at Alyx. “What about you? Y-you sound Kythian… Are you from there?”
Once upon a time, Alyx would have answered this with a resounding yes. Now, she wasn’t quite so sure. She’d spent nearly as long in Courdon as Rylan Duval’s slave as she ever had in her home province of Elacs, Kyth.
“I… I used to be,” she said finally. “Now I’m just…” She shrugged. “What’s your name?”
Ivy glanced down at the ground, in thought. She must have been here a long time, though she still didn’t know how long. But she was from there, at least once. And they shared a language, which relieved her greatly after over a week of non-stop Courdonian with little to really guide her. She looked back up.
“Ivy. Ivy Lynn,” she answered. “I-I’m from Medieville… How about you?”
“Elacs,” she said, and then noted almost grimly, “Two names. He’s not renamed you yet, then?” Slaves weren’t allowed to have surnames. And most of the time with foreign imports, their given names were also stripped from them. Part of the breaking process.
She hadn’t been Alyx, once.
Ivy looked confused. “Rename? He… I don’t know. H-he calls me by my last name a lot. But that’s only part of my name.”
Alyx just sighed. “If he calls you by your last name, that’s probably what he means to be your name. Your whole name. Not just part…” She leaned against the wall. “I used to have two names, too. But now I’m Alyx. Just Alyx. … At least you get to keep part of your name, right?”
“But… why?” she couldn’t help but ask. She brought her legs up and curled her arms around them. “What’s wrong with my first name? What’s wrong with yours?” She paused a moment, and then asked hesitantly, “What is yours?”
Alyx hesitated. “I… think it might be safer if I don’t tell you.” She hurried to add, “Not that I don’t trust you, but if you were to accidentally call me it…” She shook her head. “So… you don’t speak any Courdonian, do you?”
Ivy frowned, remembering the way the man beat her. If it was so punished like that… Perhaps it was better, even if it still didn’t seem right. She shook her head at the question.
“No. ...Well, a little. My dad can speak it, and I’ve heard it at home sometimes. But I don’t know enough. A-and everyone here speaks it and I can only pick up a little bit, and…”
She glanced up at another crowd of slaves, who were speaking quietly in Courdonian. Ivy continued in Kythian. “And it’s not enough… I-If only I paid more attention at home… When dad and Lydia talked, or when mum was practicing it, or…”
She trailed off as thoughts of home began to enter her head. She looked back down, her eyes glistening with tears.
“Hey, don’t cry,” Alyx murmured, glancing uneasily at the slaves nearby to them. She didn’t want to draw any attention, particularly given the forbidden nature of their conversation. “You’ll pick it up pretty quickly, I’d bet. I mean… I didn’t know a word of Courdonian when I first came here. And at first it wasn’t…” She searched for the right word. “At first it wasn’t great for me. But I spent a lot of time listening, and I got the hang of it.”
Gently, Alyx placed a hand on Ivy’s trembling shoulder, her fingers carelessly dangling at the hollow of her clavicle. Almost instantly, Ivy flinched and recoiled, and Alyx pulled away. Had Ivy already been beaten so badly to panic at being touched? Or…
Oh. If she’d only been here for a week, then her brand would still be fresh and healing.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t… I…” She bit her lip. “Is it healing alright?”
Ivy glanced down at her brand, her lip tight as she tried to fight off her tears. “I-I think so,” she said, her voice still slightly higher pitched. “It’s better at least…”
She couldn’t help but stare at her brand some more, remembering the few times her dad’s arm was visible, and the scar that she saw then. When she asked her about it then, he always gave an excuse to not tell her. She didn’t know then what the scar meant, and what it meant for her dad. Now that she knew, it explained so much, both about his scar and him.. But she didn’t know until she was taken, until she was cruelly told about his past… And now she wore one just like him…
Ivy’s grip around her legs curled tighter, pressing her knees closer, just enough so that they didn’t touch her skin, but enough that they slightly covered the brand.
“I… I don’t know how I’m going to do this…” she said quietly.
Alyx opened her lips, as if to reply, but before she could, the door leading into the slave quarters suddenly burst open. The room plunged into silence as an overseer stalked in, a lantern swaying in his hands. Alyx raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sudden influx of light, pressing herself flat against the wall as if to make herself as small as possible.
“Which of you would be Lord Rylan’s pretty little blonde?” the overseer barked, spitting the last three words like they tasted foul to him.
Alyx pretended not to notice the way the rest of the slaves’ eyes quickly settled in her direction. She shrunk smaller against the wall as the overseer’s stare quickly found as her, as well.
“You?” he demanded.
“Yes,” she said.
“He’s drunk as a dog and demanding your presence. A bit too much honey wine at milady’s birthday feast.” He snorted. “So come. Now.”
With that, the overseer whirled and started out the barracks. Alyx could barely bring herself to shoot Ivy a reassuring smile before standing and scampering after him.
“See you later,” she whispered. “Hope you sleep well.”
Ivy looked up, her eyes wide from fear at the sight of the overseer. She tried to give a nod and look to say ‘you too’, but she didn’t know if Alyx got the message before she ran off, leaving Ivy alone.
Ivy clutched her legs tighter. What did he want, and where was Alyx going? Wasn’t it past curfew, or at least the time when the doors were locked? It was odd…
Ivy put her head atop her knees. At least now she knew one person who understood her besides Rylan and some of the other officials. Someone in the same position as her; who may not have been from the same province but was still Kythian. Someone who seemed to understand…
She still missed her home, her family, her friends… But it was something, at least.
She sighed as she tried again to dry her tears before looking up at the other slaves. Maybe Alyx was right. Maybe she could pick it up, as long as she paid close attention… She was good at that when she wanted to. She always was.
So Ivy sat in silence, listening to the other slaves’ conversations, taking in the words she couldn’t understand until her eyes felt too heavy to remain open, her head too foggy to try to comprehend any more words. So she lay herself on the floor and fell asleep.
Part 3:After their first conversation, Alyx and Ivy began to talk a bit before bed most nights, each girl reveling in their shared mother tongue. Alyx also began to teach Ivy some common Courdonian words-- get me; do; sir; rags; clean-- so that at least the redheaded girl could understand enough of the overseers’ requests where she wouldn’t be punished. The rest of the language would come in due time, but for now, at least Ivy would have the essentials.
It was certainly more than Alyx had had, back when she’d arrived in Courdon.
During the day, they saw each other quite frequently, often assigned to same sorts of tasks-- mostly cleaning. But during this time in public, they communicated very little. After all, Ivy still didn’t know enough Courdonian to carry on a full conversation, and gods knew neither girl would risk speaking Kythian. Alyx still had a few bruises on her ribs from where Rhett had kicked her that first day, healing now into a mottled green. And she knew she was lucky it had only been that kick, not a lashing or something worse.
A few weeks after their first meeting, both Ivy and Alyx, along with a handful of other slaves, had been instructed to dust the castle’s massive library, its floor-to-ceiling stone shelves teeming with old, delicate books. Alyx dreaded this task nearly as much as she dreaded the nights when Rylan called for her, since it required balancing precariously on high, wobbly ladders, and it only took one wrong move to either knock over priceless manuscripts or go falling flat on your face. Both of which attracted immediate attention from the band of roving overseers and earned you a swift, severe punishment.
“Be really careful,” Alyx whispered into Ivy’s ear after the overseer left them, hoping the other slaves wouldn’t hear that she was speaking Kythian. In any case, it was worth it to warn Ivy of the dangers. “Touch the books only with your duster, not your fingers. The oils from your hands can damage the leather bindings. They’re ancient.”
Ivy only nodded and got to work before anyone could see them talking. She started with the lower shelves at first, dusting the books carefully while occasionally taking glances at the other slaves who were working the ladders. An overseer occasionally looked in to make sure the slaves were sticking to their task, which the slaves did; they didn’t want another slave to rat them out in order to achieve higher favor.
Ivy continued to work on the lower shelves, glancing at the titles with mild curiosity. Most of the texts and titles were written in Courdonian. While Courdonian as the same alphabet as the Kythian language, they weren’t similar enough for Ivy to understand what the titles were saying. She did occasionally find a book in a different language, and even some in Kythian, but the few books whose titles she could understand didn’t contain anything that interested her.
That was, until she started going up to the middle shelves and she saw a book that caught her eye. It was written in Kythian, but there were also some symbols there that were very clearly magic runes. She recognized the book’s title... It was the one her papa wanted not too long ago, that he was considering buying before he had to leave on another skirmish, and before she and her brother got sent to Corvus. And based on her papa and her brother’s talk of some of the spells, and what they could do… She remembered listening in awe to them talking about it, and now the book was in front of her...
Ivy shook her head and glanced around the room. Most of the other slaves were preoccupied in their work, and the overseer didn’t seem to be around. Alyx did tell her not to touch the book, but perhaps if it wasn’t entirely in contact with the oils on her skin, they wouldn’t notice? Carefully, Ivy took her duster and pressed some of the dust onto her hands, not stopping until they were properly coated. She could re-dust the book after she got a quick peek. And besides, she’d be quick; she just wanted a look. Taking one last glance around, she quietly took out the book and turned it to one of the pages.
She froze when she heard the sound of boots behind her. She hastily tried to shut the book and put it back in place before she got caught, but it was too late.
“YOU!” the overseer shouted. And Ivy looked back, her hand on the book that she was halfway through with reshelving. She tensed as he stormed towards her, but quickly pushed the book all the way in before standing at attention. Rhett. It was Rhett, the venomous man who’d demanded she get the fresh rags and kicked Alyx in the ribs.
But while she recognized him, he apparently did not recognize her. “What were you doing?” he hissed at her, seizing her by the arm.
Up on her own ladder, Alyx watched side-eye as she continued dutifully dusting the books. This was not good-- particularly not with Rhett. Any overseer would punish for what Ivy had just done, but Rhett…
Rhett was more vicious than most. Alyx could only pray that Ivy had picked up enough Courdonian to cobble out some kind of response. If the redheaded girl started sputtering in Kythian now, things would go from bad to worse.
Ivy flinched and hesitated, trying to recall what little Courdonian she knew. She remembered how Rhett had beaten Alyx, and the bruises that were still healing… There had to be some way to get on his good side. He yelled at her before for speaking Kythian, but she knew some Courdonian now. Maybe if she said it properly… She took in a breath.
“I-I’m sorry, sir,” she said in Courdonian, her voice ringing in a Courdonian accent, one that sounded similar to Rylan’s, in hopes that the respect that came with speaking the accent would rub off on her. But while her accent remained steady and her pronunciation good, better than usual, something about her speech was still off, as if the accent didn’t suit all the words she was speaking. “Hard to reach dusty spot on book. Tried to clean. I’m careful.”
Up on the ladder, Alyx froze, nearly dropping her duster in shock. No. What the hell was Ivy doing now? Touching a book was bad enough, but this. No longer staring sidelong, she craned her neck outright and gaped down at Ivy and Rhett. The other slaves followed suit, their mouths dropped open as if on broken hinges.
“What did you just say to me?” Rhett snarled, reeling the redheaded girl in closer to him. He wrenched the duster out of her hand and slammed it to the ground. With the hand that wasn’t clutched around her arm, he locked his fingers around her jaw, squeezing it so hard that even Alyx flinched at the very sight of it. And after spending over six years as Rylan Duval’s slave, very little made Alyx flinch.
Ivy winced and let out a breath of pain and confusion as Rhett pressed the area of her cheeks near her jawbone. Did she accidentally say something insulting? She didn’t think she did…
“Uh I, I tried to clean dusty spot on book. Dusted hands before taking it,” she said, focusing hard on keeping her accent amidst the pressure and the pain, and choosing her words carefully in case they were construed as an insult.
Rhett let go of her jaw-- but only so that he could backhand her. She fell, stunned, and he raised his hand as if to strike her again. Up on the ladder, Alyx continued to stare on, horrified. Gods. She had no idea where Ivy had learned to speak in that way-- certainly Alyx hadn’t taught her to do so-- but the more Ivy said now, the worse she would get it. Her head a whirlwind of panicked thoughts, Alyx weighed the punishment she would receive now if she screamed down for Ivy to shut up versus what Ivy would get if the girl kept on blathering.
As Rhett struck Ivy again, Alyx made up her mind. There was no question what she had to do if she wanted stop this situation from spiraling out of control.
“Stop talking, Ivy!” she screamed down, bracing herself as Rhett’s eyes leapt up at her like a predator first spying his juicy meal. Recognition flashed over his face, as he placed Alyx as the girl who’d spoken Kythian to him just a few weeks ago, and already earned backlash for it… And once he recognized her, he glanced back down at Ivy, seeming to place her, too, as the other girl who’d spoken Kythian.
“Get down here,” he growled at Alyx.
Trying not to betray the fear coursing through her, Alyx slowly descended the ladder, her eyes cast firmly floorward as she padded over to Rhett’s side. Ivy was still sprawled on the ground, blood dripping from nose, the redheaded girl looking shocked and bewildered, as if she still hadn’t figured out what had caused Rhett to fly off the handle.
“Are you involved in this?” Rhett spat, gesturing sharply at Ivy.
Alyx shook her head vigorously. “No, sir.”
“She is new,” he said. “Isn’t she?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you are not.”
“No, sir.”
For a moment, Rhett simply stood there, his gaze flicking between Ivy and Alyx. Much of Alyx expected him to lash out and strike her, but he didn’t. Instead, he crouched down and plucked Ivy’s duster from the floor, smoothing out its bent, soiled feathers, as if he were fluffing a pillow.
“Finish your task. Both of you,” he said, and for a moment Alyx dared think that this would be it: that she’d escape this without physical punishment, and that Ivy’s beating would end with only two strikes.
Of course, this was not to be. Forcing the duster back into Ivy’s trembling hands, Rhett proceeded to snap, “Twice now in two weeks you’ve spoken Kythian in my presence, girl. And that’s without even mentioning what she did.” He gestured again at Ivy. “Usually punishment of disobedient slaves is left to my discretion. But whatever is happening between you two… where you repeatedly speak to me in languages you have no right or permission to be speaking…”
Alyx’s gut churned to ice as she realized where this was going. She wanted to beg-- to plead-- Rhett reconsider, but she knew this would only earn her-- and Ivy-- more wrath.
“Complete your work,” he finished. “But the enki will be told of what you’ve done, and it will be up to him as to how to handle you. What is your name for me to tell him?”
“Alyx,” she whispered, her voice shaking, as she wished desperately that she could lie to him, but knowing that she could not.
“And your name?” Rhett demanded, glaring down at Ivy.
The girl trembled, looking up at Rhett. “I-Iv--” she stopped short and shook her head, remembering her conversation with Alyx. She was in enough trouble as it was, even if she didn’t know why. “...Lynn.”
Rhett nodded curtly, seizing Ivy’s arm and hauling her back to her unsteady feet before he whirled and stomped out from the room, slamming the door shut behind him. The books rattled in their shelves, and after a few more moments of staring down in incredulity at Ivy and Alyx, the other slaves turned back around and continued their dusting.
“Why did you do that?” Alyx hissed in Kythian, not even caring if the others heard her. She and Ivy were already in trouble enough where no one would bother reporting them.
Ivy still looked dazed and shocked, not even bothering to wipe the blood running down her face. “I-I don’t understand,” she said quietly. “What was I doing wrong? I thought he wanted me to speak in Courdonian.”
“Yes.” Alyx gaped. “Low Courdonian. That was… that…” She shook her head. “Ivy, you’re going to be lucky if the enki doesn’t whip you unconscious.” With a sigh, she added miserably, “And me, too.”
Ivy grimaced. “I-I’m sorry,” she said. “I… I didn’t know there was a difference. I knew they spoke differently, but the words were mostly the same, so I thought… I thought if I spoke like them, they’d take it easy on me…” She shook her head. “Alyx, I’m so sorry…”
“I don’t even see how you did it,” Alyx murmured, as if in wonderment. “Your pronunciation, it was like… It was like listening to Rylan talk. I don’t even think my accent could be that good, and I’ve lived here half my life.”
“Oh, that? Well, I thought of his voice, and…” She looked around at the other slaves. Alyx had since warned her about the other slaves doing anything to get in their Masters’ good graces. This was something she wasn’t sure she wanted them to overhear. She whispered. “I’ll explain when we’re alone.”
“That’s probably for the best.” Alyx glanced back at the towering bookshelves behind them. “We should get back to dusting. If we’re standing around doing nothing when another overseer comes by…” She shuddered at the thought of it.
Ivy nodded and wiped her face with her shirt. And with that, they got back to work.
**
At the end of the day, as the other slaves shuffled off to the barracks to take their evening meals, Ivy and Alyx found themselves faced by a leering Rhett. He was nearly grinning as he informed them that the enki wanted to see them in his study.
Rylan was on his feet, arms clasped behind his back and pacing as he waited. He should have suspected, really, that the daughter of the runaway Xavier would be a problem, but it irked him all the same. That her little attempt at rebellion had apparently infected Alyx as well was even more troublesome; his only other Kythian, who was both pretty and well-trained. At least she was well-trained enough that a sound beating would likely put her in her place again.
But the fact that the girl he called Lynn had dared to address Rhett in the High Tongue… that, Rylan hadn’t expected. Where had the little upstart even learned to talk like that? Surely her father hadn’t taught her. In any case, it didn’t matter. After today, he was certain, she would never dare to use the language of nobility again.
A rapping on the door drew Rylan’s attention. “You may enter,” he called.
On the other side of the door, Alyx’s stomach dropped at the sound of the enki’s voice. She shared a silent look with Ivy and tried not to betray the fear coursing through her as Rhett pressed open the door and gestured for she and Ivy to enter the study. She knew she couldn’t speak-- not now-- but she dared a soft, brief smile in Ivy’s direction.
If Ivy was comforted by the gesture, it was impossible to tell, with her eyes widened with fear and her breathing shallower. But she tried to compose herself as best as she could as they stepped inside the study.
“Shall I come back to fetch them once you’re done, milord?” Rhett asked.
“That would be best,” Rylan agreed. As Rhett nodded and stepped back outside, shutting the door behind him with a definitive thunk, Rylan turned his attention to the two girls, noting the fear on Lynn’s face. “Now what am I to do with you?” he said softly.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Alyx risked a brief glance in Ivy’s direction, her face drawn tight and eyes wide in warning-- as if to caution Ivy that Lord Rylan’s question was merely rhetorical, and she ought not answer. He didn’t want an answer, not really-- only to talk at them, to draw this misery out. And so If Ivy spoke now regardless…
Thankfully, Ivy remained silent, and focused her eyes on the imposing figure in front of them.
He put two fingers under Ivy’s chin and tilted her head up slightly, glowering down at her. “Do you think you are my equal, Lynn?” he said, his voice soft and dangerous. “Do you still believe you are more than my property?”
Ivy was silent at first. Then she spoke. “I… I just--”
Rylan slapped her, cutting her off. “Speak properly,” he hissed.
Ivy gasped. He must have been referring to her Kythian… Speaking of it as if that weren’t a proper language. “...What language is that?” She asked. She was already warned once about speaking in High Courdonian; she didn’t want to press his ire further.
He raised one eyebrow. “So you do know the slave tongue. Why, then, did you see fit to address my overseer as if you were a noble?” Rylan narrowed his eyes. “Do you think you are above him, Lynn?”
“He...” she stopped herself. Saying what she really thought of Rhett would only get her in trouble. “I-I didn’t know to not talk… talk…” High, what’s the Courdonian word for high? “...Talk like that ”
“So you saw fit to talk like your betters. Perhaps you still believe those lies your sire taught you. That you deserve to speak like that.” Abruptly Rylan released her, turning to Alyx with a slight, cold smile playing on his lips. “Tell me, Alyx, does a slave deserve to speak the same tongue as her masters?”
Ivy turned her head back towards the ground, but peered at Rylan and Alyx out of the corner of her eyes, watching them.
Eyes cast firmly at the ground, Alyx willed herself not to show her terror to Rylan. He was already smug enough right now, and she dared not give him any more fear on which to feed. She hated how Kythian sounded coming from him-- too sharp, the guttural tones of his Courdonian accent so wrong in conjunction with the smooth lilt of her mother tongue.
Her breath hitching, she murmured, “Of course not, master.”
“Of course not,” Rylan echoed. He stepped over to her, standing close enough to loom over her. “And do you think ignorance is a good reason to show such flagrant disrespect?”
Oh, gods. She saw where this was going-- what he was attempting to make her do-- and yet she knew just as viscerally that there was nothing she could to stop it. At least, not realistically. Not unless she wanted to end up being punished even more severely… and even then, it wasn’t as if Rylan would suddenly let Ivy off the hook. Ivy would end up hurt here no matter how she proceeded. No matter how Alyx did, or didn’t, sell her out.
“Ignorance is not a good reason, no, master,” she whispered-- hoping that Ivy wouldn’t hate her for this. Hoping that Ivy would understand why she had to do this now, why she couldn’t stand up in the redhead’s defense.
“I agree,” Rylan said. “And disrespect, whether or not it is intentional, breeds disrespect.” He reached out and took a strand of her hair between his fingers, toying with it idly. “I know you have been talking like a northerner around her… I thought I’d trained you better than that, Alyx.” From the tone of mild disapproval, he might have been reprimanding her for spilling a drink, but the look in his eyes spoke otherwise. “So tell me. What do you think happens to a slave who has been so disrespectful and disobedient?”
“She…” No matter how hard she tried to keep her voice level, it quavered now. Trying to stay as vague as possible, Alyx stammered, “S-she is punished, enki.”
She expected him to reply quickly, but he didn’t, rather continuing to stare down at her. For the briefest of moments, she brought her gaze up and met his, and nearly flinched at the predatory, demanding look in them. More. He wanted more.
Snapping her eyes back at the floor, she said, “L-lashed. She’s lashed.”
“That’s right.” There was a smug satisfaction in Rylan’s tone, and he shifted his gaze to look directly at Ivy. “She’s lashed.”
Ivy couldn’t help it. She turned her head up towards them, her eyes widening. “L-lashed?” she repeated in whispered Kythian.
She regretted it the moment the word left her tongue, and at her side, Alyx grimaced. Gods. This was going from bad to worse.
Rylan swung around and punched Ivy, hard, knocking her to the ground. “Twenty lashes,” he snapped. He crouched down in front of her before she had much time to recover and grabbed her jaw roughly, jerking her head up to face him. “And it will be more if you say one more word in that accursed tongue.”
Ivy tried to gasp for breath and opened her mouth again as if to speak, but thought better of it and shut her lips together tightly. She only stared at him as a bruise grew on her cheek.
“And as for you,” he said sharply, turning to look at Alyx, but not yet letting go of Ivy. “How many lashes do you think you deserve, hm?”
Alyx bit her lip. This was a trick question… and one of Rylan’s favorites whenever she did something to displease him. After all, he already had a number in mind-- and if she guessed too low, he would increase it. But if she guessed too high, she’d just end up inflicting more pain on herself than she had to.
Desperately, she racked her mind. If Ivy was to be lashed twenty times for speaking high Courdonian, then clearly she, Alyx, ought to have earned less for merely speaking Kythian. … But then again, Rylan probably expected more out of her than he did from Ivy. Alyx was supposed to be broken, docile, and perfectly obedient, whereas Ivy had been his slave for less than a month. So was it worse for her to speak Kythian than it was for Ivy to speak High Courdonian?
“Alyx.” His voice was a warning. A threat that if she didn’t answer him soon, she would regret it.
“... F-fifteen,” she guessed.
He straightened, leaving Ivy on the floor. “Twenty-five,” he said coldly. “And be grateful it isn’t more. You should have known better.” Rylan paused a moment, watching the girl expectantly. “Aren’t you grateful, Alyx?” he added softly.
“Yes. Of course.” She gulped. “Thank you, enki, I am very grateful for your leniency.”
Rylan nodded, satisfied. “And don’t forget it.” He walked over to the doorway, calling sharply. “Rhett!”
While Rylan’s back was turned, Ivy turned her head over to Alyx, fear in her eyes. Alyx returned the look, a nearly apologetic smile peeking from between her lips, as she hoped that Ivy would understand why she’d gone and agreed with Rylan about the impending lashing. Ivy gave her a small, subtle nod and then turned her head forward before anyone could see them.
“Milord?” Rhett said as he arrived to the study’s doorway. “What do you wish me to do with them?”
“Twenty lashes for the redhead,” Rylan said. “Twenty-five for the other.” He smiled coldly. “Make sure they’re in a position to watch the other’s punishment.” He started to turn away, then stopped himself, glancing over his shoulder at the overseer. “Don’t send the blonde to the slave quarters with her little friend later. I want to deal with her myself.”
At the enki’s last statement, ice water rushed through Alyx’s veins. She glanced sidelong at Ivy, praying that the other girl hadn’t understood Lord Rylan’s words. She hadn’t, but Ivy did seem to notice a look on Alyx’s face out of the corner of her eye. Though she didn’t dare move her head much, she tried to catch her eye, now wondering what he had said to cause her friend’s face to fall. But she didn’t dare speak.
Both girls were silent as they followed Rhett out the study, to face the punishment Lord Rylan had ordered upon them.
**
The two girls spent the next few days in pain, trying their hardest to take care of the wounds that now burned their backs, with the aid of some of the other slaves. Ivy wasn’t able to sleep well; she was already having difficulty getting used to sleeping on the ground without the pain in her back, and she had to roll onto her stomach in order to have a chance of sleep. The first day after the lashing themselves, she was exhausted, and too spent from that and the pain to do much more than focus on her chores. She wanted badly to take the day off and spend some time treating her wounds. But she knew that the overseers would give her no such penance, and that she’d receive worse if she decided to take the day off anyway.
And so for the first few days, she spent much of her scant free time asleep.
On the night of the fourth day, however, Ivy had recovered enough to stay awake a little longer. She used this time to listen to the other slaves’ conversations and to look for Alyx within the barracks. She hadn’t seen much of her since the lashings, with the overseers being careful to separate them into different chores. The few times they did spot each other, they were silent, too tired to speak and unwilling to bring on the wrath of the overseers.
But now that she had a chance, Ivy wanted badly to see her again, to talk to her. And so, lying upon her stomach on the floor, she scanned the crowd.
For a long time, she didn’t find anything, and as the other slaves began to go to bed, she was beginning to lose hope. However, as more slaves retired to sleep, she managed to notice Alyx through the crowd. The girl was huddled in the corner, staring blankly ahead of her, not making a sound.
Ivy winced as she got to her feet before walking over to Alyx. She must have underestimated how tired she was, but she didn’t allow herself to give up and go to sleep anyway, not before she had a chance to talk to Alyx. When she reached her, she looked down.
“...Hi,” she said quietly.
Alyx had watched Ivy approach wordlessly, and with almost a note of dread. She knew the redhead still didn’t have enough low Courdonian to carry on a fluent conversation, and the idea of conversing once more in Kythian after she’d been punished so severely for it just a few days before… as Ivy murmured a hello in the girls’ mother tongue, Alyx couldn’t stop her stomach from twisting.
“Hi,” she replied, grateful that at least Ivy knew this much Courdonian.
Ivy slowly lowered herself so as not to strain her injuries as she took a seat next to the girl. “Are you okay?” she whispered.
Alyx wasn’t sure if Ivy was talking about the physical wounds or the emotional ones-- nor did she really know the answer to either question. She’d been through worse lashings in the past, but Rhett had been particularly brutal, each strike delivered with all of his might. And as for her emotional state… well, after so many years of hiding her feelings from most everyone, it felt strange to have somebody concerned about her in that way at all.
Turning her head toward Ivy, Alyx studied Rylan Duval’s other Kythian slave. From the way she’d grimaced as she sat, Alyx suspected that Ivy had never been through something like the lashing before. That she wasn’t used to being battered and treated like an object, like a piece of furniture, as if she had no rights over her body at all.
“I’m okay,” she murmured, sticking to basic words. “Are you?”
Ivy frowned, not just at the girl’s question, but at Alyx’s insistence on speaking Low Courdonian. While she appreciated the practice from it, these were a line of questions where she preferred to be more fluent. If Alyx wasn’t speaking Kythian…. She studied her face, wondering if her answer had been a lie. But she decided to address her question first.
“Well, I…” Ivy paused. “No, no I’m not. I feel awful and they’ve been cruel ever since I got here, or before, they’re awful to everyone, and I, I just...”
She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts before focusing on Alyx again. “But you had more lashes than me, even though I’m the one who got us in trouble… Th-that’s not fair…”
Ivy looked down. “I’m sorry, by the way. I… I was stupid.”
Alyx shrugged. “It’s okay.”
She racked her mind for more simple words to say in Courdonian that Ivy would understand, but the other girl didn’t know enough to have much of a conversation. At least, not a meaningful one. Biting down on the inside of her cheek, Alyx glanced at the other slaves nearby to them, considering. Most were asleep. The ones who weren’t seemed preoccupied. Speaking Kythian now after she’d been beaten so severely for it just a few days ago… it was a gamble, for sure, but…
Looking back at Ivy, Alyx whispered, “Had you… had never been hit before? At all?”
Ivy blinked at the question. “...Not like this,” she said. “Not before they took me. My parents were pretty gentle, and while my siblings horseplayed, anything bad was an accident. We... Worst was when this kid was bullying me, but…” She shook her head, her voice trailing off as she winced again. “...Nothing like this at all...”
“It’s… hard at first,” Alyx said, her eyes still flickering intermittently at the slaves nearby to make sure they hadn’t noticed the girls’ forbidden conversation. “But you get used to it. Eventually.” She paused. “I mean… you just… you just have to. That was the first time you were lashed, but it won’t be the last. And you just have to… move on, I guess. Heal and move on.”
Ivy was silent for a long time, stewing on those words. As time passed, she shook her head, the head shaking getting more fervent. “But it’s not right... I didn’t even do anything that bad, and you didn’t do anything bad at all.”
Ivy bowed her head slightly, not wanting to lean forward and exacerbate the pain on her back. “I don’t want to be here… I don’t want either of us to be here. I… I want to go home…”
Tears began to fall from Ivy’s eyes. “There has to be a way… Something we can do...”
“No,” Alyx hissed before Ivy could go on. “There’s nothing to do, Ivy. Nothing. Believe me. You saw the scars on my back, didn’t you? Before Rhett whipped me?”
Ivy let out a brief nod. “Yes… But--”
“Two years ago. After the enki, well--” Alyx shook her head. “Nevermind why. I ran, Ivy. I… had such a plan. Such a great, careful plan. Do you want to know how far I got?”
Ivy stared, her tears falling down her face. “...How far?” she asked hollowly, already expecting the answer.
“Five minutes off the grounds of the castle. If that. The guard who caught me dragged me back by hair. Dragged me.” She shuddered at the memory. “And then... “ Alyx shut her eyes. “Usually Lord Rylan has the overseers punish for him. But this time… he did it himself. It started as a lashing, but by the end…” Her voice cracked. “He beat me unconscious, Ivy. My left eye was swollen shut for a week afterward. The wounds on my back bled so heavily for days-- breaking back open whenever I moved, basically-- that the other slaves stopped bothering to dress me, because they had to change my bandages so often. I still have pain from it, sometimes. Lingering pain… when I work too hard…”
The more she spoke, the more frantic Alyx’s voice grew: higher in pitch, higher in volume. One of the other slaves nearby finally glanced in her and Ivy’s direction, and Alyx turned her head away. Then, she leaned in very close to Ivy, pressing her lips against the redhead’s ear.
“You cannot run away,” she whispered harshly. “A-and if I think you’re considering it… the enki already thinks we’re friends. That we’re influencing each other in bad ways. If you tried to get away, he would think I helped, Ivy.” Pulling away, and gesturing with her hands in case Ivy didn’t grasp all the words, she said in Courdonian, “I will tell him, Ivy. If I think you’re going to run away…”
Ivy stared in horror as she listened to her story, but it was nothing compared to when Alyx told Ivy what she would do. She didn’t understand all the words, but she got the idea.
“Alyx…” she started. She paused for a moment before looking up at her, putting a hand on her shoulder, being careful not to touch anything that would aggravate her wound. “I’m sorry that happened to you. That’s not fair either. And I’m sorry it has to be that way…”
She looked down. “Don’t think what I’m about to say means I’m going to run; it’s not,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “...But I know it’s been done before. I’ve… met people who’ve run away. I don’t know when or how, they… never told me. But they did. They live very different lives now, nothing like this. It’s not easy, and I’m not saying I know how… But I know it can be done.”
Alyx shook her head. “Sure, it happens sometimes,” she said, leaning back in toward Ivy’s ear. “But that’s… the exception. Not the rule. Chances are if you try it, you’ll get caught. And Rylan… he’s particularly careful. I’ve been here almost seven years. And do you know how many slaves have gotten away in that time, Ivy, for more than just a day or so?”
Ivy shook her head. “No… Maybe 30?”
Alyx laughed-- a dying bark of a laugh, and too loud, she knew, given that she was trying desperately to avoid attention. “One. He got away for… about a month, I think. Made it as far north as the Northlands before they caught him. In a scrap with the slavers, he stabbed one of them. The slaver lived but…” Alyx blanched at the memory. “Rylan gathered the rest of us in the courtyard and had the slave beaten nearly to death. Then he tied him to a post and just… left him. For days. No food, no water. Anyone caught trying to give him any, well…” She didn’t need to finish that statement. “Finally, he gathered us back again. And he killed him. Slit his throat in front of us all. T-then cut off his head and put it on a pike outside the barracks. So it was the first thing we saw each day… and last thing we saw before lock-in each night... at least, ‘till the buzzards ate it down to nothing…”
Ivy could only gape, and for a long time, she couldn’t say anything. The story did nothing to help her tears other than to increase the flow. “Oh ’Woo... Th-that’s so horrible…”
Ivy shut her eyes tightly for a moment as she thought. If that happened to slaves… If such brutish and evil things happened to them if they tried anything, and if they got caught… And if it wasn’t easy… Her father and Lydia must have been lucky to escape at all.
But now… Now, with what they were doing… Ivy opened her eyes wide with horror, as she was struck with a realization.
“Oh daddy...” she whispered to herself.
“You need to learn more Courdonian,” Alyx said softly. “We can’t… it’s too dangerous to keep doing this, Ivy. In Kythian.” With a sigh, she added, “If we’re caught again, he’ll double the lashes, at least.”
Ivy took a moment to register the question, but when she did, she nodded slowly. She spoke slowly, still distracted by the sudden thoughts in her head. “I know. I-I’ll... “ She shook her head. “I’ll try.” It was a start, at least. “I just… Don’t get why it’s such a bad thing to speak Kythian… Why are they offended? I can’t immediately speak Courdonian like they want.”
“They don’t like Kyth,” Alyx said simply. “And… I guess it’s because to them, you’re… you’re not Kythian. Not anymore. You’re just Rylan’s slave. And slaves don’t get to have anything of their own. Not their names. Not their bodies. Not their languages.”
Once again, Alyx sensed one of the nearby slaves glancing in their direction. She swallowed hard and cast her eyes at the ground.
“Goodnight, Lynn,” she said, knowing it would sting Ivy to hear the name that Rylan had given her… but knowing just as well that Ivy would have to get used to it sooner than later. That it was just as she’d said: Ivy was Rylan’s now. Her name was whatever he said it was.
Just as her name was whatever he said it was. Just as she hadn’t been Alyx once upon a time, but now she could barely think her real name without a nervous ice shooting through her veins.
Ivy stared at her for a moment as Alyx cut her off, using her surname instead. She frowned; there was more she was hoping to say, to ask. But… Perhaps now wasn’t the time. Not with what she said, the story she gave… Ivy touched her brand and shuddered through her tears. Even if Alyx was used to it, to all of this cruelty… Ivy was sure it would never strike her as anything more than wrong.
“...Goodnight,” she whispered softly in Kythian, doing her best to keep her voice from trembling. With effort, she tried to get to her feet before walking away.
But when she took her spot on the floor, she couldn’t stop her tears. All that had been done, done to Alyx, done to her… And there was always the ever-looming threat if she tried anything. Her father must’ve been lucky, she knew that. But now… If he knew, if he tried… They knew what he was. Who he was. The risk he was carrying…
And she couldn’t help but find herself wishing that they wouldn’t come for her, that they wouldn’t try it. That they’d stay away… And not end up tortured like her. Thus leaving only her. Her and…
Well, this. Only this.
Ivy lay on her stomach and put her hands into her arms, stifling her sobs as best as she could. She didn’t care what anyone else thought at the moment. She could hardly bear it anymore, all of it.
But she had to bear it. She didn’t know any other way. Nothing that wouldn’t get her or others maimed or killed.
Upon the cold, wooden floor of the slave barracks, Ivy cried herself to sleep. Through the dark, Alyx watched her, sleep evading her like a rabbit outrunning a wolf… praying that Ivy would take heed in her warning about the perils of trying to escape. Because if not…
Alyx hated it, but she’d meant what she said; if she got wind that Ivy was going to try and make a run for it, she would have to tell Rylan.
And then she’d have to face losing the only real friend she’d really made in the past six and a half years.
Part 4:The next few weeks were uneventful, with Ivy and Alyx performing their tasks, doing their best to avoid the ire of the overseers and nobles. In that time, the wounds upon their backs had improved, and while they had not completely healed yet, they were more tolerable. Gradually, Ivy got more used to the pain and she tried to ignore the rest, focusing only on ensuring that the wounds healed properly.
Ivy also grew even quieter and seemed to be constantly pensieve. The exception, of course, was when she practiced her Low Courdonian. She had never had too much trouble with the accent, being used to hearing it from her father, so she mainly focused on the words and syntax. Her vocabulary grew, and she soon became much more comfortable speaking the language and got better at understanding what others were saying to her.
It was another day of her non-stop labor when, as she and Alyx were scrubbing the floor, they noticed the bustle of other slaves, carrying in crates to one of the side chambers. Ivy’s interest in what was in the shipment quickly dissipated when she found a piece of mundane clothing sticking out. It didn’t seem to be anything important.
Next to her, Alyx didn’t spare the energy to even look. She’d woken up that morning with a splitting headache and an ache in her bones, and in the past few hours a tickle had started harassing the back of her throat, accompanied by increasingly more violent bursts of coughing. She was tired and sore, but of course the overseers didn’t give you the day off unless you were physically unable to move. Even still, it took all her stamina simply to complete her task; she didn’t have any left over to study her surroundings, or pay attention to anything other than her own job.
Ivy had noticed this fairly quickly, and upon another cough from Alyx, Ivy turned her head away from the crates and got back to work. She was working harder that day, since she had far more energy to spare than Alyx. If the overseers weren’t going to let Alyx get any rest, the least Ivy could do was work enough of their share that Alyx could slow down without consequences.
Just as Ivy and Alyx finished scrubbing a section of floor, and Alyx briefly dared entertain the idea that they’d be given a break, Rhett stomped over to them.
“Up,” Rhett spat. “Go where they’ve been unloading the crates. We’ve got some old rags to mend into slave cloaks for winter. But they need to be patched together and embroidered with the House sigil before they can be passed out.” He leered down at the girls, their faces now too familiar to him after the incident in the library several weeks ago. “I won’t have any problems with you, will I?”
Ivy paused. There were a few words in there that she missed, but it sounded something like sewing rags together for… Something. It didn’t sound too hard anyway; she was used to sewing when repairing her own clothes, even before her captivity. “No sir,” she said.
At her side, Alyx silently shook her head, fighting back a cough as she rose to her feet. She hadn’t been paying much attention to where the crates had been taken, so she followed Ivy, an involuntary shudder shaking her as she walked. Gods. She was feeling worse and worse with each passing minute.
In the bustling side chamber, both girls were ordered by the slave woman overseering the task to grab a bundle of rags from the stack of crates and immediately get to work on them.
“You’ll need to sew together maybe three or four rags to get a proper cloak,” she explained. “And once you’ve done that, embroider the House Duval sigil on the top right corner. Quota’s been set at six cloaks per hour. I’d highly advise keeping to it. Now off you go, get started.”
Alyx nodded, again silently, and hoping that Ivy had picked up most of what the woman had said. She was a favored slave, this woman; Alyx didn’t know her personally, but this much was obvious, given that she was allowed to mete out orders like this. Most of the overseers at Jisam Castle were peasants hired on specifically for the task, but particularly trusted and venerable slaves were sometimes also installed in supervisory positions like this. Not given the same free reign as the free overseers, of course, but nevertheless given the authority to punish other slaves for minor infractions. And given that this woman was probably operating under a quota imparted on her by someone higher up, and given the likelihood that she would face punishment if it weren’t met, Alyx had no doubt in her mind that anyone falling behind pace would not be tolerated.
Ivy bit her lip. The first part of the orders she had caught well, but the second part… She went on about how important the second part was, but there was a word she was missing in her vocabulary. And if she didn’t know what it meant… She looked up at the woman. “Uh… What does ‘embroider’ mean?”
“Embroider,” Alyx whispered. As she and Ivy dug a bundle of rags out from a crate, another coughing fit seized Alyx, this one more violent than any of the bursts before. She doubled over briefly in pain, trying to catch her breath again. “Gods,” she wheezed.
Ivy looked briefly over in sympathy at Alyx--she looked to be in a really bad way--but this was tempered by her being startled at being told what it means. “Embroider?” she whispered. “But… I don’t know how to embroider. I’ve never done that.” She wasn’t going to count any of her childhood attempts at it. She began to look worried.
“Just watch the others, I guess.” As she and Ivy reached one of the sewing tables, Alyx gestured at the slaves labouring nearby. She tried to thread a needle then, but her hands were shaking too badly; she succeeded merely in stabbing her fingertip repeatedly, drawing a bubble of blood. She coughed again and swore under her breath.
Ivy frowned at Alyx’s attempt and silently gestured to let her do it. Alyx handed it over, and Ivy carefully threaded the needle before handing it back to the shaking girl. If anything, Alyx shouldn’t be working and they both well knew that. But the overseers weren’t going to be so kind. And they wanted six… Six whole ones for each of them each hour. And between Alyx’s illness and Ivy’s lack of experience...
Ivy gulped. Oh Woo.
Ivy decided to set to sewing the rags together first and worrying about the embroidery later. As she sewed, she occasionally looked up at some of the other slaves. One of them caught her eye; a woman who was fairly quick with the needle, and was doing better embroidery than the others near her. Ivy quickly chose her as her role model in this task, and kept glancing up at her as she worked.
Sewing the cloaks together wasn’t too bad for Ivy, and she managed to complete that part of the task fairly quickly. But then it was time for her to embroider… She just hoped that her pacing wasn’t too slow, and that she’d have enough to both learn to embroider and actually do the embroidering… For six cloaks, for the first hour… Ivy sighed, sticking her needle through the fabric before glancing over at Alyx to see how she was doing.
Usually, Alyx was quick with tasks like this-- she greatly preferred sewing and embroidering over hard labor, like scrubbing the floors-- but today, she was in no state for such precision work. She quickly lagged behind quota, her stitches uneven, her sigil looking more like a lopsided mongrel than a lion. She felt the overseer’s disapproving gaze occasionally sweeping in her direction, drawn there largely by the coughing spell.
By the time the first hour was up, Alyx had completed only four cloaks, rather than the required six, and Ivy, too, was lagging slightly behind.
“Quicken up,” the overseer said thinly, grimacing as Alyx sputtered once again. She was probably more sympathetic to the girl’s illness than would have been an overseer like Rhett, but her sympathy could only go so far-- particularly when it was her neck also on the line. She added, “You’ve three or four more hours before day’s end. I’ll give you until then to catch up, but…”
Ivy only nodded and got right back to work, continuing the embroidery on the fifth cloak that she had just barely started. She was at least getting faster, now that she had done a few, but she couldn’t help but notice that she was still incredibly slow compared to the others. She always tried to be careful to pace herself when learning new things, but to both learn new things and achieve a quota…
Ivy shook her head. No. Not if she could help it.
Two more hours passed, and Ivy had managed to find a fairly decent pace for herself, but still lagged behind from her initial false start. She knew she could probably finish the task if she hurried, if not so quickly that the quality was sacrificed. But it was do-able.
Alyx, however, was only getting further behind. She was shaking outright now-- not just her hands, but her entire body overtaken by chills-- while flitting between feeling freezing cold and burning hot. Her temple throbbed. Her throat was raw.
Finally, as the overseer briefly stepped out of the room, she turned to Ivy. “We’re done for,” she murmured. “And…” She searched her brain for Courdonian words Ivy would understand, but she was hardly in the mental state to do this. Forget it, she thought, instead slipping into Kythian. “He thinks we’re a bad influence on each other,” she whispered hoarsely. “That we’re causing each other to act out. So if we’re the only two who don’t reach quota… especially because I always reach quota...”
Ivy frowned. She was right. Even if she did manage to hurry and finish her quota on time, she still might be punished for potentially influencing Alyx to do less… Even though it was plain to see that Alyx was sick and not a single noble here seemed to care. ...She shook her head. What she thought didn’t matter. What mattered was their punishment at hand… A thought which caused Ivy to wince as she glimpsed another whipping scar on Alyx’s back, still not fully healed.
Ivy glanced up, once again catching sight of the woman across from her, who was deftly working on the embroidery of the last few cloaks. She paused for a moment.
“...No,” Ivy said, a decisive tone in her voice. “Keep sewing yours. I’ll take your cloaks when I finish mine. We’ll make it.”
With her eyes still on the woman, she picked up more needles and threaded some of them in. She needed them ready. She took a small amount of time watching the woman before delving into her work, sewing much faster than before, the needle moving in and out as the embroidery began to take shape. Ivy focused on nothing else but her work.
Later, the overseer called out for the last ten minutes remaining, and their workload had significantly improved. Piled near them were a stack of cloaks, with only four remaining between the two of them. Ivy did her best to steady her hand as she dug her needle into the next piece of fabric, stitching in another piece of embroidery. Almost there…
Her work was slower now, but still significantly improved. Next to them, Alyx was still working on sewing one of the cloaks together. She was just finishing sewing the rags together when the overseer told them they had one minute remaining. Ivy was finishing up the embroidery on her own cloak as this was announced.
Ivy took a breath and tried not to let her arm shake. Come on, almost… She worked quickly through the embroidery, and as soon as she did, Alyx finished patching together the cloak. Ivy took the cloak from her hand and immediately worked on the embroidery.
“Last one,” she whispered breathlessly as she worked, her eyes purely focused on her stitchings. In, out, in, out, in out…
And then, just as Ivy tied the strings together, the overseer called for time. Ivy threw the cloak over to Alyx. She sighed and breathed out, leaning against the table and putting her hands to her head. Alyx shot the redhead a grateful smile, but couldn’t utter a verbal apology before she was overcome by another coughing jag. The overseer seemed surprised but relieved as she counted the girls’ cloaks and discovered them on target-- particularly when Rhett stepped in a few moment later and double-checked her count.
“All’s good,” he announced. Glancing then at the crates, most of which had been emptied but a few of which still brimmed with raw rags, he said to the slave overseer, “Pick a few others to stay on with you to finish up the rest by lock-in. But everyone else may proceed to the barracks for their evening meal.”
As Rhett walked out, leaving the overseer to select who would remain behind, the woman nodded. She turned toward her workers, selecting one here and there to stay on with her. When her gaze reached Ivy and Alyx, she paused, studying them, and a look of concern washed over her face as she noticed that Ivy had suddenly taken on a pallor just like Alyx. “Are you sick, too?” she asked Ivy.
Ivy paused for a moment, considering her situation before letting out a small nod. “I-I think so. I-I think I’m getting hers, and--” she cut herself off with a hacking cough.
“Always agues this time of year. So catching.” She clucked her tongue, as if in disapproval. “Get out of here before you give it to the rest of us, no?”
Ivy nodded and slowly got up, trying hard not to shake. She waited for Alyx to rise before walking out with her, taking her time as she did so. She said nothing as they reached the hallway, making their way back to the slave barracks. For a while they walked alongside the others who’d been dismissed, a group several dozen thick, but eventually their glacial pace set them behind the others, and they found themselves alone. They’d just reached the exterior doors and stepped outside when a particularly violent fit set Alyx doubling over once again, and Ivy paused at her side, a look of concern on her face.
“Gods,” Alyx moaned once she’d caught her breath again. “I hope I didn’t give this t-to you… it’s…” She squeezed shut her eyes and shuddered before bringing them open again.
Ivy wearily looked over at the girl with a look of sympathy before looking a quick look around them to see if there were others. Being careful so as not to exacerbate anything, she carefully leaned in so that her lips were close to Alyx’s ear and whispered. “You didn’t.”
Alyx furrowed her brow. “How do you know?”
“Because I know what this is,” she admitted. “It’s not that.”
“I don’t understand.” She used her arm to wipe a sheen of sweat from her forehead. “What… what is it, then?”
Ivy frowned. “It’s… a little hard to… to say,” she said. Then she hesitated. “It’s...It’s something I was born with.” She took hold of Alyx’s arm in effort to try to support bringing her up, an effort that was hampered with her shaking. “I’ll be fine. But you need water before it’s gone. Come on.”
Ivy’s explanation had not satisfied Alyx, but she knew the girl was right: rations were often slim at evening meals, and if they didn’t arrive soon, they’d be out of luck. And while she wasn’t hungry at all, she did need water-- and badly. So with a nod, she fell back in step alongside Ivy, the two of them slowly padding their way toward the barracks, which were built in a half-moon shape around a brambly courtyard at the far edge of the castle’s grounds.
But the moment they finally arrived, they were set upon by one of the slave quarters’ evening guards, a portly older man who seemed to hate his job just as much as he hated the slaves. He’d been around for as long as Alyx could remember, and yet she didn’t know his name-- only that he had a very short temper.
“What took you so long?” he snapped, stepping in front of them so that they couldn’t enter their barrack.
Ivy opened her mouth to speak before letting out a series of coughs. After a short string of them, she looked up. “We’re sick, sir,” she explained weakly. “So we’re slow.”
He stared down at them, frowning. “Since when?” He shifted his gaze toward Alyx, whose face was flushed from the exertion of the walk. She leaned against Ivy merely to keep herself upright, her face already glistening again with sweat.
“This morning, sir,” Alyx murmured. As a wave of dizziness hit her, she clenched her jaw. “P-please… I need… to sit…”
“Not in there, you don’t,” he said. “Not sending you in so that you can catch other people with it.” Turning his attention back to Ivy, he demanded, “Did you already get it from her?”
Ivy nodded weakly. “Y-yes,” she said. “Worked together and then--” she descended into coughing again.
The guard cursed. “Dirty slaves.” He crossed his arms. “I take it you know where the sick huts are?” When Alyx forced a nod, he went on, “Go there now. Tell them Bran sent you. And that you’re catching. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Alyx tried not to betray the new wave of dread crashing through her. The sick huts were just what they sounded like-- a sorry arrangement of drafty, moldy huts where ill slaves were sent in order to prevent outbreaks of disease. The bright side of being quarantined was that it got you out of work. But that was about it for the benefits. After all, the huts were freezing in winter and stifling in the summer, and in the thick of ague season, they could grow unbearably crowded. Sometimes you could catch something worse than what you went in with.
Figuring that Ivy probably hadn’t understood much of what the guard, Bran, had said, Alyx turned and gestured for the girl to follow her. “Come on,” she said, starting away.
Ivy frowned in confusion and followed. When they were a fair distance away from everyone else, she whispered, “Where are we going?”
“Sick huts,” Alyx said, not bothering to use Courdonian. “He thinks we’re catching.”
Ivy nodded weakly. “Good,” she mumbled to herself.
Once they arrived, Alyx explained to the bored-looking guard who’d sent them, and why. The guard wrinkled his nose and showed them to a hut at the corner of the cluster. Before letting them in, he gestured to a pump nearby, a wooden bucket sitting beneath it.
“You’ve missed evening food rations, but drink if you want,” he said.
Ivy weakly made her way over and began trying to work the pump. She struggled and winced as she did so, her fatigue becoming ever more prominent on her face. But she tried to pump as much as she could; she didn’t know when they would next have water.
She sighed in relief when the bucket was full enough, and she fell down to her knees and began taking sips of water with her hands. Alyx crouched at her side and did the same, grateful that Ivy had expended the energy to pump it out, since right now she felt like she’d collapse if she had to exert herself anymore.
Once they were done, the guard pointed them into the hut. “You’re lucky it’s early in the season,” he said. “You’ve got a private suite.”
And with that, he locked the door behind them, leaving the girls alone in the cramped, dark space. Although no one else inhabited it presently, it stunk strongly of the people who’d resided in it before-- the air a revolting mixture of waste and sweat and mold. Alyx grimaced and slid immediately to the ground, drawing her knees up to her chin. Ivy also took a seat on the ground, letting out a sigh of relief as she lay on her stomach, a sigh that was interrupted by a small gag.
“M-maybe Rylan will find out,” Alyx said. “Maybe he’ll try to send for me and find out.” For once she hoped this would actually be the case, because then… “Then he might get me a healer.” Realizing Ivy might not know the word, she clarified, “Healer. He might get me a healer.”
Ivy shook her head. “Hopefully only for you,” Ivy muttered. “I don’t want a healer.”
“Why not? Better than suffering through it,” Alyx asked, flitting between Courdonian and Kythian with each word that she spoke. She coughed-- not a fit, but a single, wracking cough-- and moaned, burying her head in her hands.
Ivy shook her head. “What I need is rest. If they try to heal me, they… I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Because of what you have…” Alyx said. “Since you were born?” She leaned against the flimsy wall, shivering as she did. “What do you have?”
Ivy paused, considering her words, and the situation. “It’s… It’s really complicated,” she said. “It’d take too long to explain...” She cast a worried glance towards the door, where the guard was only a few moments ago. She had heard footsteps walking away, but she didn’t know for sure whether he was gone. “And I don’t want anyone else here to know,” she added, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I won’t tell,” Alyx said. “I mean… I…”
Her feverish mind drifted to her warning to Ivy a few weeks ago, when she’d cautioned that she would tell Rylan if she suspected Ivy was going to try to escape. Alyx didn’t blame Ivy for being somewhat reluctant to share private information with her after that, not really. But that she’d tell Rylan if she suspected Ivy was going to try something like escaping didn’t mean she couldn’t keep any secrets. Wasn’t that what friends did? Keep the secrets that were safe to keep, but not let their friend do something that’d just end up with both of them getting hurt?
Then again, it had been so long since Alyx had really had a friend. Most of the others slaves before Ivy… they’d avoided her. First because she was Kythian-- foreign and strange, and therefore dangerous-- and then later because of well, him. The enki. It was much safer not to get involved with the slave who often caught Rylan’s eye. Much easier to stay under the radar that way.
Swallowing hard, Alyx said, “Do you consider m-me your friend, Ivy?” She wasn’t sure why her voice was shaking-- if it was from the fever, or her unsettled thoughts, or both. “Or… or… after what I said to you before and… the way I just… the way I’m his before anything else… does that make you…” She shuddered again, her voice trailing off.
Ivy slowly turned her head over, staring at Alyx’s face from what she could make out in the dark. “...Alyx, you’ve helped me so much since I came,” she said. “I think I would’ve struggled a lot more if you didn’t come, gotten more beatings. You’re the only person here I can talk to right now. Really talk to.” She paused. “But… But the way you talked that night, about how easily you’d tell Duval if I tried anything… Don’t get me wrong, I can see why. What you described… I’d be scared too, I know it. I am scared. I’ve been scared ever since I came here. Scared of so many things…”
She shut her eyes for a moment, trying to push the worries out of her head. “...But I can’t help but wonder, Alyx. You mention talking to Duval, not the overseers if I run. He calls for you almost every night. And he was personal with you when he scolded us on the night we got lashed, and I don’t think that’s just because of me… Why?”
For a long moment, Alyx was silent. Through the dark, she studied Ivy, hardly knowing what to say. Even if it weren’t for the fever clouding her thoughts, answering this question… it was…
“I-I don’t know much about your past,” she said finally. “What I do I’ve just… stolen, almost, from things you’ve said, and things Rylan said, and…” She shrugged. “He wanted you for some bigger purpose. There was something personal with you. But with me… it didn’t start out that way. He didn’t want me. He just wanted a girl. A pretty young Kythian girl. Blonde. Without anyone to come after her.” Alyx coughed once, but managed to catch herself before lapsing back into a fit. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Ivy?”
“...I…” Ivy stopped, considering for a moment. Her head hurt, and it hurt to have to think hard about this. But from what she did know, and what Alyx was saying…
“...Oh…” Ivy breathed out with a whisper, a chill running down her spine as she stared at her. “A-Alyx, I… Yes. I do now...” A look of sympathy lined her weary face, and she wished she could manage more than that.
“I-it’s not all bad,” Alyx said. “I get things the other slaves don’t, sometimes. Like a healer, I… if he sends for me and hears what’s wrong, he might get me a healer. He has before. They’re expensive, you know… a good one c-could cost more than some slaves are worth to him… but with me…” She bit down on the inside of her cheek. “We’re alike in that way, Ivy,” she murmured. “Not in what he wants us for, but that he wants us. Not j-just his floors scrubbed, or his socks darned… no matter who it’s done by. But us, as people. As individuals he can’t just r-replace. And that’s… that’s why I said I’d tell him if you ran, not an overseer. But… anything else… any other secret…” She slumped down. “I won’t tell him, Ivy. You’re my only friend. And I… as long as you can keep my secrets, I can keep yours.”
Ivy was silent for a long time, at times shaking her head in horror. She didn’t understand how she could be so… complacent about some of this. But… in honesty, she didn’t really understand it, and she knew it. As much as she wished it, she didn’t know exactly what to say.
“Still, he… he…” Ivy shook her head. “...You’re right, by the way. He does want me for a personal reason. Not me exactly, but...”
She paused. “Do you remember when I was telling you about the people I knew, about the former slaves who I knew escaped?”
Alyx nodded. “Yes.”
Ivy stared at the ground as she remembered. “...I didn’t tell you who they were. One is a friend of my family. ...The other is my father.”
Ivy grabbed her arm. “And he escaped from here; from Jisam. And if he hadn’t escaped, he’d never have met my mom… And I wouldn’t be here right now.” She frowned. “...I didn’t know all this, not before I got captured. I don’t know how he did it. I just know that after he ran… Things got so much better for him.”
She tapped her fingers on the floor once. “I don’t know why Duval still remembers him. Unless he… But he hates him. And he took me for that.”
“Oh,” Alex breathed. “That’s... I’m sorry, Ivy. I... “ She shifted. “I… I told you where I was from, right? B-before Rylan took me?”
Ivy nodded. “Yes. You said you’re from Elacs.”
“Yes. Now t-think for a second, Ivy. What that word sounds like… especially to someone who doesn’t speak Kythian. Elacs.”
Ivy frowned, her head pounding. “Elacs, Elacs… Elacs elacs elecs alecs alyx…” she froze. “...Oh ‘Woo, that’s petty.”
Alyx smiled darkly. “It’s common, you know. F-for foreign slaves. To name them after the places they’re from. As if that’s all they are. Just a place. Just a prize.” She sighed. “I… at first when he took me, I wouldn’t respond to it. I resisted it, insisting that it wasn’t my name, that he couldn’t make it my name. That my name was…” Her voice trailed off, and it took her a moment to catch herself and continue, “He beat that out of me pretty fast. To the point where now I’m sometimes afraid to even think my real name. As if he’ll hear me somehow.”
Ivy glanced at the door again, slowly blinking. “No one’s here now. Or they’d be yelling at us for speaking Kythian.”
“That they would,” Alyx agreed softly. She twined her fingers together, pressing her clammy palms into each other, and letting out a pained moan as a chill racked her yet again. “It’s… it’s Sarah,” she said finally, her voice nothing more than a haze of breath and sound.
“...Sarah,” Ivy whispered, trying out the name. She gave her a smile. “I like it.”
“I like it, too,” Alyx agreed, dropping herself onto her side and curling into a fetal position as another coughing spasm seized her. Once she was recovered, she added thinly, “T-these things we’re talking about right now… what you t-told me, I know it was hard, but… it wouldn’t matter if Lord Rylan found out, not really. But if he ever learned that you know my name… what that implies I did, Ivy…”
“I know,” Ivy said. “I’ll try not to use it if there’s a chance we can be heard. As much as I like the name.”
“Thank you,” Alyx murmured. “And I’ll… I won’t tell anyone about your father, Ivy.” Turning away from the girl then, she added nearly inaudibly, “And I won’t tell anybody what you are.”
Ivy reached over and rubbed her arm. There was still so much she didn’t know, so much she was tempted to say… But she wasn’t sure if Alyx was ready for more secrets right now. Or if she was. “Thank you,” she said. “Although… I guess it doesn’t matter as much if they know my dad’s a former slave. You’re right. It’s not the worst secret I can spill.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Alyx said, her heart fluttering. Knowing that if she was wrong right now, she might just confuse Ivy… and that even if she was right, well… Ivy might deny it.
Ivy blinked. “What do you mean, then?”
Shutting her eyes, Alyx said, “You were born free, so that means your father escaped… a long t-time ago. But still Rylan remembers him and hates him enough where he wanted you.” She trembled. “You’re… good at things. Too good at things. You d-don’t know how to embroider, but after a few hours your embroidery is nearly better than mine. And so is your high Courdonian accent.” Alyx swallowed the lump that was growing in her throat. “... That day in the library, you were holding a book. I told you not to touch any of the books, but one of them interested you so much t-that you couldn’t help. And… I didn’t see the book, but I know what section you were in, Ivy. The kinds of books shelved there…”
Ivy was silent for a moment. Then she let out a nod and a sigh. “It was a book on magic, yes.”
“I… won’t tell him,” Alyx promised. “I won’t even ask you what you can do, so that there’s no way I could tell him even if I wanted to. But Ivy… you need to be careful, okay? I know you did what you did today to help me, and I’m… I’m really grateful, but… bad things happen to slave mages here in Jisam, Ivy. Really bad things. Worse than anything Rylan’s ever done to me, and that’s… that’s saying a lot…”
Ivy blinked. “Bad things…” She rubbed her arm. “I was just worried about them finding out, and then making me overuse it. What do they have against mages?”
“They have nothing against mages,” Alyx said. “T-to the contrary, really. Mages are… valuable. Really valuable. And when you have something that valuable, you can’t take any risk of it not obeying you one-hundred percent of the time. Of not being your… not just your property, but your puppet. In every sense of the word. I… I won’t pretend I’ve seen it. What he does to mages to break them. But I’ve seen it after, Ivy. You know, Rylan has one. Russell. He’s about our age, I guess. And he’s...” She searched her mind for the right word to describe the boy, whom she’d only ever seen from afar, but whose haunted gaze still ate into her brain like lye. “He’s not right, Ivy. Whatever Rylan did to him…”
Ivy felt another chill, trying to imagine what could happen, and imagining what could be wrong with the boy. But her wording… Puppet... She suddenly felt even sicker. “That’s… I can’t imagine, but…” Her eyes went wide. “Oh ‘Woo... I… My father’s also a mage…”
And suddenly, a worry inside of her grew even deeper, and she shut her eyes tightly.
“I’m sorry if I’ve scared you,” Alyx said. “I just… if I figured it out, Ivy, he will, too. If you’re not careful…” She paused as the sound of footsteps from outside snapped her attention. The guard. “We’re being very dangerous-- or-- or… ah, bad. We both need to be careful.”
Ivy flinched at the sound of footsteps, and she nodded. “I’ll try.” Then she paused. “No. I will.”
“We should get some sleep.” She coughed. “... Or at least, try to.”
Ivy sighed. “Not hard for me,” she said, nuzzling her head into her arms. “I’m tired. ” She paused, looking for a word before giving up. “I’ll like if you sleep. Sleep good.”
At this, the two of them went quiet, trying to get some rest. In spite of Alyx’s hacking coughs, Ivy found herself drifting off very quickly. So Alyx--Sarah--knew who she was now. She didn’t tell her the whole story for either of the secrets she shared. She knew there was more to both of them, and in one case, so much more. But she had said enough already while under the haze of the ache and fatigue that ravaged her brain, and she wasn’t sure how well she could explain things anyway because of that.
As Ivy drifted off, one last thought lingered in her brain. Even though it was for the best that she didn’t share any secrets, in case they got out, or in case they forced each other to do what they didn’t want to do… She couldn’t deny that in spite of all of that, she and Sarah could still be friends.
Part 5:(Violence warning)The two girls were only in quarantine for a few days. Although Ivy had woken up the next day with a genuine cough of her own, her symptoms never grew nearly as bad as Alyx’s. But combined with the condition she brought with her in the first place, she spent most of her time asleep.
After a few days of being isolated in quarantine, a guard arrived late at night to fetch Alyx so that, true to what she’d said to Ivy, she could be taken to a healer. This was probably just as well-- her cough had reached the point where she cried out in pain each time a fit came over her, and her fever still had yet to break. While most of the time Alyx hated Rylan’s fascination with her, she nearly sobbed in relief as the guard, supporting her by the crook of her shaking elbow, led her out from the sick hut.
Alyx never returned, and while Ivy assumed she was okay, it left her alone in the quarantine house as she battled the last vestiges of her illness. Her symptoms hardly bothered her anymore; she ensured that she got plenty of rest. She just didn’t bother telling the guards that she might be ready for work again. As restless as she was, she wasn’t looking forward to being constantly overworked again. She did, however, miss Alyx’s presence. The quarantine, as foul as the place may be, was a good place for quiet conversations with Alyx in the few times she was able to talk. It was better opportunity than they had in the slave quarters, with the wrong ears ready to eavesdrop.
But the ‘break’ would come to an end. And sure enough, as a new batch of slaves was admitted to the sick hut with a stomach virus, the guards called Ivy outside and examined her, grilling her about her symptoms-- before declaring her well enough and sending her directly back to work.
The next few weeks passed as usual, with Ivy once more becoming accustomed to the working schedule. She took all the advantage she could get from her rest in quarantine, but she knew that staying in there would not have been welcome, and the guards would surely have noticed. Besides, more slaves were entering as bouts of flu went around, and she was glad to not have to suffer hers in the crowded barrack. But even if they were empty, she took Alyx’s warning to heart. She knew she had to do a better job of hiding her magic if she wanted to avoid whatever Rylan did to mages.
She saw Alyx regularly, as the two were once again assigned similar tasks, and they had a few more clandestine conversations in the night. But they didn’t talk of the secrets they’d shared in the sick hut-- neither Alyx’s nor Ivy’s. It was too dangerous to speak of such things with others around. Both of the girls knew that at Jisam, there was no such thing as being too careful. As the days passed, they had to lapse into Kythian less and less as Ivy got a better handle on Courdonian. She was still far from fluent, but she could now at least carry on a basic conversation without constantly being tripped up by unknown words.
As the weather grew nippier, the slaves were also issued the cloaks that they stitched only a few weeks earlier. Alyx immediately took to wrapping herself under its warmth at all times, but unlike the other slaves, Ivy rarely felt the need for the cloak at all. The weather, although dry, felt mild compared to what she was used to. But she made sure to keep it with her anyway. She felt comforted by the extra clothing on her skin, closer to what she was used to wearing. If nothing else, it made for a useful blanket that she could finally lay on, and she slept better for it.
But it didn’t stop the dreams. She would sometimes have nightmares of what Duval or the other slavers would do to her, but those weren’t the worst of her dreams. She would sometimes dream of her friends in Medieville, she and her siblings playing together, her lessons with her mother, her father encouraging her on a challenging task… They only stung when she woke up and remembered where she was.
But worst of all were the other nightmares. The ones that involved both her parents and Duval. Him taking them, beating them, stringing them up just like the slave Alyx talked about, and having to watch it all helplessly and not be able to do anything about it, unable to even say anything as she watched them fade out…
Ivy woke up in a cold sweat that morning. The other slaves were still asleep, and there was hardly any sound. Just the quiet snoring of her fellow slaves and nothing more. Nothing more than the memory of the nightmare thudding in her brain.
She huddled quietly where she lay, not making a sound as she traced a finger in the dirt on the floor, spelling out letters of the words in her brain.
Father
Mother
Muriel
Ciro
Home
Kyth
She paused, staring wistfully at the words, a pained expression on her face. She was startled out of her thoughts by the sound of another slave shifting and waking up, and she quickly wiped the words away. Turning, she was relieved to find that it was only Alyx, hair disheveled from sleep, shivering beneath the cloak that she had drawn over her shoulders.
“What are you doing?” Alyx whispered, studying the mussed dirt beneath Ivy’s stained finger.
Ivy paused, seeming to be nearly frozen in place as she glanced at the dirt on her hand, noticing that it was shaking slightly. “I-I…” she hesitated. “I was… just thinking… D-did I wake you?”
“No.” Alyx shrugged, sensing that whatever she’d caught Ivy doing, it probably wasn’t something safe for the girl to reveal with others around. True, all of the other slaves nearby seemed to be sleeping… but you never knew who was just listening with their eyes closed.
Ivy found herself glancing at the spot again before shutting her eyes for a moment. “...C-can I ask you something personal?”
“Sure,” Alyx murmured.
Ivy looked up. “Do you ever wonder what your family is doing? How they’re doing?”
Alyx bit her lip, considering. “I… I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t really… have family. Not after… well…” She hesitated, stealing a brief glance at the slumbering slaves nearby before continuing, “My mama… died when I was little. And my papa… he died when I…” She searched words Ivy would know. “The enki’s men killed him,” she finished finally.
“O-oh… Th-that’s... I-I’m sorry, that’s awful…” She paused. “I… I asked because I was thinking… dreaming about my own. And… And I started... wondering...” she trailed off, unable to put her thoughts to words, and a worried frown appeared on her face.
“Wondering,” Alyx murmured, giving her the low Courdonian word. “What were you wondering, Iv--” She caught herself, knowing better than to use such a name with others around. “Lynn.”
“I-I was wondering…” she paused. “...Wondering what they’re doing. What they’re thinking. And… And if they find out, wh-what they’ll do, and what… What could happen...” She reached one hand over to grasp her own arm, giving it a tight squeeze. “And that’s even if I ever see them again…”
A few feet away from them, the sound of another slave coughing snapped both Alyx and Ivy’s attention. They watched as an older woman sat up, rubbing her sleep-bleary eyes. Ivy jumped slightly, her eyes wide. Almost imperceptibility, Alyx shook her head at Ivy, as if warning her to end their conversation then and there. That such things weren’t safe to talk about with others clearly listening. Ivy complied and shut her mouth tightly, drawing her legs up and wrapping her arms around them. But she couldn’t hide the twitch of a worried frown or the shaking of her hands.
She still sometimes had trouble remembering that it wasn’t safe to talk. It rarely was in this place. But before, it was something that she always had… Now, it was a luxury. A luxury she had taken for granted. A luxury she missed.
But it couldn’t be helped. Beyond the faint snatches of conversation, she had to keep her worries to herself. There was no other way.
And so she continued to endure the nightmares, gradually growing more and more silent.
**
It was a very cold day in Jisam, and the slaves had begun to huddle together for warmth. Ivy and Alyx were doing much of the same. Even for Ivy, the chill had begun to bite at her fingers and she grew uncomfortable. Some of the slaves were now delegated to tasks of keeping the fires warm for the nobles within the castle. Ivy found herself envying those slaves; at least they would get a better chance of warming up.
Still, Ivy tried to shove her discomfort out of her head as she scrubbed the floor, trying her best to not let her hands get too wet, lest they become even more chilled. But as usual, it turned out her effort was in vain. Alyx scrubbed noiselessly at her side, eyes bleary from a sleepless eve the night before. It had simply been too cold in the barracks to get any solid shut eye; she’d awakened frequently, her bones aching even against the body heat radiating from the slaves with whom she’d huddled.
As noon approached, and Ivy, Alyx, and the others near them came close to finishing scrubbing the floor, they heard commotion outside. Something raucous. And they soon found out why when one of the overseers walked over to them.
“Up, all of you,” he said to them. “Go out to the east courtyard and wait for our word.”
Ivy frowned. The east courtyard? Did they have a task there? But the east courtyard was usually barren. What were they going to do there? At her side, Alyx bit down on her lip, worried, her mind drifting to memories past-- wicked memories-- but she quickly shoved them away. No use in worrying, she thought, trying to give the confused-looking Ivy a reassuring smile as they started out toward the courtyard.
Neither girl could perceive what was going on at first, a thick half-circle of slaves fringed about something unseen at the center. Ivy and Alyx gave each other another look as they pressed themselves into the crowd, craning their necks to get a glimpse at the object of focus. Once they did, Alyx’s stomach dropped, and her blood ran colder than the frosty air around. She squeezed her hands into tight fists and couldn’t help but murmur under breath: “Oh, gods.”
For in the center of the throng was a ragged figure. A man, bare-backed and forced to his knees, his wrists and ankles bound with heavy twine. A pair of wary-looking guards held their spears in his direction, the tips just inches away from piercing his throat. Three more guards, their spears at the ready, stood nearby, staring ragefully down at the cowering, pathetic figure.
Behind them, presiding over the gathering with a cold, wrathful expression on his face, was Rylan Duval, wearing a well-made cloak to stave off the chill. His entire demeanor screamed out danger to any slave who’d had even brief contact with him, and a few of those nearest nervously shuffled backward as he stepped forward. He paid them no attention.
“Well, I’m certain even slaves can guess why we’ve called you here,” Rylan snapped out, his eyes scanning the crowd. “A healthy reminder, just in case any of you had forgotten, what happens to filthy runaways and thieves.” He stood beside the bound slave and braced one booted foot against his back, still looking out at the slaves who were watching the scene, transfixed with horror. “What will happen to any of you who get it into your heads that you can defy me. That you can outwit me.”
Oh, gods, no, Alyx thought as Rylan snarled at the crowd. This… this couldn’t be happening again. Wicked memories once more seared into her head, and this time she couldn’t so easily suppress them: the escaped slave she’d used as a warning to Ivy about what happened if you tried to run away from Jisam. The way he’d been beaten so brutally… then later killed…
She bit down so hard on her lip that it drew blood. She felt like she should warn Ivy of just how brutal this was going to be, but she didn’t dare speak without permission with so many guards around, and the enki himself just feet away. Instead, she worried with her toe at the cold dirt beneath her, trembling beneath her tightly drawn cloak.
Ivy’s eyes were transfixed on the scene, her brow creased with worry as she stared at the slave. It wasn’t anyone she’d recognized, but… he was a man, and he didn’t look like trouble. What could he possibly have done to have riled up Rylan so badly, enough that he was being treated this way? Whatever they were going to do to him, it didn’t look like anything good.
Rylan paced slowly back and forth behind the bound man, his hands clasped behind his back. “This slave,” he said, his voice ringing across the courtyard, “was not satisfied with shirking his duties and trying to run away. Oh, no. He was a thief. And it is because of him that we’ve lost the use of a very valuable tool.” Rylan aimed a vindictive kick at the slave, punctuating his words. “A mage, who would have been worth more than any five of you after her conditioning. And because he was her sire, this piece of dirt thought he had a right to her.” Rylan spat the words, his body tensing like a viper coiled to strike.
Standing directly behind the bound man, Rylan halted, crossing his arms as he glared out at the gathered slaves. “Because of him, my property was destroyed,” he hissed. “He stole from me, and because of him I have lost something costly. And I want all of you to witness what happens to him, lest you think you have the right to do the same.”
Ivy tensed. The way he spoke the words, and the way he spat the word sire... Her jaw clenched together tightly. The man sitting before them, the one being treated so foully, was a father. They talked about him as if he were a thief, or a vandal; a criminal. Because… because he was trying to save his daughter... Ivy’s blood went cold, and she couldn’t help but shudder as she stared at the man, barely even blinking.
Watching Ivy stiffen, Alyx knew that what Rylan was saying must have hit a nerve with her. It would make sense, given Ivy’s magic and the fact that she claimed her father was a mage, too. As the guards all watched Rylan rant, Alyx dared lean in toward Ivy briefly-- just long enough to whisper into her ear, “Don’t look, okay?”
Ivy only glanced over to Alyx, unable to hide the look of despair on her face. What were they going to do to him…? She glanced away, wanting to look at the man but trying desperately not to.
Satisfied by his speech and the slaves’ hushed terror, Rylan stepped back, looked to the overseer who was waiting with his coiled whip and nodded. “You may begin,” he said calmly, moving out of the way to a vantage point where he could watch.
The overseer gave him a quick but respectful bow. “Yes, m’lord.”
Under Rylan’s watchful eye, the man uncoiled the whip and raised it high. Then the lash fell… and didn’t stop. Before long the slave’s blood was spattered on the cobblestones around him, and his hoarse screaming filled the air.
Ivy flinched as she heard the first lash, almost as if expecting it to strike against her own skin, just like the times before. Even though it didn’t, she still felt like as if it were piercing her very soul. She’d tried not to look, tried to block out the sound of the whips and the screams as it rung through… But a morbid part of her couldn’t help it, couldn’t help but wonder what the state of the man was, the man who had only done what he thought was right. And so she ended up taking a glance.
That was a mistake. It was a horrid sight, one that made her forget the cold, and it didn’t take Ivy long to realize that Alyx was absolutely right to warn her against looking. The man was in a horrific state, his face laced with agony as she saw more wounds than she had ever seen on any of the other slaves… And counting. Ivy found her gaze locked on the man for some time before she attempted to force her head away. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
Eventually, after what at once felt like an eternity and no time at all, the screams abruptly stopped as the man’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell unconscious. Even still, the overseer cracked the whip against his flayed back several more times, the skin now ribboned into a grotesque sight. Even some of the more stoic slaves had by now averted their eyes, and somewhere in the back of the crowd, a young boy who couldn’t have been more than seven or eight was sobbing into his mother’s skirts as she desperately tried to hush him.
“Shall that do, m’lord?” the overseer asked finally, gazing nearly disinterestedly down at the battered, bloody, and unconscious figure beneath him, as if it was a piece of gum that had gotten stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
Rylan nodded, a look of satisfaction on his face. “String him up in the middle of the courtyard,” he said, jerking his head toward a crude wooden post that must have been set up for that very purpose. “And I hope I don’t need to remind any of you,” he added, his gaze swinging out over the assembled slaves, “that anyone caught giving him food or water will be punished most severely.”
That done, he gave a short nod to the overseer. “That will be all,” he said shortly, and turned away without a second glance at the man who bled, bound and unconscious, at the overseer’s feet.
Ivy risked another look up as the overseers began to string the unconscious man to the post, her mouth agape in horror. He looked… awful. And after what he had done for his daughter… Without thinking, Ivy began to take a step closer towards the man.
But before she could move more than an inch, Alyx grabbed a sharp hold of Ivy’s arm, stopping her in place. “Don’t,” she said softly.
Ivy struggled for a moment, but stopped soon after, looking back to Alyx. “He… How long are they going to leave him like this…?”
As the slaves around them began to disperse, starting back toward toward their duties, Alyx shrugged, turning away from the unconscious man, now bound in full to the post, his mangled back still bleeding profusely. “Until he’s dead, probably.”
The answer made Ivy pause, and she glanced back at the man. “...He… He only wanted…”
She brought her free hand over to rub her arm as she thought. She remembered Alyx’s warning of what happened to escaped slaves, but this… this looked worse, so much worse. The worst she had ever seen…
...But she knew that in the eyes of Duval, there were still worse crimes for which one could be caught, accused… and punished.
She stared for a long moment at the man, but her eyes were out of focus, as if there was something else on her mind. Then she tore her arm away from Alyx and began to make her way through the crowd. Rylan was heading back to the castle, still some distance away from the slaves. She bit her lip, but walked with a determined stride towards him. Alyx at first reached out after her, as if to stop her again, but she was too slow. And it wasn’t as if she was going to risk chasing after Ivy right now… not with so many guards around, and the enki still merely a few yards away. Instead, she watched on in numb horror and dread as Ivy reached Rylan.
“Enki,” she said, trying to get his attention, unable to keep her voice from quivering.
Rylan rounded on her, his eyes narrowing as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing. “Were you given permission to speak to me, Lynn?” he said sharply.
Ivy only shook her head for a brief second before quickly powering on, her voice and heart racing. “I-I just want you to know that if my parents come, t-to tell them that I don’t want t-to be taken back by them. J-just know that. Th-that’s all.”
Rylan’s face stiffened at this unthinkable disrespect. Then he slapped her across the face as hard as he could. “Do you think I am your messenger, Lynn?” he snarled. “How dare you speak to me like this!” He grabbed her by the hair, yanking her forward and holding her there. “What you want,” he said, pronouncing the word with disdain, “is irrelevant. The only thing you should concern yourself with is what you’re told, and it’s long past time you learned that!”
His raised voice was starting to draw stares - guiltily and quickly averted from the slaves, and openly curious from the handful of guards and overseers who passed by as they began back toward their posts. Ivy only stared, her eyes wide with terror. In his sheer rage Rylan hit her again, and then looked up, his eyes quickly scanning what remained of the crowd.
“Wait,” he said, raising his voice, and those slaves who heard him stopped instantly in their tracks. “Back to the courtyard. I have one further lesson.”
Alyx’s heart beat in her ears as she watched Rylan, still holding Ivy by the hair, sharply haul her back toward where the male slave was lashed to the post. Her hands balled into nervous fists, she tried her best to keep her breathing level, silently cursing herself that she’d not made a better grab at Ivy.
Ivy didn’t resist as she was dragged along, merely staring at the crowd around her, doing her best to not look down at or smell the blood below her. She looked frightened… But her facial expression was mixed with what appeared to be an odd calm.
Rylan shoved her to the ground, his face stony. He glanced over at a guard who’d trailed him back to the middle of the courtyard, who bore a look of equal curiosity and wariness, and jerked his head impatiently at the girl. The guard immediately bent down to bind her as the enki surveyed the reassembling crowd.
“Apparently, some of you still need to be reminded of your place,” he snapped. “So let me spell it out for you.” He crouched in front of Ivy, who the guard had just finished restraining, and forced her head up. Though his voice was still raised so that the crowd could hear, he was glaring directly at her. “You don’t speak to me unless you’re told to. Ever. And this is going to keep happening, girl, as many times as it takes before it sinks into your thick head that the only thing you’re good for is shutting up and doing what you’re told.”
Ivy glanced up, taking in the enki’s glare, but said nothing, her mouth clamped firmly shut. Rylan released her face and then seized the back of her dress, tearing it open and exposing her back to the chilly air. He straightened. The guard who’d bound her didn’t have a whip, but by this point the head overseer had returned and Rylan gestured sharply without a word. He nodded, and the whip came down on Ivy’s back with a sharp crack.
Ivy flinched before the whip came, but the strike was worse. She felt her back sear from the pain, and she winced. She tried to brace herself, keeping her eyes leveled towards the crowd as she tried in vain to push the pain out of her head and focus only on one thing. Back in the crowd, Alyx clenched her jaw, eyes cast firmly at the ground. The sound was bad enough; she couldn’t bring herself to watch the beating outright.
Eventually, mercifully, the lashes stopped. Ivy’s back was bleeding with the marks of a full thirty lashes. Ivy collapsed to the ground, shaking but still holding her mouth shut. She risked opening her eyes, but the light only made her head swim, and she shut them tightly again. She had lost count of the number of lashings, but it was more than before, of that she was sure. She only lay there, breathing shakily through her teeth in a desperate attempt to drive away the pain and keep herself from screaming.
Rylan had watched the proceedings with both anger and satisfaction on his face, and when it had finished he tore his eyes away from Ivy’s bleeding, trembling body and looked up at the overseer. “I want her back to work as soon as physically possible,” he said coolly, and then turned almost as an afterthought to the assembled slaves. “Back to your duties. You are dismissed.”
But Rylan didn’t return to the castle right away. This time, he veered from his previous path to catch the overseer Rhett as he returned to his work. “What exactly are you doing with that girl?” he hissed. “I’ve had her over three months and she is still speaking out of turn. To me. I’ll be docking your next wages, Rhett, and be thankful it isn’t more. I expect the slaves you handle to be better-trained than that.”
Rhett nodded. “I will keep a closer eye on her, milord. I apologize for her insolence.” He hesitated for a moment before letting his gaze drift at the crowd of slaves, once again dispersing. “I… mean not to speak out of turn, milord, but…”
“What?” Rylan snapped testily, crossing his arms.
“She and the yellow-haired girl. Your ah… Alyx, I think? They’re… quite close. I haven’t caught them speaking improperly again since that unfortunate day, but I fear they’ve grown too bonded. I… think it may be beneficial to separate them. In the barracks, at least, so that they can only interact when they’re being supervised.” He hastily added, “Although of course that decision ultimately rests with you, milord.”
Rylan raised an eyebrow. “I see. Yes, I think that would be best. Lynn has already shown herself to be a disruptive influence… I can’t have her ruining Alyx’s training. See to it that it’s done.”
Rhett nodded curtly again. “I shall have one of them placed into a new barrack, milord.”
Rylan nodded his approval. “Good.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and left for the castle, confident that his wishes would be carried out.
Ivy shivered, curled up as she tilted her head up back towards the man bound to the post. He was still unconscious, unaware of what was happening. Ivy stared at him before turning her head towards the ground so that no one could see her face, and more importantly, her mouth.
“They won’t,” Ivy mouthed to herself in Kythian, not making a sound. “It’s safe.”
She was soon yanked to her feet and marched back towards the barracks, her feet automatically matching their pace in spite of her limp. Alyx watched her go, numb not only on account of the cold. She was jittery as she worked the rest of the day, both horrified and confused. Why had Ivy done such a stupid thing? And why hadn’t Alyx managed to stop her?
She was hoping to at least pose such a question to Ivy that night in the barracks-- but when she arrived, she was immediately intercepted by one of the overseers, who told her she’d been reassigned to another of the quarters. Away from Ivy.
“But…” she started, before letting her voice fall away.
“I think you know better than to speak without permission, girl,” the overseer hissed. “Now go.”
Alyx went.
**
The chill only got worse as time passed, and two days after the event, the slaves opened the doors to their barracks to find the ground layered with frost. Alyx had not seen Ivy since the brutal whipping in the courtyard, and her stomach was in knots over the girl’s fate as her mind created all the worst case scenarios. It had been a bad beating-- not lethal, at least it didn’t seem lethal-- but then again Ivy was still so new, so unbroken… and what if something in the healing had gone wrong… and…
She tried to shove such thoughts from her head as, shivering from the frosty gale, she made her way from the barracks toward the castle, where she and several dozen other slaves were set to help clean out the great hall. Rumor had it that the enki was setting about to turn it from a meeting room into a weapons’ room. Why he felt the need to do such a thing had yet to be resolved amongst the slaves, although there were theories abound: a war with the capital (he always had hated his sister, the queen). Or a war with Kyth. Or something else altogether.
Alyx wasn’t sure what she believed. As another gust of wind tore through the air, she gritted her teeth and shuddered harder. She kept her head bowed low, bracing against the chill, not sparing a glance at the other slaves who walked beside her.
Alyx did not notice Ivy, who was trailing along on the other side of the huddle, also drafted for reorganization duty, her lash marks now bandaged and covered by her haphazardly resewn dress. She was hunching over and wincing, but otherwise didn’t seem too bothered by the cold. She preoccupied herself by glancing at the frost and the light that reflected from it. It had been so long since she had seen frost, not since the previous autumn in Kyth, and all the autumns before that, where it would appear in the mornings for days on end until it was replaced by snow. It would have snowed in Kyth long before now, she guessed, but Talvace was hotter and drier by comparison.
Staring at the sparkles reflecting off the frost, Ivy couldn’t help but smile slightly as her mind wandered, back to Kyth, back to home… Her smile grew sad, as she remembered that it was the home that she would never see again. She knew that… But was beginning to at least accept that.
At least they couldn’t take her memories from her.
Ivy barely stopped herself in time as the huddle came to an abrupt halt, and whispers wound their way through the crowd. Ivy looked up to find herself in the same courtyard as before. The mere sight of it made Ivy shudder before she forced herself to stop so as not to further aggravate her wounds.
It didn’t take long for them to realize what was wrong, and when they did, Ivy felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
From among the huddle, Alyx’s heart leapt twice: first, when she spied that familiar ginger hair, and realized that Ivy was with the group… and okay. And then again when she realized the reason for the halt at all.
The slave who’d been lashed to the post two days prior after his beating looked as cold as ice. He hung unmoving, his body stiff against the brutal wind, his skin as pale as the frost clinging to the ground. Except for his toes and his fingers.
Those were gnarled, swollen stumps of black.
Dead.
He was dead.
Ivy could only stare at the man’s lifeless corpse, her breathing growing shallow. The beating had been brutal and terrible, and she’d known all along that he might not survive his wounds. But to see another human dead, and taken away so unfairly and with such cruelty… Ivy clenched her arm tightly, unable to look away.
She didn’t notice when, silent as a wraith, Alyx padded to her side, shimmying through the stilled huddle to reach her friend’s side. Leaning in close to Ivy’s ear, Alyx breathed, “Are you okay?”
Ivy slowly turned her head to her friend, only able to stare before slightly shaking her head. “N-no. H-he’s… He’s…” She struggled to find the word.
“Dead,” Alyx finished, nearly shrugging. “Yes, he is, but that’s not what I meant, that’s-- what were you thinking the other day?”
It didn’t take long for Ivy to realize what she was asking as she winced at the pain in her back again. She took another glance at the man’s corpse, as if to remind her of something. “...I had to,” she said. She shut her eyes for a moment. “I… I didn’t want them to end up like him… I had to give him something, something to tell them… So that it wouldn’t happen to them.”
“You’re… you’re…” She racked her mind for a Courdonian word that Ivy would know, but couldn’t come up with one. Quickly, she hissed, “lucky that you didn’t end up dead, too.”
Ivy only winced at the thought before turning to Alyx. “...I-I don’t think they want me dead. Because…” She paused. “I’ll get better… I just wanted to help keep my parents away and alive, in… in what little way I can.”
Alyx just shook her head. “That’s the thing, Ivy.” She caught herself, hesitated. “Lynn,” she amended, her voice with more bite than she’d at first intended. “You can’t do anything. Not anymore. And if you try, well…” She let her eyes drift back toward the battered corpse on the post. “You shouldn’t worry about your parents, Lynn. You need to worry about you.”
“I know I can’t. That’s the most I could do. ...But I can’t help but worry about them, because…” She grasped her arm tighter, trying to keep her arm from shaking as she took a glance towards the man. “Y-you don’t know them… I-if I didn’t say anything and give Duval something to gloat to them about, they’d… They’d come after me and end up like him...”
“And you think that getting yourself beaten to hell will fix that?” Alyx murmured. “You think that making Duval hate you even more will somehow help your parents if they decide to act like fools?”
“He hates me anyway,” Ivy muttered. “He always will. Because of my parents, because of what they’re doing… But he’ll remember what I said, that I want to stay. And if there’s a chance my parents will hear it before it’s too late and concentrate somewhere safer... I may as well do that one small thing.”
For a moment, Alyx merely studied Ivy. The look of desperate hope etched into the lines of her face, even now. Even after she’d witnessed a man beaten and left for dead. Even after she’d had her own back flayed by the sting of the whip-- twice.
“Promise me you won’t do anything like that again,” she said softly. “Please.”
“It’ll work better if I cooperate now,” Ivy said. “I won’t try anything like that anymore. And I’m not going anywhere.”
As another gale of wind seared through the air, the sound of stomping boots snapped the slaves’ attention-- including Ivy and Alyx’s. They shifted their gazes at the pair of overseers stomping in from further up the path, their faces ruddy from the cold, their eyes narrowed in fury. Alyx didn’t know the one’s name, but the other...
Rhett.
“Did anybody give you permission to stop and gawk?” Rhett growled at the group. When no one volunteered a response, he snarled, “Of course not. Now get moving.”
As the slaves took one last glance at the battered, frozen corpse, Rhett’s scathing glare settled on Ivy and Alyx, who stood near the edge of the group. Alyx’s stomach dove as she noted the fire in his leer, the way he tensed even more as he noticed her and Ivy standing together. Like a lion stalking its prey, he started toward them, his boots crunching against the frosty ground.
“Not good,” Alyx murmured. Then, to Ivy: “For the love of the gods, do whatever he says. Okay?”
Ivy nodded slightly, but didn’t return a reply, and merely kept her head pointed towards the ground. Alyx followed suit, lowering her gaze as Rhett finished his approach. At reaching the girls, he immediately shot out a hand and latched it around Alyx’s wrist, heaving her forward. She stumbled and tried her best not to gasp, his fingers digging into her flesh.
“Were you two speaking, girl?” he demanded of her.
“No, sir,” she lied.
Still clasping her wrist, he used his other hand to smack her across the face. She winced but didn’t cry out, tasting blood almost immediately.
“I saw you speaking. So let’s try this again.” His gaze dancing toward Ivy, he let go of Alyx and grabbed onto the redhaired girl’s chin, crushing it between his thumb and forefinger. “Were you two speaking, girl?” he demanded of her.
Ivy tried to think quickly while gathering the courage to speak, reminding herself that she wasn’t about to speak out of turn. “Not long. She was just telling me not to do what I did the other day.”
“How noble of her,” Rhett sneered. As the other slaves disappeared up the path, he brusquely let go of Ivy’s chin. “We’re going to have a new rule with you two. Every time you act out of turn, your punishment is double what it would be for anybody else.” He paused, almost thoughtfully, before adding, “And whatever punishment one of you gets, so does the other. Now, go. I won’t have you late for work.”
Ivy only nodded ever so slightly before hurrying to work, not looking back. Alyx didn’t dare glance back, either. Her cheek smarted, but the nausea suddenly permeating her was much worse than the ache from the strike. She knew that risking words now was stupid. Beyond stupid. But she had to. She couldn’t help it… figuring that the other slaves were far enough up ahead not to hear, and Rhett was too far behind…
“Promise,” she hissed between her teeth. “Promise me, Ivy.”
Ivy barely moved her lips as she sent a scarce whisper back. “Promise.”
Part 6:True to her word, Ivy did her best to not get in trouble. She hardly spoke in all that time, only spent her moments glancing towards the ground in silence. Ivy and Alyx still spoke when they could, snatching whispers whenever the overseers weren’t around and whenever Rhett was not working that day, but they were quick to move away and return to work as soon as they thought too much time had passed. Their conversations were now only surface deep, existing in stolen snatches and worried whispers. The days of spilling their secrets-- of conversing in hushed Kythian-- had long passed, beaten and threatened out of them.
It took a few long, harried weeks for the slaves to finish converting the meeting room into a weapons room, and the work did not stop there. From there a large portion of the castle’s slaves were shifted from their normal duties to crafting weapons and armor, and maintaining or repairing existing ones. Although Ivy and Alyx didn’t have to do much of the work, with such tasks being relegated to the stronger slaves, they were occasionally assigned peripheral jobs-- cleaning, polishing, ferrying materials in and out. And in the process, they saw the might of the Duval household build up more and more, represented in chainmail, in crossbows, in wooden arrows and sharpened lances and shields painted with the beaming sigil of the House.
As this happened, Ivy looked more and more worried, her brow furrowing as she saw the immense display of weapons build up and witnessed Courdonian soldiers in the midst of training. Her face was often curved into a frown and her arms sometimes shook as she mopped the floor. Alyx could tell that this sudden shift toward building up the castle’s defensive-- and offensive-- power unnerved her friend, but she didn’t dare ask for an explanation. She didn’t know if she had the stomach for whatever answer Ivy would provide. So as long as the redhaired girl was holding on to her end of the bargain-- wasn’t causing chaos, wasn’t breaking rules-- then Alyx thought it might be better for both of them to leave certain things unsaid.
And sure enough, Ivy did her best to avoid trouble, and so her worry continued on unsaid, as the winter finally warmed, then thawed into a balmy spring. A few days after the slaves had their cloaks revoked, a large number of them were called into the weapons hall, whereupon the overseers announced that a new shipment of armor had been sent in from the capital.
“Some of it needs to be polished, and we’ve a batch of shields that need marking,” Rhett said stiffly. “So if you’re normally just made to do cleaning, you’ll be switching focus today.”
Ivy and Alyx were first sent to polish chain mail, but after a few hours, Rhett slithered over to their side, where they were toiling with a few dozen other slaves. “Batch we picked to mark the shields is a bit too… slow,” he said. “So I need five of you.”
He counted off then, seemingly at random, pulling from the group Ivy, Alyx, and three other teenaged girls. He directed them toward the imposing pile of shields across the room, which were all in the process of being painted with the House Duval crest. Alyx thought such a thing a bit strange-- why did it matter if the shields looked pretty? Why did Rylan care if his House’s sigil winked up from the chipped metal? Wouldn’t it be more rational to expend energy into tasks that actually might improve the castle’s chances if it really were to come under siege? Then again, Rylan had always been almost preternaturally occupied with appearances: how things seemed rather than how they were. As long as everything looked right, then Rylan was satisfied. And it wasn’t as if she were in a position to offer suggestions, anyway. Instead, she, Ivy, and the other girls silently sat down to paint.
The girls arrived to their seats on the table to see a shield already placed in front of them, at the start of being painted but abandoned by the previous slaves. They proceeded to work to finish them up. As Ivy worked on the background, she glanced at the other slaves to see how they were making their shields, and how they were making the crest with their paints. After some time watching, she traced the crest on the face of the shield with her finger before beginning to paint.
“It’d be easier if they had something else to mark it with…” Ivy muttered to Alyx. “Something to trace with. Anything.”
Eventually, Ivy finished her first shield, and though she frowned at her first attempt at the design, she decided it was good enough for the overseer’s purpose. She got up to walk to one of the piles of shields circled around the table. Alyx had gotten up first, having finished her shield first, and was grabbing a new shield when Ivy approached her. Alyx whirled around just as Ivy came close, and they bumped into each other, causing Alyx’s shield to clatter to the ground.
Alyx gasped as the shield bounced off the tumbled marble floor with a clank that instantly attracted the attention of all nearby. Including, she realized with swift and panicked horror, Rhett, who spun toward them. Alyx scrambled to pick the shield back up, but it didn’t matter; with a look of fury blazing on his face, Rhett stamped over to she and Ivy. Ivy flinched and Alyx recoiled from him, the shield she’d just picked up again quavering in her hand, as he roughly grabbed her hair and pulled her head back.
“Why,” he snarled, “is it always you two?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Alyx forced through gritted teeth. “It was an accident, sir.”
His rage not at all sated, Rhett let go of Alyx’s hair and turned then toward the shield, wrenching it from her grip. Tugged abruptly forward, Alyx hissed in pain, her wrist giving an audible pop as the sharp edge of the shield scraped against the open flesh of her palm.
“This will be your one and only warning,” Rhett snapped-- and for a moment, Alyx thought this meant he was done with menacing at her, threatening her. So she could only grit her teeth harder as, with the hand that wasn’t now clutching her shield, Rhett smacked her, hard, across the jaw… and then turned and echoed the blow as he slapped Ivy, as well. Ivy couldn’t help but step back, gasping as she rubbed her aching jaw. “Remember,” he said then, thrusting the shield back into Alyx’s aching hand, “where one of you is punished, so is the other. Now get back to work.”
With that, Rhett stalked off to snarl at a slave across the room who’d just spilled some paint, leaving the bewildered Ivy and Alyx behind.
Ivy turned to Alyx with a mixture of pain and concern as she picked up a shield of her own. “Alyx, I’m so sorry,” she whispered as they walked back to their seats. She looked down at Alyx’s wrist. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Alyx murmured before amending to, “No. I mean, it’s not the worst injury but… it’s the hand I was painting with…”
Ivy frowned as she took her seat. She wanted to suggest that she take a break, to not make her hand any worse. But after Rhett’s warning, and knowing what he would say if Alyx did that, she knew that’d be a bad idea.
“...You should take it easy,” Ivy said instead. But worry edged her tone as she began to dab paint onto her own shield. They were each given a large quota of shields by the end of the work day, and the previous slaves were clearly behind compared to the others. It already made reaching quota difficult without Alyx’s hand acting up. And if she fell behind, if either of them didn’t make quota, they’d both be punished. And with the beating they got, if what happened to Alyx’s hand was only a warning...
And then there was Ivy’s promise to not get in trouble. It wasn’t just for hers or Alyx’s sake; if there was any reason Duval thought she might misbehave, if he had any less reason to gloat about her, if there was any chance that her risky action on that cold month didn’t work… Ivy shook her head. She couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t let them fall behind. There was too much at stake.
Ivy continued painting her shield, frowning in contemplation until her strokes became more idle as she looked up at the other slaves, paying attention to one talented painter in particular. Alyx labored at her side, albeit slowly now, her wrist searing with pain whenever she moved it. She wasn’t precisely sure what Rhett had done to it, but it felt… out of place. Wrong, somehow. And that was without giving heed to the scrape on her hand, which smarted as she gripped the brush. After a while, when Ivy had finished three more shields and Alyx had barely managed to grimace through one, it was becoming clear to her that she was falling hopelessly and horrifically behind pace.
“We’re done for,” she muttered to Ivy. “He’s gonna beat the hell out of us.”
Ivy didn’t respond right away. She was paying particular attention to one of the slaves, the way they held their brush, the way they stroked it, the method they used to quickly paint the crest… Finally, Ivy looked back down at her own work, as if preparing for something.
“Hang in there. I’m going to try something,” Ivy whispered so quietly Alyx could barely hear it.
“Try what?” Alyx hissed, keeping one eye on Ivy and the other on the roving overseers, prepared to drop the conversation like a hot iron if any of them veered too close.
“I’ll try getting us ahead,” Ivy whispered back. She wanted to be clearer, but with ears everywhere, she didn’t want to risk being specific. “Let me know if they’re staring.”
Alyx wanted to rebut again, but as one of the overseers suddenly listed their direction, she knew that she couldn’t. A worried feeling eating at her gut, she turned back toward her job, as next to her, Ivy took a breath. Then the redheaded girl dabbed her paintbrush into one of the pots of paint and began moving it swiftly but gently over the shield. Her eyes stayed focused on the shield, her hands constantly at work as she quickly tried to work out the crest.
The crest turned out much better than the one before, and the moment she was done, Ivy--not wanting to lose concentration, quickly moved to the pile of shields and grabbed a few at a time. She set the extras beneath her chair as she proceeded to work on the next one. She allowed her concentration to drop temporarily as she worked on the backdrop, but the moment she tried painting anything more complex, she focused again, oblivious to the world around her.
Over an hour passed, and the slaves were still hard at work. Still laboring at a glacial pace, Alyx shot occasional worried glances in Ivy’s direction, but perhaps selfishly, didn’t dare say anything and risk snapping her friend’s concentration. A niggling feeling in Alyx’s gut told her that this wasn’t right somehow, that Ivy’s sudden, perfect, frantic pace wasn’t wholly organic, but to even insinuate such a thing out in the open like this was dangerous. Not to mention, if Ivy kept up this pace, they’d make quota in spite of Alyx’s sluggishness. Which meant they wouldn’t face the fiery sting of Rhett’s lash.
So Alyx stayed silent, even as Ivy, although she had not slowed down, began to look unwell. She was sometimes cringing, hunching over in her chair, and she sometimes had to stop to take a breath before continuing.
But some time later, the overseers gave them a ten minute warning. Ivy checked her mental count of the shields before realizing that she was well past the last shield that they both needed to avoid punishment. She let her focus drop, deciding to take a leisurely pace with the danger gone. And so she took her time to finish the last crest. As she did, it became even more obvious that something was wrong, and Ivy had to pause for a moment to clutch her side before she remembered herself. She took another breath and tried to push her discomfort out of her head as she tried to finish painting the emblem, trying her best to keep her hand and body from shaking.
And then finally, time was called just as Ivy finished her last shield. She set down the paintbrush and dropped the shield to the table, folding her arms around her chest, doing her best to hide her shaking and any winces from the pain that shot through her. She told herself that she just needed to last long enough until she could return to the barracks and sleep, and that she had to keep appearances until then…
“Are you okay?” Alyx whispered as one of the overseers stalked over to the count the finished shields. She shot over a furtive glance as he started to tally them up, noting with a bit lip the way that Ivy’s pile of shields towered over everybody else’s. The overall quota was collective, not individual, but you could get away with being under so long as the minimum threshold was met overall. Still, her completed shields looked anemic compared to the other stacks. She wondered if she’d be punished for this, even if the quota as a whole had been reached… and given how many shields Ivy had painted, Alyx had no doubt the quota had been met, if not exceeded.
Ivy didn’t want to risk speaking with an overseer so close, so she merely let out a nod and a weak smile to Alyx, trying her best not to show her discomfort. She then looked to the overseers near her shields, a worried look on her face, berating herself for not putting more shields on Alyx’s pile, being too distracted with painting and desperately trying to meet the quota.
Too focused for my own good, Ivy thought. She gulped and tried to avoid eye contact with the overseers, hoping they’d just dismiss this as a fluke, or that they’d chalk it up to Ivy being a good artist. Which wasn’t completely false; Ivy did have some talent in art, after all.
No such luck. After a moment of studying Ivy’s stack, the overseer, a towering brute called Isaac, rounded on the slaves. “Whose is this?” he asked, gesturing at the tower.
Ivy glanced at the tower and then at the imposing form of the brute, but she didn’t respond, her fear too great to want to risk saying anything that could incriminate her. At her side, Alyx shifted uncomfortably, shooting Ivy furtive glances that the redhaired girl refused to meet. And Alyx knew then, with a sickening certainty, that she’d been dead on the money when she guessed that Ivy’s manic pace wasn’t wholly natural. Magic. She’d used magic. And now she was sick from it, and being glared down by an overseer.
Oh, gods. A beating would have been better. Why hadn’t she stopped Ivy hours ago? Why had she let her own selfish interests trump Ivy’s long-term wellbeing? A lashing would hurt for a while. But if Rylan found out that Ivy was a mage...
“I said, whose is this?” Isaac repeated.
Ivy shifted slightly in her seat only to wince before she could catch herself. Immediately, she tried to sit straight up again, but she still didn’t want to answer. She knew she’d be beaten if she didn’t answer; Rhett was angry enough at her. And then she could thus attribute her discomfort to that beating… But then Alyx would get the same. But at the same time, Ivy suspected that her voice could be incriminating.
Before Ivy could decide, however, one of the other nearby slaves spoke up.
“It’s hers, sir,” he said, pointing to Ivy.
His gaze falling on Ivy, Isaac pursed his lips. “And why did you not answer my question, girl? Are you hiding something?”
As Isaac spoke, Rhett finished dismissing a group of slaves across the room, and as he did, Alyx’s blood ran even colder, for his attention then instantly settled in their direction. As he noticed Isaac stepping closer to Ivy, he started over toward them, the heels of his shoes angrily clacking against the smooth floors.
“Well?” Isaac said, as Rhett quickly closed the distance. “Why did you ignore a direct question, girl?”
Ivy shook slightly in spite of herself, not just physically but also in fear. “I--” she spoke at first before realizing that she sounded too quiet. She took a breath and did her best to try to make her voice sound normal. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s been a long day, and I wasn’t paying attention. It won’t happen again.”
Before Isaac could respond, Rhett arrived. Instantly, he snarled at his colleague, “What’s she done?”
Isaac pointed at the shields. “All hers.”
Rhett furrowed his brow. “That’s impossible.”
Unlike Isaac, he didn’t bother to berate Ivy-- which only made Alyx’s stomach flip more violently, because this likely meant he had some other, worse punishment in mind. Alyx tried not to tremble as Rhett sharply dismissed all of the slaves but she and Ivy. As the others started out, looking horribly relieved that it wasn’t them facing the overseers’ wrath, Rhett lashed out a hand and curled his fingers around Ivy’s wrist. Hauling her to her feet, he marched her over to the immense pile.
“Are these all yours?” he demanded.
Ivy thought for a moment, trying not to shake in Rhett’s grasp before shaking her head. “No,” she lied. “Not all of them. Some of the others put them in the same pile as mine.”
“And why would they do that?” Rhett growled. Still not letting go of Ivy, he craned his neck back toward Alyx. “Is she telling me the truth, Alyx?”
Alyx had to consider her answer for only a moment; she knew that the truth now was immensely dangerous. That no matter the outcome of this situation-- whether or not Rhett believed Ivy’s half-baked excuse-- any punishment they would receive would far pale in comparison to what would happen to Ivy if the overseers discovered her magic.
“She is, sir,” Alyx said with as much conviction as she could muster. “I don’t know why they did it, but they did.”
“And so if I ask the other slaves, they will agree?” Looking back at Ivy, he insisted, “Will they? And remember, Lynn, I trust a flea-bitten dog more than the two of you. Your word is nothing compared to anybody else’s. So think very carefully before you reply.”
Ivy considered, avoiding Rhett’s gaze in any attempt to keep her exhaustion hidden on her face. She glanced over to Alyx instead, seeing the concern on her face. Ivy remembered her promise to try to stay out of trouble for everyone’s sake. ...But she was about to get in trouble either way. What would keep everyone in the least amount of trouble? Ivy bit her lip in thought before realizing that the sooner she gave a response, the better. Otherwise, Rhett would see through her lie anyway.
“...I don’t know if they’ll tell the truth, sir,” Ivy responded. “I just know that some of them don’t like me.”
A number of other overseers, done dismissing the different groups from the hall, had now listed over toward Rhett, Isaac, Ivy, and Alyx, observing silently as Rhett sneered and tightened his hold on the trembling girl. “Couldn’t imagine why at all,” he snapped-- and only then for the first time seemed to notice the pale cast to Ivy’s face, the way she was sweating, how she looked like she was but one wrong breath away from keeling over outright. Glancing at Isaac and the others, Rhett asked, “What the hell’s wrong with her, you think?”
“Nervous?” Isaac suggested.
“No.” Rhett spun Ivy to face him, a sharp move that caused her eyes to briefly flutter as black stars pressed at her vision, and for the briefest of moments she slipped into unconsciousness before startling back awake… an action that only caused Rhett further confusion. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked her, his fingers digging into her arms to keep her from toppling over.
Ivy gasped for breath as she tried to recover, her stomach filled with pain and panic. “I-I’ve been coming down with something for a while,” she sputtered out weakly. “I-I didn’t think you’d believe me, so I didn’t say anything.”
“How convenient that it only shows up when you’re being confronted,” Rhett drawled, his eyes dancing between the paled Ivy and her unnaturally large stack of shields, back and forth, back and forth, until finally-- suddenly--
Without any warning, Rhett lifted a hand from Ivy’s arm and used it to cuff her across the cheek. Hard. Still sitting, Alyx flinched as if she’d, too, been struck, her nerves suddenly exploding into a full-on panic. No. No, no, no. He couldn’t have made the connection… he couldn’t have realized it… because if he had, if he did...
“I should have realized it sooner,” Rhett said, almost in wonderment, like a child staring at gifts beneath the Woomas tree. “I knew there was something wrong with you… something off… something…” He laughed, a stark laugh, and his eyes flicked almost manically at Alyx as he demanded, “Did you know, girl? Did you know?”
“Know what?” Alyx rasped, trying not to throw up, and praying to the gods that Rhett would believe her.
“Never mind.” He looked back at Ivy. “What is it that you can do? Tell me, now, what you can do.”
Ivy only stared in horror, keeping one arm pushed firmly against her stomach as she tried her best to stay strong on her feet, to keep from falling on the spot not just from the pain, but from the sheer terror that now lay in her heart. Desperately, she shook her head.
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir…” she stammered out, panic edging her voice.
He hit her again, even harder this time, his palm cracking against her jaw. Blood bubbled from the corner of her lip, but Rhett either didn’t notice it or, more than likely, didn’t care. “They will get it out of you no matter what,” he said acerbically. “But if you tell me what it is now, then maybe it’ll be just a tiny bit more pleasant for you.”
Ivy stumbled in place, seeing stars in her eyes as her eyelids drooped, but trying desperately not to faint. She trembled on the spot as she winced in pain. “I-I really d-don’t know what you mean…” she tried stammering out again. Another attempt at a lie as she remembered one warning repeated in her head, a warning given and repeated to her by her mother.
’Don’t let the wrong people find out.’
For a moment, Rhett menaced as if he might strike her again. But he didn’t. Instead, he leaned in close to her, his voice pure venom as he said, “They will beat the lies out of you, Lynn, but I’m done trying. I think it’s time we go see the enki now.” Then, to Alyx, he added, “You’re dismissed, girl.” Part 7:Rylan was at his desk in his private office when someone rapped on his door. “What is it?” he snapped irritably. If this was his steward bringing him more plans for castle defenses to approve, he didn’t know if he could be held responsible for what he’d do. He was starting to feel the stresses of the encroaching rebellion already.
The door creaked open as Rhett entered. “Sorry to disturb you, milord. We had a… situation with one of the slaves today.” He turned towards the doorway and scowled before yanking a hand inside, causing Ivy to stumble in after him. “Turns out this girl has been hiding something from us, and I thought it best to bring it to your attention.”
Ivy kept her eyes firmly on the floor as she stood in place, trying not to hunch over. She wanted desperately to topple over, to give herself the rest she needed. But if she couldn’t convince the enki that Rhett was wrong, and if she couldn’t convince him that she was just sick… No. She had to. Whatever came from the enki or Rhett, she had to be convincing. If they knew the truth… She didn’t want to find out what would happen if they knew the truth.
“Lynn,” Rylan spat. “Why am I not surprised.” He stood from his desk and stalked around to the front of it, standing mere inches away from Ivy. Roughly he grabbed her chin, his grasp uncomfortably tight as he tilted her head back. “Tell me, what did she do this time? Talk back to her betters? Forget her place yet again?”
“She dared to lie to the face of her superiors repeatedly after what happened today,” Rhett snarled, his grip tightening around Ivy’s hand.
Ivy winced, both from the grasp of her two superiors and from the exacerbation of her own pain. “I-I haven’t lied! He won’t believe me--”
Rhett squeezed harder, causing Ivy to let out a gasp of pain. “She was assigned to paint shields today, milord, to replace the slaves that were slow. And she did… Well.” He glowered at her. “Too well. Her quota towered over the other slaves. It wasn’t… natural. That’s when she started acting sick, even though she was completely fine when she came in. And she had the gall to deny it when asked. As if she’s better than freemen of Courdon.”
“No... I really was sick before. I-it’s- It’s not a trick…” Ivy could barely speak through the pain that assaulted her and her own nerves. She doubted she sounded convincing at all, but she had to try, and think of all the lies she could muster to get out of this with nothing more than bruises.
Swiftly Rylan let go of Ivy’s chin and backhanded her, almost casually. “Have you still not learned not to speak out of turn?” he snapped. But his mind wasn’t really on the girl’s disrespect, not after what Rhett had said. His excitement was rising - if the overseer was implying what Rylan thought he was…
He took hold of her face again and returned to examining her, thoughtfully noting her resemblance to his father’s prized runaway. “Working quickly is nothing to be punished, of course,” he mused. “But working that quickly… You know, Rhett, that there’s magic in her pedigree? Her sire was conditioned here at Jisam Castle.”
Rylan had never given much thought to the lost slave’s abilities, but now he recalled his father’s unending complaints about losing such a powerful, perfectly conditioned slave. One of the things the old man had lamented most was the fact that his mage had escaped before Rodin had the chance to breed him, producing another generation of mages to bolster Talvace’s power. Apparently, Father, you didn’t have to.
The enki’s eyes shot up to meet Rhett’s, narrowing. “You’d better not be wasting my time, Rhett. Do you truly think there was something unnatural about the way she was working?”
“Absolutely,” Rhett said without hesitation. “I didn’t heed it much at the time, but partway through, her pace became unnaturally quick. She worked for hours, milord, and look at her now. I can think of no other explanation for how this happened, especially given what you said about her sire.”
Ivy shook in place in spite of herself. No, no no no, they couldn’t know, they couldn’t know. But she tried to calm down and to appear less sick. If she didn’t appear to be pulled, maybe they would leave her alone. And maybe they could just attribute her wide, nervous eyes to her abject fear of being presented to the enki himself on this matter. She had already been slapped once, but she still risked a shake of her head, hoping it would cast at least some doubt on Rhett’s claims.
Rylan could feel her trembling, and a grin spread across his face. “Lynn, answer my question, and answer it truthfully, because I can easily find out if you’ve lied,” he said softly, lifting her chin up again so he could look into her eyes. “How did you finish so many more shields than the other slaves?”
“I-I…” Ivy trying to push back her nausea as she stared into the enki’s eyes, unable to look away. “I didn’t.” She sounded much softer than she intended, and she gulped. “I-I did do some a little quickly, just because I-I’ve always been a bit of an artist. And s-some slaves wanted to get back at me for something, I think, so th-they put some of their shields on top of my pile to catch his attention.”
Even as Ivy spoke, her lies dripping from her mouth, she could feel her heart drop. The part involving the other slaves was a hasty, poor lie, and she only realized that during the walk to the enki’s office. But she had to stick with it, or risk it not being corroborated by Rhett’s story.
Rylan raised an eyebrow. “And risk being punished for working too slowly?” he said. “I find that hard to believe.” He let go of her chin, reaching out instead to trail his fingers possessively through her hair. “What I find easier to believe,” he continued, “is that you inherited your sire’s abilities, and used them to keep yourself out of trouble. Doesn’t that sound more likely, Lynn?” His voice was measured and calm, his hand unusually gentle as he stroked her hair. The gesture was almost affectionate. But there was a sharp, deadly look in his eye that said something quite different: Don’t cross me.
Ivy couldn’t help but shudder as she felt his hand press against the back of her hair and skin, and she willed herself to look into his eyes. Woo, couldn’t he have just punched her? “I… It’s not b-because I haven’t inherited his magic. A-and if you tried your hardest to get me to cast something, I couldn’t do it. I-I can’t.”
His hand closed tightly around the back of her neck. “Still a disrespectful little liar, aren’t you?” he said, an edge to his voice. Still gripping Ivy tightly, he turned to Rhett. “Fetch Russell, please, so we can settle this quickly. I’m growing tired of her insolence.”
“Of course, milord,” Rhett said with a respectful bow of his head. He gave a moment to give a glare to Ivy. “That makes two of us.” With that, he turned and stalked out of the room.
Ivy shook in place as she kept her gaze away from the enki, resisting the urge to allow her legs to buckle beneath her so that she could collapse and at least somewhat rest. She found her eyes drifting to one of the chairs in the office as she tried to keep her arms to her side, trying not to fold them over her torso to hold back the feeling of being ripped apart. ’Woo, she had never used that much magic all at once in her life. She’d come close to it, but she generally knew her limits. But back with the shields, and with the threat of beatings for both her and Sarah, and after Sarah already injured her wrist… She’d panicked. After Sarah told her to be careful…
But there was still a gnawing worry in her chest as Rhett strode out of the room to fetch… someone she didn’t know, although the name sounded familiar to her for reason. But she couldn’t place it. Who were they? An overseer? A mage? A torturer?
Ivy gulped, uncertain of whether or not she should ask. Rylan would probably hit her if she spoke. And she didn’t want to speak unless her words would have weight, even if in a small way. And this wouldn’t. And plus, if he beat her for asking, it would only exacerbate her pain further… And make her distress harder to hide.
The next few minutes passed like an eternity for Ivy, but soon the door opened again. Rhett strolled in, dragging a short, skinny slave behind him. The boy looked only a few years older than Ivy, with long brown hair that brushed his shoulders. His eyes were trained firmly on the ground, though when he realized he was standing in front of the enki, he hastily bowed. Rylan smiled. “Good boy, Russell,” he said lightly. Turning, he grabbed something off his desk which resembled a small stone, and then suddenly shoved Ivy to her knees.
Ivy couldn’t help but let out a small gasp as her knees hit the floor, and before she could stop herself, she fell forward, barely putting out her arms in time to stop herself. She pushed herself back up quickly, trying to make that seem like a mistake born from surprise rather than exhaustion. She looked up at the boy and tilted her head slightly. He didn’t… look like a torturer. Nor anyone she should be afraid of, really. But there had to be some insidious reason on Rylan’s mind for bringing the boy in. She watched both Rylan and the boy carefully, trying to figure out what they were about to do with her.
Rylan walked around to face her, still holding the stone in his palm. He looked over his shoulder at the slave boy, still standing tense and nervous next to Rhett, and spoke one word. “Veriwooserum.”
Russell’s face twisted, though he was clearly fighting to keep his expression blank and his head down. At his sides, his hands slowly curled into fists with a tension that betrayed more discomfort than he was letting himself show. Rylan, however, had stopped looking at him at all, now focused entirely on Ivy with a smug, expectant grin.
“Answer me again,” he said, looking down at her as she knelt in front of him. “Do you have magic, Lynn?”
Ivy had barely taken in the scene when she felt the magic work on her. As soon as Rylan finished asking the question, she could feel her memories shifting around, making the lies she had prepared in her head float, the truth forcing itself to the forefront, begging to be told. She could feel her stomach twisting as she tried her hardest to bring the lies back, the ones that would help her, the ones that would keep her safe. But her head was clouded by the pain, and the lightheadedness from the spell and being pulled. She recognized the spell; she remembered it being talked about in her household, with Ciro, or with her father…
Her father… She looked up at the boy in front of her, noting the obvious discomfort he was showing. She remembered the name now, why it was so familiar. The mage slave. It was the conditioned mage slave Sarah told her about, standing there, trapped and seeming to be forced to do Rylan’s will... Was that to be her fate? ...Was it her father’s, before he escaped?
...And would her father--any of her family--stand any chance if they could do this? ...But they couldn’t come. They shouldn’t… Whatever happened to her, they shouldn’t...
Ivy shook, exhaustion overwhelming her. It was too difficult. She could feel her grip on her lies unravelling… And with a sigh, she let them, allowing herself to give up entirely.
“...Yes,” Ivy whispered, keeping her eyes on the boy.
There was a gleam of triumph in Rylan’s eyes. It was all he really needed to hear, but he still pressed a little further. “And how, exactly, did you use your magic to work so quickly in the hall?”
Ivy gulped. Describing her magic to anyone not familiar with it was always difficult, even when she was telling the truth. “I… I looked at the faster slaves, and did what they did. And didn’t stop.” She doubted he’d be satisfied with the answer, but it was the whole truth.
Rylan raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t heard of magic working that way,” he said, though he sounded more thoughtful than accusing. The girl was under a truth spell, so what she said must have been right. It was curious all the same.
But then, this was why he hired mages. They would figure out how the girl’s magic worked and then they would break it, bring it under his control along with the rest of her. He was grinning as he turned away, walking over to the young mage who still looked tense and uncomfortable as he maintained the spell. “End it,” Rylan said to him, and Russell did, unable to suppress a small, relieved gasp. Rylan stroked his hair affectionately. “Very good,” he said, and looked to the overseer who still stood behind the boy. “See he gets a treat, Rhett. You’re dismissed.”
“Yes, milord.” Rhett turned his head to the boy and snapped his fingers as he walked out the door, the small boy quick to trail behind him.
Rylan walked back over to Ivy, grabbing her arm and hauling her up off the floor. “I’ll take little Lynn to be tested myself,” he said, smiling down at her like a cat that had a bird trapped between its claws.
Ivy didn’t bother hiding the symptoms of her pull as she stared up at Rylan. If the boy was any indication of her future, it didn’t look to be a bright one. The way Rylan used him like that… Sarah wasn’t kidding when she talked about captured mages being treated like a puppet. But how they got to that point… She doubted she wanted to know, but she knew that she was about to find out anyway.
Ivy wanted to run. To get up and run past all the guards and run as far away from Jisam as possible. But even if she wasn’t pulled, she remembered Sarah’s story about her own escape. Hers was planned and it went wrong; an impulsive attempt to escape would only end worse for Ivy. For both of them.
Ivy cringed and leaned forward, allowing herself to press her arms against her chest, taking what little relief she could. “Please, I… I need rest…”
It was a long shot, she knew that. But she was too exhausted to not beg for at least a day reprieve to recover from the Pull before being subject to whatever the mages at Jisam Castle receive. She needed it.
“Be quiet,” Rylan snapped, shaking her briefly. “Gods, I should have cast a spell that would still your tongue.” Still with a vice grip on her upper arm, he pulled her stumbling after him into the hallway outside his office. He didn’t look at her again, or even speak, as he led the girl through Jisam Castle, taking passages she hadn’t seen before. Eventually he led her out of the castle and to a building on the grounds that looked far better maintained than the slave barracks.
He dragged Ivy inside after him. “Voclain, I have something for you,” he said, smiling brightly.
A thin man with greying dirty-blonde hair jumped and turned towards Rylan, a spark emitting from his wand he was using. He looked around at the other mages working on the runes on the table before examining the runes and letting out a disgruntled sigh.
“Milord, I told you, you need to knock first,” Voclain drawled cooly. “We were in the middle of preparing traps for the castle’s defenses, and the spellwork is delicate.”
He sighed before turning to the enki and the quivering slave in his grasp. He tilted his head slightly, studying her behavior and the way the enki held her. He doubted what he was about to ask was true, but he felt vaguely hopeful anyway. ”Am I to condition her?”
“That’s right,” Rylan said, putting a heavy hand on Ivy’s shoulder. “We found her using her magic in some rather unusual ways. Tell me, is it possible to… to magically duplicate the work of others?”
Voclain’s eyes widened slightly, and he focused his attention more on the girl now, sizing her up. “Duplicating… I haven’t ever seen anything like that myself, but I remember reading something about it. ...One moment.”
Voclain disappeared into another room, and after a moment, he returned with a tome in his hands, flipping through the pages. After a moment, he put a finger on the page. “Yes, that was it. Just a blurb here, but there is an ability known as ‘mirror magic’, that allows the user to copy the abilities of others. …” Voclain looked up. “But it’s a rare trait to have. And a good duplication isn’t necessarily magic. What exactly did she do that makes you think she has magic?”
“She was set to paint shields in the hall, and according to my overseer she painted far more than should be possible for a single slave,” Rylan said. “And she admitted under truth spell that she has magic abilities.” He nodded to her, squeezing her shoulder. “Tell Voclain what you told me about what you did, Lynn.”
Ivy gulped as she looked around the room, and at the mage before her. She didn’t want to speak, having already doomed herself with her own words to Rylan. She thought about remaining quiet. But... In his own way, the mage looked intimidating. Not physically strong, but something about his presence made her feel ill. And she realized that if she didn’t speak, they’d force an answer from her anyway. And if she only repeated what she told the enki….
“...When I was painting the shields, I… I looked to the slaves that were painting faster, better. And I did what they did…” She winced as she pressed her arms into her chest again. ’Woo, when could she sit down?
Voclain raised an eyebrow at the girl. He recognized those symptoms; he saw them in every mage he had ever conditioned, he saw them within other conscripted mages and within himself. It wasn’t anything any non-mage would choose to fake, and there was no reason for the enki to lie to him about it. At the very least, the girl must have some magic.
But then there was the level of power. If it only took a scant amount for her to be pulled, he doubted it’d be worth the time and effort to condition her, as curious as he was. Voclain approached, staring into Ivy’s eyes. “And how long did you hold that magic, Lynn?”
Ivy shook. “I-I didn’t keep track. I… Rhett said it was hours.”
“Hours…” A smile tugged on Voclain’s lips as he looked back up to Rylan. “Of course, we’ll have to examine her more thoroughly before we can start on anything. And… I should warn you, milord. The conditioning process is risky as always, but if you decide to go through with this, I will need extra time to figure out how to work with this brand of magic. But if you hand her over now, we can begin tonight after we’re done with these runes.”
Rylan beamed. “Good. Then I shall leave her to you.” He gave Ivy a small push, forcing her to stumble a couple steps toward the mage. “Oh, and Voclain, if she talks back or gives you any difficulty, don’t hesitate to punish her however you see fit. Short of permanent damage, of course.”
Ivy had stumbled into the mage’s torso, and she quickly backed off a few steps. Voclain looked down at her with an amused smirk. “Difficult slave? Don’t worry; I guarantee you that will not last.”
Ivy looked up, her eyes widening at Voclain’s words. She didn’t know what she meant by that, nor did she want to. Already, she felt like running again, if not away from Jisam, then back into the castle, back to being a normal slave, not going through whatever it was that Sarah warned her about. She looked back, eying the doorway, the only escape she could see.
Voclain seemed to sense what Ivy was thinking about, and he grabbed her wrist, yanking her towards him. “Thank you, enki. I’ll let you know what we find with her as soon as we can. We’ll do our very best with her.”
“I’m sure you will.” With that, Rylan left the man to his work. Voclain was very capable, very effective. Rylan had no doubt that he would soon have Ivy molded into the perfectly trained, conditioned mage that her sire had once been - and if he was right about the rarity of her magic, so much the better. A mage with such an exotic appearance and such rare abilities - Rylan began to see why his father had been so attached to the girl’s sire. In a way, he thought, this was better than retrieving the man himself.
Because very soon, little Lynn would be his prize possession.
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Post by Avery on Feb 8, 2015 22:49:52 GMT -5
Flames in the Night<May, 1337> All high Courdonian colour coded as gold. All Kythian colour coded as green. If it's not colour coded, assume it's low Courdonian. (Content warning for violence, implied squick, general awfulness)There were footsteps hammering the corridor outside Lord Rylan Duval’s bedchamber. He jerked awake with a start, irritated that his slumber had been disturbed. But irritation turned to trepidation as the noises continued. There were shouts. Screams.
Something was happening in the castle. He didn’t like the sound of this at all.
He was just about to wrench himself from bed and stalk into the corridor to lambast the noisemakers when the door leading into his chamber burst open. A red-faced castle guard stumbled in, breathless and gasping, his shaking fist clenched around the handle of a spear.
“Milord,” he said. “Sorry to disturb you but we’re-- it’s… the castle. We’re under attack. Rebels, we think it’s rebels. They’ve breached the perimeter and we’re staving them off-- for now, at least-- but they’re large in number. And heavily armed.”
Rylan sat up, staring at the guard for a moment. “No,” he breathed. “Impossible. They can’t have gotten that far already!”
“They… they have, milord,” the guard said nervously.
“Where’s my wife?” he demanded. “And the children?”
“Under heavy guard in their chambers, milord, don’t worry,” the guard assured him. “The rebels haven’t reached the main keep yet. We think they’re going to break into the barracks--”
“So why aren’t you stopping them?” Rylan snarled.
“We’re trying,” the guard said desperately, seeing this was not going well. Rylan paid him no attention.
“I’d rather see them burned than fall into the hands of those pit-spawned rebels,” Rylan spat. Then he paused for a moment, his eyes widening slightly, before turning the full force of his glare back on the guard. “Do it.”
“W-what?” the guard stammered.
“If the rebels reach the slaves, do not let them take them. Burn the slave barracks.” There was a wild, almost crazed look in Rylan’s eye, not helped by the fact that he was still somewhat disheveled from sleep. “And I want every single man we’ve got guarding the central keep. If you fail in your duty and still survive the rebels I will not be merciful, do you understand me?”
The guard nodded reluctantly, tightening his grip around his spear. “I’ll… I’ll pass on the orders,” he said. “Stay here. Lock your door. We’ll have your chamber heavily guarded, milord.”
With that, the guard slammed the door to the chamber back shut, and Rylan hurried out of bed to lock it, sliding the bolt into place. Rumpled in his nightclothes, and illuminated only by the dying flickers of candlelight as well as the slim sliver of moon that snaked in through the window, he looked hardly the sort of man who ought to have the kind of power to order hundreds of people burned alive. And perched at the edge of the enki’s bed, sitting ramrod straight and heart thudding in her ears, the young blonde girl could hardly believe what she’d just heard him say.
Rylan stalked back to bed but didn’t get in, too tense and on edge. He sat down on the side of the bed, his hands gripping the sheets. For a few minutes he was silent, staring warily at the door and not even acknowledging the slave girl’s presence, as if he’d forgotten she was there. Then, abruptly, he laughed harshly and glanced at her. “Well, aren’t you the lucky one, Alyx,” he said. “Aren’t you glad you’re not in the slave barracks tonight?”
She barely managed a nod, her stomach flipping violently as the sound of far-off screaming reached the chamber. Burn the barracks. Could he really have all the barracks burned with hundreds of people still inside? Rylan was vicious and cruel, and often petty. But even for him…
“Y-you’ll have them all die?” she whispered to him-- knowing that she should not speak right now, but unable to help herself. Another shriek tore through the night air, and she flinched.
Rylan’s hands clenched into fists in his sheets. “Don’t forget that their lives are mine to end,” Rylan hissed. “And I will not let the rebels take what is mine.” He reached over and grabbed her chin roughly, meeting her eyes with a hard smile. “Don’t fret, now. I won’t let them have you either.”
She tried not to recoil at his forceful touch, her lips pressed tightly together. Out in the hall, she heard two guards snarling at each other, their words so rapid she could barely make them out. More booted feet thudded past, and as Rylan casually dropped hold of her chin, she flicked her eyes at the bolted chamber door. For a while, neither of them spoke, the tension in the air so thick that it took all her effort not to scream out just to end it.
This… couldn’t be happening. Was this really happening? She’d known before about the encroaching rebellion, of course-- Rylan hadn’t recently transformed the great hall into an arms’ manufacturing room without just cause -- but there was such a vast difference between hearing about it and it being real. Between the concept of rebels and rebels being just outside the castle’s main keep… headed toward barracks that Rylan had demanded be set ablaze…
Even as Rylan eventually stood back from the bed and started pacing the chamber like a lion kept in a cage, the girl didn’t move. Partly because she didn’t have permission, but beyond that, she wasn’t sure if she had the composure. Her entire body radiated with anxiety; at each far away shout, each far away cry, she flinched as if she’d been struck.
For the most part Rylan ignored her, but when a noise from outside startled her enough to make a small sound, he rounded on her angrily. “Shut up,” he snapped. “Can’t you keep quiet?” When she was too frightened to answer him aloud, he glared. “Well?”
She gaped at him, her jaw quaking. “I… I…” Another loud noise from outside-- something metal hitting metal-- rattled the chamber, and she did her best not to react. But it was in vain; she flinched anyway, as if automatically. “I’m sorry. I’m s-scared.”
Distantly, she could swear she smelled burning. Her stomach curdled. No. It couldn’t be. Could it? She curled her fingers over the sheets, her nails making pockmarks in the silk. Breathing through her mouth so as not to take in the imagined scent-- it had to be an imagined scent-- she looked away from Rylan, though she could still feel his eyes bearing into her.
He approached her, a dangerous look in his eye. In truth, Rylan was terrified, and barely holding himself together. But he refused to acknowledge that, ignoring the tension in his shoulders and the way the noise of battle outside made him twitch. Instead, the excess energy was turned on the girl. “They won’t reach us here,” he said, scornfully. He reached out and ran his fingers through her hair, grabbing a lock of it in his hand. “At least I still have one,” he said, and laughed. The sound of it was shaky and utterly humorless.
But the longer that passed, the less confident the enki seemed to be growing in his statement, as the sounds of the battle outside grew both more severe and more frequent. The girl could no longer pretend she didn’t smell burning, and the screams came so rapidly that she no longer could have flinched at each of them even if she’d wanted to. The chamber was warm on account of the fire that still crackled in the hearth, but the girl shivered anyway, goosepimples rising on the bare flesh of her shoulders. Stop shaking, she implored herself, knowing Rylan would be only further agitated by it. But she couldn’t stop herself. Instead, as minutes turned into hours, and still the sounds of battle echoed from outside, she shook even harder, her entire body quaking.
Eventually Rylan made a low, indistinct growl under his breath, turned to her and grabbed her wrist. “Get up,” he said brusquely. “And get your cloak on.”
He released her with a small shove and went to his own day clothes, draped carelessly over a chair near his bed. Fine fabric and delicate embroidery, the clothing of a lord - not travelling garb. He started pulling it on anyway. If it came to it… it was preferable than the indignity of fleeing in his nightclothes.
“Where… where are we going?” she murmured, plucking her patchwork cloak from where it had fallen to the floor. She shuddered again as she wrapped it around her shoulders, worrying at the rough-hewn fabric with her fingers, tracing over the sigil of House Duval that was sewn into its upper corner.
“Don’t question me, Alyx,” Rylan snapped, mostly to distract himself from the way her words made his stomach twist with anxiety. In truth, he didn’t know. Somehow, they had to get out of the castle without being caught by the rebels first, and then… the idea of fleeing on foot through Talvace, like a rebellious slave, made him want to shudder. To be left destitute, stripped of all his possessions save one...
Rylan, like his father before him, had always had perfect control over everything in his world. Now that world was suddenly falling to pieces before his eyes, and as it sank in that there was nothing he could do to stop it, he became more frantic and uncontrolled by the minute.
The girl was afraid to say anything wrong. Hell, she was afraid to breathe wrong, given how twitchy the enki was. She’d never seen him before like this, his composure crumbling more by the second. When he looked at her she snapped her eyes down at her trembling knees, but when he looked away, she dared sneak glances out the window beside the bed, out which she could now see the far-off glow of a raging inferno. It danced a terrifying orange against the milky sliver of moon, and the girl could have cried-- would have cried, had she not known what this would earn her from Rylan.
Rylan had only barely finished lacing his boots when a sudden commotion outside his door made his head jerk up. For a moment, the fear was written plain on his face. He cast about for a weapon, and finding none, wound up grabbing a heavy bronze candlestick from a side table. The man moved back over toward the girl and threw his arm around her, pulling her close, his grip on her too tight and rough to be even the mockery of affection it sometimes was. She did not struggle against his hold, but she could not stop herself from letting out a pitiful moan; she could feel his heart thumping against his ribs, fast and panicked, and her own heart raced so fast she was afraid it might leap clear out from her chest.
There was a loud banging at the door. Rylan’s body jerked convulsively and he raised the candlestick in a shaking hand, forcing the girl in front of him as he stepped back a pace. And then the door burst open, and there was no longer anything between him and the rebels.
He did not immediately recognize the red-haired man at their head. The rebel leader’s face was set in a glare of cold fury, and he was armed with a wand held raised and at the ready. Rylan brandished his candlestick, taking another pace backward and pulling the slave girl with him. His arm shifted to rest across her throat; in his fear his grip was so tense that he was nearly choking her. She struggled for breath against his hold, wishing she could pry his arm away but knowing better than to try. Her eyes wide, she stared in terror at the rebels now crowding the chamber. There were five in all, three men and two women, all of them armed with blood-slashed blades save for the one standing in front, who held only a wand. The guards. Gods, what had happened to the guards?
Just as soon as she wondered this, she noticed a streak of blood smeared against the floor at the chamber door… and followed it to the crown of a head. A body, although most of it lay out of sight. As Rylan seemed to see it, too, and in turn tightened his grip over her throat yet again, the girl let out a raspy yelp.
“I can’t-- please-- breathe--” she sputtered, dark stars starting to prick at her vision.
The red-headed rebel in the lead narrowed his eyes. “Let her go, Rylan,” he said. He took a step forward, and Rylan flailed out with the candlestick defensively.
“She belongs to me,” he spat. “I have the right to do whatever I want to her!”
“No, you don’t,” the rebel snarled, his fury rising. He took another step forward, and when Rylan lashed out again the red-haired man flicked his wand and snapped a spell curtly. The candlestick flew out of Rylan’s hand, tossed effortlessly across the room. It was then that Rylan spotted the all-too-familiar brand on the rebel’s right shoulder, and everything clicked into place.
“You,” he gasped, his eyes widening. In a way he could see it now, the clear resemblance to his Lynn, but at the same time he could not reconcile the imposing figure of the furious, glaring mage with the young boy he remembered, his father’s favorite slave whom he had tormented simply out of boredom.
At recognizing the rebel, Rylan’s hold over the girl’s throat had gone from crushing to outright suffocating. She could not help now but reach up a desperate hand, clawing weakly at the enki’s arm, as if to try to make him let go. “Please--” she gasped, but this merely caused him to draw her even closer, the sound stolen from her throat.
“So you do remember me,” Xavier said acidly. His heart was pounding, his body nearly trembling with a rage that had not left him since Evander had fallen motionless on the battlefield with a crossbow bolt through his chest. The hot fury that had erupted in his chest on the sight of that brand seared into Ivy’s skin was now joined by an almost overpowering disgust at the cowering enki. He may have been older but he was just the same as Xavier remembered, petty and cruel and overbearing. What he’d done to Ivy was bad enough, and the disgusting sight of him clutching at his young slave girl - who was plainly terrified, and could not have been much older than Ivy - sent Xavier over the edge.
Generally, Xavier fought with magic, and even though he was starting to feel the pull after fighting his way up here, he could have overpowered Rylan quickly and cleanly. Instead, he dropped his wand and slammed his right fist into the enki’s jaw as hard as he could, as he had been longing to do ever since laying eyes on his daughter’s scars. Rylan stumbled back, losing his grip on his slave and falling against the bed. Xavier advanced after him, his rage in no way abated.
Knocked to the ground, the girl gasped as the air rushed back to her lungs. Her cloak fell from her shoulders, and she snatched it back up, watching wide-eyed as the redheaded rebel quickly closed the space between he and Rylan. Three of the other rebels formed a defensive flank behind their leader as the fourth raced to her side, reaching down toward her wrist, as if to snatch it. But she pulled away from him, shrinking back against the stone wall behind her.
“No,” she choked out, tears finally springing in her eyes. She wasn’t sure who she was talking to-- the rebels, Rylan, or herself. Her head spun, and her knees throbbed from how she’d fallen. “No, no, no,” she said again, stare still trained on the enki and the redhead. As the rebel reached down toward her again, she clumsily took a hold of the fallen candlestick, brandishing it so as if to ward him back.
Rylan stumbled to his feet, pressing himself back against the bedpost. He had no weapon now, no means of defending himself from the fury of the man who now advanced on him. “Y-you - you can have her,” he stammered, though he knew that the instant he’d lost his grip on the slave girl she had ceased to be a bargaining chip. “Just - have mercy -”
It was the wrong thing to say. Xavier’s eyes flashed, and he grabbed Rylan by the collar. “Mercy?” he said, through gritted teeth. “The way you showed mercy to that girl? The way you showed mercy to my daughter?”
A cold chill ran down Rylan’s spine as he met the runaway slave’s terrible gaze. No - not a runaway, this was not just a runaway. Rylan was not sure what he was. “Please,” he croaked. “I’ll give you whatever you want--”
“It’s too late for bargaining, Rylan.” Xavier heard his own voice, cold and distant, as if it belonged to someone else. What was happening now, what he was doing, no longer felt quite real. All he could think about was the sight of Ivy, branded and scarred and pitifully thin, the way she’d stared-- he swallowed, with difficulty. “You branded my Ivy,” he said in Kythian, his voice shaking. Whether it was fury or restrained tears, Xavier could no longer tell.
At the sound of Kythian, the girl froze. And at the sound of that name… she dropped the candlestick back to the ground, where it landed with a sharp thud. Choking back her tears, she lurched unsteadily to her feet, much to the surprise of the rebel who’d been trying to take hold of her. He stepped back as the girl shouldered around him, though snatched onto her arm before she could lob herself toward Rylan and the redhead.
“You have Ivy?” she sniveled, no longer caring that she had no permission to speak-- let alone in Kythian. Nor did she care any longer that the air smelled of blood and burning flesh, or that there were bodies in the hall and the room was filled with the rebels who’d killed them.
Hearing her cry, Xavier half-turned in surprise toward the young girl. So did Rylan, who suddenly tensed, his terror redirected into anger at the one person in the room who he was still supposedly able to control. “I didn’t say you could speak,” he shouted, his face twisting with rage and his hand balling into a fist despite the fact that she was across the room and out of his reach. “Now be quiet!”
Suddenly, Xavier found he’d reached his breaking point. The way the girl flinched at Rylan’s shout instantly sent his fury over the edge. As Rylan turned toward her, Xavier snatched his knife from his belt without even thinking. With one swift movement he plunged the blade into the back of Rylan’s neck.
Rylan let out a choked cry of pain and fell forward. Xavier pulled his blade free and watched the enki fall, his heart pounding so hard he could barely hear anything except his own blood pumping in his ears. He didn’t hear Rylan’s final breath, but he saw his body twitch and then go still, and knew that Rylan Duval was dead.
When the enki’s body hit the floor, the girl stared on in abject shock. She thrashed once more against the rebel’s hold before going still, her breath hitched in her throat, her entire body suddenly numb with utter disbelief. Dead. Could Rylan truly be dead? As the redhead rebel loomed over Rylan’s bleeding corpse, his own face painted with incredulity, and the other four watched on in stunned silence, the girl finally bit down on her lip. She shook her head.
And then she screamed. A raw, blood-curdling scream.
For a moment Xavier was frozen, staring down at Rylan’s corpse as the blood dripped slowly from the blade of his knife. Rylan was dead. He’d killed Rylan. And he had no idea how he felt about it. Rather than satisfaction at his enemy’s death, all he felt was numbness. He couldn’t stop staring at the blood--
Then he was jerked from his stupor by the piercing sound of the blonde girl’s screaming. He looked up, the fury at last leaving his face to be replaced with an expression of worry, and realized a knot of guilt had formed in his stomach. Regardless of whether Rylan deserved it - whether what he’d just done was right - the fact that she’d witnessed it… She was so young. And for just a second, before his mind had fully processed the sound, he’d thought her screaming was Ivy’s.
He approached her cautiously, not remembering that he was still holding the bloodied knife. Her eyes danced immediately to the blade, shining wet with the enki’s dark blood. Still held in place by the other rebel, she couldn’t move very far, but the new wave of panic that surged over her was palpable.
“Please-- please-- don’t-- I’m sorry, please… I’m sorry, don’t… I...”
Realization hit him, and Xavier instantly dropped the knife, flinging it to the ground as if it had burned him. He shook his head quickly. “No,” he said, his voice shaking. “I - I won’t hurt you, I promise.” He held both of his hands out, palms open, showing her that he was unarmed. Rather than scare her even further, he stopped a few paces away. “You’re safe.”
Usually, he was calm and gentle when dealing with newly freed slaves, understanding their panic and fear better than most - but despite his best efforts to make his voice soothing, he couldn’t stop it from quavering. His hands, he realized, were trembling just slightly. There was no way he could hide how shaken he felt.
And, he thought suddenly, there was no reason he should try. Exhausted, he all but collapsed into a chair a few feet away from the girl, still trying to meet her eyes. She had reacted to Ivy’s name earlier, she must know her - and, Xavier realized belatedly, her cry that had so enraged Rylan had not been in Courdonian. “You’re… you’re Kythian, aren’t you?” he said, his voice soft as he switched to the northern language. “What’s your name?”
As the rebel dropped into a chair, the knife now glinting harmlessly on the floor, the girl shrugged numbly, alternately gaping at him and the body on the floor. In death, Rylan looked just as furious as he’d been in life-- his face contorted in his final snarl, his dark, furious eyes staring glassily up at the ceiling above. As she watched the pool of blood grow larger still around him, the girl thrashed suddenly and violently against the rebel who held her, shimmying free from his grip. She didn’t want to be touched right now. Or ever again, if she thought about it.
The rebel’s voice still echoing in her ears, she dared a brief look at the door, as if considering making a break for it. But just as quickly as she’d thought of the idea, she discarded it, knowing she’d make it all of five feet, if that. And these rebels who’d just killed Lord Rylan… if she ran from them, what would they do to her?
Xavier couldn’t blame her for the shock on her face. She barely reacted to his question, and he noticed her eyes darting almost desperately at the door. He inclined his head, trying to meet her eyes. “Hey,” he said gently. “Are you okay?”
It was a stupid question, and he knew it was a stupid question, but at the same time he wanted her to hear it. That he was concerned for her well-being.
She hesitated, forcing her gaze back at him. “I don’t know,” she said simply, her voice shaking. Then: “Did… did he really do it? Did he… did Rylan really burn the barracks?”
Xavier only nodded slowly, his lips pressed tightly together. He still could not believe that even Rylan could be so spitefully cruel. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “We… saved some.” Most, he hoped, though that may have been hoping for too much. There had not been time to estimate how many they’d successfully rescued from the flames.
She sucked in the hollows of her cheeks, letting his words sink in. She’d known it of course-- had smelled the smoke, could see the flames-- but hearing it confirmed… She envisioned the faces she’d slept side-by-side with for the past seven years. Those she’d toiled along day in and day out. Dead. And not just dead, but burned alive. Burned alive.
“Ivy,” she said weakly. “You… said the name Ivy. D-do you know her? Is she… is she okay or…” She couldn’t finish this sentence. Couldn’t supply the or. Couldn’t imagine Ivy dead alongside so many others, oh gods, Ivy couldn’t be dead.
Xavier gave a tired smile, though there was a sad look in his eyes. It still hurt, almost physically, to think of how Ivy had suffered here. “She’s my daughter,” he said. “We found her. She’s - well, she’s alive. Not badly hurt.” Not physically, anyway. That look in her eyes -- Xavier could not in good conscience bring himself to tell Ivy’s friend that she was okay. He could only hope that she would be.
Ivy’s father. Looking at him now, it made sense: his hair was just as bright, and that look on his face… it was the same look Ivy got when she was worried, or frightened. And standing there, studying him, the girl let out a laugh. A soft, sad, nearly manic laugh, at the idea that Ivy had been right all along. That her family had come for her. That this slave who’d long ago escaped from Jisam Castle-- an idea that still seemed so strange to the girl, so impossible-- had come back and stormed it, his army hundreds-- thousands?-- strong.
A slave then, but not a slave now. Branded still, but not a slave. A lord, the girl thought, still studying him. And much more of a lord than Rylan had ever been.
“You’re from K-Kyth,” she murmured, half a question and half a statement, transitioning nervously back in to her mother tongue.
Xavier nodded again. “Yes.” Despite his mental and physical exhaustion, the beginnings of the pull he could feel creeping up his arms, he couldn’t help but smile a little to hear her speaking Kythian.
“I… I used to be from there. Once.”
He studied her face, a slow suspicion beginning to grow in his mind. A blonde Kythian girl, about Ivy’s age… “What’s your name?” he said softly.
She considered before responding. On the one hand, if this was Ivy’s father, then surely she could trust him with her actual name. But on the other hand… She dropped her gaze back down at the enki’s stiff, bloodied body. Saying her real name around him, even if he was dead, sent a swell of panic rising in her gut.
“Alyx,” she said finally. “He… he called me Alyx.”
Xavier understood. “I see,” he said, painful sympathy in his eyes. If she was reluctant to use her original name, he couldn’t blame her, and he wouldn’t press. But he refused to use the enki’s nickname for her without her express permission. “Is that the name you’d like us to call you, too?”
“Yes,” she said. “Or… no. I don’t know.”
Being talked to so gently-- and in her native tongue, no less-- set a new wave of butterflies loose in the girl’s stomach. Memories danced in her mind, indistinct and frayed by time… a man just like this, only his hair yellow instead of red, but his voice just as tender, his words just as pregnant with concern...
“I-I guess you could call me my… other name,” she said at last. “My old name. I… it’s… Sarah. I used to be Sarah.”
Xavier’s throat tightened. “Sarah,” he echoed quietly. There could be no doubt. Unexpectedly, he found tears stinging his eyes and had to lower his head to wipe them away. With everything that had happened in the last few hours, he hadn’t had time to think about Evander’s death, but now it came crashing back down on him and he remembered that that one of his good friends was gone. Evander, who had helped him and Lydia and Elin conceive of the rebellion in the first place... who had only ever wanted to see his daughter again.
She’s safe, Evander, he thought. Wherever you are, I hope you know that. She’s with us and she’s safe now.
He lifted his head up, unable to completely conceal the emotion in his face. He couldn’t tell her what had happened yet - all of this was still too raw, too painful, too unreal. That would have to wait until she was more comfortable, when she’d had time to process this. For now-- He put his hands on his knees and got to his feet with a tired grimace, looking at her, but deliberately not extending his hand. In the state she was in, he knew she could well take that as a threat.
“Will you come with us, Sarah?” he said, trying to smile. “You don’t have to join us - the rebellion - if you don’t want to… but I can take you to Ivy, and you can be somewhere safe. Away from… this.” Without quite meaning to he found his gaze darting over to Rylan’s body again, sprawled unceremoniously by the foot of his bed, before he looked back up at Sarah again.
For a moment, the girl stayed frozen, studying the rebel. No, she reminded her. Not just a rebel. But Ivy’s father. Ivy’s father who’d also once been but a slave at Jisam.
Not daring to let her gaze fall on Rylan’s body, she nodded weakly. “What… what’s going to happen to me, though?” she murmured. “I mean… even if Rylan’s dead, I’m still…” She ran a subconscious finger over the brand beneath her collarbone. “I don’t have anyone in Kyth. I… my parents died when I was small, and I…” Her voice trailed off.
A small crease appeared between Xavier’s brows, and he resisted the urge to place a paternal hand on her shoulder. “We’ll…” He broke off, realizing that some honesty could do her good right now. “I knew your father, Sarah,” he said quietly. “And I promise, we’ll take care of you. You’ll be safe.”
He emphasized the word. Safety was the only thing he’d ever wanted, back when he’d fled, and it was something Sarah probably hadn’t had for far too long.
The girl hesitated, a strange look crossing her face. Ivy’s father knew her father? But how was the possible? Unless it was a very long time ago… before she was born…
“I…” she started-- but was quickly cut off by the sound of thundering footsteps outside. Her eyes danced toward the door as a pair of men, rebels by their ragtag clothes, hustled in. Their hair was disheveled; the one bled from a gaping cut on his cheek.
“We need to go,” the bleeding one breathed as a greeting. “Our scouts report reinforcements coming in from the city-- dozens more armed guards, city guardsmen, at that, not just castle ones-- if we’re not out soon…”
Xavier nodded quickly, and straightened up. Something changed imperceptibly in his face; exhausted and disheveled as he still was, it was clear he was in command. “Right. Clear everyone out - the slaves we saved from the barracks first. We’ll follow them up as a rear guard.” He glanced back over his shoulder at Sarah, turning slightly toward her. “Are you coming?”
“Yes,” she whispered, letting her eyes fall on Rylan’s still corpse one last time and shelving her questions about how Ivy’s father knew hers for another, later time. “Yes, I’m coming.”
Xavier smiled at her encouragingly. Together the two of them followed the other rebels out of the chamber, and for the second time in Xavier’s life he left Castle Jisam behind him without looking back.
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Post by Gelquie on Feb 15, 2015 17:33:11 GMT -5
Lullaby<May, 1337> It still hurt him to see her like this. Xavier sat on the edge of Ivy’s bed, his arms wrapped around her protectively as she huddled against his shoulder like a much younger child. He couldn’t tell if she was asleep or not. She was so unresponsive even when awake; she still hadn’t spoken to anyone. She couldn’t even meet his eyes when he looked at her.
We couldn’t have come any sooner, he told himself. Evander was right, with the resistance we faced we would’ve been massacred if we’d rushed--
He took a shaky breath. Now Evander was gone, and there’d be no getting him back, no reuniting him with his broken wreck of a daughter. Xavier ran one hand over his face. Maybe they’d gotten in over their heads.
But he couldn’t possibly back down now. Not after this, after Courdon had tortured his daughter and killed his friend.
Ivy flinched, apparently at nothing. Xavier’s heart twisted. “Ivy,” he said softly. “I’m here, you’re okay. You’re safe.”
He didn’t expect a response, and he didn’t get one; Ivy’s eyes were squeezed shut and she was trembling just slightly. Carefully Xavier reached up and put a gentle, protective hand over the back of her head. Without really thinking about it, he found himself singing very softly, a lullaby he used to sing to the children when they were small. Ivy, fortunately, seemed to find it just as soothing as she had when she was a toddler. Her body relaxed, and her breathing eased. After a while, Xavier dared to believe she was truly asleep this time.
He finished the song, very quietly. To be honest, he found the foreign words as comforting as she did. He no longer understood most of the song; he only knew that it was Cerrish, something he distantly remembered his mother singing to him when he was small. Strange how it had stuck in his memory when so much else had faded. Even her name.
Outside Xavier’s tent, Lydia Kidde froze. She’d been passing by on her way to her own tent, also set at the fringe of the camp in the officers’ section, when a low, whimsical tune floated into her ears-- and froze her heart in mid-beat. She stilled, stomach flipping violently at the memory… such an old memory, from a life that hardly seemed to be her own. A life she rarely dared to think about nowadays, when all that mattered was the future. When in the past there lurked only heartache and horrid things she could not change, no matter how much she wanted to.
Fingers trembling, Lydia pulled open the tent flap and stepped inside. Part of her thought she must have been imagining it-- where were the chances she would hear such a song, such a particular song, in a rebels’ camp in the middle of the Courdonian wilds? Maybe it was the lack of sleep finally catching up to her. Or the poverty of clean, fresh water and substantial rations. Some strange combination of deprivation and exhaustion spooled together into madness. A hallucination. A sense memory. Nothing more.
Xavier turned slightly to see Lydia and gave her a smile, the expression tempered by exhaustion and sadness. Very carefully he leaned over to lay Ivy’s sleeping form down on the mattress, and smoothed back her hair as he pulled away. “Lydia,” he said softly. “Did you need something?”
“I…” Her voice hitched. “I’m sorry, Xavier. I must be going mad, but I… I just thought I heard a song. A very old song.” She shook her head. “Sorry to disturb you and Ivy. I can just be going, now…”
“Ah… you heard that?” He smiled slightly, a trace of self-consciousness in the expression. “I was just singing to Ivy. Something I used to sing her when she was small.” He hummed a phrase, almost to himself, and then stopped short. “You know it? It’s Cerrish. At least, it’s in Cerrish. I don’t understand most of the words.”
Not imagining it, then. A lump swelled in her throat, and she swallowed it away, remembering-- and then wishing she hadn’t. Now, only weeks out from Jisam, and the situation in Courdon growing more volatile by the day, was not the time for sentimentality. It wasn’t time for her to wax nostalgic about her childhood, the nights spent curled beneath a thick blanket as her head rested against her father’s chest, his soft voice carrying in the darkness… or, even more painfully, recollections of her own child, Ruby, nested against her breast, Lydia’s voice hushed as she sang in the stagnant air of the slave barracks of the Sultan’s opulent palace in Mzia.
“It… is Cerrish, yes,” she said. “My father used to sing it to me when I was very small. And my grandmum, too.” Another ghost from her past; another flutter in her stomach. “It’s… well, a common Cerrish lullaby, but different parts of the kingdom sing it slightly differently. The third line, for example… my father, he sang it: close your eyes, it is too late. But my grandmum sang it: close your eyes, a lovely fate.”
She spoke first the Cerrish words before haphazardly translating them back into Kythian for Xavier. She cringed a bit for how long it took her to successfully come up with the right meaning-- how what had once been her mother tongue now felt so foreign to her. It had been so many years since she’d had another person with whom to speak it. So many years of her first language tucked into the deepest crevasses of her brain, filed away for some future date that, until now, had never come. And the meat of it in the meantime had withered off the bone: syllables familiar and yet strange all at once. The pronunciations heavy on her tongue. Even her name-- Lydia-- had been slowly bastardized into the Kythian pronunciation, the ‘y’ pronounced as a short ‘i’ rather than the Cerrish way of saying it: Lye-dia.
Xavier listened intently. “My… my mother…” He hesitated. He didn’t speak of her often; with how little he remembered, there wasn’t much to say. “I heard it from her. She was Cerrish, I think, I know that much. She’d… sing it to me in the slave barracks, when it was late enough that the overseers wouldn’t hear.” His voice shook a little as he spoke, and he realized just how long it had been since he’d said anything about his mother to anyone else. He’d had so little time with her before she died; the most prominent figure from his childhood was Muriel, who’d looked after him despite being only scarcely older. He shrugged, half-heartedly. “It’s stuck in my memory all these years. One of the only things I remember of her, that and she was the only slave at Jisam Castle who had hair like mine.”
“She must have been Cerrish, yes,” Lydia agreed. She’d long suspected such a thing: hair the color of Xavier’s-- the color of hers, the color of Ivy’s and Ruby’s-- was uncommon even in Cerrin, let alone outside of it. It had made its way into the slave populations of Courdon and Mzia by way of the Cerrish slaves who, like her, had been snatched by desert raiders. “Did she… did she ever tell you where she came from?”
Xavier had to stop and think, but the name came to mind readily enough. “...Florine. A border town called Florine, I do remember that.” He smiled, but there was a trace of bitterness to it. “I have a song and the name of a town, but I don’t even remember her name. Funny thing, memory. I was only young when she died. Sickness took the slave quarters, and...” He trailed off, giving a small shrug that might have seemed callous to anyone else. But that was the reality they’d lived with back then. There was nothing to do but accept it.
As Xavier’s voice fell away, Lydia could hardly remember how to breathe. Florine. Of all the places in Cerrin… of every little border town occasionally pillaged for slaves by the desert tribes…
She shook away the shock and bit down on her lip. Hard. Memories of a marketplace-- small, for everything in Florine was very small-- sprawled beneath a setting sun; a zigzag tangle of quaint houses, all with thatched roofs that leaked when it rained; a wall encircling the village like a coiled snake, imposing to look at but still not enough. Still nothing more than a minor inconvenience when the raiders came hither.
Once, it had been home.
“I… it…” Lydia’s words quavered. “I can’t believe it,” she finished finally.
Xavier’s heartrate quickened. “You- you know it?” he stammered. Florine… he had never been there, and maybe he never would, but even the smallest connection to his mother was something he held to dearly. For someone to recognize the name felt almost surreal.
Almost grimly, she nodded. “I’m from there, Xavier.”
For a moment Xavier stared at her, unable to find words. “That’s…” He swallowed. “I’ve never met anyone who’s even heard of the place,” he said quietly. And then chuckled softly, humorlessly. “Granted, it’s not something I usually have cause to mention.”
He looked at her, pensive. That fiery hair so similar in color to his and Ivy’s - perhaps it wasn’t so far-fetched that they could have descended from the same place. “Cerrin is a long way away. I never expected Florine to be… well, anything more than a name to me.”
“Sometimes that’s what it feels like to me, too,” she murmured. “It’s where I’m from. Where my mum’s family has lived for generations. Where I should be living right now. Yet here I stand, only able to remember it in vague images that sometimes hardly seem real.”
She glanced at Ivy, still asleep on the bed, her bright hair frizzed around her face like a halo. Xavier and Elin’s daughter looked as if she easily could have been plucked off the streets of Florine herself. Wouldn’t turn a single head walking down the muddy main road, or skipping stones in the lake just outside the towering wall that had, ultimately, protected neither Lydia nor her father.
“You… you can’t recall her name at all, Xavier?” Lydia asked. “Florine is so small. Not more than a few hundred people live there, and half of us are related.” She dared grin then-- a brief, dark grin. “That’s why my mum fell so head over heels for my dad. He was from the capital, Reed. He joined the Imperial Guard when he was sixteen and ended up stationed at the Mzian border. Florine, it’s only a few hour’s walk from Mzia, one of the closest cities to the border, and my mum, well, she was a baker’s daughter… she’d bring bread by for the troops. My dad always said he hated his post-- it was too hot, too dangerous-- but the second he saw my mum… and she saw him…” Lydia shook her head, chasing away the memory of the story her father had regaled her with so many times. Lydia’s mother had died when Lydia was only an infant, and so she had no memories of the woman. But the vividness with which her father had always told stories about his beloved wife, Alonna, had made Lydia feel like she knew her mum, too. “Sorry,” she said to Xavier. “I didn’t mean to bore you with that.”
Xavier was smiling by the time she’d finished. Lydia’s memory of her parents suddenly gave life to Cerrin in his mind. He’d never given much thought to his Cerrish ancestry before - there wasn’t much point, with his mother unable to share much of her culture or language with him. His smile faded, though, as he realized how much less he knew of his parents than Lydia did. “No, I don’t remember her name,” he said softly. “I’ve tried, but I was so young when she died, I…” He shook his head. “My father didn’t belong to Duval. I think he and my mother must have been separated before I was born. So when she died… there was no one left who knew her well, no one to tell me about her.” He looked down at the floor, a crooked, rueful smile on his face. “This is more than I ever expected to know about where she came from. She never dared tell me much.”
Lydia sighed, knowing the plight of Xavier’s mother all too well. She was impressed that the woman had risked telling him anything of Cerrin at all-- she’d not dared to do the same with Ruby, lullabies the only thing she chanced beneath the black of night. She’d wanted to tell her girl more-- wanted to teach Ruby Cerrish, even-- but in the Sultan’s palace there had been ears everywhere, and Lydia didn’t want to dare risk her child being punished if the girl accidentally dropped a Cerrish phrase, or mindlessly told the Sultan something about Cerrin she ought not know.
“If it’s any consolation, I don’t know much of my mum, either,” Lydia said. “I can tell such stories of her, but that’s all they are to me: stories. I haven’t any memories of my own. Only… facts. Like that she allegedly favoured my grandmum in appearance. Or that she was the youngest of four children, and the only one who survived to adulthood. That I was born when she was nineteen. That her name was Alonna.” Lydia bit the inside of her cheek as she imagined Ruby-- still a child in her mind, but in the real world now a woman, grown and full-- in some faraway Mzian city, describing her long-gone mother in this way: bland nuggets of raw information, at once so meaningful and meaningless, so precious and yet so horrifically useless.
That name sent a strange jolt down Xavier’s spine. “Alonna,” he repeated in a hoarse whisper. It sounded so familiar, tugging at some long-faded corner of Xavier’s memory. A friend of his mother’s? A family member, someone she’d mentioned? “I’ve… I know I’ve heard that name.”
No, he realized, it wasn’t his mother’s voice at all in his memory. It was Muriel’s - not his daughter, but the girl who’d been a sister to him in Jisam, who’d taken care of him after his mother was gone. There was a distant, fuzzy memory of Muriel hugging him, her voice still high and young -- “I miss Alonna too.”
Alonna.
“Lydia,” he said quietly, his mouth dry. “Your grandmum, your… mother’s mother, how did she sing that lullaby?” Softly, in heavily accented Cerrish, he sang, “Close your eyes, a lovely fate…”
She nodded, swallowing back the nauseous bubble in her throat, and sang then for him the lullaby as her grandmother had sweetly crooned so long ago, the Cerrish words damnably heavy and awkward on her tongue: “Sleep now, child, the night is young. The sky is dark, the stars await. So close your eyes, a lovely fate.” She pantomimed then, to sweeping her eyes shut, as her grandmum had always done, and then cupped her hand into a crescent shape before singing on: “The moon above, it shines for you. Sleep sound, my love. Sleep sound and true.” Switching back into Kythian, and lowering her hand, Lydia whispered, “Why do you ask, Xavier?”
“Because that’s… that’s exactly how my mother always sang it to me,” Xavier said softly. He stared at Lydia, his eyes widening. No, it wasn’t possible. Out of all the slaves on the continent - all the escaped slaves, of which there were far fewer…
“Even the hand motions?” Lydia asked. When Xavier nodded, she stammered on, “B-because those… my dad never used them. Or my grandfather. Just my grandmum.” And herself, she thought, but didn’t say. She recalled now in the slave barracks in Visalia, delicately mimicking for Ruby the gestures her grandmother had made so long ago. Even when Lydia sang for her little girl the version of the lullaby favoured by her father, the motions had stuck with her. In some strange way, it had made her feel closer to her grandmum.
Xavier kept staring at her, unable to process this. It couldn’t be. He racked his brain for anything else his mother had said, anything to convince him he wasn’t crazy for thinking like this. She’d never mentioned a daughter, but then she’d never mentioned much of her life before. She’d never even said much about Xavier’s father.
He tried to summon up her face in his memory, and mostly failed as he usually did; details about her tended to elude him. “She… I know she had green eyes like mine…” Something else occurred to him and he added, “And a scar, a small one along her jaw.” He traced the place on his own face with his finger, his eyes distant as he remembered. “It- it must have been from something that happened to her in slavery--” But his eyes, as they caught Lydia’s, were searching. If there was something, anything, in his description of the woman that she recognized…
At the description of the scar, Lydia could do nothing more than let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a cry. While she had no memories of Alonna, she’d heard the story of her mother’s scar so many times during her childhood that she could picture it perfectly: a crooked slash of silver just above her chin, prominent although it had happened in Alonna’s childhood.
“A dog bite,” Lydia whispered. “When she was a kid, there was a pack of wild dogs that would lurk around her parents’ bakery. They were mean as hell, but my mum…” She shook her head, her grandmum’s voice echoing in her ears just as she’d wistfully told the story to Lydia time and time again. “My mum had a soft spot for them. She’d throw them old bread. When one of the females had a litter of puppies, she thought she’d keep one as a pet. But the momma dog, well, she caught my mum with her hands on the pup and bit her. Grandmum always said Mum bled like a stuck pig. The bite healed in the shape of a half-moon. Which rather pleased Grandmum. She said that if her daughter had to have a miserable scar, it might as well be pretty.”
Xavier found tears starting to form in his eyes. His mother… Lydia’s mother--
“She never told me the story,” he whispered. “Never said much about her past life at all--” He broke off, wiping his eyes, and then met Lydia’s gaze again. “I never… never knew I had a sister,” he said, his voice breaking on the word, daring to say it out loud.
Lydia stared back at him, equally as stunned. This… this didn’t make sense. All of these identical details were too much to be merely a coincidence, and yet her father and grandparents had always told her that her mum was dead. Not stolen by slavers, but dead. Had… had they lied to her? Why would they have lied to her?
For a moment, pure rage overtook Lydia’s numb shock-- but she shoved it away as it dawned on her that if she’d been in their shoes, she might have done the same thing. Telling a small child that their mother had been stolen away by slave raiders, who slipped over the village’s wall like wraiths, like vicious ghosts in the night…
Lydia could understand perfectly why her father and grandparents had instead told her that Alonna was dead. Had willfully chosen to preserve the memory of their daughter as she had been to them, rather than plant in young Lydia’s mind horrific images of what had become of the vibrant red-haired woman with a silver scar along her jaw.
“I… I’ve thought she was dead all these years,” Lydia said finally. “It never even occurred to me that she could be… that she could have had…”
Almost shuddering at the thought of her mother impressed into slavery just as she and her father had eventually been as well, Lydia let her gaze drift to Ivy, still asleep on the bed. Niece. This girl was her niece. Her flesh and blood. All these years she’d thought she had only Ruby, so far out of her reach in the vast kingdom of Mzia, and yet Xavier and Ivy… Ciro and Muriel…
“I don’t remember anything of my-- our-- mother,” Lydia murmured. “But from the stories I’ve heard… about how bright she was, how loving… I’d say our meeting is a gift from the gods, but I think that’d be giving them too much credit.” Lydia reached out then, setting a gentle hand on Xavier’s shoulders. “I think it must be all her, Xavier. And that she’s been glowering down at us from the heavens all these years, furious that we’d not yet made the connection.” At this she quirked a small, rueful smile.
Xavier smiled in return, reaching up to fold his fingers over Lydia’s. “After Muriel died… I- I thought I was alone. I’m so glad I was wrong.”
Muriel… she’d be about Lydia’s age if she were alive now, he realized. He wondered if Alonna had ever watched them playing as children and been reminded of what could have been, if she’d wished her son could have known his half-sister. It must have seemed like impossible, wishful thinking.
Yet here they were; and Xavier realized how strangely natural it felt, that one of his oldest and most trusted friends should also be his sister.
“I wish we had realized sooner,” he said softly. “But you know, Lydia, my children already call you aunt. You’ve always been part of our family.” He gave a slight, teasing smile and added, “And no one else knows exactly how to get under my skin the way you do. I think… I think a part of me must have always known.”
“You are pretty infuriating,” she agreed. “At least I’ve now got a claim to your estate, Lord Xavier. Take my share of that, and the inn once Ilsa’s gone, and well-- I always did fancy myself a social climber.” She grinned outright then, her eyes twinkling mischieviously.
He grinned back. “Then you’re not the only one who gets to throw titles around. ‘Lady Lydia’? Sounds awful.”
“Good thing my next mission after this whole revolution thing is to figure out how I’m related to the king of Kyth.” She beamed. “It happened once with King Galateo-- who says it couldn’t happen again? Because Princess Lydia, now that’s got a nice ring to it, brother.”
“You’d be good at being royalty,” he mused, mock-serious. “You could simply shout your enemies into submission.”
Grinning at her, he threw an arm around her shoulders, a warm feeling rising in his chest and combating the hopelessness he’d felt earlier as he held Ivy. He’d once thought himself alone, and he was far from it. When Elin woke up, he thought, he’d tell her. It was about time they had some good news.
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Post by Gelquie on Mar 8, 2015 23:16:59 GMT -5
Assassin<Late Summer, 1337> Low Courdonian is colour-coded with the hex we've always used, but for some reason it is suddenly rendering as goldish instead of orange? @_@ So um. It's low Courdonian, yeah, even if it doesn't look it. XD ( Content Warning: Violence, suicide)Ivy rubbed her arm as the contingent approached a clearing, walking beside Sarah, and both of the girls bookended on either side by Xavier and Lydia. Other soldiers marched around them-- trusted members of the revolution whom Xavier and Lydia had entrusted to help ferry the two children north to Corvus, where they’d stay for some time before finishing their journey to Medieville. Ivy’s lip was bit in thought, and she kept glancing over to her father, who was walking beside her, a hand clamped over her shoulder. The young teenager shook, worry lining her face.
“Papa, I-I still don’t think this is a good idea,” she muttered, drawing suddenly to a halt; all the others fell to a still, as well, their falling on Ivy. “I… What if something happens? To me, like last time, or… Or to you? I, I still don’t… I don’t want to go…”
Xavier put his arm firmly around her shoulders, pulling her to his side. “I don’t like it either, but it’s for the best,” he said quietly. “You’ll be safe in Corvus, and House Jade will… will be able to help you.” His jaw clenched, involuntarily, at the thought of what Rylan’s mages had done to his daughter - so similar to what Rodin’s mages had done to him, long ago. But if there was anyone Xavier trusted with that kind of situation, it was Leif Jade. Xavier had already sent him a message explaining what had happened. “It’s not safe for you to stay with us. Not yet. But I’ll come back for you, Ivy, I promise.”
Ivy could only stare into her father’s eyes for a moment. It wasn’t the first time they had this conversation, and she knew he was right. She could still feel the conditioning in her, and it made her feel ill to think about it. But after being in Jisam for so long, after having given up hope of ever seeing her family again… It was hard to let go. After a long moment, she threw her arms around Xavier, letting out a sob in spite of herself.
“I-I hope so,” she said, shedding a few tears.
As Ivy melted into Xavier’s hold, Sarah bit her lip and placed a few hesitant, gentle fingers on the small of her friend’s back, beneath the protective hold of Xavier’s arms. It had been four months since Xavier and the rebels had freed the two girls from Jisam Castle, and still sometimes Sarah didn’t know what to say to Ivy. How to comfort her. At least Ivy was better off than she’d been at first after the rescue-- when she’d been nothing but a shell, so quiet and broken the sight of her alone made Sarah feel sick over the traumas she’d likely endured-- but there was still so much uncertain air between them… so many dark, shared memories…
So many nightmares in common.
“Your papa and I have to go back to camp, Ivy,” Lydia said softly, placing her own hand on Sarah’s narrow shoulder. “We’ve a meeting not long from now. But you’ll be perfectly safe with these soldiers, okay?”
Xavier held Ivy in his arms as long as he could, hugging her close, before letting go. “You’ll be okay,” he said softly. “We trust these people. They won’t let anything happen to you.”
Ivy gazed up at her father, letting out a small, uncertain nod. “I know. Just… You be safe too.”
“I don’t see why I’m going to Corvus at all,” Sarah muttered, turning away from Ivy, Xavier, and Lydia.
They’d been so good to her in the past few months that she couldn’t bring herself to dislike them very much. And they had rescued her from the horror that was Jisam Castle. And yet there was a part of her-- a horrible, spiteful part of her-- that hated them, this happy family. Particularly since Xavier and Lydia had discovered they were half-siblings. It seemed as if everybody had something waiting for them in Kyth. Connections, family. Love. And what did Sarah have? A member of Lydia’s sister-in-law’s family who was to meet her at Castle Jade and then bring her north to the capital to live with people she’d never met? People whom she suspected were only taking her in because they owed something to Lydia?
It hardly seemed fair.
“Because you deserve to get your own life back, Sarah,” Xavier said gently. “I’m not taking any chances with either of you. No one in this…this kingdom is going to take you again.” He caught himself just in time from saying a word he didn’t really want Ivy or Sarah to hear, but his voice on the word kingdom was cold. Since rescuing the girls his disgust for Courdon had, if possible, only grown. “You don’t need to be caught up in our war. I want you to be safe, too.”
“I’m hardly Kythian anymore,” Sarah murmured. “And I don’t want to be a burden to anyone.”
“Sarah.” Lydia’s voice was strained, as if they’d had this conversation numerous times to no avail. “You won’t be a burden. Briar and her husband, Arthur, are excited to receive you. Now, please, girls-- Xavier and I need to be getting back to camp. So please…” She forced a smile. “Give us both a goodbye hug, and then be on your way, okay?”
Ivy seemed to hesitate, one hand still on Xavier’s arm, with her not wanting to let go. It was already painful enough when she had to leave her mother, and the way her mother doted on her for the last hour, wishing she could come before Ivy departed. Now that she had to leave her other parent as well, and her aunt, for an uncertain journey… Ivy quivered and wrapped a large hug around her father.
“I’ll miss you,” Ivy said, her voice breaking. She held it for a long moment, unwilling to let go as she felt a huge weight in her chest. She then turned and hugged Lydia. “Both of you--all of you--just be okay… Please.”
Xavier leaned over to kiss her on the forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. He was better at controlling his emotions than he’d once been, but this was the most difficult thing since Ivy’s rescue, and he didn’t want to upset her further by shedding tears. “I love you, Ivy-girl,” he said quietly, hugging her tightly. “My brave Ivy.”
Ivy rested her head on her father’s shoulder. “I love you too, Papa.”
Finally, she forced herself to let go, her eyes still lingering on her father before she turned and hugged Lydia. “And you too, Auntie…” Although she was still getting used to the fact that her father’s friend was apparently a blood relative, after all that had happened in the four months and after all the time she spent with them, it felt natural to call her by that name.
She let go of her too and walked over near Sarah, her eyes still stuck on her father and her aunt. She would be sad to see Sarah leave once her guardians were to arrive in Corvus… But until then, at least she would have familiar company. She would just have to hope that the guards would be able to keep them safe.
“I’m not much for hugs,” Sarah said. “But I guess I’ll… see you when I see you.” Probably never again, she thought bitterly. Why would they care to come visit her? She was nothing to them. To anyone.
Lydia sighed, but didn’t press the issue, knowing that Sarah would-- or wouldn’t-- come around in her own time. Seven years of horrific abuse, after all, could not be fixed in four short months. Instead, she gave Sarah a soft smile and wave, before turning to Xavier and saying, “Shall we start back toward camp, then?”
Xavier nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on Ivy as she left. “I… yes. They’ll be expecting us…” He blinked a couple of times and tore his gaze away from his daughter, turning away. “Let’s go.”
Lydia nodded, taking a deep breath before she began away… but she hadn’t made it more than a few feet before she noticed something up ahead. Or, more accurately, someone: a tall, lanky woman with dark hair shorn crudely at her chin and skin the color of old, cracked leather. The patch sewn to her outfit marked her as a rebel soldier, but she pulled the ensemble off unconvincingly, the clothes swallowing her like a snake. The look in her eyes was equal parts fear and determination.
A brand winked up from her exposed collarbone. A slanted ‘P’ with a diagonal strike through it. House Peregrine, the preeminent noble House of Emryn province, where Xavier and Lydia were presently encamped.
Lydia paused, appraising the woman, and shared an uncertain look with Xavier. Behind the two highest-ranking generals in the rebel army, the soldiers meant to accompany Sarah and Ivy north shifted uncomfortably, hands settling on the daggers they wore at their hips.
Xavier straightened, a subtle shift in his posture and expression changing him from a worried father to a man in authority. “Has something happened?” he said, directing his question to the woman in a voice that was brisk and urgent. There was no good reason for a soldier from the encampment to be coming out here, putting themselves at risk. Especially someone who’d once belonged to the ruler of this region.
“I… I…” Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. A haze. She lurched forward, unsteady on her feet, almost looking like a drunkard, and Lydia winced as the poor woman nearly went head over heels. Something was clearly wrong with her. “Are you the… the… enkis of this rebellion?” Her eyes settled detachedly on Xavier. “Are you the Branded Lord? I… I need help, I... ”
Xavier’s eyes narrowed slightly; something was not right. He winced at that word enki but let it pass, only nodding in response to her last question. “I am,” he said, an undertone of concern in his voice. “Please, you should return to the encampment. One of our healers will be able to help you - you didn’t need to come all the way out here…”
As he spoke, the woman limped slowly but steadily toward him, her hand clutched in a tight, almost desperate fist at her breast. Behind Xavier and Lydia, the guards continued shifting, but Lydia impulsively waved them off; they didn’t want to terrify this poor woman, after all. Still, she had an odd feeling churning at her gut. A vague, disconcerting alarm bell flaring in her head.
“Xavier…” she started, studying the woman’s wrought, intense face.
But it was too late.
In a moment, it had happened: no longer the slow, limping, lurching, and injured victim, the woman seared forward, like an arrow fired from a bow. In the blink of an eye, she’d closed the distance between she and Xavier and set upon him. Wrenching her hand free from where she’d held it closed at her chest, Lydia could only barely catch a shimmer of silver against the afternoon sky. A blade.
“Xavier!” Lydia screamed, pulling her own dagger free from its sheath at her hip.
“Papa!” Ivy screamed out, her eyes going wide in terror.
Xavier gasped in surprise, stumbling backward. A moment later he let out a sharp cry of pain as the woman’s knife grazed his ribs. He tried to catch her wrist to disarm her and missed; his other hand was reaching swiftly and instinctively to where his wand was holstered at his hip. As he seized hold of it he had to duck and dodge backwards again, this time successfully evading his attacker’s blade. Panting, his free hand clutching his bloodied side, he pointed the wand at her but did not cast a spell. “Drop the knife,” he said, his voice more urging than commanding. “Please, I don’t want to hurt you.”
As the woman and Xavier tangled, Lydia didn’t think: she just acted. Blazing forward, she tried to grab hold of the woman’s hair, but it was too short to gain much leverage; grimly, she wondered if it had been cut this way on purpose. Grunting as the woman elbowed her in the gut, Lydia craned her neck at the soldiers, who’d also quickly closed rank around Xavier and his attacker.
“You!” Lydia gasped at one of them. Harlan. That was his name; they’d freed him from Jisam along with Ivy and Sarah. One of the slaves who’d escaped the burning barracks. “Get one of her arms-- I’ll get the other--”
Ivy’s teeth were gritted and she was looking over to the guards, her eyes wide with panic. “Help them, please!” she shouted before taking a step forward herself. If she could grab an arm…
Through the corner of her eye, Lydia caught Ivy taking a step forward. In the past few months, she’d always been extremely careful to be gentle with her niece; the girl had been so damaged at Jisam, after all. But now was hardly the time for kid gloves. Gasping as the woman’s elbow caught her in the jaw, Lydia whirled toward Ivy, her voice a lash as she snarled in the first language that came to mind, “Do not come closer, stay there, both of you!”
As terrified as Ivy was of the situation, she couldn’t help but stop at the sharpness of the words and breathed heavily as her feet firmly planted into the ground, almost unconsciously.
Xavier was distracted enough by the shout to half-turn, his eyes widening. “Ivy--!” His attention was only divided briefly, but it was long enough for the woman to dart under his outstretched wand-arm and return to the attack.
Watching the assailant slash her brother again, Lydia nearly growled as she launched herself forward, grasping yet again for one of the woman’s arms. This time, unlike the last, she managed to get a solid grip, and she held on for dear life as the attacker bucked against her. One of the other soldiers quickly flung himself at the woman’s other arm, taking a firm hold of it and wrenching her knife away as Xavier finally managed to back away from his would-be assassin. A new wave of fury flooded through Lydia as she noted the blood trickling from numerous wounds stippled across his body, and as more of the guards worked to get a stable hold on the woman, Lydia closed her fist tighter around the hilt of her own blade.
“Get her on her knees,” she hissed to the soldiers. When they hesitated for a moment, perhaps struck and terrified by the look of rage blazing in her eyes, she commanded again, “On her knees! Now!”
Xavier was breathing heavily, nearly shaking from the rush of adrenaline coursing through him. His left hand still gripped his wand steadily, however, holding it at the ready. By the time he’d reoriented himself, Lydia and the soldiers had gotten his attacker under control, and there was a look of fury in his sister’s face that rivaled anything he’d seen there before. He swallowed hard, feeling a sudden unease in his gut that had nothing to do with the attack.
“Lydia,” he said, more sharply than he’d intended. “What are you doing?”
Xavier’s words were terse, but underscored by an unmistakable note of bewilderment and pain-- which only made her anger bloom stronger. Menacing over the woman, she ordered Harlan, “Grab her hair. Pull her head back.”
“Ma’am--” He hesitated.
“Do it.”
His eyes flicking between Xavier and Lydia, he obliged, taking a hold of the woman’s choppy bob and using it to wrench her head back, thus baring to Lydia the pale flesh of her throat. “Have the girls turn away,” she said, slowly pressing the edge of her dagger against the woman’s skin.
She couldn’t ever recall feeling this furious in her life. Not even when she’d been stolen from Cerrin as a girl and marched a month across the desert. Not when she’d been sold to the Sultan, like a piece of furniture. Not when she’d been wrenched away from Ruby, even, or found in that inn by slave traders in Corvus after finally breaking free.
This woman… this slave they were trying to help... trying to kill Xavier-- in front of his child, no less, in front of two children--
“Lydia!” he shouted, his voice cracking. Xavier’s face was written with horror. He lurched forward, reaching to grab her shoulder, to pull her away if he could. “What in the ‘Pit do you think you’re doing?” He’d switched to Kythian, deliberately, and he wasn’t sure if it was because the language might get Lydia’s attention or because he wanted, in that moment, to distance himself from everything about this accursed country.
His fingers tightened on Lydia’s shoulder. “You are acting,” he said, quietly and altogether too calmly, “like one of the enkis. Don’t you dare turn yourself into that.”
As Xavier’s fingers cinched around her shoulder, Lydia stiffened, the knife still trembling in her hand. Sparing a brief glance toward Ivy and Sarah, her stomach flipped as she noted the horrified looks on both of their faces. Sarah’s eyes immediately met hers, frozen wide open in unadulterated shock. Oh, gods. Sarah… Sarah had been there that night… with Rylan…
Lydia removed the blade from the curve of the attacker’s throat and returned it to its sheath, willing herself not to shake as she did. She stared for a moment at the soldiers. Most of them had come to the clearing today to escort Ivy and Sarah north, but a few had accompanied them so that they might walk back with Xavier and Lydia after they saw the girls off; after all, the two highest-ranking generals in the revolution-- only Elin, safely back at camp, also shared their rank-- couldn’t very well wander about unprotected. “Take her back to camp,” Lydia said to these guards, her voice cool and flat. She did not dare let it tremble. “Interrogation tent. Keep her bound. Hands and feet. And at least two sets of eyes on her at all times. Do I make myself clear?”
One of the guards nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” But his eyes fell then on Xavier, as if waiting for the Branded Lord to confirm Lydia’s orders. As if he didn’t quite trust the redhead, after she’d nearly gone and cut open this prisoner’s throat.
Xavier gave the guard a small nod. “Do as she says,” he told him, after a moment’s hesitation. They were extreme measures to take, but at the same time he didn’t want to take any chances - especially not with Elin and Muriel in the camp - and they could always reassess the situation later. Right now it was Lydia who most concerned him.
Hauling the woman to her feet, a quartet of soldiers started with her back toward the camp. She refused to walk, and so they dragged her, as if she were a sack of flour-- a dehumanizing move that usually Lydia would have put an end to, but not now. Let them drag her. Let her skirts ride up and her bare legs drag in the dirt and brambles.
Lydia Kidde simply didn’t care.
Once they were gone, she glanced back at Xavier. Part of her thought she ought to feel embarrassed over her extreme reaction, but she didn’t. Not really. Especially since she told herself that she wouldn't have really cut the woman’s throat-- she was trying trying to scare her, just trying to make it clear that it was the rebels in control now…
A small whimper caught Lydia’s attention, and her gut seized. Sarah. Over the past four months, Lydia had grown quite familiar with the sound of Sarah in distress. Not that the girl cried openly, but she had nightmares often enough. Would wake up in the middle of the night sweat-drenched and screaming. Muttering. Whimpering like a kicked dog.
A flicker of remorse wormed into Lydia. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the girl. Instead, she said to Xavier, in Kythian, “We still need to send them north.”
There was still lingering shock and discomfort in his eyes as he looked at Lydia, but he shoved the feelings aside for now. The girls were a more pressing concern. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Ivy standing upright and at attention, and his chest felt tight. “I don’t want to put them at risk.”
Privately he knew that wasn’t the real reason he objected. They were still well-protected. There was no evidence that the woman hadn’t been acting alone, and a lone assassin wouldn’t get to them through their escort. But Ivy, having to witness that, being sent off directly after… There had to be a better way than this. Something that didn’t involve separating his daughter from her family, right after witnessing the attempted murder of her father.
“They’re at more risk here than they are on the road, Xavier,” Lydia said. “And what just happened proves it. Courdon is growing more unstable by the day. They need to be back in Kyth as soon as possible. Not to mention, there are too many actors who’ve already been set up in this. The Finnegans are sending someone down to Corvus to collect Sarah. There are courtiers from House Jade prepared to meet the girls at the border. Holding them back now…” She shook her head, and her voice was soft but insistent as she said, “They need to go, Xavier. Today. Now.”
Xavier bowed his head. He knew she was right. He didn’t have to like it.
He walked over to Ivy and put a hand on her shoulder, hating to see her so tense. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “But you need to leave now, okay? House Jade is meeting you at the border, it’s too risky to wait any longer.”
For a moment, neither girl said anything. Ivy could only stare in shock at her father, her eyes wide, but unable to say anything or even move. Then, Sarah bit her lip and murmured, “You… you’re bleeding, Mr. Lynn.”
He was. He didn’t think any of the cuts were life-threatening, but they hurt all the same. Still, it was a level of pain he could make himself ignore. Xavier tried to smile at Sarah. “I’ll be all right. Nothing permanent. The healers back at camp will be able to patch me up.”
“He’ll be right as rain by evening, I’d say,” Lydia added hollowly. She glanced then toward Harlan, and forced more command into her voice as she said, “Leave now with them. Be careful. I’m guessing that woman was a lone wolf, but stay on alert. You do not let your guard down, even for a moment. Not until you reach that border. And you remember the code, correct? That the House Jade courtiers will give to prove their identity?”
Harlan nodded. “Yes, ma’am. A passage from the Book of Woo.” He quoted then with great effort the Kythian verse, the foreign words awkward on his tongue: “‘Hallowed is thy scared name; protected in thy feathery… blossom...’”
“Bosom,” Lydia corrected.
“Blossom,” Harlan agreed.
Lydia sighed, but couldn’t help but quirk a grin, dark and small. Blossom was close enough; the words certainly sounded nearly identical to a person who only spoke Courdonian. “Sure. Blossom. Now, no use wasting more time. Safe journeys.” She glanced back at Sarah and Ivy. “I love you both,” she said, not letting her voice crack.
Ivy stared between them, her eyes still wide as her heart thumped, barely registering their words but understanding what they were about to do. Tenuously, shakily, she put up a hand towards her father’s arm, but could not quite dare touch it. She did, however, shake her head.
“I-I ca--” she stopped herself. Then she spoke again, barely whispering. “Please… I-I don’t want to leave...”
Xavier’s heart broke at her tentative, fearful manner. Briefly he enfolded her in a hug, not letting himself hold on too long. “I know,” he whispered. “But it’s too dangerous to stay. This is… it won’t be forever, Ivy. Things will get better.”
Ivy didn’t react at first, but she slowly put her arms around her father. As she did so, she began to relax at first, reminding herself of where she was and where she wasn’t, until she felt something wet on her fingertips. She looked and winced at the sight of blood on her hand. She couldn’t mask her concern as she looked up at Xavier, wishing she could cast healing spells but knowing that she couldn’t even mimic one now.
“I’m sorry I can’t…” she trailed off before shaking her head. “Please… Be okay. Be careful… Please...”
He nodded, squeezing her shoulder. “I will. You be careful too. You’ll be safe with the Jades… just…” He winced inwardly, not wanting to make her more fearful, but knowing they could not be truly safe until they reached the border. “Stay with the escort and do what they say, okay?”
Xavier stepped back, nodding to her and endeavoring to keep the tears out of his eyes, at least until Ivy could no longer see. “Now go. Remember I love you.”
Ivy’s voice was choked as she replied, but she seemed to be trying to hold back from outright crying. “I love you too.”
It took a long moment before Ivy could bring herself to turn away from Xavier and Lydia, walking with Sarah and the rest of the guard. She knew that once in Solis, she could use Leif’s help to send a message to her parents so that they would know for sure that she made it. And once there, he would help her with her conditioning. But none of that made her less apprehensive. About leaving her family behind behind, about not being able to do anything to help, and crossing all of Corvus, potentially running into slavers again…
She forced herself to not look back. For she knew if she did, it would give her all the more reason to stop and come running back. She knew she couldn’t, she knew it was best to go.
She just wished she didn’t have to.
It hurt, almost physically, to watch his daughter walk away from him. Better than getting her hurt, better than her getting caught up in this war more than she already had… but after those months of aching uncertainty when Ivy had been a captive at Castle Jisam and Xavier had been unable to do anything about it, he hated to let her out of his sight.
But he made himself turn away, and start walking back to the camp with Lydia. They walked hurriedly, since they were only with a single soldier to accompany them given that the rest had either gone with the girls or back to the camp already with the prisoner. That sense of unease in Xavier’s gut was still there, and wasn’t improving. “I assume you’ll want to interrogate the assassin,” he said to her in a low voice. He didn’t intend for the words to sound quite as cold as they did. “I’d like to be there as well.”
“Of course,” she said thinly. “But Xavier, if she’s not willing to talk, we might have to use methods that are… unpleasant.”
“No.” Xavier’s voice was firm. “Not before we try to earn her trust. Lydia, think about it. She’s failed, she’ll be expecting to be hurt. I’m not going to treat her the way her enki would--”
“You don’t understand, do you?” Lydia cut in. “We don’t have time to earn her trust. What if the person who sent her sent others, Xavier? What if there’s more danger up ahead? We need to talk. Now. I’m not staking your life-- or mine, or Elin’s, or Muriel’s-- on the hope that if we talk to her nicely, she’ll tell us all her secrets.” Hotly, before he could respond, she added, “And if you can’t deal with that, then perhaps you ought not be in the interrogation tent, after all.”
“If I hadn’t stopped you, you would have murdered her,” Xavier said, his fists balling up. “In front of my daughter. I’m not leaving you alone with her.”
He tried not to show how unnerved he was by her comment about Elin and Muriel. There was no doubt in his mind that treating the would-be assassin gently was the right thing to do - he knew very well the kind of conditioning she’d probably been through. At the same time, if something happened to his family because of his lenience - could he live with that?
Gods, he hoped they didn’t have to find out. She’d talk, and Lydia’s harsher methods wouldn’t be necessary, and his wife and daughter - all the people under his command - would be safe. Please ‘Woo, let her talk.
“I wouldn’t have murdered her,” Lydia said, pretending not to notice the way the soldier who’d accompanied them had his eyes cast firmly at the ground, as if he could tell the two were arguing although he didn’t speak a lick of Kythian. “And fine. We’ll start with your way. But if she doesn’t talk, Xavier…”
As they neared camp, Lydia saluted at the soldiers standing guard, and then paused, studying her brother; several of his wounds were still bleeding, and beneath the anger and concern on his face was a hard layer of pain.
“Go get yourself tended to. We’ll meet at the interrogation tent in… let’s say an hour. Okay?”
Xavier nodded curtly. “Right. I’ll see you there.”
Elin intercepted Xavier on the way to the medical tent, and proceeded to walk with him. At the sight of him, she let out a concerned frown, looking at him up and down.
“I heard about what happened and told the Healers you were coming; they should be ready for you,” Elin said. “Ivy… Is she…?”
“She’s safe,” Xavier said quickly. “She and Sarah both. They’re off to the border with their escort.” He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, his eyes softening. “It’s okay,” he said. “Nothing the healers can’t handle.”
Elin nodded grimly, trying to look up at Xavier but unable to stop herself from glancing at his wounds. She put her hand on top of his, not wanting to hug in in case it exacerbated it’s wounds. “I’m just glad you’re all safe…” she said. “As for the assassin, last time I saw her, the guards were tying her up.” She frowned. “I guess we should’ve seen this coming, after Jisam… I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to help.”
“I’m just glad you weren’t in danger.” He frowned; Ivy or Lydia or Sarah could have easily been hurt back there. “Lydia will be interrogating the prisoner in an hour, and I need to be there. I’ll go talk to the healers.” He hesitated, wanting to voice his worries about Lydia’s behavior, but this wasn’t really the time. Instead, he simply squeezed her shoulder before letting go.
Elin let her hand drop as he did, and they found themselves arriving at the Healer’s tent. “I should be there too, at least to make sure things are alright. But Xavier… Are you sure you’re up for it? After what she tried to do to you?”
He nodded grimly. “I have to be. I… prisoner or not, I want to ensure she’s treated with respect.”
Elin frowned. “I’m hoping we’ll get her to talk without too much trouble. But dear, I don’t think you’re going to get the same respect back. Not after what she tried to do to you.”
Xavier grimaced. “I… I know. But I have to try. She’s a slave, Elin. She’s not the one who wanted me dead, not really. And if she’s that obedient, I can only imagine what they did to her to make her that way.”
Elin went silent for a moment as she opened the flap to the healing tent. “That might be true.. But can we earn her trust, especially so soon? We need to be careful. I don’t want you or anyone else getting hurt again.”
“I can try,” he said, and then glanced at her. “But I’ll be careful. I promise.”
**
When Xavier and Elin arrived at the interrogation tent an hour later, the guards outside stood aside so he could enter. “General Lydia’s already with the prisoner,” one of them informed him.
Xavier’s eyes widened just slightly, and he muttered a curse under his breath, speeding up to burst into the tent as Elin stood just outside, watching through the small opening as the flap closed behind him. Lydia was there, as was the prisoner, bound hand and foot as she’d ordered. “Lydia,” he said breathlessly, giving her a warning look.
“Xavier,” she returned. Scanning him briefly, she said, “You look better. I hope it was an easy fix for the healers?”
“I’m fine,” he said impatiently. “Did you… do anything?” He glanced at the bound assassin, who looked more or less in the same condition she’d been in when she was captured, but his nervousness didn’t subside. Just from the look on her face, scared but stubbornly closed-mouthed, he could tell that they would have their work cut out for them - and he would have his work cut out for him holding Lydia back.
“That little faith in me?” Lydia asked coolly. She studied him, this man she’d known for years, who shared half her blood but so little of her fiery vengeance. He was passionate, but in such a different way than she was. He always saw the best in people-- a trait that often Lydia envied, but that right now…
She looked back to the slave woman. Her face was stony, her eyes cast resolutely at her lap. She sat very stiff and very still, as if the bindings didn’t bother her any. As if she was used to having chains bite into her wrists and ankles.
Thinking about it, she probably was.
“We’ll start it your way, Xavier,” Lydia went on. “Ask her nicely. See where it gets us. But if the answer is nowhere-- and I suspect it is, well…” She rested her hand casually at her hip, just above her dagger.
Xavier shot Lydia a look, but didn’t say anything. Instead he turned to the slave woman and crouched down in front of her, trying to meet her eyes. “Hello,” he said softly. “Will you tell me your name?”
For a moment, the slave woman sat there, as if in contemplation. Then, very slowly, she dredged her eyes up from her lap and settled them squarely on Xavier’s. Where his eyes were a bright, lively green, hers were dark, like storm clouds, written with equal parts anger and defiance.
“You,” she hissed, “are a disgrace.”
If Xavier was startled or unnerved by that, he didn’t show it. Instead, keeping his face as impassive as he could, he asked her calmly, “Why do you say that?”
“You will burn in the pits of hell,” she snarled on. “I’m surprised you don’t try to speak to me in the high tongue, branded lord. Ruining this kingdom like the vermin you are.”
She leaned forward then, bracing against the chains that held her in place, and spat at him. Although Xavier was too far away to be hit by it, the sentiment was clear.
From behind Xavier, Lydia glowered. Stepping around her brother, she snapped at the woman, “Your name. It’s not that hard. Tell it to us. Now.”
“Lydia,” Xavier said, in a warning tone, glancing up at his sister.
“She spat at you,” Lydia replied in terse Kythian. “Clearly the ‘nice and gentle’ tactic isn’t going to work.”
“Give it a chance,” Xavier snapped back. “I’ve barely spoken to her.” Turning back to the slave, his brow furrowed, he said, “You think this is the natural order of things, don’t you? Being under Lord Peregrine’s control, no rights of your own. But it doesn’t have to be.” He leaned forward, locking eyes with hers. “You could make your own decisions… not be hurt, ever again. I know you don’t believe this, but we want to help you.”
Again, the slave woman sat in silence for a moment. Then, voice steely as ever, she said, “You will die. That is simply that. That is the order of things. And the kingdom will rejoice at the river of your blood--”
At this, Lydia took an automatic step forward, bristling, her fingers curling over the hilt of her sheathed dagger. Brusquely, Xavier darted his arm out to hold her back and stop her from reaching the prisoner.
“This isn’t working, Xavier,” Lydia snapped, batting halfheartedly at her brother’s arm as the woman smiled almost serenely up at them. “She hasn’t even given us her name. And I don’t think she intends to, either.”
“She’s brainwashed,” Xavier said angrily. “She can’t even think for herself, what do you expect to gain from cutting her to pieces? There’s no way her enki didn’t train her to withstand torture.” He nearly winced; it was the first time either of them had used the word. And he still hated to think of Lydia, his own sister - anyone in this revolution they’d started, for that matter - stooping to methods that the Courdonian nobility would have used.
“I’m not suggesting we carve her into pieces,” Lydia said. “Merely that if the only language she knows is one of threats and violence, then that’s what language we must speak.” Studying the woman’s too-calm face, Lydia added, “Xavier, not every person can be reformed. Some people are just… damaged beyond repair. Some people…”
Rashly then, before her brother could think of another retort, Lydia stared the prisoner straight in the eye and, in the most authoritative voice she had-- her soldier’s voice; her General’s voice-- said, “Here’s how it’s going to work. You will answer our questions, or things will get unpleasant for you very quickly. This branded lord you tried to kill”-- she gestured sharply at Xavier-- “is a magician. A very good magician, in fact, trained beneath the archmage of a noble House in Kyth. Now, I’m sure Lord Peregrine inflicted all sorts of things on you. But let me ask you this: have you ever felt the cruciwoo curse? I’m guessing you haven’t. And I’m guessing the moment you feel it…” Lydia was the one to smile then. A dark smile, one she knew from her past mostly through her own former masters. “You will wish I had slit your throat back in that clearing.”
Xavier kept his expression perfectly neutral, but when he looked over at Lydia there was a flash of anger behind his eyes. “You can make threats, Lydia, but if you think I’m going to go along with this…” The unease that had seized him when Lydia had first held her knife to the slave assassin’s throat had now bloomed into faint nausea, and he swallowed. Her expression brought back entirely unwanted memories. The mages with their sick, tainted runes and ritual blades, Duval’s calm, pleased observation- no, no, there was no way he was going to pull his wand on this woman.
Maybe Lydia was right, and she couldn’t be saved. But Xavier sure as hell wasn’t going to be the person who hurt her further.
“If you can’t do it, I’ll get Liden,” Lydia said stiffly, referring to the strongest mage beyond Xavier currently at camp with them. “I know it’s not pleasant, but it has to be done. We need to be sure that this was nothing more than a one-off attempt, Xavier. That Lord Peregrine-- or gods know who else-- hasn’t sent another assassin who’s lurking just outside camp.” Glancing back down at the woman, a thought struck Lydia, and her voice took an even darker note as she added, “And look at her dress. She has the patch, Xavier. One of our patches. We need to know where she got it. If she stole it from a supply convoy, or forged it, or if there’s some soldier with her throat slit in a ditch outside camp missing her dress. And that is not information we’re going to get unless we take drastic measures.”
The tension in Xavier’s body had escalated to the point where it was a wonder he wasn’t shaking. “I’m not doing it, Lydia,” he said. “We need information, but not at that cost.” He clenched his jaw, unable to deny that they did need the information. “I… could use a truth spell,” he said slowly. “It wouldn’t hurt her. But she’d be forced to answer your questions honestly.”
“But don’t those spells have limits?” she asked. “A person with a strong enough will can overcome them. Or twist their answers so as not to be outright lies. If she’s willful enough, Xavier...” Lydia sighed. “Although I suppose we can try it. If it makes you feel better. But if it doesn’t work, I’m sending for Liden.”
Xavier nodded, and struggled to keep his impassive expression as he got to his feet and drew his wand. “We do need answers,” he told the woman, holding his wand up. “Whether you’re willing to give them or not. Veriwooserum.” The spell was an easy enough one to cast, and he knew very well that it wouldn’t hurt her, but it didn’t make him feel any better about using magic on a bound prisoner.
But it was done. He fixed his eyes on her, meeting her eyes again. “What is your name?”
She stared at him intently, biting down on her lip so hard it drew blood. She squirmed suddenly against the chains, as if she had some horrible itch she just couldn’t scratch; her brow was suddenly furrowed in wicked concentration. Clearly she was feeling the push of the spell… and fighting tooth and nail against it. “K--” she started, before screwing her jaw shut again. “Kay... no--”
She curled her hands into fists, her fingernails digging into her palms, and forced her eyes shut so that Xavier could no longer stare into them.
“Your name,” Lydia growled as she resisted. “Now!”
“Ka… Ka… Kaya,” the woman gasped, and then once it seemed to occur to her that she’d answered, her eyes flew back open. She screamed, a guttural scream, that would have made Lydia wince had it been uttered by anyone else.
Xavier did wince, unable to hide the reaction. His heart was pounding rapidly, as if he were the one under pressure. Just get this over with, he told himself silently, and raised his wand again, though he didn’t cast a spell. “Good,” he said coolly, and hated himself for how detached it sounded. “Who sent you? Lord Peregrine?”
“I… I…” She contorted her face, as if in agony. She looked like a woman in a fight for her life. “I… you… the kingdom sends me. The gods.”
Xavier took a step forward. “Who sent you?” he repeated, more forcefully. Please, please answer, Kaya.
“I am sent by the right... I…” Her eyes fluttered briefly, and she went silent again, still writhing against the chains like a stabbed, spastic snake.
Xavier’s eyes narrowed. “Fine,” he said softly, clutching his wand more tightly, like a lifeline. His palm had gone slippery with sweat. “Who else did the gods send? Who are they after?”
“The… the... whole kingdom stands against you.” She laughed now, a pained laugh, and pulled so fiercely against the chains that standing a few feet back, Lydia jumped at the noise. “They come for all… all the rats...”
“Names,” Lydia demanded. Watching the prisoner struggle, it was clear that she’d still yet to submit to the hold of the truth spell. That she was still actively fighting against it, lashing at it like a beast at its handler. It was only a matter of time until the jaws of resistance clamped down, and the spell evaporated like smoke into a silver sky. When the woman did not reply, but bucked again, Lydia said, “Kaya, their names. What are the names of the people who’ve targets on their heads?”
“The branded lord… and”-- she bit down on her tongue for a moment, as if she were trying to physically swallow down the words--“all those who support him… they will die. The blood of all… the blood of… the children--”
“The children?” Lydia snapped. “Are you saying his children are targets?”
“All the rats,” Kaya repeated. “All the--”
Lydia shook her head, done with this drama. This theater. Eyes falling back on Xavier, she snarled, “I’m sending for Liden. This is useless. And Xavier, we do not have time to play around with more truth spells. If Peregrine’s sent somebody after your children, then we need to send soldiers to back up Ivy and Sarah’s escort, now. Before they get too far.”
“I--” Xavier clenched his teeth. Slowly, he lowered his wand. It was somehow easy to discount a threat when it was only to himself, but his family - and what Kaya had just said, vague as it was, remained enough reason for him to be frightened. “Fine. Fine. Get this over with.” His pulse was racing now, and a permanent chill had settled, creeping over his scalp and down his back. This wasn’t right, and he wasn’t sure who he hated more - Kaya for not cooperating, Lydia for pushing him into this, or himself for going along with it. “Get Liden. I’m not using that spell on her, Lydia, don’t ask that of me.” He swallowed. “Please.”
Lydia nodded curtly, and without another word, swept back Xavier and Kaya toward the entrance to the tent. Moving aside the flap, she stepped out and turned to the two soldiers standing guard. “Liden Gallant,” she said with no preamble. “Fetch him for me, brother. Tell him it’s urgent, and I need him here at once.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the soldier replied, hurrying off.
Lydia watched him go, and as he disappeared into camp, her eyes fell next on Elin, still hovering nearby, clearly having listened in full to the interrogation. Her sister-in-law did not look pleased, to say the least. Her lips were drawn tight, her eyes addled with worry.
“The girls will be fine, Elin,” Lydia said, her voice softening for the first time since the start of the interrogation. “We’ll make sure of it.”
“...Yes, we will,” Elin whispered shortly. She opened the flap and strode into the tent, moving straight for the prisoner. Once she reached her, she grabbed the back of her hair and spoke next to her ear.
“Alright, listen to me, Kaya,” Elin started coldly. “You can fight and resist all you want, but you’re not in any position to stay quiet. You’ve been given more chances and mercy than I think you even know, and you’ve been tossing them aside. You’re not going to go back there, so you may as well think of yourself. Make it easy on yourself and tell us what you know. If you don’t, you’ll be subject to all the threats Lydia made. Which do you want? That choice is up to you. I suggest you think hard about that before Liden gets here.”
With that, she let go of Kaya’s hair. Xavier looked at her, startled, but didn’t say anything. His hands clenched into fists; as much as he hated the threats, there was really no point in his protest anymore. Elin and Lydia both knew how he felt. And Lydia was also right: they were running out of time.
And as for Elin’s proposition, if Kaya considered it, she didn’t betray such a thing. Nor did she even offer Elin a proper reply. Instead, she stared at her for a few long moments, eyes hollow as ever. And then, once again, she spat.
“You will rot, too,” she hissed.
Elin wiped the spit off her face, unmoved. “We haven’t yet, even after all that’s happened. And we won’t. I’ve seen kingdoms change with much less rebellion than this one.”
With that, she got up and walked over to Xavier. She didn’t like how much she had unnerved Xavier. But she found it hard to be merciful to Kaya after what the woman had said about her children, and what would happen to them.
“I’m sorry Xavier,” Elin said in Kythian. “But we need to make sure everyone else is safe.”
Xavier was silent a moment before he replied. “I know,” he said quietly. He flexed his hands, trying to make sure they weren’t shaking. “But Elin… torturing her…” He trailed off, and looked away. “I know we don’t have much of a choice,” he muttered, this time unable to keep his voice from shaking slightly.
He reached out and squeezed Elin’s shoulder. If there was any chance of working up some anger at the situation, the way Kaya had responded to his wife should have done it. But all he felt was sorrow.
This, he thought bitterly, was what Courdon was. You suffered, or you inflicted suffering. Taking a middle ground could never last long.
Elin put her hand on top of Xavier’s, her face creasing with sympathy. “If there were any other way, I would do it, believe me. Maybe if we had more time… But she’s not telling us anything. And we need to help Ivy.”
Not longer later, the soldier arrived back with Liden, who slipped into the tent with a worried expression on his face, his blue eyes teeming with an inquisitive apprehension. Unlike many in the revolution, Liden had never been slave, but a freeman. Barely eighteen, he’d grown up comfortably if not lavishly in southwestern Emryn, not far from where they were encamped now. It was, ultimately, his magic that had led him to joining the rebellion; in Courdon, free magicians who didn’t belong to noble families usually were roped into helping them. And in Courdon, ‘helping’ an enki usually meant…
Liden had never much liked what it meant, and three weeks before he was set to enter the permanent service of a minor lord last year, after months of intensive training for his new job, he’d run off to join the revolution rather than see his powers used to subjugate for the rest of his life. Used to torment.
“Sir?” he asked now, cautiously, looking only to Xavier.
One of the things that drove Lydia a little crazy about the members of the rebellion who’d once been freemen in Courdon was their patent and constant discomfort over the fact that she and Elin had positions of power within the revolution. While usually the freed slaves were so glad to be someplace safe that they gladly respected Lydia and Elin, men like Liden were less keen. He wasn’t openly disrespectful to her, not usually, but he also made it clear that he respected Xavier’s authority over all else, ignoring Lydia and Elin much like one ignores an unpleasant odor, in the hopes that if they do, it will soon go away. Lydia had only called him here today because his power was unmatched by anybody else’s in the camp but for Xavier’s; no one else around was capable of casting the necessary spell.
Xavier steeled himself, forcing back the slight amount of weakness he’d allowed himself in front of Elin. “I’m sure you’ve heard about Peregrine’s assassin by now, Liden,” he said, much more calmly than he felt. “We need more information, and she’s not been… cooperative.” He found he couldn’t bring himself to meet the other mage’s eyes as he gave the order. “We need you to use the cruciwoo curse while we interrogate her.”
“That’s…” Liden hesitated, his fingers fluttering reflexively over his wand, which was tucked in the inner pocket of his light overcoat. “I presume you’ll be casting a truth spell at the same time, sir?” In theory, this would make the interrogation ironclad; the pain would grip Kaya so completely that she’d be unable to resist the truth spell as she had before.
Xavier nodded, grim-faced. “That’s correct. Are you able, Liden?” The man couldn’t like this any more than he did, and Xavier found himself selfishly hoping he would not refuse outright.
“If you believe it is necessary, sir,” Liden said. Drawing out his wand, however, he glanced briefly over at Lydia and Elin, who stood on the opposite side of the tent. “Might I suggest, sir,” Liden added, “that the ladies take their leave?”
“I’m not going anywhere, Gallant,” Lydia snapped in reply. Elin, in turn, did not move.
Liden smiled coolly at them, but kept his words directed solely at Xavier. “Have you ever seen this curse cast before, sir?”
Xavier’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes,” he said shortly. “I know what I’m asking, as do my generals.” He took out his own wand again, turning to face Kaya. He didn’t look at her. “When you’re ready.”
Liden clearly wanted to press the issue, but he instead he only sighed, pointing his wand at Kaya. “I’ll cast first, then you ought to follow within five to seven seconds for optimal response,” Liden said with an air of authority. As if he’d done this many times before. “Shorter and neither spell will take, but longer and both will be weakened.”
As they prepared, Elin looked down at Kaya, staring her straight in the eye. “Last chance, Kaya,” she said. “What do you choose?”
In response, Kaya only spat again; it had hardly landed before Liden flicked his wrist and uttered the curse. The response was instantaneous and hard to watch-- even for Lydia, who’d demanded a pain spell be used at all. Kaya screamed, a blood-curdling scream, and bucked and thrashed against the chains. Her dark skin paled, and she gasped sharply and loudly, as if she couldn’t draw in enough breath. Liden’s eyes fell almost frantically on Xavier, who stood with his wand still outstretched but making no move to cast the truth spell.
“Sir--!” Liden cried as the optimal seconds quickly closed in.
“Xavier!” Lydia snapped nearly in unison. “Now!”
For a couple of seemingly interminable seconds, Xavier was paralyzed, caught between past and present at the sound of that scream. His screams. Muriel’s screams-- He wanted to shout at Liden to break off the spell now, or simply turn and run out of the tent - anything rather than what he actually did, raise his wand and haltingly rasp out the spell. “Ve- veriwooserum!”
Despite his hesitation, it took. Xavier closed his eyes briefly against a violent, sickening surge of self-hatred. Then he opened them, forcing himself to fix his gaze on Kaya’s agonized face. “Who’s being targeted, Kaya?” he said, no longer able to stop his voice from shaking. “I need names.”
“Please,” she sobbed between screams. She thrashed so hard that she’d upended the chair she sat in, and landed heavily on the ground. “Please, please--”
Liden, still rapt in concentration to sustain the pain spell, hardly looked bothered by her screams. As if he’d listened to such shouts too many times before. As if he heard only the buzz of his magic, felt only the snare of it on Kaya’s body-- arcing now on the floor, as she rocked as if caught by seizure.
“A-answer us and we’ll call it off!” Elin shouted through the screams, although she herself looked perturbed. She had never seen the spell personally; only heard it described. She believed it to be horrible, but seeing it, seeing what could have… Elin couldn’t help but glance over to Xavier, but she gritted her teeth to keep herself from saying anything. There was no time.
“Xavier Lynn!” Kaya screamed, heaving now between words. “Please-- please-- I’m only to… just… him!”
As Kaya continued to thrash, Lydia looked for a moment over at her brother, his wand still outstretched before him. His face was frozen in abject horror, his eyes wide, his skin pale. He looked to be on the verge of panicking, and she watched as he started to open his lips. Oh, no. She could not let him talk. She could not give him the chance to order Liden to call the curse off-- since if he did, Liden would obey, and there was no way in hell that the man would ever acquiesce to her own order to cast it again.
“Kaya,” Lydia said quickly, “are there other assassins?”
“No,” Kaya moaned. “Not now. Maybe in the future but I-- now… just me. Just me, please.”
“Why did you mention the children?” Lydia demanded.
“Future targets, they’re…” She paused to shriek again, her body overtaken by a vicious spasm. “Everyone close to him… everyone… future, not now… please--”
“Who sent you?”
“Pallas Peregrine. Pallas… Pallas…”
“Where’d you get the patch? Our uniform patch?”
“Made it, we made it, he made us make it…”
“Who’s he? Pallas?”
“Yes,” she gasped.
“Has anyone-- not just Lord Pallas, but anyone-- sent spies to our ranks?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she sobbed. “I… just… I don’t know, please, I don’t know, please, please--”
“That’s enough!” Elin cut in finally to Liden. “We got what we need.”
But Liden didn’t cut off the curse, as if Elin’s words had floated in one ear and out the other. On the floor, Kaya continued alternating between agonized moaning and outright screaming, her chains dragging heavily against the floor as she writhed.
Xavier could have hit him. He was shaking now, his body nearly rigid. “Stop it,” he shouted. “Now!” His eyes were wild as he glared at Liden, gasping for breath almost like Kaya was.
Liden obliged, twisting his wrist to the cut the curse. The effect was instantaneous; on the floor, Kaya inhaled deeply, as if able to breathe for the first time in minutes. She coughed then, tears rolling down her face, before bringing her chained hands up to wipe away the moisture.
Elin stepped forward towards Kaya, lifting her up. As much as she still hated seeing the woman, after going through a method that turned out to be so brutal, helping her back into her chair was the least she could do. Besides, it would be some small consolation for Xavier after what they had done. “We’re done,” she said, leaning over to help her up. “We’re not hurting you anymore. We won’t. Maybe in your time with us, you can see the good we’re really doing, and--”
It happened so fast that only Liden, standing but inches away, fully understood what was happening. Even then, he was too slow to react as Kaya lashed her bound hands out toward Elin’s waist, where a small blade was sheathed. By the time Liden had cried out and taken a step toward Elin and Kaya, his wand once more outstretched, the knife was in Kaya’s hands.
Elin’s eyes went wide and she reached her hand out to grab Kaya’s arm, but before she could reach it, Liden intercepted it, roughly closing his own hand over Elin’s arm. He jerked her back and quickly inserted himself in between she and Kaya. He seemed to expect Kaya to whip the blade in he and Elin’s direction, and so he could barely comprehend what she did instead: she turned it in, toward her own chest, plunging the sharp tip of it in. Blood blossomed immediately around the wound, a vibrant red-black.
Across the tent, Lydia let out a small cry of shock. Liden, Elin’s arm still ensnared in his vise-like grip, gaped as Kaya’s body thudded to the ground. “What were you thinking?” he demanded of Elin, his other hand curled with a death grip over his wand. “Going near her with a blade at your belt--”
“I didn’t mean to!” Elin retorted, her shock turning to anger at the sudden demand. “Besides, I could’ve stopped her!”
“This,” Liden snarled, as Kaya lay motionless at his feet, “is why you shouldn’t have been in this tent in the first place, you foolish wo--”
Xavier’s fist hit him square in the jaw before he could finish his sentence. Shaking and wild-eyed, the leader of the rebellion could barely speak for a moment, so suffused with mingled anger and horror that it was overwhelming. “Get… get out,” he finally managed, furiously spitting the words. “Get the hell out of here, Liden! Or I swear, I-- I--”
Liden took a step back, letting go of Elin’s arm to rub at the weal on his jaw. “Women,” he said, cool fury overtaking his previous chiding tone, “have no place in war, sir. You’re lucky your wife isn’t dead.”
And with that, Liden whirled and stormed out of the tent.
Once he was gone, Xavier, Elin, and Lydia stood in shocked silence for a few moments, as Kaya’s silent, unmoving body still lay in an ever-growing pool of blood. It was as if neither of them knew what to say, and Lydia’s voice cracked when she finally broke the silence with a soft, weary, “We can’t lose Liden, Xavier. I dislike him on a personal level as much as you do, but the chances of us getting another powerful mage like that…” She shook her head. “You need to go after him and apologize. Soon. Before he gets it in his head that he’s thrown his future away for nothing and runs off.”
Xavier didn’t look at her, still staring at Kaya’s body. “Not… not now. I…” His voice was hoarse, tremulous; he didn’t look or sound remotely like a general now. His green eyes, almost unfocused, were bright with moisture. Cursing under his breath he tore his gaze away from Kaya’s body, pacing restlessly across the short breadth of the tent and not looking directly at either Elin or Lydia. “She didn’t even know anything,” he said softly. “Nothing we can use, anyway.” The woman’s screams still echoed in his mind, blending uncomfortably with other screams from his memory. What he’d said to Liden was true; this was not the first time he’d seen the spell used.
It was the first time he’d seen it done on his orders.
Xavier pressed one hand hard over his mouth, stumbling away from Elin and Lydia. Just outside the tent flap, he dropped to his knees and doubled up, emptying the contents of his stomach on the grass.
Elin followed him tentatively, her movements slow from the shock, her mind still reeling. She’d reached Xavier just as he finished, and she frowned, kneeling down and putting a hand on his shoulder. Lydia followed a few steps behind, ordering away the two soldiers who’d been standing guard and were now watching Xavier with expressions of equal parts confusion and concern. This needed to be a private moment. The foot soldiers couldn’t see the branded lord heaving into the grass.
“Get some rest, Xavier,” Lydia murmured in Kythian as the soldiers left, glancing over their shoulders as they walked away. “You’ve got to be drained--”
His head snapped up to look at her, his face haggard and exhausted. The wild, almost lost look in his eyes when he’d punched Liden had subsided, but it hadn’t completely gone. “She didn’t know anything,” he hissed. “And we tortured her anyway. What does that make us, Lydia?” The anger in his voice was nearly a sob.
“This is war, Xavier,” Lydia said. “She was an assassin. You can’t go about punching your own soldiers, however maddening they are, nor weeping in the bushes over a woman who tried to kill you. Whom we would have had to execute anyway.”
“She was a slave,” Xavier said through gritted teeth.
“And so were you. And so was I. And now we are Generals, and she was an assassin.” Lydia turned then, her hands clenched into fists at her side. Flicking her gaze away from Xavier, she settled it instead on her sister-in-law. “Make sure he gets some rest, Elin,” she said thinly. “Since he’s apparently quite busy retching and sobbing over enemy assassins, I figure I ought to go actually lead this army. I think I’ll go find Colonel Monsen and see if he can’t talk to Lieutenant Gallant before one of our rebellion’s most powerful mages decides we’re not worth the effort.”
And with that, Lydia spun and stalked away, her boots crunching against the dirt.
Soon, silence permeated the air, and Elin frowned, unsure of what to say. She wanted to be comforting, but she wasn’t certain whether her husband would be angry with her too for going along with the torture. After seeing it herself, she could understand why.
“Xavier,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry about all of this. For not trying to think of something else... “ She shook her head. “And I’m sorry about the knife too. He’s right in one way; I should’ve hid it before approaching her. I didn’t think of it.”
She tentatively squeezed his shoulder, not wanting to put too much pressure in case the gesture wasn’t wanted.
Xavier was silent for a few moments, staring unseeing at the ground. When he spoke, it was so quietly that it was barely audible. “...we… I… I did exactly what Lord Duval would have done.” He was shaking again, his shoulders trembling just faintly under Elin’s hand.
Elin’s head shot up at the name, her grip on Xavier tightening softly. “Xavier… That doesn’t make you the same as him. You were still willing to give her a chance first. The fact that you tried puts you far ahead of Duval.”
Elin then frowned, choosing her words carefully. “But… I don’t think she would have said much besides insults without us being firm. She’d been in their hands for too long, and she was too stubborn and contrary.” Like me, when I was young, Elin thought to herself. “And after what she said about our kids… I was scared too. I think anyone would be...” But she trailed off as she said it, signs of guilt still in her voice.
Xavier reached up to rest his hand over hers, entwining their fingers. “So was I,” he said heavily. “After watching Ivy leave today, right after I was attacked…”
He gave a deep, shuddering sigh and leaned back, resting his head against Elin’s shoulder. “What I did, though… that scares me too,” he said softly. “That I could give that order, just like he did. We… we can’t turn into that, after everything we’ve been fighting for, after everything--” Xavier choked off into silence, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that threatened to spill. Lydia was right about one thing; he was supposed to be their leader, a general. The Branded Lord. He couldn’t do this. But there was a part of him that could still hear Kaya’s screams, a part of him that was still paralyzed.
Elin put an arm around Xavier, shutting her eyes, unable to speak for a moment. It was a familiar fear to her; she had seen people abuse their power, even outside of Courdon. So whenever she was in a position of leadership, she always had to tell herself to not become that person. She thought she had succeeded. But then she had gone along with the torture, too afraid to really think of alternatives… Elin couldn’t help but shudder at the thought before looking down at Xavier.
“I know,” she muttered softly. “We’ll have to be careful, and keep checking ourselves. If we are… We’re still doing good things in Courdon. And we can do good things. And that can involve some… hard choices…” She winced as she said it. “...W-we can keep on top of it, if… If we’re just careful from now on.”
“I hope so. I really hope so.” He took a deep breath, for a moment taking solace in Elin’s presence. “Because even the ones we can’t save,” he said softly, “they’re worth fighting for.”
Elin nodded. “I know,” she said. “I just wish there was more we could do…”
She trailed off as she looked up, seeing the various members of the rebellion strolling by, giving them looks as they walked on. Elin didn’t spend long staring at them before putting her hand on Xavier’s arm.
“We should get back to our tent,” she suggested as she helped him up.
Xavier leaned on her slightly as he got to his feet. The edginess and the sickness had left him, replaced only by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. “All right,” he said quietly, but then looked over his shoulder at the interrogation tent. “S-someone should… she should have a proper burial, at least…”
“Right…” Elin said, supporting him as they stood. “I’ll ask one of the guards to make arrangements for that.”
He put his arm around her, glad she understood. “...Thank you.”
They walked back to their tent in silence, each wrapped in their own thoughts. Xavier was silent, his thoughts drifting wildly. What he’d watched happen in the interrogation tent had brought things rushing vividly back, things he hadn’t dwelled on in years. He could remember all too vividly being a victim of that curse himself, consumed with pain as part of the process to subjugate his magic…
He was brought back to the present with a jolt when they reached their tent. Elin briefly flagged down a guard and requested that he make proper arrangements for the girl in the interrogation tent before they entered. They walked over to their bed and Elin gently urged him down before taking a seat beside him, her eyes stuck on the floor. After a long moment of silence, she put a hand to her forehead, lost in thought.
Xavier leaned over, wrapping his arms around her and nestling his head against hers. “It’s not your fault,” he said softly. “Don’t take the blame for this.”
He’d given that order, not her, not even Lydia. And he’d been willing, under those tense circumstances, so convinced that his family was in danger. What did that make him? He still wasn’t sure he could answer that. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
Elin returned the gesture, letting her head fall onto Xavier’s. “Some of it is,” she said quietly. “I can’t deny that.”
Her head was still swimming, the events repeating in her head over and over again, and her mistake… She turned her head up to try to look at Xavier’s face, finding it wrought with exhaustion and despair. In part a tacit suggestion and in part her own desire, she broke away and lay down on the bed. She could only hope her thoughts would be clearer in the morning, assuming she could get to sleep.
After what felt like hours, she managed to finally doze off.
Xavier reluctantly lay down beside his wife, knowing slumber would not come easily. It did not. The Branded Lord’s sleep that night was restless, haunted by images of the past both distant and recent, blurring one into another. His mind was racing in a way he couldn’t hope to control, the boundaries between sleep and wakefulness growing less clear. There were no answers to be found in his dreams, only painful memories, with one more now added to their number.
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Post by Avery on Mar 15, 2015 18:29:53 GMT -5
The Tables Turn<Summer, 1340> This takes place a few months after A Dangerous Dream, as posted on Avery's thread. It will be... many parts. >__> Most dialogue takes place in low Courdonian and thus is not colour coded; all other languages indicated (gold is high Courdonian; green is Kythian; dusty purple is Mzian). Part OneIt was Muriel’s turn for patrol duty on the west edge of camp again. She passed the previous guard coming in from his shift as she left, and nodded quickly in greeting. “Anything to report, Corbin?” she said.
“All quiet, Captain Lynn,” the man said, giving her a friendly grin. It was still sometimes hard to remember that she outranked him now - him and so many of the other soldiers at camp that she’d fought alongside. The promotion had come recently, and while it gave her a thrill to think of moving up into the leadership of the rebellion (like her parents, and on her own merits) it was still hard to adjust to the reality of being in command. Not that she was that high of an authority to begin with.
“Well, no news is good news, right?” Muriel said. “We’re far enough out here, hard to imagine someone stumbling on us by accident.”
“That’s the idea, at least.” He gave her a lazy salute as he walked off. “See you after your shift. Don’t work yourself too hard, Lynn.”
The camp was well-hidden. Even this close, no one would have guessed what lay beyond the trees unless they already knew. Muriel set out on the patrol route that was well-known by now, zig-zagging just outside the western boundary, not really expecting an eventful shift. It never was since they’d moved their base camp out to the countryside of Teral.
But she did hear something, not even a quarter of the way along the route as she approached a nearby stream that the rebels used as a water source. She could hear something - low voices, not ones she recognized. Crouching down, Muriel placed a hand on the hilt of her knife and crept forward, remaining as hidden in the underbrush as she could until the stream was in sight.
There were indeed two strangers there, ragged and dressed in peasants’ garb. One was a young man close to her age, his companion a girl who looked to be younger. He was crouched down at the edge of the stream, splashing water on his face, while the girl stood close by, looking wary. They had a haggard, travel-worn look about them, something Muriel knew quite well by now from the escaped slaves she had met. But they clearly were not slaves, or at least the man wasn’t. His right arm was clearly visible from where she crouched watching them, and the skin was smooth and unblemished. More concerning, he was armed. She could see the scabbard of a sword hanging from his belt.
Muriel moved quickly. She drew her own blade as she stood and closed the distance between them in a few quick strides, levelling the point of the weapon at the young man’s throat. “Identify yourselves,” she said coolly, in a voice that belied how hard her heart was suddenly pounding. Whether it was excitement or nervousness, she was not quite sure.
She’d come at him so fast that her blade was kissed against his throat before he could even think of drawing his own. He gasped, eyes flicking frantically at his travel companion; at the stranger searing out from the tree-line, the girl had scrambled aside, nearly splashing into the coursing river in the process. Something inscrutable passed between them, a silent conversation held with glances alone.
Then, it was not the man at all who spoke, but the girl. Her striking green eyes dancing with fear, she held her hands out in placation-- as if to show that she was not a threat-- and said, “Please. Don’t hurt him.”
Muriel glanced at the girl out of the corner of her eye, sizing her up. “I won’t, if neither of you give me a reason to,” she said. “So tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”
Again, the man and the girl exchanged a series of frenzied glances, as if arguing with each other over what they ought to say. Finally, the girl swallowed hard, staring for a moment at the rebel’s badge on Muriel’s tunic, before she said in as even of a voice as she could muster, “We were just drinking from the stream. It’s hot. We were thirsty. We were…” Her voice trailed off, and she took in another ragged, nervous breath. “P-please. If you could just stop pressing your knife to his throat?”
Looking at her, Muriel frowned. No, she definitely wasn’t imagining the girl’s Kythian accent. That, more than anything else, convinced her to withdraw the blade a fraction further away from the young man’s throat. Still, she didn’t let down her guard. Rather than responding to either of them, she pursed her lips and let out a sharp, two-toned whistle.
It didn’t take long for the nearest guard on patrol to come running for backup. When she saw Muriel with her knife to the throat of an armed stranger, she gaped. Before the soldier could say anything, Muriel jerked her head toward the man’s sword. “Get his weapon,” she said.
Only once the other woman had taken the sword did Muriel back off a little more. “You can stand up now,” she said, though she still followed his movements closely with the blade at the ready. “No sudden moves. Clea, search him.”
The rebel nodded, moving forward to search his clothes. Muriel frowned slightly when she found a knife hidden in his boot. “You’re well-armed, for a peasant,” she said, almost conversationally. “I think I’d like to know what you were really doing here. You didn’t just happen to stop for a drink right by our encampment, did you?”
The girl watched with her heart thudding in her ears as her travel companion was quickly relieved of his weapons. At least, the weapons these rebels had found. She tried not to let her eyes list too long on his chest, where he had yet another dagger sewn into the lining of his tunic. Nor did she think now was exactly the time to mention that she, too, was armed, a small blade tucked into her own boot.
Still crouched but inches from the edge of the stream, she dared not make any sudden moves. Not even when her travel companion, his scabbard now empty, rose slowly to his feet and not-so-subtly inserted himself between she and the rebels. Shielding her from them.
And making it all the more noticeable that he was keeping quiet deliberately when she said for him, “This is a very dangerous kingdom. We’re just being careful.”
The other guard, Clea, held up the knife she’d confiscated from the man’s boot, hefting its weight in her palm. “It’s a nice blade,” she said to Muriel. “More well-made than most of what we can issue.”
Muriel nodded significantly in the direction of the knife. “Your friend here’s a little better armed than just careful,” she said to the girl. “Maybe he has a better explanation?” At this, she looked back to the man she still held at knifepoint, locking her gaze directly on his brown eyes.
“We just--”
“Let him talk,” Clea instructed pointedly.
At this, a panicked expression washed over the girl’s face. The man dared a brief glance down at her, smiling leadenly, as if in some farce of comfort. Clearly, the gesture did not have the intended effect, for the girl just bit down hard on her lip and winced, as if waiting for hellfire to rain.
“It is wartime. There is no such thing as too cautious,” he said carefully. And then he too seemed to brace himself, furrowing his dark brow and drawing in his cheeks as he waited for the rebels’ response.
Not at what he’d said; this was innocent enough. But at how he’d said it. The unmistakable accent overshadowing all of his words, permeating them like water leaking through a patchy roof. Although he’d tried to mask it, speaking in the low dialect as was to be expected for a haggard traveler, this mattered very little. There were certain things that couldn’t be hidden by mere language choice.
Or at least, from the look of surprise that swiftly unfurled on the rebels’ faces, not nearly well enough.
Clea picked up on the subtle inflections first, shooting a startled glance at her superior, but even Muriel quickly registered what his accent meant. She’d only rarely heard the high form of Courdonian spoken, but she knew enough. The accent, the weapons that were better than any peasant would even have a right to own-- “You’re a noble, aren’t you?” she said softly. She tried to fight back the grin threatening to steal over her face - it seemed inappropriate - but she could not completely hide her excitement at the news. She’d stopped a nobleman from slipping into their camp. And the girl… perhaps his slave? She didn’t have a highborn accent, but she didn’t exactly act subservient to him either.
She took a step forward, bringing her knife nearer to his neck again. “No, this wasn’t a coincidence, was it? A well-armed, poorly-dressed young lord, just happening to be traipsing through the woods right by a rebel encampment.” Muriel allowed herself to smile then, a humorless thin smirk. “If you’re trying to be a spy, you’re a remarkably bad one.”
“We’re not spies,” he said, sounding nearly affronted. He flinched as she mindlessly twirled the blade at his throat, like she was considering sinking it into his soft flesh at any moment. “I… we’re…”
When it became clear that he couldn’t cobble up a good answer quickly enough to satisfy the rebels, the girl finally stood from where she’d been kneeling at the stream’s edge. Trying not to let herself tremble, she took a few measured steps forward.
“Hey, don’t,” her companion said to her as she settled in near his side. From the way he twitched, it was obvious he wanted to push her back behind the safety his body provided, but with a knife pressed at his throat, such a thing wasn’t feasible.
Instead, he merely stood there, not daring to move an inch, as the girl’s green eyes ate into Muriel’s and she said almost accusingly, “You’re Kythian, right?”
Muriel blinked. That wasn’t a question she’d expected. “Yes,” she said, guardedly. “And so are you, from the sound of it.” The girl’s Courdonian was excellent, but there was no denying the accent, with its similarities to Muriel’s own.
And now that she’d drawn attention to that… it was a remarkably good question. What was a young Kythian girl doing out in the wilderness with a Courdonian lord? There was at least one obvious answer. Muriel’s eyes darted to the neckline of the girl’s dress. “Show me your collarbone,” she said.
At this, the man outwardly bristled. “She doesn’t need to strip for you--”
“It’s fine,” the girl cut in, peeling down the high neck of her dress to reveal to the rebels the smooth, pale skin beneath. “I’m not his slave,” she said, letting their eyes linger on her unbranded collarbone for only a moment before hiking the material back up. In Kythian then, she said to Muriel, “And I’d really rather you not kill him, please.”
At the sound of her native tongue, spoken with a distinct Bernian accent, Muriel raised an eyebrow. “Well, neither of you are giving me very good reasons to trust you,” she said, automatically slipping into Kythian. “I don’t have to spell out how suspicious this looks, do I? A Kythian girl, wandering the woods with a Courdonian lordling, carrying concealed weapons, at that. Right on the edge of a rebel camp.” She cocked her head, giving the girl a challenging stare. “Stop pretending you’re not hiding something, because you are both doing a poor job of it.”
For a moment, the man and the girl said nothing. Once more an inscrutable gaze passed sidelong between them, the man still not risking to move an inch because of the knife that remained pressed to his throat.
Then, the man took a deep breath and said also in smooth Kythian, “Of course, I can understand your concerns.” But rather than provide an explanation for her, he dared turn his head ever so slightly toward the girl and said firmly to her in a language he quite presumed neither of the rebels had ever heard before in their lives, “If this goes poorly, you run. We’ve known all along this might not end up going well. But I won’t have you killed, too.”
The girl sputtered back at once, “I’m not going to just leave you, I--”
“Enough,” Muriel snapped, switching back to Courdonian and pressing her knife more firmly against his throat. Not enough to break the skin, but more than enough to remind him it was there. She was beginning to lose her patience, and the way he so seamlessly shifted between languages was not easing her suspicions. She had no idea what he was even speaking at this point. “Explanations. Now.”
“Of course.” He grimaced as the blade dug against his skin. “Well. First, I want to let you know that we”-- he gestured at the girl, who now could not help but tremble, like a shrub battered by the wind--“are fully sympathetic toward your cause. We wish to join you. We wish to fight for you. We’ve actually been trying to find a rebel encampment to do just that for… quite some time now, but I will commend you on keeping your camps very well hidden.”
“That,” Clea said sharply, “is not an explanation, lordling.”
“Right.” He swallowed. “And I want to give you an explanation. I do. But…” He hesitated then, true fear patent on his face, as his eyes fell longingly on his confiscated swords, its blade glinting beneath the white hot summer sun. “I’m afraid that if I tell you the truth, you’ll kill us merely as a… reflex. Without stopping to consider. And this, you might imagine, makes me quite reluctant to explain.”
Muriel scrutinized him for a moment, her eyes narrowed. “You’ve done nothing but evade answers, and I’ve been more than patient,” she said irritably. “Fine then. You tell us the truth, and I give you my word as a Captain of the rebellion that you won’t be harmed. For the moment.”
“Muriel,” Clea muttered, watching them warily. “Don’t trust them.”
“I don’t,” Muriel said. “Circle around, watch their backs.” As the woman did so, Muriel stood and watched the young man expectantly. “Well?” she said.
He stayed silent for a moment, as if deliberating over Muriel’s promise. “Even if you change your mind,” he said finally, the desperation in his tone unmistakable, “about hurting me after what I say… promise me you will not hurt my cousin. Please.”
Muriel raised her eyebrows slightly. Cousin? Her eyes darted briefly to the girl, then back to his face. “Very well,” she said, hoping she would not regret this. The girl didn’t seem like a threat - but then, people had been known to make the same error in judgment about Muriel’s mother.
The man nodded, and shared one final, almost harrowed look with the girl, before he said, “My name is Gerard.”
“Gerard what?” Clea demanded.
“Alaric,” he said quickly-- almost blurted, as if he feared by not answering at once he’d lose his courage to say it at all. “I…” His voice hitched here, and next to him, the girl was biting down so hard on her lip that a bubble of blood had welled up. “I am Prince Gerard Gabriel Alaric.”
Muriel stared at him, no possible answer to that readily springing to her mind. “You can’t be,” she said flatly, but despite the absurdity of his claim… no, it was because of its absurdity that she believed him. Who in ‘Woo’s name would claim to be a prince of Courdon - the second in line for the throne, at that - in an attempt to gain a rebel’s trust?
It was even more ridiculous than the notion that he was telling her the truth.
Trying not to gape, and trying desperately to hold onto some semblance of her authority, she addressed Clea. “Bind his wrists,” she said. “He’s... I imagine Brigadier Belle will want to speak with them himself.”
“Yes, Captain,” Clea said, sounding just about as rattled as Muriel felt. As the woman produced some cord and grabbed hold of Gerard’s wrists, Muriel struggled to collect her thoughts. What now? This was so far outside the scope of anything she’d prepared for. What would her father have done?
She remembered the girl, the one Gerard had called his cousin. However strange the man’s answer, it did not alleviate the strangeness of his Kythian travelling companion. “And you,” she said, turning to her. “What’s a girl from Bern doing with a Courdonian prince?”
Watching in something near terror as Clea bound Gerard’s wrists, the girl took a reflexive step back, her cousin’s words echoing through her head. His Mzian-uttered order for her to run if things went poorly. They… they hadn’t yet tried to slit either she or Gerard’s throats yet. They didn’t seem to be in imminent danger. And so running, she knew, would probably just make things worse.
Her mind swimming, she forced her gaze away from her restrained cousin toward the scrutinizing Captain. “We ran away together,” she said. “To join the rebellion. Your rebellion. We’re… he’s… I’m…”
She felt so naked. So vulnerable. She wanted to reach down for the blade in her boot, but knew such a move would be the death of both her and Gerard right now. Instead, she stood ramrod straight and finished, “I’m Julia Evgenia Alaric. Gerry is my cousin. M-my mother was his father’s younger sister. We ran away together. Please don’t hurt us. Please.”
The king’s son and the king’s niece. Runaways. Naturally. What else? Muriel was beginning to feel that nothing today was going to surprise her anymore. Well, royalty or not, Julia was plainly terrified, and Muriel couldn’t really blame her. The situation must have been as strange and overwhelming to her as it was to Muriel - and at least Muriel had the upper hand in it. She looked over at Clea, who was finished tying Gerard’s wrists, and then back at Julia.
“We won’t hurt you if we don’t have to,” she said, hoping she was speaking for the other rebels. Ultimately it would be Brigadier Belle’s decision how they were treated, not hers. But they’d been cooperative so far, and her father was always adamant that prisoners were treated well. That they didn’t sink to the level of those they were fighting. “So don’t give us any reasons to, Julia.”
She didn’t exactly mean it as a threat, but it came out sounding as one regardless. Perhaps that wasn’t entirely a bad thing, given who they were dealing with. Muriel reached out to take a firm grasp of Julia’s upper arm. “We’re taking them back to camp,” she said to Clea. “The Brigadier will need to be notified immediately.”
“Of course,” said Clea. She’d managed to control her own shock by now, so her face was cool and impassive. Sticking the knife she’d confiscated from Gerard into her belt, she gave him a light but pointed shove in the small of his back, a clear indication that they were to move.
“She’ll come with you willingly,” Gerard said icily as he noticed Muriel clasp tight to Julia’s arm. “You don’t need to manhandle her.”
“Stop it, Gerry. It’s fine, I promise, she’s not hurting me,” Julia replied quickly, lapsing as if by subconscious habit into the language she normally used: high Courdonian. She gave her cousin a look that was halfway between a plea and a warning. They were already in precarious straits right now; he hardly needed to stoke the fire.
“It’s not fine,” he replied, matching her dialect. “You’re clearly not a threat to them, and we’ve been nothing but cooperative--”
“Gerry.” All plea now. Her voice cracked.
Gerard fell silent.
As they marched the prisoners back to camp, Muriel remained silent as well, barely even glancing at them. Her mind was racing. It didn’t make her feel much better knowing that Brigadier Belle would take charge of the situation once he had them. She’d longed to do something of importance for the rebellion, something due to her own abilities and not just because she was a Lynn… but now that she had, things were moving a little too fast for comfort.
Even to herself, she hated admitting that she felt out of her depth.
Word of captives quickly rippled through the camp as Clea and Muriel marched the prince and his cousin through it, reaching back to Brigadier Belle before the captives themselves did. A former slave of the enki of Kajas province, Myer Belle had escaped from bondage and joined the revolution in its early stages, quickly catapulting through its ranks. He was in his early forties but, to the undiscerning eye, could have sooner been fifty-- or thirty. His skin was bronzed from years of physical labor at the fringe of the Anvil Desert, and his muscles, sculpted and hardened. He was not cruel so much as humorless, a quality that made him an impeccable military leader but a man of very few friends. He was highly respected within the rebellion, but not necessarily very well liked. The sort of man you’d trust your life to in a moment, but with whom you wouldn’t particularly wish to share a casual meal or conversation.
Belle set upon Muriel, Clea, and the prisoners as they wended through camp, striding toward them with long, purposeful steps. All other rebels milling nearby parted for him like water for a paddle, watching with silent, anticipatory eyes as he approached his soldiers and their captives.
“Captain. Corporal,” Belle said once he’d closed the distance, nodding curtly at Muriel and Clea. His eyes then fell beyond them, at the bound Gerard and his terrified cousin. “Why,” he demanded, “is only the male bound?”
Muriel swallowed, keeping a tight grip on Julia’s arm. “She was cooperative,” she said. “Sir.” She didn’t add - not aloud, anyway - that she had very little doubt she could take down the smaller girl if it came to a fight. She doubted that the brigadier would care about her reasoning.
“Hm.” Belle glanced at Gerard’s confiscated sword, now dangling almost lazily from Clea’s belt. “And you searched them both fully, Captain? To ensure they had no further weapons?”
“Of course I did,” Muriel said shortly, hoping very much that the steps she’d taken would be enough for him. “I wouldn’t have risked otherwise.”
“Except,” Clea added, looking away from Muriel, her cheeks blushing, “for the girl.”
“Except for the girl?” Belle echoed. Then, his lip twitching, he turned and beckoned at the small but growing group of soldiers who’d gathered nearby to gape at the excitement. “Sergeant Pelletier, Private Faulk,” he said to two of them-- a tall, slender man and young yellow-haired woman, “come over here and search our two prisoners, please. Thoroughly.”
Pelletier and Faulk trotted over and obliged with echoed “yes, sir”s, and then proceeded to diligently pat down both Gerard and Julia. Although it was the woman, Faulk, who searched Julia, her cousin, the prince, still visibly stiffened as Faulk’s small hands traveled her body. At least Gerard seemed to know better right now than to snap at the rebels for touching Julia, but his discomfort was patent-- as was Julia’s annoyance toward him for it; the two royals shared a series of flustered, silent looks, holding a conversation with each other with their eyes alone.
Muriel watched, wary but retaining her military composure as the two prisoners were searched again. Soon, however, Faulk and Pelletier had retrieved two more knives: one hidden in the folds of Gerard’s clothing, and a second tucked inside Julia’s boot. Muriel felt her face grow hot, but tried to meet Belle’s eyes with dignity anyway. “I-- I didn’t consider her to be a threat,” she said, trying and failing not to sound defensive. Still didn’t, at that - Julia was so obviously scared that she doubted the girl would attack even if she had access to her weapon - but she didn’t think the brigadier would listen to that either.
“Clearly,” Belle said. “Because threats always announce themselves as just that.” Without another word on the topic, he angled himself toward the spread of tents just beyond them. “Now that we’re sure our captives won’t be stabbing us, let’s proceed to the interrogation tent, shall we?”
And with that, not waiting for an affirmation, Belle strode coolly off, clearly expecting that Muriel and Clea would follow with the prisoners.
When they reached the tent, Belle nodded to Clea. “Bind the girl, Corporal, and then return to your post.”
“Yes, sir,” she said quickly. Muriel stepped aside, letting go of Julia so that Clea could do what she was ordered.
Julia didn’t resist as Clea bound her, but standing nearby, Gerard openly glowered. He was clearly grow more and more uncomfortable with the situation by the second, but there was hardly anything meaningful he could do about it. At least, not if he didn’t want to end up in more hot water than he and Julia were already boiling in. Bound or not, his posture then was purely a prince’s stance-- stiff, with his chest held out as if to make himself seem as large as possible. Julia wasn’t sure whether he did this deliberately or not, and if she hadn’t been too afraid to speak, she might have hissed at him to simmer down. Might have pleaded for him to stop looking so threatening, for Woo’s sake, because menacing these rebels wasn’t going to end well for either of them.
While Clea worked, Muriel took her place standing beside Belle, close enough that she could speak to him in a lowered voice.
“He… claims to be the… prince of Courdon, sir,” Muriel said, hesitantly. She was aware of how absurd this sounded. “Gerard Alaric. The girl is his cousin.”
“And he told you this?” Belle said, raising a brow.
She nodded. “They also claimed to be sympathetic to the cause.”
Digesting this, Belle stepped forward. Clea, having finished securing Julia’s wrists, slipped out of the tent with a last quick and respectful salute. He paid her no attention. “On the ground,” said Belle sharply. “Both of you.” Once both of the prisoners had sat he stared down at them, fixing his eyes on Gerard with a look of keen interest.
“Is it true?” he said. “Are you Prince Gerard Alaric?”
Crossing his legs, Gerard stared up at the rebel looming above he and Julia. “I am,” he confirmed shortly. From the way he bit down on his lip afterward, Julia quite suspected he wanted to say something else to this-- some snappy question about why he’d claim to be the godsdamned second-in-line for the throne if he weren’t-- but wisely, Gerard refrained himself. Instead, he stared Belle straight in the eye, waiting in something near to a challenge for the brigadier’s response.
Belle showed no visible response at his answer, his face impassive. “And is it true, as my captain tells me,” he said, “that you are sympathetic to our cause?”
“We are,” Gerard agreed. “In fact, we ran away specifically to your join cause, at great peril to ourselves.”
Belle frowned slightly, surveying both of their faces before asking one short, sharp question. “Why?” It was a demand, not a request. And the look in his eyes made it quite clear that he did not come even close to trusting them.
“I suppose,” Gerard replied evenly, “that you would not believe me if I were to say to you that the greatest day of my life will be the day that King Oliver’s disembodied head tops one of the pikes outside the Gilded Palace.”
“Gerry,” Julia hissed at this, cringing. It wasn’t that her cousin’s words were untrue, but merely that they sounded so… macabre. Nearly sensationalist.
But he just shrugged at her. “The man asked for the truth, so I thought I’d give it to him.” He ended there, but the unsaid words left lingering were glaring, obvious, to Julia: And let me do the talking, please. At least then I’ll be the one who gets hurt first if this goes poorly.
She swallowed hard and kept silent.
“It’s not particularly that I don’t believe you, little prince,” Belle said levelly, pacing slowly back and forth in front of them. “But there are plenty of reasons a prince of Courdon might be glad to see his father’s head parted from his shoulders.” He shot Gerard a dark, unamused look, narrowing his eyes. “Trying to pull us into your political games, are you? Going after a common enemy, is that it?”
Was it just that? Gerard didn’t want to think so. Certainly there was a personal element to him and Julia escaping the Gilded Palace to enfold themselves with the rebellion. A desire to see Oliver-- and his kingdom-- crash and burn. But… it wasn’t wholly that. At least, he thought it wasn’t. He told himself it wasn’t, that his reasons for coming here rose above merely a personal vendetta.
“He is a common enemy,” Gerard agreed. “But that hardly means I come to you as part of some elaborate political scheme. I think I can be an invaluable tool to your rebellion. I know the ways of the court-- of the king-- better than anybody else. I can help you win this war.” Glancing at Julia, he added, “We can help you win it. And my father’s head on a pike, well… that’s merely a fortunate byproduct. Not to mention, if I merely wished to see him dead, there are much easier ways to accomplish that than running off with my vulnerable cousin to the wilds of the kingdom. Much safer ways. So I think it ought be patent that something else but for a selfish desire for revenge motivates me.”
“Hm.” He studied Gerard’s face a moment more, wholly inscrutable, before turning to Julia. “And you, girl? A touching display of loyalty, it would seem, following the young prince out into the unknown.”
“I…” She looked at her cousin for a moment before answering with a soft, vague, “I had reasons of my own.”
She hadn’t said much, but Belle was sharp, and had already picked up on the differences in her accent. He walked around to stand in front of her, leaning over her with curiosity. “Not the accent I’d have expected of a Courdonian princess,” he said. “You sound more like a Kythian.” He was already glancing at Muriel to confirm as he said it. She nodded.
“What I thought myself,” she agreed. “She speaks Kythian fluently, with a Bernian accent. And… something else,” she added uncertainly, slightly embarrassed that she’d been unable to identify the language that the prince and his cousin had spoken to each other.
The brigadier raised an eyebrow. “‘Something else?” he said to Julia, expectantly.
Belle was looming so close over her that she wanted to back away, but had no place to go. Swallowing hard, she stammered, “Mzian. It was… Mzian… we…” Her voice trailed off as it dawned on her that she probably shouldn’t tell this rebel that they’d spoken it merely so Gerard could order her to run, if necessary. Diverting to a different subject, she added unsteadily, “And I am from Kyth. Or at least I… lived there for most of my life. I’ve only been in Courdon for… for less than two years.” Growing a little bolder then, she said, “I have no loyalty to the Courdonian crown. None.”
“So suppose you are telling me the truth,” Belle said, looking at both of them. “And suppose that I have two members of Oliver Alaric’s immediate family in my custody - part of the regime we’ve been fighting all this time…” He put his hand under Julia’s chin and lifted her head just slightly so he could get a better look at her face, perhaps searching for any resemblance to the well-known and well-hated features of the king. “Why should I not kill the both of you right here and now, and have done with it?” he said coldly.
Muriel’s eyes widened slightly, and she started forward. “Uh- sir--” she began, uncertain. She was no more inclined to trust them than he was, but that didn’t mean it was right to execute them out of hand.
Muriel, however, did not get a chance to finish her question before, like a lion pouncing on its prey, Gerard, previously seated on the dirt floor just inches from Julia and Belle both, surged up and out. Though his wrists were bound, this did little to stop him from launching himself at the brigadier, who dropped his hand from Julia’s chin in shock as one-hundred eighty pounds of lean muscle shouldered into him.
“Gerard!” Julia shrieked as the brigadier and her cousin tumbled to the ground. “Stop it-- stop it-- he wasn’t hurting me, stop it--!”
Instantly alert, Muriel rushed forward, pulling out her knife. Belle reacted nearly as quickly, lashing out with his fist, which connected solidly with the side of Gerard’s head. With the prince dazed, Belle shoved him off and quickly had him pinned beneath. Muriel quickly crouched down behind him, the edge of her knife delicately balanced against the hollow of Gerard’s throat.
“I would not try that again, if I were you,” she hissed.
His head throbbing, Gerard took in a ragged sip of air and, with great struggle, craned his firmly held toward toward Muriel. “You promised me,” he growled, “that you would not hurt my cousin.”
“He wasn’t,” Julia repeated. “He--”
“He touched you while threatening execution!” Gerard cut in. Directing his words then at Belle, who was kneeled with a knee dug into the small of the prince’s back and his hand firmly gripping the base of his skull, Gerard said, “I do not care what you do to me. Beat me. Torture me. Whatever the hell it takes for you trust me. But do not touch her. She has known far too much torment in her life that I’ve been unable to protect her from already. I can’t… I won’t…”
“I can take care of myself, Gerry,” Julia insisted, wincing as Belle pressed his knee even harder into Gerard’s back. “You don’t need to protect me. I’m not your responsibility.”
“But you are my responsibility, Julia. You’re my kin, not to mention I’m the reason you’re here at all,” Gerard snapped in reply-- shifting then into rapid Mzian so that nobody but he and Julia could understand what he was saying. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be safe in Ruom with Lord Erling and--”
“Safe?” She nearly shrieked this, matching his clipped, frantic Mzian. “You think being married to a pervert twice my age is safe? If you don’t want this rebel vaguely touching my face, what do you think Lord Erling would have done to me if I’d been his wife?”
“That’s not what I meant, I--”
“Shut up,” Belle snapped, shoving against Gerard to punctuate his words. “Captain, have these two taken somewhere secure. I want them bound and under guard at all times, clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Muriel said, slowly pulling her knife back away from Gerard’s throat and standing up.
“Come back when they’re secured. I want to speak with you privately.”
Muriel had two of the guards outside the interrogation tent take the captives away. One of them was Corbin, who gave Muriel a clearly bewildered, questioning look as he took hold of Gerard. Apparently he’d been listening to some of the rumors. “Later,” she mouthed at him. Belle, catching this, gave her a disapproving frown. Muriel pretended not to see.
Once they’d left she turned back to her commanding officer, standing at attention and looking - she hoped - the picture of soldierly professionalism. “You wanted to speak with me,” she said.
“I did,” he said, watching Corbin and the other soldier disappear around a corner with the prince and his cousin. “Let’s walk.”
He started off then, in the opposite direction of Corbin and the captives, and Muriel hurried to fall in step beside him. They walked for several minutes in a crisp silence, threading through the bustling camp, Belle seemingly impervious to the respectful yet nervous eyes that fell on him as he passed. Finally, once they were in a more remote part of the camp away from the listening ears of any others, Belle stilled.
“You are a promising soldier, Captain Lynn,” he said. “And although some in this camp might believe that you’ve only ended up in your station because of your relation to the Branded Lord, I am generally one to disagree with this cynical assessment of things.”
Muriel blinked. That was not really what she had expected. “Ah… thank you, sir,” she said, hesitant. “I have tried to be worthy of my post.”
“Indeed,” Belle said. “However, Captain Lynn, while I see and appreciate your potential, you are still very young, and can be very… how do I put this…” He considered. “Cocky,” he finished finally. “Brash. You put yourself into situations without thinking them through thoroughly. And so far it’s not ended poorly for you, but that is based merely on luck. The girl today was small, yes. In theory, you would have been able to subdue her had she tried anything aggressive. In practicality, such a thing is never guaranteed. Not to search her for weapons? Not to bind her? And, for that matter, there’s the fact that even after you did search the prince, you missed one of his blades.”
Through this all, Belle’s voice stayed level, flat. He did not sound angry so much as disappointed, like a father scolding his child for being caught in a lie.
He continued, “You are lucky that, for at least this moment, Prince Gerard and that girl seem to have to no inclination to try to harm us, beyond that… unfortunate burst of anger just a few minutes ago. Had they truly been here to cause us harm, then I am nearly certain, Captain Lynn, that based on your carelessness, either you or Corporal Devreaux would have ended up in very poor straits. That man is a prince. He’s been twirling his sword around since he could walk. Even restrained he managed to get his arm pressed against my throat. So just remember, Captain Lynn, you are an officer of this revolution. Lives depend on you, and your foolishness today could have gotten you and Devreaux killed.”
Muriel swallowed, her cheeks burning with shame. She felt as if she were ten years old again, being scolded for getting into a brawl with one of the peasant boys she played with. “I- I’m sorry, sir,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady and neutral. A soldier accepting discipline, not a little girl resentful of a scolding, despite how she inwardly felt. She’d taken the prince of Courdon captive, and she was getting a reprimand for it. “I was careless and it will not happen again.” She hesitated, and then in a smaller voice asked, “You aren’t really going to have them executed, are you?” As much as she longed to stand on her own two feet, she was reluctant to bring her father’s name into this - but there was no doubt in her mind that he would have objected to having two prisoners killed out of hand, and she was willing to say so if it came to that.
Besides, she’d promised Gerard that his cousin wouldn’t be hurt. She wasn’t sure why that stuck in her mind so heavily, but it did. Maybe it was the way he’d reacted when Belle made his threat. The way his anger had flared up so suddenly, hot and fierce… she knew that anger. It reminded her of Jisam, of how she’d felt at seeing her little sister so broken. Whatever else their intentions, their kinship was real, she was certain of that.
“I will not have them executed at this point, no,” he replied stiffly. “They’re much too valuable for that. They will be kept under heavy guard. Only by members of this army I trust completely; it won’t do to have anybody lapsing, inadvertently or not. After they’ve had some time to stew in chains, I’d like to interrogate them again-- separately. See what they say without the other there as a crutch. And after I finish with you here, I’m going to send a courtier off to inform the Branded Lord of their capture. It will take quite some time to reach him, since last I heard he was encamped all the way in the Northlands, but I’d imagine he might like to speak with the dear princeling. Or put him under a truth spell. It’s a shame Colonel Marlon”-- this has been the Teral battalion's most competent magician, and the only one capable of sophisticated spells-- “was transferred into Brigadier Carrow’s battery. I could have used him here.”
Belle paused then, but did not dismiss her. Instead, he lowered his voice and leaned in toward her, as if what he was about to say was of strictest confidence.
“Do you know where I’m from, Captain?” he asked. “Where I lived most of my life?”
Muriel hesitated, not sure what to make of the question. “No, sir,” she said. She knew he’d been a slave once, but not much beyond that; even now she wasn’t familiar enough with the largest Houses in Courdon to identify the shapes of their brands on sight like her father could.
“Ghache,” he said. “The capital of Kajas. Not far from the Mzian border. My master had a lot of Mzian-born slaves-- and overseers. I learned the language along with Courdonian. Which means that when the dear princeling started sputtering at the girl in Mzian today, likely thinking no one could understand him, well…” He smiled here.
“Oh!” Muriel couldn’t help but grin at this. So they had an advantage. “So what did they say?”
“Nothing that betrayed them as having lied to us,” Belle replied. “Merely a bit of information to illuminate why the girl might have run off with the princeling. Seems she was to be married off against her will to Lord Erling-- that’s the enki of Ruom.” His brief smile melted away as he lapsed back into his soldier’s voice. “Normally, I would say we hold them in separate areas of camp. Don’t let them communicate or collude. However, I think the fact that they seem to think no one speaks Mzian can work to our advantage. Leave them together. I imagine, knowing guards are nearby, they’ll talk frequently in Mzian. Openly in Mzian, at that. So we merely post guards who we know can understand them. I personally know at least a dozen soldiers at this camp who originated from either Roth or Kajas and likely speak it, Captain. Of course, this needs to be kept… covert. Told to as few ears as possible, lest it accidentally get back to Prince Gerard and the girl. So I’m trusting you with overseeing it. Finding and installing the guards. Keeping track of their reports. You’ll report directly to me. Think of this as your chance to prove to me that you’ve not gained your title merely based on your blood, Captain Lynn.”
Muriel nodded, trying to hide the thrill of excitement that shot through her at his words, at being trusted with something like this. “Understood,” she said calmly. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, do you know who in the camp is from Roth or Kajas? Not all the soldiers like to speak of their past.” Very few of them did, in fact; she was sure that Belle understood why.
“The boy.” Belle couldn’t temper here a small, devilish sneer. “Lieutenant Beiring.” That was Corbin. “I do believe he’s from southern Roth. He ought be able to point out others to you-- though remember, Captain Lynn, only those you trust. This is far too delicate of a situation to put into the hands of anybody we’re not certain of. Now, I’d best be going so that I can send the courtier off to the Northlands before it gets too late. Report to me any progress, Captain Lynn, and I’ll keep you… apprised… of how things are going.”
With that, Belle turned and strode away from her, quickly disappearing around a curve in the path.
“Sir!” Muriel saluted him, and held the position until he was gone. Then she turned away, her mind racing as she already began going over the soldiers she knew well in her mind. She did trust Corbin; he could help her pick out some others. Then…
She couldn’t hold back a proud, excited grin. Then gathering information from the captive prince of Courdon would be her responsibility as an officer of the rebellion. Whatever it took, she was not going to let Brigadier Belle down. Part Two“It’s been two weeks,” said Brigadier Belle, “and you’re telling me, Captain Lynn, that none of the guard shifts have learned anything useful from our prisoners?”
Muriel winced, avoiding his eyes. “They’ve… not talked about much that would be of use to us, from what the guards have overheard, sir,” she said, wishing to ‘Woo that she had something better to report. Anything. “They just… they talk to each other. They’re clearly close. It seems he was telling the truth about her being his cousin.” She hesitated. “They’re afraid we’ll kill them,” she added quietly. “But I think they’re more afraid that the king will find them.”
At this, Belle sighed, clearly irritated. Two weeks. He couldn’t believe they’d had the prince and his cousin in custody for two weeks but had learned absolutely nothing of value from them-- even after the rebels had interrogated them nearly a half dozen times. Rather, the two clung to their unbelievable stories like life preservers in a tumultuous sea, revealing nothing to the rebellion that betrayed them as anything more than terrified relatives of Oliver Alaric, harmless in spite of their blood. Belle had hoped that at least the surreptitious spying would lead to more fruitful results-- people tended to talk more openly when they thought no one was around to hear them-- but according to Muriel, it hadn’t.
And the Branded Lord, capable of casting a truth spell to get to the bottom of things, was still at least a month away from camp. Probably even more, depending on travel conditions.
Stay patient, Myer, he reminded himself, clenching his fists at his side. He could not crack beneath the prince’s far-flung but consistent story. He could not act rashly, or foolishly. He had to stay the course. He had to stay in control.
“Let me know immediately if anything changes,” he said to Muriel. “And as for now, you’re dismissed, Captain.”
With that, not even bothering to wait for a response, he turned and strode off into the warm morning, which was only just beginning to buzz with activity as the soldiers in the camp started with their morning duties.
Muriel snapped a salute as he turned to go, and then turned away and started off for her own destination. She had guard duty this morning with Corbin and it was nearly time for the prisoners’ rations, but with luck she’d be able to to snatch something for herself from the mess tent before she went.
Corbin gave her a slightly envious look as she arrived, finishing off a dry biscuit. “Didn’t bring extra, by any chance.”
“Nope.” She grinned at him sympathetically. “You really should wake up earlier.” Muriel held up the satchel she’d brought. “This is for the royals. I’ll join you in a minute.” With that she ducked inside the tent where Prince Gerard and his cousin were held captive.
As the tent flap rustled, Gerard bolted upright from where he’d been laying on the floor, Muriel’s entry clearly snapping him from slumber. As he shifted, the chain encircling his left ankle clinked softly, like wind chimes. Almost as if it were a reflex now, he scooted forward a few inches so that he was in between Muriel and Julia, who’d also been startled awake by the rebel entering the tent. The expression in the prince’s eyes was hard. Weary.
He said nothing as Muriel approached, and behind him, neither did Julia.
“Good morning,” Muriel said, politely if coolly, pulling open her satchel. “I have your rations.”
There was really no point in talking to them; even trying to be coaxing hadn’t yielded useful information. Still, in spite of where they’d come from, she did try to treat them fairly. She’d tried to ensure that the rations they were allotted were the same as what the soldiers in the camp ate. Which was, admittedly, not excellent in itself, but at least they weren’t being starved.
“Let me guess,” Gerard said thickly. “Biscuits again? Or no, wait-- maybe quick-bread. With sand to make up the part of the batter where you didn’t have enough flour to--”
“Gerry,” Julia murmured from behind him, her voice threatening even as she stifled back a yawn.
“What?” Still Gerard didn’t remove his suspicious, pointed gaze from Muriel’s face. “I’m just joking. She can take a joke. Can’t you, Captain?”
Muriel’s face was deadpan as she started taking the food out of the satchel. “So sorry a soldier’s mess isn’t the king’s table,” she said dryly. “I’ll try to arrange something better for next time, shall I? Roast duck? Candied ginger?” Resisting the urge to throw the last biscuit at his face, she set it down on the ground with exaggerated gentleness. “Guess you’re discovering that slumming it with the peasantry isn’t all it was cracked up to be.”
“Duck?” Gerard said, keeping his voice even as he plucked the crumbling biscuits from the ground, saving one for himself and then quickly handing the other off to Julia. “No, that’s awfully fatty. I prefer swan.”
“I could just go for maple porridge,” Julia muttered, taking a halfhearted bite at the biscuit. “With goat milk.”
“Goat milk?” Gerard asked, turning toward his cousin. Then, considering: “Forget the goat milk. Why porridge?”
“Maple porridge,” Julia insisted, as if this somehow changed anything.
“Right. Maple porridge. Why maple porridge? You’re fantasizing about delicious food, I think you’d at least go for… I don’t know, meat.” He smiled softly at her, before he seemed to catch himself as he realized that Muriel was watching, at which point he suddenly became very invested in picking the dirt flecks off the bottom of the over-baked biscuit.
In spite of herself, Muriel cracked a smile. “I could too,” she admitted. “Reminds me of home.” And her parents and siblings, back in Medieville when things were simple-- she made herself stop thinking of her parents, off fighting the war in ‘Woo-knows-what far-flung corner of Courdon, and gave Julia a sympathetic look. “Even when we have better rations, no one seems to know how to make good Kythian food. It’s maddening.”
“You don’t realize how much you miss small comforts until they’re gone. And then you can think of nothing else. That’s what made me steal porridge from the palace kitchens once,” Julia said, unable now to fight back a sad, slim smile of her own. “It wasn’t maple, but I was feeling homesick and, well-- it’s not as if the king ever has porridge on his table, so I had to get it... surreptitiously. It went well until he caught me, and then…”
Like Gerard a few moments before, she seemed to catch herself then. Her voice trailed off like a wisp of smoke, the smile frozen on her tired, dirty face. As it did, Gerard reached out toward her with the hand that wasn’t clutching his biscuit, gently draping his fingers over her wrist. A comfort gesture. A silent reassurance.
“Sorry,” Julia murmured, blushing, as she averted her gaze away from her rebel captor.
Muriel looked away too, catching herself with an unguarded look of sympathy at Julia’s words. “Your uncle sounds charming,” she muttered, a trace of sarcasm returning to her voice. They’d long since convinced her that they were at least telling the truth about King Oliver. It was the way they talked about him to each other when they thought no one else could understand, the look in their eye and tension in their faces when they mentioned him.
It reminded her - just distantly, just a little - of the way Ivy had always frozen up when Jisam was mentioned--
Frustrated, Muriel shoved this thought out of her mind too. Now was not the time for worrying about her little sister, any more than it was the time for nostalgia.
For a moment, the tent lapsed into a heavy silence, as Muriel stared down at the two royal captives, and said captives slowly ate the unappetizing biscuits. Seemingly embarrassed over mentioning her ill-advised theft of porridge from the palace kitchens, Julia stared down at her crossed legs, rubbing almost mindlessly at the manacle cuffed around her ankle. She and Gerard had both been cuffed this way since being dumped in the prison tent two weeks ago; even when the rebels had separated them for interrogation, they’d merely unlocked the length of chain from its immovable stake-- a pike pounded so deeply into the dirt floor that neither of them had even bothered trying to dig it out-- rather than free them from the manacle outright. And although the shackle wasn’t cinched overly tight, over time it had started to chafe-- particularly on Julia, whose ankle was already bony.
Usually she avoided fussing with it, and tried to keep the increasingly raw mark beneath the cover of her dress so that Gerard wouldn’t see and worry, but in that moment, she slipped. And, as he swallowed his last bite of biscuit, her cousin’s eyes settled on the red blister. He studied it for only the briefest of moments before whipping his gaze back up at Muriel, still towering above he and his cousin.
“You need to loosen her cuff,” he said. Demanded really, in his prince’s voice that had always made Julia cringe.
Muriel stiffened at his tone, giving him a sharp look. “You don’t give me orders,” she snapped, responding more to the tone of his voice than what he’d actually said. Still, though… her eyes drifted to Julia’s ankle and the raw spot beneath the cuff, and her frown deepened. The chain was a necessity, but it wasn’t her intent to inflict discomfort on them purposefully.
“Let me see,” she said, her voice authoritative, as if to prove she could speak like an officer as easily as Gerard could speak as a prince. She stepped forward as she spoke, putting up one hand as if to brush Gerard out of her way.
Gerard bristled but moved aside for her, his eyes trained on her like a crossbow to an enemy’s chest as she surveyed Julia’s wound. “Move it to her other ankle, at least,” he said, mindful now of his tone. “She’s done nothing aggressive toward you at all. Nothing. She doesn’t deserve to be in pain.”
“That was never my intent,” Muriel said, an edge to her voice. “We’ve done nothing to hurt either of you, these are reasonable precautions--” She broke off as she crouched in front of Julia to examine her ankle, and winced in spite of herself. The angry red spot looked extremely uncomfortable at the least. “But I see your concern,” she said, voice softening slightly.
She straightened up, frowning slightly. The truth was that she did have a key on her, but considering how regularly she saw the prisoners, she didn’t think it was a good idea for them to know that. And Belle might not approve of the request - then again, she felt it was reasonable, and hadn’t he put her in charge of them?
“I’ll… see what I can do,” she said hesitantly. “No promises.”
With that, she picked up her satchel again and turned to go. But she hadn’t even made it two steps toward the exit before Gerard stood sharply, his chain rattling with the sudden movement.
Taking an almost menacing step forward, he snapped, “Seriously? You’re an officer of this army, and you can’t even make the decision to move a manacle from one ankle to the other?” He jabbed his finger down at his cousin, who was now gaping up at him in something between shock and aggravation, as if she very desperately wanted him to just shut up and stopping making everything such a scene. “She’s seventeen,” Gerard went on, ignoring Julia’s stare. “She’s unarmed. She’s not any sort of threat. It’s not like I’m asking you to unchain her altogether, Captain.”
“Gerard, stop,” Julia murmured.
“They’re treating us like dogs,” he replied, whirling back toward her.
“And you’re not helping them trust us any better by constantly pitching fits about everything. Do you want them to execute us, Gerry? Is that what you’re aiming at-- to make us such annoying prisoners that they decide to cut their losses by cutting our heads off?” she hissed in reply, lapsing then into Mzian so that Muriel wouldn’t understand her words.
Muriel tensed, ready to bite back another sharp reply, but before she could speak, Corbin pushed his way into the tent, his hand hovering near his sword hilt. “What’s going on?” he said, warily looking between Muriel and Gerard.
The exasperation that Muriel felt toward Gerard suddenly rose to a boil with her fellow soldier’s untimely arrival. “Corbin, it’s fine,” she snapped. “I have this under control!”
“Yes, she’s real good at control, your Captain,” Gerard replied hotly; on the floor, Julia cringed, wanting nothing more than to drag her cousin back into a sitting position before he got himself in trouble-- just like during their initial interrogation two weeks ago, when he’d rashly attacked Brigadier Belle. But she knew to try such a thing would be pointless. He was stronger than her-- and could brush out of her grip-- even when he wasn’t fuming mad.
“Watch it, prisoner,” Corbin said coldly, turning on him with his hand now firmly gripping his sheathed weapon. Muriel ignored him, her glare fixed on Gerard.
“If you’re still trying to convince us you’re trustworthy, your highness, you’re not doing a very good job. We’ve treated you nothing but fairly and all you’ve done is make demands. Very princely of you, I suppose,” she said, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “I said I would look into it. So stand down before I change my mind.”
“Change your mind?” Gerard laughed here, darkly, like this was the most amusing thing he’d ever heard. “Funny-- I thought to change one’s mind, one had to make decisions at all. And as far as I’ve seen, you only follow orders.”
“You’re making things worse, Gerard,” Julia murmured, suddenly greatly regretting that she’d let him seen her chain blister at all. Better to have kept it hidden, and him quiet-- and both of them safe. Woo, it were as if he’d gone mad since they’d been taken by the rebels. As if he’d funneled every ounce of his fear and uncertainty into threatening, posturing, acting every bit the spoiled son of Oliver Alaric these rebels were expecting-- and that he’d always hated in his own siblings. In himself. That he’d tried so fervently to suppress and avoid throughout his seventeen years of life.
Part of her didn’t blame him. Not completely. She knew how afraid he was, and suspected that this swaggering, insufferable put-on was some convoluted form of overcompensation. That he was acting this way as a shield so that the rebels wouldn’t see the true anxiety humming in his veins.
But that didn’t make it any less dangerous. Any less foolish.
“I have not made anything he worse,” he announced confidently. “That honor lies with the Captain. All I did was make a reasonable, minor request. She’s the one who’s acting like I asked her for my father’s head on a platter.”
Inwardly, Muriel recoiled. The worst of it was that he had a point. She’d tried, she really had - she’d tried so hard to win Belle’s respect, to not let him down the way she had over their initial capture. And she’d tried to be fair, to be the compassionate, wise leader like her father was. All she’d wanted to do was get this right and it just kept blowing up in her face.
And all of it put together only gave her a nearly irresistible urge, yet again, to punch Gerard in the face.
“You don’t understand, do you,” she said, seething but trying to keep her voice level. “You think, just because you’re a prince, just because you condescended to join our side, that we should just bow down and give you everything you want. And you’re King Oliver’s son,” she spat. “Anyone in their right mind would have cut you down as soon as you walked into camp. Sometimes I wonder why we didn’t.”
“Fine,” he snapped, “hate me-- punish me-- because I’m a prince. Because I was raised in the court. Because I am, as you put it and as far as this kingdom is concerned, King Oliver’s son. But her?” He pointed back at Julia again. “She was raised in Bern. Do you know how she ended up in my father’s custody? And what he’s done to her since? Because--”
“Gerard.” There was a new desperate pitch to Julia’s tone. “Please, don’t mention that, you can’t… they’ll…” Shaking her head, she segued again into Mzian: “They will kill us if they know that. Stop being so dense, stop trying to fight my battles for me--”
Both Corbin and Muriel automatically turned to look at Julia as she spoke, Muriel uncomprehending, but Corbin’s eyes narrowed. “If we know what?” he said, automatically, before it registered what language he’d used. His face fell, and he looked to his companion desperately. “Muriel, I’m sorry--”
As Corbin’s smooth Mzian words floated into Gerard and Julia’s ears, the prince and his cousin went white as snow. Julia’s mouth fell open, and Gerard’s eyes widened into saucers. They exchanged with each other a frozen, horrified look, as it dawned hard and fast on them what this meant. All of their “private” conversations in the past two weeks… each secret fear spilled in the dark… the things they’d said because they’d assumed anyone who was listening couldn’t understand a word they were saying…
Even as Julia remained horrified and crestfallen, however, Gerard quickly recovered. Knitting over the panicked expression on his face with a look of cool fury, he said to Muriel and Corbin, “If your people have understood all that we’ve been saying, you ought to know by now that we’re hiding nothing. We are not spies. We’re not aggressors. We’re allies-- and probably two of the most valuable allies this godsdamned revolution could obtain. So show my cousin a little courtesy. Move the godsdamned manacle. Give her one single reason not to think that you’re just letting us sit here and wither, biding your time until you slit her throat while she sleeps.”
Muriel took a single step forward, and her expression was so frigid that Corbin gave her a fairly panicked look, but all she did was glare right back at Gerard. “You think you’re so valuable? Fine. Prove it. I don’t care if you’re the Prince of Courdon or the Sultan of Mzia, you’re still going to have to earn our respect, and so far--” She broke off, shaking her head. “How are we supposed to know that the spoiled little princeling isn’t going to turn tail and run the moment he gets too scared, or too hungry, or too cold? Because you sure as hell haven’t given us any reason to think you even know what it’s like out here!”
“Muriel,” Corbin hissed, now looking downright horrified, and tried to grab her shoulder, but she angrily shrugged him off.
For a moment, Muriel’s scathing indictment stunned Gerard into silence. But then, softly, he laughed. It was not a happy sound, but like that of a strangled, dying bird. Taking another step forward, and the chain now unspooled to its full length and tensing against his stride, Gerard said, “I have nowhere to run to, Captain. My father would cut my head off. And although I’m certain my life has been a paradise compared to the lives of most of your rebels, I am far from the spoiled little princeling you’ve asserted.” He paused then, as if to let her reply, but then thought better of it and snarled on, “Do you want to see what the life of the spoiled little princeling has been like, Captain? Do you want to see all the comfort I’ve known? The love and favour of this kingdom? The love of my so-called father? Do you?”
“Oh, what are you trying to prove? Perhaps I’m supposed to feel sorry for you because you’re only the second son?” Muriel snapped savagely. She gave him a humorless, grim smile. “Do tell me why I should pity you, instead of the people your family has crushed for generations--”
“I am no son of Oliver Alaric,” Gerard cut in, and then, sharply, he turned his back to Muriel and Corbin.
“No,” Julia breathed from the floor, clearly knowing what he was about to do and desperately wanting for him to stop.
But it was too late. With a quick, fluid movement, Gerard snapped up his tunic, revealing to the rebels the bare flesh of his back, the latticework of scars hatching across it now plain for all to see. It was not a slash here, a mark there, but a maze of white and red, like a tangle of overgrown ivy. Scar upon scar upon scar. The skin hardened and disfigured beyond all chances of repair, and leaving no doubt of the cause of the trauma.
For a long, tense moment, Gerard merely let Corbin and Muriel stare. Then, sharply, he hiked his tunic back down and turned toward them again, fire alight in his dark eyes. “He will kill me,” Gerard growled. “I have no comfort to run to, Captain. And my cousin does not, either. Your rebellion is all we have left. So please, for the love of the gods, just move her manacle to her other ankle. Please.”
For a moment, Muriel was rendered speechless, her eyes wide. ‘Woo, he looked like some of the former slaves she’d seen. Like her father. She felt another flash of anger, and this time, it wasn’t directed at Gerard. What kind of a man must Oliver Alaric be to do this to his own son?
“I--” She tore her eyes away from his, turning instead to his cousin. “You’ve- you’ve made your point,” she said, trying to speak as coolly as before, but could not quite manage it. “Step back. Corbin, watch them in case they try anything.”
In truth she was fairly sure they wouldn’t and she wasn’t sure what made her say it - some stubborn burst of pride, perhaps. Still trying to keep up appearances as the authoritative rebel captain. Pushing the thought away and trying to return her expression to neutrality, she removed the key from where she’d hidden it among her clothes and crouched down beside Julia. Without a single word, she shifted the shackle to the girl’s uninjured ankle, and stood up again.
“We’re done here,” she said sharply, and found she’d said it to Corbin. For some reason, she could not quite bring herself to meet Gerard’s eyes again.
Corbin only nodded, looking almost pained, and turned to leave the tent. Muriel did not look back at the prisoners as she followed him.
As the two rebels started outside, Gerard said nothing, simply staring daggers into their backs. But then, still seated on the ground, Julia hissed up at him, “You’re lucky your theatrics didn’t get us both killed. So thank them, you dolt.”
For a moment, based on the hard look still flickering in his eyes, Julia thought he would ignore her. But then, to her great relief, he gave a short nod and called after the rebels, “Thank you. We really appreciate it, Captain.”
“You’ve been very kind to us,” Julia agreed. “And I know sometimes Gerry doesn’t show it but… we’re grateful. We are.”
Muriel glanced back over her shoulder, and for an unguarded moment she looked far from authoritative, her brow furrowed. After staring at them for a couple of seconds she simply nodded, uncertain. Then she quickly tore her eyes away and strode quickly out of the tent, as if to not prolong the encounter any more than was necessary. Their acknowledgement didn’t do much to soothe the certainty that was now eating away at her, that she’d managed to mess this responsibility up again.
Part Three(Note: Most of the dialogue in this part takes place in Kythian; since I think it'd just be distracting to colour code that all nice pea green, I haven't coded it. But it's fairly explicitly shown what conversation is taking place in Kythian, so, shouldn't be too hard to figure out. x3) “Remember, Captain Lynn,” Myer Belle said two days later, staring inscrutably down at Muriel as the two stood in an isolated spot near the edge of camp, “the goal is to get her talking comfortably. Off the cuff. Because Lieutenant Beiring has completely obliterated our number one tool against them, we need to use more… innovative methods to attempt to get to the bottom of things while we wait for the Branded Lord.” With a sigh, he added pointedly, “Especially because I still don’t like the sounds of what the girl muttered in Mzian the other day. That there’s some fact about her that she thinks will get her killed if we know…” Belle shook his head. “I’m starting to wonder if they’re worth the risk of keeping them. No, they haven’t tried anything, but I also strongly suspect they’re hiding things still. And with the Branded Lord only down to the southern Northlands last time I checked, well… I will be frank: I’m very uncomfortable with the situation at hand, Captain. And so I’m hopeful that if you can get her talking freely, then the correct course of action will become more apparent to me.”
Muriel nodded, frowning slightly. “Let’s hope so. I think she may be more amenable to answering questions than her cousin, at least.” Of course, it would hard to be less cooperative than Gerard, Muriel thought to herself irritably. He hadn’t been quite as belligerent since the incident with Julia’s cuff, but it had been replaced with a sullenness that she didn’t like much more. “I’ll stop by the medical tent before I fetch her. Her sores haven’t improved, they’ll need tending.”
“Sores?” Belle sneered. “You mean the little scrape on her ankle? That hardly requires medical attention, Captain. The little princess can live with a tiny blister.”
Her frown deepened. “We can spare the supplies, and there’s no reason to leave the girl in pain. Particularly as she’s been nothing but cooperative.” That was another thing that had been nagging at the back of Muriel’s mind since her altercation with Gerard. If there really were no ulterior motives to their presence here, if they really were on the rebellion’s side, then how long before they became fed up with the harsh treatment and changed their minds? Gerard seemed dangerously close to that point, if he hadn’t reached it already. “...Besides. If we treat her well she’s more likely to cooperate with interrogation.” Muriel met Belle’s eyes levelly, her expression neutral. “Sir.”
He frowned, clearly reluctant, but after a moment’s deliberation gave a short, grudging nod. “It may make her more amenable, yes,” he agreed. Then: “You’re dismissed, Captain Lynn.” But before she could make it more than a few steps away, he called after her, “Speak to her in Kythian, Captain. I think it might make her let her guard down, if she indeed she was raised in Bern.”
After a brief detour to collect salve from the medical tent, Muriel swept past the guards at the prison tent and entered, glancing between Julia and Gerard. “I need you to come with me,” she said, approaching so she could unlock the girl’s shackle from the stake. “You’re not in any danger,” she added, though she was looking at Gerard when she said it. She could understand his protectiveness over his cousin, but she still resented his attitude about it.
“You’re interrogating her again?” Gerard asked. As Julia stood, the length of chain spooled around Muriel’s hand, the prince stood, too. Not glowering-- not this time, anyway-- but clearly put off. “We’ve already told you everything, Captain.”
“It’s fine, Gerard,” Julia replied coolly before Muriel could respond. When he opened his lips, as if to spit out that it was noter, fine, Julia was the one to glower, snapping at him before he could get a word out, “Seriously. Remember what we talked about?”
He frowned, eyes flicking for a moment between Muriel and his cousin. “I don’t like it,” he said finally, his voice thin.
“She says I’m not in danger, Gerry, and I believe her,” Julia said.
With that, she turned toward Muriel, as if to close the conversation through body language. Behind her, Gerard bristled, still clearly uncomfortable with the situation, but he did not comment further, rather sitting back down on the dirt floor beneath as Julia and Muriel started out the tent. His eyes seared into their backs as they disappeared outside, but at least for once he wasn’t lobbing any pointed words at the rebel captain.
They reached the interrogation tent, where Muriel gestured to the floor. “Sit down,” she said. Rather than remain standing and towering over her, she crouched next to the girl and pulled out the salve she’d brought. “Something for your ankle,” she said. “Here.” The young woman bit her lip, uncertain, then added, “I’m sorry about that, by the way. We should have noticed sooner.”
Julia shrugged, stretching her ankle out toward Muriel as the rebel fiddled with the tin of salve. “I was keeping it hidden on purpose,” she said. “I knew that if Gerry saw it, he’d freak. He’s… well, with wounds he’s kind of…” Her voice trailed off, as she seemed to decide she was saying too much. Revealing something about her cousin she had no right to tell.
Muriel studied her face for a moment but didn’t respond right away, gently applying salve to the blister. “Unfortunately, all this--” she gestured at the chain- “it’s necessary, for now. Two members of the royal family, supposedly defecting - it’s too risky to accept at face value. But,” she said, casually switching to Kythian, “I will admit I don’t like it any more than you do. I want to be able to trust you, but I can’t stake lives on it. You understand?”
Julia nodded, stiffening as Muriel spread the cool, stinging salve over her raw flesh. When the rebel lapsed into Kythian, a lump rose in Julia’s throat. She suddenly, desperately, missed her old life back in Bern. With her mum. Her brother. Safe behind the walls of Destrier Castle. An anonymous servant girl amidst so many others. Running off to Courdon… back then, it had seemed like such a noble idea. Her veins had been filled with fire, with passion. Maybe even a hint of grandeur.
It all seemed very silly now.
“He doesn’t mean to act like he does,” she murmured, matching Muriel’s Kythian. “He… he’s just very scared. Not for himself, I think, but for me. He thinks he’s the reason I’m in this situation at all. He’s always been protective of me, but since we’ve been here… I think it’s just about his only concern. And he’s… not handling it the right way.”
“So I can see,” Muriel said, a hint of dryness in her voice. Immediately, she inwardly chastised herself - complaining about the behavior of Julia’s cousin was unlikely to get them anywhere. “I would have thought you were siblings, from how protective he is - but you didn’t grow up together, did you? You grew up in Bern.” A smile quirked the corner of her mouth. “My grandfather was from Bern.”
“I did grow up in Bern, yes,” Julia agreed, biting down on her lip. “In Destrier.” She left out the fact that she’d grown up not just in the capital of Bern, but behind the stone walls of its castle-- and had only wound up in Courdon under the (waylaid) plans of Grand Duchess Isabelle. Fighting back another knot in her throat, she paused for a moment, eyes cast down at her ankle, now shiny with salve, before she dared ask Muriel, “What part of the province did your grandfather live in?”
“Destrier,” Muriel said. “Though he moved to Medieville before I was born.” She cocked her head questioningly. “So how did a girl from Destrier come to be living with the royal family at Rakine? You don’t sound much like a princess when you speak Kythian.” It was something they needed to find out, but Muriel found she was rather personally curious as well. Julia’s accent wouldn’t have turned heads in the marketplace of a city like Medieville or Destrier; not the way she would expect Courdonian royalty to speak Kythian.
“It’s… complicated,” Julia said, wavering. “I… was born in Lange.” No use lying about this. “My mother was King Oliver’s younger sister. Lila, her name was… Lila. And my father was a tsarevich. A prince. When I was five, his older brother…” At this, Julia’s voice cracked, and she shook her head-- as if trying to chase the thoughts away-- before continuing abruptly, “We ended up in Bern. Most people thought we were dead. Including King Oliver. But… we weren’t. And when he found out about me…”
It was true, if not the truth. A brand of reality that wouldn’t get her throat cut-- unlike the actual story, which she suspected might, and hence why she’d snarled at Gerard the other day not to dare reveal it to the rebels. What good way was there, after all, to reveal that she’d come to Courdon as part of a surreptitious rebel battalion sent by Grand Duchess Isabelle? And that she’d only come into Oliver’s custody after her unit was captured, and her fellow soldiers slaughtered, and the sole reason she’d survived was by being a coward? By risking Isabelle’s trust, and Kyth’s very serious interest in not getting dragged into the bloody Courdonian war, as would surely happen if the king found out the Grand Duchess of Bern had sent highly-trained troops to aid the rebels?
“When he found out about me, he wanted me,” she finished shortly. “I wasn’t given much of a choice about it.”
It did make sense, from what Muriel knew of Oliver, and what little she knew about Lange. And it gave a reason, a more solid one than any they’d had before, why the girl would have been so desperate to flee her kin. “You must have wanted to get away from him pretty badly,” she said softly. “And Gerard…” She hesitated, remembering the prince’s heavily scarred back. No, it didn’t seem wise to pry into that. She shook her head. “You’d have every reason to sympathize with the crown’s enemies. So why are you also so afraid of us?” She met Julia’s eyes steadily. “I said I want to be able to trust you, and I do. And I can’t when there’s something you’re still hiding.”
Julia’s gut instinct was to deny Muriel’s claim. To fervently insist that she was hiding nothing at all. But then she remembered her Mzian-uttered plea to Gerard the other day-- the one she’d made when both of them had thought nobody could understand them, unaware of Corbin’s comprehending ears.
The one where she’d mentioned that she had a secret the rebels would kill her over, if they knew.
So instead of directly answering at all, Julia swallowed hard. “I trust you, Captain,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. “I… I think you’re a good person. And I believe you when you promised Gerry that you wouldn’t hurt me. But…” All her efforts be cursed; her voice was quavering now. “But I see the way your Brigadier looks at us,” she went on. “I hear the anger in his tone. When he walks me between the prison tent and this one, he doesn’t trust the chain alone. He holds on to my arm, as well. And it’s not a leading grip, Captain. It’s… he…” Her words growing jumbled in her brain, she finished softly, “He holds me a lot tighter than he really should need to. If you know what I mean.”
In spite of herself, Muriel frowned, her eyes narrowing slightly. Even with what she knew of Belle, that he had more than enough reason to hate the Courdonian nobility, it didn’t justify the way he treated the prisoners. Much as she wanted to reassure Julia, tell her that there was no way the rebels would hurt them - she realized, with a slight chill, that she couldn’t guarantee that Belle wouldn’t.
“I meant what I said, Julia, when I promised your cousin that you’d be unharmed,” she said finally. “And I’ll do everything I can to keep that promise. We’d be little better than the enkis if we murdered prisoners out of hand. Brigadier Belle may be my commanding officer, but…” She trailed off, unwilling to go so far as to criticize the Brigadier to a prisoner’s face, but it didn’t change what she thought. Sure, she’d made mistakes, but she couldn’t agree with how he was handling the prisoners either.
But. In that single word rested so many terrifying uncertainties. So much fears that demanded Julia keep the truth to herself. And yet… studying the look on Muriel’s face… thoughtful, defiant, and conflicted all in one…
Stomach churning, she weighed her options. Denying outright that she had a secret would be mere foolish imprudence. Which left either the truth or a carefully cobbled lie. And any believable lie-- any lie Muriel would agree she’d have reason to keep to herself under fear of death-- well, would that be much better than the truth, anyway? Not to mention, if it eventually unraveled, all trust and amity she’d worked to earn with the rebels would be upended. Anything she said now was a risk; and ultimately, no matter how nauseous it made her, Julia soon came to the grim conclusion that the safest option here was the truth. Or at least, a carefully edited flavor of it-- one that contained the pertinent details without bringing in complicated facts of her childhood, or her personal relationship with the Grand Duchess of Bern.
“Do... do you know what the King’s Army does when they capture rebels, Captain?” Julia asked, her voice hitching.
Muriel’s mouth tightened. Where was this going? “I’m going to bet they don’t show much mercy,” she muttered, a dark undertone to her voice.
“They kill everybody,” Julia said. “Unless they’ve got any high-ranking officers they think they can get information from, but… otherwise, it’s just a slaughter. Cut throats. One right after the other.” Her jaw quavering, and tears threatening in her eyes, she went on, “If you’re very unlucky-- or I guess, lucky, depending on how you frame it-- you’re at the end of the line. The last to die. You… get to watch everybody else go first. All of your friends. Your comrades. And as you do, you get to… think. You get to panic. You get to desperately try to figure out a way to not end up just one more bleeding body in a heap.”
Muriel’s eyes widened sharply. She was fairly sure that she knew the answer, but very quietly she asked the question anyway. “And how do you know this, Julia?”
“I didn’t come to Courdon because my uncle found out about me,” she said. “I came here after my mum died because I… I don’t know why, really. I guess I knew why then, but now it all seems very far away from me. Very stupid.” She shook her head. “All I know now is that I harbored some grand fantasy of joining the rebel army and doing everything in my power to hurt the person who’d so hurt my mum. And instead I ended up in a killing field in Talvace. Everybody there died. Everybody. Except for me. I…”
She could not hold back the tears anymore; as she stammered on, they rolled slowly down her cheeks.
“I panicked, Captain,” she continued. “I knew I should just keep my mouth shut and let the soldiers kill me, but I was so afraid to die. I am so afraid to die. And so I told them my name. Tsarevna Julia Evgenia Irbis of Lange. It’s… a title that’s not even really mine, at least… not anymore. Not for so long. But it was enough to grab their attention. For them to bring me to Rakine instead of cutting my throat. And I spun a very nice tale for the king about why I’d ended up in the rebel army, and I thought he still might kill me anyway. But he didn’t. He kept me. I think I was… a toy for him, really. A conversation starter. His half-Langean niece seemingly resurrected from the dead ten years after her father’s brother decided the best way to ascend the throne was by slaughtering all the malcontents of Lange’s court. Including the Tsar. And including his sister-in-law and her small children, who only barely escaped with their lives.”
She shrugged here, pathetically, and rubbed at her teary eyes.
“I already betrayed your army once before, Captain,” she finished softly. “I chose to tell King Oliver all I knew about the rebellion rather than let him kill me. That’s my dirty little secret. And if your Brigadier knew, I’m pretty sure he’d finish what those Courdonian soldiers started two years ago.”
Muriel couldn’t keep the look of horror off her face. It was far from whatever she’d expected; it was worse, perhaps. Julia was not a spy. She was a traitor, a turncoat. She’d betrayed the rebellion just to save her own skin. Muriel would never--
But the disgust abated somewhat as she looked, really looked, at Julia’s distraught face. Wouldn’t she? The thought was disturbing, but she couldn’t shake it off. Many of the rebels - people like Corbin, Belle, even Aunt Lydia and her own father - they’d already lived through horrors, they already knew about pain and fearing for their lives. And Muriel didn’t. She couldn’t imagine what it would have been like in Julia’s position, any more than she could imagine what her sister Ivy had gone through in Talvace. Did she know, really know, that she’d be able to survive that with her sanity and morals intact?
Hesitantly, Muriel allowed herself to put a hand on Julia’s shoulder. “But you came back,” she said. “Even once you’d already had a glimpse of what will happen if we fail… and you thought you’d be killed if we knew. You came back anyway.” She gave the girl a small, weak grin. “That takes guts.”
Even as she said the words, however, nervousness twisted her stomach. She was suddenly, horribly sure that Julia was right, in a way: if Brigadier Belle knew about this, it would give him all the excuse he needed to execute her. Perhaps her father would have stopped him, but Xavier Lynn was still several provinces and months of travel away. She couldn’t let the Brigadier find out about this, not before Xavier arrived at least.
Frowning, Julia nodded. “I… guess,” she conceded.
Although really, she didn’t know if guts was the right word. Not entirely. After all, hadn’t much of her reason for fleeing from Rakine been yet another burst of fear? Horror over the idea of marrying Lord Erling, and living in Ruom as his exotic young bride? Yet another act of desperate self-preservation. Not courage, but terror.
And really, she’d only ended up joining up with the rebels again because of Gerard’s grand plans and ideals. Because he saw the revolution as his chance of finally being somebody beyond the hated, unwanted ‘son’ of Oliver Alaric. As for her? She’d just come along for the ride. Because Gerard was the only one she really had left in the world, and the idea of leaving him terrified her, and if the rebellion was where he wanted to go, well, there she’d go, too.
But explaining all this to Muriel now would hardly help things for her.
“For what it’s worth,” she murmured, “this time… well, what Gerry said to you the other day was true. We have nowhere else to go. If Oliver found us… he’d kill Gerard for sure. And as for me, I… I don’t know. Maybe he’d kill me, too. But even if he didn’t… even if he somehow rationalized that Gerard had coerced me into running off-- that I hadn’t really betrayed him, and the court-- well…” She gulped. “Well, I think that what he’d do to me then? To ensure I never get such treacherous ideas again? I’d be better off dead, Captain. I’m still so afraid of dying. I am. But I’m much more afraid of the king.”
Muriel squeezed her shoulder gently before letting go. “You know I can’t promise that he won’t find you. We will try, and ‘Woo, I hope it doesn’t come to that, but... we’re at war, and it’s never going to be completely safe here until it’s over. But you don’t have to be afraid of us too.”
“Us.” Julia clung only to this word. “I… as I said, Captain, I’m not afraid of you. But your Brigadier…”
The young woman hesitated only a moment before answering. “I have a responsibility to report anything I learn that could endanger the rebellion,” Muriel said calmly. “And I’ve learned nothing of the kind.”
Julia immediately understood what Muriel meant by this, and couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Captain,” she said. “I… really appreciate it.” Glancing down at her ankle, she added, “Appreciate everything. You’ve been very good to me. To us.”
For a moment Muriel was caught off guard, but she gave the girl a slightly crooked smile. “You’re welcome, Julia,” she said, but despite the warmth in her voice, the knot of worry in her gut hadn’t gone away. She’d never hidden anything from her superiors before, but one thing was all too clear: Belle could not know the details of this conversation. She didn’t want to find out what would happen if he did.
Part Four“Wake up,” Myer Belle barked two mornings later, pushing into the small tent shared by Muriel Lynn and two other rebel officers. As his soldiers rocketed awake, he rattled on, “Scouts report a large battalion of King’s Army men encamped not more than ten miles due south. We need to move. I can’t take any chances-- not with the prince and his cousin in our custody.”
“What time is it, sir?” murmured one of the officers, rubbing blearily at his sleep-worn eyes.
“A few hours before sunrise, Lieutenant,” Belle said. “I need you and under-lieutenant Watts to help strike tents. Captain Lynn, come with me. I want you watching our prisoners. I wouldn’t want them getting any ideas in the chaos. And I want us out of here by full light.”
Muriel suppressed a yawn as she pushed herself to her feet. “Yes, sir,” she said, almost mumbling it. As she followed him out, the cool morning air helped wake her a little more, and she became more aware of the buzz of activity around them. Clearly they weren’t the first ones Belle had woken; quite a few of the tents had already come down.
She followed the Brigadier as he shoved his way into the prison tent. “Wake up!” he barked. “You’re being moved. On your feet.”
Gerard scrambled upright as if he’d been smacked, blinking in bewilderment up at the rebels. “Moved?” he asked, as beside him, Julia also sat sharply up, her dark hair frizzy, her eyes underscored by tired black bags. Not following Belle’s order to stand, and taking a firm grip of Julia’s arm so that she wouldn’t either, Gerard demanded, “Why are we being moved?”
“That’s none of your concern,” Belle snapped before Muriel could answer. “On your feet.” He moved forward, towering over their sitting forms menacingly.
Off to the side, Muriel tensed. This wasn’t going to go well, and she couldn’t exactly blame Gerard for being defensive on this one. “Sir,” she muttered, moving forward preemptively.
Still Gerard didn’t stand. Not-so-subtly inserting himself between Belle and his cousin, he matched the Brigadier’s pointed glare. “It’s not even light out. Why are you moving us? I think we have a right to know what’s happening. We’ve been nothing but cooperative with you, don’t you think we ought at least--”
“Shut up,” Belle said, grabbing Gerard’s upper arm and bodily hauling him upright. “Just stop asking questions and do as you’re told so we can get this over with.” So saying, he shoved Gerard roughly away from him, toward Muriel, who was looking more worried than ever.
“Sir, I really don’t think--” she began.
“Do not try my patience, Captain,” he said testily.
Gerard grunted as he was pulled to his feet and pushed toward Muriel, Julia’s arm falling out of his grip-- and leaving nothing in between his cousin and Belle. Trying not to trip over the coil of chain tangled beneath his feet, he took a short step back toward the Brigadier, his cheeks now flushed blaze red and his heart hammering in his ears.
“Get what over with?” he nearly yelped. His mind was racing so fast that, by no deliberate means, he’d lapsed into his most natural dialect: high Courdonian. Even once he realized it, and knew that this would only make things worse, he couldn’t bring himself back to the low tongue. As Julia, who was still seated, shrunk back from the still-looming Belle, fear patent on her pale face, Gerard snapped, “Are you killing us, now? Is that it?” He whirled around toward Muriel. “Are you?”
“Of course not!” Muriel snapped back, sounding angrier than she meant it to. “We’re only moving camp! Brigadier--”
“That’s enough, Captain,” he ordered, with a sharp glare at Gerard before he turned back to Julia. “Up, girl.”
On the ground, Julia hesitated, her gaze flicking rapidly between Belle, towering over her, and her cousin standing a few feet beyond. The terror permeating her was obvious to all in the tent, and rather than stand, she took another short scoot back from the Brigadier, now firmly pressed against the exterior wall of the tent.
“Don’t stand up,” Gerard instructed her, carrying on in high Courdonian. “Not until I’ve gotten an assurance from the Brigadier that he’s not about to cut our--”
“I said to get up,” Belle snarled, grabbing Julia’s arm and yanking it forward. Muriel tensed; she’d seen, even if Gerard and Julia didn’t, the subtle way her commanding officer stiffened up at the sound of Gerard’s High Courdonian. When he raised his hand, about to slap the girl, Muriel was already ready to spring. She lunged forward and caught his arm before it fell.
“Myer!” She almost shrieked his first name, momentarily forgetting herself in the tension. “Are you mad? They’re terrified and you’re sure as hell not helping!”
For a moment he only stared at her, as if unable to comprehend her sudden insubordination. It was the time she needed to interject herself between them, gently getting a hand on Julia’s back and guiding her to her feet. Belle glowered as he recovered from his shock. “You do realize you just raised a hand to your commanding officer, Captain,” he said.
“For the love of the gods, can you please just tell us you’re not going to kill us?” Gerard nearly screeched. Two and a half weeks now he’d been carrying on in a cocky effervescence, sometimes raising his voice but never letting it cracking. Never letting the rebels see just how terrified he was.
But here, now, it had all bubbled to the surface. His stomach flipped violently, and he tried to keep his jaw from shaking. Standing now, Julia looked like she was about to cry. She chewed on her lip like it was a piece of overdone bread, and it took every ounce of restraint in her to keep from flinging herself past Muriel and Belle and into her cousin’s arms. Not that she thought he could protect her-- not really, not if indeed this middle-of-the-night visit was ill in its intent-- but she was exhausted and fear-stricken and overwhelmed all in one. The chaos of the past two and a half weeks-- and the month before that, since she and Gerard had run off from the Gilded Palace-- suddenly hit her, full and hard. Images of that killing field in Talvace seared through her head, as they always did when things got stressful, and she couldn’t for the life of her shove them away.
She could have screamed.
Instead, she stayed sick and silent.
“Julia,” Gerard said softly, his voice strained as he caught the look on her face. As if by habit now, he kept speaking the high tongue as he promised her, “It’s going to be okay. I-- I won’t let them hurt you, I won’t--”
“No one’s getting killed,” Muriel said, her own voice nearly as shaky as her eyes remained fixed on Belle. “That is not the Brigadier’s call to make.” The comment bordered on insubordination. She supposed she would have cared more if she hadn’t already gone flying past that line a few minutes ago. Swallowing hard, she lowered her voice. “With permission, I’ll move the prisoners to a different tent, sir,” she said.
The Brigadier’s face was hard and unreadable. “Permission granted,” he said coldly. “We will discuss this later, Captain.” With that, he turned and stalked out of the tent, pausing only to bark orders at another soldier to assist Muriel.
She was visibly pale as she unlocked the chains, but her voice was steady when she spoke again. “You’re being taken to a tent across camp until we’re ready to move out,” she said. “It’s only temporary.”
Gerard nodded, trying desperately to knit over the clearly panicked expression on his face. With Belle gone, at least some of the tension seemed to evaporate from the tent, but still the prince and his cousin were clearly unnerved.
“Are you okay, Julia?” Gerard said after a moment of pregnant silence, shifting finally back into the low dialect.
She shrugged. “I guess,” she stammered. “He didn’t hurt me. S-she stopped him before he could.”
“But he would have if she hadn’t,” he said.
With that, he moved toward her, pausing after a single step to gauge Muriel’s reaction to it; when the rebel captain showed no signs of stopping him, he quickly closed the distance in between he and his cousin. At her side, he drew his arm around her shoulder, pulling her in close to him. She leaned against him, lip still quivering, eyes still glossy from the tears that so desperately wanted to leak free.
“Y-you said that killing us isn’t the Brigadier’s decision to make,” she said to Muriel. “But… does that mean he wouldn’t make it anyway?”
“I…” Muriel bit her lip. “He can’t. On something like this - that’s beyond his authority.” She was all too aware of talking around the truth, trying to convince herself as much as them. Brigadier Belle respected Xavier’s authority, but Xavier wasn’t here. And there was no doubt in her mind that her father would be furious if Belle executed them before he even arrived, but that was hardly reassuring. Xavier’s anger after the fact would do nothing to help Gerard and Julia.
At this, Gerard and Julia only exchanged a short, grim look. They’d spent too much time in their lives around those who did everything in their power to dance around-- and above-- their allotted authority to know that what one was permitted to do was hardly the same thing as what one would do. Julia’s most visceral recollection of this was her uncle Feodor, back in Lange. He’d hardly been allowed to slaughter the Tsar to ascend the throne, nor also demand the lives of his sister-in-law and her children. That had hardly stopped him.
Just like she doubted that what he was or wasn’t allowed to do would stop Belle from slitting her and Gerard’s throats, if push came to shove.
And Muriel herself had hardly denied it outright.
“Well.” Gerard swallowed. “I suppose we ought to follow you like obedient little prisoners now, right, Captain?” Though his words verged on sarcastic, his still-harrowed tone made it clear that he wasn’t trying to be inflammatory. For once.
Muriel nodded numbly, her mind still on Belle and the tight, restrained fury in his face when he’d left. He wasn’t going to be happy with her; part of her wondered if he’d relieve her of her duties regarding the prisoners. But she couldn’t back down on this. He had no call to do that, being so overtly violent and threatening toward prisoners who were doing nothing aggressive. At least she knew she had her father’s authority on her side, reluctant as she was to resort to that.
“Let’s go.”
She took the ends of the chains in her hand, her mind more on preventing them from dragging than on restraining the prisoners from running. But the thought crossed her mind as she picked them up, and she couldn’t help but glance up at Gerard, gauging his expression and his stance. Belle had been so antagonistic that she almost wouldn’t have blamed them for making a bid for freedom.
Julia and Gerard were silent as Muriel led them to a small holding tent across camp, where they lingered in a terse, unspoken fear as the rebels around them hurried to strike the rest of the camp. The soldiers moved with a quick, practiced efficiency, and by the time the sun finished its crawl over the horizon, the battalion was ready to go, the soldiers gathering into a large, chaotic line of which Muriel brought Julia and Gerard to the rear.
“How are we being moved?” Gerard asked Muriel-- but his eyes were not focused on the black-haired woman. Rather, he only stared toward the front of the assembled convoy, where Brigadier Belle sat atop a large, brindled horse, barking orders at his men.
Muriel hesitated, but answered him. “Horseback. You’ll each be bound and under guard - it’s just a precaution,” she added, almost too quickly. She couldn’t argue with the security measures, but at the same time she could feel the precarious position of Gerard’s trust in the rebels about to break. It wasn’t just that they’d lose a valuable ally if he and Julia fled. She also didn’t want to find out what Belle would do to them if they tried.
He nodded shortly, biting down on his lip as if deep in thought. Then, he turned toward Julia. “Remember what I told you on the river that day, Julia?” he asked her. “When the Captain found us?”
She hesitated. “What you said in Mzian?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Why?”
“Oh, no reason.” He smiled thinly. Falsely. “Just… remember it, alright?”
Before either of them could say more, one of the soldiers had arrived with cords. Muriel stepped aside so he could bind Gerard’s wrists, but she was still staring at him in consternation. When the man had finished, she moved forward to take hold of his shoulder. “I’ll ride with the prince,” she said, glancing at the other soldier.
He looked surprised. “They have guards--”
“I’m one of them,” Muriel said firmly. She was in command of the guard on the prisoners, but knew she was not expected to take this much of an active role. That didn’t change the fact that she didn’t want to let either of them out of her sight right now. And that she was possibly the only person in this camp who had a chance of winning them over.
She leaned in close to Gerard, lowering her voice so they wouldn’t be overheard amidst the general chaos. “If you don’t trust Belle, then fine, I don’t blame you,” she hissed. “But trust me. Please. No harm’s going to come to her. I will personally make sure of that.”
“I appreciate the kind words,” Gerard murmured, “but he heavily outranks you.” He flicked his gaze back at Julia, who’d seemed to have trouble swallowing what he’d just said to her, and who rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet as if debating furiously with herself. “It’ll be okay, Julia. Just remember,” he said.
“I remember.” She gulped. “But Gerard--”
“Remember the gardens, too,” he cut in. “What I conceded. I still mean what I said then, Julia. I’m okay with it.”
“What if I’m not?” she said hoarsely.
For a moment, Gerard deliberated, sparing a glance at the male soldier who’d bound him. Not Corbin, nor anybody else whom he knew to speak Mzian. Not that this meant the soldier didn’t, but…
“Gerard,” Julia hissed again, her voice growing almost shrill.
Gerard took a deep breath, deciding. “You will do it, Julia,” he said in quick, authoritative Mzian. He didn’t want to order her about, but gods, he didn’t trust Belle, and if acting brusquely now-- every bit the cocky prince Belle reviled, and Julia had begged him in these past weeks not to be-- spared her life later… He stared her dead on and continued, “Look for your opportunity, and do it. Don’t worry about me. Head north. Toward Kyth--”
“But--”
“I said, do it, Julia.”
Muriel’s grip on Gerard had tightened to the point that her knuckles were white. She didn’t need to understand Mzian to know he was planning something. “Don’t try anything rash,” she said in Kythian, her voice low and urgent. The words might have sounded like a threat, but her voice was more of a plea. “You’re surrounded, you don’t have a chance, and he’ll catch you. And…” She trailed off. She didn’t need to tell them what would happen if Belle caught them in the midst of an escape attempt. Surely they knew. “And I don’t want you to die,” she finished, her jaw tightening.
For a moment, Gerard considered denying it. Pretending with a casual air that he’d not just commanded Julia to flee. But the lie soon floated away from his tongue, and he said instead, “There is always a chance if you try; it’s inaction that leads toward foretold conclusions. Toward throats slit by brigadiers who far outrank well-meaning but powerless captains.”
“She’s not powerless, Gerard,” Julia cut in, her lilting Bernian accent a stark contrast to Gerard’s guttural Courdonian inflection. “I trust her--”
“More than you trust me?” he snapped, lapsing effortlessly back into Mzian. In response Julia only stared at him, her face frozen, and he continued, “Wait for a moment that your guard is vulnerable, and figure out how to buck him off the horse. I’ll cause a scene so they have trouble chasing you. You’ll get away, Julia. You--”
“You’re being a fool,” Muriel said sharply, more loudly than she’d intended. “You’re going to get her killed.” For a moment she only glared at him, but then abruptly let go of him and turned away.
“Change of plans,” she said, moving next to Julia and glancing at the other guard. “I’ll ride with the girl.”
If the guard found anything strange about this exchange, he didn’t show it. He only saluted, and went to prepare the horses. Muriel looked back over at Gerard, meeting his eyes challengingly, but didn’t say anything. He returned her gaze with iron, bristling as the other soldier moved toward him and took a hold of his arm. Gods, he shouldn’t have started arguing with her-- should have just given Julia the command and shut up-- because he knew his cousin too well: no way in hell would Julia do anything that might hurt the kindly captain, as attempting to force her guard off the horse most certainly might.
“Come on,” the guard said to him, pulling him toward a large roan horse that stood a few yards away. “I don’t think I should need to remind you that any aggressive moves will be promptly punished.”
“Of course,” Gerard murmured darkly, shooting Julia one last pleading glance before he allowed himself to be led away from her.
Muriel was silent as she helped Julia up onto the other horse. Perhaps Gerard wouldn’t forgive her for this in a hurry, but it was better than standing by and letting him get his cousin killed. Before Muriel mounted behind Julia, she paused, looking up at the other girl. “Please don’t try anything,” she said, sounding more tired than anything else. “We’ll be there soon.”
“He blames himself, you know,” she said simply. “For… everything. I know you’re from Kyth, but in Courdon…” Julia’s voice wavered. “In Courdon, and especially with nobility… they’re very big on honor. Kinship. Protecting your family, not leading them into chains. And so when Belle went to hit me today…”
Muriel sighed heavily. “I see,” she said softly, moving to mount the horse behind Julia. She was silent a moment more, but spoke up again suddenly as the encampment began to move. “I wish it hadn’t turned out like this for the both of you,” she said. “I wish you’d been able to find the rebellion he envisioned.”
Julia only shrugged. “He might wish he hadn’t let me come, but I still don’t regret it. I… can’t regret it. Not knowing what my life would have been like otherwise.”
“I meant what I said to him,” Muriel said quietly. “I won’t let harm come to you, either of you. You have my word on that.”
As she urged her horse forward, she was deep in thought. She wouldn’t back down on this, even to Belle. And if she had to use her relationship to the Branded Lord to do it… It would destroy any respect she’d gained with Belle, that was certain; perhaps proving to him that she couldn’t succeed as an officer on her own merits after all. But all things considered… she’d rather have her father’s approval than his. And she knew she was treating the prisoners the way her father would have wanted.
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Post by Gelquie on Mar 31, 2015 0:37:19 GMT -5
The Gardens (AU - where the revolution has gone very wrong <_<)
(written by Avery, but featuring Elcie's character, Muriel Lynn, daughter of Elin and Xavier) <November, 1337> The palace never really slept.
Even in the dead of night it merely rested, like a guard dog curled at the edge of his master’s porch with one eye poised perpetually open. He might look still and silent from afar, but one only needs to set a singular toe out of place to set his hackles rising—and throat growling. There is no getting around him.
But Muriel thought she’d found a way.
Six and a half months now she’d spent watching. Studying the well-oiled machine that was the Gilded Palace as one might pore over a fine, rare antique. Trying desperately to find holes, nicks, portals to the outside world. A way past the seemingly impenetrable walls that had contained her like a caged animal since her parents’ rebellion had fallen at Jisam.
At first, it had seemed hopeless. Like plugging a massive hole in a ship’s bow with only your hands and a prayer. But even still, she’d not given up; she couldn’t give up. Even when it was very tempting, she’d made herself press on, knowing that if she didn’t, the suffocating walls of this palace would eventually serve as her tomb—and Jisam as her sister Ivy’s.
And finally—finally—she thought she’d found a way.
In the black of night, she hugged her arms close to her body as she crept down the winding footpaths of the palace gardens, the sound of her beating heart deafening in her ears against the deceptive silence of the grounds. She was at once terrified and exhilarated, freedom so close to her and yet so achingly far away. She’d already made it much further than she’d thought she might, but that hardly meant she was home free. She was outside the slave quarters well after curfew, sure, and so far no one had seen her, but there was still the matter of getting up and over the wall. Even though she planned to climb a remote section well removed from the thick guard activity near the gates, it would take just one roving patrol for her to be done. Over with. Dragged back down and stripped and beaten, if not killed outright.
And even if the palace guards didn’t happen upon her, what if the wall proved harder to scale than she’d anticipated? What if the ivy she planned to use for purchase proved too brittle, cracking beneath her grip? Or what if the stone underneath was too slick, and her bare feet slid, and—
The sound of footsteps up ahead on the path froze her heart mid-beat. Muriel’s blood ran cold as ice. Biting down on her tongue so that she wouldn’t cry out from shock, she frantically scanned the area around her, looking for an escape—a copse of trees to conceal herself amidst, or convenient statue to hide behind. Something, anything, anywhere.
But around her there were only rosebushes, thick and wild, the brightly colored blooms washed out beneath the pale sliver of moon overhead. She didn’t care much about the flowers, though. Only the thorns. Woo, how much would it hurt to fling herself into them? Would she be able to keep from crying out as she sunk into the thorn-bitten sea? Ought she be better off trying to run instead of hide?
Either way, was she doomed?
As the footsteps clacked nearly, Muriel swallowed hard and made her decision. Grimacing in advance of the pain, she hurled herself into the tangle of bushes, tears welling automatically in her eyes as she sank into the thorny brambles. Twisting, she let out a hiss of pain, ignoring the scrapes and pricks now stippling her bare arms and legs as she fought to nestle deeper. Her rag-like dress tore as she writhed, and to her ears, the sound of the fabric ripping might as well have been a ringing gong. Woo, whomever was approaching had to have heard it—had to have heard her. She was done, so done, and she’d not even made it halfway to the walls.
What had she been thinking?
Squeezing her eyes shut, she could scarcely breathe as the footsteps drew nearer still. Blood rolled down her legs, hot and wet and burning, and she resisted the urge to wipe it away. Pass by, pass by, please pass by, she pleaded inwardly.
Instead, the person stilled. The footsteps falling suddenly quiet, much as a slashing blade might abruptly end a prisoner’s screams. For a moment, Muriel tried to convince herself that it was a coincidence. That this pause was somehow unrelated to her presence. Maybe this midnight interloper was merely pausing to adjust their cloak or tie their shoe. Maybe they’d stopped to admire a particularly pretty plant. Maybe—
“I see you.”
A deep, masculine voice boomed out over the air. Speaking the high tongue, no less. Still tangled in the bush, Muriel could have cried. Even so, she remained deathly still, as if fostering some far-flung hope that if she merely ignored his words, he would go away. Sort of like when she was a kid, and she and her brother Ciro would ignore their mum’s calls across the house to cut out their horseplay, carrying willfully on in spite of her chiding. Her words gliding into their ears and then promptly out, heard but not heard. Real but not realized, so long as they pretended Elin had said nothing at all.
But she would not get so easily out of this one. Though she remained unmoving, she heard the speaker starting toward her, his feet once against slapping against the cobbled ground as he stalked to the edge of the pathway. As he loomed over her, she craned her neck away from him, refusing to meet his gaze. She tried to convince herself that this was a final act of rebellion before her life went to hell. But really, if she was being honest with herself, it was more about fear than being obstinate: she didn’t want to look at him because she didn’t want to see the face of the man who’d just foiled her escape attempt. Who had, merely in his presence, managed to snuff out nearly every flicker of hope she’d dare kindle in these past six and a half months since her parents—and the rebellion—had fallen at Jisam, and the royal family had branded their sigil into her skin.
“Are you comfortable in there?” the man asked, sounding almost amused. When she didn’t reply, he ventured on, “I’ll take that as a no?” Still nothing from her; he sighed. “Can you get out on your own, or do you need a hand?”
At this, she finally dared look up at him.
And immediately wished she hadn’t.
From his effortless use of the high tongue, she’d initially assumed he was a high-ranking member of the royal guard. A captain, probably, or even a commander. But no, the reality was far worse. Forget the guard. He was simply a royal, period.
Prince Gerard. The second eldest son of King Oliver and Queen Zaria. She’d see him before throughout the palace, although of course she’d never spoken to him; slaves weren’t exactly allowed to address royalty, at least not without very good reason. Had she not been so devastated and terrified now, she might have laughed. Of all the people to discover her… of every Woo-cursed situation she’d turned over in her head about how her escape plan might go very wrong… she’d not even considered this. Being discovered not by a guardsman, or an overseer, but a prince?
“I’d really rather not to have to drag you out,” he said as their eyes locked. His were very dark, a cool brown bordering on black, and there was a nearly thoughtful gleam in them. Not cruel. Not malicious. Just… searching. Bemused.
She wondered if he could see her terror.
“I can get out myself,” she murmured.
“Alright.” He crossed his arms. “Go ahead, then. I’ll wait.”
She nodded, gulping, and struggled then to right herself. Despite her words, however, climbing out of her thorny bed was no easy feat. As she struggled to rise, the branches tugged at her, deepening the tears in her dress and stabbing new holes into her already scraped, bleeding limbs. As a particularly sharp thorn bit against her palm, she flinched. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she defiantly blinked them back. No way in the ‘Pit was she going to cry now. Not in front of this prince. Even caught, she was better than that. Stronger.
Muriel would not let him see her break.
Gerard, however, seemed to quickly tire of watching her flounder. Sighing as one might toward a stubborn child, he reached out a sharp hand and curled his fingers over her bloody arm, as if to tug her out.
At the prince’s touch, the dying embers of defiance still sparking in her head flared up, and a dark, dangerous idea leapt into her head: pull him in. Thrash back against his grip and bring him down into the bushes alongside her, at which point he would be stunned, and she could scramble out before he regained his bearings. It was risky, true, and it might not work, but really, what did she have to lose? Right now, if she cooperated, she was caught for sure. But if she fought back—if she managed to yank the prince into the rosebushes and run like hell—there was still a chance. So faint, no more than the first glimmer of light on an otherwise dark horizon, but there.
Deciding rashly, she jerked him forward. True to her prediction, he slipped, the cobbled pathway slick beneath him. As he let out a surprised gasp, she flopped to her left so that he wouldn’t land on her, unable now to tamp back a yelp as more scrapes and slashes opened on her skin.
“What the hell,” he snarled, as the thorns tore into his silk tunic, splitting it like the belly of a gutted fish. Recovering much more quickly than she’d hoped he would, she just barely managed to shimmy out of the way as he reached out toward her, blood now bubbling from his grasping fingers. “Why did you do that?” he growled.
Muriel didn’t respond to him; instead, she flung herself back toward the pathway. She gritted her teeth in pain as her palms landed against the cobblestones, and kicked desperately to free her lower body from the thorny branches that still clung to the bottom of her tattered dress. She could hear Gerard shifting as he also tried to free himself, but she didn’t dare look back at him. Right now, that would only be a waste of time.
The adrenaline made her stomach pitch. Her teeth chattered, although it wasn’t very cold. This is your chance, she told herself. Don’t let it get away. Don’t!
In another moment, she’d managed to writhe free from the bush’s painful hold. Now it was a matter of getting to her feet. Which was, given her bloodied, ragged state, easier said than done. She swayed like a newborn foal as she started upward, and only managed to lurch forward half a step before crumpling right back down. She clenched her jaw as her knees slammed against the cobblestones, only giving herself a second to recover before she forced herself back up.
But that second was long enough: the prince, too, had wrenched free from the bushes—and, like a lion overtaking its prey, launched himself on her.
She was beneath him in an instant, his knee digging into the small of her back, his vise-like fingers locking around her upper arm. She arced against him, one last wave of fire blazing through her, but if she’d been meaning to buck him off, she only succeeded in making him bear down harder.
“Are you insane?” he growled, using the hand that wasn’t clenched around her arm to press down on the back of her neck.
“I had to try,” she gasped.
“I can see that.”
With that, he lightened his hold on her for a moment—but only so that he could flip her onto her back. She let out a hiss of pain as the rear of her skull bounced against the cobblestones, the burn of defiance in her eyes finally eclipsed then by pure fear and pain. In her mind’s eye, she saw her parents and Evander and Lydia in the moment before they’d had their heads cut off in Jisam. Was this what they’d felt like? Had their guts been so cold? Had they looked into Rylan Duval’s smug, indolent face and known then with an aching, miserably clarity that this was it for them? The end of their long and desperately fought road?
“If I let you up,” Gerard said, an elbow pressed against her throat, “are you going to run?”
“No,” she wheezed, meaning it. She didn’t think she could even if she wanted to; he’d pushed her down so hard she’d had the wind knocked clear out of her.
In return he only nodded, and without another word, hauled her to her feet. His grip was almost crushing against her bloodied wrist, and for what felt like the umpteenth time, she winced. She’d be lucky right now if he didn’t slit her throat. Or call for one of the palace guards and have them do it for him.
Instead, he frowned at her. “You’re a slave,” he said, almost accusingly.
“Yes.” She still hated that this was true.
“And what,” he asked, “is a slave doing skulking about the gardens at two in the morning?”
I could ask the same of you, she wanted to say. But deciding better of it, she shrugged. “I like roses,” she said dryly.
Part of her thought he might hit her in reply; he didn’t, although he was clearly not amused. “Better to look at them from afar,” he snapped.
She couldn’t think of anything to say here, so she said nothing at all. At her silence, his frown deepened, his eyes raking her over as if she were a puzzle he couldn’t quite put together. Though she knew it might be safest to avert her own gaze to the ground in proper submission, she kept it on his face, studying him right back. He wasn’t very old—maybe Ivy’s age, with a hard, aquiline face that had yet to wholly lose the features of boyhood. His skin was very tan and his hair was very dark; she couldn’t see any of the king in him, but then, that hardly made him less dangerous.
“How did you get out of the slave quarters?” he asked her.
Ah, the heart of her plan. The hitch she’d seen in palace security that had spurred her to make this fly-by-night escape attempt at all. She could lie now to him, stammer some excuse, but what would that accomplish? Darkly, foolishly, a part of her was still proud of her plot. That she’d found a hole in a system that had once seemed impenetrable. That she’d not just accepted her enslavement but railed actively against it, searching for a way out—just like her parents would have wanted her to do.
“Answer me,” Gerard growled, shaking her. The prince was clearly losing his patience.
Better not keep him waiting any longer, then. Her gaze still trained on his, she said, “There’s an overseer called Lysander. Real stand-up guy. He’s lazy, though. Instead of counting off the slaves at lock-in, he just… eyeballs it. So if one slave were missing, well… he wouldn’t notice. Meaning that a slave would merely have to wait for a day she knows he’s on shift, and then find someplace to hide after her work is done. Bide her time until it gets dark, and the palace falls quiet...”
“… and make a break for it,” Gerard finished. He didn’t sound mad—only very frustrated. And maybe even a little impressed. “So,” he went on, his grip still bruising on her arm, “you hide out and wait for nightfall. Then what?”
“I was going to climb the wall,” she replied.
He quirked a brow. “Bold. You know it’s something like twenty feet high, right?”
“I’m aware.” Even if, hearing it aloud, it did sound a little crazy.
“Your accent,” he said. “You’re not from here.”
“I’m from Kyth,” she said, a swell of pride rising in her. These Courdonians could kill her parents; they could brand her skin and make her a slave. But they couldn’t take away her home. Her heritage. Not really.
Not unless she let them—and to the ‘Pit, she wouldn’t.
“And what’s your name?” This was an order, not a request.
At this, a lump rose in her throat. Her name. Who ever thought such an innocent question could be the source of so much resentment and, once again, convoluted pride? When they’d rounded up the surviving rebels at Jisam six and a half months ago, and demanded her name, she’d stayed silent. Refusing to cooperate. Refusing to give them that piece of her, that intangible piece she could still keep to herself even as they stole everything else. They’d struck her for this, tormented her, but ultimately they’d given up. Her name didn’t really matter, not when they could just give her a new one. A fresh moniker for her fresh, hellish life.
“Jaya,” she said. Courdonian for victory. A statement as much as it was a name. A heavy-handed brag on the part of her captors.
“That is not a Kythian name,” the prince said.
“It’s not,” she agreed.
“I could have you killed.”
Despite the words, he didn’t seem to mean this as a threat—merely as a fact, or an observation. He hadn’t yet let go of her, but in the last few moments he’d loosened his grip on her arm enough so that at least it wasn’t painful in its own right. Muriel knew it could be the head injury talking, but she swore beneath the aggravation and shock still painting his face, she could make out a layer of something very different. Wonderment. Grudging admiration. Like he was just as impressed by her plan—that she’d made it this far before being intercepted—as she was.
“Are you going to, then?” she asked him, somehow emboldened by the fact that he’d not yet done anything to her but posture and snarl.
“Going to what?”
“Kill me,” she said flatly.
“Ought I?”
She hadn’t been expecting this, and it took her a moment to recover. To think up a proper response. Butterflies flapping about her stomach, she swallowed hard and said, “I’d rather you’d not.”
“I’d rather not, either,” he said. “But if I let go of you, and you either attack me or run off again…”
He didn’t have to finish his sentence for the meaning to be clear. “I won’t,” she promised.
Both of them stiffened then as footsteps sounded down the pathway, cutting through the breezy night air. Fingers finally falling from her arm, Gerard took a deep breath and forced a casual expression onto his face. “Follow my lead,” he instructed her.
“What lead?” she murmured.
“Shh,” he said, and then the two of them waited in stilted silence until the footsteps drew nearer and nearer still, and two guards dressed in royal livery came into view.
When the guards saw the two dark figures ahead of them on the pathway, they immediately snapped to attention, their fingers dancing to the swords sheathed at their hips. Quickly they’d slid them out, the blades glinting beneath the pale moonlight, and pointed them in Gerard and Muriel’s direction.
“Who goes there?” the one barked, his tone weighted with command.
“At ease, sirs,” Gerard replied. If he was at all afraid, he didn’t show it; his voice was smooth, like seaglass.
Next to him, Muriel’s heart hummed in her ears. The prince had said he didn’t want her killed—but what if he’d just claimed that so she wouldn’t run? And even if he didn’t have these guards slit her throat, he’d still probably have her punished. Whipped, at the very least. Maybe worse.
Once again, her fight or flight instinct kicked in, and she frantically scanned the area around her, as if looking for some means of escape. But Gerard, seeming to sense this, quickly nipped any chance of her running in the bud when, stepping forward, he casually draped his arm around her shoulders and drew her in tight to him. Beneath his touch again, she bristled, resisting the urge to push him away. She still hadn’t grown used to this, the way that other people could manhandle her at will. Letting them do so went against every instinct in her—every value her parents had instilled in her as a child, every bit of training she’d undergone both as a rebel in Courdon and knight back in Kyth.
But with two palace guardsmen mere yards away, Muriel knew that her best chance of not ending up dead was to, as Gerard had instructed, follow his lead. And that meant not shoving him off her. No matter how much she wanted to.
“I said,” the palace guard snapped, taking a pointed step forward, “who goes there?”
“And I said you ought be at ease,” Gerard spat. “Last I checked, sir, a prince is perfectly allowed to enjoy the gardens without being accosted.”
Only then did the guards seem to recognize him—and once they did, their reaction was instantaneous. Both dropped to their knees like some unseen force had bowled them down, dipping their heads into deep, shameful bows.
“Your Highness,” the one breathed, “I apologize.”
“No need to go groveling.” Still Gerard did not let go of her. “Back on your feet.”
They obliged, resheathing their swords as they did. Upright again, they kept their heads bowed for a brief moment before they dredged their eyes from the pathway beneath and proceeded on to studying their prince. It only took them a moment to notice his bedraggled state—his silks torn, his hands and face scraped and bleeding—at which point their gazes then fell onto Muriel, equally as tattered.
“We had a bit of an accident,” Gerard said before the guards could ask. “I thought it would be quite nice to enjoy my slave out in the gardens, but…” He grinned sheepishly, like a child with his hand caught in his mummy’s jewelry box. “We took a bit of a tumble. Awfully thorny, these rosebushes.”
“A tumble,” one of the guards echoed.
From his raised brow, it was clear he didn’t quite believe the story, and for a moment Muriel was terrified that he’d press further. But then she remembered that it was hardly a guardsman’s position to interrogate the prince. Gerard could have told him they’d gotten banged up after being attacked by wild birds, and they’d have to either accept it or risk inciting his wrath—and punishment—by prodding deeper.
“A tumble,” Gerard agreed. “A bit unpleasant, but nothing fatal. A quick visit to the healer, and I suspect I’ll be as good as new.” Still smiling, he gave Muriel a possessive squeeze. “Last time I’ll try to shake things up, I’ll tell you that.”
“Shall we escort you back inside, Your Highness?” the other guard asked. “Just so that you don’t have any more… tumbles.”
“Oh, no, that’s unnecessary. I think I’ll be able to find my way back in. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your patrols.” Almost tenderly, he raised a hand and trailed his fingers through Muriel’s long, dark hair; as he did, she resisted the urge to punch him, vomit, or both. Instead, she stood with her jaw clenched and stomach churning as Gerard finished, “That was a dismissal, sirs. Off with you now.”
The guards exchanged hesitant looks, as if they didn’t quite want to leave their prince battered and bleeding, but they also couldn’t ignore a direct command. With short nods, they each dipped into a parting bow before continuing down the footpath. As they brushed by Gerard and Muriel, the prince craned his neck to watch them go. Only once they’d well disappeared off into the blackness, their footsteps no more than faraway echoes, did he finally unhand Muriel and let out a sigh of relief.
“Well, I’m going to have some explaining to do in the morning,” he muttered. “I give it until seven o’ clock before my father’s in my chambers demanding to know why I ruined a perfectly good tunic and pair of breeches.”
Oh yes, a disapproving father chiding over a ruined tunic and breeches—clearly the worst fate of them all. But the anger she felt toward him was quickly drowned out as she realized what he’d done for her. Or perhaps more poignantly, what he hadn’t done. He’d not gotten her killed… or even lashed. He’d not informed the guards of what he’d caught her doing, nor told them that she’d attacked him. Instead, he’d lied through his teeth for her. Grinning boyishly and fondling her as if she were but his lover, this bloody meeting in the garden only a rendezvous gone poorly.
“Why?” she asked him, incredulously—knowing well that she ought probably accept this stroke of fortune at face value, that she was in no position to demand answers, and yet just as unable to help herself.
Gerard shrugged. “I don’t like seeing people get hurt.” Glancing down at his bleeding palms, he added bitterly, “Even if they hurt me.”
Oh Woo, was he trying to make her feel bad for him? She didn’t exactly have any sympathy to spare right now for a ‘Pit-blasted prince of Courdon, even if he had just saved her from so much hell. The fact remained, she was a slave, he was a prince, and even if he’d stopped her from getting beaten or killed tonight, he’d also foiled her escape plan. And who knew when she’d ever get another chance? She’d already named the inept overseer, Lysander, to Gerard; he’d probably be reamed out or taken off duty. And with Lysander out of the equation… what did that leave? How else would she ever get out of the slave quarters past dark—the only time it might be even remotely feasible to shimmy up and over the wall without getting caught?
Gerard had just saved her, but he’d also ruined her.
Like hell would he make her pity him.
“I take it,” she said stiffly, “that you’re not going to merely let me slink back off to the slave quarters with my head held low in shame?”
“No,” he agreed. “If I do that, I quite imagine you’ll never make it here at all, what with that tempting wall just a few hundred yards away.” He cocked his head. “Am I right about that, Jaya?”
She shrugged; no use lying. “I thought I’d ask.”
“It’s not even that I’m afraid of you escaping,” he said. “If I thought you’d actually get out, I might turn and walk away. The issue is, I’m fairly sure you won’t—that you’d be caught. And that whomever came upon you next would not be nearly as understanding as I’ve been.”
“But if I’m willing to take that chance—”
“As I said, I don’t like people getting hurt,” he cut in. “Now, I’m rather tired and would like to get some sleep before sun-up. Shall we head inside?”
Swallowing back the argument she still wanted to make, Muriel bit the inside of her cheek and fell into step beside the prince as he turned and briskly strode off. At first she thought he was leading her to the slave quarters, to deposit her back inside, but then he turned away from them, instead twisting toward the warren of ornate buildings that made up the palace proper.
“I… are you going the wrong way?” she asked, dread building in her yet again.
“No,” he said.
“But the slave quarters…”
“I’m not taking you to the slave quarters.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he said, “I’m pretty sure if I showed up to the slave quarters at half past two in the morning to personally dump a slave no one ever recorded being let out in the first place, that would cause quite a bit of confusion all around.”
He had a point. “Where are you taking me, then?”
“My chambers.”
At this, Muriel abruptly stopped walked, her heart dropping into her stomach like a heavy stone. His chambers. Oh, Woo no, a prince’s chambers were about the last place she ever wanted to find herself. “I—but—I don’t—” she started, tongue-tied.
Noticing the horrified look on her face, Gerard also stilled, frowning. It seemed to take him a moment to understand her sudden terror, but once it dawned on him, he rapidly shook his head. “I won’t do anything,” he said. “Other than have a healer look at your wounds, I mean. It’s just… with the story I gave those guards, it makes the most sense.” He gulped. “Sorry if I… scared you. I didn’t realize how that would sound.”
And in that moment, Muriel hated him—a raw, blistering anger that stabbed into her like the tip of a sword. At first, she wasn’t even sure why, not exactly. He’d ruined her escape plan, true. And slammed her head against the cobblestones and pressed his hand against her throat. All things that might inspire contempt.
Yet, she realized, it was none of these facts that now sent her raging. No, what lit the fire in her gut was, rather, his kindness. The concern in his words and tone. The way he was preaching to her about not wanting people to get hurt—about wanting what was best for her—when he was a Woo-cursed prince of Courdon, and his family was responsible for the deaths of her family, and it was his sigil burned into the soft skin of her collarbone. What the hell kind of complex did he have? Who was he, to fancy himself as her savior? To apologize to her like sugar-sweet words of contrition changed anything?
“I don’t need a healer,” she said to him, her voice far cooler than she supposed she ought let it be, given who she was addressing; but Muriel couldn’t force even a hint of warmth into it. Not with the furious chill radiating from her heart. “It’s just a few scrapes. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re a strange one, Jaya,” he replied, his frown deepening.
As are you, she wanted to hiss back.
But instead, Muriel Lynn said nothing.
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Post by Gelquie on Apr 1, 2015 0:19:31 GMT -5
A Merchant of Ruom<Late Autumn, 1342; Emryn> Part One: It was a quiet evening in the household where the Lynn family resided, and there was a delicious smell in the air. Although the house was big enough for a sizable family to inhabit, there were only two people residing there, sitting together at the dinner table. They sat close enough to each other to occasionally hold their hands together as they talked. Normally, their children would be eating with them, but today, they had sent them out for dinner elsewhere. They had been told not to bother them unless it was urgent. It had been too long since Xavier and Elin had had a peaceful night alone together, ever since they had first come to Courdon, and they wanted to savor it. Halfway through the meal, Elin was just telling her husband a humorous story about what had happened in one of the camps while she was out on a mission when a sharp knock on the door interrupted her. Elin blinked, glancing over in the direction of the doorway, wondering if she had misheard, when she heard another knock. She gave a confused look to Xavier. “Who could that be?” she asked. It couldn’t be their children; they seemed to understand and respect the idea of giving them a night alone. Unless something urgent had come up… Her mouth contorted into a frown of concern. Xavier was frowning as well. “I’ll see,” he said. Pushing back his chair, he rose from the table and went to the door. Whatever the knocker wanted, he felt it could not be good, and his pulse was starting to quicken despite how relaxed he’d felt only moments before. He’d not expected Gerard, but there the man stood on the other side of the door, and the expression on his face was not a happy one. Xavier’s mouth tightened. “Is something wrong?” he said, before another awful thought made his stomach lurch. “Is Muriel…?” “No,” Gerard said quickly, shooting his father-in-law a wan, reassuring smile. “Or at least-- not with Muriel.” Shooting a glance over his shoulder as a pair of slightly-drunken soldiers meandered past, he said to Xavier, “May I come in? I’d like to have this conversation in private.” The knot in his stomach eased, but Xavier was still frowning. “If it’s that important,” he said, crossing his arms and stepping back to allow Gerard into the room. Gerard did not miss the terse look on Xavier’s face as he stepped into the dimly lit interior of the house and quickly shut the door behind him. Eyes falling toward the half-eaten meal on the table, he gave a short wave at Elin. “Good evening,” he said, not even apologizing for having clearly interrupted his in-laws in the middle of supper. “How are you tonight?” Elin still had a frown on her face as Gerard strode in, but her tone was even. “We’re doing alright. Just having dinner.” She fumbled with the fork in her hand before she set it down on the plate. “What is this about?” “Looks tasty,” Gerard said with a short nod, before taking a deep breath and skipping to the heart of a matter: “About an hour ago, a man showed up at the city gates. A stranger. Demanding that he be given audience with-- and I quote-- ‘your head mage’. He had a wand, which was promptly confiscated from him, and the guards on duty called for an officer to question him. Although I too was enjoying a lovely dinner, I drew the short straw and went on to see what he was raving about. And what I’ve discovered is… slightly concerning.” After a pause he added, “Or really, a lot concerning.” Again, Elin’s frown did not disappear. She only shot a quick glance to her husband before responding. “What did you discover?” She hadn’t intended to sound annoyed, and she seemed to realize that just after he said it. But whatever business was to be had, she preferred to have it done as quickly as possible, and not have Gerard dance around the subject. Especially if he did consider it urgent. “He says his name is Toby. That he’s a merchant from Ruom. But it… doesn’t add up.” Gerard hesitated before continuing, “His accent is noble. And I do mean noble. Southern, I’d say, but not too far south. He speaks in the low tongue, but well-- it’s like me or Matteus speaking in the low tongue: no matter how hard we try, we can’t wash the court from our voices. Yet-- with that accent… and being from mid-south… I ought know him. And I don’t. He’s quite ah…” Gerard deliberated for a moment before continuing, “He’s distinctive. If I’d ever seen him before, I would remember. But I don’t know him. I’m sure.” Xavier’s frown deepened, digesting this. “And there’s no reason anyone should come here and fake a high accent,” he agreed. “Why, exactly, was he so desperate to see our ‘head mage’?” “He refused to tell me,” Gerard said. “But he was very unhappy. Particularly with his wand confiscated.” After a moment’s pause, he added, “And… that’s the other thing. His wand.” Carefully then, Gerard reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out from it a slim, dark wood wand. He looked uncomfortable with it, as if he’d never touched a magic instrument before in his life, and his hand was wobbling as he held it out for his father-in-law’s inspection. “Look at the barrel, Xavier,” he said. “The embossing on the wood. It looks like a seal. But it’s no seal of Courdon. No House, no lord, I can think of. I’ve never seen it before in my life, either.” Xavier took it, inspecting the wand with a practiced eye. “It’s not a Kythian seal either, though it is well-made… rather what I’d expect a noble mage to have. Elin, do you recognize this?” He passed the wand to her, carefully. Elin delicately took the wand in both of her hands, her fingers tenderly grasping the wand as she examined it and the seal stamped upon it. After a moment, she took a finger and traced the outline of the seal before shaking her head. “No… Nothing I recognize. Not Kythian… Doesn’t look to be from anywhere bordering Kyth either… I don’t know, though.” With that analysis, she handed the wand back to Xavier. “We’d have to ask.” “The only thing,” Gerard went on, “that even remotely rings a bell for me that I can remember from my studies is… well, it opens up more puzzles than it solves. And in any case…” He sighed. “You need to come talk to him, Xavier. Now. He grew more and more belligerent the longer I tried to stall him, and well-- I’m positive he’s harbouring secrets. The question is just how dangerous those secrets are.” “I…” With a frustrated sigh and a glance at Elin, Xavier relented. “All right. I suppose I should. Elin…” He grimaced. “I’m sorry. Will you come?” Elin glanced at the food for a moment before sighing and standing up. “I will,” she said as she walked over to him. “We… can finish later.” She looked over to Gerard. “Where are you holding him?” “Old lord’s manor. In the cellar. He’s chained up next to a very vintage cask of wine.” With a toothy grin, he nudged his chin at the half-eaten spread on the table and added, “Perhaps I ought to have brought you a goblet.” Xavier sighed, clearly unamused by his son-in-law’s jest. “Lead the way, then.” “Of course, General,” Gerard said. He turned then toward the door, but before starting in its direction thought better of it and strode to the table instead. Palming a heel of bread from the basket in the center, the prince tucked it into the pocket of his coat. “Who knows,” he said brightly, “maybe the old bloke’s just belligerent because he’s hungry. Men have lost their mind for much less.” Elin’s frown deepened. “That’s not funny,” she said tersely. “Just… Don’t touch anything else, please…” “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Gerard smiled and finally stepped toward the door, gesturing Elin to walk in front of him. “After you, General.” Elin gave a look to Xavier and seemed to resist a sigh before walking out the door. ** “Good news!” Gerard called out in mock enthusiasm as he, Elin, and Xavier descended the curving stairs into the repurposed wine cellar of the former manor of Lord Enok of Vereon, Emryn some fifteen minutes later. “I’ve brought your mage, Toby. The head mage, no less.” Sweeping past the guards at the base of the stairs, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the bread, chucking it almost sharply in the prisoner’s direction. “And dinner,” he added as the man fumbled and caught it, chains rattling as he did. “Enjoy.” Xavier stepped forward, casting his son-in-law a sharp glance. “I’ll handle it from here, Gerard,” he said. The Branded Lord turned his attention to the prisoner, his face stern and his arms folded. “I was told you wanted to meet with me,” he said. “What, exactly, was so important that you couldn’t simply speak with one of the guards?” Setting the heel of bread down onto the dusty floor beside him, the prisoner slowly brought up his head, settling his eyes on the rebels. As he did, he waited a few deliberate seconds before he began to speak, first giving the newcomers time to properly drink in what they saw; his face had been this way for so long that such a thing had become almost rote for him when meeting somebody new for the first time. Better to let them study him first-- examine the horrific maze of old, angry scars that covered him from forehead to neck before trailing down past the collar of his shirt-- and then get to business. If he spoke without first allowing time for that, then the prisoner found people seldom remembered his initial words. “Are you truly the mage in charge?” he said finally, after the newcomers had finished reacting to the wretched sight of him. “If so, show me your wand. And cast a basic spell for me. Just so that I can be sure your darling sergeant here--” “Second lieutenant,” Gerard interrupted huffishly, as if offended by the way the prisoner had so roundly demoted him. “-- Fine, your second lieutenant here isn’t merely attempting to fool me.” Although he spoke in the low tongue, it was true what Gerard had said: his accent remained distinctly noble, his grasp of the low grammar wobbly. Xavier raised an eyebrow. “Very well,” he said, pulling out his wand and pointing it to the ceiling. “ Woomos maxima.” A bright light flared out of it, briefly illuminating the cellar in stark white before extinguishing abruptly. “ Now will you explain yourself?” “You have a woman,” the prisoner said simply. “I believe her to be in your ranks. A mage, in her middle twenties. She’s from the west continent, although she’d speak fluent Courdonian. Last I knew of her, she was in Emryn, near to here, but…” His voice hitched here, and he had to catch himself before continuing, “I don’t know where she is now. But I need you to point me in her direction.” Elin’s face contorted into a frown, but it was one of confusion. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of the man yet, or if his request came from genuine concern or if there was something else. “...First, you need to tell us who you are and where you’re from, and why you want to find her. We can’t just give information on our mages to anyone who asks.” “As I told your sergeant”-- the prisoner quirked a dark, crooked grin here as Gerard let out another grunt of protest-- “my name is Toby. I’m a trader from Ruom. I mean the woman no harm. I merely wish to see her. Speak with her. Ensure that she’s doing well.” “In any case,” Xavier said, “we have quite a few mages in our ranks, and I’m sure many of them are women. Even if I were inclined to honor your request, it would take some time to track her down, and that is one thing we cannot afford. Why should I drop everything to seek out one woman, at the request of a stranger?” It would not, in reality, be as hard as he made it sound. The rebels’ network of communications had strengthened as their military presence had grown, and the person that the prisoner described did sound unusual. But Xavier was at once irked and intrigued by the request. What exactly was the so-called merchant after, that he’d come to the very center of the rebellion to ask for it? “Ah, yes,” the prisoner replied coolly. “I’m sure you’ve a vast array of western mage women in your ranks. I hear they’re everywhere here in Courdon, just waiting to pledge their service to your fine cause.” Forcing a deep breath, he straightened, his chains jangling as he did. “In exchange, I’ll help you. Posture as you might, I’ve a rather keen idea that mages are not your strong suit, sir. That adding another properly trained magician to your army would be of great value to you. And all for the low cost of reuniting a poor, disfigured merchant of Ruom with a woman with whom he’s fallen out of contact.” As he spoke, the posh noble accent-- so strange intermingled with his low grammar and pronunciation-- grew more and more pervasive. Gerard, still brooding after the prisoner’s insult of his rank, bristled and glared down at the man, suspicion and anger building in his hard, dark eyes. “You,” he growled, before Xavier or Elin could demand him quiet, “are no merchant. Cut the lies. They won’t help you any.” “Gerard,” Elin reprimanded just as he had finished. But she let her voice die off after that, considering what he had said. “...He’s right, though. You don’t sound like a merchant, or a peasant. Your voice is noble, and you can’t hide that from us. If your reasons are genuine, lies aren’t going to help you.” “I can hardly help how I speak,” the prisoner replied. A non-answer. Pointed gaze landing on Gerard, he added with an edge, “And I’d say my accent’s no more or less suspiciously noble than the sergeant's here. And you’ve clearly no problems letting him gallivant about with a sword, an officership, and an attitude befitting of a prince of the court, not a rebel soldier.” Elin glanced over to Gerard for a moment before letting out a disgruntled sigh. “I won’t deny how he acts. But he’s not what we’re talking about. We know about him. We don’t know about you. Now will you give us a straight answer?” If Elin’s quick retort flummoxed the prisoner, he didn’t show it. Without skipping a beat, he said coolly, “I’m the third son of a third son, in a family where you’d scarcely even call the lord of the House noble.” As if this might lend credulity to his story, he added, “House Dareios? You’ve likely never even heard of it; few outside Ruom have.” He shrugged. “My nominally high birth meant I was educated as a boy, and grew up speaking the high tongue. Thus accounts for the accent. But I did not lie to you: I’ve since drifted toward different pursuits. Trading. A merchant’s life, not a lord’s. I only visit my family in Zinnia rarely. Once a year, if even. And not since the start of the war.” “ That,” Gerard said hotly, taking a menacing step forward, “is a lie.” “Excuse me, sergeant?” The prisoner glared, twitching in his chains as if he wanted to say something a whole lot less civil. “You’re no ‘third son of a third son’. No cadet child of House Dareios.” “Just because you’ve not heard of it--” “I have heard of it,” Gerard huffed, fingers curling reflexively over the hilt of his holstered sword. “But you’re no member.” “Oh? And tell me, sergeant, how are you so sure of that?” “Because,” Gerard growled, his voice wavering between pride and fury, “the lord of House Dareios was arrested by the crown itself eleven years ago. Charges of treason. He had his godsdamned head cut off, and his family’s lands stripped from him. So tell me, my lord, how is it that you’ve been visiting the Dareios’s in a city that’s not belonged to them for over a decade now?” Xavier tried not to look startled by this information. For once, Gerard’s royal background was actually a point in his favor; Xavier’s firsthand knowledge of Courdon was not only decades old, but limited to only what the slave of a major lord would have known. He stared down the prisoner, trying to keep his face impassive as if he too had spotted the lie as easily as Gerard. “Answer him,” he said coldly. This time, the prisoner faltered, although only for a moment. His voice was considerably thinner, however as, with his gaze suddenly averted to the floor, he said, “I believe who I am is… a trifle. Irrelevant to the matter at hand. All that matters is that I’ve offered my services to you, in exchange for one tiny piece of information. Hardly anything to merit an interrogation over. Nor ought it require I give to you my entire life’s story.” “It does matter when we could easily be infiltrated,” Elin said bluntly. “And in your case, by someone with a High Courdonian accent who’s already lied to us once. If you really have good intentions, then be honest.” “Or perhaps,” Gerard added languidly, his fingers still curled around the hilt of his sword, “you’d like to see all the interesting spells our head mage can do. Honesty can be won in so many ways, Toby.” Elin shot a warning look towards Gerard. “Stand down,” she said brusquely. “Just see what he has to say.” Gerard took a pointed step back, but on the floor, the prisoner merely rolled his eyes. “Oh, let your sergeant threaten. It seems to entertain him, and I’d hate to ruin his night.” Then, after a pause: “If I were to tell you who I really am, I rather suspect you’d have one of two reactions: either you’ll call me a liar and this song and dance will continue indefinitely, or you’ll outright cut my throat. Both of these, of course, help neither of us-- you end up with a prisoner or a dead body to dispose of, rather than a skilled and valuable mage in your ranks… and as for me… well. I didn’t come here to end up chained or dead. I came here to find the woman I’ve mentioned. That’s all I care about. It’s the root and entirety of my motive. I am no danger to you. No threat. I can assure you of that much.” Xavier toyed with his wand between his fingers. “Well, I’m certainly not going to trust the location of one of my soldiers to someone who won’t give me a straight answer,” he said. “If you really pose no threat, either to us or to the woman you’re seeking, you’ll tell us who you are and why you want so badly to find her. Otherwise…” He shrugged. “You’ve given me no reason to cut your throat, but you’ve given me no reason to help you either. There are any number of wanted men and women under my command, and I wouldn’t betray them to a stranger.” “I’m not a stranger,” he said starkly. “The woman is my daughter. Her name is Chelsey. Chelsey Barrow. And I-- I understand you wouldn’t want to put her into any danger, or betray her. Hell, I’m grateful for it. But…” He shook his head. “I’m not asking you to simply point her out to me on the map. I… you could courtier her a message. With my name. She’ll-- she’ll be able to tell you I’m no threat to her.” After a thoughtful pause, he finished, “Or to you.” “And still,” Gerard said casually, “you’ve not answered our biggest question, Mister Barrow. Dear gods, I might say you’ve even opened yourself up to more.” Before Elin or Xavier could interrupt him and demand he please shut the hell up, the prince continued, “You said before the woman is western, yet you’re not. So how, then, are you her father? A western mage with a father who sounds straight out of the Courdonian royal court? Do you really expect us to believe a story like that? Do you think we’re idiots? Do you--” “ Gerard,” Xavier snapped, shooting him a glare. Elin glared as well, but soon turned her attention back to Toby. “...It is a hole in your story,” she said. “You said you live in Courdon, and your accent is noble, so how can your daughter hail from the west? From… Meltaim? Valzaim? If what you’ve said about her is true, we might be willing to help you. But we need to be sure you’re not lying. You need to explain.” “I am initially from Courdon, yes, but left for the west more than half my life ago. Chelsey was born there. She was raised there. She only returned because of-- well, it doesn’t matter why.” Quickly moving on, the prisoner continued, “You likely saw the marking on my wand, given that your charming sergeant took it from me. It’s not just a pretty carving, but a seal. The king of Valzaim’s seal, in particular. He makes sure it’s prominent on all Valzick military-issued wands.” “A Valzick military wand?” Gerard laughed sharply. “How the hell would you end up with a Valzick military wand?” “Because I fought in their special forces. And got a permanently disfigured face cut up by Meltaiman belligerents for it,” the prisoner snapped, his patience with Gerard clearly wearing thin. And then, in a language he was rather sure nobody in this room but him had ever heard before in their lives, he added, “And if you don’t believe me, then ask yourselves: why would a lying Courdonian lordling speak fluent Valzick?” Elin blinked, perplexed at what the prisoner just said. She wasn’t able to pick up on the language; all she could tell was that it sounded foreign. If it was Valzick, it would lend credence to his story. If it wasn’t… But all it took was an interpreter to distinguish that. Still, she frowned in thought. “So you were from Courdonian mage--probably a noble too--and yet you left for Valzaim?” She frowned, looking visibly uncertain about whether or not his explanation was plausible. Xavier’s brow furrowed. It was an outlandish story, certainly, but maybe that only made the man more believable. Surely no one would invent a tale like this and expect to be believed. On the other hand, that it centered on far-off Valzaim made it very difficult to check the facts of the tale, and he’d already lied once. Well… there was one way to check. Xavier raised his wand. “I’m going to ask you some questions again, and I’m going to ask them with the help of a truth spell,” he said, his voice perfectly calm. “And I hope you know that resisting it will only make me more suspicious at this point, so please don’t try.” Without waiting for anyone in the room to voice agreement or dissent, he cast the spell, his eyes fixed on the scarred prisoner. “Have you lived in Valzaim?” Toby displayed no emotion-- no affect-- as the truth spell hit him, as if it were as familiar to him as the backs of his hands, or the insides of his eyelids. Taking a moment to compose himself, his voice was as smooth as blown glass as he said, “Nearly thirty years. Give or take a few.” Elin nodded. “But before, you lived in Courdon? Why did you leave?” Very quickly, but his tone still razor smooth and sharp, he replied, “I did not see eye to eye with my family on certain matters. I felt a need to remove myself from their control. Their reaches. Valzaim seemed a good place to do this.” Also sardonically he added, “Sufficiently far enough from Courdon, at least, I’d say.” “And did you in fact join the Valzick military while you were there?” Xavier said, frowning. There was something… off. Not enough to completely disregard the man’s responses, but the suspicion remained that he wasn’t being entirely honest. “Join is perhaps not the best word,” Toby said. “That implies I had a choice about it. I was, however, a member of the Valzick military-- in particular, the Special Forces. Drafted and served my tenure and then some. Until a Meltaiman thought better of my service and half-skinned me alive. That was some twenty-five years ago, and sometimes I still don’t understand how I survived it. I certainly wasn’t meant to. The Meltaimans don’t hold prisoners. Only corpses in the making. ” Elin couldn’t help but cringe at Toby’s description, but she swallowed it quickly. “And you had children there. How did your daughter end up in Courdon?” “Chelsey was supposed to go to Kyth.” Toby sharply shook his head. “Courdon-- never.” He sighed before continuing, “Although I suppose that’s not much of an answer to your question, is it? It doesn’t explain why she left. And as for that, well… as I said, I nearly died during my service. When Chelsey left, it was right around when tensions were growing very high between Valzaim and Meltaim-- war was just around the corner and…” Toby’s voice trailed off, and it took him a moment to catch himself. “In Valzaim, there is no choice. If you’re a magician, you serve the king. Period. But after what happened to me during my tour, I could not stand that idea for Chelsey.” “How noble of you,” Gerard sneered, rolling his eyes as if the prisoner had just crooned him a lover’s cheesy song. “Truly, a fantastic story. But I do say, Mister Barrow, it’s just that: a story.” “I’ve told you no lies,” Toby said flatly. “How’d you find out that she was in Courdon, then?” Gerard huffed. “If she was meant to go to Kyth-- and you’ve been all the way in Valzaim, then how did you ever know her to be south of the border at all?” “Gods.” Toby was now the one to roll his eyes. “Are you truly that daft?” “I--” Gerard started. But the prisoner interrupted him. “I’m a mage, you git. And so is she. Before she left, I cast a very complicated spell on an a necklace of hers. It wasn’t exactly a map so much as an… indicator. And I grew very proficient at reading it--- her location in relation to mine. And so once she listed very far south, well…” Toby leaned forward. “Come on now, sergeant. Do I have to fill in all the blanks for you?” “You do have a lot to explain,” Elin said flatly, holding out a firm hand to Gerard, indicating for him to stop. Then she couldn’t help but ask. “...Does she know you enchanted her necklace?” “No,” Toby said. “She was only fourteen when she left. And she was already so… worried. I had to reassure her so many times that she would be okay. That I trusted her. If Chelsey had known I was so worried that I felt the need to track her… she’d not have gone.” He paused for only a moment before adding, “And if your next question is why I don’t merely use the necklace to find her now, it’s because about a year and a half ago, I stopped receiving any input from it. I’ve no idea what that means. I… I hope it’s merely because the necklace broke, and the spell along with it.” His voice taking on a strangled note, he murmured, “That’s what it must mean, I think. Anything else…” His words died on his tongue. For just a second, Xavier could see himself in the man’s place. Sending Ivy back to Kyth had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, and if he’d had reason to believe she was in danger again while they were separated… “You’ve let her make her own way all these years,” Xavier said, mentally shaking it off. “Why come for her now? Why do you want her out of Courdon?” “Because Courdon…” Finally here he hesitated, although his voice remained even as he said, “Courdon is dangerous. She was told to never come here, and particularly with the revolution-- with Oliver--” “You call the king by his first name alone?” Gerard cut in. Then: “What kind of man calls the king by his first name alone?” “Perhaps he’s not my king, oh wise sergeant,” said Toby. “You do recall I’ve lived most my life in Valzaim, correct?” “Or perhaps”-- Gerard’s hand once again skipped conspicuously to his sheathed sword-- “we ought get back to the subject of your upbringing. And perhaps”-- his fingers curled over the handle-- “you ought stop giving sarcastic answers to our questions.” “Answer the question,” Xavier said sharply, and though the words were directed at Toby, he shot an irritable look at Gerard. Gerard returned Xavier’s glare with one of his own, before snapping his eyes back toward Toby as the man swallowed hard and said, “I told you, I was raised a minor noble in Ruom. House Dareios, just as I said. I’d not known the truth about my family’s fate, of course, living in Valzaim as I have. But otherwise I told you no lies.” Still here his voice remained firm but calm, although he’d subtly-- almost thoughtlessly-- turned his gaze down toward the floor. It was a shift so slight one might not have even noticed it if they hadn’t been watching for it in particular. Gerard, however, most certainly had been watching. “You’re lying to us,” he spat. “Godsdammit, you’re lying!” Whirling toward Elin and Xavier, he added hotly, “He’s lying. Better than even I could but-- his stare. It’s an avoidant measure, it is. I’d bet my life on it, he just sputtered a complete and utter fable to us.” Elin narrowed her eyes, focusing her gaze on Toby. She paused for a moment before taking a few steps forward until she was directly in front of Toby. She crouched down in front of him and established eye contact with him, not letting go of his gaze. “You had a family in Courdon, from a noble house,” Elin said evenly and deliberately. “Which noble house are you from?” His jaw clenched and quivering from what might either be fear or frustration, Toby said coolly, “ Dareios. As I’ve said now twice before.” “You’re lying!” Gerard snarled again, taking a pointed step forward. “Am I, now?” Teeth gritted, Toby craned his neck so that he was looking beyond Elin and instead at the young, brash lieutenant. “Do tell me, Gerard”-- he had to tamp back a grin as Gerard let out a hiss of fury at the prisoner using his first name, which he’d clearly snagged from one of Elin and Xavier’s many utterances of it-- “how you’re so darned sure about that. Especially since I’m under a godsdamned truth spell!” “Those can be broken!” Gerard shouted back. “Especially by a noble. Nobles train against them, condition--” “Do they?” Toby growled. Slipping deliberately into the high tongue, the man went on, “And pray tell, how is it, Gerard, that you’ve such a wealth of knowledge about the ways of nobility? I mean, really-- your accent is just as posh as mine, you’ve got enough random, arbitrary facts in your head about noble Houses to fill a library, you--” “This isn’t about me,” Gerard snapped, matching Toby’s dialect. “Perhaps we ought play some give and take,” Toby returned, his pale eyes flickering with rage. “Tell me about yourself, sergeant. How it is that a man with a lord’s accent wound up in the rebellion. And then-- maybe then-- will I give you the truth about me. Once I’ve proof that the truth spilled from my tongue won’t merely earn me a finale to what the Meltaimans started twenty-five years ago.” “Gerard,” said Xavier, his voice taut and his low accent particularly pronounced. “Stand down, before I have to send you out.” He turned back to the prisoner, his eyes narrowed coolly. “We have no reason to answer your questions,” he said as Elin stood next to him once more. “Tell me what I need to know about you. Then - and only then - will I decide if I can trust you. Otherwise? You’re wasting my time.” “Listen to your superior, sergeant,” Toby practically crooned at Gerard, slipping effortlessly back into the low tongue as he watched Gerard glower at Xavier’s reprimand. Then, to the older man: “I will deduce from the fact that you’ve not denied it-- nor has he-- that sweet Gerard here is, indeed, a noble. Can you at least tell me if I’m correct on that account?” “Yes,” Gerard said hotly. “I’m a nobleman. Good job, Lord Dareios. Now answer our godsdamned questions, and tell us who you really are.” For a moment, Toby said nothing, as if debating with himself one last time. Then, almost bitterly, he smiled. His eyes searing into Gerard, he snapped, “Nobody you ought be swearing at, little nobleman.” “Then tell us why he shouldn’t,” Elin snapped in. “Because,” Toby said, “last time I checked, lordling, it’s very bad form to curse out sons of the crown.” Part Two: There was an uncomfortably long pause as Xavier stared the man down, his face inscrutable. Finally, he spoke. “I can’t say I expected that would be what you were hiding,” he said softly, “but I begin to understand why you were hiding it. A prince of Courdon, approaching the leader of the rebellion…” He folded his arms. “You must have been very desperate, Toby.”
“Do you have children?” Toby asked simply. “Because if you do, you would understand why--”
“What,” Gerard cut in over him, as if only now wholly understanding what Toby had said, “is your name?”
“Excuse me?” Toby’s eyes flicked back toward the rebel, whose skin had gone very pale and whose jaw hung open as if he’d been punched.
“I said,” Gerard growled, “what’s your name? If you’re a son of the crown, who are you? Because last time I checked, no godsdamned son of the crown lives in Valzaim and has a face that looks like it’s seen the wrong side of a carving knife.”
“Oh?” Toby pursed his lips. “And are you very well-versed on sons of the crown, lordling? Really, tell me all about my family, I’m riveted, I--”
“Stop it,” Elin finally cut in. “Both of you. This can be answered without backtalk. You’ve already told us you’re royal. You may as well tell us your name.”
“Joram,” Toby said shortly. “Prince Joram Alaric. Youngest son of King Malik and Queen Benna.” Almost sneering, he added to Gerard, “Have you heard of me now, lordling?”
Gerard’s eyes grew even wider, as he gaped down at this purported prince like he’d never heard a more ridiculous thing in his life. “You are not,” he blurted, shaking his head. “Joram Alaric-- that’s absurd. What, did you just pluck a random name from your head, of somebody who’d be around your age?” He pointed an accusing finger at the prisoner. “Try again. Now.”
Joram. The name was such a distant memory that it took Xavier a few minutes to process. Then his eyes widened - Joram Alaric, the lost prince of Courdon. The former Minister of Slave Affairs who had seemingly disappeared into thin air shortly before his arranged wedding. It had been years since Xavier had even thought about him.
He was staring at the prisoner’s face, and Xavier suddenly realized that, absurdly, he was trying to match the man’s scarred features with those of the ghost in Courdonian regalia that had once haunted Ilsa’s inn. Kelcey, after his death.
Xavier shut his eyes tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. This was starting to give him a headache. “So you’re telling me - and I am not saying I believe you - that the lost prince of Courdon has spent all these years in Valzaim, raising a family. Fighting for their military.” It was so absurd as to be almost plausible. Choosing Joram’s name as an alias had to be worse than claiming the name of House Dareios.
“Correct,” the purported Joram said, with a shrug adding, “I know it must seem absurd. Your lordling has good reason to be skeptical. But that hardly makes it any less than the truth. And really-- if I were trying to pick a more plausible alternative than House Dareios, why the hell would I pick this one?”
“Because you’re mad as a rabid dog?” Gerard suggested, still glowering.
“Now, really, lordling, I thought we’d been over this,” Joram said smoothly. Almost tauntingly. As if he’d learned now that this was one of Gerard’s trigger points, and he sought nothing more than to press on it. “Insulting sons of the crown is very bad form--”
“I can insult whomever I’d like!” Gerard huffed. “I’m the soldier here-- you’re the prisoner-- and you’re no godsdamned prince! I would know!”
Elin had been quiet and tense, the tugging familiarity of the name finally dawning on her. For a moment, it was difficult to even recognize the words of the arguments around her. But then she shut her eyes tightly and put a hand to her forehead, letting out a sudden swear.
“Gerard, shut up for a moment so we can figure this out,” she snapped at him. She then turned her attention to Joram, peering at him through narrowed eyes. “You’re telling me that you’re Joram? After how many years? Do you have any idea what--”
She stopped herself and took a deep breath. It was odd, a little too strange that the man whose disappearance caused so much disaster would show up at their doorstep decades later. And yet she still couldn’t quite find herself denying the story. If anything, a part of her wanted it to be him, now that she was faced with a closure she never quite received. But there was still the chance that it was all a fluke, that he merely chose the wrong name. But then why would anyone lie about being a royal to the leaders of the rebellion? “...Is there a way you can prove it?”
“I suppose I could march to Rakine and have the king identify me, but you can imagine why I’d be hesitant on that account.” Joram smiled grimly. “Aside from that… I’m not sure. It’s been so long since I’ve been gone, I don’t know what of current court politics I could tell you to prove anything.”
“The king.” Gerard spat, rather than said, this word, as if it tasted bitter to him. “You knew him?”
“Of course I knew him,” Joram snapped. “We grew up together.”
“Perfect,” Gerard said, still clearly not believing a word the prisoner said. “Then tell us all about him, Prince Joram. Hell, tell us about the whole royal family! The palace, even. What’s it like? Where are the royal family’s quarters located? In the gardens, are the benches wood or stone? Are--”
“How will that help you?” Joram huffed. “I can’t imagine someone like yourself has spent much time around the royal family. Not like the Alarics to cavort over-much with the little lords, is it?”
“Who ever said I was a little lord?”
At this, Joram finally paused, slowly raking Gerard over with his eyes-- as if searching for any flicker of resemblance, recognition, some powerful family in Courdon to whom he could belong. “Talfryn?” he said finally. “Is that your family?”
Gerard’s gaze hard, he shook his head. “No.”
“Pike, then? Or Argall?” Again Gerard denied it, and Joram’s voice was almost accusatory as he spat, “It must be Duval, then. You’re not blonde enough for any House else. How is my mum’s old House doing these days? I’ve not heard good things through the rumour mill, as I’ve made my way through Courdon-- let’s see, are you one of Rylan’s sons? Or Meri’s? Although if you were Meri’s you’d not be able to claim the Duval name, so Rylan it must be, and my, does that explain a lot about your attitude--”
“Shut up,” Gerard hissed, a nerve clearly touched as Joram effortlessly rattled off the names of his mother’s siblings but, conspicuously, did not mention his actual mum.
Xavier hadn’t taken his eyes off Joram, his gaze scrutinizing, even calculating. “I think I do want to hear your memories of the palace,” he said, with a sidelong glance at Gerard. “If your story is true, there must be some things you can tell us.” The corner of his mouth quirked upwards, a sardonic smile. “And we do know a fair bit about House Alaric already, in fact. Know your enemy, as they say.”
“Very well,” Joram said, still smug over the way he’d so clearly gotten under Gerard’s skin. “To answer the esteemed lordling who may or may not be of House Duval, the royal family’s quarters are located in the northeastern wing of the palace, on levels one through four. They’re heavily fortified, and very few are allowed within them but for serving slaves, guards, and the royal family. The gardens have both stone and wooden benches-- as well as a few carved of marble. And as for Oliver, well…” Joram considered. “He was a temperamental boy. Much more than his father could handle. Rafe-- gods bless him-- had very fanciful ideas of what fatherhood would be like, and I’d well say that Oliver ruined every one of them. He was loath to punish the child, even when said child was tormenting everybody in his path: slaves, of course, but not only slaves. I was four years older than him, and he still treated me as if I were put on this world merely to please and entertain him. My father tried, of course, to manage him. Strike some fear and respect into him-- quite literally. But it was, I’d say, a middling success, at best. Oliver merely learned to mind when his grandfather was around and watching. But the moment he was gone, well…”
“What color are his eyes?” Gerard said simply. As if, shocked by Joram’s accurate spin, he could think of nothing else to say.
“Green.” Joram frowned. “Same as most of Rafe and Rhiannon’s children. Only Ezra had anything different, I think.”
Ezra has blue, Gerard thought automatically, his uncle’s face flashing in his mind. Dumbfounded, he looked toward Elin and Xavier, his expression drawn taut. “I don’t understand how,” he said, refusing to let his voice waver, “but he’s answered everything right.”
“Because I’m not lying, lordling,” Joram said. “Now, tell me-- who are you?”
“He doesn’t have to answer that,” Xavier said, before Gerard could reply. “But thus far… you haven’t given me any reason to disbelieve you.” He gazed at Joram with keen interest. “You said you were a mage. I wasn’t aware magic ran in the Alaric family - unless you were lying about that as well?”
“My grandmother was from House Talfryn,” Joram said evenly. “Not a mage, but that line is all tangled with magic, and I suppose the trait must have skipped a few generations. My talent, however, was not cultivated until I went to Valzaim.” Now clearly speaking only to Gerard, he added, “Oliver wouldn’t have known about my magic. Only my parents did. And after I left, well-- I doubt they spread it around, that they’d let their mage son disappear into thin air. It hardly would have reflected well on my father, and my father… well, he was very big on appearances.”
“Why wouldn’t they have cultivated your magic?” Gerard demanded. “A magician prince? Gods, I could imagine the crown salivating.”
“They did salivate,” Joram agreed. “But fortunately, I’d managed to hide my talents well, not keen on being used in such a way. It was once it came out that I ran.” Stare drifting back toward Xavier and Elin, he said stiffly, “I would not have my magic used to subjugate. Used to torment, as the crown would have forced me to do. And that’s a trait I instilled in my Chelsey. I imagine it’s why she decided to join up with you, despite the dangers it posed to her.”
Elin was quiet, contemplating, her mouth lined into a thin frown. And for a moment, she couldn’t keep eye contact with Joram, instead glancing first at Gerard, then Xavier, then at the floor before Joram. “It’s… plausible,” she said quietly. “And if that’s why you ran… It’s honorable. And I can understand why you did it. I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone.” She paused for a moment before letting out a sigh, rubbing her temples. “But by ’Woo, all the trouble caused in Kyth because of that, all this time…”
“I know that,” Joram said, his tone taking on a defensive air. “And I’m sorry. But I hardly could have predicted that when I ran. I was a twelfth child-- did you know that? Eleven brothers and sisters before me. I spent my entire life disappointing my mother, disappointing my father-- always too quiet, too sensitive, too meek. The idea that my father would have tried to start a war over my disappearance…”
Joram shook his head, his voice fading into nothing, only catching himself after a long, terse moment, after which he focused back on Gerard.
“Just tell me,” the so-called prince murmured. No longer demanding, no longer mocking, his words closer to a plea than anything else. “Who are you?”
“I…” Gerard hesitated, glancing over toward Elin and Xavier as if waiting for their permission-- their approval-- to spill his identity to Joram.
Xavier glanced at Gerard, then back to Joram. “He’s Prince Gerard Alaric,” he said simply. “Son of Oliver and Zaria.” That this last was only half-true was, he felt, irrelevant - Gerard’s true parentage was not up to Xavier to reveal, and as far as nearly anyone in the kingdom was concerned, he was Oliver’s son.
For a brief moment, Joram only stared, his eyes fixed on the swaggering rebel whom Xavier had just identified as his grand-nephew. Then, abruptly, the older prince laughed. Chains rattling beneath him, he leaned sharply forward and grinned ear to ear, practically cackling as he did.
“Dear gods,” he said, as if now he quite suspected the rebels were pulling his leg. “You’re joking.”
“Did he sound like he was joking?” Gerard growled.
“No.” Joram cocked his head. “But you-- Zaria and Oliver-- I know them both and--” He let out another short snort of laughter before composing himself. “You don’t look at all like an Alaric.”
“So I’ve been told.” Gerard clenched his jaw, his dark eyes-- indeed nothing like an Alaric’s-- simmering with anger. “Then again,” he went on brusquely, “you hardly look like a human at all, what with your butchered face. So really, are you the one who ought be commenting on others’ appearances?”
“Gerard,” Elin said sharply to Gerard. “Not another word. I mean it.”
“I’m the one who has to be quiet?” Gerard snarled, rounding toward Elin. “I’ve done nothing wrong here! He’s the one who swaggered to the city gates demanding to speak to the mage in charge-- who lied to us about who he was-- who’s now acting like I’m the one making up stories! He has no right, Elin! None!”
“You’re just aggravating him and you know it!” Elin snapped back. “And that’s not going to help anyone here.” She turned towards Joram. “Not that you did either.”
“He more than anybody should understand why I had to lie,” Joram replied with an unapologetic shrug. “I hardly knew your rebellion was in a tradition of taking on renegade Alarics as recruits.” Still staring at his grand-nephew, his voice was almost tender as he said, “It must have been hell to get away from that court. You’ve my respect for that, at least. I don’t imagine a childhood with Oliver as your father would have been one for the storybooks.”
“No,” Gerard said thickly. “It wasn’t, on both accounts. But I never lied about who I was to the rebellion, Joram. And I had much, much more to lose than you do.”
“Oh?” Joram pursed his lips. “And why’s that?”
“I wasn’t alone. I had a cousin with me-- Lila’s daughter. Telling the rebels who we were could have gotten both of us killed.” He frowned before adding, “And yet I did it, anyway. I didn’t lie.”
“Lila.” Joram wondered over the name as if he’d not thought it in decades. “Is she well?”
At this, Gerard was the one to laugh-- darkly, acerbically. “No, Joram,” he said. “Lila’s not well. Nobody is well, not once my father’s gotten his tenterhooks into them.”
“There is one thing I would like to verify,” Xavier said, and raised his wand. With a murmured incantation, the end of it lit, a dim pinprick glow. Holding it out in front of him, he stepped forward towards Joram. When the end of his wand was within a couple feet of the man, the change was instant and drastic, as the dim glow flared into a full, bright ball of light.
Xavier flicked his wand back down to his side, and the light went out. “You were telling the truth about one thing, at the very least,” he said. “You are a mage.”
And with that, Xavier realized suddenly, he was starting to be interested in the man’s offer. Everything was starting to add up, and mages were in short supply. If they could trust him enough to fulfill his request… Xavier glanced over his shoulder at Elin, wordlessly trying to gauge her reaction.
Elin still had a frown on her face, but it was one born out of contemplation. She looked at Joram up and down, taking him in, the way he was sitting, for any traces of deceit on his face… The face that looked distinctly royal, and yet still with some vague resemblances to the young blond-haired boy she once knew, who had once impersonated the prince and paid for it. Her frown deepened at that… But logically, she knew it wasn’t his fault. And everything else he had said added up. And the fact that he left the Alarics, only returning for his daughter… She noticed the look Xavier was giving her out of the corner of her eyes. She looked up to him… And gave him a small nod.
As if reading the look that passed between Elin and Xavier, Gerard gawped at them both. “You… you can’t be considering it,” he said. “Taking him on, after how he’s lied? That’s-- he’s-- when I found the rebellion, and told the truth, you still kept Julia and I chained as prisoners for months! And yet he swaggers in lying through his teeth, and in twenty minutes you’re still thinking of--”
“Gerard, this isn’t your decision,” Xavier said sharply. But then his expression softened slightly, and he sighed. “It also isn’t personal. I do trust you, and you have been good to Muriel. It doesn’t change the fact that he… may… have something to offer.”
“Unbelievable.” Gerard turned away from Joram and his in-laws both, instead facing back toward the door. “This is…” He gritted his teeth, and stood brewing for a moment before turning sharply around again. “Do you know what happened to Lila, Joram?” he asked.
Joram narrowed his eyes. “I don’t, no, but I fail to see what that has to do with this--”
“My father sent her to Lange. All by herself. She was only thirteen.” He took a menacing step forward. “By nineteen, she had two children, and the crown prince decided to include her in his purge of the court. She escaped with the kids, but only barely, and died ten years later in Kyth. About a year after that, my father got his hands on her daughter. Julia. Beat the hell out of her, and then proceeded to spend the next eighteen months he had her doing his best to work out a marriage deal for her, as if she were a shiny stone he’d found along the side of the road. Prepared to do the same thing to her as he’d done to Lila. Ship her off to the highest bidder, so to speak, because that would be best for the crown. Best for him.”
“That’s… awful.” Joram seemed legitimately upset. “But I don’t understand, Gerard, what it has to do with me joining the rebellion--”
“If you are who you truly say you are, then you’ve been gone, Joram,” Gerard snarled. “You ran from this kingdom like a coward. Lila was your niece, wasn’t she? And you didn’t even know a single godsdamned detail about what happened to her. Or that her daughter existed at all. Isn’t that right?”
“I… no,” Joram agreed. “I didn’t.”
“Exactly.” Gerard took another step. “So that’s the thing, Joram. You ran away without a care in the world, but everybody else… their lives went on. And now you don’t get to simply come back as if you’ve done nothing wrong. You don’t get to become a prized magician of the rebellion, carrying on as if you didn’t abandon this godsdamned kingdom three decades ago!”
“The point is that he seems willing to help us,” Elin intervened. “In a cause that will ultimately help Courdon and the people who need it. I’d rather he help this cause too late than he return and never help at all. Especially given what happened after his disappearance.” She sighed. “...Not that we won’t keep an eye on you, Joram.”
Xavier nodded his agreement, his gaze still fixed on Joram. “I can’t fault anyone for wanting to get away from this place,” he said. “And coming back, coming here - that in itself shows more loyalty to this kingdom than any of his kin who stayed behind to abuse others.” He turned to meet his son-in-law’s angered gaze, still calm. “I trust you, and I can’t rightly say I yet trust him. But I won’t turn him away, Gerard. That’s my decision.”
“Your decision, is it?” Gerard hissed. Fuming, he went on, “Fine. But gods help you if you let him near Matteus or Ash.”
“Matteus?” Joram echoed. “Ash?”
Gerard spun back toward him. “My brother and my daughter, my prince. Two of so many relatives whose names you don’t know.” Then, to Xavier: “I think I’d best be removing myself from this situation now. Before I do something that’ll end with me in chains. I do have a pregnant wife at home waiting for me, after all. Who knows-- perhaps she and I will frolic off to the coast with Aislin and take the next ship over to Valzaim. Maybe we’ll stay there for a year-- or thirty. Just make sure not to be too upset with us when we come back, alright? After all, it’s hardly a big deal so long as we’re willing to help you once we’re back, right?”
And with that, Gerard stormed away, practically flinging himself past the guards and up the stairwell, soon his furiously echoing footsteps the only lingering evidence that he’d been there at all.
Elin watched Gerard as he left, a frown on her face and an uncomfortable silence lingering in the cellar before she sighed. “We’re going to have to talk to him about that eventually,” she said, as if resigning herself to the task. “Depends on what Muriel says to him later.”
She paused before shaking her head and turning back to Joram. One thing at a time. “You said you wanted to send a message to you daughter? ...I think we might be able to work that out.”
Joram took a moment to respond, as if still jarred by Gerard’s abrupt exit. Then, he nodded, his voice soft as he said, “Yes, if you could do that, I would be immensely grateful. It… doesn’t need to be anything fancy. I just want her to know that I’m here, and for her to let me know if she’s okay. I’ve been so worried about her.” He swallowed hard, hesitating for a second before he added, “That man. Is he really Oliver and Zaria’s son? I mean-- I’m not questioning your honesty, I just… I don’t know. I have grown children of my own, so it should hardly surprise me that my relatives would, too, but the idea of Oliver as a father…”
The prince wavered for a moment, then, before picking back up again with a dark, contemplative tone. “When we were kids, we used to play together. Not for want of each other’s company, but because we both lived full-time at the palace, and there were very few other children in our age range there consistently whom my father had deemed appropriate playmates. One day we were in the gardens with Oliver’s cousin and my niece, Caitlyn, who was visiting from Roth. I must have been twelve or so, Oliver eight or nine, Caity even younger. There was a fountain-- gilded, very ornate, we weren’t supposed to be near it in the first place-- and Caity started throwing stones in the water, just to watch them sink. That is, of course, until she got a better idea: splashing Oliver. At first, it was all in good fun. She splashed, Oliver dodged away and splashed back, I yelled at the both of them to stop it before we got caught-- but then…”
Even now, decades later, Joram winced at the memory.
“Caity splashed him. He didn’t dodge in time, and the water hit him on the front of his trousers. He was aggravated immediately-- even before Caity teased him that she’d tell everybody he’d, well…” Joram smiled grimly. “I’ve never in my life see someone turn so dark so quickly. So calculated. For a moment, I thought he might hit her, and I stepped in to stop him. But he didn’t. Instead, he ran forward and dove into the fountain. For a moment, I didn’t understand… but then, as he crawled out, he smiled at her, and told Caity he was off to find my father now. That he was going to tell the king that she’d pushed him in. Of course, I protested. I told him that I’d seen the whole thing, that nothing like that had happened at all. You have to understand-- he was only eight or nine years old. But the ice in his voice when he turned to me and said that if I contradicted him, he’d tell my father I’d helped Caity, that I’d held him down as he’d writhed in the water…”
Joram shook his head. “My father lashed her. I don’t know how many times, but she was bleeding by the end. I thought then that perhaps Oliver might feel bad. That once he saw how much pain she was in, he’d regret what he’d done. But he didn’t. When he saw her bloodshot eyes that night at supper, he merely smiled at her. Grinned ear to ear as my father made Caity apologize to him.”
And Joram’s voice was pure venom as he finished then: “That boy was wicked. And I can’t imagine he’s improved any as a man. The idea of a child being raised by him… I wouldn’t wish such a fate on my worst enemy. Let alone my kin.”
Elin’s eyes had widened at the story, but at the same time, she didn’t look to be too shocked. “We’ve… heard a bit about what he’s been like as a parent. And you’re right to be concerned. From what you’ve said, it sounds like he’s always been a terrible man. What he did, that’s… That’s beyond family rivalry and just cruel. All the more reason to fight against him.”
She then sighed. “But… Yes. Gerard was raised by him.”
Xavier’s brow had furrowed, but he nodded. “His children are terrified of him,” he said quietly. “It’s a terrible thing. And when Gerard first came to us…” He gave a small shrug. “I didn’t trust him, not for a long time. But as I learned what Oliver was like, I began to understand.”
“The other boy,” Joram said. “Matteus. How old is he?”
“He’s twelve years old,” said Xavier.
At this, Joram narrowed his eyes. “Gerard… okay, he’s a grown man. Perhaps he runs to your rebellion because, as you’ve said, his father terrifies him. And his daughter-- well, she belongs to him, so fine. But how, precisely, does the revolution come to be in possession of his child brother?”
There was a dark edge to his voice here. An underlayer of threat. His face was suddenly hard as he stared dead red at Elin and Xavier, his chapped lips drawn tight.
Unconsciously Xavier’s fingers tightened around his wand. “His choice,” he said sharply. “Certainly not mine. He followed his brother, it seems, a year or two after Gerard joined us. The both of them begged me not to send him back - because, I suppose, they knew exactly what Oliver would have done to him if I had.”
Elin sighed. “And believe me, once he had arrived… We did want to send him somewhere safer. And we probably would have much sooner had Gerard not been so… stubborn.”
Joram did not seem altogether convinced, although he didn’t press the matter further. Instead, his eyes fell to the chains that bound him. “So,” he said, “I’ve offered you my services. Told you who I am, at great personal risk to myself. Might I lose the chains?”
Xavier gave a single, short nod. “I think I can trust you that far,” he said, though his voice was still guarded. He flicked his wand at the chains. “Alowoomora,” he said, and with a faint rattling sound of metal-on-metal the shackles fell away from Joram’s wrists.
Free from the chains, Joram wavered to his feet, slowly as though he wanted to make it very clear that he was not a threat. “Thank you,” he said, before with a terse smile adding, “And my wand?”
“One thing at a time,” Elin said with scant hesitation. “You’ll get it back when we’re more sure of you.”
“I suppose that’s fair.” Joram sighed. “So long as my charming grand-nephew isn’t on the voting committee. Trust me when I tell you that I’ll be far more useful to your cause equipped with my wand than without it. I’m probably one of the only men you’ve got with actual field experience as a war mage. And as long as you help me reunite with my daughter, my loyalty is yours.”
“We will find her,” Xavier said. “And as for your wand… well, as soon as I am perfectly convinced you will only pose a danger to the enemy.” He smiled crookedly. “Forgive me if I am still less than trusting of a trained war mage who is also a prince of Courdon.”
“Was a prince of Courdon,” Joram corrected, almost ruefully, before giving the dark cellar around him a cursory glance. “Not that this space isn’t lovely,” he said, “but if I’m not a prisoner, I assume I’ll be given better accommodations? If so, I’m rather exhausted. And if I might be shown to them…”
“We have some housing for soldiers,” Elin commented. “We can give you a place in one of them. Follow us.”
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Post by Gelquie on Apr 1, 2015 18:10:01 GMT -5
Monsters<August, 1344; Echar, Teral> (Content Warning: Violence, Implied Awfulness) Part One: Lydia Kidde stood in the rear courtyard of Echar Castle, her hands cupped as a visor above her brow as she cast her eyes upward at the sky. It was the middle of summer and blisteringly hot, the cotton-puff clouds that stretched at the horizon doing little to temper the sear of the sun. August in any part of Courdon was a feat in misery, but here in Teral-- so far inland and south-- the breezeless air always felt especially stifling, like the inside of a kiln. It seemed strange that once upon a time she had called this miserable place home. “Are you sure you don’t want to go back inside, General?” asked the reedy dark-haired man who stood at her side, his clothes, too, soaked through with sweat. “I’m glad to wait here in your place and simply fetch you when they arrive.” “No, that’s alright, Sergeant.” She spared him a glance and a thin, exhausted smile. “I’d like to see it, honestly-- General Lynn atop a gryphon. They’ve always bloody terrified him, you know.” The sergeant quirked a brow. “The Branded Lord’s afraid of gryphons?” “All men have their monsters.” Lydia shrugged. “All that matters is one’s willingness to overcome them.” And overcome, indeed, Xavier clearly had: The Branded Lord’s face betrayed no visible signs of unease as, several minutes later, a trio of gryphons came into view-- first but dots at the horizon but growing steadily largely, until finally they landed only feet away from Lydia and the sergeant, kicking up dirt as their massive talons hooked into the baked ground beneath. The beasts were only a recent acquisition, a half dozen of them snared from the militia headed by Lord Erling of Ruom after a particularly bloody battle outside Cesthen last month. Possessing them had made rapid travel considerably easier in desperate situations, but it didn’t come without its drawbacks: Aside from Xavier’s personal phobia, the gryphons were conspicuous in the sky, inhaled food like sponges taking on water, and most pressingly, hardly anyone in the rebel army could competently pilot them. Well, except for-- “Was it really necessary to bring him?” Lydia said by way of greeting as she watched her brother and his men dismount from the saddle. The him in question, Lieutenant Colonel Gerard Alaric, pursed his lips at the red-haired woman. “I’m the best pilot in this entire army,” he returned. Gesturing to the men who’d commanded the other two gryphons-- Xavier had ridden rear behind the prince-- and who were presently wavering on their feet as though suffering from severe spells of vertigo, he added, “Do you really want your brother riding with them? They almost lost control of the bloody things three times from Ruom to here. I swear, I thought Captain Lindsay was going to fall off the bloody saddle mid-air and go tumbling to his death-- and that was just straight flying, only the gods know what would have happened had we actually had the king’s army in pursuit and had to evade them--” “Stay your tongue,” Lydia snapped, stiffening. “I’ve zero patience for you right now. You do not speak unless you’re spoken to, or so help me you will spend the entire visit here locked in the cellar with only rats for company. Is that clear?” Gerard froze, holding his hands out to her as though in placation. “Yes, General,” he said. Xavier frowned. “We got here, at least,” he said. “Though I can’t say it was easy to pull together three pilots on such short notice - what’s going on, Lydia? Why the urgency? I thought the Echar situation had been taken care of.” “Yes, Major General Thorne certainly took care of it.” She gritted her teeth before turning toward the castle that rose behind her: an ugly stone behemoth that had certainly seen better days and still wore signs of the battle that had taken place on its ground not more than a week ago. Or, Lydia thought darkly, battle was hardly the best description of it. There’d been no true fighting-- at least, not on the enki’s side. The rebels had come expecting carnage, and instead they’d gotten… She didn’t even know what they’d gotten. Not entirely. Other than that when she’d arrived three days after the dust had settled, she’d not much liked what she had found. “Enki Anson fled,” Lydia went on, looking back toward Xavier. “Thorne says he didn’t even try to hold it, nor did his city guard make any attempt at keeping Echar proper. The enki took his wife and heir with him, and the gods only know where they went. Our men haven’t seen hair nor hide of him since.” Xavier’s brow furrowed. “So we took the castle and city without resistance, which I would assume means no casualties. That’s… well, at the least it’s not the worst thing that could have happened. Has there been any attempt made to find the enki and his family?” “Of course there has. But that’s the thing,” Lydia said, a dark edge to her tone. “He didn’t take his family, Xavier. At least, not the whole of it. I suppose in the heat of the moment-- when Thorne’s men, thousands strong, breached the walls in the dead of night, and Lord Pike had to flee very fast and travel very, very light…” She swallowed hard. “He left them. His two daughters. Probably hedging on the fact that our army wouldn’t harm young girls.” At this, Gerard, previously listening on in the commanded silence, took a sharp step forward. “My cousins?” he asked; it was his father’s sister, Anna, who was wife to Anson Pike. “Are they… are they okay?” Part of Lydia wanted to growl at him to stay quiet, but in good conscience she couldn’t-- not with what she had to say next. “You do know,” she said hesitantly, “that Major General Thorne was raised at Echar Castle, correct?” “Yes,” Xavier said slowly, “I was aware of that when I assigned him to this mission. I expected he would be an asset.” His stomach lurched as in spite of himself he began to put the pieces together. He did not in any way want to hear what Lydia was going to say next. “It was an asset,” Lydia agreed softly. “At least, in quickly and successfully taking the castle. But it was also… personal for him. Making Lord Anson pay for all the harm he’d caused Thorne… and Thorne’s family.” Her expression grim, she went on, “And so, as far as he tells it, when we took the castle and he found those girls cowering in their chambers, alone and vulnerable, without their title or father to hide behind…” “ Are they okay?” Gerard hissed, fire flaring in his dark eyes. He looked about ready to pulverize somebody, his hand hovering conspicuously over his sheathed sword. “They’re alive,” Lydia said. “But… I wouldn’t call them okay. When I got here, Thorne had-- they were--” Lydia shook her head, her gaze settling on Xavier. “I’ve detained him; he’s in irons, and so is his second and anyone else I gleaned to be involved. But… I’m not sure what to do with him beyond that.” Then, more softly: “Or the girls.” “Take me to them.” Gerard took another heavy step forward, his nostrils flaring with pure, unadulterated rage. When Lydia didn’t move, he added sharply, “ Now.” “Lieutenant Colonel, you’re not the one giving orders here. You need to calm down--” “Calm down?” Gerard cut in with a miserable, furious laugh. Jabbing an almost threatening finger at Lydia’s chest, he growled, “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down!” He spun back toward Xavier. “Those girls are my kin. Noa’s maybe fifteen, and Arianne’s even younger than Matteus. Take me to them!” Xavier’s face had settled into a mask of cold fury. “Let him see them, Lydia,” he said, his voice like ice. “I imagine the sight of a familiar face would not be unwelcome. And I want to see for myself what Thorne has done to them.” His voice wavered slightly, his jaw clenched. “As his commanding officer, this is my responsibility.” Lydia frowned but did not contradict her brother, rather sparing a glance over her shoulder at the lower-ranking men who still stood by the gryphons. “Stable them,” she ordered. “And then you can find your way to the grand hall. There should be food and drink there for you.” The highest ranked amongst them, Captain Lindsay, rose his hand in a salute. “Yes, General,” he replied, before turning on his heel to oblige the command. “Well, then.” Lydia sighed, gesturing toward Gerard and Xavier both. “Follow me.” ** The Pike girls were being kept in the private chambers of the elder one, Noa, on the third floor of Echar Castle. There were two guards posted outside the suite, but they parted readily for Lydia, Xavier, and Gerard, swinging open the door so that the two generals and Gerard could pass through. The front sitting room of the two-room suite was empty, and the french doors that led into the sleeping room beyond had been outright removed, leaving a gaping mouth in their wake. “We didn’t want them to be able to lock themselves inside,” Lydia said when she saw Gerard notice this-- and bristle. If this sated the prince, he didn’t show it; glancing into the exposed bedchamber, he shouldered around Xavier and Lydia and started briskly toward the two girls who sat within it, shoulder-to-shoulder on a rumpled bed. Dark-haired and slim, they were barefoot and wore matching, short-sleeved nightdresses-- and bruises, with what seemed like every other inch of their bare skin mottled with healing marks. The younger one, Arianne, also sported a black eye and split lip, her hair hanging just barely to her chin in uneven, hackneyed locks. Someone had clearly chopped it off recently and violently; even aside from the slipshod job, an enki’s daughter would hardly be permitted in her regular life to run about with boy’s length hair. For a moment Xavier could only stare, speechless with horror and a sudden flare of anger at what his officer had done. “And you found them like this?” he said, very quietly; if he spoke any louder, he didn’t know if he’d be able to contain his temper. “How long did Thorne and his men have them before you got here?” He glanced at Gerard, who was just short of vibrating with fury, and gave him a short nod. “Go check on them, see that they’re…” Xavier faltered; the girls were very clearly not all right. “It may help for them to see you,” he said instead. He told himself that it was not cowardice, only caution, which led him to send Gerard to speak to the girls instead of doing it himself. The sight of another strange man in rebel garb was almost certain to do more harm than good. And objectively this was true, though Xavier could not deny to himself that it wasn’t his only reason for holding back. That he knew good and well that this had effectively been done in his name, whether he condoned it or not, and at that moment he was too ashamed of having sent Thorne in the first place to be able to look those girls in the eye. “I found them worse than this. Arianne’s lip was still bleeding,” Lydia murmured in reply, her eye trained on Gerard as he came to a halt at the bedside, the girls silently staring up at him in something between relief and incredulity. “He had them over three days. I didn’t think it was a hurry to get here. After all, when I heard that battle was bloodless, that we’d taken the castle and city proper without any resistance, and that the enki had gone and fled…” “And he’s still alive?” Gerard asked, his voice quivering with rage. “You found them like this, and Thorne’s still alive?” Raking an agitated hand through his dark hair, he sat down on the edge of the bed and reached a hand out toward Noa, who was closest to him, gently draping his fingers over her bare, bruised wrist. “You’re okay now,” he said to her, the raw fury in his tone not at all matching the soothing intent of his words. “I will not let anything else happen to either of you. I promise on my life and my honour, I will kill anyone who lays so much as another fingertip on you.” “You’re… a rebel, though,” Noa choked out in the high tongue, as she blinked back tears. “Mama says you ran away to join them, and your badge, it’s--” Sharply, she jerked away from her cousin’s touch. “You’re wearing the same badge he has.” “What he’s done is not what this badge means,” Gerard returned, matching her dialect. Looking back over his shoulder toward Xavier and Lydia, the prince shifted back into the low tongue and added, “I want to see him. I want to see that bloody monster. Now.” “No,” Xavier said sharply. “I want you here with them, they need someone they can trust. I am responsible for Thorne. I’ll deal with him.” “Like hell.” Gerard stood, menacing, and thrust a finger down toward his quivering cousins. “These girls are my family. They were defenseless. Their godsdamned father might have fled like a coward, but that just means it’s up to me now to protect and avenge them.” Strangled, he added, “When you found Rylan Duval, you thrust a knife through his heart. I don’t see why I don’t get the same courtesy, General.” Xavier shook his head. “What Thorne did, he did as an officer of the rebellion. As one of my officers. I have to take responsibility for what happened here, and I want to make bloody sure that nothing like it happens again.” Eyeing Gerard, he added, “I know you trust me, Gerard. So trust me when I say that Thorne is not going to escape the consequences for his actions.” “I want to be there--” “No.” Lydia’s voice was iron. “If you want to protect them, then you can stay here with them. But you’re not seeing Thorne.” Gerard opened his lips, as though to protest again, but before he could, Arianne let out a whimper. The prince’s eyes snapped down toward his cousin like a fish grabbed by a hook, and his expression went from unadulterated fury to stricken sympathy as he noticed that all of a sudden she was crying. Almost sobbing. “Ari,” he murmured, reaching out toward her but, after Noa had wrenched away from him, not daring to touch her without permission. “It’s okay, honey. You’re okay. I promise you.” “Papa left us,” the girl hiccuped in return. “Noa keeps telling me he didn’t do it on purpose, that he would have taken us if he could have, but there’s no way it was an accident, is there? I mean, he took Benedict, didn’t he, and Ben’s chambers are just down the hall, and--” “He did leave you,” Gerard agreed miserably, unable to deny it. “And I’m sorry that he did, Arianne. I’m so sorry. But you know me, right? From all the times you visited court with your mama?” When Arianne nodded, he took a deep breath and went on, “I’m here now. And nothing else bad is going happen to you or Noa. If anyone wants to try, well-- they’ll have to get through me first. And I will not let that happen.” As if to accentuate his point, he patted the sword at his hip. Xavier’s chest hurt watching them. If her hair had been red rather than dark, if she’d been only slightly paler, that could have been Ivy bruised and sobbing on the bed. Thorne had hurt them, as Rylan had hurt Ivy and young Sarah, except Rylan had always been his enemy and there was no escaping the fact that Thorne was one of his own. It made him feel sick. “He won’t get away with this, Gerard,” he murmured. “I promise you that.” With that, the Branded Lord turned on his heel, all too eager to get away from the scene. “Show me where Thorne is being kept, Lydia,” he said, his voice sharp and furious. “I want a word with him.” Part Two: Major General Castor Thorne, one of the top-ranking soldiers in the rebel army, rather looked like a runaway slave dragged home in fetters to his master. Chained by wrists and ankles both in the musty cellar of Echar Castle, the young man’s face was as smooth and unreadable as glass as he watched Generals Kidde and Lynn step into the room. A flickering lantern that swung from Lydia’s hand was the only source of light in the space, casting skinny shadows along the packed-earth floor, and the cool air smelled of sweat and mold.
“Castor,” Lydia greeted thinly, electing to use neither his surname nor his title. Gesturing to Xavier, who loomed a few feet behind her, she added, “General Lynn wishes to speak with you.”
Slumped against the loamy, moss-crept wall, Castor Thorne pursed his lips. “Sent for the Branded Lord, did you?” he asked neutrally. Then, to Xavier: “And to what do I owe the pleasure, General Lynn? I haven’t seen you since… what was it, the battle in Ivonette nearly two years yonder?”
“I didn’t come to reminisce,” said Xavier sharply. “I came about the Pike girls and how they’ve been treated. Under your orders.”
Thorne leaned forward, the iron manacles that held him clanking as he did, his long black hair hanging like a curtain over his face. “The Pike girls,” he echoed. “You mean the spoiled, obnoxious whelps of Lord Anson Pike and Princess Anna Alaric?” Fury flashed across the major general’s face as he continued, “Those girls are filled with rotten blood and were reared by rotten people. Their father has never shown a flea’s width of compassion for any of our soldiers whom he’s captured-- nor any slave who’s ever lived beneath his rule.” Eyes dancing to Lydia, he prompted, “We have matching brands, don’t we, General Kidde? You can vouch for the fact that the Pike family--”
“They are children,” Lydia cut in. “That their father’s made your life hell hardly gives you permission to torment them.”
“I don’t care what their father did,” Xavier snapped. “Are you an enki, Thorne? Or perhaps you have decided they have the right ideas about torturing and abusing people who can’t fight back? Because in case you’ve forgotten, you are under my command. Not King Oliver’s. And this is not behavior I tolerate from anyone under my command, much less one of my highest ranked officers.”
“When I escaped from this wretched place,” Thorne responded, his voice far too measured for the anger that was suddenly patent on his face, “back near the start of the war, my sister tried to come with me. She’d always been one of Anson’s… favorites, and that’s part of what spurred me to run in the first place. Because I couldn’t stand idly by as he hurt her anymore--”
“I don’t want to hear it, Castor,” Lydia said.
But Thorne merely shook his head. “Let me finish.” He clenched his chained hands. “We hadn’t made it far when we heard dogs behind us. My sister thought it was over. That we were going to get caught and dragged back here. She couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t stand it. She said that she wouldn’t let them take her. That she’d rather be dead than back with the enki. We’d brought a knife with us, when we escaped. Filched it from the kitchens.” His gaze bearing into Xavier’s, Thorne hissed, “Do you see where this is going, General Lynn?”
Xavier met his eyes, unflinching. “Hurting them will not bring your sister back,” he said. “It will not even avenge her. We’ve all seen people we care about suffer at the hands of the enkis, Castor… the answer is not to make their children suffer in our place.” He leaned forward. “I don’t care where they came from, because all I’m seeing is the fact that one of my own officers beat and tormented children.”
“What does a girl like that matter to you?” Castor retorted, anger finally slipping into his tone. “Because she shouldn’t. And that you have forgotten where you came from-- that you’ve let your own godsdamned daughter marry blood of the crown, that right now as we speak she probably has one of the king’s grandchildren suckling at her breast-- hardly means that the rest of us will follow suit, or spare any pity for the wretched offspring of enkis and royals. Nor ought I be sitting here in chains over it, spoken to as though I’m the one who’s done wrong!”
Xavier lashed out to grab the front of Castor’s tunic, dragging him forward. “Don’t you dare bring my granddaughter into this,” he hissed. “For all you claim to hate him, Castor, you’re the one acting like Anson Pike right now. As if those girls are less than human because of who their father is, as if that somehow gives you the right to- to use them as if they’re just--” He couldn’t even finish his sentence, too angry to speak and nearly trembling with rage. “You disgust me,” he spat. “And I’ll have no place for a man like you in this army.”
In the Branded Lord’s grip, Thorne stiffened. “I’ve been one of your most loyal soldiers for over six years. I’ve headed countless successful campaigns and missions. I took over the bloody capital of Teral without losing a single man under my command! You’d oust me over something like this? Over the godsdamned spawn of the enki whose grandfather tormented your own sister? Forget the fact that they’re nieces of the king, they’re also--”
“If you’re going to use me as an excuse, Castor-- do you know who my daughter’s father is?” Lydia growled, taking a pointed step forward; when Thorne offered no reply, she went on, “The former sultan of Mzia. Do you think that she would deserve to be hurt over that fact? Because his blood is half of hers?”
“That’s… different.” Castor clenched his jaw. “That’s--”
“There’s no difference,” Xavier said coldly. “You’re the same as the man who looked at my daughter and decided he was allowed to abuse her, simply because her father was a slave. And I can’t-- I won’t allow this, it has to stop.” He let go of Castor then, clasping his hands behind his back. “You were one of my most loyal soldiers once,” he agreed, a faint hint of sorrow in his voice. “And I thought you were better than this.” Xavier stepped back, looking the chained man up and down with clear distaste on his face. “That was my mistake.”
“What, then?” Castor asked, laughing hollowly. “You dump me out the city gates? Strip away my badge and send me wandering the countryside like a lost little lamb, forgetting all the things I’ve done for you?”
For the first time Xavier hesitated, his brow furrowed, but then his face hardened. “You’re not being sent away,” he said quietly. “What happened here was an atrocity. I cannot ever let this happen again.” Rather than look directly at Castor, he cast a sidelong glance at Lydia, as if seeking her approval for what he was about to say. “You’ll… be executed for this, Castor. You and those of your officers who took part in what you did. I’m… sorry.”
For a long, stunned moment, Castor merely gaped, his gaze flitting rapidly between Xavier and Lydia and then back again. His dark eyes teeming with pure disbelief, he finally let out a harrowed, strangled laugh. “You’re going to execute me? For this?”
“You’re simply lucky,” Lydia said thinly, “that we uphold our own values in these things, Castor. That we won’t make your death any more painful or brutal than it has to be.” Her eyes drifting up toward the dripping ceiling above, she added, “There is, after all, a man upstairs right now who would, without a doubt, tear you limb to limb if General Lynn or I gave him permission.”
“You can’t execute me.” Castor’s jaw trembled. “I-- I--”
“Either we execute you,” Lydia cut in, “or we will turn you loose. Into the nearest encampment of king’s army men, with a note pinned to your tunic detailing what you did to those little girls. Your choice.”
“I’ll assemble the soldiers tomorrow,” Xavier said, a heaviness to his voice. “You have until then, Castor. Make your peace with your gods, if you so choose. I will leave you be.”
Castor said nothing else, only stared into Xavier and Lydia’s backs with his jaw agape as the two generals turned and strode out of the room, their footsteps soon thumping on the stone staircase that led back aboveground. As they ascended, Lydia held tight to the lantern and tried not to let her stomach churn too violently. This was hardly the first time she-- or Xavier, for that matter-- had ordered a rogue soldier executed in the course of the war. But it was the first time they’d had to do it with somebody so close. So trusted.
“Are you okay, Xavier?” the red-haired woman asked as they reached the top of the steps. Pausing on the landing, she turned to study her brother’s tightly drawn face. “I know that can’t have been easy. Gods, that’s most of the reason I sent for you at all. Because no matter the vile things that dripped out from his mouth… the idea of issuing that order… of setting about to cleave his head off from his shoulders after all the years I’ve spent trusting his judgment…”
“I trusted him too,” Xavier said in a low voice. “Liked him, even. And I - I don’t want to do this, Lydia. I had half a mind to send for Gerard, let him do what he wished so long as that blood wasn’t on my hands--” His voice broke. “But I can’t, can I? He’s not just one of my trusted officers. I promoted him, I sent him here. And I have to be the one to… end this.”
“No one will blame you if you’re not the axman, Xavier,” Lydia replied. “If we’re executing Thorne and his second, and most of the higher officers who were involved…” She sighed. “Who’s the next highest ranking soldier left here? Have them swing the sword. It needs to be a leader, but it hardly needs to be the leader.”
It didn’t take Xavier long to realize who that man would be. “...Gerard. It’s Gerard, Lydia, and - it’s personal for him. Maybe too personal. The men would not see him as an impartial axman, you know that.”
“Lindsay, then.” Lydia shrugged. “Your incompetent pilot. He’s a captain, isn’t he? And certainly has no stake in either Castor or the Pike girls.”
“Yes,” Xavier said slowly. “Lindsay…” He frowned, looking at his sister. “Do you think it’s enough, Lydia? Because gods know I don’t want to kill Castor, but I need to make this absolutely clear - that this can never happen again, or--”
Xavier’s voice died away at the sudden snarl of angry voices around the corner, followed rapidly by the sound of footsteps beating against the hard stone floor. Both the Branded Lord and his sister turned sharply toward the clamor, each of them stiffening and Lydia’s hand dancing toward the knife at her belt, as if she half-expected a belligerent to come hurtling at her.
But it wasn’t an enemy-- only Gerard, the prince’s face etched with pure, unadulterated fury as a young, willowy corporal attempted in vain to hold him back, gasping as she tried to block him with her body: “Please-- I told you, sir-- you can’t go down there-- I’ve orders that no one but the Branded Lord and General Kidde can--”
“Let me through,” Gerard growled, elbowing her back. Then, as he spied Lydia and Xavier gaping at him as though at a charging beast, he thrust a finger out toward them, spittle flying from his lips as he demanded, “I need to go down there and see that monster. Now. And I swear to the gods, if you don’t let me through--”
Xavier reached out as if to grab his son-in-law or hold him back. “Stop,” he said, a commanding note to his voice. “I thought you were going to remain with the girls, Gerard, what--”
“Let me down those bloody stairs. Now!” Gerard’s voice was hot as molten lead.
“No.” This was Lydia, her green eyes narrowed and her hand still hovering over the dagger at her hip. Nodding brusquely at the bewildered corporal in a silent dismissal, the general added, “You were already told you’re not allowed to see Thorne, and that order still stands. And I don’t appreciate you manhandling your subordinates!”
“I don’t care about your godsdamned orders!” Gerard yelled. “And I wasn’t manhandling her, I was just--”
“Enough,” Xavier snapped. “You have your orders. I want you back with the Pike girls, and--”
“Do you know what he did to Arianne? On top of everything else?” Gerard snapped. When neither Xavier nor Lydia immediately offered a reply, the prince repeated: “Do you know what he did?”
Xavier felt that sick twist in the pit of his stomach again. “Tell me,” he said.
“You saw her fat lip and black eye. That he’d cut off all her hair. That was a punishment-- because she tried to escape from him. Because she fought back.” The prince was quite literally trembling, in voice and body both. “But that’s not all he did to her. After all, what else does one do with an escaping slave?”
He could see now where this was going, and wished that he couldn’t. Xavier felt his hands clench into fists. “He didn’t,” he said softly.
“He whipped her bareback. And after that-- when, as Noa and Arianne tell it, she lay bleeding and sobbing on the floor-- well, the major general still wasn’t done with her.” Tapping his collarbone, Gerard hissed, “He branded her, Xavier. Found an iron in the smithy and branded her with the Pike sigil.”
For a moment Xavier was too angry to speak. Just briefly it was tempting to let Gerard have his way, to let that be the end of it. “Gods,” he breathed. “I didn’t think--” It was still difficult, even after everything he had seen and heard today, to reconcile his image of Castor Thorne with the man who’d been willing to commit such acts. “Have they-- have their wounds been seen to?”
“No,” Gerard said, his gaze then flicking toward Lydia. “Why didn’t you have them tended to?” he demanded. “Thorne’s been in the cellar for days, hasn’t he? And Arianne under your care and authority?”
“She didn’t tell me,” Lydia said softly. “If I’d known--”
“You should have checked! Especially given what else you knew he’d done to them!”
“I didn’t want to traumatize them further, Gerard,” Lydia returned. “They’re terrified of me, I hardly wanted to strip them down to check them for wounds without very strong cause--”
“I can heal them, Gerard,” Xavier said, though he was still frowning thunderously at the thought of what Thorne had done. “If you think it wouldn’t distress them further to see me. I would send for a female healer, but… I don’t think there’s a female mage in this battalion.” Not for the first time, Xavier wished the rebellion had more trained mages. Ordinarily he did not mind using his magic for healing - there were far worse ways to use magic in war, some of which he’d had to utilize firsthand - but he hated the thought of causing the girls more distress by his presence. Like it or not, he was the Branded Lord - not the respected leader, the protector of the enslaved, but the savage enemy who terrified noble children, whose men were monsters.
Gerard wavered. “She’ll be afraid of you,” he said. “But I made her show me the lash marks, and they’re…” He shook his head, at once furious and grim. “I’m afraid they’re getting infected.”
“I see,” Xavier said quietly. “Then I think I had better. There are other mages here, but I don’t…” He hesitated, his mouth set in a grim line. “I would rather handle this myself.”
“I’d rather you handle it, too,” Gerard admitted, before once again sparing a glance toward the staircase behind Lydia and Xavier. Considerably calmer now than he had been a few moments ago, the prince asked, “What’s going to happen? With Thorne?”
“He’ll be executed tomorrow,” Xavier said flatly. “By my own hand.”
Lydia, finally removing her hand from her sheathed dagger, quirked a brow. “The others, too,” she added. “Thorne’s second and everyone else who was involved. We’re not simply letting this go lightly punished, Lieutenant Colonel.”
“And my cousins?” Gerard asked. “What are you going to do with them?”
At this, Lydia faltered, a looking passing between her and Xavier. “Let’s leave that for later,” she said carefully. “For now, I have other duties to tend to, but why don’t you and General Lynn head back to the girls’ chambers so that he can heal Arianne’s wounds? The sooner we get her out of pain, the better, right?”
“Fine,” Gerard agreed thinly. Then, to Xavier: “Lead the way.”
Part Three: “I don’t want him to see my back, Gerard,” Arianne hissed not long later, the girl’s face drawn tight as she alternately flitted her gaze between her cousin and the Branded Lord. “And you can’t make me show him.” “Arianne.” The prince pressed a frustrated hand to his temple. “I know you don’t want to, but it needs to be healed. It won’t hurt, I promise you, General Lynn will be very gentle--” “He’s the Branded Lord.” This was Noa, sitting next to her sister atop the bed and wearing a suspicious expression of her own. “ I don’t want him seeing her back, either.” “I promise it will be quick,” Xavier said softly, standing slightly apart from the others. He dropped down to one knee, putting himself below eye level of the girls who were sitting, tense and anxious, on their bed. “I won’t look any more than I have to, and your cousin will be right here.” “What if I say no?” Arianne pursed her busted lip. “I’m not letting you grow sick with infection, Arianne,” Gerard retorted before Xavier could say anything more. “So just show him your back. Please?” “But--” “Your papa’s not here to take care of you,” Gerard said over her, before she could get a proper protest going. “But I am. And that means I will not let anybody hurt you, but it also means you need to listen to me. Do you understand?” The girl slumped down, her hands clenched into tight, defensive fists at her side. “Yes,” she said, but she clearly wasn’t happy about it. “Thank you.” Gerard sighed. “Now why don’t you lay down so General Lynn can get that back feeling better, okay?” Xavier nodded gratefully to Gerard as Arianne lay down on the bed. Leaning over her, he carefully undid the back of her nightgown and let out a soft hiss of horror at what he saw. The wounds were deep and far from healed properly, crisscrossed haphazardly across the girl’s back where Thorne’s whip had hit her. He’d used a proper whip, and he’d clearly been unrelenting, beating her past the point where many enkis would have stopped. Fighting back his own fury, Xavier raised his wand and pointed it at the girl’s back, carefully holding it so the tip wouldn’t poke at her ragged, bloodied flesh. “ Episkey,” he said, and green light began to flow from his wandtip. As the inflamed stripes began to knit slowly over, Arianne buried her face in the crook of her arm and let out a tiny, strangled whimper. Watching uneasily at her sister’s side, Noa reached down and gently stroked a hand through the girl’s dark hair, her gaze never leaving the careful trail of Xavier’s wand. “You’re doing great, Ari,” Gerard murmured, swallowing the lump that had automatically risen in his throat at the sight of his cousin’s flayed back. Even his own father wouldn’t have been so cruel as to leave a beaten child-- slave or otherwise-- in such a state without even a gloss attempt at healing. “He’s almost done,” the prince added. “Just another minute or so, honey.” By the time Xavier pulled his wand away, he was fairly certain that most of the lash marks wouldn’t scar, and she was certainly out of danger of infection. He looked to Gerard as he moved away, pulling back to a safe distance so Arianne wouldn’t feel crowded by him. “What about her collarbone?” he said quietly. “It… may be too late to avoid the scar, but I can do something for the pain.” Sitting back up and hiking her nightdress down, Arianne rapidly shook her head. “Please,” she said, a strangled note to her tone. “I don’t want to show you that. He-- he put it so low, nearly on my chest, and-- it’s not infected, it just hurts--” Cutting herself off, she looked to Gerard. “Please don’t make me,” she said miserably. “ Please.” “I want him to take a look, Arianne--” But Xavier shook his head. “I won’t force her,” he said, glancing at Arianne. “If you aren’t comfortable with it, I’ll leave it be. I’ll… I’ll see if I can have a potion or salve sent to you later, something to help with the pain that you can use by yourself.” “Thank you,” Arianne whispered, silent for a moment before she added, “He… won’t be allowed to see me or Noa again, right? M-Major General Thorne?” “No,” Gerard said thickly before Xavier could respond. “Major General Thorne has an appointment with the executioner’s block, Ari. For what he did to you and Noa.” “Oh.” The girl’s bruised jaw trembled. “Then… if he’s getting punished…” She thought for a moment. “What about us? Are… are we going to be let go? I mean, I don’t know where Papa went with Mama and Ben, but… w-we could go to Aunt Cleo’s in Kajas, or… even to Durach with your papa, Gerard… or…” “I don’t know if I will be able to send you back to your family, but I will try,” Xavier said quietly. “Whatever happens, I swear that I - and Gerard - will do everything we can to ensure your safety. No one will hurt you now.” ** “You what?” Lydia snapped the next afternoon, as she, Xavier, Gerard, and the rest of the officers left at Echar who hadn’t met the sword that morning sat around a weathered oak table in the castle’s largest meeting room. “I don’t see why you would tell those girls you’d try to send them back to their family, Xavier. Do you not understand how valuable they are to hold, from a political perspective?” “Of course I do,” Xavier said sharply. “And as far as I’m concerned, we lost all right to hold them as prisoners of war after what Thorne did to them. There are some things more important than political leverage, Lydia.” “This isn’t about rights,” Lydia replied. “This is about what’s best for the cause, Xavier. Our cause. And sending those girls back to their family is not it.” “So what then, Lydia?” Gerard asked, struggling to keep his voice level. “You use them for leverage? As hostages? Threaten to chop off their fingers or toes or heads unless the crown gives you what you want?” “Of course not.” Lydia bristled. “But we can use them. Offer them in exchange for our people.” “We could ask for Arden Sinclair,” murmured Captain Lindsay. “They’ve had him for nearly six months, haven’t they? And gods know what they’ve probably been doing to him.” “If we keep them as hostages and then send them back like that,” said Xavier, narrowing his eyes, “we will look like monsters. How is their family to know that those scars and that brand weren’t something we condoned? No. What the crown does to their prisoners…” His eyes flicked to Lindsay, grim. “It’s horrific. But I want to believe - no, I want to show them that we’re better than that.” “And sending them back now will do that how, exactly?” Lydia asked. “Each has been beaten, Arianne’s branded, and I’m sure they’ll both have horrid stories to tell. We’d hardly be winning any favour by shipping them to the crown. And if you’re still so idealistic to think the crown would be genuinely moved by us showing them goodwill…” “You are not keeping them,” Gerard hissed. “I will not let you keep them, you mark my bloody words, Lydia--” “It is not about winning favor,” Xavier snapped. “It’s about what’s best for those girls. What’s right. And what’s right is not to keep them now as political pawns after they’ve already been through so much. I swore I would keep them safe, and I will, whatever that entails.” “Bring them to the nearest king’s army camp,” Gerard said. “And if you have some excuse about not wanting to risk your men getting caught doing it, then I’ll do it myself. I’d rather be caught and hanged than let my baby cousins be used as godsdamned political pawns by the army that tormented them.” Xavier’s eyes flicked to Gerard. “You’re not going,” he said shortly. “But I agree with you. We’ll find a way to do it safely. I’d rather not send them to the king, but in this situation…” He sighed. “I suppose with their father gone, I don’t have much of a choice.” “They’ll be cared for there, at least.” Gerard leaned back heavily in his chair. “I don’t trust my father in most senses, but at least I know he won’t brand them. Or… or…” His voice trailed off, strangled. Completely ignoring Gerard, Lydia looked instead at her brother. “We will treat them well when they’re prisoners,” she said. “I don’t think the same goes for Sinclair with the crown. Do you care about those children running home to their darned monster of an uncle more than you care about Arden Sinclair not being tortured, Xavier?” “No,” Xavier said quietly. “Of course I care about Sinclair. I want him out of there as much as you do. But like this…” He shook his head. “Like it or not, it is our fault those girls were hurt. Thorne was under our command. If we’d captured their father, perhaps even their older brother… I’d agree with you. But we didn’t, Lydia. We captured children, not lords, not soldiers. And it doesn’t sit right with me to use them as bargaining chips. This isn’t their war.” “This is everyone’s war,” Lydia said simply. But from the sudden scowl on her face, it was clear that she’d lost the argument-- and that she knew it. Leaning forward with her elbows on the table, she went on, “How do we pass them off, then? I’m not risking any of our men to let them go, and those two girls wandering the Teral countryside in the dead heat of August in the hopes that they meet up with crown men is only going to end with them dying, not rescued.” Xavier was silent for a moment, frowning. “There is… one advantage we have.” His eyes flicked to Gerard. “We have Matteus. If we notify the king’s army in advance that we’re bringing the Pike girls, but hold him as leverage in case they try anything… it could work. If they don’t call our bluff.” Gerard’s immediate reaction was an expression of pure, visceral rage-- but this quickly ceded away, supplanted by something far less potent and more contemplative. “That… could work,” he admitted, even if he didn’t sound particularly pleased about it. “My father would never risk my brother’s life.” A beat, before his eyes locked icily on Xavier’s, “It has to be just that, though. A bluff. I don’t care if my father’s men slaughter ours like chickens in a coop: no one touches a hair on Matt’s head, or it’ll be me you’re executing next.” Xavier met Gerard’s eyes steadily. “I would never harm your brother, Gerard,” he said quietly. “And if you like, I will guard him personally. No one will touch him.” Gerard gave a short, reluctant nod. “Fine, then,” he said. “I can’t pretend I’m thrilled, but… it might be the best we can do, circumstances considered. As long as they’re somewhere safe soon.” And it felt a little strange to him-- a little strange, and very sad-- that for once, safe meant the Gilded Palace. How badly it stung, that the acts of his own comrades had led to such a fate. People he’d trusted. People who had known such grief and suffering of their own. People he would have thought better than the king who hid behind his golden walls.
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Post by Avery on Oct 14, 2015 13:24:30 GMT -5
Direct follow-up to The Tables Turn. Collab with Elcie. Truth & Lies<1340> Part One: Word spread quickly through the rebel camp that the Branded Lord had arrived. Muriel was one of the first to greet him, running to the edge of camp as fast as she could. Despite her nervousness about Gerard and Julia, about what her father might decide to do with them… there was no denying that her heart felt lighter at the prospect of seeing him.
It was unprofessional, but she barely paused before throwing her arms around him, ignoring the startled looks of the other rebel soldiers there to escort him.
“I missed you,” she said, allowing herself a brief moment to nuzzle against his shoulder like she was a little girl again, before pulling back and standing to attention.
Xavier couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her. “You look every inch the officer, Muriel,” he said, a glint of pride in his eyes, but his face quickly became more serious. “And it sounds like you’ve had an eventful time of it since your promotion. Is it true?”
Slowly, Muriel nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, it’s true. We’ve got them under guard in the prison tent.”
He frowned. “Take me to them?”
“Of course,” Muriel said, serious but informal, echoed by a sharp “yes, sir!” from the soldiers around her.
As they walked through the camp, Muriel stole glances at her father’s face. There was a serious, intense look in his eyes, an expression that had become familiar as the revolution wore on. The face of the Branded Lord, who was more than just her father. Who held the royal prisoners’ fate in his hands. More than once she nearly spoke up, but stopped herself before she could. What could she say to him to convince him of what she’d become more and more certain about - that the prince and his cousin could be trusted, that they truly weren’t enemies of the rebellion?
They reached the prison tent in silence, where the guards snapped to attention and saluted as Xavier approached. He nodded to them cordially, more like a colleague than a commander. “Will you fetch the Brigadier, please?” he said.
The Branded Lord may have been more soft-spoken than the Brigadier in issuing orders, but they were followed no less quickly. One of the guards quickly ran off in the direction of Brigadier Belle’s tent as Xavier and Muriel turned and entered the prison tent.
As the tent flap rustled, Gerard’s eyes snapped up. When he glimpsed Muriel, something close to a smile curled between his lips-- but this quickly vanished when he viewed the man behind her. The stranger. All at once, any trace of relaxed familiarity was supplanted by a cool, rigid expression of suspicion and mistrust. On the floor next to the prince, Julia frowned, exchanging an apprehensive look with her cousin. Automatically, he scooted in closer to her and placed a hand on her knee, seeming to mean the gesture as a reassurance to her-- but the stiffness of his grip only served to make her heart hammer harder.
“Gerard,” Muriel said, quickly moving forward as if to forestall whatever reaction he was about to have. “This is… Xavier Lynn. The Branded Lord.”
The look on her father’s face was distinctly unfriendly, and her stomach lurched uncomfortably. Xavier’s green eyes were narrowed, quickly taking in everything about the scene before him. The arrogant-looking young prince was what he had expected; the scared young girl… she wasn’t. Certainly not a slave, judging by the smooth, unmarked skin of her collarbone, but she hardly bore herself like royalty, and the possessive way the prince put a hand on her knee made his frown deepen.
He took a slow, measured step forward, his eyes fixed on Gerard. “Prince Gerard Alaric, son of King Oliver, second in line to the throne of Courdon…” Xavier raised an eyebrow. “I admit I was surprised, when I got word of who my officers had taken prisoner. I would’ve thought Oliver would have his heirs locked up nice and safe in the Gilded Palace.”
“Of course he would,” Gerard agreed, coolly meeting Xavier’s gaze. As he spoke, he edged himself even closer to his cousin; still gripping to her knee with one hand, he draped his other over her shoulder and drew her in close to him. “But then, locks have hardly ever stopped people from running in the past now, have they, sir?”
And with that, his eyes landed deliberately on Xavier’s upper arm. The brand was presently concealed beneath a sleeve, but the implication was clear enough.
“No,” Xavier agreed, his eyes tracking Gerard’s movements like a hawk. “People in your position, however, are not normally the ones running.” His eyes flicked to Julia, appraising her carefully. “And you’re his cousin, is this true?” Though his voice was calm and neutral, he was frowning. The prince clutched her to himself like a child would draw comfort from a favored toy, or a pet. It was all far too familiar.
At being addressed, Julia faltered. Rather than answer Xavier, she instead turned toward Gerard, the two of them sharing a silent, furtive look. “It’s okay,” Gerard mouthed to her, and she swallowed hard, still taking a moment to compose herself before she looked back up at Xavier.
“Yes,” she said shortly. “I’m his cousin.”
Xaver fought back a sudden spike of anger at the silent exchange. “You don’t need to manhandle her,” he said coldly. “Afraid she’ll tell me something you don’t want me to know, are you?”
At this, Muriel started forward, giving her father an almost beseeching look. “It’s- it’s really not like that,” she said quickly. “She’s his cousin, they’re close…”
“No need to speak for me, Captain,” Gerard snapped. The vitriol in his words was patent. Suffocating. Still holding fast to Julia, he growled, “Very funny-- that I’m being accused of manhandling her by the person who’s just swaggered into camp with no context of these past three months. Not the foggiest clue in all the hells of what’s happened.”
“Gerard,” Julia hissed. “Stop.”
“Stop?” Gerard shook his head. “No. He wants to walk in here and accuse me of hurting you? After what that Brigadier--”
“Gerard, calm down,” Muriel said, an edge to her voice. “Please.” She put a hand on Xavier’s arm, squeezing nervously. “Just… listen to what he has to say,” she said quietly. “Honestly, I didn’t trust him at first either, but I really think--”
“Muriel, you don’t understand what people like him are capable of,” Xavier said, frowning. “They are manipulative, they use others. Whatever he’s told you…”
“I have told her the truth.” Gerard glowered. “I have told all your soldiers the truth, sir. Including your very lovely brigadier. And in exchange, he’s menaced us. He’s threatened us. He’s nearly hit my cousin and I several times because we didn’t obey his commands quite fast enough. And if it weren’t for the captain here, I’m pretty sure he would have already lopped our heads off.”
With each word that he spoke, Gerard’s voice grew louder and louder, his tone underscored with an increasing amount of contempt and venom. Beside him, Julia clenched her jaw, her fear toward the situation as a whole, and with regards to the Branded Lord in particular, seemingly eclipsed by a desperate want for her cousin to just shut the hell up already-- before he got in over his head. Again.
“You’re not helping our case,” she hissed into his ear. “Stop.”
Xavier glanced at Muriel. “Is that true, about Belle?”
“Unfortunately,” she said grimly, seizing on the change of focus. “He’s… he’s a good officer, but with the prisoners--”
“I’ll speak to him later,” Xavier said, turning his attention back on Gerard, to Muriel’s dismay. “Let go of the girl,” he said coolly. “If you want me to believe you’re not hurting her, then stop acting as if she belongs to you.”
For a moment, Gerard said-- and did-- nothing. Instead, arm still draped over Julia’s shoulder, hand still gripped to her knee, he stared in icy fury at the Branded Lord. Brow furrowed. Lips pursed. The rage pulsing in him apparent to all inside the tent.
As if sensing that this was about to go very poorly, Julia gulped and pushed at him, trying to shimmy out of his grasp. But he did not relent, still clinging to her rather as a drowning man might to a buoy in a churning, violent sea.
“I,” Gerard spat, seguing smoothly then into the high tongue, “do not have to prove anything to you. And I don’t care who you are, General. I really do not appreciate you gallivanting into this tent as though you know anything about me, or her, or any of this.”
Next to him, Julia cringed. She wasn’t sure what was worse: Gerard’s scathing words-- his refusal to oblige the Branded Lord’s request-- or the fact that he had foolishly jumped into the high tongue. Woo, she thought he’d gotten over this-- over acting the brash, cocky prince he so desperately needed not to be if the two of them had any chance of ever gaining the rebels’ trust. Or, more importantly, at least not having their heads duly parted from their shoulders.
“Gerard, just let go of me,” she snapped. “Show them--”
“Show them what, Julia?” he cut in, still speaking in clipped, frenzied high Courdonian. “That’s all we’ve been doing for the past three months. Showing them. Answering them. Acting like good, obedient little prisoners. And what’s it gotten us? The brigadier only not cutting our heads off because the captain won’t let him? Chained up like dogs? You waking up screaming from nightmares every night because you--”
Muriel saw it before Gerard seemed to notice - or maybe he just didn’t care: the way her father’s spine stiffened at the sound of the high speech, his face pale and suffused with anger. Her fists clenched. Gerard, you idiot, shut up!
But it was too late for that. “Enough!” Xavier said, glaring at the prince. “You’re lucky the guards didn’t kill you when they found you! You think my soldiers have been cruel? Do you even realize what your father does to my people when he can catch them--”
Muriel’s eyes widened at this, recognizing the nerves Xavier didn’t realize he was hitting. She scrambled forward, with the vague impulse to place herself between her father and Gerard. “He’s not his father!” she said, her whole body tense. “So just - just stop, this isn’t helping!” Her chin jutted stubbornly, and she put her hands on her hips. “I trust them, Father,” she snapped, glaring. “So at least trust me enough to hear them out.”
“Father?”
The word was out of Gerard’s mouth in an instant. If before he’d sounded furious, now his tone was merely… shrill. Like an alarm bell. Finally here he let go of Julia, but only so that he could rocket to his feet, lurching unsteadily as the chain rattled beneath him.
“What do you mean, father?” he demanded.
Muriel froze, realizing what she’d said. “I--” She turned to look at him, momentarily speechless as she tried to formulate a response. But then, there really was only one explanation. “I’m his daughter,” she finished lamely, the words heavy on her tongue. ‘Woo, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was proud of her father, of everything the Branded Lord had accomplished. But saying it now… It was as if she could see the fragile trust she’d so carefully built up with Gerard, the tenuous connection she’d come to value, about to shatter into a thousand pieces under the revelation. If only she’d had more time.
“His daughter,” Gerard echoed hollowly. Then: “His daughter.”
On the floor, Julia gawped. Where Gerard merely seemed stunned, as if the weight of what Muriel had just revealed hadn’t yet sunk in to him, the expression of Julia’s face was immediately far more complex. As if she understood it instantly, and hated it with every fiber of her being.
“I… you...” she started, her voice shaking. “I told you things… I… told you so many things, and you didn’t even… you… you told me to trust you and you didn’t even...”
“I- I never meant--” Muriel’s eyes were wide, a distraught expression on her face. “Everything I said - I never lied to you, either of you, and I’ve done everything I could--”
Xavier watched with increasing perplexity, his brow furrowed. He’d preferred Muriel not reveal her relationship to him either, for her own safety, but the sheer betrayal in the reactions of the royal prisoners was the last thing he had expected.
Suddenly, sharply, Gerard laughed, the shock permeating him giving way to something near furious amusement. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” he spat, finally shifting back into the low tongue. “I mean… it explains a lot. That you’re his daughter. Why else, after all, would someone like Belle have listened to you? Why else would he have grudgingly accepted your decree that he not slit our throats?” Seething, he continued, “So what, then, Captain Lynn? Were you just… saving our necks for your father to wring? Was that it? Carrying on as if you were our ally because it was amusing to you? Because--”
Muriel stiffened. “Shut up,” she snapped. “Stop being such a prat! I’m not-- you really think I want you dead, Gerard? After everything I’ve risked keeping you and Julia safe?” Her back had gone ramrod straight, drawing herself up to her full height as she turned her glare on him. “In this camp I’m a soldier. An officer. Nothing more. I’ve earned my place here, it has nothing to do with who my family is.” Her eyes went steely. “If I’d based my trust on who your father is,” she said softly, “you’d be dead right now.”
“As I’ve told you repeatedly,” Gerard said stiffly, “I am no son of Oliver Alaric, Captain.”
Muriel opened her lips, as if to reply, but before she could, Julia spoke over her-- her eyes and words trained not on the rebel captain she’d just accused of betrayal, but the Branded Lord himself. For during Gerard and Muriel’s heated exchange, the prince’s cousin had finally dared to study Xavier full and right for the first time. Raking over his features. His face. Studying his bright green eyes and fiery hair, the freckles on his leathered skin, the point of his chin, the crease of his brow…
“I know you,” Julia blurted to him, lapsing into Kythian. Her voice was first quiet, but then, emboldened, she said it again: “I… I know you.”
Both Xavier and Muriel turned to look at her. As Xavier stared at her face, his brow furrowed again, he was struck by her accent, really hearing it for the first time. Not merely speaking Kythian as a native, but as a Bernian.
“...How?” Xavier managed, automatically lapsing into Kythian himself. Bernian accent or no, her face didn’t trigger any memories. Surely he’d remember if he’d met the niece of the King of Courdon.
“I… you…”
Julia hesitated, as it perhaps dawned on her that revealing the truth now… about her relationship with Isabelle, about how she’d ended up in Courdon to begin with… might open more rabbitholes than it closed. Still, she did know him. She was sure of this. And… Woo, maybe this could help her. Maybe if she pointed out to him that they had common friends-- even if, being honest with herself, she had no idea if the Grand Duchess of Bern would truly consider her an ally anymore at all, after what she’d done in that field two years ago-- he’d be less likely to cut her throat. To cut Gerard’s throat, even if her cousin was acting like a pompous fool.
“Destrier Castle,” she murmured. “It was maybe… I don’t know… seven or eight years ago. I was… only eight or nine, maybe, but-- it doesn’t matter. I… you…” She swallowed hard. “You came to visit. I don’t know why, I mean, I wasn’t told why, Isabelle wouldn’t have told me why, but…”
Her voice trailed off, and she took a deep breath, trying to focus herself. Still looming above her, Gerard had turned to stare down at her. Much of his rage toward Muriel had transitioned now into pure uncertainty and fear-- as if he well sensed her gambit, what she was trying to do, and was terrified over what might happen if it went wrong. If this information she was revealing worked only to further hurt them. Still, perhaps sensing that this might their best and only chance, he did not tell her to stop. Instead, he lent her a soft, encouraging smile.
She didn’t return it.
Her stomach flipped.
“I saw you in the gardens,” she continued unevenly. “Just from afar, but… your hair… I remember your hair, I thought it was… this probably sounds silly, but I thought it was the loveliest hair I’d ever seen.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “I didn’t know who you were. Only that you were visiting from far away. And that you were… friendly with them. The Stallions. You were a guest… I-Isabelle’s guest...”
A very strange expression had come over Xavier’s face. “I… you could well be right,” he murmured. “I was… friendly with House Stallion, yes.” He’d indeed visited Destrier with Ambrose on a few occasions. The memories, brought up so suddenly and unexpectedly, hurt. The pain of Ambrose’s death was still all too raw, and he’d not expected to be reminded of it in a situation like this.
Realizing he’d dropped his guard, Xavier mentally tried to shake it off. “But why in the world were you at Destrier Castle?” he said, regaining some of his composure, though his voice was less forceful than it had been. “A Courdonian princess, yet you speak Kythian like a native.” He glanced between her and her cousin, guarded. He’d been told about the girl’s accent and her apparent Bernian roots, but something wasn’t adding up. Didn’t make sense.
“I grew up there,” Julia said softly-- before she could talk herself out of it. “From the time I was five until I came to Courdon when I was fifteen. N-not as a princess, but just… a girl. I was just a girl.”
He stole a glance at the prince again before looking back to Julia and crouching a few feet in front of her. “But now, you’re a princess,” he said softly. “Or you were, until you ran away from it. Did you want the royal family to find you? Or…” He left the or and everything it implied hanging in the air. Behind him, Muriel bit her lip and stole a glance at Gerard. She’d promised not to tell Belle about Julia’s past with the rebellion and she’d meant it… but her father. Maybe he should know. And unlike the brigadier, surely he wouldn’t simply have her killed if he found out. ...would he? It was all so muddled, and Muriel still hated the way he looked at Gerard, his eyes all hard and suspicious as if he was seeing Gerard’s father in his place.
As Xavier crouched in front of her, Julia shot a furtive, pleading look to Gerard, silently begging her cousin not to react violently to the rebel leader’s sudden close proximity to her. The prince obliged, although he did not look happy about it, clenching his hands into conspicuous fists at his side and gazing daggers down at the Branded Lord.
“I didn’t want them to find me,” she said. “I never wanted them to find me. It just… it just…” She swallowed hard and glanced up at Muriel, knowing that if the captain wanted to reveal her secret tangle with the revolution to the Branded Lord, then there was nothing she could do to stop it-- but in spite of this, still unwilling to reveal it herself. “It just happened,” she finished unsteadily. “I didn’t have a choice.”
Xavier nodded, apparently accepting this statement as it was. “I doubt they’d have given you one,” he said evenly. His eyes drifted to Gerard briefly once more before he fixed them again on Julia’s face. “And did he give you a choice, when the two of you left?”
At this, Gerard took a menacing half-step forward, his jaw dropping open as if to snarl something in reply to the rebel leader. But before he could get a word out, Julia shot him a warning look and snapped over him, “Yes. He gave me a choice. I wanted to come with him. I had to come with him.” Quickly, however, she realized the ambiguity of her last statement, and, her cheeks burning, stammered in amendment, “I mean… I didn’t… have to come with him-- he didn’t force me, but I… I… well, I…”
Her stammering uncertainty was not reassuring, and Xavier frowned as she spoke. Fluidly he rose and turned to face Gerard. The height difference between the two men seemed even more exaggerated at close proximity; Gerard towered over the Branded Lord, and Xavier had to tilt his head back to meet the prince’s eyes. Despite this, he did not appear cowed in the least. Muriel, watching, saw that her father’s hand was hovering inches from his concealed wand.
“I suggest you step back,” Xavier said, his voice quiet but hard. “Away from the girl.”
“Perhaps you ought take your own advice, enki,” Gerard replied coolly, not moving an inch.
Xavier’s eyes flashed with anger, as Muriel cringed inwardly and tried desperately to meet Gerard’s eye, to warn him - anything. Before she could say anything, Xavier had his wand out and had it pointed straight at Gerard, nearly jabbing him in the chest. “I won’t say it again,” Xavier said. “Stand down.”
Before Gerard could even think of how to respond, the rustle of the tent flap diverted his attention. The wand hovering mere millimeters from his chest, he craned his neck toward the newcomer-- and outwardly grimaced when he saw who it was. Brigadier Belle. On the floor, Julia bit down hard on her lip, knowing that things had just gone from bad to worse. Belle was impatient enough with them even in the best of circumstances; walking in to find Gerard menacing and Xavier holding him at wand-point?
She could only hope that this encounter wouldn’t end up with her cousin dead on the ground.
“Sir,” Belle almost bleated after quickly apprising the situation. In an instant, he’d pulled a dagger out from his belt and leveled it toward Gerard. “What’s he done?”
“He hasn’t harmed us, Myer,” Xavier said, more calmly than he looked; the lines of his body were all tension, his eyes narrowed and focused sharply on Gerard. “But I want him taken out of here. I would rather speak with his cousin without him present.”
Muriel moved forward instinctively at this, knowing how Gerard was likely to react to the prospect of being separated from Julia. “Father, please don’t,” she said, giving him a beseeching look even as he was still staring Gerard down. “You’re making a mistake, they’re-- he hasn’t hurt her. Gerard would never…”
“They’re both useless either way,” Belle said, sneering. “You’d more luck pulling water from the desert sand. Thick as thieves, and silent as them, too.” Pointedly, he glanced down at Julia. “Except when we’re talking in Mzian, aren’t we?” he leered.
“We’re not silent,” Gerard growled, bristling even further as Belle’s attention settled on Julia. “We’ve answered all your questions for months. It’s hardly our fault you don’t like what we have to say.”
“Because you are withholding things from me, princeling,” Belle growled. “And the girl, too. At least we’ve now got the Branded Lord here to drag the truth from you.” Gaze still latched on Julia, he added acerbically, “Isn’t that right, girl?”
Xavier nodded almost absently, frowning. “You don’t currently have any mages in camp, do you? I’ll use a truth spell during questioning, perhaps it will make things clearer.”
Muriel felt tense and helpless, listening to this exchange. She’d thought it would be better once her father arrived, that she would have more of a chance of winning him over than with Belle, but… she winced, shying away from the thought of how Gerard had looked at her after she’d let slip her relationship to the Branded Lord. “I trust them,” she said through gritted teeth.
He finally, finally looked at her then, but the look in his eyes was not what she wanted. More pity than sympathy. Worry. “We can talk about it later, Muriel,” he said gently. “But we need answers, and I’m not going to get them from arguing like this.”
She clenched her fists. “Just don’t hurt them.” She swiveled her gaze to Belle, shooting him a glare. “They’ve done nothing to deserve being hurt by us.”
At this, Belle merely laughed, the hollow sound it filling the tent like the slash of a blade. “You’re willfully ignorant, Captain,” he said. Attention flitting back toward Xavier, he added, “The prince has been acting like a cocky, swaggering fool since the day we took custody of him. He huffs. He menaces. He makes demands-- all the while telling us nothing of value. It’s very unfortunate that the captain here seems to have fallen under his charms. But I assure you, sir, you ought hold no reservations extracting the truth from these two no matter the means. They are hiding things from us. I’m sure of it.”
“My charms?” Gerard was the one to laugh now. Perhaps foolishly batting aside the wand still pointed at his chest, he swiveled sharply toward Belle. “Perhaps, Brigadier,” he snarled, “the captain here is merely more astute than you are.” He took a step forward, trying to shoulder around Xavier. “Perhaps if you’d stop looking for conspiracies where there are none--”
Xavier blocked his path, raising the wand again. “From what I’ve seen, I have no reason to disbelieve you about the prince,” he said coolly to Belle, and then turned his gaze on Gerard again. “Now, you will leave this tent calmly and cooperatively with the Brigadier,” he said. “Contrary to what you may believe, we are not enkis, and I do not want to hurt an unarmed prisoner, royal family or no. However, if you decide to fight me, it will go very poorly for you. Understand?”
“Oh, I understand perfectly,” Gerard replied, his voice smooth as glass.
But he did not move. Only stood stiff and tall, his gaze locked on the Branded Lord’s.
“Gerry,” Julia hissed, still seated on the floor. “Just go with him.”
“And leave you alone with a powerful mage who has the authority to kill you?” Gerard asked, briefly sparing his cousin a piercing, defiant glance. “No. If they want you alone with him, then I’m not enabling them, Julia. I’m not making it any easier for them. What kind of person would I be if I did that?”
“He said he didn’t want to hurt us,” Julia replied.
“People say a lot of things to get you to do what they want,” the prince snapped. “I think you ought to know that by now, Julia.”
Muriel, on the other hand, was far more worried about Gerard. With him in the mood he was in now, and Belle likely to take any excuse to kill him… “I’ll assist the Brigadier,” she said, her voice a little too high and nervous to sound like a professional soldier. She glanced sidelong at Gerard, her brow knit with worry. “She’ll be okay,” she mouthed, trying to catch his eye and give a reassuring glance.
He lip-read Muriel’s assurance, but if she’d meant to calm him, she’d failed. There was a large part of Gerard that desperately wanted to trust the captain-- that wanted to believe the past three months of rapport she’d built with he and Julia meant something. But after learning the truth about her parentage… learning that for three long months she’d conveniently forgotten to mention who her father was…
“I’m sorry, Captain,” he said simply.
And with that, he made a swift, deliberate grab for the Branded Lord’s pointed wand.
“No!” Muriel yelled, and lunged forward - not sure whether she was shouting to Gerard or to her father - as Brigadier Belle gave a guttural snarl and leaped forward with his knife at the ready.
The only one who didn’t move was Xavier. Instead, the Branded Lord said simply, “Stupefy.” Gerard’s fingers had closed around the wand, but it was still pointed at his body, and the effect was near instantaneous. His grasp slackened, and Xavier was able to pull his wand away and step aside just before Gerard went crashing to the ground, unconscious.
Part Two: On the floor, Julia screamed, searing up to her own feet as Gerard’s body smacked against the ground. “Gerard!” she shrieked, tearing forward.
“Don’t you dare move another inch!” Belle shouted, rounding on her, his knife outstretched in warning.
Xavier put out a hand in warning. “Stand down,” he said coldly. “There’s no need to threaten her further.”
Muriel, meanwhile, had crouched by Gerard’s body. She found herself putting two fingers to his neck to check his pulse, which was silly - she’d grown up around mages, she knew the stunning spell her father had used was not fatal - but all the same, she felt the need to confirm it. Sure enough, he was fine - out cold, but breathing evenly enough. “He’s okay, Julia,” she said quickly, the strain showing in her voice. “Just unconscious. The idiot.” For ‘Woo’s sake, what had he thought would happen? Even if he didn’t know how strong of a mage Muriel’s father was, grabbing at a wand that was pointed at you was a terrible idea.
And now they’d be even less likely to trust him.
“Secure him in the interrogation tent,” Xavier said, and then sighed. “I suppose you’ll need to get one of the guards to help carry him.”
“With all due respect, sir, is it really worth the risk?” Belle said grimly. “He’s been aggressive and uncooperative, he’s tried to attack you as well as me, and I frankly don’t see a reason not to put an end to this and execute him--”
Muriel’s breath froze in her throat and her fingers closed convulsively over Gerard’s shoulder, but Xavier was already shaking his head. “No. Give me a chance to question him, Myer. I’ve a feeling we are far from the bottom of this.”
“Please,” Julia gasped, her entire body shaking. “Please, don’t kill him. Please… he just… you can’t kill him… I need him, I need him...” Blinking back tears, she glanced back down at her cousin’s still, unmoving form. “I need him,” she repeated one last time, her voice cracking like brittle glass.
Xavier looked at her with concern. “For now, we’re just moving him,” he said calmly.
Almost at the same time Muriel spoke up as well. “He’ll be okay…” She trailed off, looking away. The “for now” made something twist into knots in her stomach. Gritting her teeth, she looked up at Belle. “I’ll help you secure him, sir,” she said, and despite her respectful tone there was a look in her eyes that dared him to disagree.
Xavier, however, seemed perfectly okay with letting her leave. “Do that. I’d like to speak to Julia alone.”
Muriel unlocked Gerard’s shackle from the stake in the ground, and with the help of one of the guards, she and Belle were able to carry him out of the tent. Xavier was left alone with Julia. Walking around to face her, he squatted in front of her much as he’d done before and tried to smile reassuringly.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, switching to Kythian. “I just want to ask you some questions.”
As he neared her again, she quickly scooted back from him-- but had no place much to go, with the wall of the tent merely inches behind her already. Crossing her arms at her stomach in what was clearly a defensive posture, she murmured, “You hurt Gerry.”
“I only stunned him. He’ll no doubt be conscious again soon.” He studied her face, concern showing in his expression. “But I wanted a chance to talk to you without him. He seemed very aggressive when I tried to talk to you earlier.”
“He’s scared,” Julia said simply. “Y-your brigadier… Belle… he’s… been threatening to kill us for months. And we know the only reason he hasn’t is because he lacked permission. Your permission. So your arrival here…” Her voice trailed off, and Julia swallowed hard, refusing to let herself wholly lose her composure. “Gerry’s not a bad person,” she insisted. “He’s not. He’s just terrified that we’re going to get killed, and… he’s not reacting well to the stress of it.”
“Belle is cautious, perhaps overcautious, but I can’t entirely blame him,” Xavier said. “With two members of the royal family… having the two of you here was a risk to everyone under his command.” He tilted his head thoughtfully, watching her. “But I’m not here to kill you. I’m more interested in finding out what the two of you want from us. A prince… and a princess who happened to grow up in Bern.” His voice softened. “Are you really here because you want to be, Julia?”
For a moment, she didn’t answer him-- perhaps because the answer was so complicated. Did she want to be here, in this stifling tent, chained like a dog? No. Really, if it had been wholly up to her, she might have preferred not to run to the rebels at all, but someplace… safer. More pleasant.
But neither was she with Gerard because he’d coerced her. She’d come with him willingly, knowing full well what it would entail. And even this miserable tent was better than Cesthen Castle, the pretty wife-- the pretty toy-- of Sutter Erling, lord of Ruom province.
“I ran away with him because I wanted to,” she said finally, figuring that this at least was true. “He didn’t make me come. Far from it.”
Xavier frowned. From how timid she was, how controlling the prince had acted, it was hard to imagine the girl even feeling that she had a choice in the matter. But he let it drop, knowing she’d only protest at this point if he pressed her. “If you didn’t want the royal family to find you, I can imagine that you might have wanted to leave,” he said. “But… you could have gone anywhere. Home to Bern, perhaps. Instead, you stay in Courdon, go with one of the royal princes himself…” He sighed. “I’ve been told you both claim you wanted to join us, but it’s not very convincing coming from your cousin, I’m afraid,” he said. “Are you sure there isn’t some other reason he’s here? Some other reason he brought you with him?”
“I can’t go home to Bern,” she said, ignoring the way her stomach still soured at this thought, even nearly two years later. “And… I’m positive there’s no other reason, sir. None. He wants to join you.” She paused before amending this to: “We want to join you. I know it must seem… strange. But it’s true. Woo, I promise, it’s true.”
He paused, considering this. Her hesitation hadn’t escaped his notice; whatever they were doing, it did seem to be Gerard’s idea. Instinctively, though, a part of him wanted to believe her. Maybe it was simply the effect of hearing Kythian spoken again when now he so seldom did, unless it was Elin or one of his children.
But sentiment was no basis for any such decision, and the fact remained that he still did not trust Gerard. Xavier sighed, and his hand went to his waist again where he had put his wand away. “I want to be able to trust you,” he said. “But I need to be certain I can believe you.”
He took out the wand - slowly, careful to keep it pointed at the ground, not wanting to frighten her. “I’m going to cast a spell. It won’t hurt you, but it will make sure you are telling me the truth.”
As Julia’s eyes fell on the wand, a strange expression unfurled on her face: a quick burst of fear soon snuffed out by a look of near wonderment. She shifted again, her chain rattling, and asked the Branded Lord almost eagerly, “A truth spell?”
Xavier raised an eyebrow. That wasn’t a reaction he’d been expecting. “Yes,” he said. “If you’re familiar with them, then you know there’s nothing to be afraid of. Just answer my questions as truthfully as you can.”
He lifted his wand. “Veriwooserum,” he said, and then lowered it as the spell took effect.
As the spell bowled into Julia, it was… strange. Her mind flashed immediately to Destrier Castle, where she’d undergone rigorous training three years ago before being sent out by Grand Duchess Isabelle into the Courdonian trenches. There weren’t many mages in Bern, and so Isabelle had rather hired out mercenaries of a sort, whom she’d employed solely for the purpose of conditioning her surreptitious soldiers to the magic that might be used on them if they were captured: torture spells. Sensory manipulators.
And truth spells. Veriwooserum.
She was out of practice after nearly two years spent living at the Gilded Palace, but that sort of training… it was like learning how to ride a horse. Never forgotten so much as put out of sight and mind if you don’t need it-- but once you do need it again, well…
She gazed up at Xavier, her eyes locking on his.
He sheathed his wand. The spell would hold for a while, and he didn’t intend to menace her with the possibility of other, uglier magic. “Why did you run away from Rakine?”
The truth floated to the top of Julia’s mind, and she toyed with it for a moment before letting it slide through; this was key to staying in control whilst under a truth spell-- catching your thoughts before blurting them. The very nature of the truth spell was to eat away at this ability… to tear out one’s usual mental filter and replace it with one that impelled to the surface true, blurted words. To overcome it required a very firm will and very careful training. That, and a deliberate expenditure of one’s energy; fighting against the spell was exhausting, and so one had to conserve their crafted lies.
This question did not require a lie.
“I ran away to join the rebellion with my cousin, Gerard,” she said. “We want to help the rebels win.”
It was a reasonable answer. But the way she had hesitated, even if not for very long, gave Xavier pause. It was not something most people would have noticed, but for someone familiar with truth spells, the fact that she had not blurted out an answer instantly was a sign of the girl’s strength of will.
“And how did you come to be in Rakine?” he said, frowning slightly. If she was trying to mislead him…
This required more mental maneuvering than the last question. Tamping back the truth as it sprung to her mind, and twisting it into a more palatable frame of things, Julia took a deep breath and said in the deliberate, even tone she’d learned back in Bern three years ago, “My uncle found me. He brought me to live in his court. It was against my will; I didn’t have a choice.”
“Rakine is a long way from Bern,” Xavier said lightly, though inwardly he felt tense at her calm, measured voice. This wasn’t at all what he’d expected. “How did he find you?”
Deep breath. Focus on your words. Voice still serene as ever, Julia went on, “I wouldn’t know, sir. It’s not as if he told me. One day his men were merely… there. Perhaps my mother wrote to him before she died and told him of us.”
Woo-darned. That was a slip-up. Us. A spark of terror skipped across her face, but Julia sharply forced it away, refusing to betray her anxiety. She could only hope the Branded Lord presumed she meant her and her mother, even though in truth she’d meant her and her younger brother, who remained back in Bern.
Faltering for just a moment, Julia went on, “In any case, his men took me. As I said, I didn’t have a choice.”
Xavier raised an eyebrow. “He took you from Bern, against your will?” he said. “I imagine that must have been rather difficult, getting all the way there without raising suspicions. Is that what happened?”
This, certainly, did not ring true. The idea of Oliver expending the resources to retrieve his estranged niece, as far north as Bern - and that he’d done it without running afoul of Grand Duchess Isabelle or any other Kythian nobility… no, there was something else to this. Something she was hiding from him - and nearly succeeding, at that.
“They threatened me,” Julia said, maintaining the slow, methodical voice. “They have mages.” Rashly, she added, “And gryphons. Aren’t many people to stop you up in the sky.”
“That must have raised some alarms in Kyth,” Xavier said softly. “Why, I’m surprised no one tried to attack them. They must have looked like an invasion.” He leaned forward, meeting her eyes intently. “How did Oliver really find you, Julia? Or did you find him?”
Julia’s heart skipped beat, although she refused to betray her rising anxiety to Xavier. That was another key to successfully circumventing a truth spell: you couldn’t let yourself get flustered. “I don’t understand what you mean, sir,” she replied, her gaze still focused evenly on his; Woo, she hoped he couldn’t make out the underlying layer of flickering in her eyes. “I’m under a truth spell. I can hardly lie to you.”
“Maybe not directly,” Xavier agreed. “But I’m sure you’ve heard of people who are trained to circumvent truth spells. Soldiers, spies…” He smiled grimly. “Someone has taught you very, very well.”
“But if truth spells can be so easily fought off, then what would be the use of them?” she replied. Against her will, her voice cracked here, and she bit down on her lip. Stay calm, she implored inwardly, but she was fighting a losing battle, her nerves expanding now by the second. “I’ve not lied to you,” she said again, but there was much less certainty to her tone now.
“Haven’t you?” Xavier said sharply. “At the least you’ve been misleading me, and under a truth spell that’s no small thing.” He wasn’t entirely sure if Julia had the will or the stamina to lie to him outright, but her evasiveness alone made the possibility worth taking seriously. “Who taught you to do this? Was it your uncle?”
This, at least, Julia didn’t have to lie about. “No,” she said. “Do you really think the Courdonian court would bother conditioning a seventeen-year-old girl against truth spells, sir?” This was a tactic Julia’s trainers had advised her to turn to if she was growing too exhausted to keep up the fight: twist the interrogation back around on the interrogator. Ask questions rather than answer them.
“I don’t know, would they?” By this point, Xavier’s eyes were hard. “You certainly had me believing you were an innocent victim. Used and manipulated by the Courdonian court - you would not be the first.” He paused, considering her. “Did the court send you here?” he said, bluntly. “Because I can’t think what else you would be fighting so hard to hide.”
“I wasn’t sent by the court,” Julia said. Truth, thank Woo it was the truth, because she felt her control slipping by the moment. Woo, would Isabelle be disappointed if she could see her soldier now, crumbled after but minutes of gentle interrogation. “I’m not hiding… I’m not…” Focus. She clenched her hand into a fist, her fingernails digging into her palm, letting the pain serve to redirect her urge to spill the truth. “I’m not hiding anything,” she finished stiffly. An outright lie.
Her temple throbbed.
“You ask for our trust, claim you’re our ally, and then refuse to give a straight answer to any of my questions,” Xavier said flatly. “And you are a relative of the royal family, trained to resist truth spells… I can only assume one thing.”
“You’ve assumed wrong,” Julia said, swallowing away the lump in her throat. “They didn’t send me.” Was it worth denying that she’d misled him still? Probably not, she decided; it would only serve to further incite him. Still, it fought against ounce of training that had been conditioned into her as she said, “The court’s not the only one who knows how to train people against truth spells, sir.”
She knew this might raise more questions than it answered-- and honestly, she wasn’t sure if she still had the stamina to craft up and feed him any story that wasn’t the truth, let alone spin a believable alternate narrative. Her heart panged as she realized what this might mean for her, but she still tried to fight away the fear. He could not see her crumble. Could not.
And anyway… the truth, as much as terrified her, was still better than him thinking she was a spy sent by the Courdonian court.
“If they did not train you, then who did?” Xavier said. Leaning forward an inch further, he locked eyes with her. “If you want me to trust you and your cousin, then give me a reason. Tell me the truth.”
The name leapt to her mind immediately, thrashing against Julia’s carefully laid mental filter. She hesitated for one final, agonizing moment before, with a pinch of her stomach, she let it through.
“Isabelle Stallion,” she murmured. A name she’d not said aloud in such a very long time. “The Grand Duchess of Bern.”
For a moment, Xavier felt almost winded. That name was the last thing he’d have ever expected her to say. “Isabelle?” he said, hoarsely. Half-whispering it. “You’re one of Isabelle’s…” He trailed off, now with a thousand more questions rising to the surface of his mind. Like how one of the soldiers sent covertly by the Grand Duchess had turned out to be a Courdonian princess.
But her accent. That she’d once seen him on one of his visits to Destrier. Strange as it was, it fit together more than anything she’d said before.
He hadn’t actually met any of the soldiers Isabelle had sent, but he was aware of them. It didn’t exactly answer how she’d wound up in the Courdonian court, but he could guess. “How did your uncle find you?” he said. And had Isabelle known, he wondered, that the girl she was sending was related to the crown? Perhaps it didn’t matter. But it was such a strange series of events.
Julia dared not let herself feel too much relief over the fact that the Branded Lord had not immediately discounted her proclamation. Still, the truth about how she’d come to be in the crown’s custody… she remembered back to when she’d told Muriel, and the captain seeming to agree with her that such information was dangerous. That if Belle knew, he’d likely kill her.
Would the Branded Lord do the same?
Still, she hardly had any alternative now. The truth thrashed against her mind like a rabid animal in a cage, desperately begging to be set free, and even if she could think of a decent lie right now, she didn’t think she had the stamina left to utter it. Not to mention the fact that Muriel already knew… and given that she was the Branded Lord’s daughter…
She could not risk feeding them conflicting stories.
“There was a massacre,” she said, her voice finally wavering now; not because it was a lie, but because the memory of it still nauseated her, even nearly two years later. The soldiers. The death sentence. The blood. Her cowardice.
She continued, “It was in Talvace. The royal army was killing everyone… and I… I knew I should stay silent. I was trained to stay silent-- to let them kill me. But I panicked, sir. I panicked.” Her throat quavered. “I told them my name. Begged them not to kill me. And so they brought me to Rakine. To my uncle. I thought he might still kill me, but… he didn’t. J-just so long as I promised to tell him everything I knew about the rebellion. His mages put me under a truth spell, but I was… better, then. At circumventing it. But I still had to tell him things, or he would have killed me. So… I did. I told him about the camp I’d been at. Names of people I’d met. Information I’d gathered in my time with the rebellion.”
She paused for a moment before something seemed to dawn on her, at which point she gulped and added quickly, “I didn’t tell them about Isabelle. Anything about Isabelle. Not even that I knew her. I wouldn’t have done that, I… I said I made my way to Courdon on my own. I swear on that, sir. I swear.”
Xavier gave a half-smile. “I believe you. I’m impressed that you were able to keep that back… I think it would have been dire for Kyth if the king had learned about her actions.” No, he was well aware that Isabelle’s covert support remained a well-kept secret. Even most of the higher-ups of the rebellion had not been told of the soldiers sent by the Grand Duchess herself. “But I would like to know what you did tell him. Any names, any locations you think he may have targeted?” His voice had changed, no longer so cold; but even as he warmed to her, he could not forget that any of the losses that the rebellion had suffered in the last two years could have been from information she gave to the king. Perhaps it was too late for damage control, but Xavier wanted to know the extent of it.
“I didn’t know much,” she said. Truth, thank Woo, and she didn’t bother to fight it back. “I told him the camp was a few hours away from the village of Grier, but… by the time I arrived to Rakine, time had passed; I’m guessing Arden Sinclair-- that was the officer in charge of the camp-- had probably already moved locations, based on… on…” She let her voice trail off here, the images of those slaughtered bodies in Talvace burning like an ember in her mind’s eye. “I hadn’t met anybody important. Not really. Just Colonel Sinclair. And I was new. Sinclair never really told me much. I was mostly doing… errands, really. Fetching supplies. Cleaning. Not battle. Not strategizing.”
She knew this didn’t make her betrayal any better. What she’d done was unforgivable regardless of what, precisely, she’d told the king; any information was too much information, and the risk she’d taken… the risk of Oliver finding out about what Grand Duchess Isabelle had done… in inadvertently dragging Kyth into Courdon’s war...
Tears threatened, and she blinked them back.
“Are you going to kill me?” she asked Xavier softly.
Xavier’s eyes widened. He took out his wand again, but rather than aim directly at her, pointed it at the shackle on her ankle. “Alowoomora,” he said, and the chain fell away. The truth spell was even easier to dispel, a flick of his wand breaking its influence over Julia. He looked back up at the girl, meeting her eyes. “I have no reason to murder one of our own,” he said quietly.
As the shackle popped off, Julia sat silent for a moment, stunned. This… this was not what she’d been expecting. Hell, it was the last thing she would have expected. She’d told the Branded Lord the depth of her treachery, and for her sins he’d unchained her? One of our own. Her heart lurched at this phrase. She wasn’t one of them… was she? A true rebel, after all, would not have done what she’d done two years ago. A true rebel would have bravely accepted her death, not gone screaming with information to the crown.
“T-thank you,” she whispered, rubbing automatically at the imprint left on her skin by the manacle. “I… you…” She didn’t know what to say, and so finally she settled on: “My cousin. What’s… what’s going to happen to him? Can I… see him, please? Once he’s awake? Just to… just to make sure he’s okay.”
Xavier hesitated, his brow furrowed. “I’ll be questioning him under the truth spell as well,” he said carefully. “He’ll remain in the interrogation tent, but he won’t be harmed…” He sighed, realizing there was no point trying to avoid talking about this with her. It was better to be honest. “I don’t trust him, and I would rather keep him away from you,” he said. “He… may try to manipulate you.” Like he manipulated Muriel, he added silently. That his daughter had tried to vouch for the prince was… concerning, to say the least.
Julia gawped at him. “Manipulate me?” she parrotted back. She shook her head rapidly, her dark curls bouncing. “No. He… Gerard and I came here together. If you trust me, then you should trust him, too. I…” At the thought of being forced apart from him, her heart skipped several beats. “You can’t keep him away from me. I need him, I…”
Xavier shook his head, a sad look in his green eyes. “No,” he said gently. “You don’t. Not anymore.”
He stood up, stepping back from Julia and putting away his wand again. “I’ll arrange more… suitable living quarters,” he said. “One of the soldiers will make sure everything’s taken care of.”
“What do you mean, not anymore?” As he stood, she matched him, lurching unsteadily to her feet. It felt weird not being chained, after so long with that manacle cinched around her ankle. “You can’t keep us apart from each other, sir. He’s…” She frantically shook her head again. “He’s all I have. Please. You can trust him, I promise, I promise…” Her voice hitched.
Xavier’s eyes softened. “I know you believe his intentions are good,” he said. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any reason to trust him.” He hesitated, sighing. It was something he’d seen all too many times before. Slaves who’d run away to join the rebellion usually had some impetus to get away from their masters, but the ones they freed sometimes did not even want to leave. He remembered one woman who had sobbed, clinging desperately to the body of her enki until the rebels pulled her away.
Julia was no slave, but the possessive behavior of her cousin before they’d been separated was too familiar for comfort. And the traumatized, vulnerable girl, a former rebel at that, must have been an easy mark for the prince to latch onto and control. “You’ll be taken care of here,” he said firmly, all the more determined to make sure she was safe. “Please trust us. I promise, neither I nor anyone under my command is going to hurt you.”
The logical part of Julia’s brain screamed at her to shut up. To not fight the Branded Lord. Woo, he’d already spared her life and unchained her: what else could she want from him? But the insinuations he was making about Gerard… and the idea of being kept apart from her cousin as he remained a prisoner…
It seemed so horribly ironic and unfair. The whole reason they’d even decided to try their luck with the revolution was because of Gerard, not her. She would have sooner fled to Lyell or Cerrin or someplace else very far away from Oliver and his grasp, her days of imagined grandeur over defeating the crown-- bringing down Oliver-- gone for a very long time now, ever since that day in the Talvacean field. And yet she was the one the Branded Lord had decided to stake his trust in? And yet he thought to question Gerard’s motives, not hers-- even after she’d admitted to already betraying the rebellion before rather than face an honorable death?
“If you trust me,” she said, forcing as much strength into her voice as she could muster, “then that’s a reason alone to trust him, sir. I trust him. More than anybody else in the world. I know he acted crazy today, but that’s because… that’s because he thought you were here to kill us. Briagider Belle’s been threatening to do it for months, and only held back because he didn’t have permission. So when you arrived today…” She left the rest of this thought unsaid, merely continuing, “All Gerard wants is to protect me. I-if he’d wanted to hurt you today, he could have. He’s… strong. Very well trained in combat. He could have seriously attacked you, but instead he just pawed harmlessly for your wand. He knew he wouldn’t get it. He knew you’d retaliate. But he didn’t care, because he feels responsible for me, sir. He cares about me. And he wasn’t going to just march willingly out this tent thinking you were going to kill me the moment he was gone.”
Emboldened now-- and afraid that if she didn’t speak up while it was hot on her mind, she’d never gather the courage to again-- Julia stammered on, “I don’t want to be free while he’s a prisoner, sir. We came here together, and I want us to stay together. So… if he’s going to stay chained… if he’s going to stay a prisoner… then keep me one, too. Put the chain back on me, and bring him back here, and we’ll both be your prisoners. But I’m not being apart from him. I’m not.” Her voice strangled, she finished, “Please, don’t make me be. Please.”
“I’m not going to chain you up again,” Xavier said, his eyes widening. “You’ve done enough to prove yourself. But I’m… I’m not going to let Gerard go, Julia, I’m sorry.” He pressed his lips together, looking equal parts frustrated and sad. “I know you don’t believe me. But you don’t need him, and you certainly don’t need to make yourself a martyr for his sake. I won’t let you do that to yourself.”
“Won’t let me?” she asked, a shrill note to her voice. This was familiar. Too familiar. She was so tired of people thinking they knew what was best for her. As if she wasn’t competent to look out for herself. “No,” she continued. “That’s not… that’s not your choice, sir, I… I… please.” Desperation rising in her by the nanosecond, she hurried on, “You know, it was his idea to come here at all, sir. He… he knew about my past, how I ended up in Courdon, and he… he thought it was so great. I mean, I came with him willingly-- I’ve told you that, he didn’t force me-- but… he’s… he’s so committed. You can trust him. Please, I swear on my life, you can trust him. I’d stake everything on it. Everything.”
But the Branded Lord was already shaking his head. “I know you would,” he said, tired. “And I’m sorry I have to do this. But it’s for the best.” With that, he turned away from her. “I’ll go and arrange proper quarters for you. One of the soldiers will be able to show you.”
He ducked out of the tent before she could reply, and took the shoulder of the man who had been standing guard outside. “Lieutenant Beiring, is it?” he said, speaking low Courdonian again.
Corbin gulped, and threw a hasty salute. “Y-yes, sir!” he said.
“Please arrange some proper living quarters for young Julia,” Xavier said, tilting his head toward the tent. “I want her treated as a guest now, not a prisoner, but I’d like you to escort her while she is in the camp.”
“Yes, sir,” Corbin said again, with somewhat less certainty. The sudden transformation of the prisoner into a “guest” was even more baffling than the fact that the Branded Lord apparently knew his name.
Xavier nodded, satisfied with this. “Good. Thank you, Lieutenant. And… ensure that there’s no contact with Prince Gerard. I don’t want him near her.”
With that, he walked off, leaving Corbin briefly stunned and confused. Then he shook it off, shrugging to himself. Orders were orders, and he supposed the Branded Lord knew best about the prisoners.
Part Three: When Xavier reached the interrogation tent, Muriel and Belle were there, standing guard over the unconscious prince. In addition to the chain on his ankle, his arms were now bound behind his back as a precaution against another attack. There was a distance between Muriel and the Brigadier, and a particular set to Muriel’s face, which suggested that the unfriendly silence between them had stretched for some time before Xavier’s arrival. As Muriel and Belle’s attention flicked toward Xavier, Gerard let out a sudden, bleary moan on the floor beneath as finally he came to. He blinked several times, clearly disoriented, and sat unsteadily up. For a moment, he did not speak, rather hazily surveying the tent around him… raking over the rebel soldiers standing between him and the exit… trying not to let his stomach lurch at the way Belle’s fingers dangled lazily over the dagger at his belt… And then something seemed to hit Gerard, as the memory of what had happened in the prison tent came back to him-- and he realized who wasn’t with the rebels in this tent. At once, the confusion on his face was overcome by a look of sheer panic. “Julia,” he gasped, lurching up and forward; but the rebels had staked the chain short, and it snapped quickly taut. The prince tumbled right back down. “Sir,” Belle said, unable to refrain a sneer as Gerard snapped to the ground. “I hope everything went satisfactorily with the girl?” “Yes,” Xavier said simply, and glanced at Gerard. “She’s safe, and no longer your concern,” he added coldly. He took out his wand and pointed it at him. “ Veriwooserum.” Somehow, the bluntness with which her father cast the truth spell unnerved Muriel. She took a step forward. “What do you mean,” she said, frowning, “she’s no longer his concern?” “I want to talk to you about that later,” Xavier said, looking over his shoulder at her. “But not now.” As Xavier flicked the wand in his direction, Gerard flinched automatically, as if he was expecting to be hit by a stunning spell again. Immediate relief flooded him, however, when instead he was hit by the familiar vise of a truth spell. As it bowled into him, he had to stop himself from smiling, the grip of the spell distracting him from the troubling proclamation the Branded Lord had just made over Julia. Gods, a truth spell like this was child’s play; the court hardly let its princes gallivant about without being rigorously trained against common interrogative techniques. Smugly, he thought he could have overcome it in it his sleep. And once he did… once he breezed through this interrogation… well, then he could get to the bottom of what Xavier meant about Julia. For now, he could only cling to the Branded Lord’s assertion that she was safe. The prince was all too calm for Xavier’s tastes, but he didn’t let his trepidation show. He lowered his wand, but unlike with Julia he didn’t put it away, keeping a light, easy grip on it that showed he would be ready to use it in an instant. “Why did you run away from Rakine to join the rebellion?” he said. After taking a moment to deliberate-- ensuring that he liked the words that passed through his lips-- Gerard said glossily, “Julia and I came to help your rebellion. To ally with it and bring down the crown.” Xavier’s expression didn’t change. “Did she come willingly?” he said. “Or did you convince her? Coerce her?” At this, a spark of rage skipped in Gerard’s heart, but he forced it down. The key to overcoming a truth spell was remaining in control of everything-- emotions included. “Julia came with me willingly,” he replied levelly. “I did not coerce her, nor convince her. It was a mutually agreed upon choice.” It was such a smooth answer as to sound practiced. Faintly Xavier frowned, absently twisting his wand between his fingers. “She grew up in Bern, did you know that?” he said, his tone almost light. “Do you know how she came to be in Courdon, Gerard?” At this, Gerard’s stomach automatically twisted, but he quickly forced away the feeling. This was where he had to focus; after all, revealing Julia’s past to the rebels would likely lead to very bad results. They couldn’t know she’d betrayed them before. Couldn’t. With a deep breath, he carefully constructed his lie, feeding it through the filter the truth spell had attempted to impose upon his brain-- and tongue. “I did know that,” he said evenly-- a bit of truth, which he then siphoned into a lie: “My father found her. In Bern. He brought her south. She was never happy about it; it’s why she-- why we-- were so determined to escape his custody.” Xavier felt his blood run cold at the lie - and the apparent ease with which Gerard had delivered it. The tone of his voice was no different than it had been during his previous answers, and it only further confirmed Xavier’s suspicions. “I see,” he said coldly. “And what is she to you, Gerard? Why exactly do you care so much about a long-lost relative your father picked up in Bern?” Muriel’s brow was furrowed, hearing this. If she hadn’t already known the true story about Julia’s journey to Courdon, she wouldn’t have realized that Gerard was lying. And it was impossible to tell whether her father realized either, his voice still strangely flat and chilly. He sounded almost like a stranger, compared to the gentle, warm tones she was used to hearing from him. “I care about her because she’s my kin,” he replied. This, at least, was the truth, although he maintained the even, practiced voice he’d been using throughout so as not to betray the way he was rapidly flitting between truth and lie. He continued, “And I care because she’s a good person who doesn’t deserve the things my father did to her. Nor the things that were going to happen to her in the future, had we not run away.” Hearing him say it in that calm, neutral voice sent shivers down Xavier’s spine. If he could lie about their relationship under a truth spell, then it was no wonder young Julia hardly knew her own mind. Manipulation must have been like breathing to him. Well, of course it was. It was his birthright. “Gerard,” he said, his calm tone matching the prince’s despite how angry he was getting, “I studied truth spells under an archmage in Kyth. I’ve used them for years.” He leaned forward, standing over the prince. “Do you really think I wouldn’t be able to tell when someone is circumventing it?” If Gerard’s heart a skipped a beat at this accusation, he didn’t show it. Yet another rule of beating truth spells: you could not get flustered. Period; if you did-- even a little bit-- then this meant your sure and rapid downfall… as had happened to Julia earlier. So, carrying on as if Xavier’s words did not bother him at all, the prince continued coolly, “I am not circumventing it. I’ve told you no lies. My cousin and I are here to help your rebellion. We care about each other, and we care about your cause.” “I believe that Julia cares about you, certainly,” said Xavier, crossing his arms. “But I don’t believe that you’ve been truthful with either of us.” He cancelled the truth spell with a flick of his wand. He wasn’t pulled yet, not exactly, but the beginnings of fatigue meant it could not be far off, and it was clear he wasn’t going to get anything meaningful out of Gerard today anyway. “Think long and hard, your highness, about whether you want to give me an honest answer next time we speak,” Xavier said coolly, turning away. At the truth spell snapped off, like a knife slashing through cord, Gerard finally let his nerves fire. He… didn’t understand. He’d been perfect. Gods, he’d been perfect, doing everything he’d been trained to do if put under such constraint. So how did the Branded Lord know he was lying? And, his mind flickering back to Xavier’s proclamation upon entering the tent, what did the rebel leader mean when he said that Julia was no longer Gerard’s concern? A sweat finally breaking on his brow, he called after Xavier, “Wait. I… I don’t understand. I’ve told you the truth, sir, and I-- Julia. Where is she? What have you done with her? Please, I… if you say she’s okay, I believe you, I do, but-- I need to see her, just to make sure, just to--” Xavier turned sharply. “She is safe,” he said. “And kept safely away from you. I’d say you no longer need to worry about winning her sympathies.” Muriel’s eyes widened at this comment. What was that supposed to mean? “Father?” she said. “Why--” “I’ll explain,” he said to her quietly, and nodded toward the entrance to the tent. “Outside.” “Outside?” Gerard’s voice rose in pitch. “No-- you can’t just leave, I-- I need to see my cousin, I need--” “Shut up,” Belle snapped, his face painted with aggravation bordering on rage. “You do not get to make demands of us, princeling. I would have hoped you’d learned that by now.” “I wasn’t talking to you,” Gerard retorted hotly, not even sparing a glance at the brigadier. Gaze eating into Xavier and Muriel, he continued, “General Lynn. I need to see Julia. I don’t know why you think I lied, but I didn’t, and she’s probably terrified for me after you knocked me out. I--” “Shut up!” Belle repeated, taking a sharp step toward the restrained prince, his fingers hooked conspicuously over the dagger at his belt. “Perhaps you ought shut up,” Gerard growled, his entire being nearly shaking with rage and frustration. Xavier shot a warning look at Belle before turning back to Gerard. “My word is final,” he said sharply. “You’ll not be seeing her.” “ Father,” said Muriel, her fists clenched in agitation, and gritting her teeth when he didn’t respond. “Final?” Gerard echoed, spitting the word as if it tasted foul to him. Rapidly, he shook his head, and as Xavier took another step toward the mouth of the tent, the prince’s mind spun at lightning speed. No. He couldn’t let the Branded Lord leave. Not without getting a promise that he could see Julia, that he could ensure she was alright, that the rebel leader hadn’t lied and really his cousin wasn’t safe at all, but sprawled on the ground of the prison tent with her throat slit. “ Final, is it?” he said again, lapsing into smooth, scathing high Courdonian. He wasn’t sure why he did it, not really-- perhaps because of the command that usually came weighted the tongue, and gods knew he needed all the command he could muster right now. In any case, he snapped on, “ I see how it is, General Lynn. You rebels… claiming to be all about fairness, brotherhood… but it’s all a farce, isn’t it? Just a put on. Because all I’ve done for three months is cooperate, and so has Julia-- and yet you won’t even get us the very small comfort of at least being given proof that the other is alive. Is that really fair, General?” He paused for a moment, before adding icily, “ Or ought I say, enki?” Now it was Gerard that Muriel turned her glare on. “Gerard,” she hissed, aghast. Xavier moved very swiftly back toward the prince and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, yanking him forward. “You dare to call me that, son of Oliver?” he snarled. “You really think you’d even be alive right now if I was a proper enki?” He released him, shoving him down with more force than was necessary. “I suggest you keep quiet, before I lose my patience and do something I’ll regret.” With an air of finality he turned to leave. Muriel hurried up to him as he did and caught his arm, hissing, “ Before you lose your patience, Father? What’s going on? He didn’t deserve any of that--” He didn’t answer her until they were well outside the tent, turning to her and taking her shoulders in both hands. “He lied to me, Muriel,” Xavier said quietly. “Very skillfully. What he said about Julia, that his father had found her in Bern… it’s not what Julia told me.” Muriel sucked in a breath. “She told you about being…” She couldn’t quite bring herself to finish the sentence, in case she was wrong, in case Xavier really didn’t know Julia’s secret. “A rebel. Yes.” Xavier paused, frowning. “You already knew?” “Julia… told me, yes,” Muriel admitted. “I didn’t tell Belle. Because… because she was afraid he’d kill her if he knew, and honestly I--” She was cut off by the sound of voices raised in the tent they’d left. Xavier muttered a curse under his breath and ran back, followed closely by Muriel. Inside the tent, Brigadier Belle loomed over Gerard, the prince’s shirt grasped in one hand, and his other curled into a fist and hovering over Gerard’s face. Before either Xavier or Muriel could reconcile what they were seeing, Belle had let the hovering fist fly, his knuckles connecting solidly with the prince’s cheekbone. Gerard gasped in pain and wrenched back, as if trying to lurch out of Belle’s hold-- but to no avail. This tactic failing him, he shifted gears and shouldered sharply forward instead, as if trying to bring the brigadier down, but Belle dodged the bound man easily. “ Myer,” Xavier snapped, and grabbed the Brigadier’s shoulder to pull him back off the bound prince, despite the fact that he was rather smaller in stature than Belle. It didn’t seem to matter much, fury radiating off the Branded Lord so he seemed to loom. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Muriel had darted around her father, and crouched beside Gerard to put a steadying hand on his shoulder. Without a word she tore a strip of cloth off the bottom of her tunic and pressed it to the side of Gerard’s face, staunching the blood trickling from his lip. “Thank you,” Gerard murmured, grimacing at the pressure of Muriel’s hand. It didn’t matter how many times he’d been punched in the past: Belle had gotten him good, and gods, how it hurt. Up above Muriel and Gerard, Belle continued to fume, the brigadier resisting the urge to brush out of his superior’s grip. “He’s incorrigible, sir,” he said, his voice vibrating with unadulterated rage. “For three months now I’ve been listening to him disrespect us-- I’ve listened to him lie to us-- and I… he… once you left, he was demanding that I get you back for him. Ordering me about like a dog. As if I answer to him. He thinks he walks on water. That he’s the gods’ gift to this earth. And with all due respect, sir, he’s dangerous. He needs to be deal with. Ended. Period.” “I don’t care if he’s King Malik resurrected,” Xavier said, his voice shaking, “we don’t hit prisoners. Ever, Myer! He’s dangerous, he’s untrustworthy, he’s disrespectful - I don’t disagree with you on that. But you had no cause to beat him. He’s bound. Contained. It’s enough.” Muriel could not restrain herself. “He’s been like this since they arrived, Father!” she exploded. “Not Gerard, Brigadier Belle. He’s -- with all due respect to my commanding officer, he’s violent. He’s alienated them. Julia thought he was going to kill her and this is why!” Xavier turned, seeming to notice his daughter’s proximity to Gerard for the first time. “Muriel, move away from him--” “No.” Her blunt response seemed to surprise both of them. Stubbornly, Muriel continued on: “The… the prisoner needs medical attention. Sir.” “It’s fine,” Gerard murmured, spitting blood. “Not like I’ve never been decked before.” And it wasn’t as if Oliver had ever gotten him a healer afterward. “Oh yes, the poor martyr of a prince,” Belle sneered. Then, shifting back to Xavier: “I’ve treated the prisoners exactly how one ought to handle the immediate relatives of the king. It’s unfortunate that your daughter has gotten caught up in their… charms. But I will not apologize for being harsh with them, sir. He”-- Belle jabbed a sharp finger at Gerard-- “is not just an enki, but a prince. He does not deserve to be coddled. And the girl… I’ve no idea what to make of her. But she’s just as enamoured by the princeling as is your daughter. So cut your losses, sir. End him before he does any more damage.” “He may be a prince, but you aren’t,” Xavier said pointedly. “Neither am I. And I won’t have us acting like enkis, Myer, no matter how reprehensible our enemies.” A pang of guilt hit him as he said it. It was a line he’d already crossed. And he never wanted to go that far again. “I’m not going to execute him. I still intend to question him further. And don’t forget, we have the second son of the King of Courdon in our custody… quite the bargaining chip.” At this, in spite of the pain and the blood and the fear still gripping him over the rebels’ refusal to let him see Julia, Gerard couldn’t help but quirk a small, dark grin. “Good luck with that,” he said, unable to hold his tongue even though he knew snappish words now would earn him nothing positive. “If you tell King Oliver you’ve got me, he’ll probably be the first to agree with the Brigadier that really, you ought to just cut your losses. Hell, he might even send you a knife to slash my throat.” Muriel glanced at her father to see how he’d react to that, but his face was stony as if he hadn’t heard. “If you can’t act civilly with the prisoner, then maybe you shouldn’t be involved,” Xavier said quietly. “I know this is personal for you. It’s personal for most of us. But I can’t condone that kind of violence.” “Prisoner?” Belle latched only to this word. “Just one prisoner? What happened to the girl?” At this question, Gerard, still bleeding, straightened. Oh gods. If the Branded Lord had lied to him… if Julia wasn’t okay… “ Outside,” Xavier said tersely, turning on his heel and heading for the entrance. Belle followed him, looking aggravated. Muriel looked at Gerard, pulling the sticky cloth from his face. “She’s alive, he wouldn’t lie about that,” Muriel said quickly, though her heart was pounding with the fear that she was wrong about that. “I’ll… I’ll look after her, I swear, I’ll do whatever I can. You don’t deserve this, either of you--” “That’s very kind, Captain Lynn,” Gerard interrupted dryly, putting more emphasis on the rebel’s last name than was strictly necessary. “I’m not going to lie to you and say I’m not… wary… after learning who you are. But… I’d like to think that you being kind to us these past three months was more than just a put on. That you really do care about Julia and I in at least some way. And if that’s true… well… can you please just promise me one thing?” Muriel swallowed. “Yes… what is it?” “If your father lied,” Gerard started. “If… if Julia’s…” He could barely bring himself to say it. “If she’s dead. If he killed her. Then… please just… I know you’re supposed to keep me alive as a bargaining chip, or… whatever it is your father wants to do with me. But I can’t, okay? If Julia is dead… if my idea to come here got her killed…” His voice cracked, and he paused. His mouth was coated with blood, but all he could taste was the bitter tang of fear and regret. “Kill me, Muriel,” he finished softly. “If my cousin is dead, please just promise me you’ll kill me, too.” Muriel’s mouth was dry. “I… I don’t know if…” If she even could, and it had nothing to do with her father or what was expected of her. The thought of taking the knife from her belt and driving it into Gerard’s throat was like a nightmare. “She’s alive, Gerard, she has to be. Please, just…” She hesitated, and looked away. “But if they decide - if they’re going to hurt you, either of you, or send you back to your father…” Her mind flashed back to the scars on Gerard’s back. No one deserved that. “I won’t let that happen, I swear.” ** She was never left alone. No matter the time of day, no matter what she was doing-- sleeping, eating, even washing herself-- a rebel soldier remained at her side, watching her like a hawk. It was, Julia thought, a whole different brand of prisonhood, the physical chains gone but her will no more free than it had been during those three months in the prison tent. And at least then she’d had Gerard. A week now since the Branded Lord had arrived to camp, and still the rebels hadn’t let Julia see him. She’d asked them repeatedly-- even begged-- but the answer remained the same. They assured her he was fine, that they’d not hurt him, but words were only words, and gods knew Julia had met enough liars in her time not to trust mere promises and claims. Which was why she found herself looking for opportunities. Not to escape the camp, as Gerard might have implored her to do if he’d known she was no longer chained, but simply to slip away from her omnipresent escorts so that she could sneak into the prison tent and verify that Gerard was still alive with her own two eyes. It would only take a moment. Just one brief glimpse, a few fear-easing words… When her moment came, she leapt on it. It was early morning, the sky still painted with the bright colors of a steamy dawn. She was eating breakfast with her most frequent watchman, Corbin, when another soldier strolled up to them, scowling, her brow furrowed in something between aggravation and confusion. She wasn’t very old-- perhaps fifteen, with hair the color of wet clay and dark eyes that glimmered like obsidian. A prominent scar ran jagged down her cheek, forked at the bottom like the split mouth of a river. “I need to talk you,” she huffed with no preamble. “Not now,” Corbin replied, swallowing a bite of his dry, crumbly biscuit. “Yes, now.” She crossed her arms, and then, before he could say anything else, glanced over to Julia. “You wouldn’t mind horribly if I stole him for a second, would you? It’ll just take a moment.” “Adelice.” Corbin jutted his chin. “I’m your superior officer, and I told you not--” “Don’t you play the ‘superior officer’ card on me, Corby.” She smiled when he flinched at the pet name. “What do you think Mother would say if she were here, and she knew you were refusing to talk to me and pulling rank to do it--” “Okay, okay.” He stood. “But only a minute, Addy.” Then, to Julia: “Stay here, alright? I’ll be back before you know it.” Considering for a moment, he tossed the remainder of his biscuit down to her. “A gift,” he said, and then walked off with Adelice. As they disappeared around a corner, Julia did not hesitate. Not even for a moment. Dropping the proffered biscuit into the dirt below, she stood, whirled, and hurried off in the opposite direction. As luck would have it, Brigadier Belle was still making the rounds in camp that morning. He was passing the prison tent where the prince was still being kept when he heard that familiar, Bernian-accented voice arguing with one of the guards. Lip curling, he quickened his pace. Sure enough, when the front of the tent came into view, there she was. Marching up to her, he grabbed her arm roughly and jerked her back from the guard. “Well, well,” he snapped. “I take it you’re not enjoying the Branded Lord’s hospitality, little princess.” As the fingers curled around her arm, and a sharp hand hauled her back, Julia flinched; when she heard Belle’s gruff, seething voice, she bit down so hard on her lip it drew blood. Of all the people to find her. “I just want to see him,” she said, not daring to meet Belle’s piercing gaze. “Just to make sure he’s okay--” Dragging her a few steps further away, he shook her. “Is that it? Or perhaps you want a chance to make plans with your fellow spy again…” He chuckled grimly. “Do not think you’ve won our trust just because you’re now roaming free. You’re under guard for a reason.” “We’re not spies,” she hissed, swallowing down the lump in her throat. Briefly, she flicked her gaze at the tent guard with whom she’d been negotiating prior to Belle’s arrival, as if the boy might help her; but he’d cast his own eyes resolutely on the ground, clearly unwilling to interfere with his far superior officer. “I don’t even need to talk to him,” she went on. “I just… want to see him, just to make sure he’s alive. I… I know you don’t trust us, but I’m concerned for him, and--” “How did you get away from your guard?” Belle snapped, cutting her off. His hand clamped down on her arm even more tightly, his nails starting to leave marks in her skin. “The Branded Lord may change his tune about letting you roam free if you’ve hurt one of his soldiers…” “ Hurt my guard?” Finally Julia dared looked up at Belle’s face, gawping. “I… I would never do that I…” She gulped as his fingernails cut into her. “You’re hurting me,” she said, as if expecting him to loosen his grip; but if anything, he only clasped harder. “I’ve done nothing wrong, General Lynn said I’m a guest… and… you shouldn’t be treating me like a prisoner anymore. So let go of me.” Belle’s face stiffened. Without warning, he slapped her across the face with his free hand. “You do not tell me what to do,” he snarled, still gripping her too tightly for her to pull away. Before he could say anything further, a clipped, furious voice spoke. “ Myer. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The Branded Lord was well and truly furious, his glare leveled at the Brigadier. Although he was not a tall man, his anger lent him a more imposing figure as he strode toward his officer and the girl he still held tightly in his grip. At the sound and sight of Xavier, Belle let go of Julia’s arm as if he’d been burned. His face frozen somewhere between recalcitrance and horror, he hissed, “I found her trying to get into the prison tent, sir. Without her guard, and spinning stories of just wanting to look at the prince-- and then she started ordering me about as if I answer to her--” Xavier didn’t answer at first, only gave a brief and pointed glance at Julia’s arm where Belle’s grip had left its mark. “I distinctly recall saying that she was to be treated as a guest,” he said, flat and cold. “You don’t hit a young girl, Belle, particularly not one who is your guest.” “I don’t know why you trust her,” Belle growled in reply, the initial frozen shock caused by Xavier’s arrival quickly ceding back to a cool, righteous rage. “She’s one of them, sir. A royal. The king’s blood flows through her veins. I don’t know what she’s told you to make you trust her, but I lived with one of them, sir. In Kajas. My master’s wife was this one’s aunt. And so I know very well: it doesn’t matter what they say, the lies they might whisper into our ears, because we will never be more than objects to them. Petty things to use and abuse and order about. She’s a princess of Courdon. That you’d allow her to wander around our camp unbidden… that you think of her as a guest…” “That is my call to make,” Xavier said sharply. “Not yours. And if we’re talking about trust, Myer, then I am less than inclined to trust an officer who assaulted someone I’d promised safety in this camp.” He’d edged forward enough that he was now able to slip between them, forcing Belle back and positioning himself as an obstacle to Julia. “I know you suffered in Kajas,” he said, more softly. “I know how they treat us, what they think of us, I’ve lived that too. But don’t let that turn you into one of them. Because if we’re not better than that, then all of this is for nothing.” His voice hardened. “I’ve given up too much for this war, I won’t let that happen.” “I simply hope you won’t be eating your words, sir, when this one flees in the night back to Rakine with a head full of all our strategies and plans,” Belle said evenly. And with that, the brigadier spun and stalked away, the heels of his boots crunching against the dirt beneath. Julia watched him go with her cheek still throbbing and stomach lurching, Belle’s furious words echoing like cannon shots in her brain. Absentmindedly, she rubbed at the fingernail gouges on her arm, which ran so deep that several were dribbling blood. Xavier looked at her, his brow furrowed. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t realize how… hostile he was toward the both of you.” He owed Muriel an apology too, he realized. She’d tried to tell him, but he’d dismissed it as a clash of personality between her and the Brigadier. “Here,” he said, pulling out a handkerchief and passing it to her. “Something to stop the bleeding.” She took the cloth gingerly and pressed it to the half-moon of gashes, watching as the material quickly turned dark with blood. “Thanks,” she murmured, pausing for a moment before adding, “I… my cousin’s just in there, isn’t he?” She nudged her chin toward the prison tent behind them. Xavier glanced briefly over his shoulder before answering. “...Yes, he is.” He gave a short sigh, and admitted, “The guards are under orders. They won’t allow you in.” “ You could let me in, though,” she said, her throat dry. Part of Julia knew that perhaps bargaining with the Branded Lord wasn’t a good idea right now-- that he’d already done more than she probably deserved by calling Belle off of her. Still, she couldn’t help it, not when she knew she might not get a chance like this again for quite some time, if ever. Almost frantically, she stammered, “I j-just want to go in for a minute… I… don’t even need to talk to him, I just… I just want to see him to make sure he’s okay. I’m worried about him, I…” He was already shaking his head. “No. I’m sorry, but no. I can assure you he is unhurt, but I don’t think it’s wise to let you see him.” He left it at that, not mentioning his continued suspicions that the prince had been manipulating her, but then frowned slightly and added, “I can promise you that Brigadier Belle will have no further involvement with him, or with you. His temper has made him a liability.” Julia gave a short nod at Xavier’s promise, but it was the first part of his statement that clung to her. “Why?” she said to it, her voice cracking. “Why can’t I see him?” Then: “Are you ever going to let me see him? Because I… he’s… he’s all I have, okay? My mum’s dead. I can’t go back to Bern. If my uncle ever saw me again, he’d probably beat me unconscious, if not behead me outright. I don’t have anybody, General. Except Gerard. I need him. I can’t… I can’t do this if he’s just… stuck in some prison tent indefinitely and I’m never allowed to see him again. I can’t. I can’t.” Tears welled in her eyes, and Julia sharply blinked them back. “Julia, you’re not alone here,” Xavier said gently. “I don’t intend to leave you to fend for yourself. You have help now, and allies. I promise you I’m on your side.” He hesitated. “And… that’s why I don’t believe it is wise to let your cousin have any further contact with you. I won’t lie to you, I don’t trust him, and I don’t think it would be safe for you.” “If you’re not on his side, you’re not on my side,” she said simply, and then whipped her head back at the sound of footsteps from behind. Please, not Belle again, not Belle.Relief flooded her when she found not Belle, but Corbin and, at his heels, Muriel. When his eyes met hers, a nearly giddy grin broke out over Corbin’s face, and he waved enthusiastically at her before Xavier’s identity seemed to dawn on him… at which point his expression of joy quickly segued into something between terror and embarrassment. Muriel hurried to meet them, her eyes flicking to Julia’s arm and the cloth she was using to staunch the bleeding. “What happened? Is everything alright?” “She’s fine,” Xavier said, and added, “Though you, Lieutenant, were incredibly careless.” Corbin quailed at this, though the general sounded more stern than angry. “I want you to keep an eye on her, Muriel - and, if you can, keep her away from the Brigadier. He’ll be having no further involvement with either of them if I can help it.” Muriel looked surprised, and then angry. “ He did that? But you said--” “I know,” said Xavier grimly, “and I’m sorry. You did try to warn me, I should not have dismissed it.” “I take it I’m not going to get to see Gerard, then?” Julia whispered, eyes loitering longingly on the tent. So close, and yet without having permission to enter it, the darn thing might as well have been all the way in Rakine. Xavier shook his head, and seeing his daughter about to speak, gave her a warning look. “That’s my final decision, Muriel, I expect you to follow it,” he said. “I’ll leave her in your hands.” Muriel waited until he was out of sight before turning back to Julia. “I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I’ve tried to convince him, I swear, but he won’t listen to me. But - but Gerard is fine, they haven’t hurt him.” Not that continued imprisonment was exactly fine, but at least she was more comfortable with her father as jailer than the Brigadier. However much he disliked the prince, Xavier wouldn’t hurt him without cause. “I don’t understand why I can’t just see him,” Julia said, her voice strangled. “I’m tired of being told he’s dangerous, that he’s manipulating me… I… I know him. He’s not. And even if he were, what would just looking at him do?” Finally pulling the handkerchief away from her clotted arm, she added darkly, “It’s about control. It’s always about control. Just like with my uncle.” “It’s not like that,” Muriel said quickly. “He’s… he’s seen a lot of suffering. Escaped slaves, people who have been manipulated their whole lives. And Gerard, being royalty…” She trailed off, uncomfortable. In her father’s eyes, Gerard was the enemy - as close to the embodiment of the enemy as anyone but the king. And the way Gerard had been coolly lying during his interrogation did not help his case. “Listen, Julia,” she said quietly. “I might not be able to get you in to see him, but I can go. I’m still in charge of the guard on him, I can bring his rations… I can pass messages along, make sure you know how he’s doing, and that he knows you’re alive and well.” She gave a short sigh. “If he’ll still trust me.” “Won’t your father be mad if he finds out?” Julia asked, a bite to her tone. “As far as I can tell, he thinks Gerry’s manipulating you, too.” But as soon as she’d said this, she regretted it. Muriel had just made her such a valuable offer, and Woo be cursed if Julia would let her own dour appraisal of things make the captain renege. “Tell Gerry that…” She racked her brain. “Tell him that I miss him. That I’m okay and being treated well, but I haven’t forgotten him. And that as long as he’s being kept prisoner, I… I won’t do what he told me to back on the river.” She paused, considered. “And so he knows it’s from me… tell him that it was a magnolia tree. Above our bench in the gardens, it was a magnolia tree. He’ll know what that means.” “I’ll tell him,” Muriel said readily. “And I’ll… keep trying, with Father. It’s not right the way he’s treating Gerard.” “Thank you,” Julia said. “I appreciate it, Captain.” Muriel nodded. “It’s the least I can do,” she said quietly. “This isn’t your fault.” Part Four: It was later that day when Muriel finally, finally worked up the nerve to approach Gerard again. She’d avoided him for the past week, telling herself it was because it was too risky to visit frequently with her father here… but she knew, really. It wasn’t about her father, what he’d think or what he’d say. It was about Gerard himself, about the stunned look on his face when he’d heard what she called the Branded Lord. He’d trusted her, but maybe not now, maybe not ever again. She could not quite shake the fear that her relationship to Xavier Lynn might have broken things between them permanently.
But she had to go see him now. She’d promised Julia. And she could not deny that she wanted to see him again, particularly after how she’d seen him last, bleeding and bruised after Brigadier Belle’s rough treatment. She trusted that her father would have kept him in good health and protected him from something like that happening again… but she needed to see for herself.
And so she found herself lingering in front of the flap to the prison tent, clutching Gerard’s meal rations in her hands. The regular fare was as unappetizing as ever but she’d also appropriated a sweet bun, one of the nicer things that the slightly overexcited mess cooks had made upon getting word that the Branded Lord would be arriving soon.
The guards, she realized, were starting to stare, she’d been standing still for so long. This is ridiculous, she told herself firmly, and strode briskly forward into the tent.
“I brought your rations,” she said, just as she had over the past months, as if nothing at all had changed.
Gerard, sitting cross-legged in the corner, straightened instantly at the rebel’s presence. He blinked once, then twice, then again, as if he couldn’t quite believe that Muriel had dared stroll into the tent like nothing was wrong after all that had happened with the Branded Lord’s arrival, and the disastrous encounter afterward.
“Where’s Sergeant Lindsay?” he said pointedly, referring to the rebel who’d largely taken over for Muriel in the past week. “Because really, Captain Lynn, I think I’d much prefer to receive my rations from Sergeant Lindsay. He’s from Roth, did you know? Son of a miller. Swell guy, that Lindsay.”
Muriel felt her sympathy for Gerard wane sharply. “Well, you get me today,” she snapped. “Be civil, I don’t want to have to throw this”--she held up the sweet bun--“in the dirt.”
With Gerard making no move forward to take it from her, she began setting the food down within his reach, at an equal distance between them. After a moment, she added, “And I have a message from your cousin, if you can stop sniping at me long enough to hear it.”
Gerard faltered, unable to hide the slight tremble to his hands as he reached forward and brushed the food toward him. “I did not appreciate that, you know,” he said, his voice stark. “The Branded Lord-- or should I say, your papa-- telling me that I’m merely using Julia for my own nefarious intent. I would die for that girl, no questions asked. And yet I’ve been separated from her as if I’m but an enki who’s filled her head with poisonous lies.”
“I wasn’t the one who made that decision,” Muriel said, an edge to her voice. “If you believe anything I’ve said to you over the past months, believe me about this. I tried to tell him - did, actually, told him every reason I’ve come to trust you both and urged him to reconsider. He didn’t listen. He--” She broke off, biting her lip. This was not the time or place to talk about her frustrations with her father. “Do you want her message or not, Gerard?” she said, her voice flat.
“I do,” Gerard replied. “Of course I do.” He peeled part of the crust off the sweet bun, pressing it between his fingers as if merely to give himself some way to occupy his chained hands. “Although,” he continued bitterly, “I’m not sure why you think I ought trust it. For all I know, she’s been lying in a ditch with her throat cut for the past week, and this ‘message’ you’ve got from her is nothing more than a fabrication. A pretty tale to keep me complacent while your papa”-- he said this word rather as if it were a swear-- “figures out what to do with the second prince of Courdon.”
“I wouldn’t--” Muriel cut off that outburst too, before the hurt mingled with the anger in her voice could become too obvious. “It was a magnolia tree, she said,” Muriel said, not looking at him. “She told me to tell you there was a magnolia tree above your bench in the gardens, so you would know it was her.”
He froze. “And what else did she say, Captain?”
“She says she misses you.” Muriel let herself meet Gerard’s eyes then, watching him as she relayed the message. “She says that she’s being looked after, that she’s okay, but she still misses you. And…” Muriel hesitated, trying to recall Julia’s words as exactly as she could; she hadn’t understood what this part of the message meant, but she couldn’t help but feel that it was the most important thing Julia had said. “She won’t do what you told her to on the river, not while you’re still a prisoner here.”
At this, Gerard grimaced, letting out a frustrated hiss of air. Clearly part of the relayed message had upset him, but he gave Muriel no indication of why, merely staring down at the sweet bun in his hands as he murmured, “Right. Well, thanks for telling me, Captain.”
“What did you tell her on the river, Gerard?” she said quietly, curiosity getting the better of her. “You spoke in Mzian, I remember.”
Still not looking at her, he shrugged. Considering. Debating. “I gave her an order,” he said finally. “One I’d rather hoped she would heed. But I suppose my authority’s waned as of late, hm?” He gave a short, stark laugh.
“It upsets you she won’t go through with it,” Muriel observed, but then she sighed. She couldn’t press him, not now, when Julia’s message was the only thing holding this fragile bridge of civility between them. She looked away. “I… am sorry, for what it’s worth,” she muttered. “You don’t deserve this, and you and Julia shouldn’t have been separated. I thought I could make him see that.” Her lips curved into a thin, sardonic smirk. “Suppose you aren’t the only one with less clout than you were expecting, princeling.”
At this, Gerard finally dredged up his gaze, his dark eyes latching on to hers. “No,” he agreed. “I suppose I’m not.” A beat, then: “Why didn’t you tell me, Captain? About who you were? I’ve been thinking about it constantly this past week. Trying to come up with justifications where it was… accidental, just an oversight. But it can’t have been. People-- even Belle-- constantly avoiding using your last name…” He shook his head.
“I--” It was something she didn’t entirely have an answer for, and she hesitated. “At first, I suppose it was considered a risk. That’s what Belle would say, anyway. That it would be too dangerous for potential enemies of the rebellion to know who I was, but…” She sighed. “That’s- that’s not all of it. I- Gerard, have you ever thought about how someone would look at you if they didn’t know who your father was? What they’d think of you, not the prince of Courdon, just… Gerard, on your own merits.” She smiled ruefully. “And the longer it goes on, the harder it would be to give that up, because you know… because I know I can’t just be Muriel when I’m Muriel Lynn. Not here.”
“But running away from it doesn’t help,” Gerard said. “I spent most of my life wishing the same thing, Muriel. That who my father is-- or isn’t-- wouldn’t impact how everybody in my life saw me. But in the end, working against who you are only makes things…” He paused. “... It only makes things more complicated. And I won’t pretend as if I’ve come to the point in my life where I’ve fully accepted everything. Where I can look back at my past and not hate every godsdamned memory where who I am has worked to make things so… miserable. But all the same, I can’t change it. And that’s why, when you found Julia and me on that riverbank, I told you the truth, Captain Lynn. Even knowing it could get me killed. Even knowing it could get her killed. And so while I can understand the impulse that led you to lie... ” He leaned forward. “I don’t think it was right. And I don’t think it’s an excuse.”
She swallowed. “It’s not,” she agreed bluntly. “I didn’t tell you because I was a coward, when it comes to it. But that’s all I’ve got, Gerard. It was cowardice, it was… wishful thinking. It was never because I wasn’t really on your side.” She put as much conviction as she could muster into her voice. “I swear.”
Muriel laughed softly to herself, running a hand over her face. “And you’re the son of a king. You must think I’m being very foolish, princeling, all that fear when I am only the daughter of a general. Perhaps I’m not accustomed to it. He’s called the Branded Lord, but my father was no one in our House, and my mother always wanted us to live simply. It wasn’t until I came here…” Her voice dropped. “Now, it seems like everyone in this kingdom worships my father. Or wants him dead.”
“You… you don’t understand, do you, Muriel?” Gerard said. “What I’ve meant all these months, as I’ve claimed so fervidly that I’m no son of Oliver?” When she didn’t at once respond, but only gaped at him with a questioning look, he furrowed his brow and went on, “He’s my father legally, and inasmuch as I’ve never known another. And I suppose that makes me his son, by rights. But I’m not his, Muriel. Gods-- you can’t have ever seen him but… if you had, you would understand. You…”
He took a deep breath before his words grew too frantic, too shrill.
“My mother,” he went on, shifting tacks. “The queen. Do you know what she looks like? Black hair. Blue eyes. But my father, he’s blonde. And his eyes? They’re green, like Julia’s. But mine, they’ve been brown since the day I was born. Since the first time I blinked up at my dearest papa, who was up until that point so excited over the birth of his second son.” Gerard swallowed hard, clutching to the sweet bun as if it were the edge of a slippery cliff. “Do you understand, Captain?”
For a long moment Muriel could only stare at him, as everything suddenly, neatly clicked into place. No son of Oliver. The things he’d said about his upbringing, the scars on his back that bore witness more starkly than any words to how his so-called father had treated him. Woo, she was a fool for not seeing it earlier. “I thought… I thought you were only denouncing him,” she said slowly. “Because you’d chosen the rebellion over your father.” She closed her eyes tightly, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “I should have known, I… I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“I suppose I could have been more straightforward.” Gerard turned the still-uneaten roll over in his hand. “It didn’t make my childhood a very cozy one. I didn’t understand it, not for the longest while. Why Cass-- er, Prince Cassian-- and I could commit the same transgression and he’d merely get a smack while I got whipped until I bled. Or why, when I was very small, my mother recoiled from me when I sought affection, as if I disgusted her… but then she’d gladly cuddle my sister Safira for hours.” He paused. “I was maybe seven or eight when I really understood for the first time. My father got drunk-- really drunk-- the night after my brother Matteus was born. Celebratory drunk, at first, because there was no doubt that boy was his. But then…”
Gerard winced at the memory, his voice trailing off, and only caught himself after a good, long, painful moment.
“Right here,” he said, tapping a small, jagged scar that curved beneath his eye like the bottom of a raccoon’s mask. “Normally he only hits me where the marks will either heal quickly or can’t be seen if I’ve got clothes on, but that night, he didn’t care. One of his rings caught against my eye. Knocked me clear over. By the time I struggled back up, bleeding and bewildered, he’d stalked away. But Cassian...” Gerard shook his head-- darkly, sadly. “Cassian was still there. Just… watching me. Shocked and upset. At least until I asked him why Papa had done that, and he told me very plainly, as if he were merely talking about what he’d eaten for breakfast: ‘Because you’re not really his son, Gerry. Not like me. Or the baby.’”
“Just because you weren’t his?” Muriel whispered, her eyes wide. On impulse she leaned forward and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, a gesture of comfort she did not think she would ordinarily have made. “No wonder you left,” she said in a low voice. “Even your mother didn’t…?” She trailed off, not sure what she was about to say. Didn’t love him? Didn’t try to stop her husband from beating her son? With a start she realized how little she really knew about his family, where he’d come from. She knew Oliver only from afar, as the hated enemy of the rebellion, but Gerard… Gerard had been raised by him.
Her father, she thought grimly, had not even stopped to consider what that must have been like.
“My mother…” Gerard hesitated, as if debating with himself over how much was acceptable to reveal. Finally, he continued, “She kept me alive, which I think counts for much more than it sounds like on the surface. But she couldn’t… she couldn’t stop him from hurting me.” A pause. “Of everyone, I got it the worst from my father; there’s no denying that. But I’m hardly the only one he hurts. Who’s laid there smacked, or punched, or whipped and bleeding on his floor.”
“That’s…” Muriel bit her lip. “He sounds like a monster,” she said quietly. He’d painted a vivid picture in her mind, young Gerard helpless and bleeding before the man he called his father, and she wanted to shudder.
“He’s all I’ve ever know,” Gerard said simply. “I didn’t realize until… gods, far too long… that most fathers don’t do that to their children. Not until Julia arrived, really.” He smiled here, darkly, almost ruefully. “His first act after taking her in was to have her whipped. And after that… whenever she wasn’t mindful enough-- whenever she talked back, or hesitated before obeying him-- he would hurt her, just as he hurt my siblings and me. And she was… incredulous, really. Every time she acted like she just couldn’t understand. So one day I asked her about it, when we were alone together. And she just stared at me for the longest time. Shocked. Confused. Finally, she shook her head and asked me: ‘Do you think it’s normal, Gerard? What he does to us?’”
Gerard sighed, finally setting the sweet bun down upon the dirt ground; he clearly had no appetite. Leaning his head back against the canvas wall of the tent, he slumped down and rested his head against his shoulder, the ghost of a bleak smile still curved at the corners of his lips.
“If you’re willing to bring messages from her to me, Captain, does the opposite also apply? Will you… if you see her again, will you tell her something for me?”
“Of course I will,” Muriel said, her hands twisting in her lap. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him as he’d recounted his memories of Oliver, and she found she couldn’t look away now.
“Tell her I still mean it,” he said. “That she shouldn’t let worries about me stop her from making the choice that’s best for her.” He bit his lip. “And tell her I’m sorry. For… everything. For being so cocky as to think this incursion into the rebels might go well for us. For not pausing for even one godsdamned minute to ask her if she really, truly wanted to do this-- or if we ought go elsewhere instead, far, far away from Courdon entirely.” With a hard swallow, he added, “My mother let us go. Tell her that, so she knows it’s from me: my mother let us go.”
For a moment Muriel was silent and could only nod, watching him with her brow furrowed. Then something in her face hardened, as if reaching some kind of resolve. “I’ll tell her,” she said. “But, Gerard… I know I’ve probably lost any trust I ever had from you. Probably I deserve that. But your cousin isn’t the only one who remembers you’re still a prisoner, and she’s not the only one who wants to get you out.”
For a moment, Gerard said nothing, Then, with a soft sigh, he started:
“One time when I was ten or so, I was walking through a corridor when I came across a young slave girl who’d tripped and spilled a bucket of cleaning water on the floor. An accident-- it had to be-- but the overseer who’d caught her didn’t seem to care. As I approached, he had her pinned against a wall, and he was snarling at her. His hand raised as if he was about to smack her, or worse. When he noticed me, he bowed and waited for me to pass… but I knew that once I did, he’d just go back to menacing her. Hurting her. So I looked him square in the eye and told him to let her go, now. I was ten, Muriel. A normal ten-year-old boy skulking about the palace and snapping orders at overseers would have been roundly ignored. But because of who I was, the man released the girl as if he’d been slapped himself.”
Gerard stared the captain directly in the eye, his expression suddenly intense.
“Sometimes,” he said slowly, “it’s good to be who you are, Muriel. The strings attached to your identity that often grow so tangled… they can be useful, too. But you have to know how to pull them. You can’t doubt yourself, or hesitate, just because you’re afraid of being seen as… manipulative, or cocky, or overstepping your authority. That day in the corridor, I didn’t stop to think that maybe I ought not be ordering about adults. That maybe what the overseer did with that girl was of no concern to me. I made it my concern, and by gods, I didn’t let the overseer see how much it scared me. I didn’t let him see the way my stomach was churning, or my palms sweating. Do you understand what I mean, Muriel?”
She nodded, slowly. “I do understand,” she said. “And if that’s what it takes to get you free, to make my father and his generals understand that you’re not a threat to us, or to Julia…” She gave a listless half-shrug. “There’s still my father, though. And it’s not like with the Brigadier, I can’t just…” Muriel sighed. “You have to understand why he’s doing this… he’s not being vindictive, or needlessly cruel. He thinks he’s protecting Julia… probably thinks he’s protecting me too, at that. And when he takes someone under his protection…” She shook her head. “I’m sure you know about what happened at Jisam, how he killed Rylan Duval. How that victory made the rebellion a force to be reckoned with. But that’s… that wasn’t why he did it, Gerard. Rylan had my sister.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “I was there. I saw her. And I saw the look on my father’s face. He doesn’t like fighting or inflicting pain, he never has, but if anyone had tried to harm her again I don’t think he’d have hesitated to kill them too.”
“I did know about my uncle Rylan, yes,” Gerard said. “And… I’m sure he deserved whatever your father did to him, and trust me when I say that I understand being protective over somebody. But… I think it’s up to you, Captain, if I’m ever going to be freed from these chains. If the Branded Lord thinks I’ve manipulated Julia for years, he’ll never believe what she has to say. And everyone else here, well…” He didn’t name Belle, but from the acerbic bite to his tone, it was clear to whom he was referring. “If you believe me, Muriel… if you believe that I’ve come here to help your cause-- and I swear on my life, I have-- then I think you might be my only chance. You’re the Branded Lord’s daughter. Use that with him. Make him believe what you believe. Don’t just let it go.”
Picking the sweet bun back up and dusting off its new coat of dirt, Gerard sighed heavily… but there was a nearly mischievous cast to his eyes as he added, “And if you could try not disappearing on me for weeks at a time, perhaps? Don’t tell Sergeant Lindsay, but I actually quite prefer your company to his, even if you are the Branded Lord’s daughter. You make for better conversation.” He quirked a devilish smile. “And you’re quite a bit more pleasant to look at, you know.”
Muriel grinned. “He’d be heartbroken,” she said, a teasing note creeping into her voice. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” Leaning forward, her face grew a little more serious again as she added, “And I won’t just let it go, that is a promise. I’m on your side, Gerard.” She reached out then, finding his free hand and curling her fingers over the top of his. And that was where she meant to leave it - should have left it, perhaps - but instead she leaned in further, her hand still resting lightly atop his, and impulsively pressed her lips to his.
At first, as Muriel’s lips brushed against his, Gerard stiffened, as if in disbelief. Then, his heart thudding in his ears, he returned the kiss, only pulling away from her after a good, long moment. Grateful that she couldn’t see the red flush to his cheeks on account of his dark skin and the dim lighting in the tent, Gerard reached gently up toward her, brushing a stray strand of hair away from where it dangled before her eyes.
“Is that,” he teased, “really proper protocol with prisoners, Muriel?” Then, on deeper reflection: “Maybe you shouldn’t tell your father about that when you beg for my life. Not that I regret it, of course. Although next time perhaps you should warn me first. So that I don’t initially sit there frozen like an idiot. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m a bad kisser, Captain.”
Muriel grinned at him, her heart suddenly pounding with a rush of giddiness. “All things considered, you handled it well,” she said. “But I’ll make sure to check that wasn’t a fluke, next time.” She squeezed at his hand briefly before pulling away, forcing herself to draw back instead of leaning forward again. “I’ll be back,” she promised. “As soon as I can.”
“I’m going to hold you to that,” Gerard said, beaming now. “And don’t you worry-- I’ll be ready next time. There shall be no more taking me by surprise, Captain Lynn.”
Part Five: It was past dark when Muriel sought out Julia. She’d already been settled in her tent, private lodgings for the guest of the rebellion who was neither prisoner nor soldier. Muriel slipped past her guard without any trouble, only half-acknowledging him as he saluted her, and once inside the tent crouched next to Julia’s bedroll. “Julia,” she said softly. “Wake up, I need to talk to you.” Julia shot up from sleep like someone had slapped her, a nearly panicked expression flashing across her face until, after blinking several times, she seemed to realize where she was-- and who Muriel was. Even then, the girl remained on edge, pursing her lips as she studied the rebel kneeling beside her. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her hands curled into shaking, apprehensive fists at her side. “Is it… did something happen with Gerard?” “He’s fine,” Muriel said quickly. “I spoke to him, he’s fine, and he has a message for you in return. I wanted to talk to you when…” She glanced furtively at the tent flap. “When there’s not so many people around.” “Oh.” Julia visibly relaxed, a soft smile curving between her lips. “He… he’s alright? Your father hasn’t hurt him or… ?” “No.” Muriel shook her head vigorously. “He’s not like the brigadier. However much he dislikes him, he won’t hurt him.” She pursed her lips. “Though he’s no closer to being released, either. He wanted to tell you…” She hesitated, but pressed on anyway. “He wanted to tell you he’s sorry for how this turned out. And to tell you to do whatever you need to, regardless of what’s happened to him.” A pause. “His mother let you go. That’s what he told me to say, so you would know I did speak with him.” “So she did,” Julia murmured, sighing. “And of course he’d say that. He’s so…” She raked a frustrated hand through her dark, tangled curls. “He’s a good person. But he’s so Woodamned stubborn sometimes. Like an ox. Woo, half of me wishes I could see him just so I could yell at him to stop playing the role of dejected martyr.” In spite of herself, the shadow of a grin crossed Muriel’s face. “ Stubborn is perhaps too generous,” she agreed, but the humor in her expression faded as she recalled what he’d said. “Back there on the river… he told you to run, didn’t he? That’s what he wants you to do now.” “If I were to deny it, would you even believe me?” Julia shrugged. “Yes, he’s told me to run. Repeatedly. Insistently. That day we moved camp on horseback, he quite literally commanded me to. But I’m not going to just leave him, you know? He’s all I have. And I don’t even know where I’d go. I’d be lucky to make it a day on my own without either your father’s men dragging me back here, or my uncle’s men finding me and bringing me to Rakine.” Her voice cracked in spite of herself; she’d clearly given this topic much more thought than she would have liked. “I’m related to half the Woodamned royalty on this continent, did you know that? Lange. Courdon. Mzia. Probably even more. But I belong nowhere. Maybe not ever, but certainly not anymore.” “Gerard would probably want me to tell you exactly the same thing he did,” Muriel said. “Convince you where he failed, as if I even could. But…” She leaned forward, meeting Julia’s eyes earnestly. “I’m glad you’re staying. I haven’t given up yet, I’m getting him out, and… with you, we have an ally. Someone else who doesn’t think the worst of him, at least.” She gave the girl a small half-smile. “He doesn’t have to be the only one you’ve got, you know. Whatever my father says, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m on your side.” “Thank you,” Julia said. “I appreciate it more than you could ever know. But… how are you going to get him out? As far as your father’s concerned, Gerard’s a manipulative monster who’s using me as an unwitting puppet for some nefarious plan. So it’s not like my word means anything. How do you expect to convince him otherwise?” Muriel huffed softly. “I wish I knew,” she muttered. “Gerard thinks my father is most likely to listen to me, but he didn’t before. I just…” She shook her head. “He lied before, did you know? Under Father’s truth spell. And he was - Julia, if I hadn’t already known it was a lie, I would have believed him, he was that convincing. But… Father knew too. He won’t trust anything he says now, even if under a truth spell.” “He lied in response to questions about who I was and how my uncle came to have custody of me, didn’t he?” Julia guessed, and when Muriel nodded, the dark-haired girl sighed again. “He was just trying to protect me. He… he wouldn’t have lied otherwise.” She pressed a hand against her forehead, rubbing at her suddenly-throbbing temple. “What if… what if Gerard gave information?” she asked. “I mean… Belle’s mostly just interrogated us over who we are, and what we want, and why we ran away from the palace. But he hasn’t asked us useful things, you know? And me… well, I know some information, I guess. But not like Gerry. He’s lived almost his entire life with Oliver. At that palace. He knows stuff, Muriel. Useful stuff. Things he wouldn’t dare give away if his intentions weren’t good-- but that would be easy to prove as wrong if he merely lied about them.” Muriel was nodding before Julia finished speaking. “That might just convince him,” she agreed. “I know Father and his generals have some intelligence about the palace, so there’s a chance they could check some of his facts. The rest…” She grinned, starting to feel genuinely excited. “He won’t just convince Father, he’ll give him - give us - an opening to do some real damage! And I know the generals wouldn’t pass that up, there’s no way.” “That… that could work.” Julia hesitantly returned Muriel’s smile. “As long as…” She faltered, the newfound hopefulness wavering slightly. “If… if he gave you enough information to try something at the palace… y-your people would only hurt combatants, right? Not like Jisam with… with his cousin Micah Duval. And what happened to our uncle Tyson and his kids. Because Gerard does want to help-- I know he does-- but… well. You’ve seen how protective he is over me, right? And… he still has siblings there. At the palace. And I don’t think he’d risk giving you information that might risk them getting killed.” She paused again. “... Unless I talked to him first. I… I think if you let him see me again-- if I could talk to him about why it’s so important to cooperate with whatever new questions the Branded Lord starts flinging at him…” Muriel bit her lip. “The soldiers are under orders not to hurt noncombatants, but…” She trailed off. Considering how little Gerard trusted Xavier in the first place, it wasn’t likely to be much consolation. “I can’t guarantee I could get you in to see him. He’s still under guard, and with my father here, they’re bound to be on alert. But if I could…” She smiled, though the expression was tense. “It could work. He listens to you.” “What if we went now?” Julia asked, leaping almost frantically onto the fact that Muriel hadn’t outright denied her proposition. “I mean-- most everyone is probably asleep, right? Your father… Brigaider Belle. So if you walk up acting authoritative, like you’re allowed to be doing it… well, whomever’s on guard won’t want to wake the Branded Lord or Belle. They might let us in. Just as long as you don’t betray that you’re doing something wrong.” “That’s--” Muriel swallowed, the protest dying on her lips. “That actually… might be our only chance,” she said slowly. Using her authority, her confidence… it could, as Gerard had said, be the best weapon she had. “Private Bennet is on guard duty right now. He doesn’t know my father personally, and I think he’d obey me. He might just let us in.” Her father, she thought, would be furious if he found out. But Muriel could not bring herself to find anything wrong with what she was about to do, not if she trusted Gerard. And she was coming to realize that she trusted him absolutely. Abruptly, she stood up. “Follow me, if you’re ready,” she said in a low voice. “Don’t say anything, just follow my lead.” Julia nodded, scrambling to her feet. “Of course.” A beat, as a broad smile formed between her lips at the thought that she was about to see Gerard again. Finally! Barely able to suppress the excited trill to her tone, she added, “And… thank you, Muriel.” Out in the cool night air, Julia kept her head down as Muriel wordlessly hurried past her guard, who stared as they went by but said nothing to his far-superior officer. Julia followed closely at the rebel’s heel as the two then began toward the prison tent, trailing Muriel like a wary dog sticking close to its familiar, comforting master. A camp like this one never truly slept, but it was certainly anemic, with only scattered soldiers lingering here and there. Most of them outright ignored Muriel and Julia, brushing quickly past them in the darkness, but the few who seemed to recognize Muriel at least stopped to give brief, respectful salutes. All Julia could think was: witnesses. Woo, she hoped none of them ever thought to report what they saw to the Branded Lord. When they reached the prison tent, Private Bennet appeared to have been dozing. He jerked slightly and straightened as Muriel drew closer, throwing a hasty salute. He didn’t comment on Julia’s presence, apparently too anxious about his own lapse in attention, but Muriel still held her breath as they walked past him, managing only to give him a curt nod of acknowledgement. “Gerard,” she hissed once she was inside. “I’m back. I brought Julia.” Gerard, previously dead to the world, snapped awake and upright in an instant. Blinking rapidly against the darkness, it seemed to take him a few seconds to comprehend what Muriel had said to him. Once it did, his gaze fell beyond the rebel and toward the anxious figure out stood a few steps behind her, still hovering just beyond the tent flap. “ Julia.” His voice was equal parts shock and joy. “I… you-- are you okay?” She nodded, swallowing back the lump in her throat, and brushed around Muriel to reach her cousin’s side. “Of course,” she said, crouching in front of him. “Are you?” “Still alive.” He smiled darkly and set a hand on her shoulder, as if he had to touch her just to ensure himself that she was real, that this was truly happening, that in spite of the Branded Lord’s insistences, his cousin was really in front of him right now. “I… you…” He glanced past Julia, at Muriel. “You talked to him?” the prince guessed. “Your father?” “No,” Muriel said, nervous in spite of herself. Any minute, someone who had seen them could put two and two together. “He… doesn’t know I’m here.” She glanced at Julia, having slipped in to Kythian so as to mitigate the risk of Bennet overhearing her admission. “Or that she is. But she-- she had an idea. A way you could gain my father’s trust.” The bright look on Gerard’s face faltered, and he matched her use of Kythian. “You’re… here without his knowledge? Oh, gods.” His hand fell away from Julia, his voice turning stark as he snapped at her, “Leave. Now. Before you get caught.” She gawped at him. “Excuse me?” “I said--” “I heard what you said,” she growled. “But I’m not leaving.” “Yes,” he rejoindered flatly. “You are. Frankly, you should have listened days ago to what I told you on the river, you shouldn’t even be here--” In an instant, a sharp smack sounded through the dark air as, lightning-quick, Julia darted out a hand and slapped her cousin across the face. Not particularly hard, but certainly enough to stun him, his lips falling open in silent shock as he stared at her. “Why--” he started, bringing up a hand to rub at his stinging cheek. “Shut up,” she hissed, “and listen to me. No one knows we’re here, and so we can’t stay for very long. Muriel and I don’t have time to listen to you whine, Gerard. You are not in charge of me. I don’t have to run into the wilds with my tail tucked because you told me to. And if you ever say another word on it again, I’m going to leave you to wilt in this prison tent. I won’t fight for your freedom at all, and neither will Muriel. You can languish here like the cocky, insufferable prince you’re acting. Do you understand?” “I… I…” He continued to gape, stammering over his tongue for a few long moments before he finished with a loud sigh, “... Fine. But if anyone here hurts you, Julia--” “No one is going to hurt me.” She looked back to Muriel. “Tell him our idea. And then I can convince him why it’s a good one.” Muriel squatted down on the ground across from Gerard. “Father won’t believe anything you say after you lied in that interrogation,” she said matter-of-factly. “So… you have to give him a reason to believe you’re telling him the truth. Not a truth spell, he already knows you can circumvent it. But if you gave him valuable information - about the palace, about the king’s defenses - information that would be far too dangerous to give up if you really were a spy… well…” For a moment, Gerard said nothing. His gaze flitting rapidly between Julia and Muriel, he fidgeted in his chains and continued to rub at the handprint on his cheek, his voice hesitant as he finally said, “I… don’t know any information like that, Muriel. I’m sorry.” Julia laughed. “Yes, you do.” “No,” he said levelly. “I do not.” His stare finally settling on hers, his pupils stabbing into hers like fish hooks, he gritted his teeth and continued, “Julia’s mistaken. Aren’t you, Julia?” Her shocked laugh dying away, Julia instead furrowed her brow. “Why are you lying? Why won’t you--” “I’m not lying.” Gerard shrugged, before in a quick burst of Mzian snapping to her: “Dear gods, are you trying to get all the little kids killed? Just like all of Tyson’s kids? Just like Micah?” “Gerard?” Muriel said, her expression midway between bewilderment and annoyance. “What are you telling her? You don’t have to push me out of this, I’m trying to help.” “I want to help the rebellion,” he said. “I do. But… there certain lines I’m not willing to cross to do so. And when your father’s men stormed Jisam, they killed a cousin of mine. Micah. He was only fifteen. And when they clashed with my uncle Tyson…” His voice cracked. “I would slit my father’s throat myself. I wouldn’t even blink to do it. But I have little siblings at that palace, Muriel. And if anything ever happened to them because of information I gave? I couldn’t live with myself.” “The rebels wouldn’t target them,” Julia said. “They would be okay--” “I’m sure Micah wasn’t a target, either,” Gerard cut in. “But he’s still dead, isn’t he, Julia?” He turned his attention back to Muriel. “There has to be other information I can give that’ll show I’m trustworthy. Something that won’t put my siblings at risk.” “Everything puts them at risk, Gerry,” Julia retorted. “This whole war puts them at risk. And-- say you don’t give information. You stay silent and withering in this tent, instead. Do you think that means the revolution is just going to sit idly by forever, never touching the palace? Because that’s not how it works, Gerard. They will try it eventually. There will be bloodshed there. So at least if you gave them good information… they could try to take it with as little collateral damage as possible.” Before he could refute her, she burbled on, “I know you studied the guards. The grounds. How that place works. Don’t deny it-- you did. So if you just told them that…” “I know you don’t want them hurt,” Muriel said, her voice tight. “Hell, if it was my sister or brother… I understand. Believe me, I’m not asking this lightly. But there’s - you have to give him a reason, and if it costs you, if it scares you, that’s all the more reason he’ll have to believe you’re telling the truth.” Her voice softened. “My father’s never wanted collateral damage in this war, Gerard. If you just tell him all this… he’ll understand, he’ll try to make sure they’re not hurt. And he’ll have better information to help him do that.” “And what then, Muriel?” Gerard asked. “What if I give him that, and get my godsdamned baby siblings killed, and still he thinks I’m just a manipulative jerk who’s better off in chains?” “He won’t still think that if you give him a reason not to!” Muriel snapped. “If you really want his trust… then maybe you’re going to have to start by trusting him first. Just a little. Just enough to show him you mean what you say about the rebellion.” Her eyes bored into his intently. “I want to believe you trust me,” she said quietly. “So please, just trust me on this one thing.” “I do trust you,” Gerard said, the steely, incredulous expression on his face giving way to something… softer. Almost pensive. “I… think that should be clear.” A near-smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “And I guess… I guess I could tell him. I… will tell him. If you think that’ll make him trust me.” His voice wavering, he slowly reached out a hand and set it on her arm, his long, tan fingers curling gently around her. “Take care of Julia for me, alright? Just in case… it doesn’t go well with your father. If he doesn’t believe me again, and…” His voice trailed off as left the rest of the dour remark unsaid. Muriel placed her hand over his, leaning forward. “I won’t let that happen,” she said firmly. “But I… I’ll keep her safe, whatever happens.” Eyes narrowed in confusion at the unspoken exchange taking place between her cousin and the rebel, Julia sighed and stood. “Thanks for the vote of confidence about my ability to take care of myself, Gerry,” she said dryly. Then, to Muriel: “I suppose we should probably go before we get caught.” Muriel sighed. “Yes, we should,” she said, regretfully pulling away from Gerard. “I’ll speak to him tomorrow, and… and ‘Woo be willing, we’ll finally get you out of here.” She squeezed his hand before letting go and standing up. “It won’t be much longer,” she promised. “I hope you’re right, Muriel,” he said with a sigh. “Gods, do I hope you’re right.” ** “Just talk to him.” “Muriel, we’ve been over this.” Xavier rubbed his thumb and forefinger against his brow, pacing restlessly inside his tent as his daughter stared at him impatiently. “He’s not shown himself to be trustworthy--” “Then let him.” Muriel cut him off, shouldering into her father’s path. “He could give you information, valuable information, about Rakine’s defenses and the palace guard. We could strike right at the seat of power in Courdon!” “He hasn’t seemed particularly willing to volunteer that information before now,” Xavier said dryly. “Have you asked?” said Muriel, her voice flat, to which Xavier gave no response. She huffed. “Exactly. No one has. You and the Brigadier and everyone else have been too hung up on trying to make him admit he’s a spy, or- or trying to manipulate us, when he’s not.” She crossed her arms. “So I took care of it myself. He’s willing to meet with you, tell you what he knows--” “ He’s willing?” Xavier gaped at her. “Muriel, have you not considered that this may be exactly what he wants?” She grimaced. “No, I don’t think he wants this at all. But he’s willing. He’s got information he’ll share with you. No conditions, purely as a show of trust.” “He circumvented my truth spell more neatly than I’ve ever seen before,” Xavier said. “If he was intending a show of trust…” “He was trying to protect Julia,” Muriel snapped, more sharply than she’d meant to. “But never mind that. The point is, you know some things about Rakine, don’t you? I know we’ve got intel. So ask him questions, detailed questions. If something doesn’t match up, you know he’s lying. But he won’t. I know he won’t.” At least, she hoped very much that he wouldn’t. Please, please, don’t screw this up, Gerard.Xavier hesitated, his brow furrowed. Much as he hated to admit to it, his daughter’s logic was sound. “And if he does, Muriel?” “Then… then you’ll know you were right about him,” Muriel said, with difficulty. “A spy wouldn’t give away important secrets about their defenses. But if he doesn’t lie…” Xavier sighed. “You aren’t going to drop this until I question him, are you?” he said, to which Muriel grinned. She recognized the signs of her father’s resistance beginning to crumble. “Very well. Come to the questioning if you wish, and I’ll find another officer to assist. Not Myer,” he added, forestalling her next question. “You may think I don’t listen to you, Muriel, but I will freely admit you were right about his treatment of the prisoners. I’ve already told him he’s not to have any further contact with the prince or with Julia.” “Thank you, Father.” Muriel’s grin widened, and for a moment she was tempted to fling herself forward and hug him, but it seemed an inappropriate response to this kind of victory. Instead, she stood straight and saluted smartly, as if she were any other soldier in an audience with the Branded Lord. “I won’t let you down.” Xavier’s eyes softened, and he put a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t expect you will, Muri,” he said gently. ** Xavier arrived in the prison tent flanked by Muriel and Corporal Pender, a former slave with dark hair and a stern gaze. His wand was already in his hand, held loosely by his side. “Prince Gerard,” he said coolly. “I understand that you have information to share.” Gerard nodded shortly, his gaze planted not on the Branded Lord, but on Muriel. As if he were speaking only to her, the prince replied, “I do, yes. If it’ll help you believe that I’m telling the truth when I say I’m on your side.” “Then let’s begin.” Without further ado Xavier raised his wand and cast the truth spell on Gerard. “The palace. Where are the primary guard towers located?” As the truth spell hit him, Gerard tensed, as if by reflex. But then the prince forced himself to relax-- to give in to the spell as might a person who’d never been trained against it. Still looking at Muriel, he said, “The heaviest fortification is near the main gate. But there are towers posted every few hundred yards around the entire perimeter. They all have at least two men in them at all times. But the more senior knights will be at the buckle points.” Xavier’s expression gave no sign of his reaction to this answer. “And the men who command the king’s guards, who are they?” “The head of the palace guard is called Tylus Joachem. His second-in-command is Jerrod Martin.” He paused. “I can give you other names, but I’m not sure how much that’ll help you. I assume if you use this information as I think you’re going to use it, after all, you’ll be targeting anybody with a sword, not merely Joachem and his seconds.” Though he spoke lightly and freely enough, there still remained a bitter note edging Gerard’s tone. A conspicuous pang of regret, as if he was not entirely convinced this was good information to be spoon-feeding to the Branded Lord. Xavier’s eyes narrowed, but only slightly. So far all of this was very much in line with what information his own men had gathered. “What about their movements?” he said. “Patrols, posts - when do the shifts change?” “They vary it,” Gerard said. “There are over a dozen separate patterns, and shifts end at staggered times. If you spent a week straight watching one of the guard towers, you still wouldn’t figure out how it alone operates-- forget about the palace as a whole”.” Sighing as though in regret, he added, “I could write it all out for you. Diagram how they move-- the routes, the formations, all of that. Although only with the caveat that they’re changing all the time. I can’t guarantee that my information is still completely accurate.” “And the palace walls?” Xavier said. “I imagine even a grand castle such as that has some weak points…” “There’s an anterior gate that’s fallen into disuse since you began your revolution,” Gerard replied. “Although since that’s how Julia and I got out, it’s likely been fortified since. Beyond that, you’re best hitting in the northwest quadrant. It’s an older part of the wall, and with enough brute force it could be easily swarmed. It’s also fairly far from the knights’ command base, so while no matter what you’d be rather swiftly met by the full force of the royal guard, it might take a few minutes longer there than anyplace else-- and so for the very initial stage, you’d only have to contend with the knights already posted nearby.” For the first time Xavier frowned, studying Gerard’s face in something approaching consternation. There was no trace of deception, none of the smooth, practiced speech he’d given Xavier during their first interrogation. And perhaps even more importantly, none of the things he was saying seemed unreasonable. He spared a glance at Muriel and found her watching him intently, waiting perhaps for him to respond. He turned back to Gerard. “The royal family,” he said finally. “In the event of an attack - what are the measures to keep them safe?” Gerard stilled, the barrier against the truth spell flaring in his mind like a flaming arrow loosed from a bow. But he fought back the impulse to lie outright, knowing that Xavier would more than likely identify that his words were no longer the truth. Instead, his voice was stark as he rather chose to dodge the question, at last shifting his gaze from Muriel to Xavier as he said, “Aside from perhaps my father and Cassian, they are non-combatants. The measures in place to keep them safe ought to have nothing to do with a planned incursion against knights and soldiers. And so if you plan to target innocent members of my family, then you’re not a revolutionary: you’re as bad as my father is.” Xavier locked his gaze with Gerard’s, his face unreadable. “I don’t target non-combatants, and I don’t harm children. But I want to be certain of you. Are you prepared to give me everything, Gerard?” “I’ve told you how best to target the palace in general,” Gerard replied simply. “I’m willing to diagram you a complete account of layout, guard patrols, weak points-- hell, I’ll even draw you a picture of Commander Joachem so you can stab him extra hard when you see him. But I am not going to give you a blueprint of how to possibly murder my little siblings.” He leaned forward, his expression ice. “You seem to forget, General: I’ve very dead cousins who were just children, too.” Xavier’s eyes narrowed. “If you are unwilling to trust me, then--” “Would you do it?” Muriel spoke up suddenly and sharply, her eyes fixed on her father. He turned to look at her, startled. “Excuse me?” She waved a hand toward Gerard. “If you were in his position, would you say it? If Mum and I and Ciro and Ivy were in hiding, and you had to give us away--” “That’s beside the point, Muriel,” Xavier said. “No, it’s not,” she snapped. “Would it matter, Father? Would it even matter how much you trusted someone if you were placing the power to kill us in their hands?” She gave a small, grim smile. “It’s not about trust, or about tactics, and you know it. Why else would you have chosen to attack Jisam as early as you did--” “ Muriel.” It was the first time Xavier had raised his voice, and his wand hand was trembling. Muriel paid no attention. “He has answered every one of your questions, and the only place he has hesitated was when it would put his family in danger,” Muriel said quietly. “And is that really the place a heartless, manipulative spy would stop answering?” “I will give you almost anything,” Gerard said, his voice softer now. “But not my brother and sisters’ lives. Because you can say all you want… about not harming children, about only targeting combatants-- but you can’t tell me that if your men entered a safe room, and my father was in there with my fourteen-year-old sister, she wouldn’t end up hurt in the crossfire. I’m already putting children whom I love very deeply at risk by giving you any information at all. But telling you about the plans to keep them safe so that you can possibly circumvent them...” Grimly, he shook his head. Xavier looked from Muriel to Gerard, and for the first time the implacable Branded Lord showed uncertainty in his face. Then the expression closed off almost as quickly as it had appeared, and Xavier flicked his wand to dismiss the truth spell. “You failed to answer all of my questions,” he said. Muriel jolted forward in alarm, but he held his hand up to forestall her. “However, you were honest enough to tell me why… and no,” he added, more quietly. “No, I do not think I could have answered that in your place.” Muriel’s eyes lit up. Xavier didn’t look at her yet, raising his wand again to point it at Gerard’s shackle. “ Alowoomora.” As the shackle fell away from Gerard’s ankle, the prince gawped down as if he couldn’t quite believe it. Months he’d worn it, after all, ever since that day back at the river when first Muriel had stumbled across he and Julia… and given the way the Branded Lord had bristled so intensely around him from the moment they’d met, part of Gerard had dourly suspected that he’d never be free of restraint again. No matter what Muriel had promised him. No matter the fact that he’d been telling the rebels the truth all along about his reasons for wanting to join the rebellion. “Will I be able to see Julia?” Gerard asked, swallowing back the lump of surprise that had risen in his throat. “Now that you seem to believe I’m not some lying, manipulative monster?” Xavier hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. I…” He busied himself for a moment slipping his wand back into its holster. “...I won’t keep you from your cousin. That said, whether you’re around her or not, I will be assigning a guard to you for the time being. I’m willing to trust you, but I won’t yet stake my soldiers’ lives on it.” Muriel couldn’t help smiling. “I’ll make sure he has an escort,” she said. “I’ve been in charge of him this long.” She cast Gerard a sidelong glance and a sly smile. “It’d feel a little strange to stop now.” Gerard couldn’t help but smile back, his expression practically glowing, although when he felt Xavier’s stare still bearing into him, the prince quickly forced a neutral look back onto his face-- and prayed to the gods that the Branded Lord thought he was only very pleased about being freed from his chain, and not anything… deeper.“And might I be making a move to more comfortable quarters, perhaps?” Gerard asked. “Not that this tent isn’t perfectly lovely, but… it’s grown a bit tired.” Xavier nodded shortly. “Yes, I think that would be appropriate. I’ll make arrangements for you to have a place in the men’s bunks. In the meantime--” He glanced at Muriel, a part of him unable to help catching her eye in an evaluating way, wondering if he’d merely imagined what he had seen there earlier. “I know you are more than capable of arranging the escort, Muri. Perhaps you should go with him now to meet with Corbin and Julia.” Muriel beamed. “Of course. Thank you, she’ll be overjoyed, you’ve no idea how she’s worried these past weeks.” “Yes,” Gerard said, rising unsteadily to his feet. “Thank you. I… I won’t let you down, General. I will help you win this war. I promise you.” The trace of a smile played on Xavier’s lips. “I’ll hold you to that, Gerard Alaric,” he said. With that, he left the tent, presumably off to arrange for Gerard’s new quarters; Corporal Pender, who’d watched the entire exchange between the Branded Lord and the prince with a silent, impassive scowl, trailed behind his general without a word. With them gone, Muriel turned back to Gerard, moving closer to him. She smiled, and nearly spoke - but then changed her mind, hooking one arm around his waist, and leaned in for a kiss. Unlike the last time, this time the prince did not hesitate; reaching one hand up to cup her cheek, he tenderly brushed his lips against hers. “What would your father say if he walked back in, Muriel?” he murmured afterward, as he pulled back away from her. “The cocky prince kissing his little girl…” Muriel let one hand rest on his shoulder. “I can’t imagine he’d like it,” she said, with a wry smile. “But somehow, I don’t feel like you’re going to let that stop you.” He, too, quirked a grin. “Last time I checked, you were the one who’s kissed me both of these times. So I hardly think I’m the one who needs to be stopped, Muri.” He paused, his expression quickly sobering before he added, “Sorry, I-- I probably shouldn’t call you that, should I? I mean, we barely know each other, really-- not well enough for nicknames, certainly--” Muriel only smiled, and wrapped her other arm firmly around his waist. “ That name is reserved only for people I like very, very well.” She gave him a quick kiss on the nose. “Of course you can call me that.” “And you can call me Gerry,” he replied. “If you’d like. I mean, no one outside my family’s ever really used it, but…” He kissed her again. “Just don’t slip around your father. We wouldn’t want him catching wise to you being too familiar with the swaggering prince.” “In front of my father, you’re a terrible royal and I’d never have anything to do with you, naturally,” Muriel said, beaming outright now. “And… aside from that…” Suddenly, she stumbled forward and hugged him outright, pressing her head against his chest. “Thank you,” she said softly. “It can’t have been easy, what you told him.” “No,” Gerard agreed softly, wrapping his arms around her, “it wasn’t. My father…” He swallowed hard. “My father is a horrible man. He deserves whatever fire this rebellion rains on him. And Cassian… I don’t want him hurt, but if he got himself killed, I’d… understand, I guess. Eventually. But my little brother and sisters… they’re innocent. And the idea of them getting hurt…” “I know,” Muriel sighed. “I have younger siblings too. If it was me…” She shook her head. “I hope it doesn’t come to that, for any of them. Father will do his best to avoid them getting hurt, I know he will.” “I can only hope so,” Gerard replied miserably. Sighing as he kissed her again, this time atop her dark, long hair, he repeated more softly: “Gods, I can only hope.” |
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Post by Avery on Oct 29, 2015 16:36:43 GMT -5
Takes place shortly after Truth & Lies. Collab with Elcie. Strange Bedfellows<1340> It was Xavier’s habit to patrol the camp early in the morning, as the first shifts of the day were just beginning to wake and begin their tasks. It was somehow reassuring to see the machinery of the rebel army in motion, and it gave him a chance to check up on things before more people began to wake and demand his attention.
He wasn’t expecting to find anything amiss; it had been fairly quiet for the past couple of weeks, and everything was more or less routine. He stopped, however, in front of the tent where Gerard Alaric had been given sleeping quarters, frowning. The prince was being allowed to train with the rebel soldiers now, within limits, but he was still on probation and should have had a guard posted in front of the tent. Even a dozing guard was less concerning than a missing one.
Carefully Xavier pushed his way into the tent. “Gerard?” he said softly, before his eyes fell on the form of someone curled on the cot inside.
Two someones.
It took Xavier a moment to process what he was seeing. Gerard was there, and so was Muriel, comfortably nestled against Gerard on the cot. He had his arm around her. Her hand was draped loosely over his forearm. And her rebel uniform made for unlikely sleepwear.
“Muriel?” he said, his voice strangled. He’d found out what happened to the missing guard, all right, and this was perhaps the last thing he’d ever expected.
Gerard bolted awake and upright so quickly he might have been slapped. Blinking rapidly against the daylight that streamed in through the open flap of the tent, an orchestra of emotions played out over his face: first confusion, eclipsed quickly by shock, and followed after that by horror, pure and raw.
“Sir,” he practically bleated, holding his hands out toward Xavier as though in some desperate attempt at placation. “I… I…” He shot a frantic look down at Muriel, who was still in the process of blinking awake.
Muriel, not yet entirely conscious, rolled over and wrapped her arms around Gerard’s waist. “Gerry, what…” she mumbled.
Xavier seemed to have recovered enough to find his voice. “What the hell,” he said, “is going on here?”
“Um.” Gerard scooted back on the cot, shaking Muriel’s arms loose from his waist. “It’s not what it looks like, I assure you. It’s…” He locked eyes with the half-awake Muriel. Frantic. Begging.
Muriel blinked blearily, pushing herself up with one arm, and then her eyes fell on her father. Reflexively she, too, scrambled back, her back suddenly ramrod straight. “Father! It’s- we were, uh - we were talking last night, and…”
“Talking,” said Xavier, the sarcasm in that single word so thick it seemed almost tangible.
“It was… it was cold outside,” Gerard blathered, his tan skin gone icy pale. “And Muriel had had a long day training, and she was tired, and I… I invited her in to warm up and…” He swallowed hard, his voice cracking. “Tell him, Muri, just-- tell him that we weren’t--”
“We weren’t,” Muriel said indignantly. “I was comfortable, and I like talking to him and I just… I guess I fell asleep like that…”
Xavier stared at her. In retrospect, he supposed he had noticed her close proximity to Gerard whenever she was in camp, but he’d dismissed that as nothing more than friendship. It had been fairly clear from the start that Muriel liked the prince. But he’d had no idea of the extent - hadn’t read the signs at all. With his own daughter. “You… you left your post,” he said, not at all sure how to articulate any of the rest of this.
“Oh, don’t act as if that’s why you’re upset,” Muriel snapped. “Like he could have done anything anyway, I’d have woken up if he moved or anything. I was very close to him, Father.”
“Muriel.” Gerard winced, extricating himself from her so that he could stagger unsurely to his feet. Not daring to take a step toward Xavier, he went on, “I would never hurt your daughter, sir. I promise you. I… I care about her a lot. And… this won’t happen again, I swear, I…”
Muriel stumbled to her feet as well, taking hold of his arm. “He didn’t do anything wrong,” she said hotly. “I was the one who got tired and decided to lie down on his cot, and then I just fell asleep, nothing else--”
Xavier was still staring down Gerard with a forbidding expression. “You care about her, do you?” he said. “And that’s the only reason you wanted her in your tent?”
“Father,” Muriel hissed, looking outraged.
“Yes.” Gerard’s face was iron, but it was clearly a mask: his voice wobbled as though wrenched by an earthquake. “That’s the only reason! I mean… I won’t say I don’t like her being close-- that I don’t like her-- but I… we… we didn’t do anything, sir. I would never. I’d not violate her honour like that!”
“I care about him,” Muriel snapped. “And I came in because I wanted to.”
“Believe me, if I even suspected otherwise, this would be a very different conversation,” Xavier said icily. “As it is… Muriel… I don’t think this is wise--”
“Why?” Muriel demanded. “Because he’s Prince Gerard Alaric? Because he’s a rebel soldier now too, and we wouldn’t even be having this conversation if it was someone like Corbin, or- or Corporal Raines--”
“But it’s not Corbin or Raines,” Xavier said sharply. “I’ve allowed him on probation but that doesn’t mean I trust him yet.”
“I trust him,” Muriel said simply. “I think that should count for something.”
“If… if I’d wanted to hurt her, sir, I’ve had ample opportunity already.” Gerard forced himself to meet the Branded Lord’s scorching gaze. “But I don’t. I would never. I… I know that who I am leaves you with reservations, but I care about Muriel. A lot. And I would never do anything to compromise her safety, or her honour, or… or... “ He let out a frustrated hiss of air before finishing thinly, “Or anything.”
Xavier sighed, massaging his temple with one hand. This was not how he had expected to start the day. “You… have the right to choose who you wish, Muriel,” he said finally. “But I will not pretend that I like this.” He looked Gerard up and down, scrutinizing him with a look on his face that did not seem particularly forgiving. “I haven’t made up my mind whether I can trust you in my army, Gerard, let alone with my daughter,” he said. “But I suppose that will remain to be seen. Just know that if you violate her trust, or abuse the freedom I’ve given you, I will not be forgiving. Is that quite clear?”
Gerard nodded. “Yes, sir. But I promise I will never do anything to hurt her. Ever. I’d sooner die myself.”
Xavier nodded. “See that you don’t. You’ll be needing a new guard--” Muriel made an indignant noise, and he held up a hand to forestall her protests. “This is not personal, Muriel, I would reassign anyone who developed an… attachment like this.”
“I suppose you would,” Muriel muttered, but she didn’t look pleased about it.
He studied Gerard again, frowning still. “I’m giving you a chance to prove yourself, Prince Gerard,” he said, stressing the title. “Don’t waste it.”
With that he turned on his heel and stalked out of the tent, off to arrange a change in Gerard’s guard schedule. Muriel was left alone with Gerard, and slowly turned to face him, her face blank with astonishment.
“I’m… sorry,” she managed. “That’s not how I would have preferred him to find out.”
“No,” Gerard agreed, “but at least I still have my head on my shoulders, right? That alone is honestly a far better outcome than I was initially anticipating five minutes ago.” He took a step toward her, wrapping a tender arm around her waist. “And now we don’t have to hide it, Muri. We don’t have to just… pretend.” He bit his lip, studying her. “I’m sorry, though. For letting this happen. It was improper of me, to let you fall asleep in my cot like that, when… well...”
Muriel shook her head. “No, don’t apologize for last night. If anything, it was my fault - Father was right in a way, I shouldn’t have abandoned my post. At least… at least not all night. But it was… nice, being so close to you.” For a minute she smiled up at him affectionately, but her expression turned to a frown as something occurred to you. “Gerry, you didn’t mean what you told him about it not happening again, did you?”
“I…” Gerard waffled, suddenly letting go of her to take an awkward step back. “Don’t get me wrong, Muriel: I like being near you, like that. Gods, how I like it. But…” He frowned before reluctantly finishing, “It’s not proper. An unmarried man and an unmarried woman… spending time together like that-- it’s… it’s not right.”
She frowned. “Does that matter? We’re not in the royal court here, it’s not as if we have some kind of reputation to maintain. If we’re careful, no one will mind…” Muriel trailed off, the exception to that sentence springing to mind as she finished it. No one except Father. She wasn’t sure he would have taken such offense with anyone other than Gerard, but as things stood…
“It does matter,” Gerard said, softly but firmly. “It’s not about reputation, Muriel. It’s about… honour. And purity. And…” As he watched her face fall like a glass shattering against a hard floor, he sighed. “I like you, Muriel. A lot. And I don’t want to be the sort of man who’d… disrespect you like that. Not before it’s proper.”
“I--” Muriel sighed, scratching her head. “You didn’t disrespect me last night, Gerry. I don’t think you ever would, you’re not that kind of man… But if it’s this important to you--” She held out her hands to him, an open invitation to hold them. “I won’t try to change your mind. I just don’t want you to feel like you’ve done anything wrong, because you haven’t.”
He hesitated for a moment before stepping forward again and twining his fingers through her-- lightly, tenderly. Running his thumb over the back of her hand, he said, “It is important to me, Muriel. So thank you. And… it won’t be forever, okay? So long as your father doesn’t change his mind, storm back in here, and decide to kill me, after all… and this keeps going as it’s been going-- and gods, I hope it does-- we’ll get there one day. We will.”
She smiled at him. “We will,” she echoed. “And my father, he’ll… I’m sure it will take some time. But he’ll come to understand. When he sees the Gerard I know… he’ll understand.” Muriel squeezed his hands. “He won’t even question it.”
At this, Gerard couldn’t help but chuckle. “I can’t say I don’t appreciate the confidence, Muri. I just hope it’s not misplaced.” He squeezed her hands back. “And I hope I don’t disappoint you.”
“Well, if you do, I promise not to tell my father,” Muriel teased. “I don’t want to see you winding up on the wrong end of his wand.” She glanced over her shoulder, where early morning light was now streaming through the half-closed flap of Gerard’s tent. “Either way… first things first, I guess. Somehow you have to convince Father to let you off probation, and I don’t suppose being late to our duties would make a great impression.”
She shifted so that her right hand firmly gripped his left, and stepped toward the entrance of the tent. “Would you care to escort me, Prince Gerard?” she said, grinning at him. “Might as well let the entire camp know.”
“As long as we avoid the parts of camp Brigadier Belle frequents,” Gerard agreed, smirking grimly. Leading her toward the entryway, he said, “After you, my dear.” |
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Post by Gelquie on Jan 22, 2016 19:29:46 GMT -5
Elcie and I did a fic! Takes place a few days after the siege of Jisam. Waking Up<May, 1337> Despite the fact that Ivy still wasn’t talking, Xavier came to her bedside every evening to say goodnight. Every time he saw her, it was so hard not to simply gather her up in his arms, to hold his quivering daughter tight and never let go.
But that, Xavier knew, would only make it worse. It was not entirely clear yet how much Ivy understood of what was going on around her - if she entirely recognized him, or understood that he was real - and he knew perfectly well that an unexpected touch would probably be more terrifying than reassuring. So as he sat down on the bed beside her, he restrained himself to a light, gentle touch on the back of her head. “How are you feeling, Ivy?” he said softly, and though he no longer really expected to hear a response, he could not help but hope for one. “I came to say goodnight. And I brought bread, in case you’re hungry.” The crusty roll he pulled out was not particularly appetizing, but it was what they had. Not really expecting her to take it from him, he set it aside in case she wanted it later.
He felt a lump in his throat as he looked into her dull, downcast eyes. The look on her face since she’d been rescued made her almost a stranger. He had to believe that his Ivy was still in there somewhere. “I love you, sweetheart,” he said softly. “I’m here.”
Ivy merely stared into space at first, her eyes occasionally trailing towards the bread he had brought, or a hand near her line of sight, only very occasionally glancing at a part of his face for a split second before looking downwards. This she had done to everyone, if she even bothered to look. Her hands were folded over each other, right covering left and placed in her lap. They hadn’t moved in the whole conversation except for the left fingers, which were beginning to shake slightly. But those were obscured by the right hand, so this couldn’t be seen unless someone was watching carefully.
But then slowly but surely, she began to look up, risking a longer glance at the face of the man beside her before tilting her head slightly. Her expression remained placid, but then just as quickly, she seemed to stiffen, as if ready to tear her face downward again at any second.
Xavier’s breath caught. “It’s okay, Ivy-girl,” he said in a low voice. “It’s really me, it’s Papa. You’re safe.” He wasn’t really paying attention to the words, murmuring the first soothing things that came to his mind. He was too distracted by the fact that this was the longest she’d looked directly at him since she was rescued, too worried that a sudden movement or a too-loud voice would startle her into withdrawing again. Xavier held out his hand to her, palm up, close to her folded hands but not quite touching her so she could choose to make the first move.
Ivy continued to stare, her face still placid but her mouth opening slightly. Her hands shook, but eventually, she couldn’t keep her gaze, and she looked down again. She closed her eyes briefly, but opened them again as she spotted Xavier’s hand near hers. For a moment, she stiffened, but kept staring at them as if expecting something to happen with them.
But nothing did, and after a while of waiting, she found herself leaning closer ever so slightly. Her left fingers curling in an attempt to keep them from moving too much, she lifted her right hand out, inching closer towards the hand in front of her. But just before she could touch them, she flinched as if she’d been struck and put her hand back in her lap again. She was shaking all over now and looking pointedly away, her right cheek bare and open and facing Xavier.
“Oh, Ivy,” Xavier murmured, feeling as if he’d been struck himself. Carefully and very slowly, he reached over and gently stroked Ivy’s cheek, his hand so light that he was barely touching her. “No one’s going to hurt you again, not ever.” He resisted the urge to sweep her dark red hair away from her face as he’d done when she was young, instead pulling his hand back away from her again. He knew better than most that even a kind touch, poorly timed, could seem like a threat.
Ivy just stared ahead of her, her eyes wide as she slowly turned towards Xavier again. Slowly, but surely, her otherwise either placid or fearful expression began to morph into something else. Nothing overt, but her eyes widened, her mouth parted slightly, and her breathing rate increased, all in confusion. And then, slowly, she reached for her lower arm, rubbing it while staring at it. She then looked down at the bed, at herself, then at her father. She looked at him up and down, as if studying him. After a long time, she stopped, her gaze pointedly aimed towards her hands and not anywhere else.
“...This is real?” Her tentative, hesitant voice was hoarse and barely audible, cracking into nothingness just as she finished.
Tears sprang unbidden to Xavier’s eyes at the sound of her voice, a voice he had begun to wonder if he would ever hear again. “It’s real, honey,” he said softly. Carefully he rested a gentle hand on her shoulder, hoping the touch would help ground her. “I’m real. I’m really here. I promise.”
Ivy instinctively flinched at the touch, but quickly stilled, staring at the hand, then her father’s face, then back. Slowly, she brought a quaking hand up to feel her father’s hand. For a moment, she said nothing, staring only at the hands together before she started shaking again. She looked at her father.
“But… I was stuck. I couldn’t leave,” she spoke again, still quiet as before, her voice taking a wondering tone but otherwise lacking any emotional inflection. “...But it would have been too dangerous for you… For this to not be another dream…” Her eyes drifted to the hand again. “...But…” she trailed off.
“Nothing was going to keep us away from you, Ivy,” Xavier said hoarsely, his hand firm on Ivy’s trembling shoulder. “Not Rylan or anyone else. And I’m sorry… I’m so, so sorry we didn’t get here sooner. We came as quickly as we could.”
More than anything, he wished that Ivy could have been spared this; every second that she had spent in that terrible place was a second too long. And now, hearing her talk like this - Xavier had to keep blinking back tears. She’d stopped even considering freedom as a possibility, had resigned herself to remaining a slave for the rest of her life. He knew what that felt like; it was something he had never wanted any of his children to know.
Ivy couldn’t stop staring at her father, and she eventually found herself staring into his eyes. Her mouth twitched, uncertain of how to react as she slowly processed what was said.
“...I know you would…” Ivy whispered. “But if it’s true… then you still shouldn’t have. You all could’ve died, and just for me… Better that I stay there than have that happen to you… Or anyone else.”
Xavier reached up to hold her shoulders with both hands, steadying her, unable to miss how fragile she felt. “You were worth it,” he told her, a slight tremor in his voice as he looked into her wide, frightened eyes. “You were worth the risk, Ivy. To me, to your mother, to Aunt Lydia… we were all willing, we chose to come here.” He tried to smile at her, but there were tears in his eyes. “We’re your parents, sweetheart, we’re going to look after you no matter what. Even if it’s dangerous.”
Ivy stared intently at her father’s face as he spoke, with her mouth partly agape, her body trembling involuntarily under Xavier’s grasp but unable to care about that. Signs of shock became more prominent on her face, not quickly, but slowly, creeping onto her otherwise blank facial features, a hint of a glisten in her eyes.
“I-I… You really…” She said quietly, briefly lapsing into Kythian. She paused to gulp, turning her free arm around and reaching her hand to feel her back. “But then I… I didn’t even…” Suddenly, she cast her eyes down. “You’ve done so much, and I… Haven’t. Ever. And maybe I should’ve run, but I couldn’t. There was no way I could… There was too much risk a-and… I… I couldn’t figure it out like you did…”
“It’s okay that you didn’t run,” Xavier said gently. “Ivy, not everyone manages to escape. Most… most don’t even try, and given the risks…” He swallowed. “I’m just glad we could get you back,” he murmured. “That’s all that matters to me. I know it’s not easy, but we’ve got you now, and you’re going to be okay.”
Ivy only blinked, continuing to feel her back and the scars that had formed there. “...But I’m not,” she said slowly. “They… They beat me, or worse, if I made a mistake, no matter what it was. A-and then they…” She shivered, withdrawing her hand from her back and pressing it to her torso. “...They found out about my magic. And they… They…”
She shut her eyes and pressed her arm to her torso even more tightly, to the point where she seemed to be straining from the effort. She began to mutter: “No… No...”
“Ivy,” he said hoarsely, leaning forward. “Ivy, sweetheart, stay with me. It’s not real. You’re safe now, you’re safe.” Cautiously he started to hug her, hoping against hope that the touch and his voice would anchor her in reality rather than panic her further. Though his voice was calm, his heart was pounding rapidly and he was suddenly terrified that he would lose her again, that he was about to watch her slip back into the blank, unresponsive state in which they’d found her. He had to pull her back somehow, he had to at least try. “No one’s going to hurt you, I won’t let them. You’re safe.”
Ivy’s eyes snapped open and--startled--she briefly flinched at the touch. But then she looked up at her father again with wide eyes, shivering as he hugged her. For a while, she didn’t respond, not even moving to return the hug. Then taking a gulp, she slowly lifted her arm and touched her father’s. Unconsciously, she began to move closer to her him, but held back on anything more, her body still resonating with fear.
“Not there, not there, not there…” She repeated between breaths.
Carefully Xavier drew her closer, trying not to hold her too tightly. “Shh, I’ve got you,” he whispered, gingerly stroking her back to comfort her. “I’m here, Ivy-girl. I’m here. You’re safe.” He continued whispering it, over and over, as he held his daughter’s trembling, all-too-skinny frame. It was becoming impossible to stem his tears, and finally he let them fall, leaving damp spots in Ivy’s dark red hair and a hitch to his voice as he continued his desperate attempts to comfort her.
Ivy seemed to stop as a tear fell onto her bare arm, and she looked up at her father and the tears falling from his eyes. Slowly, she removed her hand from her father’s arm and lifted it up, waiting until a tear fell onto her palm. When it hit, she briefly trembled harder before bringing the tear closer to her face to examine it, remember the way it splashed and feel the dampness of it on her hand, smell the vaguely salty scent when she held it close enough to her nose…
She shook harder as she closed the distance between her and her father, resting her head on his chest. Before she knew it she began to feel tears emerging from her own eyes. She briefly shut her eyes tightly in an attempt to hold them back, but quickly opened them again and looked up at Xavier.
“Y... You’re really… And I’m really… Here?” she breathed, a hitch in her voice. She trembled harder before thrusting her face into his chest, clinging to his clothes. “Papa…”
Xavier held her close, supporting her as she cried. “I’m here, Ivy,” he whispered. “You’re here. This is real, I promise it’s real. No one is going to hurt you again.”
Ivy huddled close to her father, tightly gripping his shirt in her shaking hands as if she were hanging on for dear life. “I-I know, I know that now. I-I couldn’t be sure. B-before, I, they’d…” Her voice broke, and she shut her eyes even more tightly, her words momentarily lost in her tears. She eventually spoke again: “...How can you be so sure? Th-that no one would? Wh-when they find ways, j-just like before, they always found ways, ways to get me me, excuses to beat me, all the time, always, and if not them, someone else, a-and…”
She shuddered, her sobs choking her words. “Woo, Papa, how did you go through all that? A-and how… How did I? How a-am I here and not m-mad or dead?”
Xavier curled over her, pressing his cheek to the top of her head. “You’re brave, Ivy, and you’re strong. You did make it. They didn’t win, they never will.” Gently he stroked her back in a rhythmic motion. “It’s true that it took me a long time to get better after I escaped,” he said softly. “But I had people who loved me, like your mother and Grandpa and Uncle Leif. They took care of me, and whenever I felt hopeless, they were there to remind me that I was loved.” He swallowed back a lump in his throat as he hugged Ivy a little tighter. “You are loved, Ivy,” he whispered. “I love you, and Mum loves you, and Muriel and Ciro love you… and you’re worth it, you’re important to each and every one of us.”
Ivy merely trembled in her father’s grip, burying her face into his torso, taking a moment to just cry and take in the feeling of his hand on her back. “...I don’t know how I am; I’m not as strong as you all are. But I… I love you too. I love you all so much. A-and that’s why I hoped you wouldn’t come for me and risk all your lives even though I knew you would...” Ivy momentarily paused as tried to swallow another fit of sobs, and it was another minute before she spoke again. “B-but at the same time, seeing you again, the idea of it, it’s… I-I don’t even know how I’m feeling now. I-I should be happy. But I-I never thought that it’d really end like this, th-that I wouldn’t be stuck there f-forever. In that t-terrible place, with those terrible people, a-as their...” She shuddered violently, pressing her head hard onto Xavier’s shirt--her forehead in particular--while retrieving one hand to press it against her own torso. “Their puppet…”
Gently Xavier stroked the back of her head, holding her close as she trembled. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I never wanted you to know what that felt like, I… I’m sorry I couldn’t keep it from happening.” He didn’t bother wiping away his tears as he hugged his daughter, as if his proximity alone could chase away the terrible memories of her time in Jisam. “It’s okay. It’s okay if it takes a while. You’re safe now, we’re going to help you get better.”
Ivy shivered. “How?” she rasped. “H-how’m I supposed to get better? I-it’s already too late, I-I’m already like th-this, they… They didn’t finish the conditioning but th-they started a-and i-it…” Sobs choked her voice, and it was some time before she broke through them with a hysterical: “I-It feels so wrong, I feel wrong, a-a-and everything’s wrong!”
Her voice grew raw and cracked, and she then gave up on words entirely, instead grasping onto her father tightly, letting her tears flow and letting out strong sobs and cries as the last traces of her composure dissolved.
Xavier leaned over his daughter and rested his head atop hers. He could feel every sob and shudder racking her body and he found himself holding her as close as he could, as if he could somehow absorb her pain and rid her of it if he could only get close enough. Physical injuries he could have healed in an instant, but this… he knew perfectly well that this was a kind of pain that would only ease with time. There was nothing he could do but stay with her.
That knowledge did not make it any easier to bear the sound of Ivy’s desperate, anguished sobs.
For a while he was quiet, just letting her cry, as tears trickled silently down his own face and dampened her hair. Then, in a soft, cracked voice, he started to sing his mother’s Cerrish lullaby. The gentle, melancholy tune had always soothed Ivy as a child and perhaps, Xavier thought, she would find some comfort in it now. His voice was wavering and unsteady with tears, but he kept singing anyway, clinging to the familiar Cerrish words like they were a prayer.
As the song went on, Ivy’s cries gradually lessened; though her voice was still strained and broken with sobs, her breathing slowly became more and more even. Though it wasn’t enough for her to keep from crying, her shaking still eased, and she found herself leaning into her father for support, curling into his lap as would a child. She still clung tightly to his clothes, desperate to not let go, but it was clear from the way she leaned into Xavier’s torso and from her drooping, heavily reddened eyes that she was exhausted. Even as tears continued to stream down her face, her head would regularly drop before she caught herself, her eyes fluttering open again.
As it became clear to her that she was losing the battle to stay awake, she let out a croaked and quiet: “Don’t go, Papa.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Xavier said softly, stroking Ivy’s hair gently. He leaned over her and kissed the top of her head. “I’m staying right here, Ivy-girl. I promise.”
If anyone else in the camp needed him tonight, they were going to have to wait. Right now, Xavier was not a general, not the Branded Lord; nothing could have been further from his mind. He was only Ivy’s papa, and there was nothing in the world more important than the shivering girl falling asleep in his arms.
Ivy seemed to be comforted by the sentiment and allowed herself to lean against her father as her eyes drooped lower and lower, her sobs eventually subsiding as her breathing grew slower and softer. Her flow of tears had slowed, but not stopped, and so some tears continued to fall and dampen Xavier’s garments. Her grip on her father’s clothes loosened, and she freed one to reach up, weakly grazing her fingers across his brand. She did this for some time, occasionally looking down at her own brand before nuzzling her head deeper into Xavier’s torso.
It wasn’t too long before Ivy’s hand dropped as she finally dozed off, the last of her tears drying upon her now-peaceful face.
Xavier’s arms did not loosen around her. He could put her to bed now, let her sleep in peace, but he did not quite want to let go of her yet. Instead he shifted slightly to a more comfortable position, letting Ivy sleep curled against his chest. His own tears had not quite stopped, and for a while his shoulders trembled as he cried silently.
He would have done anything to prevent her from going through this, even if it meant letting Rylan take him in her place. But it was too late for regrets or futile wishes. All he could do was hold her, and pray to any god that might be listening that she would be okay.
A long, quiet moment passed like this before it was interrupted with the flapping of the tent entrance as Elin made her way inside. She stopped just steps from the entryway as she took in the sight before her, and her eyes widened in concern, confusion… and hope. Almost mechanically, she walked to the edge of the cot, keeping her footsteps quiet so as not to disturb them.
“Xavier?” she whispered. “You didn’t come to bed, so I was wondering…” She took a moment to take a closer look at both of them. She knew Xavier was crying, and although Ivy was not, there was no mistaking her damp, tear-stained cheeks. Her breath caught and she turned her gaze back to Xavier, her own eyes glistening.
“What happened?” She asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Did she…?”
Xavier looked up at his wife, a sad, shaky smile on his face. “She… she spoke, Elin,” he said softly. “She knew who I was.” Carefully he freed one arm from Ivy to reach up and wipe at his eyes, though now that the tears had started it was difficult to get them to stop.
“She--” Her eyes went wide, and she put a hand to her mouth. For a moment all she could do was stare, at a complete loss for words. But as she looked down at the sleeping form of Ivy, tears began to form in her eyes. “She… Oh my Woo, Ivy.” Her voice wavered, and it took everything in her to not instantly wrap the girl in an embrace, which she knew would both wake and startle her. Instead, she wrapped one arm around Xavier’s shoulders as she lowered herself on the bed, carefully reaching another hand to gently smooth Ivy’s hair before bending down and giving the girl a kiss on the forehead.
“Ivy girl…” she whispered softly. “You came back.” She looked up to Xavier, tears trickling down her face. “She came back, Xavier. I… I wondered how long it’d take before we’d get through to her… But you did.” Her hand curled and gave a gentle squeeze to his shoulder as she gave him a sad but relieved smile. “...What did she say?”
“She’s still so scared,” Xavier said softly. “What they did to her…” His voice shook, and for a moment he had to squeeze his eyes shut, fighting back another rush of helpless anger. “I don’t know if she really trusts that this is real yet,” he said, looking down at Ivy’s sleeping form. Slowly, gently he stroked her hair. “That… that we’re really here. But she’s starting to. She let me touch her.” He didn’t think he could give words to the significance of that. After his own conditioning he had not even wanted Muriel to touch him, and she’d been the only person he trusted in Jisam.
Conditioning. Even now he’d been trying to avoid thinking about that, really thinking about it, the fact that his little girl had been trapped in that same nightmare that had so nearly broken him… Xavier repressed a shudder, feeling sick, his arms unconsciously tightening a little around Ivy as she slept.
Elin--who had been glancing down at Ivy while Xavier spoke, taking in everything as she processed once more the depths of what happened to her youngest daughter--turned back to Xavier, unable to miss the changes in his composure. Almost immediately, she squeezed his shoulder tighter, silently encouraging him to ease off his pressure on Ivy before running her hand down his back.
“We can help her more,” she assured him, although she couldn’t hold back the waver in her voice. “Like you were helped. And sh-she’s starting to come back, so… it’ll be faster now. If we keep being there for her… She’ll fully believe soon. She has to. ...And then… She’ll be...”
She wanted to say ‘better’, but the word died on her tongue as she stared once more at Ivy, remembering the expression on the girl’s face when they first found her, when Elin first carried her out of the hut, when they first tried to get through to her… Elin gulped and pressed her head on Xavier’s shoulder, her tears flowing faster down her face as she stared at Ivy.
“Woo, I was starting to wonder if we’d ever hear her voice again. After all she must have been through… After what those monsters did..” She took a moment to compose herself, if only to keep her voice down so that she wouldn’t wake Ivy. Eventually, she spoke again: “B-but she’s strong enough to break through, at least… I just want so much more for her. I wish there was more we could do… ...I’ll talk to her tomorrow too. She’ll need all the encouragement we can give.”
“It’ll do her good, I’m sure it will,” Xavier said softly. Carefully he freed one arm from his embrace around Ivy and wrapped it around Elin’s back, letting his head rest on her shoulder. For a moment he sat still and just breathed, holding his family and focusing on the warm, solid presence of his wife and daughter. For all that everything else was falling apart, right now they still had this.
“She’ll get better,” Xavier whispered, but his voice lacked conviction, as if he were asking rather than believing it to be true. “We’ll - we’ll have her back, we can’t lose her now.”
“We won’t lose her,” she said firmly, but her tone was hopeful rather than confident. “She’s taking steps. W-we’ll help her go the rest of the way. Muri and Ciro can help too. All of us… As long as we can.”
For a moment, she was silent, merely basking in her family’s presence as she quietly let her tears flow. She pushed aside all concerns brought on by their role in the rebellion; it wasn’t important right now. This was a long overdue family moment. In holding both her husband and Ivy, she could imagine her family being stitched back together after being frayed when Ivy was torn from the canvas. It was something, at least. She still wanted to see Ivy whole, and closer to her normal self albeit changed by her experiences. But for now, it was enough to see or hear about any improvement, no matter how small. And it was enough to have the idea of having her back at all, both physically and mentally.
Eventually, Elin turned her head towards Xavier and whispered softly. “We should let her sleep, and get some sleep ourselves. But… I don’t want to leave her alone tonight.”
“I’ll stay with her,” Xavier answered quietly. “I… doubt I’d be able to sleep much tonight, anyway.” His nights had been more restless as of late, as Ivy’s capture and the battle at Jisam had dredged up both unpleasant memories and dark fears for the future. At least here he wouldn’t be able to forget that Ivy was finally safe. He gave his wife a sad smile, rubbing his hand up and down her back. “You should get some rest. I’ll be okay.”
Elin leaned in to Xavier’s touch, but simultaneously gave him a somewhat worried look. “Alright. But you should try to sleep too, if you can. And if you really need to… You can send someone to wake me; I can take over.” She wasn’t sure how much she would sleep either. The demands of the rebellion and her concern over Ivy had kept her from going to sleep easily. She doubted that would get much better given this recent development, even if it was good news.
He nodded. “I’ll try.” Xavier leaned in to kiss Elin, lingering for a moment before pulling away. “Sleep well, my love. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Elin lingered close after the kiss, running her hand down his back one last time. “I’ll see you then too, dear.” She slowly stood up, but hesitated on leaving, spending a brief moment examining the sleeping form of Ivy before giving Xavier a smile. Then she turned and exited the tent, leaving them to their rest.
Xavier watched her go. Only when she was out of sight did he move, carefully shifting himself into a more comfortable position next to Ivy. The girl shifted slightly in her sleep at the movement, curling up and unconsciously drawing closer to her father. In the dimly lit tent he examined his daughter’s sleeping features. She was so far from okay, but… she looked peaceful for the first time since they’d rescued her. Safe. And he was here to watch over her.
“Goodnight, Ivy-girl,” Xavier whispered. “Sweet dreams.”
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