~Medieval Stories by Avery~

[Avery]

This is a nice fun story. "Nice". Yes. Any fic that nearly leads you to Google "brand healing process" is definitely very nice. (Content Warning for: General Implied Squick - it's Courdon, y'all <_<)

The Gryphon and the Slave: Part One

SPOILER: Click to show

The brand was healing poorly.

It had been a week now since the slave-master had stamped the blazing iron against Circe’s bronze skin, and compared to the other children who’d been marked alongside her that day, the young girl’s recovery was proceeding by far the worst. Rather than nearly and neatly healed, the shape of a crown-wearing gryphon was hardly discernible amidst the web of scabbing and swelling, the flesh around it gone angry and red. In many ways, it looked more like a weeping sore than a proper brand.

Which was, Circe knew, more her fault than anything: not restrained tightly enough on the branding table, she’d thrashed at the last second, causing the slave-master’s hand to jerk. The iron had met her skin several inches too low, closer to her breastbone than her collarbone. This, in turn, meant the low-necked dress she’d been given to wear these past seven days—branding dresses, the palace slaves informally called them—was still cut too high. The fabric chafed against the wound whenever she moved. Whenever she worked.

And gods knew, she’d been given no reprieve from either.

A bucket of water swinging in each of her hands, Circe gritted her teeth as she threaded through one of the narrow halls in the bowels of the Gilded Palace. The dozens of subterranean corridors like this, which were used by the slaves to invisibly move about, were set so far belowground that no one had even bothered with windows. Only the dim flicker from occasional candle-stands—and eight years experience traversing these twisting passageways—kept Circe from bumping into the walls as she moved.

She was running behind; the head laundress had asked for these buckets nearly half an hour ago. Circe knew that if she didn’t deliver them soon, she was looking at a sharp smack if Noam was feeling merciful, and a lashing if she wasn’t. Even so, the girl couldn’t bring herself to walk any faster. Not with the way her dress rubbed against the brand each time her arms swayed in sync with her steps. The pain was nearly unbearable. She wanted to scream, but of course she didn’t dare.

“You’re late,” Noam snapped when she arrived, the woman’s dark eyes steely. Unlike Circe, Noam wasn’t a slave, but a proper servant, and she had no dearth of pride about this fact, always wearing immodest, low-cut dresses that bared the unblemished skin of her collarbone. “What,” she growled on, wrenching the buckets from Circe’s hands, “kept you for so long?”

“My brand hurts,” Circe whispered, her eyes glued to the floor.

Noam backhanded her, hard. “Romey and Ester were also marked that day,” she said, jerking her chin toward two dark-haired girls who toiled behind her, their gazes similarly cast toward the ground. “They haven’t used such a thing as an excuse.”

“I’m sorry,” the child said.

Noam slapped her again. “Don’t be sorry. Be hardworking.” The woman paused and considered, her voice entirely bereft of sympathy when she finally continued: “I was going to send Ester to get more water. But you can go again. And make haste of it this time. Or you’ll have stripes to pain you alongside your brand.”

Circe did not have to be told twice. Wordlessly, she turned, snatched two more empty buckets from the stack beside the door, and strode back out the laundry, the stinging of her cheek still nothing compared to the wicked throbbing of the brand. She forced herself to move faster than she had before, hating the past version of herself that had moved at the worst possible moment. Why hadn’t she just stayed still? It wouldn’t have hurt any less then if she had, but it would certainly feel better now. And she wouldn’t be facing a potential whipping. The thought of a lash cracking against her bare back right now made Circe want to cry, throw up, or both.

A sour taste coated her mouth as, a dozen twisting corridors and staircases later, she pumped the buckets full, inwardly cursing whoever had placed the laundry so far away from any source of water. Her mother-- back when she’d had a mother-- had once told Circe that the Gilded Palace was designed for show, not for function, and such a thing had never felt so true as it did right now. Circe’s arms trembled as she carefully started back down the first of several curving stairwells, the metal handles of the buckets eating into her palms. A bead of sweat trickled down her brow, and quite suddenly Circe felt queasy. Faint. Just like she had a week ago, when the iron had seared into her skin and she had smelled her flesh burning and sizzling like meat on a spit.

Blinking away pricks of black, Circe set the buckets down and sat on either side of them, hunching over as she did. A strand of mahogany-brown hair, loosed from the single braid she wore over her shoulder, dangled before her eyes, and she didn’t bother to tuck it back. Gods, she was finished; Noam was going to have her flogged raw.

Even worse, footsteps sounded, sharp as they started up the staircase. Circe’s heart leapt into her throat: she knew she only had a few precious moments before whomever was ascending saw her. And they could not find her idle, buckets flanking her like bookends as her useless hands trembled in her lap.

As quickly as she could, Circe wavered to her feet. Her vision danced again, more starkly this time, and she pressed a hand against her forehead in a desperate attempt to fight it back. With her other hand, she reached down for one of the buckets, but as she moved to heft it up, a cold jolt of fresh pain and nausea traveled her body. Her stomach lurched, and her arm along with it.

The bucket swayed once, then back again-- and then, with another swing, tipped over onto the steps beneath.

Circe could only watch on in horror as, the footsteps drawing nearer still, the wash water cascaded down the staircase like a waterfall. The bucket clattered from her hand, bouncing hollowly against the stone below before it began to roll down the steps, as if it were in pursuit of its escaping contents. The girl grasped once for it, desperately, but to no avail: it was faster than she was.

Circe didn’t think then-- she only ran, abandoning the second pail as she turned and fled back up the stairs. Even as she sprinted, she knew that this was stupid. That she was only earning herself a worse whipping down the line. But as the dropped bucket continued to tumble down, and whomever was ascending the staircase cried out in surprise and aggravation, Circe only increased her speed, panting as she reached the upper landing of the steps.

Her dress rubbed mercilessly against the festering brand as the girl hurried past the door that led out to the water pump. She had no particular direction in mind as she maneuvered through a series of corridors, these ones wider than the shadowy halls below because they’d been designed for the residents and visitors of the Gilded Palace, not its chattel. Only a pair of voices up ahead-- deep and male, and speaking the high tongue-- eventually caused Circe to veer off path, the girl’s entire body trembling as she ducked into a small, darkened lounge and shut the door behind her.

The lounge smelled of leather and lavender, the former courtesy of the plush set of loveseats in the center of the room, and the latter stemming from the half-dozen intricate crystal planters that hung from the gold-plated ceiling like chandeliers. Although there was a window along the far wall, its curtains were drawn, and only the barest hints of light slatted through, casting honeyed shadows along the wooden floor.

It took her several moments to notice the boy.

He was laying on one of the sofas with a hand tucked against his cheek, and if her breathless arrival had startled him, he certainly didn’t show it. He merely stared at her, his body unmoving as, through the dimness, his eyes trailed her up and down with something in between curiosity and pity. For a moment-- the briefest, loveliest moment-- she almost thought he was also a slave, just as remiss in his duties as she was, but then he spoke, and this illusion shattered into a million needly pieces.

“Are you alright?” he said, which was innocent enough. And so it was not his words, but how he said them-- his perfect, graceful use of the high tongue-- that sent her heart once against pounding in her ears. Sitting slowly, he went on, “You’re shaking.”

She wanted to run, but Circe couldn’t. Not when he spoke like that. Fleeing from the stranger on the stairs had already been a panicked lapse in her judgment-- her training-- in and of itself. Absconding from this boy who used the masters’ dialect without batting an eye, and who was addressing her directly? Forget about a lashing: if he caught her, she’d be lucky if her neck wasn’t wrung.

“I’m okay,” she forced herself to say. Vaguely, Circe thought that perhaps she ought to use a title, but she hardly knew who he was, or what to call him. “Thank you for asking. You’re very kind.”

“You don’t look okay,” he announced, and the more he spoke, the more Circe wished she could melt into the floor beneath. Disappear there like the speck of dirt she was. “Let me open the drapes,” he said. “So I can see you better.”

Circe said nothing, only crossed her arms at her chest and stared tremulously at the ground beneath as the boy stood and paced toward the window. With one fluid sweep, he pulled the curtains open, and sunlight flooded into the room, golden and bright. It brought out the freckles in Circe’s bare, bronze arms. And the faint, nearly-healed remains of the bruises that encircled her wrists like bracelets, left there by the restraints that had been cinched there during her branding.

“Look at me,” the boy said.

Circe obliged, but she did not speak, only standing ramrod straight as she brought her gaze toward his. He was within a few years of her age-- perhaps to ten to her eight-- but that was where the similarities between them ended. He had round cheeks and a sturdy build, taller than she was by at least half a head. His hair was a light, tousled brown, and glossy and thick, looking freshly washed. While her branding dress was a threadbare garment passed from child to child as one might share a bottle of terrible whisky among friends just to finish it off, the boy’s clothes had clearly been tailored just for him, the blood red silk tunic like a glove over his trunk, and his pale gold breeches so finely fitted he might as well have been sewn in.

“You’re a slave,” he said to her, furrowing his brow.

“Yes,” she replied, still not knowing what to call him. The colours of his outfit had set alight certain possibilities in Circe’s mind, but she rather wished to smother these. Not an Alaric, she pleaded inwardly. Please, please, you can’t be an Alaric.

“Are you supposed to be in here?”

“No.”

Half of her expected him to yell at her, then. Or even surge forth and hit her. But instead, the boy only cocked his head. “You’re out of breath,” he said, more an observation than an accusation. “Were you running from something?”

“Yes,” she admitted, “I was.”

“What was it?”

She hardly even knew. Most immediately, of course, had been the dropped bucket of water and whomever was stalking up the stairs. But beyond that, she’d also run from Noam. And the consequences of her actions. The thought of the lash snapping against her skin. The idea of swollen stripes to join her swollen, ugly brand.

This seemed like too much to share, though. And more than the boy would want to hear. Circe’s voice was flimsy as lace as she bit her lip and said: “My duties. I… I… made a bad decision and ran from my duties.”

“Oh.” And he shocked her then not by screaming at her, but by grinning. His blue eyes gleaming with guile, he told her, “Me, too. I’m supposed to be in lessons right now. With my Kythian language tutor. But I didn’t write the lines he assigned me last time. And since I’m going to be in trouble for that anyway, I figured I might as well skip it and take a nap instead.”

Circe had no idea what to say. She was increasingly sure that this boy was her nightmare come hither-- a full-blooded member of the royal family-- and yet instead of punishing her, or sending her to an adult who would, he was smiling and talking to her as if she were a person. Even a friend.

Seemingly unfazed by her silence, the boy plopped back down onto one of the leather couches. “What’d you run from?” he asked her lightly.

“Laundry,” she managed, her mind struggling to reconcile this anomaly in front of her. “I-- I was supposed to fetch water for the laundry.”

He wrinkled his nose. “That sounds boring.”

“I…” Her throat quavered. “I… suppose it is.”

“Are they going to notice?” he prattled on. “That you’ve wandered off?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Will you be in trouble?”

Still the boy’s tone was airy-- conversational-- but when Circe forced another assent, and her own voice cracked as she imagined the world of pain that awaited her, his face fell. At first the girl thought it was anger, but then she realized it was an emotional entirely else: concern. By gods, he was concerned for her. (Was she entirely sure this wasn’t a dream?)

“What will they do to you?” he asked softly, and how strange it felt, to hear the high tongue spoken with such tender worry.

“I’ll be whipped,” she murmured.

“With a belt?”

“No.” She shook her head. “A lash.”

The boy outright winced. “That’s mad,” he said tartly. “You shouldn’t use lashes on people. Especially not kids. I mean, I’ll probably get a few licks for skipping my lesson, but…” He gritted his teeth, and Circe couldn’t help but take a reflexive step back when, after a moment’s deliberation, he abruptly stood. “Why’d you decide not to fetch the water?” he asked.

“I did fetch it,” she whispered. “But then when I was carrying it, I got dizzy and…” She swallowed hard. “I dropped it down the stairs. And I panicked.”

“Dizzy?” he said. “Are you sick?”

“No. I just…” Her eyes fell to the neckline of her dress, and so did his, both of their stares settling on the part of her brand that peeked through. “I just got it last week,” she told him. “It’s not healing right. It… it hurts.”

“It’s red,” he said. “Is it supposed to be all red?”

“Not like this,” she replied.

“Why haven’t you gone to the healer?”

“I can’t just… go to the healer.” Such an idea was almost laughable. “I t-think he’s coming around tonight to check all the new brands, to make sure they’re okay, and maybe he’ll give me a salve then, but…” She shrugged.

For a moment, the boy said nothing. Then, he let out an indignant huff. “That’s not right,” he proclaimed. “If you’re hurt, you should go to a healer and then rest, not have to lug pails of water around. And so if you dropped one, that’s not your fault. And you shouldn’t be whipped over it.”

“I… I…” She could think of no reply.

“I wish I could do something,” he said somberly. “Come back to the laundry with you and tell them not to punish you or…” He scowled for a split second before brightening. “I know,” he continued. “I… I can pretend I was being bad.” A pause, before he amended this to: “Or, more bad than I already was. And that I was… I dunno, sneaking through the underground halls to hide from my tutor. And I knocked into you. And made you drop the bucket. And twisted my ankle while I was at it. So then I made you come with me to the healer’s office. You know, ‘cos I couldn’t walk right.”

Improper as it was, Circe could do nothing but gawp at him. It was an outlandish story, and even if the powers at be did believe it, she had a sinking feeling it would do nothing to help her. That Noam or whomever would merely snarl at her that she should have leapt out of the boy’s way. Or even that it was her fault he’d gotten hurt. Gods, it might mete her an even more severe whipping than she would have received otherwise.

The boy must have seen her face fall, because he sobered again. “It’s a dumb story.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“I-it’s okay,” she said. “You were only trying to help.”

“There’s nothing I can do, is there?” he asked, stricken.

“Probably not,” she agreed-- which only led her to a second resigned admission. “And the longer I stay away, the w-worse it’ll be.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “It… it doesn’t sound fair. Not at all.”

“I knew it would happen when I ran.”

“Doesn’t make it fair, still,” he said firmly, and then the boy hesitated for a moment before he blurted, “You’re nice. N-not like anyone else I have to talk to. My siblings or cousins or…” He shrugged, and suddenly Circe thought he looked even sadder than she felt. “M-maybe we could talk again sometime. Or… be friends. You know… if you wanted to.”

“Of course,” Circe said, because she could hardly turn him down.

But even as she spoke the words, the girl knew it wasn’t practical. He was-- well, she still wasn’t entirely sure who or what he was, other than somebody miles above her station. But in many ways, that alone was damning enough. People like him, and people like her… they didn't just talk. They were not friends. Hers was to be a life of servitude, his one of being served. They might sleep at night behind the same palace gates, but if for him they served to keep danger out, for her…

They were there to keep her in.

And for her, his kind was the danger.

“We should probably both go now,” the boy said.

“Probably, yes.” She took a step toward the door.

“I hope I-I’ll see you again.”

“Me, too,” Circe lied.

He smiled again, then. A sweet, desperate smile. “I’m Rafe, by the way,” he told her. “Well, Rafael, really, but everyone calls me Rafe.”

Her blood went to ice as the weight of his identity bowled into her, but on the surface she forced a smile all her own. “It’s nice to meet you, Rafe,” she said. “I’m Circe.”

“Circe.” He savoured her name as though it were a thing of beauty. “I’ll remember that.”

“And I’ll remember you, Rafe,” she said, as if it were possible for her to ever forget.

The Gryphon and the Slave: Part Two

SPOILER: Click to show

The brand eventually healed, but the whipping Circe received that day left a maze of ugly, corded scars across her back. True to her silent assessment, over the next several years she did not see Rafe again, let alone become friends with him. But she did not forget him, either. Couldn’t forget him-- her clandestine brush with royalty-- the strange, sad boy who’d been so kind to her when he’d had no reason to be.

She was thirteen the next time they met, on what Circe knew was likely going to be either the best or worst day of her life: she, alongside about a dozen other palace slaves, was to be sold-- taken to Rakine’s primary auction house in the city center and then dragged upon the auction block. Young but not particularly skilled or pretty, Circe was lumped into a lot with two other girls of similar ilk, the three of them fighting the urge to turn away from the eager, animal eyes of the thrumming crowd as the auctioneer sang out the starting bid.

The midday sun beating down on her back, Circe kept her dark eyes trained firmly on her feet. It was probably this that kept her from noticing the sudden commotion in the crowd, as a din of activity broke out in the roped-off box near the top of the stands. Footsteps thundered, and beleaguered voices carried on the wind. Suddenly, a hand clamped down on Circe’s shoulder, and in an instant she’d been hauled off the block, leaving the other two girls to merely blink in bewilderment as-- the auction temporarily halted-- Circe was dragged out of sight.

Panic flared in the girl, white hot and blinding. What was happening? Had she done something wrong? Offensive? She was about to throw herself to her knees in desperate prostration just in case when the auctioneer’s assistant who’d lugged her off the block let go of her.

“You’re not being sold,” the man huffed, sounding annoyed.

“W-what?” she murmured. Circe knew she hadn’t been given permission to speak, and so that really she ought to remain silent, but the words had dripped from her lips before she could help herself.

“Your masters are in the stands.” This meant the royal family. “Apparently one of them threw a fit about you being sold and demanded you recalled. Normally we wouldn’t do such a thing after the lot’s already underway, but…”

But you hardly denied the Alarics. Which, then again, scarcely answered any questions. Why in all the hells would someone amidst the royal family care if she was sold? Circe was a ghost of a slave, kept mainly to the subterranean corridors as she performed menial tasks that required no direct interaction with the monarchy. She wouldn’t have recognized most of the royal family on sight, let alone expect for them to recognize her-- or demand she be hauled off the auction block in the middle of bidding.

As the slightly grumpy slave-master shepherded her back to the Gilded Palace after the auction, he provided no further explanations to her, and Circe didn’t dare ask for them. Nor did she press when he demanded she wash up, or afterward when she found a fresh, clean dress waiting for her on her wooden pallet in the slave barracks.

“Let me braid your hair for you, sweetheart,” said one of the older slave women, frowning as she watched Circe slip on the clothing.

“Why?” Circe whispered, her stomach churning.

But the woman only sighed. “You’ll see,” she said.

Later that day, after nightfall, Circe was curled up on the pallet in between the two other girls who shared it with her when one of the overseers weaved through the barracks, a lantern swaying in his hands. Circe expected him to sweep past her, but instead he paused. She could feel his stare bearing down into her even before she turned to glance up at him. Their eyes locked, and immediately the girl’s whole body went cold. She did not like the look he wore.

Or his voice as he rasped: “You’re Circe, correct?”

She forced a nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He leered. “Come with me.”

Neither of them spoke as he led her out the barracks and then through a series of courtyards, Circe trailing behind him like a lamb to the slaughterhouse. When they finally ducked inside the palace proper, a pair of sentries in the intricate red-and-gold livery of the Alaric personal guard parting for them as they did, it vaguely occurred to Circe that she’d never been in this part of the palace before. It took her another moment to realize why, after they walked by a small drawing room and she spied through the corner of her eye two young children sitting there on the floor, clad only in silk nightclothes as they hunched over a wooden board game. A dark-haired woman, similarly dressed and with a baby clutched to her chest, minded them from a plush sofa nearby. The private residence, Circe realized. Dear gods, she was in the royal family’s private residence.

Several hallways and staircases later, the overseer paused at a closed door that was tended by another guard in Alaric livery. “Is this her?” he asked the overseer without preamble. He spoke the high tongue, which made Circe’s stomach lurch again.

“Aye, sir,” said the overseer.

“Good. You’re dismissed, then.”

With a short bow, the overseer turned and started back down the hall, leaving Circe alone with the guard. She desperately fought back the urge to flee after the familiar man, a bubble of nausea expanding in her throat as the guardsman swept her with an impertinent gaze, his dark eyes like burning coal. He didn’t speak to her, only squared his jaw as he pushed open the door behind him and then snatched on to her wrist to feed her inside. She expected him to follow, but he didn’t: the moment she was clear of the door, he shut it again. A cold sweat broke out across Circe’s brow, and the girl did not bother to wipe it away.

Instead, she gave a terrified skim of the chamber before her. Like many rooms in the Gilded Palace, it was luxurious verging on ostentatious-- a gleaming wooden floor, gold tiles to comprise the ceiling, a spread of lush furniture and artwork and adornments that were probably worth more than she was.

Sitting on one of the sofas in the middle of the room was a boy.

In an instant, a wicked burst of deja vu slammed into Circe like a lashing hand. She dared to study his face for only a moment before she snapped her head into a bow, so deep that her chin nearly brushed against her chest. Rafe. By gods, it was Rafe. He was much older now, of course, as was she, but that cowlicked hair and clear blue eyes-- that bronze skin and square, chiseled face-- it could be nobody else.

“Hello,” he said to her.

“Your highness,” she replied, curtsying tremulously.

“You know who I am,” he said, and part Circe thought he sounded disappointed at this fact.

She forced a nod. “Yes, my prince.”

“Not like last time,” he said.

“No,” she agreed. “Not like last time.”

A large part of her was stunned that he even remembered. It had been over five years, after all, and no matter the earnest promise he’d made, certainly a prince had better things to fill his thoughts than a brief encounter with a disobedient slave. Distantly, Circe realized that he must have been the one to throw a fit during the auction today. The one who’d demanded her hauled off the block.

In some senses, this was a relief. At least now she knew who. But in many ways else, it only begetted more questions. Why would he do such a thing? She’d only met him once. And by gods, she was a slave. She meant nothing to him. Nothing to anyone.

Rafe, however, didn’t seem to share this sentiment as he patted the empty seat beside him. “Come,” he said. “Sit.”

She obliged without bringing her head up from its bow. “Of course, my prince,” she said leadenly, dropping down beside him.

“I’m glad I went with my parents to the auction today,” he told her. “Imagine my surprise when I saw you.” He laughed humorlessly. “My father asked me why I cared. What it mattered to me.”

“Oh?” she asked, quite wanting to know the answer to this, too.

“I told him you were mine,” Rafe went on, and with a sudden, aching certainty, Circe understood that he meant this in more than just the fact that his family’s sigil was burned upon her skin. The hairs on the back of her neck stood, and she bit down on her tongue-- hard-- to keep from letting out a pitiable cry as Rafe continued: “He was only amused, then. And agreed not to sell you. I was very relieved.”

“Why?” Circe said, even though she didn’t quite want to hear the answer.

“Because you might have ended up some place awful,” Rafe replied. “Where people were…” He shook his head, and only then did he seem to notice the way her skin had paled, and how her hands were trembling in her lap. Quickly, he reached out and set his own hand on her shoulder, and she struggled not to flinch away from him as he firmly said, “Look at me.”

Feeling nauseous, Circe obeyed. “Your highness?” she murmured.

“Don’t be afraid of me, Circe,” he said. “I… I…” Sharply, he dropped his hold of her, as it seemed to occur to him that it was only making everything worse. “Did you get whipped that day?” he said suddenly. “When we met before. When we were kids.”

“Yes, your highness,” she said hollowly.

He gritted his teeth. “I’m sorry. That’s not right. But I… I couldn't do anything about it, then. Couldn’t do anything to protect you.” He sounded legitimately remorseful. “I didn’t forget, though. About you. The things you told me… they stuck with me, Circe. You stuck with me.”

“We hardly met,” she told him.

“I know,” he agreed. “But you made an imprint all the same. I… I think you were the first person who made me realize, Circe. I’d seen slaves all my life, of course, but beyond my nurses, I… never really interacted with them much. And I didn’t understand exactly what it meant. The kinds of things that were done to them. Even children. Scared and innocent children.” He let out a gusty sigh. “I can’t change the way things are,” Rafe said. “And I can hardly protect every slave here. But you… even if I couldn’t do anything to help you back then, I… I’d like to change that now, Circe.”

It was not what she’d expected; the look simmering in his eyes was furtive, almost frantic. In some strange way she wanted to comfort him-- this blathering prince-- but the sentiment died unspoken in her throat, and instead Circe only said one word to him: “How?”

“If… if people think you’re mine,” Rafe said, “then no one will dare touch you. Not even the overseers-- not without asking me first.”

“If people think I’m yours,” Circe echoed, “or if I am yours?”

“I want to be your friend, Circe,” Rafe replied. “I… would never want to bring you even more grief than you already suffer. What conclusions people draw… well, those are on their own shoulders. And they can only help us. Help you, I mean.” He chanced a slim, sad smile. “You can come here at night,” he went on. “Every night. And we can… I don’t know, talk or not talk, or… whatever you want, really. And you can sleep here.” He patted the sofa. “I’ll get you blankets.”

She’d never had a blanket in her life; it all sounded too good to be true. “And… n-nothing else, your highness?” she asked him, just in case.

He shook his head. “Nothing else,” he said decisively.

“W-why?” she said.

“Because everyone deserves to feel safe, Circe.” He set his hand on her shoulder again, and this time she felt no urge to flinch away from him. “And… honestly? I… I don’t have many friends. Not really. And so it’d be nice for me, too. Just to have somebody to talk to. Somebody with no strings attached.”

“You are very kind,” she said to him.

His smile grew. “Thank you, Circe. I’m excited to be your friend.”

**

It was strange for Circe: having something to look forward to each day. As she slogged through another pot of laundry, or scrubbed a seemingly endless pile of dishes in the palace kitchens, Rafe’s earnest voice would play in her ears, and his glowing smile would appear in her mind’s eye. She would think about all the conversations they’d have tonight, and imagine the relief of the couch cushions beneath her exhausted, aching body, and how it would feel to fall asleep beneath the cradling silk of her favourite blanket. Every long day of work was no longer so unbearable as it had been once, the light at the end of the tunnel making the darkness in the meantime not nearly as oppressive as it had been before.

Their relationship continued like this for nearly three years, until one evening Circe arrived to his chambers and found him nursing a sad, wary frown. He needed only to glance at her before her heart plunged into her stomach like a heavy stone.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I’m getting married,” he said.

The prince assured her that this did not have to be the end. That while they could not continue on as they had been-- her haunting his chambers each night as if it were her home as well as his-- his marriage was hardly a death’s kiss to their friendship. They could still talk on nights that his wife retired to the separate chamber that would be granted to her; when he traveled, Circe could come with him sometimes. And he was quick to swear that nobody would hurt her still. “I’ll make it very clear that you’re still mine,” he said. “To the overseers. To everybody. You’re not going to be in danger suddenly, Circe. I promise.”

She knew this should be comforting. And given that he was the crown prince to the kingdom, she should hardly feel shocked that he was going to marry. Of course he would marry. He had to.

But to Circe, her friendship with Rafe had come to mean a whole lot more than merely the protection it provided. She did not just like the safety: she liked him. He was so kind to her. Gods, he was kind. And sweet. And funny. In many ways, he felt like the family member she had never had-- a solid presence in her life that she’d always been sorely lacking before. A person she could talk to with no holds barred. A person to comfort her, and share jokes with, and rely on.

“You’re going to forget me,” she murmured one night, about a week before his wedding. They were both sitting on the couch in the receiving room of his chamber, barely illuminated by the dying glow of a flickering candle.

“No,” Rafe said, his voice catching. “I won’t, Circe. I’ve already told you-- I won’t.”

“But you will,” she retorted hollowly. “You’ll have a grand new life with your bride. Children. A family. And me? I’ll still be down below. In the laundry. In the kitchens. Carrying on as I’ve always been.”

“No.” He clenched his jaw. “I’m not going to just… throw you away, Circe. I’d never.” He paused, considering. “I’m older now,” he said. “I have more influence about the palace. I… I can pull some strings, Circey. Get you a new post. Something less miserable.” Brightening like the first flash of sunshine at the horizon after a long and miserable night, he continued firmly, “A nursemaid. I’ll see if you can’t be a nursemaid. For my children, when I have children. Then you’ll be around. And you can be a good friend to them, too. Just as you’ve been to me.”

Circe furrowed her brow. “A nursemaid?”

He nodded. “I’m sure the head nurse will want main say over any sons, but… when I have daughters, they can be yours, mostly. Gods know they’ll need somebody sweet in their lives. Given how childhoods normally go in this palace.”

Although she’d seen Rafe’s father, the king, only from afar, from the prince’s stories Circe still knew enough rotten things about King Malik to curdle milk. And so she knew that he was right: any child reared in this palace, royal or not, could never be in short supply of warm figures in their lives.

“Okay,” she said, the invisible weight on her chest vaguely lightened. “A nursemaid. I can be a nursemaid. To your daughters.”

He smiled. “Yes. And we’ll still talk when we can. Whenever we can.”

Rafe kept up the second part of his bargain-- even after the wedding, he called Circe to his chamber most nights that his wife was away, and brought her with him when he traveled on business. But the first condition was not so easily fulfilled.

It was not for a lack of trying: over the next five years there were three pregnancies that led to two miscarriages and one stillborn babe who the gods had forced into the world much too early. The prince’s wife, a putty-faced daughter of the chancellor to Thylle, weakened with each successive loss, and when Rafe was alone with Circe he agonized over her, every sympathetic bone in his body quavering in a helpless misery.

“Her body can’t take it, Circey,” he moaned upon the woman’s fourth pregnancy, which was entering its second trimester. “She’s so frail. Like spider’s silk.”

“I’m sure the midwives are taking good care of her,” Circe said gently. “Have faith, Rafe.”

“I’m trying,” he lamented.

But there was no use. Three months later-- still several months too early-- his wife went into labour, and this time it was not only the infant who did not make it. That night, Circe sat on the floor of the crown prince’s chamber and held him as he cried, great wracking sobs escaping his body like a fighting bull thundering free from the ring. She didn’t know what to say to him, and so she said nothing at all. Only patted his back as a mother might-- though gods knew his frosty mother would never condescend herself to such a move-- and whispered hollow reassurances into his ear. Promises that his wife was in a better place, that there was nothing he could have done, that he could not torment himself over what he could not change.

Three months later, after the customary mourning period was all said and done, the first prince of Courdon married again. His new bride’s name was Rhiannon, and she was a princess from Mzia down south, and although at first Rafe stubbornly insisted he would not let himself get close to her-- that he wouldn’t set himself up for such loss again-- he was much too kind of a man to carry through with such a promise.

When she fell pregnant, Rafe was beside himself with worry, and Circe spent many long nights reassuring him; and when the infant, a boy with piercing green eyes and a head of thick blonde hair, was born healthy and vivacious, the crown prince practically vibrated with joy. “A daughter next,” he blithely told Circe. “A little girl for you to tend.”

Always a man of his word, a few years later Rhiannon gave birth to a perfect little girl, Cleo. The crown prince’s wife was a patient and gentle mother, but too busy to deign herself to most day-to-day tasks, and so much of the baby’s care fell to Circe and the other nursemaids. And she loved that girl. By gods, how Circe loved her, as well as the two other daughters who followed: a fair-haired doll of a babe called Lila, and three years after her a sweet and docile sister named Anna.

All the while, Rafe continued to uphold the other end of his promise. Circe couldn’t pretend that their friendship was an intense as it had been long ago, when they were but teenagers alone in the night, but the crown prince was careful to never let her slip beneath the veil of obscurity, of loneliness, of being forgotten as she’d once desperately feared.

Sometimes when he was feeling miserable-- usually after a particularly poor meeting with his father, which even when Rafe was in his thirties seemed to end half the time with him being smacked like an errant child-- Rafe would call Circe into his rooms afterward, and sit on the couch with his head in his hands, and lament about all the places he’d gone wrong in life. And she would sit by him and listen, reassuring him that he shouldn’t let his father’s scathing judgments bear on him so harshly, and the conversation would never lead anyplace new or fruitful. That is, until one day when his youngest daughter was three, and Rafe sighed and looked Circe straight on and said:

“I must sound like a maddening fool. Whining about my life when I’m heir to a kingdom.”

“No,” she told him. “That you’re the crown prince hardly means you don’t have troubles of you own.”

“But never like yours,” he murmured. “Gods, never like yours. And how selfish am I? That I keep you here to suffer with me.” He swallowed hard. “I should write you a writ. Of freedom. Grant you something useful finally. I’m well influential enough now, aside from my spats with my father. No one would blink twice. No one would stop me.”

“I’d have nowhere to go, Rafe,” she said.

“I could find you somewhere.”

“I’m not going to leave you. Or your daughters.” She worried about his daughters. They were sweet, but not all of those around them were. Rafe’s eldest son in particular-- that child he’d so cherished-- was starting to send a threading feeling of unease roiling through her gut. He was only fifteen, but the calculating look that often haunted his pale green eyes was anything but innocent. “I don’t know even know what life is away from this palace,” she continued. “I was born here, Rafe. It’s all I’ve ever had.”

“I know.” He sighed. “But… if you ever change your mind, Circey, I mean it. I do. Just ask me, and I’ll draft the writ for you.” Self-deprecatingly, he added, “I should have offered a long time ago. I’ve been selfish not to. Keeping you here to listen to my problems, when for years now I’ve had the power to set you free from yours.”

“You are much too kind, Rafe,” she said.

“No,” he replied sadly. “I’m not. I’m merely the best of the monsters, Circey.”

“You’re not a monster, Rafe,” she told him.

He shook his head. “But I am,” he said. Then, abruptly: “I’m probably going on a trip. Within the next few days.”

“A trip?” She straightened. “Where?”

“Kyth.”

“Kyth?” Circe parrotted, cocking her head. “Why in the bloody hell are you going to Kyth?”

“It’s… complicated.” He looked away from her. “And you’re not coming with.”

This stung much worse than Circe supposed it should. “Do you… do you not trust me?” she asked, which she knew must seem like a very strange question in light of his offer to free her. But she wanted it answered all the same. “Are you afraid I’ll try to run, or…”

“Of course not,” Rafe interjected. “I just… I just think it’s best if you’re not there.”

“Why?” she demanded.

But Rafe only shook his head. “I’m sorry, Circey,” he said. A non-answer. “But I don’t think I’ll be gone for long. And… you won’t be missing anything fun. You know what, I even promise that I’ll take you to Kyth another time. Later on. Just… not this time. To this coronation. My cousin’s coronation.”

But if this was a celebratory event, Rafe’s tone betrayed nothing positive at all; Circe narrowed her eyes and ignored the knot twisting in her throat. “What aren’t you telling me, Rafe?” she said to him.

“Nothing, Circe,” he replied. “I promise you: it’s nothing at all.”

The Gryphon and the Slave: Part Three

SPOILER: Click to show

When Rafe came home, he was king.

He spent the first night in his chamber with his wife, Rhiannon clinging to him like a drowning man to the remains of a battered lifeboat, but the night after he called for Circe. Although he’d only been away for a few days, he looked years older. Black bags limned his eyes, and his legs trembled when he rose to greet her.

“I’m sorry, Circey,” he moaned before she could say anything.

“Why are you sorry, Rafe?” she murmured, tentatively reaching forward to set a hand on his shoulder. “As far as I’ve heard from the rumours and gossip… what happened wasn’t your fault. It was your father who--”

“I should have stopped him,” Rafe hissed. “I should have prevented it.”

“And how would you have done that?” Circe countered. “Your father always did exactly what he wanted, Rafe. You had no control over him. He wouldn’t have listened to your objections.”

“I’m king now,” he said, and from his tone it was clear to Circe that he was more trying to reconcile this fact with himself than inform her of anything. “I mean… I haven’t had my coronation yet, but-- by gods, I’m king, Circey. The king of this entire bloody country.”

“You always knew it would happen one day,” she pointed out.

“I know,” he said. “But… not like this.”

“You’ll be a good king, though, Rafe,” she told him. “Kind. Understanding. Not like your father.”

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” he said. “I’m daft, I’m soft, I’m but a child in a man’s body--”

“Your father’s dead, Rafe,” Circe cut in over him. “Don’t let his warped ideas about you become reality. Because that’s all they are: ideas. The ideas of a dead man. They mean nothing now.”

“Maybe I should just abdicate,” Rafe murmured. “To Oliver. Have my brother Rhys be his regent until he comes of age.”

Circe couldn’t help it: taking her hand off his shoulder, she instead jabbed an almost accusing finger at his chest. “You’ve spent your entire life preparing to become king, Rafe. And whether or not you believe it, you will be a good king. You can’t run from it. And the man I’ve known for thirty years-- the man who pulled me off a godsdamned auction block based on a conversation we’d held five years back that still gave him guilt-- doesn’t run from anything. Don’t start running now. You’re better than that, Rafe.”

And he didn’t run. Fourteen days after Malik’s death, as was traditional, King Rafael was crowned in a ceremony that was unusually subdued for Courdonian royal standards. The next time Rafe saw Circe, he told her again that his offer still stood-- that if she wanted her freedom, she ought merely ask. A lump welled in her throat, and she swallowed it down.

Then she shook her head. “I can’t leave.”

“I’m the king now,” he told her. “You wouldn’t even have to leave. You could be a servant. A paid servant.”

“And how would that be different than my life now, Rafe?”

“You’d make money,” he said. “And you could come and go as you please.”

“What would I even do with money? What sort of places do you imagine I’d go?”

“I don’t know,” Rafe admitted. “But… that’s not the point. The point is that you’d have it. That you’d be free if you ever wanted to be.”

“I don’t even know what freedom is, Rafe,” Circe murmured. “Please, I’m happy how things are. I’m… comfortable. I don’t need anything to change.” She met his gaze. “I don’t want anything to change.”

After that, he didn’t ask her again. She knew, ostensibly, that the offer still stood if she should ever want it, but Circe meant what she’d said: she had no idea what she’d even do with freedom. The idea was as unfathomable to her as the concept of a life in bondage must have been to him. She’d been born into fetters, and she’d worn them for nearly forty years. To take them off now? To test the waters of the broader world? It was not exciting, as it once upon a time might have been, back when she was but a miserable girl dropping buckets of water down the stairs. Now, it only served to terrify her. Freedom not a lure, but a monster all its own.

Of course, there also more physical monsters to contend with, even after Rafe stopped throwing around the concept of setting her free. Although the woman knew it was probably wrong to think such a thing of the king’s eldest son-- a boy whom she’d known since infancy-- the more time that passed, the less Circe could help it.

Prince Oliver had always been a capricious child, prone to histrionics and petty acts of cruelty, but as he came of age, this gave way to something far subtler-- and darker. One day about a year after Rafe became king, Circe stripped Oliver’s younger sister Lila down for a bath and found a massive bruise on the girl’s upper arm, its shape unnervingly close to that of a human hand.

“What happened, sweetheart?” she prompted gently.

Lila pursed her lips. “I’m not supposed to tell.”

“Who told you that?” Circe asked.

The child hesitated, then murmured: “Oliver.”

“Did he do that to you?”

Lila only shrugged; to Circe, it was an answer all on its own.

She told Rafe about it the next time she saw him. But the king of Courdon had always striven to see the best in people, particularly his own kids, and his reaction was almost maddeningly nonchalant as he shrugged his shoulders and told Circe that it was probably an accident. Kids being kids (although Lila was only seven, and Oliver sixteen). Even still, when Rafe noticed how upset Circe was, he promised that he’d talk to both of the children to ferret out the truth.

But nothing more ever came of it. Circe wanted to be surprised, but darkly she wasn’t: Oliver told lies like most people sipped air, and Lila was clearly too cowed by him to dare contradict whatever yarn her brother had spun.

It was not the last time Circe found bruises.

Or the last time she tried to broach the subject with Rafe. But if in most parts of his life the king of Courdon was patient and rational, eventually he snapped at Circe to stop bringing up such concerns about Oliver. His tone was as close to anger as he’d ever used with her, his blue eyes flickering with irritation and his jaw squared and clenched. For the first time in a long time, Circe was acutely aware of how much power this man wielded. Over her. Over everything.

“He’s my son, Circe,” Rafe growled. “Not yours. I’ll deal with him. Stop prying.”

Part of Circe wanted to point out that finding yet another bruise on one of his daughter’s arms, or noticing the way all of the kids flinched when Oliver came near, was hardly prying, but as Rafe glared down at her, the woman did not dare. Instead, she meekly nodded her head.

Circe never brought up Oliver’s behaviour again.

**

The day Cleo got married, almost four years into her father’s reign, Circe rather felt as if she were losing her own daughter to the enki of Kajas province. Rafe and Rhiannon were similarly sentimental, but during the entire event all Circe really noticed was Oliver, who looked about as moved as a lion does before it tears out a zebra’s throat. He pretended at caring, of course. When his parents and the rest of his family were nearby. When he made a toast to Cleo and her groom, or danced with his sister on the ballroom floor. But whenever all noble and royal eyes were off him, he turned it off like a candle neatly snuffed.

“Are you looking at something, Circe?” he breathed to her when he noticed that she was watching. It was near the end of the wedding reception, and Circe was pacing the periphery of the grandly bedecked banquet hall as she rocked in her arms an overtired toddler daughter of Rafe’s sister Hannah (of course the girl’s parents were much too drunk and distracted to bother with the girl themselves).

Forcing a frozen smile, Circe bowed her head. “I do not believe so, no, your highness,” she said. She’d not dared to call him by his given name since he’d reached higher than her hip.

“My father may be fond of you,” Oliver hissed, “and my mother may let him get away with it because she’s nearly as soft as he is, but don’t think I’m so foolish.” Sharply he reached out a hand, curling his fingers around her arm, and Circe had to bite back a wince as he continued, “You are a slave. Nothing more. You are not allowed to look at me like that.”

In Circe’s arms, Princess Hannah’s daughter let out a tiny whimper at her cousin’s terse voice. Circe couldn’t blame her, but she hushed the child nevertheless, patting her back with the arm Oliver wasn’t gripping to. Keeping her own voice soft and submissive, Circe said, “I apologize if I’ve caused you offense, your highness. I certainly didn’t mean to.”

“Enjoy his favour while he’s there to grant it,” Oliver said only.

Even though she knew she shouldn’t, Circe snapped up her gaze, her dark eyes meeting his light ones. “Pardon, your highness?” she said.

But the crown prince simply smirked. “Nothing,” he said, but she could not miss it as his eyes languidly swept the room then, pausing first on Rafe before they danced on toward the king’s closest brother, Rhys. “You must be hearing things, slave,” Oliver went on silkily. “I said nothing to you. Nothing at all.”

**

Oliver married next, to a pretty, dark-haired girl called Zaria who was nearly as cool and unpleasant as he was. If part of Circe had distantly hoped that marriage would mellow the crown prince out, such a line of thought had been badly misplaced. If anything, he only became more volatile-- particularly after his wife became pregnant, and it seemed to occur to the green-eyed prince that soon he was to have a dominion all his own. A family to lord over in the way he’d long-- despite Rafe’s denials-- been trying to do with his little siblings.

The idea made Circe a little bit queasy. It would have driven her to confront Rafe again had the king’s previous denial not been so baldly unequivocal. And the pregnancy ended poorly, anyway. The child, a girl, entered the world much too early, just as had the short-lived babes of Rafe’s first wife so long ago. Oliver and Zaria didn’t even name her. She was still and buried before she was even set to have been born at all.

Strangely, Rafe seemed more broken up about the lost child than Oliver did. Where his son barely spared a frown, let alone a tear, Rafe paced his chamber for days afterward, addled as a prodded snake.

“What if it’s just like before?” he lamented to Circe when he called on her. “Pregnancies that lead to only heartbreak, not babies. Zaria weakening just as Al--”

“It won’t be like that, Rafe,” Circe interjected, setting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Zaria’s stronger than she was.”

“But what if…”

“You can’t think like that. It’ll only drive you mad. And I know you’re upset, but… you can’t fall to ashes over this. You have a kingdom to run, Rafe. A kingdom that needs you.”

Rafe sighed miserably. “Oliver’s suggested that I install Rhys on the close council,” he said.

“Rhys?” Circe echoed. “Why Rhys? I thought he’s always been happy as the Minister of Coin.”

“He is,” Rafe replied. “But… Oliver says that Zaria’s taking the loss of the baby hard. He wants to be with her. Take a little time away from day-to-day politics. He trusts Rhys to be a level head on the council in his absence.”

None of this sounded much like Oliver. “He’s… the crown prince, Rafe,” Circe said incredulously. “Can he just… take time away?”

“It’s… not traditional,” Rafe agreed. “But I said it would be okay. I know how hard it is, after all. To lose a baby. I wish my father had let me take some time away to spend time with my wife when we lost ours.”

None of this felt right to Circe. Gods, how it didn’t feel right. But she could think of no good way to express such a thing. Not without sounding like a mere loon with a vendetta. After all, what kind of person could fault a husband for spending time with his grieving wife?

“Be careful, Rafe,” she said instead, her voice sticking in her throat.

“Careful?” He cocked his head. “Of what?”

“I don’t know,” Circe admitted. “I just…” Just didn’t trust Oliver. Or, for that matter, Rhys; she could not forget how the crown prince’s eye had settled on his uncle back at Cleo’s wedding, a devilish smirk curving between his lips. “Worry,” she finished finally. “I worry for you.”

It was Rafe who reached out a comforting hand then, his tender as he set it on her arm. “Don’t worry about me, Circey,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

“And if you’re not?” she murmured, her stomach lurching.

“But I will be,” he said. “I always am.”

And in that moment, Circe had no choice but to nod her head and pretend to believe him.

The Gryphon and the Slave: Part Four

SPOILER: Click to show

Three weeks later, the king of Courdon was dead.

The official story was that one of his advisers had gone mad. That Lord Elijah Bracchus, who’d sat on the close council since Rafe’s grandfather was king and because of this had been granted a seat of honour at the king’s right hand, had abruptly stood up in the middle of an ordinary meeting about northern crop yields-- and then plunged a knife into his monarch’s neck. His jugular severed, Rafe was dead in moments. Lord Bracchus followed but seconds later, yanking the blade out of Rafe before plunging it into his own chest. The knights hardly had a chance to blink, let alone stop him.

It was, by all accounts, an open and shut case, the bloody assassination witnessed by over a dozen trusted members of the court, including Rafe’s own brother, Rhys (who was reportedly a gibbering mess). It was only fortunate, went the murmurs, that the young crown prince had been absent from the brutal scene. Losing your father was hard enough, after all, without seeing it done right before your eyes. And the poor thing was supposedly inconsolable. Had cloistered himself in his chambers the moment he’d heard the news, weeping like a child.

Circe, of course, knew better.

Over the days to come, without Rafe to call on her and with Rhiannon having barred all staff from the royal family’s private residence until further notice, the woman sat night and day in the slave barracks like a bewildered animal, stunned and hollow. She drank only what she must, and ate even less, and she supposed she probably looked properly wild, because the rest of the slaves gave her a wide berth, as if she were a venomous snake just waiting for the chance to bite them.

This wariness even extended to the slave-master, who seemed at a harried loss as he gaped down at the miserable, trembling woman whom the king had called mine for nearly the past thirty years. He did not bother to assign her duties, not even as the rest of the slaves who usually worked the private residence were quickly given temporary reassignments. He seemed to know it wasn’t worth the uncomfortable conversation. And that a nearly-catatonic middle-aged woman would hardly be productive in work, anyhow.

Nearly a week passed. Maybe more. Time suddenly seemed like a blur to Circe: nebulous and inconsequential. Every time she heard a fellow slave whisper the name Elijah Bracchus, the woman wanted to scream. Wanted to tell them that there had to be more to it. That even if Elijah had been the one to slash the blade, he had not acted alone. By gods, Circe knew: he had not acted alone.

Part of her wondered if she was the only one to think such a thing. If everybody else was truly so naive. Or perhaps they merely did not wish to go plunging through the darkness. Maybe they were afraid of what they’d find there. Of who they’d find there, metaphorically slipping that knife into Lord Bracchus’s hand.

Finally, after ten days, Circe woke up in the morning to the slave-master’s boots nudging her pallet; she sat bolt upright like a startled animal and wrenched her neck up at him. “What is it?” she murmured, her voice hoarse.

If he was offended by her disrespectful address, he didn’t show it. “Queen Rhiannon has called for you,” he said simply.

“To tend to Princess Anna?” she asked, for Rafe’s littlest girl was the only one amidst his daughters who still required a nurse.

“Such information was not relayed to me,” said the slave-master. “I suppose you can find out when you arrive.” He pursed his lips, after a week and a half of befuddled tolerance finally showing a flash of irritation. “I trust,” he said coolly, “that you can find your way there?”

Circe nodded, and stood without another word. She’d made the walk from the slave barracks to the royal family’s quarters hundreds-- thousands!-- of times, but never before had it felt quite so long and uncertain. Not even that first night all those years ago, when she’d been led through the darkness to a fate so unknown-- and so wonderful.

At the side entrance used by staff, the guards parted for her without comment, and inside the air smelled the same as it always did: like incense and wood polish and a vaguely fruity scent she’d never quite been able to place. How strange it felt, that Rafe would never walk these halls again. That the king was gone, nothing more than a shrouded body beneath the earth, all the lovely parts that had comprised him eviscerated in the single flash of a gleaming blade.

Part of Circe wanted to thread up the stairs to his rooms, and stand in the chamber that had been his for so long, and soak in the final traces of him that might still linger there. A half-drunk bottle of wine on the end table, perhaps. Or a stack of parchment on the desk. Linens that not yet been changed, what with the staff barred, and his favourite pillow fluffed and waiting for him on the bed.

But the woman did not dare. Or perhaps she just couldn’t entirely stomach the thought. Instead, she kept her head low and her arms crossed at her chest as she began toward Princess Anna’s rooms, supposing that this was where Rhiannon probably wanted her. But inside them she found Anna sound asleep, burrowed in her oversized bed like a bird into a nest, and not daring to wake the child, Circe slipped quickly back out, shutting the door behind her.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when, turning around afterward, she came within inches of colliding with Rhiannon.

In all the years since Rafe and Rhiannon’s wedding, Circe didn’t think she’d ever had a conversation with Rhiannon that wasn’t about the woman’s daughters. The queen had never been unpleasant to her-- far from it, in fact-- but theirs was a decidedly formal relationship, of that between a mother and her children’s nurse. Not like with Rafe. Gods, how different it was than with Rafe.

“There you are.” Rhiannon frowned as Circe snapped her head into a bow. “I suppose I should have been more specific in my summons.”

“I apologize if I misunderstood, my queen,” Circe murmured. “I presumed you wanted me to look after Princess Anna.”

Rhiannon sighed. “It’s alright. I can see why you would have thought that. But Anna’s okay. I’m hoping she’ll be asleep still for several more hours. Catch up on some of the rest she’s missed, well… since.” Turning slightly, Rhiannon crooked her fingers. “Come. Follow me. I’d like to talk to you in private.”

“Of course, your majesty,” Circe replied, following after the queen even as her insides went cold.

Talk in private. Gods, what could Rhiannon want to talk about with her in private? Rafe had always assured Circe that his wife didn’t mind their relationship, that she wasn’t threatened by it, that she knew it was merely a friendship and nothing more. But suddenly Circe wondered. What if all these years Rhiannon had been fostering resentment? What if she’d only tolerated Circe because she had to-- because Rafe was the prince and then the king, and his word was final? What if now the woman was to finally have her revenge? What if, what if, what if?

Several hallways later, Rhiannon halted before a small office and pushed open the door. Beckoning for Circe to enter, the queen followed in behind her. Although her head was still bowed, Circe could hear Rhiannon shut the door behind them-- and twist the lock. The slave’s heart went from beating in her throat to humming in her ears.

“Sit,” Rhiannon said, indicating a chair on one side of an orderly maple desk before she took the seat opposite. “And you can look at me, Circe. It’s alright. I know this must be frightening, but you’ve nothing to be scared of, I promise.”

Taking the indicated seat, Circe swallowed hard and slowly brought up her gaze. “Of course, your majesty,” she managed. “I apologize if my demeanour has offended you.”

Rhiannon sighed, and as she did, Circe noted just how miserable the queen looked. Her bronze skin was unusually pale; her caramel-coloured hair was limp and greasy, as if it hadn’t been washed in ages. She wore very little jewelry, and there was a stain-- tea, perhaps-- on the front placket of her rumpled silk dress. Circe knew such things ought not surprise her, that Rhiannon had just lost her husband and so of course she’d be miserable, but still it gave the woman a start. It took her a moment to realize why: Rafe. Gods, she looked just like Rafe had that day so long ago, when he’d lost his wife and child both, and Circe had held him as he screamed and wailed on his chamber floor.

“You’ve caused me no offense,” Rhiannon said now. “And… some of the the things I’m about to say…” She hesitated. “Well, they’re not exactly… safe. So if you don’t want to hear them, Circe, tell me now, and I can pretend I never mentioned it.”

Circe furrowed her brow. “Safe?” she murmured. “What do you mean by safe, my queen?”

“Oliver,” Rhiannon said simply. “I want to talk to you about Oliver.”

Circe was not expecting this. A new queasy feeling rose in her throat, and sharply she swallowed it down. “W-what is it about Oliver that you wish to say, your majesty?” she asked.

“You’re the one who first told Rafe about Lila’s bruises,” Rhiannon said by way of reply. “Back when she was six or seven. Weren’t you?”

Circe nodded. “Yes.”

“Rafe… he always wanted to see the good in people,” the queen went on. “Even Oliver. Especially Oliver. But… Oliver… he’s…” She sighed. “I didn’t understand it at first, Circe,” Rhiannon started again after a moment. “What you and Rafe… had, I suppose. Your relationship. I didn’t trust it. Not entirely. But over the years… I guess I started to see. What you meant to him.” She bit her lip. “What he meant to you.”

“He was my friend,” Circe whispered, blinking back tears.

“I know,” Rhiannon said. “And you were his. And Oliver…” The queen clenched her jaw in what looked like a manifestation of physical pain, and her voice was trembling as she made herself continue, “You watched him grow up, Circe. Just as I did. Just as Rafe did. You… you know what he’s like.”

“I do,” Circe agreed, and how odd it felt to have somebody else finally sharing in this solidarity. The threading feeling of unease that had eaten away at her over the crown prince’s demeanour for such a long, long time.

“He did not mourn that infant, Circe,” Rhiannon said starkly. “And he had no interest in comforting Zaria. Not really. And… certainly not in such a pressing way that he’d need to take time away from the close council.” Shutting her eyes then, and leaning back in her chair, Rhiannon practically whimpered: “I puzzled over it for weeks. Why he was feigning at caring. Why he would do such a thing. And then R-Rafe died, and I… it-- it made sense. Gods, how it made sense.”

“My queen,” Circe said hollowly, as if for lack of anything else to say. Her mind at once spun and stagnated. Her body was frozen and fiery, hollow and leaden.

“He took time off so he wouldn’t have to see it,” Rhiannon continued. “Because at the end of the day, that boy is a coward. And he didn’t want to watch as his father died at his feet. Rhys-- I think Rhys was there as an insurance policy. A glaring set of eyes to bear into Lord Bracchus and impel him into actually raising that knife. But my son? Rafe’s son?” The queen laughed, then. A miserable, strangled laugh that was quite possibly the most wretched sound Circe had ever heard before in her life. “I have no evidence, of course,” she finished. “None. And even if I did… well, the coronation’s in four days. Oliver will be king. His power absolute.”

“He… he would hurt you, your majesty?” Circe managed, resisting the urge to throw up in her lap.

“I have no idea, Circe,” Rhiannon said. “None. But I… I can’t risk it. Not with my other kids. I have to be there for them now, don’t you see? I’m all they have. The only thing standing in the way between them and… and whatever Oliver thinks fits to do with him.” Her eyes flew back open. “You’ve seen my sweet girls’ bruises, Circe. And that was with Rafe looking over his shoulder. Without? The very thought makes me want to scream.”

“I… he…” Circe’s voice shook as if wrenched by an earthquake, becoming very small as she finally forced out: “Why are you telling me this, your majesty?”

“I know how he thinks, Circe,” Rhiannon said. “And moving forward, he’s going to be paranoid as all hell. You’re a person who’s known him all his life. Who knows what he is. At least with me, he hopefully has sentiment to keep him from doing anything too severe, as long as I stay quiet. And it’s terribly hard to get away with one instance of regicide, let alone two. But with you? None of that is in play, Circe. You’re a slave. The chicken who’s seen the prowling fox. He is not going to just let you walk around this palace. If he doesn’t kill you outright, he will make your life hell.”

“He’s going to be the king, though,” Circe murmured. “There… there’s nothing that can stop him, if that’s what he wants to do--”

“He will be the king,” Rhiannon cut in. “He is not yet. Not until the coronation. And once he is, my authority becomes… ceremonial. Anything I try to do resting on his final approval. But until then…” Leaning forward across the desk, the queen met Circe’s gaze directly. “You meant a lot to Rafe. More than just about anybody else aside from me and his children. And… you’ve been good to our girls. So very, very good.”

“T-thank you, your majesty,” Circe said softly.

“I know,” Rhiannon continued, “that Rafe offered several times to give you your freedom. A writ. If you wanted one.”

“H-he did, yes,” Circe agreed.

“But you always refused. You said you didn’t want it. Is that correct, Circe?”

“It is, your majesty.” Her palms were sweating.

“I… I suppose I can understand why you did so. You were… comfortable here, and you had Rafe and my girls, and…” The queen shook her head. “But that’s all gone now, Circe. I wish that it weren’t, but it is. And so right now, I’m not… I’m not merely asking you if you want to be free, as Rafe did. I am telling you. Ordering you.” Her hand shaking, Rhiannon slid open one of the desk drawers and drew out from it a tiny roll of parchment. “This is the writ, Circe. Of your freedom. Notarized as of this morning and stamped with my personal seal.”

“I--” Circe started.

But Rhiannon sharply spoke over her. “I will hear no arguments,” the queen said, her composure coming back to her. “Even if I am no longer your owner, I am your queen.” Easing the scroll into Circe’s reluctant hands, Rhiannon reached back into the desk drawer and produced a bulging cloth pouch. “One-hundred silvers,” she said, pushing it toward Circe. “That’s more than many people in this kingdom earn in… years, really. But to this crown, it’s hardly a speck of dust. We will not miss it. And I know you can use it well.”

“You’re… you’re turning me out, my queen?” Circe murmured, staring down at the sachet of silvers as if were toxic. “Onto the street?”

“No,” Rhiannon said. “I’m saving your life, Circe. I’m giving you your life. And sparing you from the tyranny that will soon rage behind these palace gates.”

“W-where would I even go?” Circe said.

“Anywhere, Circe,” replied the queen. “You can go anywhere. If you’re prudent with the money, I bet you could get passage all the way to Lyell. Or Kyth. Somewhere safe and new.” Her voice cracking, she added, “Away from this the reign my son’s soon to impart on this kingdom that he’s stolen in his father’s blood.”

As she continued to gape at the money, a memory flared in Circe’s mind: Rafe just before he set off on the trip that ended with his father dead. I even promise that I’ll take you to Kyth another time, he’d said to her her. But he never had. He’d never found the chance.

And now he never would.

“Kyth,” she echoed softly, finally daring to pick up the bag of coins. “How… how would one even get to Kyth, my queen?”

“It’s probably safest by boat,” the queen said. “And a riverboat is likely cheaper than an ocean liner. The Caiaphas River is only a day or so north of here. It would take you all the way into Kyth. And if anybody were to heckle you, just show them the writ, Circe. It has the royal seal. My seal. No one would dare challenge it.”

“And… what then?” Circe said, marveling at the weight of the money in her hand.

“Whatever you want, Circe,” said Rhiannon. “You’ll be free. Just as I am. Just as Rafe was. And so once you’re there… you can do-- you can be-- anything that you want.”

[Avery]

A long-coming arc between Liou and me. =D Takes in the mid-1260s, featuring some heretofore unknown Ascensions and Arachs, as well as cameos from some more established characters. ^__^

Masks of Feather and Silk: Prologue

SPOILER: Click to show

It was just past dusk on a sultry August eve, and the king of Kyth was late. Not just lagging or running behind, but as timely as a snowfall in the middle of summer, his absence now gone from frustrating to borderline obnoxious.

“Is he even coming, Uncle Coda?” murmured a small, fair-haired girl, her manners long since come and gone as she slumped against the stone dining table in front of her. Its surface was fully set with a careful arrangement of china and cutlery, but one very conspicuous thing was missing from it still: food.

“He said he would, Gannet,” replied the man who sat at her side, although he sounded rather unsure on this point. Prince Coda Cormorant Ascension, uncle to Gannet and the king both (even if he and the latter, less than two years apart in age, had been raised largely as brothers), knew full well that Falcon tended to lose track of time when he was inundated with his work-- and last Coda had seen of the king today, around noon, he’d been wading through a veritable ocean of it. Which wouldn’t have mattered much if he hadn’t promised to make it to supper with Coda, Gannet, and Gannet’s two little sisters, and if it wouldn’t be the social blunder of the century to serve the first course prior to the king’s arrival.

Coda’s stomach gave an impatient growl; clenching his jaw, he tried to ignore it.

The children, however, the eldest of them only ten, seemed done with this tactic. “Can’t we just start without him?” Gannet’s sister Luna whined, fidgeting in her seat. “He was s’posed to be here an hour ago.”

“Drink some water,” Coda said. “It’ll fill you in the meantime.”

“That doesn’t work,” Luna moaned. “I’m hungry.”

“Grandmother gets to eat in her rooms,” the middle sister, Astra, put in. “And so does Meadow!” This was the king’s little sister. “Why can’t we eat in our rooms?”

“Because,” said a new voice, as the dining room door swung open, “they’ve each a horrid chest cold, Astra, and you don’t. You shouldn’t want to eat in your rooms. It’s not a good thing.”

All heads in the room snapped up-- and Coda couldn’t help but flash a smile of relief-- as King Falcon strode through the door. At nineteen, the monarch of Kyth looked much older than his years. His dark hair was trimmed military short, and there was not a trace of boyhood awkwardness to be found in his hard, chiseled jaw and muscled build. His flat brown eyes betrayed no hint of whatever emotions roiled inside, narrowed in a predator’s gaze even though he was amidst family. He wore a storm grey tunic and vest over rich purple breeches, a walking picture of his House’s banner. Everything, of course, fit perfectly, making it clear that these were not hand-me-downs, but made only for him.

“Nice of you to show up, my king,” Coda said dryly. “The children were about to start eating their plates.”

“Ah, but then they’d chip their teeth,” Falcon snorted, slipping into the chair at the head of the table. Almost instantly, servants scurried out from the wings, bringing with them tureens of ginger soup that, thank the Woo, had been meant to be served cold all along. “Anyway,” the king went on, “I’ve good reason to be late, Coda. I have news.”

“Do my sisters and me get to go to the fall equinox festival?” Astra asked eagerly, twirling her spoon through the thin broth.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Falcon said. “And stop playing with your food.” He looked toward Coda, a rare smile tugging at the corners of the king’s lips. “It’s actually about you, Coda. Something I think you’ll like.”

“You’re sending him back to mage college?” Luna guessed. After all, Coda often regaled the king’s young wards, daughters of Coda’s late elder brother whom Falcon had taken in a year and a half before, with stories of his term spent studying magic at St. Nephrite’s in Solis. He’d meant to take a four year course, but had reluctantly come back to the capital early upon the death of his father two years ago, knowing where he was better served-- and needed.

Surely Falcon couldn’t mean to send him back. Especially not since beyond his sickly grandmother-- Coda’s mother-- and Meadow and these girls, Coda was the only real family the king had left.

And yet still, a bud of hope niggled in him. He fought to keep from looking too eager as he said, “That’s silly, honey. I’m needed here.”

“He is needed here,” Falcon agreed, and the spark died in Coda like an ember in the rain. “But that hardly means he needs to be lonely, right?”

“Oooh.” Luna grinned. “You’re getting him his own kitty cat!” The king had several.

“No.” Falcon raised a brow. “A wife.”

Midway through taking a sip of wine, Coda struggled not to choke it right back out. A cat, he thought frantically, as he set his goblet back down, would be preferable. A sweat broke out across his brow, and he dared not wipe it away.

“You alright there, Coda?” Falcon asked, smirking. “Wife snatched your tongue?”

“Just a bit surprised, that’s all,” the man sputtered, knowing he sounded more like a gibbering drunkard in the gutter than a trained and educated prince. Willing his hands not to shake, he forced a smile that was hollower than bone. “A wife,” he repeated slowly, as if he’d never heard the word before in his entire twenty-one years. “I’m… you… you’ve found me a wife.”

“Is she a princess?” Luna demanded, swiveling in her chair to face the king directly. “From far, far away?”

“Like Bern!” Astra added. “Bern’s far away!”

“She is not a princess, she’s not from Bern, and turn around in your seat this instant, Luna Snipe, or so help you Woo.” But despite his threat, Falcon was still smiling. “Her name is Priscilla,” the king continued. “Priscilla Arach. She comes of age in December.”

“This December?” Coda managed. “Like-- five months from now December?”

“What other December would I mean?” Falcon cocked his head. “You’re hardly getting any younger, Coda. Now’s the best time for you to wed, don’t you think so?”

Coda did not, indeed, think so, but he could hardly tell this to the king. Instead, he rasped, “The deal’s all complete, then? That’s what you were doing today-- why you’re late?”

“I was reviewing some final details of the marriage contract before sending it back to Lord Arach,” Falcon agreed. “The Arachs will bring Priscilla here to the capital the week before her birthday so that you two can get acquainted. The wedding will take place the day after she turns sixteen.”

“The week before?” Coda said. “That’s… that’s all?”

Finally, Falcon’s smiled dulled, until soon it had twisted into a frown. “You’re not happy,” he said. He didn’t seem to mean this as an accusation-- only a fact-- but still there was a crispness to his tone. An undercurrent of ice.

“It’s… it’s not that I’m not happy.” No, it was exactly this. “I just never expected it, that’s all. I mean, I’m a third son”-- it was Falcon’s father, Storm, who’d been eldest, and the three little girls’ father who’d come next--“and I’m a mage, true, but I didn’t even finish my education, and…”

“None of those are reasons you don’t deserve a family of your own, Coda,” Falcon said, softening. “You’re as close as I’ve ever had to a brother. And third son or not, you are a prince. The Arachs are thrilled over this. It’s okay for you to be excited, too.”

“I don’t even know her,” Coda said. It was all that he could think to say.

Falcon sighed, losing himself in thought for a moment. There were chips apparent in his usual inscrutable mask, and a rueful look emanating his eyes. Coda studied him as the girls, bored, turned toward their soup; the dining room plunged into silence. Then, finally, the king cracked another thin smile.

“What if,” Falcon said, “I were to send you to Aran ahead of time? Things are… stabler… here than they were before, politically. Your absence will be felt, but it won’t be devastating. You can spend the autumn in Veresia getting to know your bride. And then you can come back here with her for the wedding, old friends already.”

“Veresia!” Luna breathed. “Can I come with?”

“No, you can’t,” Coda said quickly, before he realized that with this, he’d implicitly-- unintentionally-- accepted the king’s offer to go on his own behalf. The prince’s stomach twisted, and he forced a sip of water. It went down tasting as sour as bile.

Falcon, however, was all cheer again. “I’ll add your stay in Aran as a final condition of the deal,” he said. “I’m sure Lord Arach will have no qualms with it. Why, if all goes smoothly, you can be in Aran by the equinox.”

“I… you…” Coda’s honeyed brown eyes fell to the table below. His soup dish sat untouched, its parsley garnish still primly floating in place. “That’s very gracious, my king,” he said. “This is… all very kind of you.”

But inside, Prince Coda Cormorant Ascension felt as cold as the soup beneath.

Masks of Feather and Silk: Part One

SPOILER: Click to show

He tried.

He tried.

Once he was in Aran-- indeed right around the autumn equinox-- by Woo, Coda tried to make nice with his bride. There wasn’t anything inherently wrong with her, no screaming fault or shortcoming that blazed from her like a fire in the night. By most respects, she was anything a prince-- third son or not-- could ever want in his bride: a striking girl of nearly sixteen, with a spray of dark, curly hair and almond-shaped eyes to match. She was polite and sweet and patient, and while Coda could tell at first that he intimidated her, once she relaxed some, she was also clever and quick without ever verging the line of intemperate. Coda knew she was no more a puppetmaster of this betrothal than he was, but she never let this show.

And yet to the prince, none of this mattered. Even if he couldn’t place his finger on exactly why. All he knew was that when he looked at her, he felt… nothing. Or at least, nothing beyond a chilly slick of fear in his gut, as slippery as grease, that churned as violently as any storm-battered sea. Was this how one was supposed to feel while ogling his intended? Coda quite suspected that it wasn’t. He knew that few noble marriages started with a brilliant bloom of love, but should his already feel so withered? To him, his impending nuptials were not a delicate flower that needed careful tending to reach its full potential, but rather a creeping vine of ivy about to lace around his neck.

He had to marry her.

He could not marry her.

If there was nothing else Coda was sure about in those first weeks spent in Aran, this was the one exception. He didn’t know why, but he certainly knew that. And Woo, how well he knew that well.

He tried his best to hide it, putting every iota of diplomatic training he’d ever received to task, but he worried constantly that somebody would see through him. Priscilla’s father, the lord of the province. One of her siblings. Or worst of all, Priscilla herself. And then what would happen? They’d glean some insult, probably. They would think him cocky, or crass. They might ask what it was his bride had done to sour him so thoroughly, and Coda would have nothing-- absolutely nothing-- to say in reply.

So when, three weeks after his arrival in Aran, Priscilla’s older brother Cyprian strolled up to Coda late one morning as the latter stood on one of the manor’s rear balconies, watching the ships bob in the harbor that glinted at the horizon, and asked him with no preamble if everything in Aran was “quite to his satisfaction”, Coda’s heart sunk into his stomach like a stone into the sea.

“Quite to my satisfaction, Lord Cyprian?” he echoed, slowly turning toward the Arach lord. In the pleasant but persistent sea breeze, his long, straw-blonde hair rippled and frizzed, and Coda wished suddenly that he’d tied it up before heading outside. “Forgive me, but-- what, precisely, do you mean by that?”

The nineteen-year-old heir closed the distance between them without haste and rested his elbows on the railing. His midnight blue sleeves cast a deep shadow on the pale golden stone that was so common in the local architecture. Cyprian had spent the past few weeks teetering between his younger sister and her intended, caving in easily to the girl's pleads that he bond with the prince to help her. It was a sensible request, after all, as Cyprian was closer to Coda's age and would directly benefit from their connection once he became the head of House Arach.

Yet despite all the progress they had seemed to make and all the time he had spent with Priscilla, reviewing every word of his conversations with Coda, Cyprian could never quite shake off the lingering unease that he sensed around the prince.

"Your Highness may call me fastidious," he said in his mellow voice, bowing his head before Coda. "It is my duty to ensure that you lack nothing during your stay. Seeing you gazing out at the sea so often, one might begin to wonder whether you are smitten with the view or yearning to sail away. But, putting these wild thoughts aside, if there is anything we can do to make your stay a happier one, please know that you need only ask."

“I apologize if I seem ungracious,” Coda said evenly, forcing himself to meet Cyprian’s gaze as the lord brought his head back up from its bow. Cyprian’s eyes were a strong, clear blue, as intense as the sea that churned out at the horizon, and served as such a lovely contrast to the bronzed olive of his skin and dark curls of his hair. The prince’s stomach gave a sudden, unwanted flutter, and dear Woo, Coda didn’t know why. “Everything is quite adequate here, Lord Cyprian,” he forced himself to continue. “Your House has truly been generous. And your sister is certainly a… polite young woman.” Polite? Coda wished he could wrest back his words. Woo, of every possible compliment he could have chosen-- had he really gone for polite? “I merely like to watch the water, I suppose,” he hurried on, gracelessly. “The boats are fascinating, how they sway against the sea and sky.”

"Your Highness never appeared ungracious." Cyprian corrected himself hastily, but did not raise his voice or push the issue.

There it was again, a barrier like an invisible wall or a pane of incredibly clear glass between them. The Arach heir was not accustomed to being held at a distance. He was constantly surrounded by a network of people, and took pleasure and pride in making them all as content as possible. As such, he kept being drawn back to the prince, hoping to find a way, a final puzzle piece that would unlock him.

A question about his certainly-polite sister was hanging on the tip of his tongue. He held it back, keeping instead to the topic chosen by Coda. "The sea mesmerises all," he said, although his eyes were not on it at the moment, but still scanning the prince. "It is also fascinating to find oneself suspended between sea and sky, leaving the land far behind. Some men spend almost their entire lives out there. When they return to shore, they always seem to bring a piece of the great wide open back with them. Have you ever watched the water from a ship, Your Highness? The season is still mild enough to go sailing."

“Not merely for the sake of it. My father took me on a diplomatic journey to Dormor when I was a boy,” Coda said, “but most of what I remember from that venture is hanging off the rails, green as a cabbage. I rather like to think I’d have improved since, but I’ve found no other opportunities to prove it.”

Coda shrugged then, sparing another sideways glance toward the lord, and once more he found his stomach twisting for no reason that he could find. Gripped lightly over the banister, Coda could feel that his palms were sweating, even though it was quite cool outside, and he wished that he could wipe them off on his sleeve without appearing like an ill-mannered wretch. Objectively, he knew this conversation was no different than any number of similar exchanges he’d held in the past: small talk between members of the nobility was as common as dandelions in a springtime field, and he’d certainly had no dearth of it since arriving to Aran. And yet suddenly, the prince felt as jittery as a peasant amidst royalty.

He tried to tell himself it was only the vaguely prying nature of Cyprian’s initial question that had set him on edge. But if he was being honest with himself, Coda knew it couldn’t only be that. After all, the lord had, upon Coda’s initial answer, immediately dropped the topic. They were now bantering about sailing. Nothing precarious. By the ‘Pit, it wasn’t even all that interesting.

“Do you like to sail?” he made himself ask. “Living so near to the sea, I imagine your opportunities to do so are ample, Lord Cyprian.”

Cyprian finally looked away from Coda, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Yes, almost as ample as opportunities to talk about the weather in the rest of Kyth," he admitted quietly. "I indulge in sailing whenever I can find an excuse or someone willing to take me. Too often, perhaps. Leaving everything behind once in a while, floating out freely and forgetting what's waiting for one on the shore... it brings peace." He glanced at Coda's hands. "It helps. Well, as long as it does not bring back uncomfortable memories of one's first trip."

“Perhaps you could show me the ropes sometime during my stay.” Coda wasn’t quite why he said it, and instantly wished he hadn’t. Hastily, he backtracked, “I mean, it could be a nice excursion. If there’s time. With… Priscilla. Does she like the water, too? I bet she likes the water. She seems like she’d like the water.” Dear Woo, if your father were alive to hear you right now, he’d have your tongue nailed to a post.

"Yes, there is still time." As if in response to Coda's sudden agitation, Cyprian spoke more calmly. "We will surely find an opportunity to take you out at sea between now and December. Several, even. Priscilla - and I - would be happy to escort you on an outing." He hesitated for a second, tempted to gush about Priscilla's supposed love for the water. "She would come regardless of whether or not it's at sea," he admitted.

Of course she would. Somehow, it made everything worse. “I’ve been dawdling out here for too long,” Coda blurted, feeling the sudden, queasy need to get away from here. From… this, whatever ‘this’ was. “I should freshen myself before lunch. If you may excuse me, Lord Cyprian.”

Puzzled, Cyprian bit back another question and watched the prince walk away, his loose hair trailing behind him in the breeze. If Coda was feeling physically sick after all, there was nothing the Arach heir could do; but he was fairly sure that something else was amiss. Cyprian still had not managed to soothe him, to help in any way or even to identify the problem, and Coda's anxiety was beginning to eat at him too. He only had a few weeks left to understand this man. For his sister's sake.

**

The young lord made his next attempt just a few days later, using the bazaar that settled in Aran every now and then as an opportunity. Surely the prince would be encouraged and reassured if he managed to find the perfect gift for his bride-to-be. At the very least, this bustling, lively side of the city would help to distract him.

"They have everything," Cyprian practically shouted over the heavily accented cries of the vendors, "clothing, ornaments, carpets, even food stalls if you wish to sample!" Dressed in more discreet clothes for the occasion, the Arach was weaving them a path into the sea of colourful awnings, striding confidently as if he owned the marketplace, while their escort of two knights stayed close behind.

Dappled fabrics flapped in the breeze around them and a myriad of glittering little trinkets chimed together, while the pounding of a drum drifted from afar with cheers and clapping. The sharp smells of spices mixed with the soft aromas that wafted from perfumed oils, their blend underlain by the omnipresent heat and sweat of people packed together like cattle, yelling over each other's voices in thunderous harmony.

“It’s very… busy,” Coda shouted in reply, thinking that Falcon would have had a heart attack at the idea of any member of his family strolling about in such a calamitous place with only a bare basic escort. Woo, an assailant could have his throat cut before the knights so much as stumbled two steps in his direction.

But the prince did not think this was a good thing to tell Cyprian.

“What would Priscilla even like?” he said instead. “Jewelry? Do women like jewelry?” His little nieces liked jewelry, but then again, he could hardly draw a comparison between them and Priscilla, who was nearly grown. “I could get her a bracelet,” he hurried on, remembering that she’d been wearing one at breakfast that morning. (Or Woo, had that been her mother?) “Or… a necklace. Or…”

"Jewelry is always appreciated! Matching sets, especially." Cyprian paused for a second as one of the knights set a hand on his shoulder, to bring the foursome closer together. While most of the shoppers pushing through the crowd got pelted with a hail of vehement offers and orders, the two noblemen were left alone. The peddlers were shrewd enough not to try anything near the vigilant guards.

Cyprian leaned in closer to Coda, so as not to have to shout so much. "Some of what they try to sell is... less than adequate, though," he said, a few inches from the prince. "One needs a keen eye. I almost got caught several times, myself."

“Perhaps not jewelry, then,” Coda said, feeling suddenly claustrophobic. “I wouldn’t want to give her anything fake.” Even if this entire venture felt like an excursion in pretending. “What about… perfume?” He glanced to his left at a booth selling just that. “Would Priscilla like perfume?”

Cyprian followed Coda’s gaze. "Perfume? Excellent idea, Your Highness, she would be delighted!" Without waiting for confirmation, he went off towards the stall, eager to show it to Coda, while the knights diligently cleared a path for the prince.

They were greeted by a short, graceful woman with an intricate headwrap crowning her wrinkled brown face, smiling from ear to ear. The stall was overflowing with fragrances, sparkling drops of citrus and sweet fruits leaping from wave upon wave of flowery scents, with a strong, vibrant burst of cedar and sandalwood here and there. Dainty little jars of pomade and powders stood in neat stacks behind arrays of body butters, incense cones and vials of oil.

“I must admit, Lord Cyprian,” Coda said, as his eyes trailed over the plethora of goods, “I’ve no experience in scents. Let alone knowledge of what Priscilla might like. What do you think she’d prefer?”

Cyprian, who had already rolled up his sleeves to spread samples on his wrists, looked up at the prince and almost regretted dragging him here. He seemed even more out of place than usual.

"If I may offer personal advice..." He leaned closer to Coda's ear again, with an apologetic little smile. "Something that you would like to smell on her, Your Highness. You could get her favourite jasmine, but she would be glad to know what you like and to have some at hand."

Something that he would like to smell. Coda almost laughed at the thought. Woo, the idea of being close enough to Priscilla to smell the aroma of jasmine clinging to her skin-- his near-laughter turned into a near-cry.

Cyprian, however, he noted smelled like an exotic amalgamation of the perfumes he’d tested: sandalwood, orange blossom, a delicious kick of clove. He’d daubed a sampling of fragrant lavender oil onto his neck, and Coda’s stomach lurched as the scent drifted up his nose. The hairs on the back of his own neck prickled.

It was a nice scent.

(He should take a step away.)

“Lavender,” he said instead, before he even really knew what he was saying. “I’ll get her lavender.”

For a moment, Cyprian worried that the prince might be too befuddled by the assault of the olfactory bouquet around them, or overwhelmed by the cramped space. Coda's decision reassured him.

"We'll take the lavender, then." He stepped away to let the prince finalise the purchase with the shopkeeper, who was trying her hardest not to seem too smug about her client of the day. A small group of curious shoppers had already begun to flock nearby, doubtless to investigate the wares that had caught the interest of noblemen.

Just as the two were leaving the stall with the gift, their noses too full of stinging fragrances to register the smells of stale dirt and sweat, a great clamour erupted from a nearby cluster of stalls with an open space in its center. Suddenly, the narrow alleyway was packed with people all rushing in the same direction, seeming to have come out of nowhere. A wave of chanting, cheering and clapping travelled down the mob.

"Your Highness! Your Lordship!" shouted one of the knights over the din, "please keep close! We must stay out of this!" His words were nearly drowned out by an ear-splitting cacophony of at least twenty highly enthusiastic drums, soon joined by cymbals, tambourines, and bangs that produced clouds of coloured smoke over the peaks of the tents.

"We can wait it out over here!" Cyprian shouted back, attempting-- and failing-- to weave his way to what he hoped was a more secluded corner.

"Your Lordship -" the knight, only too familiar with the young lord's habits, had already reached out to grab him, when the crowd pushed against them and Cyprian stumbled forward.

In a moment, Coda and Cyprian were lost amidst the tangle of humanity, well out of reach of the knights. Coda’s heart beat in his throat, but he knew that trying to shove back against the tide would only end with him and Cyprian being trampled. Soon, at least, the source of fervor became clear, as the throng spilled out at the end of the alley and settled in a pulsing mob around a raised platform. Atop it stood a tall, reedy man, swathed in gaudy orange robes and flanked on either side by two lithe, dark-haired women who both looked so similar to each other that Coda wouldn’t have been surprised if they were twins. A ring of musicians played energetically to their rear, although not enough to have produced such a magnificent roar, and Coda furrowed his brow for only a moment before he noticed the dark-wood wand clutched in the robed man’s hand.

“A street magician,” he marveled, his hand falling to his own wand, which was holstered at his hip. He’d heard of such performers, of course, but this was the first time he’d ever seen one in person. Almost incredulously, he shook his head. “Woo, he sure knows how to send a market into calamity. It’s like everyone heard the music and lost use of their own heads.”

Distracted by the sudden mention of magic, Cyprian almost failed to notice the next movement building up before it was too late. The section of the herd which had not managed to come close enough to the performance was now beginning to push from behind, a second tidal wave threatening to crush the rest. Cyprian felt himself slipping away from the prince - the member of the royal family in the care of Cyprian's House, and whom he had carelessly pulled into a bazaar.

"Your Highness!" he shouted, not thinking that the title might draw attention. Desperate not to get separated, he plunged forward and caught Coda by the wrist. The momentum nearly made them tumble down. Cyprian caught sight of a scrap of free space, shining like a beacon, and made straight for it. They found themselves behind a booth, a few steps away from the pandemonium but no longer compressed on all sides.

"Begging your pardon," Cyprian gasped, releasing the prince and dropping into a bow.

Even once Cyprian had let him go, Coda could feel the ghost of the lord’s fingers still pressing against his arm. Broadly, he knew he ought probably be upset. Furious, even. That he should ream the Arach lord out for bringing him into such a hectic, unruly place, where chaotic crowds frothed like surging floodwaters and even professionally trained knights could find themselves overwhelmed by the din.

But the snarled words died unspoken on the prince’s tongue. Peering over the raucous crowd as the magician strutted about on the platform, he gave a tiny shrug and-- figuring that manners hardly mattered now-- brought up a sleeve to wipe a bead of sweat off his brow. The storm-grey linen smelled vaguely of clove and sandalwood, and with a start Coda realized the remnants of the perfume Cyprian had been sampling must have rubbed off against him as the lord had wrested his panicked grip of the prince.

“Our escorts are probably having a conniption,” he said.

"They must be utterly furious with me for leading you astray." Cyprian bowed again for good measure. "This entire excursion was reckless and irresponsible. My humblest apologies, Your Highness, for putting you in danger."

Although Coda lifted a placating hand in response, Cyprian raised his head timidly, still quite mortified. "We might see part of the show from a distance. The crowd should clear up once it's over."

“He’d better be good after all the chaos he’s caused,” the prince said dryly. He pursed his lips as he watched the magician cast a simple but dramatic light spell, the platform momentarily shrouded in a burst of white as the crowd collectively shielded its eyes from the intense glare. “Ay, is he trying to blind everyone?” Coda shook his head. “Almost seems like a diversionary tactic. Woo, I’d half-bet he’s got cutpurses lurking the audience.”

Cyprian's throat tightened a little - events seemed to be conspiring to make him appear inadequate in front of the prince. "I certainly hope our city guards are already positioned in there." He was craning his neck to see, while using one hand to shield his eyes in case more blinding flashes were cast. "This seems like a well-known troupe, and they need permission before staging such a large performance. I'll ask Sir Pietro about it when we return. If he's not too angry with me."

He glanced curiously at Coda's wand holster. "Your Highness sounds knowledgeable on the matter! You studied at Saint Nephrite's, if I remember right?"

“Only for a term,” Coda said. “I had to come back to the capital upon my father’s death, and I never had a chance to return. Duty comes first, after all.” But these last words came out feeling hollow and insincere, and it took Coda a moment to realize why: because he had just as stringent of a duty here when it came to marrying Priscilla, and yet still the very thought of it made him want to flee into the wilds like a spooked horse, never to return, shame of it be darned.

"Duty." The mere idea of it was enough to send a faint chill over Cyprian. "So it does. You have my condolences, and my sympathy. But... having only had a short time to study makes your experience more impressive." The young lord tried - without success - to picture Coda draped in the street magician’s robes, brandishing his wand with a dramatic flourish. "If you don't mind my asking, do you have a penchant for a particular style of magic?"

“I’ve always had a knack for… showy spells.” He tempered an eye roll as the magician on the stage used a cheap sparking spell: pretty if you didn’t know what it was but so simple a child could have done it. “But nothing like what he’s doing now. That’s all… tacky. Which isn’t the same thing as showy.” Not that his father, the king, had ever agreed with such an assessment. “Being a prince has its benefits, I guess. They were letting me take a variety of classes at St. Nephrite’s before settling on a final course of study. But then I had to come home before it came to matter.”

Cyprian nodded. "Something that's worth the wonder. It would be a pleasure to see it, if you wish to demonstrate. My sister would be pleased," he said, before wincing at the next explosion of sound. It was comforting, in a way, to know that the man had once envisioned a different life for himself. "Did you have... a dream, or an aspiration, already, for what you would do with your magic?"

As a boy, Coda had. Before he was old enough to understand that no matter what he wanted to do with his magic, he was never going to make it very far from the fetters of the royal court. “Not really,” he lied, averting his gaze. “How about you, Lord Cyprian? Do you have any aspirations for the future?”

The question caught him off guard. His eyes widened; he opened his mouth, searching for words, but his mind seemed to have gone blank. "I..." He was the heir. He must show pride and ambition for his house, especially in front of the prince - even behind this dingy little booth, his father's expectant stare seemed to bore into his shoulders.

"I don't."

It was far from the polished, diplomatic answer Coda had been expecting, based on the rest of the Arach lord’s great endeavours of showmanship over the past several weeks. Falcon would have merely gawped in horrified shock at such a flat answer, but the prince’s stomach only gave a sympathetic twist. He knew the deflated look now lurking in Cyprian’s pale eyes all too well. He recognized the frozen slack of his jaw, the crumpling of his brow. Automatically, before he even quite realized what he was doing, let alone had thought it through, Coda reached out a hand and set it on Cyprian’s shoulder.

That simple touch sent a jolt coursing through the younger man, and in that instant he suddenly became aware of just how close they were standing. His tension seemed to melt away under Coda’s hand.

“I’m sure you’ll make a fine lord of Veresia one day,” the prince said, hollowly. “Your father seems to have trained you well.”

The corners of Cyprian's mouth twitched and he nearly let out an incredulous laugh. "These are kind words, Your Highness," he said, looking straight into Coda's eyes with an impish smile. "Thank you."

The weight on his shoulder grew increasingly comfortable, as if the two men were pieces of a sculpture that had just been assembled and left to settle. Cyprian felt an inexplicable urge to remain motionless until they froze together.

Movement in his peripheral vision brought his attention back to their surroundings. "They've budged at last - we ought to get out while we can," he said, none too eagerly.

Indeed, a narrow breach had opened in the crowd, extending almost all the way to where their escorts had been waiting. With a sigh, Coda removed his hand from Cyprian’s shoulder.

“Might as well find the knights before they have a panic attack, then,” the prince said, turning back toward the alley where they’d first been separated. “If they haven’t already, that is.”

Coda and Cyprian had barely come out of their shelter when the two knights reached them and immediately took their places around them again, after bowing low before Coda.

"We beg your pardon for the wait, Your Highness," said one of them. "Let's get you out of this mayhem."

"Just a quick trip, Your Lordship?" the second one grunted at Cyprian, his eye twitching. "One minute to rush in and grab a gift for your sister, you assured me? His Lordship your father will hear about this."

"I'm terribly sorry, Sir Pietro," the Arach heir replied with his most sheepish grin.

“The mad crowd’s hardly his fault,” Coda said, even as the niggling voice in the back of his head demanded to know why he was defending this lord who’d gotten him tangled up in such a calamitous situation. In his uncle’s shoes, Falcon certainly wouldn’t have. Still, the prince felt a tug of defensive bristle as he continued, “You work for Lord Cyprian, correct? So it’s hardly your place to chastise him, sir. Unless you wish to scold me, too?”

The knight quickly wiped the exasperation off his face and bowed again. "It is not, Your Highness. That was out of line. Please pardon my insolence, Your Highness, Your Lordship. My only duty is to serve you." He walked on in solemn silence.

"My personal instructor, who trained me in self-defence," Cyprian explained to Coda in a lower voice. "He's known me since I was barely taller than a longsword and had to pull me out of trouble far too many times. I never did listen to him enough."

The prince had sounded so imposing while delivering his reproach that Cyprian might have been intimidated, had he not glimpsed a softer side of the man moments earlier. A curious thrill lingered over him after being protected by Coda’s regal authority. The invisible barrier between them seemed to have melted into a sheer veil.

As soon as they had reached the outer perimeter of the bazaar and refilled their lungs with fresher air, Cyprian froze and turned back towards the prince, his eyes darting up and down Coda’s clothes frantically. "The perfume? Do you still have it?"

Coda’s hand danced to the chest pocket of his overtunic, and he sighed in relief as he felt the shape of the perfume bottle beneath, still tucked safely into place. “That would’ve been rich, eh?” he mused wryly. “If after all of that, we’d arrived back to the manor without even a gift to show for it.” At least maybe then Priscilla would hate him and demand they call the whole marriage off. (A prince could dream, couldn’t he?)

Cyprian released a breath he’d been holding. "Oh, thank the Spyder! I apologise for fretting, Your Highness. It's just, my little sister..." He aimed an earnest, pleading gaze at Coda. "I have barely two months left before she leaves, and I so want to make her happy."

Masks of Feather and Silk: Part Two

SPOILER: Click to show

As October segued into November and the bite of the seaside wind became too sharp and cold to linger outside, the Arach heir was able to spend time with his little sister, making the most of their last weeks living together. After that outing at the bazaar, he had stopped fussing over the future spouses and eased up in his efforts to bond with Coda. In fact, Cyprian's blithe, sunny disposition was not quite the kind of attitude expected from someone about to celebrate a birthday.

He did not need to manifest any excitement. The feast in honour of the rising heir was a special privilege, planned entirely behind his back as though it could surprise him. His sister, in particular, was taking great pleasure in helping wherever she could. Cyprian obligingly feigned deafness every time someone mentioned the preparations.

When the big day came, he performed his greetings and speeches just as he would for any occasion of that caliber, as mellow and amiable as ever. It was for him that the creme de la creme of the gentry of Aran had flocked in, joined by some of the nobility of Veresia. Their future opinions of the heir would be based on his performance. An orderly parade of figures in sweeping robes and gowns slowly filtered into the banquet hall, their brilliant display of jewelry glistening under the lights.

Once the first courses and speeches had kick-started the feast and distracted the guests, Cyprian found time to catch up with his extended family, the more pleasant part of the event. And once a postprandial torpor had spread over the assembly, leaving it to gaze contentedly at the singing and dancing performers, he was able to do nothing but contemplate the nebulous burgundy depths of his wine goblet.

“Are you alright there, Lord Cyprian?” a soft voice asked; Cyprian snapped his gaze up from the ripples of his wine to find Coda, the prince with a rosy, alcohol-induced flush to his own cheeks. “You’re looking rather… melancholy.”

"Couldn't be better, Your Highness, thank you!" Cyprian replied with the dazzling smile he had worn all night - it was now pulling sharply on the stiff muscles around his mouth. At every movement he made, the lights danced in shimmering patterns on the golden embroidery of his new doublet, which had been tailored to emphasise his broad shoulders. He was taken aback by the shift in the prince's diction. "And what about you? You have been enjoying the feast, I hope?" he asked, a tinge of concern in his voice.

Coda had not been enjoying the feast. The wine and food were adequate, but Priscilla had been adhered to him like a tick all night, which had made him even more aware of the fact that once they married next month, she would be his shadow at events like this all the time. Forever. Which had made him dizzy and nauseous all on its own, even before he’d sipped a little too much wine.

At least he’d finally shaken her. For now. Even if the prince half-expected her to turn up again at any moment, charming and sweet, the picture of elegance in her supple silk dress that hugged her curves in all the right places.

Coda did not wish to look at these places.

Swallowing hard, he looked to Cyprian instead. “It’s been lovely, thank you,” the Ascension said. “The food is exquisite. And the music. And the drinks.” He forced a frozen-doe smile. “A grand birthday for you indeed, hm?”

Cyprian held his gaze, trying to find the meaning behind the prince's words and growing more perplexed by the second. Coda’s enthusiasm was as heartening as a splash from a cold puddle. Cyprian had not had enough wine himself to blame it on the drink. It had to be his imagination, but he could hear something in the man's voice, something that tugged hard at him, almost begging for help.

At last, he cracked another smile and raised his cup. "Almost as grand as a wedding," he replied mechanically.

Then something snapped and the stifling banquet hall full of smoke and stagnant smells of cooling food with its whirl of glaring torch flames and rowdy voices suddenly became too much, revolting, repellent, and Cyprian jumped out of his seat, still holding his goblet.

"You can tell me all about the drinks, Your Highness!" he suggested playfully, before adding for the benefit of the table: "We need to practice for the bachelor party."

He put an arm around Coda's shoulders and marched him off towards one of the exits, beyond which blissful darkness and fresh air and sweet silence beckoned. Coda let himself be steered like a dog on a lead, either too drunk or too startled to even think of resisting. When they swept past Priscilla, who was dancing with her and Cyprian’s little brother, Coda barely even spared her a blink. He could, however, feel her eyes bearing into his back like a branding iron as Cyprian threw open the doors. The cold night air bowled into Coda like a splash of chilly water to a fevered forehead. He stumbled outside onto the scenic balcony, lightheaded and heavy-hearted.

“I think we’ve both partaken in a bit too much wine,” he stammered.

"Both of us? What were the odds," Cyprian commented absently while tugging at his collar. A moment later, his heavy doublet hung over the banister, and a cool breeze was caressing his throat. "I did not know you had such a fondness for wine."

The truth was that it had been easier to talk to Priscilla after swilling a few glasses, but tipsy or not, Coda knew better than to say this. “It’s a party,” he murmured only. “And that’s what you do at parties, right? Smile and dance and drink as if there’s nothing in the world but merriment.” With fumbling fingers, he loosened the cuff of his dress tunic. “Forgive me, Lord Cyprian,” he said. “I make a fool of myself.”

"Everyone in here is a fool. An entire roomful of cheerful fools." Cyprian waved a hand at the doors, through which a sliver of light spilled onto the flagged stone floor, drawing a pale orange line between the two. "But you, my prince, make for a sad fool. If I had known that celebrations dampened your spirits, perhaps I could have arranged something different for you." His tone held no scorn or reproach. He was peering at Coda's face in the darkness, trying to discern whether he looked as bad as he sounded.

“Something different?” Coda echoed, squinting back at the Arach lord. “And forgive me once again, Lord Cyprian. It’s not the celebrations that have dampened my spirits-- and you certainly deserve a happy feast for your birthday.” He shifted on his heel, the cool night air caressing the back of his neck. “Especially after how kind you’ve been to me,” he went on, hazily. “Ever since I arrived to Aran. Your… whole family has been, really. Gracious and kind.”

"Well that was to be expected, Your Highness - one of our number will be going back to the capital with you." Cyprian leaned against the curved stone balustrade and took a small sip of his wine. "I must confess that I was worried, at first. I had to know what kind of man was taking my little sister from me. Who would put a smile on her face or wipe her tears for me. Spyder's silk, you allowed me to badger you with the patience of a martyr. And I discovered that you are a kind man."

He drummed his fingers on the railing while contemplating Coda's shadowed silhouette, his brow slightly furrowed, as one would search a painting for a detail one had missed. "She seemed so happy tonight. Yet somehow, my worries still nag at me."

It was clear how much Cyprian cared for Priscilla, which made Coda feel all the worse for disliking her so strongly-- particularly since still, she’d done absolutely nothing to mete such a response. Abruptly, the prince blinked and turned his gaze downward, toward the flagged stone beneath. As he did, his head danced, prickly and light. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. Certainly Cyprian would not still have such gushing praises to sing once Coda took Priscilla home to Medieville, and she found him a cool and jittery groom who wanted no more to do with her now that she was his wife than he had when she’d been his fiancee. What would the Arach lord say then? What would any of the Arachs say?

Maybe it was the alcohol. Or maybe it was the anxiety that had steadily increased in him over these past six weeks, gone from an unpleasant slick of fear in his gut to a vise that gripped him like a hawk’s talons. All Coda knew was that he found himself murmuring: “She deserves better than me, Lord Arach.”

Cyprian had only heard that kind of speech from people so smitten that they placed their beloved on a pedestal far above themselves. The prince did not seem quite so lovestruck.

"There is no need to belittle yourself, Your Highness. It is a momentous change in your life." He stepped closer, crossing the thin line of light that filtered through the doors. "This is not easy, for any of us. But you are a good man - of that, I am sure. You will have time to make it work." Following his inspiration, Cyprian raised his hand and laid it on Coda's shoulder.

Coda wrenched his head back up, startled by Cyprian’s touch. Too fast: his vision lurched, and he had to press a hand against his forehead to steel himself. “And what if I don’t?” he asked, before he could stop himself. “What if I can’t? What if I’m not the good man you think I am, Lord Cyprian?”

Cyprian started too, alarmed by Coda's reaction, but his instinct only made him grip the prince more firmly. "I'm afraid that I have less power over these arrangements than you do, Your Highness," he whispered. A fresh surge of worry filled his stomach. Only the warmth of the wine he'd sipped helped him to keep his composure. "Perhaps we ought to go back indoors instead of stumbling here in the dark, so that you may have a seat."

“She’s probably done dancing,” Coda whispered. “She’ll want to speak with me more. And I haven’t h-had nearly enough wine.”

Coda knew that perhaps he should shrug out of Cyprian’s hold, but instead the prince stepped closer to the lord. Studying his features through the murky darkness. In many ways, Cyprian resembled Priscilla: dark hair, an olive complexion, the same strong brow and almond-shaped eyes. But where looking at Priscilla had never spurred any emotion in Coda beyond, at best, a twisting fear, when he saw them in Cyprian, they seemed… more pleasant, somehow. Benign.

“Are you betrothed, my lord?” the Ascension asked. It was a strange thing to say, and Coda knew it. Haltingly, he continued, “After all, we’re nearly the same age, aren’t we-- you and I?”

The heir's fingers clenched. "I am one year younger. That is correct." The anxiety had given way to what felt like a pool of ice water in the pit of his stomach.

"I am not yet betrothed," was his well-practiced answer. "It is unexpected that my younger sister should be wed before me. My parents were in the process of making arrangements, when one of the... potential brides tragically lost her father, while another's family hit difficult times." He took a deep breath, hoping that the tightness in his throat was not audible. "So, in the meantime, I seem to be... waiting."

“And are you pleased by that?” Coda asked. “The waiting?”

Cyprian raised his eyebrows. Another proper, formal response began to form in his mind, but the words scattered like fraying threads. "My satisfaction is neither here nor there in this matter," he said with a mirthless smile. "Your Highness."

He was still gazing impassively at the blurry form of the prince, now glad for the lack of light. "Something tells me that you would not mind waiting, yourself."

Coda knew he should deny it. Instead, he shrugged. “The marriage was His Majesty’s idea,” the prince said. “I was not consulted.”

The revelation was entirely expected. It still hurt. Not only for his sister, Cyprian realised. "I understand your position." The distance between them had gradually shortened, without him noticing much in the darkness, except a faint warmth inches from him that helped to temper the chilly wind. "My sister is in the same position. Can you really conceive no way, Your Highness, in which you might make it work decently enough?" His tone was pleading, but held little hope.

“Your sister deserves better than me,” Coda said simply. It was a death knell all on its own. Shuddering against a sharp, frosty gale, Coda swallowed hard and met Cyprian’s gaze straight on. “You understand my position?” he whispered, his face only inches from the Arach lord’s. “What do you mean by that, Lord Cyprian, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Cyprian closed his eyes. In this quiet little world, nestled in the folds of the night sky and enclosed by the unending, pitch-black expanse of the sea, it was easier to release his thoughts. No one was there to listen. No one would see. Only the warm soul next to him could hear.

"Putting on a show of power, while having none for yourself," he murmured into the friendly night. His breath mixed with Coda's in the air between their mouths. "Letting yourself be paraded like a show horse. Doing what must be done, for everyone around you. Keeping them satisfied. Always."

This was so wrong.

This felt so right.

“It grows exhausting, doesn’t it?” the prince said. “Wearing that mask. Smiling on the outside while screaming on the inside.” Thoughtlessly, he brought his face even closer to Cyprian’s. He could feel the heat emanating off the Arach’s lords skin now, pleasant and comforting, which only drew him closer yet again. “I think,” he breathed, “that we are being improper.”

A weight was lifted from Cyprian's chest. Coda understood. Coda was the same. He gave a deep sigh. A soft thrumming, like wingbeats in his ears, joined the distant breath of the sea and the much closer, warmer breath in front of him. Cyprian's arm moved with Coda as he leaned in, curling tighter around him, welcoming him in.

When he opened his eyes again, Coda's beautiful mouth lay right before him, the mouth that had spoken such comforting words. Before he knew it, Cyprian had tipped his head forward and closed the last of the distance between them. His lips met Coda's. Tasted them. He marveled at the cascade of sensations that rushed through him.

Coda knew that he should pull away; instead, he found himself parting his lips. Returning the gesture. He’d kissed a boy once before-- a memory he’d held long shrouded until now, cataloged in the backmost corner of his mind. He’d been thirteen, and the boy-- a legate’s son who was visiting with his father from Lyell-- about the same, and it had been lovely and tantalizing and oh so brief. The boy had left back for Venoa the next day without so much as a goodbye, and in the initial weeks that followed, Coda had drafted a great stack of letters to him without ever sending any. Instead, he’d burned them one-by-one in the crackling hearth in his bedchamber, watching as the parchment withered and disintegrated into ashes, transformed into mere ruin and smoke. Then he’d promised himself that he would never think of the Lyellian again.

Cyprian’s kiss was much firmer than the Lyellian’s, his lips softer, his breath sweeter. This is your fiancee's brother, Coda, screamed every logical voice within him.

But he didn’t stop.

He didn’t want to stop.

Cyprian's fingers had found their way to the back of Coda's neck, splaying over his skin and threading through strands of long blonde hair. He heard his pulse quicken at the same time as his kisses became more urgent, more searching. Their lips fit together again and again, tugging at each other like moon and tide, dancing in and out of reach without breaking apart once.

Only when his breath ran out did he give in and pause, still tracing Coda's upper lip. His hands were trembling. An ocean of new sensations had opened itself to him. He had been assured multiple times that these intimate gestures were enchanting beyond measure, yet had never fully appreciated them before.

Then the reality of what he had done hit him like a rock wall. Another shudder seized him, of icy dread this time. Nearly frozen, he took one unsteady step back.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” Coda made himself say. But his eyes were still latched on Cyprian, bearing into the lord intently. The Arach lord’s warmth, his taste, his feel, lingered throughout the prince’s entire being: pleasant and shocking, right but so wrong. “Oh Woo.” He clapped a hand to his forehead. “We… we really shouldn’t have done that, should we have?”

This time Cyprian lowered his head before the prince. The absence of anger in his tone brought the younger man a tiny shred of relief; but Cyprian felt as though he had been laid bare before his eyes. "I shouldn't," he said hoarsely, "I never should have, I... I don't understand why. And why did it have to feel so..."

A wild thought suggested that he blame it on the wine - how much had he even drunk? How much more would he need to forget? How he wished he could flee directly back to his chambers without meeting anyone.

"What I have done is unforgivable," he whispered.

“No,” Coda said, more stridently than he’d meant. His hand trembling, he reached out into the starlit blackness and draped his fingers over Cyprian’s wrist. “It was… it was wrong, I know it was wrong, but I… I wanted it, too.” He paused, stricken, before admitting: “And… to be perfectly honest with you, it… felt more right than anything else has since I’ve gotten here. More right than anything has in… a long, long time, Cyprian.”

Hearing his first name without its attached title made his heart skip a beat - as if it had been murmured directly into his ear. More startling than Coda's touch was the fact that it was still so maddeningly pleasant, in a way that made Cyprian's head spin.

"I don't understand," he blurted. "I've never done this before, especially not with a… not with anyone." He squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly afraid that whatever madness had overcome him earlier would strike again. "So we're... equally guilty."

“Guilty, yes,” Coda agreed. “And yet… I feel strikingly little remorse, Cyprian. If that’s guilt, then--” He let his voice fall away, so sharply that it was like a man plunging over the edge of a cliff: there one moment, and gone the next. “If that’s guilt,” he forced himself to finish, “then why did it feel like anything but?”

He was utterly trapped, miles past the point of no return, with Coda's hand restraining him like the gentlest shackle in the world. Cyprian’s reply came out as a feeble whisper, coaxed out of his bursting mind by the prince’s voice. "It has been quite an exceptional night. After enduring so much, you deserved to indulge."

Masks of Feather and Silk: Part Three

SPOILER: Click to show

The end of the feast left a haze of contentment to fill the castle over the next few days, as its inhabitants prepared to start the winter at a slow, drowsy pace. Perhaps as a result of his satisfactory performance, the heir of House Arach was easily allowed to withdraw from the public eye for a while. The young man's diligence in his studies was only commended, and no one sought to pull him out of the library to which he had confined himself or rope him into the few activities available at winter time.

Cyprian had an endless supply of tasks to busy himself with, from books of law to trade reports he'd filched from his father's study, offering to help with his work. In the middle of particularly dull legal treatises, his mind would stray towards the maps of Avani that he had positioned strategically at the other end of the reading desk. He was not even inclined to spend time with his sister. The girl had much in her own life to worry about and prepare for, and she was not going to cope any better if he kept interfering.

So distracted was he that, on his way back to the library after evening prayers at the family's Spyderist shrine, Cyprian did not immediately register the furtive footsteps he could hear as he rounded a corner. Seeing a pair of elegant shoes before him, he stopped dead in his tracks, just in time to avoid walking right into the prince. Their eyes met for less than a second before Cyprian bowed his head.

"Your Highness," he said coolly in manner of greeting, already preparing to continue on his way.

With only a few short steps separating them, Coda froze like a deer in the hunter’s crosshairs. Cyprian. He’d hardly seen hide nor hair of the Arach lord since, well-- since. He could still feel the gentle brush of the man’s lips against his, could taste the sweetness of Cyprian’s breath as theirs mingled, these things impressed upon Coda like a sense memory. A taunt of a hope, a tease of a moment so right and so wrong. He didn’t blame the Arach for avoiding him thereafter; it was, in the wake of something so improper, quite probably the most sensible thing either Cyprian or Coda could do. And the prince had been busy with his own obligations, anyway: with the wedding growing ever closer, Priscilla now clung to him like a leech. She was so clearly-- and so desperately-- attempting to chisel through the cordial but shallow mask he always donned around her, using whatever means possible. She talked at him constantly, and breathlessly. She wore the perfume he’d bought her without fail. She laughed at his bad jokes, and smoothed his tunic when it was rumpled, and wore her long hair back in intricate plaits because once in a moment of diplomatic nicety he’d commented that it looked pretty that way.

But still when he saw her, he felt only cold. Numb. Certainly not the excited burst of warmth that spread through him now, as he stared at Cyprian.

Cyprian, who’d made everything so complicated.

Cyprian, whom he ought to ignore and brush by.

But Coda didn’t. Couldn’t make himself. His throat was dry as he murmured: “Lord Arach. It’s nice to see you.”

Cyprian fought to stay indifferent, to stroll away with all his dignity and take refuge in the history of Kythian maritime law. He lost. Still weighed down by shame, he risked a glance at the prince’s face. It had been a terrible idea - now a fresh image of Coda’s well-lit features had added itself to the blur of sights and sounds and sensations that still haunted him.

“I hope that you are keeping well,” he answered stiffly. He was only replying because making small talk with his family’s royal guest was a part of his duty.

Cyprian’s flat tone stung, worse than Coda knew it ought to. Leave, Coda, demanded the perfectly reasonable voice in the prince’s head. Bid him a good day, and leave, for Woo’s sake.

But again, Coda didn’t. Only clenched his jaw and tried not to look too nettled by Coda’s dismissive response as he said, “I’m doing adequately, thank you. I’ve… been spending a lot of time with Priscilla.” An uncomfortable pause threatened, which Coda quickly smothered with an off-kilter: “And… and yourself, Cyprian?” Not lord. He wasn’t entirely sure why he dispatched with the Arach’s title, but there was hardly any adding it now.

At the sound of his first name deprived of its title, what remained of Cyprian's composure was blown to pieces. He could not stifle a sharp intake of breath. Heat flooded his neck and face - even though he was not an easy blusher - for this was far too intimate to him after the other night, almost like a lover's whisper. Vivid memories of their embrace in the dark welled up within him, nudging the back of his mind, threatening to pull him under.

"I have been studying," he said breathlessly, his eyes now locked on Coda. More words escaped before he could stop. "Shutting myself away for a while, to rest. In private. To cool off."

“That… seems wise,” Coda said. And it was. Even if it hurt, and he wished it wasn’t. “I… I do hope that you don’t think that I’m… upset with you. Over… what happened. I’m not. Perhaps it would be better if I was, but…” He swallowed hard, the unspoken words caught in his throat.

Cyprian focused on a fascinating patch of empty stone wall behind Coda's hair - which had definitely never felt like silk flowing between his fingers. "What happened? I do not believe that anything of note happened, Your Highness." His voice wavered and he bit his lip, mentally lambasting himself for being such a terrible liar.

"I am glad, however, that you are not upset with me for any reason. I would hate for anything to upset you. Your Highness." He threw the title between them in desperation, like one would toss a pebble at an advancing predator.

If Cyprian’s previous comments had smarted, this one outright burned, like acid eating through Coda’s gut. Rage roiled through him, hot and white. “Nothing of note?” he blurted, unable to help himself. “That… it… it meant nothing to you, then? Not anything at all? The things you said to me-- the things I said to you-- what we did--”

Sharply, Coda turned away. As if he were but a sullen child, tears pricked in his eyes, but the prince forced them back with a heavy blink. This was like the legate’s son all over again, only so much worse. At least that had been… fleeting. An impulsive peck in the dark between near strangers. But this. Cyprian. All of it. Coda bit down on his tongue, hard, as though to keep himself from screaming out.

"No! Please..." Cyprian finally reached bursting point; his hand shot out and closed on Coda's arm. "It has not left my mind," he whispered, defeated, his feeble attempt at a neutral mask shattered by the prince's accusing tone. "Not once. I am assaulted by wild, mad, unholy thoughts and daydreams that even the dullest tomes cannot keep at bay. You may scorn me, for I am but a despicable fool."

Coda spun back around, Cyprian’s fingers falling free from his arm as he did. “I don’t know what to do, Cyprian,” the prince admitted, his voice cracking. Tears welled again, and these ones were not so easily forced away. “Priscilla and I leave for Medieville in little more than two weeks. Next month at this time, she’ll be my wife. My wife, and I can hardly even bear to look at her. Not like I can look at you. Not like I can… I can…” He laughed, a mad laugh, like that of a condemned man seconds before the trapdoor drops beneath his feet. “If the king could see me right now, he would gut me.”

The Arach’s eyes widened. Coda’s tears were a punch to the gut, the distress in his voice too much to bear. Enraged and powerless to help, Cyprian shoved his hands behind his back, clenching them so hard that his fingernails dug into his palms. "Please don't break in front of me... I don't know what I might do to you this time," he choked, breathing fast.

As he opened his mouth again, a door creaked open in the distance, and several sets of footsteps echoed down the corridor along with a babble of conversation. A fierce protectiveness took hold of Cyprian at the idea that someone else might catch this heart-wrenchingly vulnerable side of Coda. "The library," he whispered urgently, "no one bothers me in there - please, follow me!"

He refrained from reaching for Coda's arm again and started walking at a brisk pace, back to the cozy wood-panelled room suffused by the flickering glow of the fireplace, only stopping when he'd shut the door behind them. Coda wasn’t sure if it was better or worse to be alone. On the one hand, now there was little chance of somebody overhearing anything scandalous. On the other hand, he didn’t quite trust himself. Not around Cyprian. Not with the feelings the Arach lord sent rushing through him, as untamable as a wildfire raging through dry brush. Woo, why couldn’t he have such feelings for Priscilla instead?

“This seems very dangerous, Cyprian,” Coda said. “After… after last time.”

The heir, who had finally come to the decision that he ought to comfort Coda, dropped his head in shame, slamming his forehead into the door with a muffled thump. "Oh, I am dangerous indeed," he said in a jovial tone. "Fear not, I shall keep my dangerous hands and my dangerous self well away from your person. In the meantime, feel free to use this space to enjoy some privacy."

He made his way to the far side of the room, facing away from Coda, though a tinge of red in his ears betrayed the bright flush that had spread over his skin. As if to punish himself, he reached for the heaviest book, a massive tome that practically oozed tediousness out of its pages. He bumped into the corner of the desk and sent a pile of scrolls tumbling to the floor.

“Cyprian.” Coda’s voice shook. “Please, I-- I didn’t mean it like that.” A lump constricting his throat, he crouched down to help gather the scattered scrolls. “You’re not dangerous. At least… not any more than I am. But what we did… how I feel about you… how my stomach flutters when I look at you…” He gritted his teeth. “It could get us in trouble. So much trouble. If someone found out…” His breath hitching, he amended this to: “If Priscilla found out that I’d kissed her brother when I can scarcely stomach to look her in the eye? It would be a nightmare. It would destroy me. And you. All of us.”

Coda's informal use of his name made Cyprian's heart leap once more and he shuffled away, dropping a few scrolls haphazardly on the desk. "That is why I have been so aloof. I cannot stoop to such looseness again, I must not let my vulgarity soil you. I know how you suffer and yet I must not comfort you, I cannot do anything to brighten up the last moments of your life as a bachelor."

"I don't want anything to make you prostrated and hopeless," he continued, pacing in front of the fireplace, with his hands clenched behind his back again. "I want to see you... serene. Or deep in thought, when your mind seems to fly to distant lands where none can follow. Or thrilled, like when we took you sailing. If I could tear the heavens apart and destroy the cruel fate that binds you..." The Arach let out an incredulous laugh. "Listen to me, now I'm becoming blasphemous as well as vulgar."

“It’s not vulgar,” Coda said, rising again with an arm full of scrolls. “You’re not vulgar. And you can’t blame yourself for… for any of this. You hardly had anything to do with Priscilla and me.” Lower, he added, “Nor in the sorts of… feelings I don’t have for her. Or… any woman, for that matter.”

Cyprian's pacing came to a stop as gears finally clicked in his head. "You have that kind of... preference? I was quite sure that I had taken advantage of your drunkenness. Though it does explain what you said afterwards..." Even though it was a relief to know for sure that the prince had nothing personal against Priscilla, this made Coda's predicament much worse.

He ventured close enough to take the scrolls from Coda's arms. "If it's not vulgar, then... what is it?" he whispered, with a tentative glance at the prince's face.

“I don’t know,” Coda admitted softly. “I’ve never known. And not for a lack of trying. I just… am this way. I’ve always been this way.” Almost whisper-quiet, he murmured, “And you, Cyprian?”

"Oh, heavens... it's been so long, I barely even remember." He did not particularly want to remember his endless shame, from conversations that he simply could not follow, to discomfort around other men and awkwardness that he could never explain.

"I was hoping it would change," Cyprian whispered fervently, confessing at top speed as if he would never get another chance. "I've been trying to change it for years. I had at least one servant sent away because I felt so wrong around him. Everyone will tell you that I never lie... I am the lie. But I really do prefer... you know. I've just... never been able to appreciate women in the way I'm expected to." He dropped the remaining scrolls on the desk without looking at them, his stomach churning in panic now that his secret was out.

“We could… ignore it,” Coda said, his eyes falling to the floor. “Or… try to ignore it. It’s… what I imagine we’ve both been attempting to do all along.” But his voice was as hollow as bone, and a future that resembled only the smothered past seemed suddenly revolting. A nightmare. Like a drowning man sipping air again and then deliberately throwing himself back into the churning waves.

"See how successful my attempt was." Cyprian's jaw clenched. "We only have a couple of weeks left, for gods' sake, if you keep torturing yourself like this the whole time then I swear I will... I don't know. You are a frustrating and maddeningly endearing man. What is it you truly want?"

What Coda wanted was dangerous. What Coda wanted went against everything he was supposed to want. But Cyprian had asked, and Woo, the prince couldn’t bring himself to lie to the man. Not when he’d already been laid bare and raw, like a slaughtered bird at market plucked free of all its feathers. What was the point of trying to hide, when he was already so wholly revealed?

“I don’t want to marry your sister,” Coda whispered. “Or any woman. Ever. I… don’t want children. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life as Falcon’s adviser, with my hands proverbially tied behind my back and my wand but a showpiece at my belt.” It felt strange to say such things aloud. Strange and yet cathartic. “My entire life has always been somebody else’s choice, Cyprian. First my father’s. Then Falcon’s. And I’m tired of it. Woo, how I’m tired of it.”

Coda had not even finished his sentence that Cyprian's arms closed around his torso and drew him into a long-overdue embrace. There was no point in holding back now. The Arach tightened his arms and squeezed until their chests were almost crushed together, though he kept his head turned away. He swayed gently from side to side, holding on fiercely as if he had any power to wrench Coda out of his misery. "If you could go anywhere, do anything you wanted... what would you choose?"

“I’d… go away,” Coda said, hating how lovely this felt, to be wrapped in Cyprian’s embrace. “Far away. Where no one knew who I was, and there weren’t any expectations for me to be a certain way or marry a certain person or--” He cut himself off, before he quietly finished: “Or anything like that.”

"You could explore strange and beautiful lands," Cyprian continued, ignoring the thumping of his heart. "Make new friends, learn new things, more magic, without anyone to hold you back. And you could leave and discover a new place as soon as you wished, following the winds."

“We speak in fairytales, Cyprian,” Coda whispered. “Beautiful fairytales. But fairytales nonetheless.”

The Arach gave a chuckle, his chest quivering against Coda's. "Stories are all we have, are they not. Everything is so simple in them. We would have broken your curse the other night, for instance."

“If only real life could be so simple,” Coda agreed miserably. Slowly-- reluctantly-- he brought his head forward, so that his cheek brushed against Cyprian’s. “I think,” he said, “that no matter what I do… I’m going to break your poor sister’s heart.”

Strands of Coda's hair suddenly tickled Cyprian's neck. He froze, now highly aware that a tiny movement of his head would let him press his lips to Coda’s skin, right beneath his ear. He could follow the line that trailed down to the base of his throat, resting in the curve between his neck and shoulder, before disappearing below his collar.

He swallowed. "I'm being a terrible brother. Sometimes I want to spill everything to her. I've never lied to her like this, it always seems like the secrets are begging to burst out of me. I'm just afraid it would make everything worse... and I could not betray you like that. Even if I tried."

“You can’t tell her,” Coda said quickly. “It would just make everything more complicated, Cyprian. And if she told somebody else-- your mother or father, or one of your other siblings…” His flushed cheeks chilled at the thought.

"I will not tell her," Cyprian murmured into his ear. His hands stroked Coda's back soothingly, between his shoulders. "Or anyone else. Not any of this. It's our secret."

Masks of Feather and Silk: Part Four

SPOILER: Click to show

It planted in his head then, and Coda didn’t know why. Run away, he thought, Cyprian’s whispered fantasy suggestion rising in the prince’s mind over the next several days with far more regularity than it ought to. When Priscilla was smiling at him over breakfast. At night as he lay awake, staring at the white ceiling above and listening to the far-off crashing of the waves against the shore. Each time his betrothed batted her eyes at him, or touched his wrist, or mentioned their future life together back in the capital. I am not here, he would think to himself. I have gone far away. So far away. And I am happy. And I am free.

And with Cyprian. In Coda’s imagined bursts of moments, he was never without Cyprian.

The Arach heir, for his part, seemed to have come out of his self-imposed exile. He no longer felt the need to avert his eyes from Coda, and found himself more often than not sending him a shameless, smoldering gaze from the other side of the room they were in. The secrets that they shared still weighed heavily upon him, but the knowledge that they had each other was enough to hearten him.

He spread more and more maps around the library - that he was still monopolising for his study sessions - and idly traced roads to connect the most fascinating places he could think of. The Adventures of Coda the Travelling Mage (and Most Definitely Not a Prince) were beginning to take form in his mind. He dreamed quite comfortably in his little nook, ready to welcome Coda again should the prince need another moment in private.

Indeed, three days after their last private conversation, it was midmorning when Coda quietly slipped in through the library door. His face was at first hesitant, but a soft smile bloomed between his lips when he saw Cyprian seated in one of the plush armchairs that was nested between the towering shelves.

“I had hoped I might find you here,” the prince said, shutting the door behind him.

There was no hiding the way the Arach's face lit up even before Coda had fully entered the room. He rose from his seat and gave the prince a small bow - after all they'd shared together, the gesture seemed more like a parody of etiquette. His curls were still tousled where his head had been nestled against the back of the chair.

"I was lost somewhere between Macarinth, and -" Cyprian checked the thick sheet of parchment that had nearly slid off the other arm of his chair. "- Mzia. My compliments to you for finding me so fast, Your Highness." The title came out of habit more than anything else. "I don't suppose you needed my help to find a book?"

“Ah, no.” Coda swallowed hard. “I just... “ He’d just what? Even after everything he and Cyprian had shared, it still felt wrong to admit that he’d only gotten himself through a very long tea with Priscilla and her parents by promising himself he could talk with Cyprian afterward. “I just wanted to see you,” the prince finished awkwardly. “That’s all.”

"That can certainly be arranged." With a coy grin, Cyprian pushed a second chair closer to the fireplace - it was heavier than he'd remembered, and he had to strain his muscles so as not to huff gracelessly in front of the prince. He straightened up casually, as if this had taken no effort, and gestured at the small window from which the muffled drumming of the rain could be heard.

"I'd suggest you enjoy a view of the sea as well if only the weather weren't so dismal. And I'm talking about the weather because what I really mean to say is that I've missed you, however strange that might sound from someone living under the same roof as you."

“Strange, perhaps, but I feel the same,” Coda said, his movements reluctant as he dropped into the offered armchair. “I do hope I haven’t disturbed anything important, Cyprian.”

Cyprian glanced at the abandoned stack of books that formed his real work. "Not at all. I was idling, to be honest."

“I see.” Coda hesitated. “I-- you… are you holding up okay, Cyprian? Considering the news.”

"Ah, Priss told you about the shipwreck? That was a terrible loss, yes. First ship I'd ever stepped on." He sat on the armrest of his chair, wondering if the prince was as somber as he looked, or if it was a trick of the firelight dancing on his face. "The crew is safe and mostly sound, Spyder be blessed. That's a relief."

“I…” Coda quailed, a sharp pang stabbing his gut as something dawned on him: Cyprian didn’t know yet. Oh, dear Woo, Cyprian didn’t know yet. “That is… a true relief, yes,” the prince practically squawked. “I ah-- I… you… you haven’t met with your father today, have you?”

Cyprian's brow furrowed and he leaned closer to Coda, listening more attentively. "No, I have not. Why, what has he told you? If they sprang the list of baby names on you, I shall give them a piece of my mind."

“No,” Coda said softly. “It wasn’t that.” Should he tell? The prince knew it was scarcely his place. But the way Cyprian was gazing at him now… the weight of the knowledge hanging in his throat like a strangling knot… “Augusta Ophid,” he blurted. “Lord Sebastian’s younger sister. You’re getting married to her. Your father mentioned it this morning over tea.”

Cyprian watched the prince's mouth move. The words ran in his mind once, twice, over and over, until they lost their order and any semblance of sense. They became a medley of Coda's voice punctuated by the pounding of the rain against the windowpane. Cyprian's hands crossed and uncrossed repeatedly in his lap.

"Splendid news," he finally heard himself say.

“Cyprian.” Coda’s voice caught, and he tentatively reached out a hand to drape his fingers over the Arach lord’s arm. “Are you okay?”

Cyprian slumped back in his chair and found himself laughing. "Certainly, why would I not be?"

He then launched into a disjointed tirade lauding the political benefits of a union to the other house. He spoke so fast that he could barely understand his own words. After a few sentences, he gave up and paused to take a shallow breath.

"I don't even need to lie to you, do I?" he asked Coda, focusing on his warm brown eyes. Unwittingly, he had taken hold of the prince's arm and was clinging hard enough to make his hand tremble.

“No,” Coda agreed. “You don’t need to lie to me, Cyprian. And I’m… sorry to be the one to tell you all this. It’s not proper. It shouldn’t have been me.” Falcon would be furious if he knew.

"No, no, it's much better if it's you - can you imagine if my parents were listening to me now? What a pitiful reaction. Thank you, thank you so much. Fat lot of help I am to Priss and you, right? Marriage is fantastic, you'll love it!" The Arach winked and gave another hollow laugh.

"Did my father, perchance, happen to tell you... when?" he asked more quietly.

“February.” Coda only knew because Priscilla had asked her father if she might attend, and the patriarch of House Arach had told her that while the invitation was open, it was ultimately up to Coda, and he would understand if the prince did not wish for his wife to travel such a great distance in possibly inclement and frigid weather. “The middle of February, I think,” he added, as if it made any difference.

"February." What little colour was left in Cyprian's face drained out. "In February, there won't be many flowers yet. Well, we can still make a party of it. Priss will help. Ah, but... hm." He stopped chattering and put on what he hoped was a reassuring smile for Coda - the prince did not need more worries when his own marriage was approaching so fast.

"I'm overreacting. It was going to happen one day or another. For years, I've been training myself to like it. I'm going to like it. I have to like it. I just need..." He was tugging at his collar. "Fresh air. If you'll excuse me. Your Highness."

Cyprian practically leapt out of his seat, releasing Coda's arm just in time to avoid dragging the prince along. Inches from the small back door that led out onto a balcony, he paused and slapped his forehead. "The list of children’s names. It wasn't just for Priss. It was for me too!" He laughed out loud, as if he'd just understood the punchline of some joke, then stormed out.

Coda gaped for a moment, trying to process all that Cyprian had just rambled. The Arach lord had not shut the door behind him, and rain sluiced into the room, splattering against the wooden floor. At least there were no shelves nearby. The prince hardly wanted any of the man’s precious books sullied on top of his already-manic grief.

Swallowing hard, Coda stood from the armchair. “Cyprian,” he called, striding toward the door. Bracing himself, the Ascension ducked his head as he shouldered out onto the miserable balcony. The rain was so cold that Coda was surprised it hadn’t turned to sleet; it lashed against him like icy needles as he sidled up to Cyprian’s side. “You should come back inside. I don’t think you need fresh air at the expense of catching your death out here.”

Cyprian stood facing the steel-grey sea with his head tilted back. The rain was already streaming down his face and exposed throat, soaking his hair and tunic. He clenched his teeth and gripped the railing tighter when he heard Coda. "It's less cold than Medieville," he said hoarsely. "Please let me stay awhile."

“Cyp.” His voice catching, Coda reached out and wrapped an arm around the Arach lord’s back, drawing him close, their warm bodies but a single scrap of twined warmth beneath the frigid rain. “It’s okay to be upset. I… I know exactly how you feel, really. But don’t do anything foolish. Please, don’t do anything foolish.”

"I'm already being foolish. It's only my duty, there's nothing to do but accept it." Cyprian turned his head away and shouted a string of curses that got lost between the thick curtains of rain. His fist fell limply on the railing, then he slumped against Coda, taking deep, shuddering breaths. "I want a place where I'm not anyone's intended, or husband, or lord or heir..." Coda was as steady and welcoming as an island in the storm, his comfortable shoulder perfect for Cyprian to rest his head.

“I know,” Coda said softly. “Trust me, I know.” He glanced behind his shoulder, into the library that now had a sizable puddle forming by the door. “Let’s get back inside. Before any of your books or maps get damaged.”

Cyprian looked up and met his gaze. Although it was rain streaming down the Arach’s face, a red tinge in his eyes betrayed his grief. It occurred to him that he was incredibly privileged to enjoy this view of the prince, his fine features brightened by a warmth that seemed reserved only for Cyprian.

A droplet had slid down a strand of Coda's hair and was shimmering at the tip. Without thinking, Cyprian reached up and caught it on his finger. "You're so good to me..." he whispered. "Let's get you warmed up." He too wrapped an arm around Coda and, still leaning against him, turned back towards the door.

Back inside, Coda kicked the door shut behind them without letting go of Cyprian. He was careful not to drip on anything important as they began back toward the hearth, and if the fire served to warm the pair physically, it did little to improve the cold feeling of grief that still pumped through Coda’s veins. Grief. Woo, how strange it was that he should feel grief over such a thing: this wedding that ought have so little to do with him, and yet that in the precarious state of things felt nearly as personal to Coda as did his own upcoming nuptials.

“Do you think that you can do it, Cyprian?” the prince murmured, finally letting go of the Arach lord as he moved to wring the water out from his blonde hair. “Marry her-- Augusta?”

No sooner had he lost Coda's touch than Cyprian craved it again, not quite satisfied by that brief moment. The cold was now making itself felt. "I can't not marry her, can I?" He kneeled in front of the fire, running his fingers over the damp curls plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck. Rain drops began to dot the rich carpet beneath him. He was sifting through his memories of social events, trying to put a face on the name Augusta Ophid. The only memory that presented itself was a mannequin in a gown, the faceless bride that had been looming closer and closer to him for years.

"The poor girl probably had no say in it, either. I can be good friends with the ladies - but if she wishes for more than a friend, and she can't get that from me… And they'll want children -" Panic clenched like a vise around his chest and he fought back a surge of nausea. "Spyder's silk, everything about this is so wrong. Is that how you felt when you learned of your betrothal to Priss?"

Coda nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Exactly.” Hesitantly, he set a hand on Cyprian’s damp shoulder. “I just keep thinking,” he continued softly, “about… well, the things we were saying the other day. The what-ifs. The places I could go. We could go.” A pause. “It won’t leave me alone, Cyprian. No matter how much I try.”

"We?" He quite liked the sound of that. It was certainly more pleasant than thinking about betrothals. "And what is it you were thinking about our what-ifs?" He hesitated for a second before adding the obligatory "Your Highness".

“Just Coda, please,” the prince said. “I think we’re past titles, Cyp.” He smiled softly. Sadly. “And I don’t know what I’ve been thinking. Not exactly. Just… what lives we could make, away from here. Apart from the expectations. Somewhere that nobody knows us. Where I’m not a prince, and you’re not a lord, and neither of us has to hide anymore from what we truly are.”

The Arach stared at him as if he'd started to use an unknown language. "Perhaps I misunderstood you altogether. Could it be that you are seriously considering... doing that?"

“I should say no, shouldn’t I?” Coda shrugged, but knew this was hardly a denial. “I’m not sure, Cyp,” he admitted. “It’s absurd. I know it’s absurd. But the idea of marrying Priscilla…” He bit his lip. “In a lot of ways,” the prince said, “such a thing feels even more absurd and unbelievable to me. Deep down.”

A mixture of outrage and revulsion welled up inside the Arach, clearly shown by his curling lip. It was not even caused by Coda's confession, but by the visceral certitude that Cyprian could only agree with him. For a second, he almost hated the man for unveiling the truth.

"I should never have brought it up, should I. So you'd leave. You'd rather lose everything and abandon everyone." He cringed, thinking of Priscilla. How her life would be ruined, her honour tarnished. But there was no need to lay more guilt on Coda now.

Coda should have expected Cyprian’s disgust, but it smarted a little all the same. He had to fight back a bristle as he replied: “What would we really be losing, Cyprian? Lies of lives? Masks we can never take off? Wives we’ll never love and masquerades that never end?”

"Oh no, sweet heavens, please not that!" Cyprian opened and closed his mouth several times, struggled inwardly, searched for any reason he might still have to deny the obvious. Then he curled up, wrapped his arms around his knees and lowered his face in shame. "I would gladly do it, Coda," he whispered. "I'd run."

**

Lyell was too small to get lost in, and Courdon too hostile to Kyth-- and Kythians-- to tempt. Lange sounded exotic, but it was hardly worth the bitter cold. Nor was Mzia worth the scorching heat.

Dormor was too well connected to Aran. However, Cyprian's knowledge of Dormorian allowed him to visit taverns by the port under the pretext of practicing the language. He made sure that the knights flanking him did not speak a word of Dormorian, and he was thus able to chat with sailors right under the noses of his escorts - even though they barely left him an inch to breathe after his past escapades in town.

The archipelago, especially its more isolated islands, was their best bet so far. Cyprian kept his ears wide open for any scraps of information that could be of use. Little by little, the itineraries that he’d traced absently on maps began to crawl out of the parchment and slither their way into his reality.

The destinations cycling through his head kept him calm while Lord Arach formally announced, across the polished desk in his study, his heir’s engagement to Augusta Ophid. Cyprian spent that entire conversation privately wishing all the blessings in the world upon Coda, who had prepared him for the shock.

Cyprian’s parents then refrained from mentioning the engagement, leaving their son to simmer for a while. His anxiety was blamed without question on pre-wedding nerves, both for his and his sister’s marriages. He barely slept, seeming to survive on tonics and headache relieving potions. He wandered the corridors at night, and not only as an excuse to catch the guards on duty for a brief chat. The man's face was taking on a chronic pallor and his eyes an almost feverish glint.

He looked positively haggard when he hurried into the dining room where his family was already seated before their meal. "Please pardon my tardiness," he said as he slid into his seat. He'd splashed water over his face and hastily dragged a comb through his hair moments before.

His sister immediately turned to face him, glad to have someone else than her intended to focus on. Her hair was pristine in its elegant knot, as it had been every day these past few weeks and would continue to be when she moved to the capital.

"I thought you’d never come!" she whispered, reaching up to smooth a few creases in his collar. "Where have you been, sleeping all day?"

"Not at all. Why, were you waiting to claim my food?" he teased her while rinsing his hands in the finger-bowl.

"Certainly not, I have some sense of manners." She leaned in closer to murmur: "And I have to fit in my dress."

Cyprian stifled a chuckle. "I could wear the same dress next to you, if it'll make you look better," he whispered back. Then one look at the dishes spread before him - grilled vegetables, fish oozing in a rich, creamy sauce, a platter of shrimp and shellfish - was enough to wipe the smirk off his face. He reached for the bread basket.

"You really will fit in my dress if you keep skipping meals," Priscilla said sternly. "Is your stomach still ailing you?"

"It was not ailing me."

"Oh yes it was, and I’ve already told you to go to the healer's. Didn't they have a spell that worked wonders to soothe one's stomach?" Priscilla, suddenly worried that she might have ignored her fiance too long, gave him an encouraging smile in case he wanted to chime in.

Coda knew that talk of magic ought pique his interest-- that here he should supply the name of the likely spell, and keep the conversation moving-- but instead he only spared his fiancee a thin smile. “I do hope you’re keeping well, Lord Cyprian,” he said, his voice perfectly flat and level. He did not dare look at Cyprian as he spoke, lest he betray anything untoward. “And that the healers are taking good care of you.”

Priscilla seemed to wilt, lowered her head and went back to her fish soup.

"I am in excellent form, Your Highness," Cyprian answered. He stared at the prince as if daring him to make eye contact. "The healers could not take better care of me than my sister does - shall we tell His Highness what a diligent nurse you make, Priss?"

"He will have time to discover it for himself, brother," Priscilla answered meekly. "Unless you have specific needs or requirements you'd like me to know of, Your Highness?"

“Ah, um…” Coda stammered, and cursed him for it. “That’s very sweet, Lady Priscilla. But I like to think myself the picture of health.” Awkwardly, he tacked on: “I’m sure my small nieces will make great use of your gentle touch. They’re never ones to turn down someone fawning over them.”

"You certainly look the picture of health," said Priscilla, slightly reassured. "Your nieces sound more delightful every time you mention them to me, I can hardly wait to meet them."

Cyprian raised his eyebrows at Coda. "Oh, so you do like to fawn over children? That's great, Your Highness - isn't it great, Priss?"

"Cyp," she hissed at him warningly. She had already endured more than enough awkward conversations about children. "You're one to talk - are you planning to bring us more stray children from the marketplace?"

He nearly choked on his drink. "I do not fetch children from the marketplace!"

“Children?” Coda chanced a perplexed look at Cyprian. “What sorts of children do you lug home, Cyprian?” He caught himself. “Er, Lord Cyprian.”

The heir flashed him a brief frown, but returned his attention to his wine goblet without answering. Priscilla took that as her cue to explain and eagerly latched onto this opportunity for conversation.

"My brother must have been no more than six years old when it happened, yet we still cannot stop talking about it. He managed to sneak into the marketplace. It took the guards no longer than a minute to track him down, and in that minute he had already found himself a friend in a smaller child, a street urchin by the looks of him. Now, the little one’s parents were nowhere in sight, and both boys would throw a tantrum if anyone tried to pry them apart! So our men searched high and low and eventually found the lost child a family. This is only one of the reasons why our guards are wary of my brother."

“What a kind boy you were, Lord Cyprian,” Coda said. “You seem to have no dearth of generosity.”

"He is quite a gem when he's not fooling around." Priscilla turned to her brother with a fond smile. "And you've been so supportive, especially these past few months... I don't know what I would do without you."

Cyprian forced himself to smile back. "I suppose it's one of these family traits that we share, dear sister," he said with a pointed look at Coda. He had been stirring his soup restlessly during the conversation and finally dropped his spoon with a clatter.

"I just don't seem to be in the mood for seafood right now," he muttered, then rose from his seat and excused himself louder for the whole table to hear.

Priscilla seized his hand as he was leaving. "Cyp - healer!"

He answered something in Dormorian that made her eyes widen. She turned back to Coda, chuckling nervously.

"I am very sorry for this - he really needs to practice the language. He was just... apologising. Would... would you like to tell me more about your nieces?"

Watching as Cyprian fled, Coda forced a short nod before racking his mind for a story about his nieces that was both charming and mindless. His appetite, however, was gone, and when the meal drew to a close some forty-five minutes later, the prince didn’t have it in him to spend the rest of the day in puzzled wonderment. After making sure that Priscilla was thoroughly distracted and so wouldn’t trail after him-- he left her talking with her mother before a roaring hearth-- the prince excused himself with a vague story of needing to freshen himself, and then made a beeline for the library. Cyprian’s precious library.

Pushing open the door, sure enough he found the Arach inside, curled up in one of the armchairs-- asleep. For a moment Coda considered turning and leaving, but he did not want to go with his anxieties unsaid, and so instead he cleared his throat.

“Cyp,” he murmured, shutting the door with a soft click. “Are you alright, Cyp?”

The Arach's head, which had been lolling on the armrest in a halo of tousled curls, suddenly snapped up. "I am. Only dozed off for a minute or two." His voice was hoarse, either from lethargy or from the beginnings of a cold. He cleared his throat. "Did you manage to talk about anything else than my embarrassing childhood stories?"

‘“Don’t worry,” Coda said drily, “we got some mortifying yarns about Priscilla in there, too. And your brother Sylk.” He strode forward, dropping with a sigh into the armchair next to Cyprian’s. “What did you say to Priscilla?” he asked. “In Dormorian?”

"Apologised. Profusely. Might have called myself something too rude for the dinner table." Cyprian rubbed his temples gingerly. "Sorry about that, Coda. I really wasn't thinking straight. You probably came in here to discuss more important things - let me not forget anything now..."

“No,” Coda said. “I just… wanted to check on you. Make sure you were okay. You were looking so pale at dinner. Anxious. Sick.”

"A man betraying his family as odiously as I do only deserves to fall sick," Cyprian muttered into the palms of his hands. "And that old memory did not help. I’ll be better once I’ve got some sleep. Once we’re gone."

He dropped onto the armrest closer to the prince and gazed up at him expectantly. His clear blue eyes seemed paler too, in comparison with the dark circles that rimmed them. "So, you were watching me? You flatter me, Coda."

“Of course I was,” Coda murmured. “I care about you, Cyp.” He swallowed. “I worry about you.” After a moment, he added, “Have you… gotten more of the details wrangled? For… well... you know.”

At these words, Cyprian’s fatigue seemed to evaporate, washed out by a lovely warmth. His eyes lit up and a radiant smile spread across his face. He sat straighter in his chair before launching into an explanation.

"Yes, I know. The Dormorian ship got held up, which means it will leave just in time for us. It’s probably the last of the season. We'd have to lie very, very low in Dormor, but it’s still safer than crawling our way down the rivers. I have better news about the mystery ship, though - the one they thought was from Mzia. It actually came all the way from Cerrin! It had to make a detour around Courdonian waters, and the crew decided to stop in Aran instead of going all the way to Dormor. It has a good chance of arriving exactly when we need it. From here, it would head straight back to Cerrin as fast as possible."

“Cerrin?” Coda murmured, as if he’d never heard such a word in his life.

He had, of course; a prince was hardly educated without learning the names of all the countries Kyth might ever in a million years have reason to consort with. Still, it was so far away the beyond the basic details, Coda knew little of it. It had a king, he thought-- or perhaps an emperor? He didn’t think it had some of the less savoury details of other Avanian nations-- the slavery of Courdon and Mzia; the wicked weather of Lange; the out and out madness that was Meltaim-- but then again, he hardly knew what they did have either. Let alone did he speak the language. Or have more than the haziest idea of their culture.

It’s perfect, the prince thought, a smile tugging at his lips. “No one would ever find us there,” he said to Cyprian. “They wouldn’t even think to look.”

"I doubt they would. I hadn't even thought of it before hearing about that ship!" It was thrilling to have such a concrete hope to cling to, after weeks of watching their days waste away like condemned prisoners. "I've already picked out travelling clothes," Cyprian continued. "I can get us some light supplies - the essentials only. The guards' patrols change often, but I know who schedules them. He likes to complain."

He leaned further out of his seat, basking in their shared elation. The few inches separating their armchairs were nothing compared to the rooms and walls that had lain between them all day, yet they still seemed like a ravine to Cyprian. "We're almost there, Coda. We can actually do this!"

Coda met the distance between them, his lips tender as they brushed against the Arach lord’s. “We can,” he breathed. “We really can.”

Cyprian's heart leapt. He returned the kiss, slowly, deliberately, savouring the moment in peaceful bliss. Then, as he sprang out of his chair in a burst of passion, climbed onto Coda's and settled comfortably to finish what they had started, he knew that everything - the pain, the shame, the anxiety, the waiting - would all be worth it in the end, for this blessed man and for all that they would share.

Masks of Feather and Silk: Part Five

SPOILER: Click to show

The final days of the prince's stay in Aran flew by in a blur. Beneath its serene and dignified facade, the manor house teemed with as much activity as an anthill, and one could not enter a room without dreading the chaos that might reign within. House Arach did not do things halfway. Every minute of the betrothed pair's dramatic entrance in the capital would be planned in detail. The House's own cruise ship was being furnished with all the luxury and amenities it could safely contain, so that the fiancees, the centerpiece of it all, may arrive as fresh as if they had left Aran hours previous. Rigorous reports on the states of canals and roads were sent for, every possible whim of the weather considered. Nothing would be allowed to stop this most precious delivery from reaching King Falcon.

This was the culmination of everything Coda had feared, and Cyprian worried that he might lose the prince in this great flurry of preparations. Their plan was the only anchor that kept them from losing their minds in the pandemonium. It was all the Arach lord could do to keep up with news of the Cerrish ship, taking advantage of the wedding preparations to slip out unnoticed. He seized every instant that they could catch in private to give the prince an update, a simple reminder that his exit route was still safe.

They found solace in each other's arms, in whispered words of comfort, in brief kisses stolen behind doors, in embraces during which Cyprian felt Coda come back to life beneath his touch, not as the prince, but as his Coda, the one with hope in his eyes and with the lovely smile that came out only for him. Cyprian conquered him back inch by inch, one caress, one tender word at a time. They would pull through together.

**

"Milady? Lord Cyprian is asking to see you, may he enter?"

Lady Fleur Arach, nee Stallion, looked up from the pile of clothing she was sorting through. Distracted, she had not yet undressed or undone her hair in preparation for bed despite the late hour. "Yes, do let him in, and add these to my luggage," she told her maid, who gathered the indicated garments and went back to the door.

Fleur moved towards the divan near her fireplace while her eldest son entered, allowing the matronly maid to pinch his cheek affectionately on the way.

"Mother! I'm glad that you're not yet asleep." He strode over to greet her with a light hug.

She leaned back to inspect his face, her hands still on his shoulders. "Shouldn't you be sleeping by now? You might not have a chance during the journey." She spoke with a faint Bernian accent that she had preserved over the years like an heirloom.

"Not before bidding you goodnight. I sleep well on ships, anyway."

Fleur seated herself on the divan, taking the time to ensure that every fold of her dress was properly spread over the flower-printed velvet. Cyprian settled on the other end of the seat. She seemed pale as a ghost next to him, her porcelain skin and flaxen hair almost glowing in the dimly lit room. "I am still unsure whether I should accompany you tomorrow," she said, rubbing thoughtfully at her throat. "Why December of all months, could it really not have waited until the spring?"

"Where has your Bernian spirit gone, Mother?" her son asked, grinning. "I know that it's always heart-wrenching to leave fair Aran, but the winter in Medieville should be nothing to you. And Priss will need your support more than ever."

"Our Priscilla is as ready as she can ever be. We're leaving her in very good hands - see, you had nothing to fear from that bright young prince after all." With a fond smile, Fleur remembered how defensive and territorial he'd acted all of a sudden, especially at the time of Prince Coda's arrival. Her eldest children had always been so close to each other, ever since Priscilla's birth. How she would miss that inseparable pair. "You've always been there for her, too."

"Yes..." His smile stiffened slightly. "And she for me. She's come such a long way, growing lovelier all the time. I'm glad to see her fly out of the nest on her own wings."

"At least you've had a few months to become accustomed to the idea. It... never was easy to separate the two of you for any length of time. I see that you have grown too, Cyprian." She gazed into his eyes that were so similar to hers - two little drops of Bern living on by the warm sea. His natural tenderness, carefully nurtured by Fleur like a prized rose bush, had never changed over the years. "We can take comfort in the knowledge that you will soon have someone else to care for." When her words elicited no reaction from him, she added: "Your fiancee, Cyprian".

His eyes widened in comprehension. "You mean Lady Ophid. Yes, I will care for her."

His serene smile did not fool Fleur's watchful motherly eyes. "I know that Priscilla's marriage was a lot to take in, dear, and this might seem very sudden on top of the rest. Everything will feel right again once the wedding is over and you've settled into it, trust me on this. You will be the best husband any woman could ask for."

He nodded blankly. Her hand alighted like a snowflake on the stretch of empty velvet that lay between them. "I confess that I forced your father's hand a little, asking him to urge them more actively into an arrangement - you know your father, he can do anything if someone gives him a push."

"I... Thank you for intervening on my behalf, Mother." Still somewhat stunned by her revelation, Cyprian noticed her waiting hand and reached out to take it in his own. Her dainty fingers easily fit into his warm palm, and the difference in size seemed to amuse his mother.

"You deserve nothing less. It was high time, Cyprian. I had a feeling, or one might call it an intuition, that you were in increasingly desperate need of a partner to call your own." Fleur observed him closely, a knowing smile on her lips, like a wine connoisseur recognising a classic vintage that she had tasted time and time again. "And that perhaps you had been trying to find that partner yourself, albeit with no apparent success."

His gaze flickered away from hers and he leaned deeper into the cushions of the divan. "You observe me a lot more than I'm aware of, Mother."

"Oh, Cyprian, you looked like you were having your heart broken chip by chip! At events and dinners, I saw you staring in certain people's direction with such longing in your eyes." She squeezed his hand, her brow furrowed in sympathy. "Someone you couldn't possibly dream of marrying," she ventured. "Someone of very high social standing."

He raised his head abruptly, scanning her with widened eyes. "You... you really saw?" he whispered.

"Of course. Nothing escapes my scrutiny. I was upset when I realised, Cyprian. You have always known better than to conceal things from me." Fleur let a tinge of reproach seep into her voice, but she did not truly mean it - she felt a little smug, in fact, that she could still read her son as easily as an open book.

"To spare your dignity, I will not drop a name, Cyprian. I am so sorry that the arrangement would be impossible. However, I am quite certain that I know who she is."

His face fell. "Oh, Mother..." He bit his lip, shaking his head. "I really cannot hide anything from you," he admitted with a tight, grudging smile.

"I watch over you for good reason. Now I can rest knowing that you have a good wife secured for yourself. I would not promise my eldest son to any eligible lady but the best, dear," she assured him sternly. "I inquired about Lady Augusta in minute detail before giving my approval. The anticipation may stretch your nerves to breaking point, but I know your spirits will bloom right back into shape as soon as you're a properly married man."

He gave her a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. She squeezed his hand playfully. "There is even a bonus for you to look forward to, if I am correct. Do you not have a preference for blondes? It seems to run in the family."

That finally tore a tepid chuckle out of him. "I suppose that is correct."

Cyprian leaned closer to her and cupped her face between his hands, tilting it so that the warm glow of the fireplace would highlight her features. She was struck by the intensity of his gaze. He seemed to be taking in every line, plane and angle of her face, sculpting the sight of her into an everlasting memory.

"You have always been such a blessing to me, Mother," he whispered. "I can never thank you enough for all that you've done."

Fleur pulled him into a brief hug and patted his shoulder, her throat a little tight. "I wish for nothing more than your happiness, dear. We can talk about your marriage in greater detail once we've both recovered from Priscilla's wedding, all right? For now, we would do well to rest before the trip."

"That would be wise." His arms slowly slid off her slender frame, the scent of her rose water lingering on him. "Goodnight, then, Mother."

Orange slivers of firelight fell away from Fleur's eldest son as he walked away from her fireplace. He paused in the shadows around her door, one hand already on the handle, and turned back to look at his mother. She stood by the divan in her flowing dress, straight and dignified, giving him a tender smile.

"Sleep well."

The door clicked shut between them.

**

Half an hour later, Cyprian froze on the threshold of the library, surprised to find it still lit by a dwindling fire. An oil lantern on the reading desk emitted a more solid light behind a short silhouette bundled in a blanket, projecting its tall shadow all the way to the opposite wall.

"Who is making you pull an all-nighter, Sylk?"

The twelve-year-old looked up from the manuscript over which he was poring and somehow managed to twist his head towards the door in the thick muffler that hugged his neck. "I have much studying to catch up on," he said in a painfully raspy voice. He surveyed Cyprian from under the thick dark brows that crested his eyes like storm clouds. While the heir's features displayed faint traces of his Stallion heritage, his younger brother would already look quite at home among portraits of their Arach ancestors, with his stronger chin and nose bridge. "Why are you still up?"

"I was just about to go to bed," said the heir. He disappeared between the bookcases for a moment and ensured that not a single document about southern Avani might be found out of place.

"That's an enormous pile of history, Sylk," Cyprian commented when he emerged. "Much larger than your head, are you sure you can fit it all in there?"

The boy huffed in annoyance at being interrupted again. "I have to make up for everything I missed while I was ill," he croaked.

"Mind you don't strain yourself too hard," his brother chided him softly, now perched on a stool he had drawn up to the desk. "You are not yet fully healed."

"I can't afford to waste time, Cyprian." Sylk waved his quill impatiently over his parchment, not unlike a much older man waiting for a child to finish pestering him. "I intend to study everything you've learned and serve our House to the best of my ability as soon as I'm old enough."

"An admirable ambition, little brother. I would offer to help you by testing you on that knowledge. Unfortunately, it all trickled out of my sieve-like head as soon as I had memorised it."

The twelve-year-old rolled his eyes coldly, edging away from his brother as if to avoid being tainted by his aura of stupidity. "Father once said that if he could combine your charisma and social skills with my diligence, he would craft the perfect heir."

Cyprian suddenly saw himself sitting in Sylk's place five years earlier, hunched over the very same manuscripts. He felt so small next to this boy who had followed in his footsteps all his life and achieved the same goals, but with less celebration, not even driven by the lure of the eldest's inheritance. "I do not believe that Father's assessment was completely accurate, Sylk. You would make a perfect heir with your own talents and charms."

The boy stared at the intricate whorls and curlicues of ink on the parchment beneath him, chewing his lip. His eyes did not move further down the page. "Can I be your personal advisor when you become lord of the province?" he blurted out.

The obvious hope in Sylk's voice sent a sharp pang of regret through Cyprian's chest. He selected his words carefully before answering. "I would never offer that position to anyone else in the world."

A contented smile softened Sylk's face, making him temporarily appear as young as he really was - that is, until a bout of coughing seized him. "Why did this stupid illness stop me from coming to Medieville with Priss," he choked, "so unfair, when will I get another chance..."

"Father will take you on trips soon enough, just like he brought me along." Cyprian draped the blanket more snugly around his brother, keeping it in place with his arm. "In the meantime, I trust you to watch over our home during my absence, Sylk."

The boy snorted. "Why would he take me? I'm not you. I'm incapable of doing anything of worth to our House without you or Father holding my hand through it."

"No - please don't sell yourself short, not so early," Cyprian protested, more briskly than he'd intended. He seized the blanket-wrapped Sylk by the shoulders and drew him closer - the boy's chair swayed under him and nearly toppled down. Sylk remained solemnly still through these manipulations, having endured them only too often since his childhood. "You've always been brilliant, Sylk. You can only become more brilliant from here, and one day, you will be properly acknowledged for it. Even sooner than you think. You're still twelve, for the love of the Spyder. You should have seen what a dunderhead I was at your age."

The corners of Sylk's mouth rose into a faint smile. "A complete airhead indeed," he said. "A big dolt -"

"Very well, that's quite enough." Cyprian shoved him playfully, then rose to his feet and opened his arms wide. "I think it's time for a goodnight hug."

The boy had picked up his quill again without sparing him a sideways glance. "I'm almost thirteen years old, Cyprian. How am I ever supposed to grow up if you insist on treating me like a child?"

"Mother and I enjoy hugs very much, Sylk," he said indignantly, "and we most definitely are not children anymore!"

"Mother is Mother, and you are just... silly."

"Not even one last hug before you turn thirteen?" The heir pouted, mildly vexed, but waited with his arms resolutely outstretched. "Sylk... I know that you're growing into a very mature young man, and I'm proud of you. Yes, I know that I sound like Mother. I'm sorry to leave you behind with all your studies, Sylk. So sorry. It’s far too soon. But please remember that I have firm faith in you."

Something in Cyprian's pleading tone made Sylk raise his head, gazing at the heir more seriously now. Cyprian thought he saw a spark of comprehension light up inside the boy's eyes, perhaps as he understood that this was no joke, that his brother needed his support right then for some unknown reason.

"Won't you please give your big brother one last hug?"

With a much put-upon sigh, Sylk replaced his quill on the inkstand, gathered up the folds of his blanket and inched cautiously up to Cyprian, preparing for a casual one-armed hug, perhaps even a magnanimous pat on the back before retreating to a safer distance.

Cyprian moved much too fast for him, however, and all he could do was utter a muffled croak of protest before he was engulfed in a rib-crushing bear hug.

**

A faint light still filtered under the door of Priscilla's bedroom.

"Come in," she said in response to the quiet knock on her door, "but don't look at me, I've already done my face." She knew that only a handful of people would visit her this late at night, so she turned around anyway, adjusting the scarf that kept her hair pushed out of her sticky forehead.

Her older brother stood framed in the doorway, his eyes blinking fast and his nose wrinkled against the onslaught of cosmetic scents that wafted from her dressing table. "If I stand in this fog any longer, my face will be done too," Cyprian managed to say before stifling a sneeze.

"Don't you laugh," Priscilla said sternly. The half-dried whitish paste pulled tight around her mouth as she spoke. All the cosmetics she currently used were perfumed with lavender, a fragrance which had quickly permeated everything in her room. The girl had moved in a permanent cloud of lavender as soon as her mother and their servants had been told of the prince's partiality for the scent. She had grown so accustomed to it that her nose could barely detect it anymore.

"I'm not laughing, Priss! I'm just concerned about the Ascensions' health if this is the kind of sauce they're planning to eat you in." The corner of his mouth was twitching into a smirk. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"It's a recipe that Mother brought, a kind of secret balm that Bernian ladies use to protect their skin against the cold. For the moment, it's only making me feel rather dry and crackly."

"And making you look as pale as the moon."

She sat cross-legged on the carpet near her fireplace, draping her bed's topmost blanket around her shoulders like a cape. Cyprian crouched next to her. She threw the folds of her woolen cloak over him as if they were children again, hiding from their parents after a small prank that had felt like a dramatic heist. They spent a moment in silence, enjoying this brief isolation from the rest of the world.

"Are you ready?" Cyprian whispered.

She gazed blankly at the stitched darkness that sheltered them. The lavender fumes had followed her inside and were slowly coiling in the air around them. "Are you?"

He released a long, deep sigh. "That isn't quite what I had planned for your birthday."

"I enjoyed your birthday feast, especially that dancing troupe you spotted in the marketplace weeks ago. It took our messengers several days to locate them again for you, you know."

"I know. Thank you again." His hands were fiddling with the edge of the quilt. "It was a memorable birthday."

"Do you know what Sylk ordered for my birthday?" Priscilla reached as far as she could without leaving their nook and grabbed something off her bedside table. "He was so sad about missing it, poor lamb, so he gave me this in advance." It was actually a farewell gift, for even the Arachs were not so lavish with every birthday.

Cyprian watched her unwrap a parcel carefully on the stretch of carpet in front of their knees. The quilt hung from their shoulders as they leaned closer to inspect the gift. On a small wooden board, vivid paints depicted Arach Manor, its golden stone and marble columns dazzling in the sunlight against the sapphire backdrop of the sea, with the deep velvety green of the cypress trees casting dramatic shadows over the pink walls of the terraces.

"Ah, I was present when he commissioned it from the painter like a big boy," said Cyprian. "He gave you our home to keep with you always."

The artist had been so familiar with the landscape that Priscilla could almost pinpoint the place where the sea flowed into their family's private little cove, at the back.

"When was the last time I took you rowing?" asked Cyprian, gazing at the same part of the painting.

"On the day we learned of my betrothal." She remembered that afternoon as if it had been the previous day only. How the wind had blown her hair right out of its knot as her brother had rowed her furiously back and forth across the cove. How his oars had battered the sea, punishing it for failing to keep them together and showering her with a fine briny mist. How she had gazed out at the horizon every time he reversed, imagining that he could keep on rowing forever.

She heard him fumble with something around his arm. "I had trouble thinking of a gift that you have not already been given, or that you aren't bound to receive in Medieville." He unstrapped a small satchel from his shoulder - where she had not noticed it earlier - and placed it next to the painting.

Though by no means a ladylike gift, she could tell that it was finely crafted from a soft, glossy leather. Priscilla smiled: it was the most practical item she had received in weeks. She prodded the tiny wood-carved figurine that hung from the buckle: a rabbit, her childhood obsession somehow surfaced through the years. She let out a laugh and nearly slapped a hand over her forehead, remembering her facial mask just in time.

"It can be strapped under your mantle, in case you need to hide something on your person," Cyprian explained. From the corner of her eye, she could see him anxiously awaiting her reaction. "It also has a secret inside pocket. For secrets."

"Thank you." She wrapped her arms around him and they held each other tight, safely tucked in their woolen nest, a natural gesture ingrained in them as deeply as their shared blood. "You didn't have to give it to me so early. It's like saying goodbye before we've left."

"I thought it would be easier while we're still home," Cyprian whispered back. His arms felt tense around her, as if he feared that she might evaporate from his grasp at any moment. "I'm sorry that I did such a terrible job of mending your relationship, Priss. Please don't dwell on it. I am certain that things will improve for you, sooner than you think."

True to himself, her candid brother had not even bothered to pretend that everything was splendid and peachy between her and Prince Coda. "Don't you fret, Cyp. He may be less than satisfactory, but he's no ice sculpture. Nothing like those rumours we heard. In fact, I have a hunch that he may be a very warm person if you can get past his... reserved exterior." She hesitated for a moment, wary of being too hopeful. "You've spent time with him as well, Cyp - don't you think it's quite likely?"

Cyprian took a moment to reply. "I would not be surprised if the prince turned out to have that sort of temperament, indeed." It was all she had needed to hear.

Distant echoes of the Spyderist shrine's evening chimes reverberated through the manor as a wordless reminder of their dwindling time. A numb haze seeped through Priscilla's mind and her fingers clenched behind his back.

"You'll write to me, won't you?" she whispered.

He gave her a squeeze, his face hidden somewhere behind her shoulder. "I will write for you every week," he choked.

Priscilla was startled to feel him shuddering against her. "Cyp, no, please don't cry, or I'm going to cry too..." She rubbed his back soothingly, rocking gently from side to side as he had always done to comfort her. "And if I start crying now, I won't be able to stop in time."

Masks of Feather and Silk: Part Six

SPOILER: Click to show

While the noble residents of Arach Manor slept huddled under heaps of blankets, Cyprian tossed and turned and threw back his covers, febrile. He could have been stuck in the middle of a sweltering summer. He longed for fresh air, but a part of him was determined to enjoy this final night of warmth and comfort, as if hoping to coax him into staying behind. He slept in short bursts, jolted awake every now and then by the chilling certitude that he had slumbered past the rendezvous and that Coda was gone, or worse, caught. However, the night remained right where he had left it, disconcertingly peaceful. It seemed never-ending.

Then, with the modest little chime of the floater hitting the bottom of the clepsydra, the wait ended. Cyprian's eyes snapped open and he lay still. His heartbeat seemed suddenly too loud in his quiet bedroom, now that the hushed trickle of water had ceased. Several minutes passed like this, before it sank in that there was nothing more to wait for. The time had come for him to move. To actually perform every gesture he had previously run through his mind.

His warm travelling clothes slipped on piece by piece as if of their own accord. He checked the contents of his bulging shoulder bag for the hundredth time, barely registering them, before adjusting the strap carefully under his cloak. He moved mechanically in a numb haze. A dream. At the door to his bedroom, he paused and looked back for the first time. If he stopped now, he would not need to explain anything.

The corridor of his family's suite seemed to fly past him. If someone found him now, the outfit would be hard to explain. When he emerged into the southern courtyard, he looked back for the second time. The manor stood before him as it always had, its rectangular turrets bathed in dim starlight and in the constant breath of the ocean, almost unrecognisable in the night. Cyprian had left his family.

He released a long sigh into the cold air, watching it turn to mist in front of his face. Coda might already be waiting. He had a shorter path between his guest suite and the northern patio where they would meet, while Cyprian had to take a more roundabout way to avoid one of the guardhouses. The Arach listened out cautiously before entering a narrow gallery.

If he got caught now, he would have to state his identity. Questions would be asked. His father would be roused. They might search the grounds. Without Cyprian to guide him, Coda might not find his way to the ship in time. His only chance at a happier life would be snuffed out in an instant. He had to make it.

The final archway of the gallery arrived with almost brutal haste. Cyprian glanced around the corner, breathing fast, fearing that he might have miscalculated the guards' patrol times. There was no sign or sound of any other living thing. He crept onto the terrace and towards the stairway that led to the lower courtyards.

It only took a fraction of a second, a tiny misplaced gesture for the ground to slide from under his feet like a carpet. His world was flipped around. His stomach gave a lurch as the pitiless stone edge of a stair step hurtled towards his skull with dizzying speed.

Then his body seemed to twist of its own will and he found himself curled up, braced against the railing with his arms covering his head, shaking like a leaf. The impact had been somewhat cushioned by his cloak. For one horrifying moment, he thought he heard a set of footsteps approaching, halting, then fading away.

He must remember to ask Coda for a silencing charm.

His heart still pounding, Cyprian climbed down the rest of the stairs, his hands still wrapped around the railing. He slunk into the old patio, squinting in the darkness and praying that he would discern a familiar silhouette between the bare citrus trees. It took him several scans, and even then the figure was so shadowed Cyprian almost missed it: Coda, the prince leaning on the banister, his head ducked and his body swathed in several swallowing layers to ward against the chilly wind.

The Arach froze for a heartbeat. Slowly, he walked across the patterned tiles, around the empty central pool, counting every step that took him further from home, not stopping until he was close enough to see Coda's face. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he breathed.

A smile blossomed between Coda’s lips, as he straightened himself to plant a kiss on Cyprian’s cheek. “You came,” the prince murmured. “I was getting nervous.”

The smile was passed on to Cyprian as he nestled his head contentedly in the crook of Coda's neck, warming it with his breath. His arms slipped around the prince's waist and their thick cloaks pressed together. "Of course I came for you. You know I would never leave you alone out here."

Coda’s cheeks flushed. “Just my silly fears,” he said, his throat dry. “Of course you wouldn’t leave me.” His hand shaking-- if it was from the cold or nerves was not altogether clear-- he stroked a tender finger through Cyprian’s dark hair. “We shouldn’t waste any time, though,” Coda added. “We wouldn’t want anyone to stumble upon us.”

The Arach slowly withdrew his head, brushing against Coda's cheek. "They won't." Almost as an afterthought, he removed one of his gloves, cupped the prince's face in his bare hand and kissed him firmly on the lips. "For luck, silly man," he said with a crooked smile, before finally tearing himself away. He did not need to look back at the manor, to search the gloomy facade for familiar arched windows. He was exactly where he wanted to be.

Cyprian started to walk again with a new spring in his step. A few yards from the other exit of the patio, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Another shadowed figure stood framed in the archway, perfectly still. At the lord’s side, Coda’s heart plunged clear into his stomach, the man freezing in mid-step. He blinked once, twice, then again, as if he were hoping that the figure in their path was merely a shadow: a trick of the moon and the stars. But it was not; it remained as it was, no matter how many times Coda opened and shut his eyes.

And then it took a measured step forward.

And the youngest prince of Kyth quite nearly cried.

“Priscilla.” His voice was strangled. “W-what are you doing out here so late?”

The young lady stood firmly planted before them, her features unreadable under the snug hood of her cloak. She might have just witnessed their entire embrace for all they knew. "I'm sure that you of all people can guess that, Your Highness," she answered coldly. "You no longer need to play innocent in front of me. Either of you."

They had been so close. Still paralysed, Cyprian glanced up at Coda with pleading eyes. "I swear I never told her anything," he said in a barely audible whisper.

“Priscilla…” Coda shuddered, just barely keeping up a feign of composure. “I-it’s very late. And cold. You should go back inside.” Channeling every scrap of command he’d ever witnessed his father or Falcon wield, the prince repeatedly more firmly: “Go back inside. Please.”

She could not conceal a flinch at the sharp sound of his order, but she stood her ground. "Why don't you lead the way, my prince? Surely you wouldn't make your young fiancee stumble all the way back in the dark." She crossed her arms and waited defiantly.

It was Cyprian who took a timid step towards her. "Priss, you don't have to do this. I'm not asking you to forgive me, but please, for the love of Grandmother and all her children, please go back. It'll be better this way. For all of us."

Her dark eyes were so full of reproach that he nearly averted his gaze. "And will you follow after me?" He opened his mouth, struggling, then closed it wordlessly, just as she had expected. "I didn't think so. I have nothing to go back to, Cyprian. You took everything." That was a deliberate exaggeration, and she saw him wince. She did not regret her words.

“N-no one’s taken anything, Priscilla,” Coda managed. “There… there was never anything to take. It was all… it was…” Lightly, tremulously, he reached out a hand, daring to lace his gloved fingers through hers. “It’s nothing you did,” the prince finished. “Priscilla, I’m so sorry-- it’s nothing you did, I just--”

Priscilla let out an angry hiss and tossed Coda's hand aside with a disdainful flick of her wrist that very nearly ended in a slap. It took all of her self-restraint to keep her fist at her side and a tense smile on her face. "You just seduced my brother instead," she finished sweetly. "Oh, stop that," she snapped at Cyprian, who had gasped in protest. "Don't think I didn't see you devouring every inch of him with your eyes. You ate more of him than of your food."

The young lord covered his mouth with his hands, too mortified to retaliate, and for all purposes Priscilla might have actually slapped Coda, for the prince looked just as stunned. He could scarcely reconcile the snarling person in front of him right now with the demure and polite girl whom he’d sat through countless meals with-- who’d laughed at his bad jokes, and worn the lavender perfume he’d bought her, and batted her glossy eyelashes at him as if she wanted nothing more than to be his stately bride. There was none of that to be found here. Not even a measly scrap. It were as if that version of Priscilla had been replaced by a contemptful imposter, and not even shadows of the old iteration remained.

“I’m so sorry, Priscilla,” he stammered. “We didn’t mean to. It just… it just happened-- and it had n-nothing to do with you, or anything you did. You were fine, you were-- you were perfect... I just… I’m just…” Coda could barely breathe. “I’m broken, okay? I’ve always been broken. And… Cyprian… the two of us…”

She raised her eyebrows. "I know I was fine, thank you very much," she said, patting his shoulder with an air of pity. "You poor, broken little things." She seemed to find a bittersweet pleasure in the situation, speaking in a scathing tone that she would never have dared to use in front of the prince before. She was softening little by little, though.

"And you expect me to stay behind? To wallow in shame after your departure even though I've done nothing wrong, before being carted off and handed to some other random husband, like the lukewarm leftovers of your meal? That's hardly fair." She reached forward and set her other hand on Cyprian's shoulder, pulling her brother closer. "I'm in this with you, whether you like it or not."

Startled by the touch, Cyprian raised his head to meet her gaze. "Priss, no, I never wanted anything like that to happen to you, nothing bad," he stammered, horrified. "Let us go, please."

“Go back inside,” Coda agreed, as if it were still the only thing he could think to say. “Forget about this. About… all of this. You’ll have a fine life moving forward. You will. And this will be nothing more than an unpleasant memory from the long ago past.”

Cyprian glanced nervously at the walls and terraces above them. "We have to move," he whispered. "Priss, I hate to have to do this to you, please don't make it any more difficult than it has to be. As your older brother, I command you to go home."

"No. I have chosen my life, and it is not the one I would live up there." She stuck out her chin stubbornly. "You should understand that."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, resisting the urge to cry out in frustration. "You are not of age. Do as I say."

"Oh, but I will be of age in a few days, by the time we've left Kyth."

Cyprian fell silent for a second, stunned by her deduction. "What makes you think we're leaving Kyth?"

Priscilla jerked her head towards Coda. "Whose uncle is he, again?"

Coda let out a hiss of frustration. “So what, then, Priscilla?” the prince demanded. “What’s your plan? To run into the night with us, when you’ve no idea where we’re even going? To seek your revenge by never letting us forget how we’ve both betrayed you?” He shook his head, incredulous. “Move on, for Woo’s sake, just move on. Let us go, and as I said, soon this will seem like nothing more than a long ago fever dream. You needn’t ruin your life on account of seeking vengeance, Priscilla. I’m sure that soon you’ll have another husband, and you’ll have children, and--”

"Keep them for yourself!" she snapped, quivering with fury. "Has it not occurred to your royally thick skull that I might not want everything you're fleeing from?"

At this, Coda faltered. “What… what do you mean by that?”

It was Priscilla's turn to pause, shaking her head in disbelief. She glanced at Cyprian. "Well, they do say it takes an idiot to fall for an idiot," she muttered. Now that she actually had to explain herself, the girl seemed to lose steam. "I just... don't particularly want to be thrown into a marriage, either. Is it really that hard to understand? I am so, so tired of putting on this whole pantomime. And seeing as the two of you have found a way to leave..."

“But…” As the gears finally churned in Coda’s head, the prince gawped at Priscilla as if the girl had just begun speaking in tongues. “You’ve… been so perfect this whole time. About… everything. Smiling, and gracious, and… and…” He cocked his head. “You were just… pretending? All of it-- everything-- it was just… just a feign?”

Cyprian took a step closer, putting an arm around her shoulders, then giving her a squeeze when she did not shrug him off. "Not all of it," he told Coda quietly. "Sometimes... it's hard to tell where the mask ends and you begin."

She let out a strangled sob and allowed herself to lean on her brother for a moment. Cyprian stroked her back. "I know you've made a tremendous effort, sweetheart. So have we. And we're abandoning everything. That doesn't mean you have to be as foolish as we are. Do you have any idea of how destitute we're about to become? Of how dangerous this will be? I can't let you inflict that upon yourself."

"Not fair," she whimpered, still struggling to compose herself.

"No, it's not," he answered. "And I've only paid for two passengers, anyway."

At this, she raised her head almost triumphantly. "I brought money. I even have rations." She bounced on her heels, making the contents of a bag rattle audibly from somewhere inside her cloak.

"Your pocket money, Priss?"

"No. All of the money that was meant to buy gifts for the royal family-in-law." She gave him a smug little smile. "You seem to be labouring under the delusion that I would not immediately send the guards after you if you somehow shook me off."

He clenched his fists, scowling at her in disbelief. "You wouldn't do that to me," he hissed through his teeth. "By the Spyder, Priss, what do I have to do to make you see sense? I will leave you tied to the nearest tree if I must!"

"No, you don't understand, Cyp," she said, almost apologetically. "I really am not going back." She threw back her hood. Even in the darkness, it was painfully obvious that her thick, glossy dark locks had been chopped to a frayed line right below her ears. The tips fluttered in the cold night air like a bird's downy feathers.

Cyprian made a sound that could only be compared to a cat coughing out a hairball, as Coda stared on in wide-eyed shock. She was serious. Woo, how light his head felt, as it occurred to him that Priscilla was serious. The prince realized with a start that, through these weeks in Aran, he had never truly known her-- just as she’d never truly known him. If he’d been wearing a mask, then so had she. The girl had just done a much better job of it than he had. She was so very much better at pretending.

Until now.

Now there was no veil left. Or, he thought with a bitter laugh, no hood, at least.

“If you come with us, Priscilla,” he said starkly, “then you must do as we say. Ships are dangerous. People are dangerous. And you’re… you’re…” Coda laughed again, still reeling. “Beautiful,” he finished. “Even if you’ve gone and hacked off all your hair, you’re a beautiful young girl. And the world is not safe for beautiful young girls. This isn’t a lark, do you understand? Not a petty whim you can regret in the morning. It’s… forever. And it’s dangerous. Do you get that, Priscilla?”

The corner of her mouth twitched, and Priscilla refrained from scoffing at the irony of Coda's words, after everything it had taken her to hear them. "If you two are throwing yourselves into the monster's maw, then I am the piece of meat you brought for bait. Yes, I get that it's dangerous. But I'm not nearly as reckless as my brother, rest assured. He's already shown me everything I should not do in order to stay safe."

Cyprian's jaw dropped lower than seemed possible. "Well. Well, then," he stammered, struck head-on by the full weight of the extra responsibility loaded onto him. He kept glancing sideways at Coda, still unable to believe that the prince hadn't managed to convince his sister to stay. "Three people make even more noise than two, and we've wasted a lot of time already. So... if we want to make it?" Another helpless look at the prince. "Perhaps we ought to... move?"

Cyprian stepped further out of the patio, his legs numb and shaky beneath him. Priscilla immediately sauntered to his side. "You'll be so cold, Priss," he murmured in desperation.

"That," she said, pulling her hood back on, "never bothered me, anyway."

Masks of Feather and Silk: Epilogue

SPOILER: Click to show

The quaint port town of Keely, in far southern Cerrin, was in no shortage of sunny days.

Even in winter it seldom dropped beneath balmy, the pleasant sea breeze tickling the landscape like a master stroking his prized hound’s nose, and when clouds dared stipple the sky, they were largely but cotton puffs: dollops of cream ladled over a smooth and mild tea, only sweetening it, not dampering anything. The ships that bobbed in the harbour were mostly small-- domestic vessels, not international traders, with Keely neither lucrative nor exciting enough to attract much of anyone from anywhere.

The family calling themselves the Amsels rather preferred it this way.

Their modest flat, wedged above a butcher’s shop, managed views of the turquoise sea, which had quite excited the Amsels upon move-in, much to the amusement-- and bemusement-- of the locals. “You’d be harder pressed not to find an ocean view in these parts,” the butcher had told them, to which they had nodded brightly and earnestly, because back then they hadn’t spoken much Cerrish (they’d since learned).

They’d also since filled the apartment with an eclectic assortment of belongings, ‘til the flat looked like something out of a decorator’s nightmare: an ash wood kitchen table with chintzy balsa chairs; a sofa frame bought bare and only later topped with brightly coloured cushions (one red, one blue, and one green); a map salvaged from the beach after a frigate wrecked, heavily tarnished and certainly not fit for display, and which Kieran Amsel had nevertheless prominently hung in the cozy front entry hall, at eye level for optimal viewing purposes.

“How… interesting you’ve made the place,” the butcher said, when he came round to collect rent one bright afternoon about a year after the family’s arrival to Keely. “Is that bookshelf new?”

“Oh yes,” Cormac Amsel replied. “Trish found it out in the alley behind the barber’s last week. He was throwing it out. Isn’t it nice?”

“It looks like it’s been through a fire.”

“It probably has,” Cormac agreed. “But it’s ours. And that’s why we like it.” Smirking, he added, “And Trish had fun sweet talking the barber into helping her carry it all the way over here. By the end of it, with the eyes he was giving her, you’d have thought she’d done him a favor.”

The butcher laughed. “I think half the men in town have forgotten themselves since she showed up. Your sister-in-law is a heartbreaker, Master Amsel.”

"Well, it only shows that they have good taste," a clear feminine voice said from behind Cormac. "Maybe their hearts would remain intact if my two chaperones didn't threaten to break the rest of them." The heartbreaker in question strutted up to the entrance, her light skirt flouncing about her ankles, and greeted the butcher with a mischievous little smile. Her shoulder-length dark hair was neatly pulled back under a colourful bandana. "It's tea time, Cormac, my brother should have got off work by now. Let's meet him before he orders a full meal without us, shall we?"

The butcher smirked. “Ah, no invitation for me, Trish? I feel so unloved.”

Cormac just barely tempered an eyeroll, patting the cloth pouch of jangling coins in his landlord’s hand. “There’s your love,” he said.

“Rent is love?”

“Well, you certainly wouldn’t love us if we didn’t pay.” Cormac took a step toward the door, his gaze falling to Trish. “We meeting Kieran at the little cafe by the sea again?”

"We are. Move it, I'm parched." Trish turned back to their lonely landlord. "Didn't you have deliveries to make at this hour? Don't worry, just swing by later tonight, and Cormac can show you all his love in a private magic show." She skipped down the stairs, giggling, and burst out into the street. The sea shone like a sapphire at the end of the gentle slope, crowned by a flock of gulls. Trish headed towards the walkway that stretched alongside the pier.

Cormac trailed after her with an exasperated sigh, bidding the landlord a beguiled goodbye. He caught up to his sister-in-law just as the street curved toward the sea, and the pierside shops banked into view up ahead. His brown eyes at once fell toward a squat, detached building toward the edge of the sprawl, its exterior walls painted a robin’s egg blue. A flagstone patio spilled out at its side, stippled with a rainbow of salt worn tables and chairs, and teeming with customers.

“You see him, Trish?” Cormac asked, slinging an arm around the woman’s shoulder as if merely to slow down her skipping pace. “I hope he’s not ordered for me again. By Woo, I do not care how many times he insists that nettlebush tea is tasty. It is not. And will not ever be.”

"Who are you trying to woo?" she asked him quietly. "By the gods, don't be so picky with your drinks." Her eyes darted around the tables until they focused on a broad-shouldered someone facing away from them, leaning against the low granite wall that enclosed the cafe. With only the back of his dark hair visible, he blended quite well into the rest of the customers. "There he is, closest to the edge of the pier. No mugs on his table so far. Tell you what, you go and settle down, and I'll order our drinks from ah, someone." Without waiting for a reply, she slunk into the cafe itself, disappearing behind a beaded curtain into its shadowy interior.

Cormac stifled an eye roll as he watched her going, starting instead toward the patio-- and Kieran. His long, straw blonde hair rustling in the sea wind, the man smiled as he strode up to his husband’s table, planting a kiss on his cheek before taking the seat across.

“How was work?” Cormac asked, adjusting his wand in its holder so that it didn’t jab into his thigh. “I do hope Master Brogan didn’t make you spend the entire morning sharpening quills again? What a wondrous day it’ll be, Kieran, when the scribing assistant gets to spend time doing scribe-work instead of menial labor!”

The other man turned around and settled in his seat, beaming at Cormac across the table. His bright blue eyes stood out against his sun-kissed skin as if they were still reflecting the sea.

"The quills aren't so bad," he said in a slower, more accented Cerrish. "They don't require much thinking. And the poor man has trouble with his knobbly fingers, so it's better if I look after these little things." He leaned back in his seat and stretched his arms languidly above his head, letting his muscles tighten and relax in his sleeveless tunic. He seemed to have grown into his own body, shaped by the sea, by every tool he wielded and every boat he rowed.

"But it was all right today. He let me out early, and some guys needed an extra pair of arms to row them out and gather shellfish. I took advantage of it to go for a quick swim." The smell of the sea still clung to him. A few droplets shone on his neck, trickling down from his short curls. "And how was your show?"

Cormac shrugged. “I’ve got a bit of a following now, you know,” he said. “They wait for me in the market every Thursday, jockeying for the best place in the crowd.” Patting his pocket, he added brightly, “And they tip well. Even if our dear landlord did take far too much of it for my tastes. Woo, if the views weren’t so good, I’d say he was fleecing his poor naive foreign tenants.”

"That much? Maybe I should take up bookkeeping full time, just in case," Kieran suggested thoughtfully. He had taken up the scribing job with lukewarm enthusiasm, and used the rest of his time to accept any small jobs available around the docks, relishing the outdoors after hours of quill-scratching in a dusty study. "Or find another way to appease the old man - I wonder what kind of treats he might indulge in behind our backs, with all that rent."

The faint crease of worry faded from his brow as he rested his elbows on the table, leaning forwards to gaze up at his husband. "I haven't properly watched your show in a while. You will save the best spot for me, won't you? I can start a chant in the audience."

Cormac laughed. “Oh, please don’t, Kieran. I’ll save you the spot, but if you start chanting I’m going to blush myself right off that platform.” He reached across the table to his give husband’s arm a playful whack. “I love you, but sometimes I fear you feed off of my embarrassment. You and Trish both. It must run in the family.”

"You're right, I shouldn’t," Kieran replied without missing a beat, grinning cheekily. He laid his hand over Cormac's and stroked it with his thumb. "You look so utterly adorable when you blush, angel. I can't let your audience see that, especially if you fall on top of them."

“Charming.” Cormac rolled his eyes. “I’m glad to know my utter mortification entertains you, dear.”

"Only because I love you, no matter what you do." He winked and blew him a kiss shamelessly across the table. "Have you ordered any drinks? I didn't dare. Or did Trish go and chat up the owner's son?"

“Trish went to order for us,” Cormac said. “However, I presume chatting up the owner’s son was her primary motive in volunteering. She’s been flirting with him for weeks. Ever since we scared off the tailor’s boy.” At this, the magician brightened. “Funny how men flee once you have a nice sit-down with them, and explain to them that if you break her heart, I know so many spells to break other things!”

Kieran's grin spread even wider and he gave Cormac's hand a squeeze. "Thank you for watching over her," he said simply. "Though I hope the lads never give you reason to use your heroic power outside your shows. If this suitor has any skeletons in his closet, I'll hear about it from the fishermen's wives. Not to mention the embarrassing stories I have on the lass herself."

A throat-clearing sound near them announced the girl's return. She set a pot of tea on the table and slammed two mugs between the men with rather more force than necessary, then sat down with her own mug which, unlike theirs, was decorated with a slice of pineapple and a few extra berries. She did not bother to sit straight or even to raise her little finger.

"Hello, young miss," said Kieran. "Didn't you bring the waiter along to greet us? Or did he rope you into doing his job?"

She snorted. "Like I'd introduce him to my personal governesses."

“Ah, you wound me, Patricia.” Cormac glanced down at the tea pot. “What kind did you get? Please tell me it’s not nettlebush.”

"Taste it if you dare," she said. Fortunately for the mage, the brew was emitting an unmistakable aroma of ginger and clove.

Cormac rolled his eyes, pouring himself a mug. “What did I ever do without you, Trishy? To think of a time when the questions I ask netted actual answers! Such a folly of my youth. I obviously prefer your riddles and jesting. Thank you, truly, for showing me the light.”

"You know you like it better that way, grandpa. Now you have a good place to rest your old bones." Trish heard her brother stifle a laugh and paused with her mug raised halfway to her lips. "May I know what's so funny?"

"You two." Kieran chuckled again, not mockingly but from sheer joy, his eyes full of warmth. "I'm so blessed to have the two of you by my side." As soon as he had spoken, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere above the sea. Trish peered curiously in the same direction.

"There's a bird on the third rock from the left." He glanced at his husband. "A cormorant. Such lovely creatures. Fearless divers who greet the sun with their wings wide open."

Cormac’s honey-brown eyes danced toward the rock, a smile tugging at the magician’s lips as he watched a large bird, ebony black but for a patch of orange near its beak, preen its glossy feathers as the sea gently lapped against its perch.

“Lovely indeed,” Cormac said to Kieran. “And he looks happy, doesn’t he?” Reaching across the table, he squeezed his husband’s hand. “Just like us, I’d say. Happy just like us.”

[Avery]

This... is going to be a long haul. =D A trap story that begins in everyone's favourite isolationist mage kingdom: Meltaim. It's going to be divided into three separate arcs that all rest on each other's shoulders-- that is to say, while all three arcs will be distinct with beginnings/middles/endings, the latter two are basically sequels and hinge on knowledge from those that came before.

The first two arcs will be collabs between myself and Shinko. Arc three will be a collab between myself, Shinko, and Tiger.

Content warning for general violence and blood. Because Meltaim. <_<

So-- without further ado. \o/ And, for reference, a (crude) map of Meltaim.

Only Magic

Prologue
"Blood and Iron" - Early 1316

SPOILER: Click to show

It was, the priest said, the boy’s first time being bled.

The massive ballroom was a wash of colour and light, the sea of multicoloured magi-glows that swayed from the vaulted ceiling overhead luminescent as they bathed the tangled crowd beneath. While there must have been over a hundred people present, one hardly would have known it from the din-- or, more accurately, the lack thereof: the room was as still and silent as a waiting grave. Nobody danced. Nobody chattered. Nobody so much as cleared his throat.

Except for the boy.

He was crying.

Zuzanna Gorski had never seen a bleeder cry.

The little girl, her mahogany tresses pulled back in a web of intricate braids, narrowed her sky-coloured eyes as she watched him, his arm trembling in the grasp of the priest. His skin was dark, like coffee grounds, but even still Zuzanna could see that blood that flowed down it, glossy as it caught in the magi-glows’ beams. The priest had only made one cut so far, near the boy’s bicep, and Zuzanna knew there were still six more to come. One for each of the sacred elements: light and air; fire and water; blood and earth. Magic.

As she watched the priest ready the blade again, the girl’s lips curled into a frown. Abruptly, she wrenched her head up, toward the man who stood beside her with his hand gripped over hers.

“Papa,” she breathed; against the silence, it came out sounding rather louder than Zuzanna had intended, and she cringed. Still, there was no snatching it back now, and so instead the little girl hurriedly whispered on, “Papa, he’s crying.”

Izydor Gorski, margrave of Daire province, frowned, glancing down at his daughter. “Hush,” he hissed back softly. “The boy is new. He will acclimate in time.”

Zuzanna seemed little assuaged, her gaze flicking rapidly back and forth between the bleeder and her father. “What if the priest cut too deep? What if--”

“The priests are experts. They’ve done this many times before. They would not be so careless,” Izydor pointed out, putting a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Zuzanna, the boy is just a blank. You need not fret so much for him.”

Zuzanna knew the margrave was right. And she’d hardly worried so much over any of the bleeders she’d seen before, either here at the Iron Castle or down at church. Blanks were meant for service, and without blood tithes, the gods would grow angry. This was just the way of things. Like a cat pouncing on a bug: only fools felt sorry for the bug.

Still, Zuzanna’s stomach twisted as the priest carved the second slash and the boy gasped out in pain. Sharply, she tugged her hand, trying-- and failing-- to pry it from the margrave’s hold. “Does the priest have to make all the cuts, Papa?” she whimpered.

Izydor nodded, pointedly turning his eyes back to the spectacle at hand. “Yes, he does. Please stop fussing, dear, we’re meant to observe the rite in silence.”

Half the people in the room were now staring at the margrave and his daughter, rather than at the priest and the bleeder; Zuzanna could feel their eyes bearing into her like hot coals. If she didn’t quiet now, she knew she’d probably be the talk of the city of Pastora by tomorrow. The margrave of the province’s daughter-- his heir!-- sniveling over a bleeder. What madness!

And then her papa would be mad.

And he probably wouldn’t bring her with him to the market this weekend, which she’d been looking forward to all month.

Swallowing back the words that clawed at her throat, Zuzanna dropped her gaze to the ground beneath. She stopped fighting against the margrave’s hold.

When the boy gasped again at the third cut, she pretended she couldn’t hear him, and by the fourth she’d managed to calm herself enough to dredge her eyes up again, turning them back to the bleeder.

It was a mistake: in that moment, he too looked towards her. Instantly, his pupils latched with hers, and her heart skipped several beats. She’d never seen eyes so lovely before. Not brown, as she’d been expecting from his dark complexion, or even amber or hazel. Rather, his were a steely gray, like a silver moon against a midnight sky. They were practically shimmering as the tears pouring from them reflected the glow of the magelights overhead, and there was a desperate, beseeching light in them. His mouth moved, very slightly, as if he were trying to say something, but from the distance it was impossible to tell what. Then the knife came down on his arm a fifth time, and with a flinch he broke the contact.

The fifth cut-- for the element blood-- was always the deepest, and as the boy shuddered, Zuzanna’s heart leapt into her throat. She stiffened, her jaw clenched as she tried again to jerk her hand free from her father’s. Sensing that if he didn’t do something the girl would descend into a fit of hysterics, Izydor took firm hold of the girl’s shoulders and turned away from the bleeding. Steering the girl out of the room, he kept a cool air of dignity about him in spite of the many eyes that glanced in their direction as margrave and girl retreated.

Out in the corridor beyond the ballroom, it was dark, only a few languid magi-glows alight on the ceiling and an anemic trickle of moonlight creeping in through the broad glass windows. With all of the guests gathered to watch the bleeding, there was nobody in sight but for a few of the margrave’s knights. Recognizing their lord, their heads snapped into bows. So did Zuzanna’s: she didn’t look at the margrave as she murmured, “Y-you didn’t have to take me out, Papa.”

“I did,” he retorted, his ice-blue eyes flashing. “You were making a scene, Zuzanna, even after I told you to settle. This is far from the first bleeding you’ve seen, what is the matter with you?”

The child wilted further. “He’s… small,” she said, as if this counted as an excuse. “Not a grown-up. And… it has to hurt so much…”

He folded his arms. “Pain from that one will appease the gods, and spare their people far worse pain. With time you too will learn to use the bleeders, as part of your archmage studies. Both young and old, depending on what sort of spell you need to cast.”

“I d-don’t want to hurt people, Papa,” Zuzanna said. They’d been over this before, and it seldom led to any palatable resolution-- at least, not for Zuzanna. Which didn’t stop her from adding miserably: “Especially not kids.”

“Zuzanna, blanks are not people. They are subhuman chattel that exist to serve the gods’ true children. If they are not kept in their place, they will run riot as savages.” He hesitated a beat, then pointedly asked, “What are blanks?”

She gnawed on her lip, still refusing to meet the margrave’s expectant stare. “Servile beings,” she whispered. “Missing the seventh element. The magic that gives us souls.” Zuzanna slumped her shoulders, defeated. “They haven’t got souls.”

“Exactly,” he said. “I don’t want to have this discussion with you again.” He hesitated, then with a gentle smile put a hand on her shoulder. “You have a kind heart, my child. Magic is the measure of one’s soul, and yours shines like a young sun with the might of your archmage powers. The gods must have a special purpose for you, with your compassion and strength. Just don’t let your judgement become too clouded by misguided sentiment, alright?”

“I won’t, Papa,” she whispered. “I promise you: I won’t.”

Part One
"Swapped Souls" - Begins November 1320

Chapter One:

SPOILER: Click to show

It was a blustery day in late November, and most people with any common sense were out of the cold. Snow wasn’t falling presently, but it had piled in drifts at the sides of buildings and in the streets. The mountains of southern Meltaim had harsh winters, even this early in the season. But not everyone in Pastora had the luxury of a choice in the matter. Even in this weather, the blanks were out in force.

The general dogsbodies of Meltaim, those without magic- termed “blanks”- were always either slaves, or scarcely better than slaves. They got the hard, manual, or menial tasks no one else wanted. There were blank road crews out shovelling the snow, servants fetching wood for their masters’ fires, and individuals running miscellaneous errands that no one else wanted to stir from their cozy homes to do.

One of these errand runners was presently making his way up the market lane of a seedier part of town. A teenage boy, he had dark brown skin that marked him as a foreigner and made the white, slashed circle on his forehead- the symbol all blanks bore to mark them- stand out starkly. Under his left eye was a bright, rusty orange sigil that identified the blank’s owner, and under his right eye a line of sigils in a multitude of colors that could tell anyone glancing at the boy a number of things about him.

However, far more interesting than his brands were his clothes. Generally blanks had very simple garments, unless in the uniform of a high ranked individual they served. But the teenager was dressed in plain but high quality robes of black and silver, colors that held particular religious significance in Meltaim. Even his thick woolen hat, stitched over where it concealed his blank mark as was requisite, was in the holy shades.

He finally arrived at his destination- a small building, with a sign hanging over it that bore an image of a sliced loaf of bread on a cutting board. He gently pushed the door open, making the bell that hung over it jingle, and a rush of warm air seeped out, as though to beckon him inside.

The air within smelled of herbs and baking bread, a tantalizing scent that might have made even a stuffed glutton’s stomach rumble. Though the singular room was modest in size, it was impeccably well-kept, with dustless wooden floors and a sprinkling of birchwood tables that had been polished so rigorously they gleamed beneath the magelights overhead. A counter, edged by a glass display case full of bread loaves, pastries, and cakes, rose to the left, and a short, plump woman stood behind it, straightening when the boy stepped in.

“Madam Starek,” he said diffidently, immediately bowing his head and doffing his hat- revealing that under the wool, his head was shaved completely bald. As his scarf slid forwards with his downward momentum, it revealed a ring of bronze about a centimeter in thick that was fixed around his neck, so tightly it shifted not at all when he moved.

“You make it to Hawk’s End okay?” the woman, one Izabella Starek, asked. Clad in a flour-dusted taupe dress and matching apron, her cool chocolate brown hair hung to her shoulders in graying curls. It framed a pale oval face that was beginning to wrinkle but was otherwise free blemishes-- and brands. “That neighourhood’s so hilly,” she went on, absently. “It’s why I didn’t send Anastazja. Those streets are a killer in this ice.”

“I did, Madam Starek,” he replied, coming towards the counter with his head still bowed. There was an apparent accent to the young man’s words, as if Meltaiman was not his native language. He put a small sheaf of papyrus in front of her, marked with a lip print at the bottom. “Here is the receipt. And-” he put a small silvery chain bracelet beside the receipt, “a collateral on the second half of the payment. The customer said they will pay you when the weather is better, but did not trust me to carry the money.”

Ignoring the proffered receipt, Izabella Starek snatched up the bauble. “Isn’t worth a pig’s spit,” she announced after a moment, slipping it into her apron pocket. “Last time I’m letting that miser place a large order with only a deposit. I told Aleksy”-- her husband-- “that Hawk’s End customers aren’t trustworthy. But does he listen? No.” She scowled. “Well, no matter. Aleksy’s in back, fixing Anastazja’s wand-- clumsy girl, she keeps knocking the cap askew. He’ll have your payment, Phyllo. It was two crowns, yes? One for the distance, and one extra for the weather.”

“Yes, thank you Madam Starek,” they boy called Phyllo replied, bobbing in an estimation of another bow despite the fact that he’d not raised his head since walking into the room. He walked around the counter, and after giving a brief knock and receiving a shout of permission from within, passed through the door.

The bakery’s backroom was larger than its storefront-- and lacked nearly all of the front’s careful order. Two ovens roared along the far wall, stuffed with a hodgepodge of baking goods, and the various prep stations were strewn with rolling pins, mixing bowls, and doughs in various stages of rising. There was a slick of what looked to be either oil or water splashed across the floor, glimmering against the faded tiles, and although it would have taken but a few flicks of a wand to fix, the occupants of the room seemed otherwise distracted: Aleksy Starek, his teeth gritted, sat in the corner on a flimsy chair, hunched over a slim, dark-wood wand. To his side stood a stubby girl, no more than eight or nine, her obsidian black hair tumbling over her shoulders in frizzy ringlets, and her blue eyes narrowed as she watched Aleksy work.

“Step back, Anastazja,” Aleksy grumbled to her, barely sparing Phyllo a glance as the boy slipped through the door. “I can’t focus with you hovering.”

“Are you going to be able to fix it, Papa?” Anastazja needled. “I… I didn’t break it, right? ‘Cos Mama said if I broke it, she’s not taking me to the wandmaker to fix it ‘til next Saturday and--”

“Hush.” With a gusty sigh, Aleksy rolled his shoulders and turned toward Phyllo. “Izabella promised you two crowns today, yes?”

“For the delivery of two dozen jelly buns to Hawk’s End,” Phyllo replied, nodding. He resisted the urge to touch his face where one of the newer brands under his right eye was. A copper colored pair of coins, that marked him as legally able to have and receive money from odd jobs such as this.

Aleksy waved a vague hand, gesturing to a narrow corridor that extended behind him. “Office is through there,” he said. “Zuzia will give you the crowns. And you can go out afterward through the side. Cut through the alley, yes? We should have more deliveries for you on Thursday, if you’d like, and if your owner does not require you elsewhere. But only one crown for them. Izabella’s heart is sometimes bigger than our purse. She thinks we are barons, not bakers.”

Phyllo bowed again. “I understand, Master Starek, thank you. Unless there are any unexpected summons I should be able to help.”

The blank started through the corridor, which dead ended after a few paces at a wooden door; Phyllo gave it a knock. At the subsequent invitation from within, he stepped inside, ducking his head and murmuring, “Begging your pardon…”

“Hm?” The thin, dark-haired young teenager who was seated behind the office’s desk raised her brow at Phyllo. Setting down the feathered quill in her hand, she prompted gently, “Can I help you?”

“Master Starek told me that I was to talk to you about being paid for an errand?” he said. For the first time since coming into the bakery he dared to raise his head, just a trifle, to inspect the young woman before him. He had never seen her here before, and he’d been coming to the bakery to work for nearly a month now. A new employee? As his gaze rose from the floor, he inadvertently locked eyes with the young woman, and hastily averted his gaze again.

The girl froze, a look of confusion flashing briefly across her face before she forced it away; her voice had taken on a suddenly tentative air as she said to him, “Right. Of course.” She stood, arcing around the desk as she padded toward a cabinet along the opposite wall. “Um-- how much is he giving you?”

“Two crowns, Madam… Zuzia, was it?” He glanced back towards her as she turned away. As he watched, his demeanour shifted subtly. His face, up until this point impassive and polite, now held a slight frown. It was gone an eyeblink later, however, and he added, “For the travel distance to Hawk’s End in the weather.”

“Alright. Two it is.” She swiped a thumb over the small magelock on the cabinet door, and it snapped open with a judder. “It get any better out there?” Zuzia asked lightly, as she dug out the proper change from a wooden bin inside. “I know it was snowing earlier. When I was walking here.”

Phyllo blinked in startlement. It wasn’t the first time that a mage had asked him a casual question, but the occurrence of such was still rare enough to surprise him. “The snow has stopped,” he replied. “But the wind is stronger, if anything. It blows the loose drifts so much it might as well be snowing still.”

“At least there haven’t been any blizzards this season yet.” Coins in hand, Zuzia shut the cabinet and turned back toward Phyllo. “Though I hear Matfey got buried last week.” This was a village a few days west of Pastora. “Before the storm nipped south. We just got the edge of it here.”

“I had heard,” he replied, an odd affect to his voice. “The merchants’ guild hall set up a prayer ceremony for their caravans that had been in the area. Hoping the gods would bring them home safely.”

Offering the coins to Phyllo, Zuzia just barely restrained an outright snort. “Right, because praying two days after a blizzard is certainly the way to make sure none of your caravans got pummeled by it.” But as her blue eyes danced again toward the array of brands that stippled his face, as well as his black-and-silver church raiments, the girl immediately sobered. “Um. Not that I’m making fun of the gods. Or anything. That’d be… blasphemous, probably.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Phyllo replied hurriedly, reaching out to accept the coins. As he accepted them with one hand, he reached the other towards his forehead. In a dull tone that suggested this was something rote he’d had drilled into him until he’d memorized it, he added, “It’s not my place to pass judgements. I am a tool of the gods’ servants, not a servant myself.”

As the coins clinked into his palm, Zuzia’s fingers lingered for longer than was probably necessary, pale against the backdrop of his dark skin. Only after several moments did she draw away. “It’s all stupid, anyway, I think,” she said then. “Like the gods care what people say about them. They’re gods; you’d think they have a thick skin by now. That they wouldn’t get all vengeful because some teenagers are making less-than-flattering comments about them in a rundown bakery.”

Phyllo’s eyebrows rose a trifle. “Perhaps. But the gods caring isn’t really the issue.” Looking away he muttered, “It’s the nobles and clerics caring that matters.”

“Eh, let them try me.” Almost blithely, she patted the wand that was holstered at her hip. Made of a gleaming, light-grained wood, it was clearly the nicest thing on her person, like a blooming rose in a field of dying lilies. “I’m not trying to get you to say heretical things, though,” she added after a moment. “Sorry if it seems like I am. I-- do that sometimes. Talk too much. I’ve gone entire weeks with my mouth tasting of delicious soap.” A beat. “You’re… Phyllo, right? I think I’ve heard Anastazja mention you.”

“I am, yes,” he replied, visibly relieved the topic had shifted to something less liable to get him in trouble. Looking sideways at the girl again, he realize that teenager or not, she was young. Probably younger than even his fifteen years. It was unlikely she was setting him some sort of trap or test of loyalty. “And it’s fine, Madam Zuzia. I don’t care to complain about anything that stalls me having to go back out in the cold.”

Zuzia beamed, a flush rising to her pale, round cheeks. “Well, I’m glad to help you stall. Because the longer you stall, the more I can procrastinate on that.” She jerked a thumb behind them, at the veritable tornado of parchment and scrolls atop the desk. “Did you know you can run the same numbers seventeen times, and still they don’t add up? I’m two attempts away from just burning the whole stack of it. Then there’ll be nothing to add up.”

Phyllo glanced at the paperwork. He couldn’t even read it, much less tally the sums, so he doubted he could be much help here. “I suppose this is the result of all the people in Hawk’s End paying in installments and collateral. Or those of the Pleasant Street district who place bulk orders months in advance.”

“Probably.” Zuzia shrugged. “I mean-- it’s part of being in this neighbourhood, I think. You’re not going to attract the aristocrats when your bakery’s got a dive pub on one side and a boarding house on the other.” She grinned at him, her teeth white as pearls. “Even if we do have good delivery service going for us. I doubt the High Street bakeries would send someone trouncing through the snow to Hawk’s End.” A pause. “... Although maybe that’s why they’re not bleeding money.”

He’d actually had a ghost of a smile on his face for a moment, but it slid away instantly. Very softly he murmured, “I suppose that could be. I doubt very much anyone on High Street would throw coin into humoring a blank from a bleeder rental. It would be a waste of resources.”

Her gaze listed again toward his brands-- and then to the coins he held. “Your… owner doesn’t take those, right? I mean, you earned them. Not him. And he’s got to make a mint letting you out for private services. Bleeders aren’t cheap. Not fully consecrated ones.” And the ruby-red, winged teardrop brand beneath his eye meant that Phyllo had been fully vetted by the church, even if it did not own him directly.

“Not usually,” Phyllo said. “Sometimes if he is taking a friend to the market and has no pocket money on hand, but not usually.” Gritting his teeth a little, the blank muttered. “He owns me, and so he owns everything I have. It is his right.”

“I guess.” Zuzia sighed. “At least he’s letting you have money at all, right? Church-owned bleeders never get permission. Most of them don’t even earn triangles. The priests keep them on the grounds.”

Zuzia’s eyes jumped from the teardrop brand to the one beside it: a light blue square, unadorned. This was the highest mark of freedom of movement amongst blanks, indicating that Phyllo had free run of Pastora in its entirety. A triangle would have meant he was allowed to roam at will within the blank ghetto, called the Baily-- and more than likely reside inside it, rather than at his owner’s property-- but highly limited his movements outside its bounds; a circle would have kept him to only his owner’s property, unless accompanied by a mage.

“You’ve… got a lot of marks,” she added after a moment. Rattling them off, as though she were reading a book, Zuzia listed: “You can carry money. Free run of Pastora. Bleeder’s mark. Age sign.” This meant he was at least fourteen. “And your owner’s brand, of course. Gods-- did a three-year-old design it?”

The blank touched the brand that stood on it’s own under his left eye. It was a bright shade of rusty orange, shaped as a diagonal slash with three droplet shapes flowing down from it. A rather crude, uncreative mark for an owner of rental bleeders. It probably would have been red, if red had not been a color reserved exclusively for the church ordained bleeder’s mark.

“At least there is little chance of anyone mistaking who I belong to,” the blank noted dryly. “And I suppose I… do have a lot of marks. I should count myself grateful. That I’m given such freedom, so many privileges.” He backed up a step, his eyes distant. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound as if I were complaining. Truly I have been blessed, to be selected for the gods’ service as a bleeder and to have some of the highest standing a blank can hope for.”

“It’s okay, Phyllo.” Zuzia, seeming to realize she might have been prodding at a sore spot, turned back toward the desk. “Sorry for rambling. I… really need to get better with that. And-- I wouldn’t want to keep you here. Listening to me blather. You probably have places to be.” She pursed her lips. “And I’ve got numbers to add.”

“It’s alright,” Phyllo replied. “You are right, I had best be going. Maybe I’ll see you here again? Are you working here now?”

“Um.” Zuzia faltered. “Sort of. I… come around sometimes. To help out.” She glanced back over her shoulder, her stare meeting his, and Zuzia swallowed hard as their pupils locked. “You… have pretty eyes, by the way,” she offered, awkwardly. “Like ash, sort of. Or the moon. They remind me of winter.”

Phyllo was clearly caught off guard by this. His eyes- which were indeed a dark steel gray, standing out strikingly against his coffee colored skin- went wide. “I… I, uh…”

The young man felt his face heating, though fortunately the flush would not show as prominently under his dark complexion. Finally he managed to stammer, “Th-thank you, Madam Zuzia. I… Thank you.”

He bowed deeply, his carefully cultivated mask of polite difference somewhat shattered so that the face of a flustered teenager was apparent. A few paces from the desk, Zuzia bit back a giggle, her own cheeks apple red.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “And to answer your question-- I’m here enough. So hopefully we’ll see each other again.” Returning his bow with a theatrical curtsey of her own, Zuzia added, “Have a good day, Phyllo. Stay out of the cold as much as you can, alright?”

Phyllo nodded mechanically, his face still blazing with heat. “Thank you, Madam, and ah, you as well.”

He turned, striding out towards the side door that had earlier been indicated to him. As he emerged out into the blustery weather, letting the wind cool his blazing cheeks, Phyllo couldn’t help but wonder just what had happened in there. Zuzia had been polite, chatty, and even complimented him for something that was not his ability to complete a task. He’d heard remarks on his appearance before. The fact that he was physically attractive was one of the selling points his master used to rent Phyllo out as a bleeder, but this was something else altogether. Something that was… pleasant instead of just making his skin crawl with the feeling of being filthy and degraded.

And the girl… she was strangely familiar somehow…

The bakery was located in one of Pastora’s dodgier neighbourhoods, but this was nothing compared to the Baily, the blank ghetto that Phyllo called home. Its streets were crawling with vermin and litter, cleared only haphazardly of snow; the patchwork of buildings, ill-fortified for Pastora’s harsh winters, sagged like wilting flowers; sunken-eyed children, underdressed for the weather and too young to have yet earned their own blank brands, hovered beneath doorways, watching silently as Phyllo swept past.

Even in the ghetto amidst the city’s other blanks, the teenager stood out as he threaded through: better-fed, better-dressed, his complexion obsidian to most of the denizens’ pale ivory. And though attention in these parts was not necessarily a good thing, at least his raiment robes meant that no one with a single scrap of common sense would dare bother the boy. It was a small wedge of comfort to cling to. Like a single piece of driftwood floating in an otherwise vast and dangerous sea.

Phyllo finally arrived within view of the shabby tenement that was letted out by his owner, and shared by the nearly dozen other bleeders the man owned. It wasn’t uncommon for unrelated blanks owned by the same individual to live together in a sort of surrogate family unit, though Phyllo had never really felt all that close to his compatriots. While there was something of an unspoken agreement amongst them that while they would help support one another, they didn’t bond too deeply. In their line of work, the penchant for something going horribly wrong was uncomfortably high. Deliberately fatal bleedings under the highly brutal-- and exorbitantly pricey-- Rite of Fourteen, which doubled the traditional seven cuts, were exceedingly rare, reserved only for times of extreme desperation or celebration in Meltaiman society. But accidents were not uncommon. The line between being bled and over-bled sparse.

It was easier to just stay detached.

As Phyllo approached the door of the tenement, however, he caught sight of someone who was not one of his fellow bleeders-- or, for that matter, a blank at all.

Jozef Niemec, his plush fur cloak at once betraying his status even if it hadn’t been for the smooth skin of his forehead, or the wand sheathed at his hip, smiled toothily at Phyllo as the boy stepped into view. “There you are!” he called, wagging the teenager forward with his pointer finger as one might usually call for a dog. “Come. I need to talk to you.”

Phyllo felt as though someone had taken a double-handful of the snow on the streets and dumped it down his back. He swallowed hard. “M-Master? You needed me for something? Why didn’t you just summon me like usual?”

Jozef rolled his eyes. “That’s slow.” Reaching out, he tapped the bronze collar that encircled the boy’s neck. “Especially when it’s this cold, and you’re all wrapped up in layers, and you rats spend twenty minutes debating with yourselves if in fact the collar’s warming, or if you’re just imagining things.” The man scowled. “Felicyta tried that excuse with me yesterday, you know? Hemming and hawing-- it was two hours before she came. Although I imagine she tasted enough of the lash not to dare attempt that again, hm?” He laughed.

“I… I imagine not, Master,” Phyllo replied. He bowed deeply. “Forgive my late arrival, I was out in the city working again.”

Without seeking permission, Jozef’s hand danced toward Phyllo’s pocket, and the boy’s owner plucked out the two small coins within. “Consider this your late fee. Two crowns, hm? Might’ve bought something nice.” Pocketing the coins, Jozef patted the boy’s cheek. “Anyway. I didn’t come to chatter. I’ve news, Phyllo.”

A pit of simmering resentment flared up in Phyllo’s stomach. The warmth of the anger was familiar, and had long been his way of coping with the life of a blank in Meltaim. Raging against the mages kept him sane, and kept him from ever fully breaking as they wanted him to.

But of course he didn’t dare let any of that show in his face or voice. His tone absolutely polite, he murmured, “What do you need to tell me?”

“Winter solstice next month,” Jozef said. “Big night, as you know. And the margrave’s having a party. At the Iron Castle.”

Phyllo could see where this was going. “I’m to be bled for the rites at midnight?” he asked, though really he could have just as easily phrased it as a statement. Why else would his master be telling him this?

Jozef nodded. “Full rites.” This meant the seven cuts, one for each element, not an abbreviated version as often happened at smaller events, or the shallow, scattered slices he might receive at a purely magical, not religious, ritual. “So you’ll be out until then. Ela will go to the scribe’s house tomorrow instead-- it’s only a spellcasting endeavour, nothing spiritual, so it won’t take too long. She only needs to give him as much blood as he requires for his casting, and he’s told me he doesn’t anticipate it taking anything more than two or three cuts.” Phyllo’s master grinned, humorlessly. “You can inform her, yeah? I don’t feel like sticking around this rat’s nest much longer. And tell her if she’s late like last month at the weavers’ guild, she’s getting flogged. I have a business to protect, Phyllo. A reputation.”

“I understand, Master,” the young man replied. “She’ll be there, on time.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Am I to report for the usual preparations?”

“Of course. And this is the margrave, so we’re cutting no corners. You don’t skip a single purification cleanse, you understand me?” He patted Phyllo’s cheek again, more firmly this time, so that it was quite nearly a slap. “And I don’t care if your gullet is stuffed, you follow the full rite diet from today onward. You don’t miss a single bite.”

Phyllo suppressed the urge to sigh. This meant eating huge portions of very protein rich foods, to ensure he was as healthy and weighty as was feasible for the bloodletting. It certainly would not do for him to swoon, or worse, pass out, in the middle of the rites. And really he shouldn’t complain about it. There were people in these ghettos who were starving. But the thought of eating until he was so bloated he was sick, for an entire month, leading up to the daunting rigamarole of the full seven-cut rites…

“It will be as you say, Master,” he murmured.

***

When next Phyllo reported to the bakery a week later, there was a noticeable shift in his demeanor. In spite of his efforts to hide it behind a polite facade, the nauseated expression on his face was painfully obvious. There was no sign of the new girl that day, but perhaps that was a good thing. The young man didn’t think he could have made small talk in the state he was in.

It was another week later that he saw her again. He’d tottered into the bakery, feeling queasy after a midday meal of two roast fish, a whole liver, three raw carrots, and almost a whole plate of crackers liberally coated in a thick bean paste. The door had hardly swung shut after him before a voice called out: “Dear gods, are you okay?”

He looked up to see Zuzia, sitting behind the counter with no sign of any of the family who owned the store. Caught in the thick of a overeating stupor, Phyllo could only blink owlishly in confusion at her. The silence dragged for a full minute, until Zuzia, her dark brow furrowed, stood and leaned forward, studying him.

“You… remember me, right?” she asked, hesitation scoring her tone. “From a few weeks ago? I gave you your crowns. And… said a lot of things you probably rather wished I hadn’t.”

He seemed to come at least partially out of his fugue, and moaned softly. “Ye-esss, I remember. Sorry, I’m not at my-” he cut off as gorge rose in his throat, but he was able to fight it back. Weakly he finished. “At my best.”

The blank walked the rest of the way up to the counter, stopping to lean on it and clutch his stomach. As he did so, a strong waft of perfume blew off of his skin, carrying with it the scents of cinnamon and myrrh. Zuzia stepped back, startled, her head cocked as she watched him.

“Are you sick?” she asked. “You smell like a church.”

“Ate too much,” he muttered, giving Zuzia a pained look. “I have a job lined up for the solstice. Full rites. So I’m being prepared as ordained by the clergy. Hearty foods, ritual baths every three days with perfumed soap, not allowing anything sharp to touch my body save a razor for my hair… the whole bit.”

“I’m sorry.” Zuzia frowned. “That sounds awful. You can still take jobs from us, though, right?” She paused, rolling her eyes. “Duh. Of course you can. Otherwise, why would you be here?”

“Distraction helps,” he replied. Wincing he added, “The priests would say it’s blasphemous to complain about it. That my body is being made holy, so I can give my blood to the gods.” He swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t feel holy. I feel like I’m about to throw up.”

“I’m sorry,” Zuzia said again. “Would you want some water, maybe? Or ginger, we’ve got some ginger in back. That can help with nausea, too.”

“Are you s-sure?” he asked. “I haven’t any money for it, Master’s been taking my earnings to erm… compensate for the ritual food he said.”

“I’m sure,” Zuzia said. “Wait here.” With that, the girl disappeared into the backroom, re-emerging from it a few minutes later with a water glass in one hand and a wedge of ginger root in the other. “You can suck on it,” she said of the ginger. “It’s pretty spicy, but it really does help. My father gives it to me when I’m sick. Before he bothers with healers or anything specialized.”

Phyllo accepted the wedge of ginger, nodding his thanks before sticking it in his mouth. He didn’t appear much bothered by the flavor, but after several moments, from the relief on his face it was apparent his nausea was ebbing.

“Thank you,” he muttered after pulling the wedge out and taking a healthy gulp of the water. “You’re… you’re very kind. Most wouldn’t bother with a blank’s illness unless they were afraid they’d catch it.”

“Nausea is nausea, whether you’re a mage or a blank.” Zuzia shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt me to give you water and ginger. So I think it’d be cruel not to.” She bit her lip. “You’re getting bled for full rites? That has to be… expensive.”

Phyllo gave a dismissive hand wave. “I doubt the margrave much cares about the cost.” He rubbed his face. “He has money enough that likely he could have every blank my master owns bled at his celebration.”

“The… margrave?” Zuzia’s voice hitched. “You’re getting bled by the margrave? Of the province?”

“Not even the first time.” The boy’s tone was dismissive, and his shoulders rolled in a shrug. “One of his celebrations was my very first bleed, when I was ten or so. And I’ve been twice since.”

“Oh, I… see.” Zuzia was suddenly studying her shoelaces with great interest. “That must be um--” She shook her head. “And it’ll… definitely be you? On the solstice? Not any of your owner’s other blanks, or…?”

“If it’s not me, whoever goes is very behind on their preparations, and I have been gorging myself on their rightful meals,” he said, for the first time a note of humor edging into his voice. But then he frowned. “Is something the matter, Madam Zuzia?”

“No,” she said. “I’m alright. Sorry-- it’s just…” Her voice trailed off, and she forced her gaze back up. “The margrave is a powerful man, I guess,” she finished meekly. “To… deal with.”

“I see,” Phyllo still seemed confused, but he gave a shrug. “I don’t really deal with him- nor, I think, does my master. I imagine some sort of hired overseer does all the negotiation. I just… present myself for the rites.”

He glanced down at his left arm, though presently the seven horizontal scars that decorated it were covered by long sleeves. Left arm, for the left side of his chest- the side where his heart was, where blood pumped from. Briefly, a flicker of unease flitted across his face, although he shoved it away.

Zuzia didn’t miss the gesture, and the girl winced outright-- before, abruptly, she reached into the pocket of her plain wool dress and tugged out from it a small leather purse. “Look,” she said, “we um-- only have a couple deliveries today. Just a crown’s worth. But…” Unclasping the pouch, she shook out a ten-crown piece, the silver coin catching beneath the magelights overhead. “Ginger. This’ll get you some ginger. Fresh. You know-- if you’re going to have to eat so much rich food over the next couple weeks, and… you’re feeling sick…”

The blank’s eyes went wide, and he stared at the coin as if it were a firebrand. “I… Madam, I c-can’t, this is so much money! I can’t take this from you!”

“It’s okay,” Zuzia assured him, holding out the coin insistently. “Please, take it. So you won’t feel so nauseous. I won’t miss it at all, I promise.”

He shook his head, his grey eyes fearful. “I, I couldn’t, blanks never carry this much money, anyone who saw me with it would think I stole it. Th-they would report me to my master, who would have me f-f-flogged, and then probably flogged again for defiling myself with crime when I’m s-supposed to be purifying for the rites, and I, I-”

Zuzia pulled back her hand. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was almost shrill. “I… didn’t think about it like that. I…” She winced, dropping the coin back into the purse. “I just wanted to help,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Phyllo.”

For as long as he could remember, Phyllo had never felt anything for the mages of Meltaim but dull bitterness verging on deepest loathing. But at the tone of Zuzia’s voice, and after the kindness he’d show him, he felt an uncomfortable feeling squirming in his gut that had nothing to do with the food he’d consumed not long ago. Guilt.

“It’s… not your fault,” he muttered softly. “You didn’t ask for things to be as they are. For blanks to be-” he felt the bitterness surge again, “born without souls. Without direction they are tempted to sin, so there is never any question when it appears we’ve done something we should not. Because we are not complete beings.”

“You sound just like my father,” Zuzia said dourly, before after a moment’s hesitation, she pulled a different coin out of the purse. “One crown. What you’d have gotten for the errands. But… maybe it’s best if you just… just for today… went home, or…”

He winced. “I’m sorry, Madam Zuzia. I didn’t mean to upset you. I shouldn’t complain. Like you said before, I have a lot of marks. A lot more freedom than most blanks have.”

“Don’t apologize,” Zuzia said. “I’m the one who’s acting stupid, not you.” Crookedly, she forced a grin. “But I did warn you, right? That sometimes I say foolish things?” Pressing the crown into his hand, she added lightly, “Although I’m operating on a record right now, you know: six days since I’ve gotten my ear pulled or my mouth rinsed with soap.”

Phyllo accepted the coin, a very small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “My congratulations. I do hope you can keep up your streak.” He carefully pocketed the coin, then gave a thin smile. “And, ah… thank you. For treating me as a person instead of a blank.”

“You’re welcome.” Zuzia clasped shut the purse and slipped it back into her pocket. “And… I hope the next few weeks aren’t too miserable for you, Phyllo. I really do.”

He sighed. “It’s nothing I’m not used to, but thank you. And thank you for the ginger trick- I’ll definitely make good use of it.”

Chapter Two:

SPOILER: Click to show

Izydor Gorski observed the formal grand hall of his castle with satisfaction. Anyone who was anyone in the region was present for the turning of the solstice. Every year he made certain to turn this into an event to remember, and this year was no exception. All around the edge of the room sculptures of ice decorated the tables, glowing from within with magical lights that shifted in hue constantly. Silver platters and dinnerware winked in the lights from these ice sculptures, waiting for the feast that would see them piled high with food. The ceiling of the room had been bespelled so that it showed an image of the night sky, the moon crawling slowly and steadily in an arc across it. Soon enough there would be gossip, music, and dancing.

But first the niceties had to been seen to. After all, it never did one well to give slight to the gods.

“Is something the matter, Zuzanna?” the margrave asked, frowning sideways at his daughter as she shifted in her seat for what had to have been the dozenth time in the last few minutes. They were presently waiting for the priest to emerge and begin the formal rites.

The mahogany-haired teenager seated beside him, clad in a gossamer lavender-and-silver gown that made her pale skin nearly glow, shrugged. “I’m fine, Father,” she said, without looking at him. “My… stomach just hurts, that’s all. I think I’m coming down with something.” The girl hesitated. “Perhaps I should retreat to my rooms. I wouldn’t want to get anyone sick.”

Izydor rolled his eyes. “Nice try. I’m your father, you think I can’t tell when you’re really ill? Now please, try to set a good example for your siblings. The seven year olds should not be behaving better than you are.”

As he spoke, the margrave gestured in the direction of three younger children sitting on his other side: two boys as alike as peas from the same pod, identical in nearly every facet from their jet black hair to the freckles that dusted the bridges of their noses, and a wiry-haired girl whose resemblance to them wasn’t insignificant either. Zuzanna, however, only spared the triplets the briefest of glances before her blue eyes fell to the ornately set table below.

“I’m not lying,” she murmured. “I could come back after the bleeding. M-maybe I just need to lie down for a few minutes.”

“You are my heir, Zuzanna,” he pointed out. “I’ve trained you in politics. You know how bad it would look if you just walked out in the middle of the most sacred part of the proceedings tonight.”

“Zuzanna’s gonna get in troooouble!” one of the boys hissed to his siblings, earning two sets of low giggles. However, all three of them fell silent at a sharp look from their father, smiling innocently.

The margrave, Zuzanna, and the triplets were alone at the high table, but Zuzanna could feel the eyes of the other attendees settling on them now, drawn by the terse set of exchanges. Great. The girl clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to levy a huffish comment at her teasing brother, and straightened in her chair. She hadn’t lied, at least not entirely: her stomach was pitching up a storm, roiling as though churned by a hurricane. It was only the reason she’d feigned.

“May I have permission to step out, Father?” she said. Her last ditch effort. “Please?”

“No,” Izydor said bluntly.

Any further conversation was cut off as the door to the room creaked open, revealing the priest who would be conducting the night’s ceremony. He strode forward with firm, deliberate steps. Upon reaching the altar, the priest drew his wand and lit two sticks of incense- one of myrrh, and one of cinnamon. Then, resheathing the wand, he turned to the door again and beckoned. A second figure came into the room, dressed in elegant sleeveless robes of pure white-grey that shimmered in the moonlight from the enchanted ceiling. His skin was dark against the pale raiments, but as he turned to stand behind the altar his steel gray eyes glimmered.

At the high table, Zuzanna froze in her chair as if she’d been hit by an icing spell. Her blue eyes were wide, her teeth tightly clenched, and as one of the triplets took an over-loud slurp from his water glass, the heir to Daire province yet again resisted the itch to snarl something molten at him. The margrave shot his daughter a warning look, his mouth drawn thin.

At the front of the room, after the priest opened the rites with a short address of the watching crowd, Phyllo presented his left arm. Seven lines, a darker reddish-black against his brown skin, stood out starkly. The bleeder’s expression was completely neutral, his eyes distant as if he were not really mentally present in spite of being in the room physically. The cleric lifted a knife, forged from pure silver, and placed it at the edge of the topmost scar on the bleeder’s bicep. Slowly, deliberately, he sliced it open anew, seeming to draw a line in bright red ink on Phyllo’s skin.

The bleeder’s jaw tightened with pain, but he made no noise and didn’t react otherwise- by now he was long used to this. Phyllo’s gaze wandered a bit, as if he were determined to look anywhere but at the mutilation of his limb. His eyes drifted towards Zuzanna, sitting close to the front of the room, and his dull expression shifted, going absolutely blank with surprise.

Zuzanna wanted to look away, but instead she found her eyes latched on his. Her cheeks suddenly went hot as forges, and her palms as clammy as a sweating glass of iced tea on a summer’s day. The girl’s stomach lurched, more violently than before, and it took everything in her to keep from rocketing to her feet and fleeing from room. Away from the bleeder’s shocked gaze. Away from the blood that flowed from his arm in beads and rivers, coating his ebony flesh crimson and slick. And there were still six more cuts. Gods.

The pain of the second slice was sufficient to make Phyllo wince, breaking the deadlock so that he was once again paying attention to the rite at hand, but he kept casting furtive glances towards Zuzanna, his gray eyes full of confusion and a dawning horror.

Once the seventh and final slice had been made- the cut for magic- the priest resumed speaking, calling the margrave to his side; Izydor stood and strode forwards. The bleeder’s arm was held above a font on the altar, and by this point the dish was filled about a third with crimson blood. The priest dipped his fingers in the blood, and sprinkled a little on a small object in front of the font- a half melted chunk of ice.

“We give this blood unto the gods, that they may ease the fury of the winter to come.”

Another sprinkle, this time on a seed.

“We give this blood unto the gods, that they may grant a bountiful harvest in the coming spring.”

The priest then turned towards Izydor, who dipped his wand into the font, coating the tip in Phyllo’s blood. “We give this blood unto the gods,” the margrave said, his voice loud and ringing, “drawn from the veins of one incomplete. It gives strength to the true children of the seventh element, and we pray that in the coming year our children will be born with the blessings of the gods’ light.”

He turned his wand upwards. “This is the longest night of the year, but we need not fear the dark, for the light of our power shines within.”

His wand flared crimson, the blood evaporating from its tip as he called, “Ruch lodzie!” All around the room, the ice sculptures flared with pure white light, and leapt from the tables. A swan flew through the air, a horse galloped around the room, a wolf threw back its head to give a soundless howl…

“Magic is light, and it is life!” Izydor called loudly. “Even in the darkest and coldest of places it can bring warmth. We give thanks to the gods for this blessing, and offer the blood of the unblessed so they know we see the value of their gifts.”

It was an impressive display, and it had, Zuzanna knew, taken an immense amount of magic to produce. But even as the rest of the magicians in the room let out marveling breaths, and down the table from her the triplets practically vibrated in their seats in sheer wonderment, Zuzanna felt only… cold. A tendril of nausea still lacing through her gut, and her eyes focused not on the enchanted creatures dancing about the room, but on the bleeder.

In light of losing so much blood, he’d gone ashen, his dark complexion faded nearly gray. Somehow he was still standing, but Zuzanna could see his knees wavering, and gods, how she wished they’d just let him sit down.

“Look at the dog sculpture!” one of the triplets was trilling, as the room still swam in a wash of light and ice, splendor and magic. “Waggin’ his tail, see?”

“Shh.” Zuzanna’s voice was stark. “Be quiet. F-Father’s still…” Praying, she knew she should say. But what came out instead was: “... performing.”

Finally, the ice sculptures returned to their former places, the light fading from within them and the frozen water becoming still once more. Izydor stepped back, and the priest brought his hands together. “Let us all raise our wands to the gods, and give up our prayers…”

As the guests in the room all unsheathed their wands, lofting them above their heads, Zuzanna numbly echoed the motion. But her palm was still moist, and her hand shook, the girl hardly able to trip over the syllables of the traditional solstice prayer even as the other party-goers began to chant it in droning unison. Her eye briefly caught her father’s, but Zuzanna broke the stare quickly.

Afterward, as the grand hall plunged back into silence and all wands were reholstered, Zuzanna crossed her arms at her chest. She couldn’t bring herself to look as the priest started back out toward the corridor, presumably taking the bleeder with him. No matter, the girl could smell the sharp tang of copper as the pair swept past, and a lump welled in her throat-- only tightening when she heard Izydor drop back into the chair beside her, his ostentatious display of power over for the night.

As blank servants began to bustle into the room with trays of food, and a low murmur of conversation broke out, the margrave turned towards his heir. “What in the name of all the gods is the matter with you? The triplets are behaving better than you are, and they’re seven!”

“I haven’t done anything,” Zuzanna whispered leadenly, staring down at the soup tureen that had been placed in front of her. She didn’t even have the ghost of an appetite. “I told you, I don’t feel good, Father. My stomach hurts.”

“And when you take my place as margrave you will have to school yourself to discipline regardless of how sick you are or aren’t. Which I’ve explained to you before,” he retorted. “I want the people here to see you as I see you, Zuzanna; for the intelligent, powerful, competent young woman you are. Instead you show them a jumpy, sweating mouse of a girlchild.”

“I’m thirteen,” she murmured, as if he didn’t know. “I’m… n-not going to be as good at things as you are, and…” The lump in her throat was now more like a frog. In her mind’s eye, all she could see was the bleeder. The slashes on his arms. The trembling of his knees. The looks of pain that flashed in his silver eyes, even as the rest of his face remained flat. “Do I have to stay for the dancing?”

“Yes, you do,” he retorted. “You are of age in a year, Zuzanna. It is high time you acted it. No more histrionics, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Father.” She slumped, resigned. “You make yourself clear. You won’t have any more problems from me today.”

***

It took most of the next several days for Phyllo to fully recover from the rites. Though the cuts on his arms had been magically healed as soon as he was gone from the room, his master could not be bothered with the expense of a blood replenishing potion. Jozef leaned on the excuse that replacing the lost blood defeated the point of sacrificing it to the gods, but all of his blanks knew that it was really just because the man was a cheapskate.

All the while, Phyllo’s mind was swirling with disbelief. He had of course heard of the margrave’s daughter; who hadn’t? An archmage child was like the coming of an avatar of the gods for the Meltaimans. And he’d seen her too- even now he could vaguely remember the small girl who’d been present the first time he’d been bled, the skittish one who’d whispered to her father the whole time and who had, very briefly, locked eyes with him.

But that the baker’s assistant Zuzia was that girl had never occurred to him. Even despite the fact that he had been certain he recognized Zuzia from somewhere when he’d first seen her at the bakery. Yet there could be no denying it was the same girl, even if they looked worlds removed from each other, with one resplendent in silks and the other in a plain wool shift tallying accounts.

And the things he’d said! If she’d been minded she could have had him flogged- executed even- for being so flagrantly disrespectful. It made Phyllo near as nauseous as the ritual diet had done.

It was only with extreme reluctance- and a bit of prodding from Jozef about the sudden cessation of income- that Phyllo finally went back to the bakery once he’d recovered. He was at once relieved and oddly disappointed to find no sign of Zuzia when he got there, and it was some three weeks before finally, the girl reappeared. As had happened during their previous exchange, she was alone in the storefront when he arrived, stifling a yawn as she dusted the glass display cabinet. It was late in the day-- several hours after noon-- and so most of the bread was gone, with only a few frosted handcakes and pastries remaining; when the girl heard the bell jangle, she craned her neck to greet the newcomer.

… And when she saw who it was, went pale as a sheet. “P-Phyllo,” she stammered, turning on her heel to face him. Clutching the feather duster to her chest almost defensively, she went on, “H-how are you today?”

Phyllo froze when he saw Zuzia, and he swallowed hard. “I… I’m well enough,” he stammered. Belatedly, he bowed at the waist and added, “My lady.”

Zuzia-- Zuzanna-- cringed. “You… don’t need to call me that,” she said. “Just Zuzia’s okay. It’s… what my friends and family call me.” Even the margrave primarily used it when they were in private.

“Your family,” he said softly. “You mean Margrave Gorski. I’m… surprised to see the margrave’s heir working at a bakery.”

“It’s… complicated.” Zuzia swallowed hard, setting the feather down as she took a step away from the display case. “The Stareks, they… I’m…” Trailing her eyes up and down his dark frame, she asked, “You’re… not from here, right? Originally. Your accent, and… your appearance…”

Phyllo winced. “No. I… I was born in Valzaim.” He looked down, his expression hard. “I was brought here when I was eight.”

“Right. So um-- do you know how things… work here? With… families, I guess?” She sighed, her brow knitted in something between anxiety and embarrassment. “I mean, you… must know now that I’m an archmage, right? And what that means?”

The boy’s frown deepened. “I know that if a mage is born to a blank, they are removed and given to a mage family to live, and vice versa…”

“Yes. That’s… true.” With another hard swallow, Zuzia paced several feet to her right, where the bakery’s few tables-- all of the empty at this time of day-- sat, and plunked down into one of the birch chairs. “But sometimes-- very rarely, but… still sometimes-- a child doesn’t have to be born to the… entirely wrong parents, I guess, to get taken away. Say, for example, you had a pair of bakers. Middling magicians, at best. Not… destitute, but hardly wealthy by any means, either. And then they had a baby. And when she was four and a half, after she showed her first signs of magic by recolouring every single loaf of bread her parents had for sale that morning-- to orange, her favorite colour-- she was tested. And shown to be an archmage.” Zuzia paused. “What do you think might happen then, Phyllo? To those bakers’ daughter?”

The blank stared at her, disbelief writ plain on his face. He knew of course that the Meltaimans had a very loose concept of the value of family, but it had never occurred to him they might take a child from her parents simply because she was a stronger mage than them.

“So… so the Stareks are your real parents?” he asked. “The margrave just… took you in because of your archmage powers?”

“He and his wife adopted me a few months before my fifth birthday,” Zuzia confirmed. “Made me their daughter. I… wasn’t allowed to see the Stareks after that. Not for over a year. B-but after the margrave’s wife died, giving birth to the triplets, I guess he felt bad for me. Knowing that I still missed them, and my sister, Anastazja.” She set a hand on her temple, which was suddenly throbbing. “He’d bring me by once a month. Sometimes less. We never stayed long. And he never left me with them alone. They weren’t allowed to call me their daughter, and… I wasn’t allowed to call them ‘mama’ or ‘papa’. It was always pretty strained, as you can imagine. Bakers like my birth parents? They don’t usually… deal with people like the margrave.”

“No, I suppose not,” he said softly. Tilting his head the blank remarked, “But he’s not here now… and I don’t think I’ve seen him any of the other times you’ve been here.”

“Once I turned thirteen, he struck a deal with me,” Zuzanna said. “If I behave well during the week, I can come see them for a few hours. A knight walks me and picks me up. I’m not allowed to leave the building.” She gestured broadly at the room around them. “It’s been nice. Being able to talk to them without the margrave breathing over my shoulder. Even if right now Anastazja’s asleep upstairs with a headache, and both Aleksy and Izabella are out making deliveries. Which I am… obviously not permitted to come along on. So they let me man the front instead.”

“I… I see,” he said softly. In spite of the fact that the girl had been withholding her identity from him, and could potentially have gotten Phyllo in massive trouble, he couldn’t help but sympathize a little. He’d not seen his parents at all in nearly seven years now, and that loss still ached sometimes.

After a moment he looked up again, meeting the young woman’s eyes. “At my first bleed, I vaguely remember that there was a young noble girl who kept whispering, and had to be taken out of the room. I didn’t really commit it much to memory at the time because I was…” He made a slicing motion with his hand across his opposite arm, “Distracted. But, that was you, wasn’t it?”

Zuzanna nodded. “My father was… upset with me. I was making a scene.”

Phyllo looked down at his feet. “I… I only really remembered it because I recall you actually looked me in the eye. Everyone else then, and since, just looks through me when I’m being bled. At my arm, or at the priest, or the knife… not at me. But you saw me.”

“You were crying,” Zuzanna said softly. “I’d… never seen a bleeder cry before-- or since. I guess I sort of realized then how much it must hurt. To be… cut like that.” She leaned back heavily in the chair. “Are you okay now? A-after the solstice feast? You were so pale by the end. Like dust.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “I was confined to a pallet for a while, but that always happens after the full rites. It’s why they had me eating so much, to strengthen my body for it. The margrave said it, didn’t he? My blood to appease the gods. My suffering so the mages can live in security and protection. One day you’ll be doing that same ritual, I expect.”

Zuzanna fought back a shudder. “They’re… they’re not even your gods, are they?” she asked. “If you’re from Valzaim. That must make it even worse.” As if only after the fact realizing the precariousness of her words, the girl hurriedly tacked on, “Not that I’m… saying they’re not the true gods or… anything blasphemous like that, I just…”

Phyllo flinched hard, his grey eyes stinging so that he had to squeeze them shut. “My master thought it a delightfully fitting irony. A heathen foreigner giving his blood as tribute to the gods as a… punishment I guess. For not knowing of them.”

“That’s ridiculous. He sounds like a prat. I’m so sorry, Phyllo,” she said. “And… I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you the truth before. About who I was. Being bled must be miserable enough without glancing into the crowd and seeing… me. The so-called baker’s assistant. I just-- the few hours I spend here each week are basically the only hours I have when I can… forget about everything. Who I am. My responsibilities.” A beat. “The expectations my father has for me.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said softly. “It’s not like you really owed me that information.” He hesitated, then added softly. “I… like it here too. It’s why I chose this place to work. It helps me forget, even for a little while. The smell of the bread, the cakes, all of it, it’s… nostalgic.”

“Nostalgic?” Shifting again in the chair, Zuzanna finally gestured to the seat across from her, inviting Phyllo to sit. “How’s it nostalgic?”

The boy eased into the proffered seat. In a very low voice, as if afraid he’d be overheard, he murmured, “My family, back in Valzaim. They owned a bakery. Not just one either, my parents had a little one in the village where we lived, but Grandpa had one in the big city. It was famous, even important people ordered pastries from there. Papa… he was just starting to let me help knead the dough when…”

“They killed him, didn’t they?” Zuzanna sounded at once jaded and miserable. “They always do. The adults who fight back. My father’s troops… they’re trained to always--” Realizing she was saying far too much, Zuzia’s voice fell away. “Sorry. I’m… not being very sensitive, am I?”

That old anger flared up in Phyllo at those words. My father. It was a stark reminder of the fact that, kind as this girl seemed, she was the margrave’s heir. She was being groomed to take his place, and would one day send more soldiers into Valzaim to slaughter people like Phyllo’s family, and abduct children into slavery.

“It’s not really murder though, is it?” he asked darkly. “You can’t murder something that has no soul.”

“Or maybe the people who claim to have the souls should be holding themselves to a higher standard,” Zuzanna said. “Instead of killing everything that’s inconvenient.”

Phyllo was startled by this remark, but some of the tension went out of his shoulders. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be projecting at you.” With a rueful smile he remarked, “You’re far too easy to talk to. I’ve not brought any of this up in… not since the first month I was in Meltaim. I very quickly learned better than to dare have opinions or resentments.”

“It’s okay,” Zuzia promised. “I like talking to you, too. Gods know I hardly get to talk much with people around my own age. The triplets are so much younger, and Father doesn’t just let walk around the city to meet people, and all the servants are too terrified to even look at me, let alone chat with me. Sometimes Father’s brother-- he’s married to a countess who has lands up near the border with Scahie-- visits, and he brings his daughter, who’s a few years older than me, but otherwise…” She shrugged.

“How old are you anyway?” Phyllo asked curiously. “I’ll turn sixteen in the summer.”

“I turned thirteen in Septem--” Zuzanna started, before a faint jangling at the door cut her off mid-word.

Phyllo instinctively bolted to his feet lest he, a blank, be caught casually chatting with a mage. Standing in the doorway, as snow blew in around his head, was an unfamiliar man in heavy armor that bore the lavender-and-silver patterning of the Gorski livery. The stranger quirked an eyebrow at the bleeder, who bowed his head, before turning to Zuzia.

“My lady,” he said, nodding politely. “I’ve come to escort you home.”

Zuzia quailed, remaining in her seat. “It’s only been two hours. And the Stareks have had time-sensitive deliveries. I’ve hardly had time to talk with them at all, sir.”

“Margrave Gorski wants you home now, m’lady,” the knight replied, implacable. “There’s been an incident in Moon Mountain Pass, and he intends to use a scrying construct to look into the matter. He wants you to lend him strength.”

“It can’t wait another hour or two?” Zuzia’s voice cracked, and she blinked sharply.

“I have my orders, m’lady,” the knight said. In a softer voice he added, “And you know what will happen if the margrave thinks you put favor here instead of with him. Please don’t press this.”

Phyllo said nothing during this exchange, though he could plainly tell that Zuzia was sincerely distraught to be torn from her birth family so soon. He felt a pang of empathy for her, as the girl seemed to deliberate with herself for another few moments before rising grudgingly to her feet. Wordlessly, she swept by the blank, her hands clenched into tight fists at her side as she paused in front of her father’s knight.

“I’m not pressing anything,” she whispered. “Please don’t tell him I pressed anything?”

The knight put a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder, a small smile on his face, before he turned and beckoned to her. “Come along then.” He started to walk out of the shop, pausing to glance back at Phyllo. “That one wasn’t bothering you, was it?”

The blank tensed nervously, but there was no need of it: lightning quick, Zuzia shook her head. “No,” she said, “he’s not bothering me at all.”

Seeming to accept this, the knight nodded and led his charge out into the snow. Phyllo was left alone in the bakery, perplexed by the conversation he’d just had. Zuzia- Zuzanna- was the margrave’s adopted daughter. An archmage. By all rights, she should not have given him the time of day. Yet she talked to him, sympathized with him, and even tried to help him in whatever small ways she could. And in spite of everything, he enjoyed her company. Part of Phyllo insisted that his instinctive trust in the girl was just years of isolation and loneliness making him desperate for a bit of companionship. That she couldn’t possibly continue to be interested in him. That sooner or later, she’d grow bored of the blank bleeder who ran errands for her birth parents’ bakery…

Chapter Three:

SPOILER: Click to show

Zuzanna Gorski did not, however, grow bored of Phyllo’s company. Over the next four months, as a bitter winter battered Pastora before finally giving way to a temperate spring, they saw each other regularly if not frequently, chattering whenever they both found themselves at the Stareks’ modest bakery. Oftentimes Aleksy, Izabella, or Anastazja Starek-- or a combination of the three-- would be around, which limited the blank and the archmage’s conversation; but other times Zuzia and Phyllo found themselves alone, stealing exchanges with each other as the girl’s biological parents and sister were distracted in the backroom, or upstairs, or running deliveries.

Soon, it was unclear who between Zuzanna and Phyllo enjoyed the conversations more. They were never particularly deep or complex, but there was a simple comfort in merely having a person to speak to like that at all. A person who seemed to ignore the strings-- either his or hers. Who wasn’t constantly looking at Zuzanna Gorski, the archmage and heir to the province, or Phyllo, the bleeder blank-- as if their statuses comprised the wholes of their person, and could not ever be placed aside. Sometimes, talking with Phyllo, Zuzia could almost pretend she was… normal. Just the bakers’ daughter. The life she’d been born into, rather than the one that had been thrust upon her after the fact. And Phyllo, when he talked to Zuzia, felt like a human, like a person, instead of some sort of glorified livestock animal. He felt like someone actually cared about him and not just what service he could provide them.

Things continued like this, relatively unchallenged, for some time. However, one day, when Zuzia was dropped off at the Starek’s bakery, she walked in to find her birth father looking rather haggard.

“Ah, hello Zuzia,” he muttered distractedly, his eyes dancing towards a wrapped parcel on the counter with such nervousness one might’ve thought it was about to set fire to the whole bakery. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too,” Zuzanna said, waiting for the knight to leave and the door to thud shut behind him before she dared add: “Are you okay? You look upset, Father.” It was a dangerous word. Sometimes Zuzia couldn’t help but use it anyway.

The man’s eyes softened briefly, but a moment later he gave a frustrated sigh. “It’s these deliveries. All the Blooming Night feasts coming up soon, you know? Lots of cakes and pastries on order, but only three of us to run deliveries and man the shop. And we’ve not seen hide nor hair of the blank boy in days, even though he assured us when we told him the dates we needed deliveries run that he’d be here.”

“I wish I could help you more-- that I could come down more or…” Zuzia’s voice trailed off as the second part of Aleksy’s statement seemed to register with her. “Phyllo? He’s… disappeared? That’s not like him, is it?”

“Sometimes he doesn’t come if he has to be bled on short notice,” Aleksy replied. “But no, he doesn't usually miss… four delivery dates in a row. Especially not without some sort of notice. He’s fairly reliable, for a blank.”

A sour slick of fear coated Zuzia’s tongue. “I hope he’s not hurt,” she murmured. “I mean… if a bleeding went wrong…”

“Which unfortunately does happen, quite often,” Aleksy noted, rubbing his face. “Though if it did we’ll probably never know. His master has no need to give us notice.” Glowering at the parcel he added, “And in the meantime Izabella is running a delivery to Pleasant Street, and I have to get this to the Glens, somehow.” He looked up at his birth daughter. “I hate to do this to you, dear, but could you stay here with Anastazja and keep an eye on things while I make the run?”

“Sure. Of course.” But Zuzanna’s face was still sketched with worry as Aleksy tucked the package underarm and then turned toward the backroom, calling for Anastazja. As the little girl scampered out, Zuzia spared her a thin smile, but her words were underscored with anxiety as she said, “Hey, sweetie. How are you today?”

“I’m good,” she chirped. “Mr. Cat is back in the alley beside the shop. I saw him out the window.”

“You feeding him scraps again?” Zuzia asked. “I don’t think he’d have made it through the winter without ‘em, Azja. You’re like his guardian angel, hm?”

“More like a pest enabler,” Aleksy remarked, though not without an affectionate smirk at the young child. Turning to Zuzia he said, “Keep her out of trouble. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Zuzia nodded, silent as she watched her birth father stride out into the bright, balmy morning. Even once he was gone, however, his words continued to thrum through her head: Phyllo was gone. Missing. Aleksy had hardly seemed more than mildly aggravated by this-- and even then, most of his exasperation apparently stemmed from the fact that the bakery was now overburdened and underemployed, rather than concern over Phyllo’s welfare-- but to Zuzia, the unknowns stung much more potently. Clung to her twisting gut like a fishing hook, digging in deeper by the second. She knew that on a broad scale, the boy ought to mean nothing to her. That they hardly even knew each other, in the scheme of things.

But he’d been like the first sip of fresh air after years being shut away in a stifling room. The first taste of friendship-- true friendship-- she’d had in… ever, if she thought about it. And so the idea of losing him now… so quickly… so suddenly...

“How long’s Izabella been gone?” Zuzia asked Anastazja after a moment, as the skeleton of an idea began to burrow into her head. “On her Pleasant Street delivery?”

Anastazja shrugged. “I ‘unno… twenty minutes? Not long. Pleasant Street’s way over by the south gate, it’ll be a while.”

“Right. And Aleksy’s slogging all the way to the Glens…” This was a stupid line of thought. By gods, how Zuzia knew it was a stupid line of thought: risky as all hell, and with nearly infinite consequences if it went wrong. And yet still she blurted, “I need to run out for a bit, Anastazja. Just-- on an errand for the margrave, you know? But it’s very top secret. So you can’t tell your parents that I went. When they get back.”

The child blinked, her expression baffled. “So… so I’m gonna be here alone? Runnin’ the shop?”

“Uh-huh,” Zuzanna said, but then she hesitated. Gods, this plan was foolish enough without putting her nine-year-old blood sister at risk; Anastazja was in no way old enough to have oversight of the entire bakery, especially not given the crime rate in the neighbourhood. She would be an easier target than even a blank. “Why don’t you lock up behind me, though? I can do a special knock when I get back. So you know it’s me. Like this.” She rapped her knuckles thrice again the counter, quickly, before following it with two shorter knocks. “Then you can open back up for me. Doesn’t that sound fun? We’ll be like… spies, Azja. With secret codes.”

The child sulked a bit, but then nodded. “Okay. I can do the locking spell, Papa showed me how!” She bounced down off the stool behind the counter. “What’s the secret knock again?”

Zuzanna demonstrated the knock again, making Anastazja repeat it back for her before the margrave’s heir started for the door, not moving from it until she heard the lock slide into place behind her. Ahead, the street was-- not busy, not exactly, but still thick enough with people to set the girl on edge. No one knows who you are, Zuzia, she told herself, one hand clutched over her sheathed wand and the other over the dagger at her other hip as she started north, toward the blank ghetto. But such a mantra was a small comfort the further she walked, as the streets grew thinner and sketchier, the neighbourhood lapsing into a veritable slum far before it segued to the ghetto outright.

You are a fool. A soft-hearted, empty-headed fool. In her head, she heard the margrave’s voice. By gods, if he found out what she was doing--

Zuzanna didn’t even want to think about it.

She knew where Baily was, at least in the broad sense of things-- the margrave had a city map pinned to the wall of his study-- but halfway there, it dawned on Zuzia that she’d never actually been there before. It had never been more than a name for her, a series of quill-strokes on a massive piece of parchment. Even the city guard often hesitated to police its streets, let alone the margrave’s heir. Hell, Zuzia would have even doubted Izydor had been, and he’d been in charge of the province for nearly twenty years.

Inside the ghetto’s bounds, Zuzanna could feel the eyes of all the blanks she passed latching on to her like magnets, and it was as she progressed deeper into Baily’s warren-like maze of streets that it occurred to Zuzia what was probably the single stupidest thing about her plan: she had no idea where Phyllo lived. Baily was massive-- a festering morass of tenements and tent-houses, alleyways and apartment blocks. She knew Phyllo had a collar, but she wasn’t his owner, and so she hardly had his trigger-stone on hand to summon him. It was like finding a specific shard of glass from amongst an entire shelf-- an entire shop-- of shattered vases.

She was about to give up, and abort her reckless scrap of a plan-- or did it really count as a plan, since she’d thought nothing through beyond ‘go to Baily’?-- when something caught her eye up ahead on the road. Or, more particularly, someone.

A girl. Not much older than Anastazja, although where Zuzia’s birth sister practically exuded cheer like the sun does light, the look painted across this child’s face was grim. Sullen. Unlike many of the blanks Zuzia had hurried past, she was at least well-fed-- her cheeks round, if pale-- but the white mark on her forehead made her status clear nevertheless.

It was not, however, the blank brand that drew Zuzanna’s attention, but the other marks the child wore: beneath her left eye, a rust-orange slash with three droplets beading from it; beneath her right, next to the blue triangle that confined her to the ghetto streets, a garnet-red, winged blood drop.

And then there were robes. Black-and-silver. The holy colours.

Zuzanna froze in place. “Excuse me?” she blurted, before she could stop herself. “Do you-- do you have a moment, honey?”

The young girl tensed, glancing around to see who’d called out. When she spotted Zuzanna- face unblemished by brands, wand holster at her hip- the girl immediately went dead white and gave a deep bow. “Madam, what do you need?”

“I’m… looking for someone,” Zuzia said. “A boy. His name’s Phyllo, he’s… a bleeder like you. And he’s got the same owner’s brand as you have.” She hesitated. “Do you know him? And… where he might be?”

The girl nodded, not rising from her bent-back position. “I know where he lives, Madam. He lives in the same tenement as I do. But… he can’t work, he’s off the rental roster. If you needed a bleeder, I could take you to my master, and he could talk to you about others?”

“No, that’s alright,” Zuzanna said quickly. “I don’t need a bleeder, sweetheart. I just-- he’s… off the roster? Do you know why? I’m-- um, I work for the bakery that he’s been doing errands for. We’ve been wondering about him. He hasn’t shown up in a while.”

“Oh.” The girl gave an apologetic smile, her face a mask of fear. “He’s sick Madam. Last week he was rented out to a mage who had some stuff to do. A f-four day contract. Magical, not religious. The spells were really big ones. He just got back yesterday, but he was out cold and he hasn’t woken up.”

Zuzia’s heart lurched. “Out cold? For a day?” She was no healer, but even the triplets, at seven, would have known that such a thing was very, very bad. “Has-- has your master gotten him blood replenishing potions, or…?”

The child shook her head. “No, Master Jozef says that the healers charge a kingdom’s ransom for the potions if they know a buyer deals in bleeders and he doesn’t wanna get fleeced.”

“Of course he does.” Zuzanna winced.

The margrave’s heir knew she now had her answer. A reason that Phyllo had not come around the bakery: he’d been busy in preparation for his latest bleeding, and then consumed by it. She ought turn around now. Leave. Scamper back to the Stareks’ and pretend she’d never left at all.

But the thought of just leaving-- of heading back to safety as Phyllo lay unconscious in some tenement perhaps a few dozen yard away--

“Could you take me to him, sweetie?” she asked the girl. “I’d like to see him. If it’s alright.”

The girl seemed hesitant, but gave a reluctant nod. “Okay. It’s this way.”

She led Zuzia a block down the street, then turned a corner to arrive at a shabby, run-down tenement. The girl pulled out a small key, opened the door, and beckoned the archmage inside. The occupants, all blanks in church colors, looked up and stared suspiciously at Zuzia, though as their eyes flicked to her wand they seemed to know better than to try to challenge her.

“She wants to see Phyllo,” the child explained. “She says she works at the bakery he gets money at.”

One of the other bleeders, an adult woman, sighed and pointed to a staircase off the main room. “Up there. Though he’s not much for conversation right now. Apparently the mage who was bleeding him was careless and bled him dry.”

Zuzanna needed no other prompting, swallowing hard as she began up the rickety staircase, the little girl beginning as if to trail after her before one of the other bleeders called out for her to stay put and “leave the mage alone, Sylwia”. The mage. The blank. Sometimes, Zuzanna hated such titles. These classes people were so starkly divided into, contained by them like vises without any chance of ever breaking free.

The landing upstairs was dim, and the floor sagged underfoot. Padding down the narrow hall, the first small room Zuzia peered into was empty, but in the second she needed only one brief glance before her heart leapt into her throat.

Phyllo.

The boy lay on a wooden pallet, naked from the waist up. For the first time that Zuzia could recall, he wore not his raiment robes, but a simple pair of trousers, wool and caked with dirt. His left arm, pulled tight to his body, was riddled with shoddily healed cuts, the previously existing scar tissue freshly inflamed.

“Phyllo.” She took a step inside, her voice soft as smoke. “Phyllo, can you hear me?” When he gave no reply, she dared edge in further, creeping toward his side before she dropped down to her knees to stoop over him. “Phyllo?” she said again.

Still nothing.

Zuzia swore.

His chest was rising and falling in shallow if steady heaves, and so he was clearly still alive, but he otherwise he gave no other signs of being cognizant as Zuzia slowly drew her wand from her belt. Blood loss. That was what the other bleeders had indicated, and it would make sense. But… as she studied him, Zuzia faltered. His skin was not ashen, as it had been at the solstice feast. Not like what you’d expect from a boy who’d spent the past day unconscious from losing too much blood.

Tentatively, she pointed her wand at the hollow of his throat, the metal tip just barely grazing the skin above his collar as she whispered: “Ukzac.”

And in another moment, Zuzanna Gorski was entirely sure this was no illness of blood loss.

A web of runes hovered above his body, revealing themselves to her like a treasure chest unburied from the sand. Spells. Dark spells-- gods, these were dark spells, the kinds of spells you needed a writ to cast if you weren’t a member of the nobility. But why would someone have inflicted these on Phyllo? Why--

It didn’t matter. She could figure that out later. But for now, at least, she had an answer as to why Phyllo lay unconscious on this floor: this combination of spellwork was far too much for one person’s body to bear. Dozens of tiny papercuts laced together until they’d created a gushing wound. A wound that would kill him, if it weren’t deftly unknotted-- and soon.

It was beyond cruel, and anger blistered in Zuzia as she hissed another incantation beneath her breath. But as gruesome as it was, it was also fixable. Maybe not for a run-of-the-mill mage-- or even his formidable brother-- but for Zuzanna… the pride of the province… the archmage heir of the margrave of Daire, who’d had an education paralleled by none else…

She slipped into a near-trance as she worked, her wand but another limb, an extension of the potent magic that hummed in her so brightly. Teasing the runes apart was like a puzzle, complicated as any she’d ever worked through before-- in her lessons or otherwise-- and it was nearly an hour later that she managed to slash apart the last of the chain. Immediately, as if he’d been slapped, Phyllo’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused as they lurched frantically about the room.

“Shh, hey--” She set a hand on his arm. “Phyllo. You’re okay. You’re alright, I promise.”

“Whaa-” he winced, putting his uninjured arm to his chest. “Burning… It was burning…”

“I know.” Gulping, she reholstered her wand. “But you’re alright now, Phyllo. I fixed what was wrong. All that was wrong.” She hesitated. “Do you-- do you know where you are right now?” A beat. “Who you are? Who… I am?”

He didn’t answer at first, confusion in his transforming into panic. He tried to push himself upright, but gave a sharp cry of pain as his lacerated arm protested, and biting down on her tongue, Zuzia helped to steady him.

“Shh, you’re okay,” she soothed. “Just take it slow, okay?”

He moaned, cradling his mutilated arm to his chest. He glanced at the girl kneeling beside him, and finally a light of sense seemed to come into his eyes. “Zu… Zuzia? What…” He shook his head. “Hard to think…”

“You’ve been out awhile,” she said softly. “And you had some… seriously damaging spells cast on you. You’re probably not going to feel so great for a bit. Not until you eat or drink.” She set a hand on his cheek; it was colder than she would have liked. “D-do you remember what happened? Before you… ended up like that?”

He was shivering hard in spite of the balmy spring weather. His grey eyes clouded as he tried to force his muddled thoughts into something coherent. “Mage. I think? Wanted me for spells. He… he said it wouldn’t be polite to drag me through the pain of the bleeding for days. So he was going to… put me in some sort of trance, he said. So I could last longer without food or water.”

This was all sorts of illegal-- and given the kinds of runes she’d just waded through, Zuzia strongly suspected the mage had not put Phyllo out for only reasons of mercy. No: if he was willing to use illegal curses, then whatever blood art he was dabbling in had to be on the wrong side of the law, too. And so he’d not put Phyllo out to be kind, but to incapacitate the only witness to his crime. Except he had badly overcompensated in the process, layering blackout spell upon sensory depriver upon stasis curse, until soon he’d nearly drowned Phyllo beneath the weight of the magic.

“And then,” Zuzia guessed aloud, “he got in over his head. And he couldn’t figure out how to bloody wake you up. So he was just going to pretend you bled too much. Hoping that no one would figure it out.” And if it hadn’t been for her, nobody would have. Phyllo would have lingered for another day or two before dying, and his master would have written it off as blood loss, and that would have been that.

Zuzanna wanted to throw up. Phyllo, however, seemed to be more focused on her than on his own lingering pain.

“This is the tenement I live in,” he said. “In the Baily. You… how did you get here? How did you even know I was in some- ugh!” He bent double as pain surged in his chest again, but after a short cough he continued, “How’d you know I was in trouble?”

“The Stareks said you hadn’t shown up in a while. Even though you’d promised you would.” Almost instinctively, as she might if it were one of the triplets sputtering, she moved her hand to his back, rubbing it. “It didn’t sound right to me. I was worried. And so I came to the ghetto, and thank the gods, I crossed paths with another of your master’s blanks. She brought me to you.”

Phyllo looked up at her, his mouth hanging open. “You… you came out here on your own to find me? It’s… it’s dangerous, you could’ve been hurt. Woo, I- er, I, I mean gods, I-” he covered his face.

“Deep breaths,” she urged him. “It’s okay. But-- yes, I did come to find you. I was afraid something bad had happened to you.” Grimly, she finished, “And… I guess I was right to worry, huh?”

“It felt like my blood was boiling,” he muttered by way of agreement. “That’s all I remember. Like liquid fire every time my heart beat.” His breath shuddered. “My… my master would’ve just let me die. Anyone would’ve just let me die. In pain. Horrible pain. And…” his voice hitched. “You c-could’ve gotten hurt, because of m-me…”

Vaguely, it occurred to Zuzia that she was hardly out of danger yet. She still had to walk all the way back to the bakery-- and, gods, how long had she spent breaking apart the rune chain? What if Izabella or Aleksy had already returned… or worse, the margrave’s knight? The former finding her would be thorny. The latter? She ached just at the thought of it.

But Zuzanna knew that Phyllo was hardly in a state for additional worry. And that her problems were miniscule compared to his. “I care about you, Phyllo,” she whispered to him. “When I saw you unconscious, I… I had to try. And I’m so glad you’re okay. So, so glad.”

The young man’s shoulders slumped, and a moment later it became clear from the soft, choked wheeze that he gave voice to that Phyllo was crying. Just like he’d been, all those years ago when Zuzia saw him for the first time. Hoarsely he said, “When… when I was being bled, that time when I was ten. When you looked at me, I… I was just an ignorant desperate kid. I saw you looking at me, and I asked for your help. I asked if you would save me. I gave up hope thinking anyone ever would, a long time ago. But… but you did. You did.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you back t-then,” Zuzanna said. “But… I’ll do my best now, okay? Whatever I can. Y-you’re a nice person, Phyllo. A good person. You don’t deserve to be in pain. T-to be left for dead. You don’t. And… any gods that would approve of that…” Her eyes met his. “You can’t tell the Stareks. When you see them again. If they knew I was here…”

“I won’t,” he rasped. “I promise.” He laughed quietly, his grey eyes soft and warm as he looked up into hers. “I’d be a right prat to get you in trouble when you saved my life, Zuzia.”

She couldn’t help but smile back at him. “You’re right, you would be.” But the girl quickly sobered. “I’ve… I’ve been gone a long time. Are you-- alright? If I… go, for now?”

“I think so,” he said. “My head feels like someone used it for a drum, but like you said that’s probably from not eating or drinking for however long. I should be able to manage.” He hesitated, then put his dark hand over her pale one. “Be safe, alright?”

“I will be,” she promised. “And… you be safe, too, okay? Stay hydrated. And eat, even if you’re feeling nauseous.” She considered for a moment. “You might want to tell the other bleeders not to tell your master about me. It’ll just raise… problems. For both of us. Easier for him to think you came through after fighting off blood loss.”

“You don’t last long in the Baily without learning when to keep your head down and your mouth shut,” he remarked. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Your secret is safe with us, Zuzia, I swear it.”

“Thank you.” Dropping her hand from his, she smiled at him-- before, as she started toward her feet, she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his cheek. It was only a peck, but she lingered for a moment, her voice tender when she finally pulled away and said, “Take care of yourself, Phyllo, alright?”

Phyllo’s throat caught, and he felt heat surge into his previously chill face. His heart was hammering wildly as he locked eyes with the margrave’s daughter. He gave a shy smile, and nodded. “You too, agapité mou fíle.”

Standing now, she cocked her head at him. “What’s that mean?”

“It’s Valzick. Roughly translated, it means, ‘my beloved friend.’”

Her smile grew. “Valzick is a pretty language. You’ll have to teach me sometime, my beloved friend.”

And with that, the margrave’s daughter turned and padded out the door.

Chapter Four:

SPOILER: Click to show

The bakery was unlocked when Zuzanna returned-- which she knew could only mean one thing: Aleksy or Izabella was back. The girl’s brief euphoria at saving Phyllo vanished like smoke as she slipped back inside, Zuzia then putting every ounce of her fibbing skills to work as she stammered to her birth mother, who waited inside, that the margrave had recently granted her permission to walk parts of the city by herself.

“You… can even ask him yourself,” Zuzia insisted, forcing herself to meet Izabella’s doubtful gaze. “The next time he accompanies me. He’ll tell you that it’s okay.”

At this, Izabella backed off, but the look of skepticism that still lingered on her face let Zuzanna know full well that her birth mother would be taking her up on that offer-- which, of course, presented an entirely new problem: she didn’t actually have the margrave’s permission. And unless she somehow obtained it before the next time he joined her at the bakery, which still sometimes happened when he had other business nearby in town, everything would fall apart, crumbling like a sandcastle against a rising tide. Even if the margrave didn’t know where she’d gone-- and how could he?-- Zuzia had no doubt that she’d be punished severely for merely wandering at all. He’d probably never let her see the Stareks again. Ever.

She didn’t have much time to waste.

That night, after the triplets fell asleep, her heart beat in her throat as she ascended the winding metal staircase that led to the margrave’s private study, which was perched high up in the family tower of the Iron Castle and overlooked the garrisoned troops’ training grounds. Izydor always kept the door closed, and Zuzanna heaved a jagged breath as she raised her hand to knock, her knuckles rapping hollowly against the wood.

“Father?” she called. “May I come in?”

Izydor, his voice carrying a note of surprise, replied, “Certainly. What do you need, Zuzia?”

“I just… wanted to talk to you about something,” she said, pushing open the door. Inside, it smelled of leather and ink, the margrave’s stately maple desk spread with an orderly fan of parchment and scrolls. From the looks of the seal at the top of the sheaf in front of him, he was presently poring over the quarterly tax bill for one of his barons, who had a history of late payment so lengthy that all further lapses were now immediately escalated beyond his direct superior, one of Daire’s counts, to the margrave himself. “He trying to cut corners again, Father?” the girl asked lightly, taking the seat across from him.

Izydor snorted. “He seems to think I’m bluffing when I say that if I don’t get the full due by autumn that I’m bringing his mother and wife here as collateral on his making good. Says that the lady has a newborn at her chest. I say we can just as well provide for the babe here as there. Better, if he’s so hard up he can’t scrounge up his taxes.”

Zuzanna raised a dark brow. “Well… hopefully he’ll pay before then,” she said. “I don’t think the triplets would much like to share their nurses with a debtor’s squalling baby. They already whine and claw at each other enough. Jealous as dogs, I swear.”

“Time will tell,” Izydor remarked. Setting the parchment aside and giving his adoptive daughter a knowing smile, he added, “But you didn’t come knocking well after nightfall to talk about tax collecting. And you’re only evasive when you want something. Out with it, my dear, what are you wheedling towards?”

Zuzanna inhaled deeply, not daring to let him see the anxiety that coursed through her. He had to think this was a neutral request. Borne of a desire for more freedom, not to cover her tracks. She had to be polite, not beseeching. Make a logical case, rather than stridently beg him.

“Well,” she started, “I… I’ve been going to see the Stareks without you for about six months now, Father. And I’ve been enjoying it quite a lot. And I’m very, very grateful that you’re allowing me the privilege.”

The margrave chuckled softly. “I’m glad to hear it. You’ve made excellent progress in your studies so you’ve earned a reward.” He made a beckoning gesture. “Go on.”

“I’ve just been thinking recently,” Zuzia continued. “About how much of an… ordeal, it is, I guess. Pulling a knight away from his or her usual duties to escort me both ways can be complicated. And sometimes it means I’m barely there before I have to be picked up again. And… well, as you said, I’ve been making excellent progress in my studies. All my classes. Including self-defense.”

Izydor steepled his hands, leaning against the desk. “I see. You wish freedom of the city unescorted, is that it?”

“Yes.” Zuzia nodded, still fighting to maintain the level look of composure on her face. “I know the city well enough. And I believe that I’ve got enough training to defend myself if something were to happen. Plus, that way, my… relationship… with the Stareks wouldn’t be a burden on anybody. I could deal with it myself, Father. Since, as you’ve said before, it’s… only a personal matter. Not a matter of state.” She made herself meet the margrave’s gaze straight on. “They’re only bakers, after all.”

He smiled. “And in six short months you come fully of age. I suppose it was only a matter of time before you started trying to buck the lead reins and take your proper place at the head of the herd.” He spread his hands wide. “Very well. You have not abused the freedom I’ve given you so far, and I trust you to know when a situation is over your head and flee to the proper authorities. Just stay out of the less savory parts of town- the neighborhood of the bakery being excepted, of course.”

“Right. I wouldn’t want to put myself in unnecessary danger.” The relief that flooded her was like a tidal wave. “I-- thank you, Father. I… I appreciate it.” She gave the margrave a smile, genuine if not for the reasons he thought that it was. “Are there any other rules I should follow? When I’m out?”

“Let myself or one of our advisors known when you intend to go out,” he said. “So we don’t go looking for you and panic when you’re nowhere to be found. Limit your excursions; no more than twice a week, I do need you here for your studies after all. Be back before sunset.” Thoughtfully he added, “And perhaps you should bring an enchanted two-way object along with you for communication purposes. In case I need to call you back, or you stumble upon a situation that requires intervention and wish to report it.”

Zuzia nodded. “Okay. I can follow that.” Reaching across the desk, she squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Father.” She paused. “I… I love you.”

“And I you, Zuzia,” he replied, squeezing back. He laughed suddenly. “I might still accompany you on occasion though. Next week I need to perform an inspection of the guardhouse in that district, so I may as well come along with you when you go to visit.”

Zuzanna did not dare betray the ice that filled her veins. Next week. Gods, if this conversation hadn’t gone well… “Of course,” she said, drawing her hand away. “Maybe you can buy the triplets some sweet rolls.” She made herself smirk. “Only two, though. We can watch the scamps duel over them. It’ll be fun. I put my money on Gabrijela to win.”

“Only if you are the one who then heals their bruises and repairs the damaged furniture,” Izydor retorted with a smirk of his own. “I’m tired of listening to their nursemaids complain about it.”

***

It was a little over a week before Phyllo had recovered sufficiently to again make a visit to the bakery. He was painfully weak from not eating or drinking while under the stasis curse, and occasionally still had attacks of that awful burning sensation for the first several days after waking. Even once he was strong enough to get up and walk around, he kept having terrifying dizzy spells that left his eyes blurry and his ears muffled for a minute or two afterwards. The dark magic had done a number on his body, and he was slow to recuperate.

But in that time he’d done a very great deal of thinking.

Of one thing he was certain- he cared about and trusted Zuzia more than he had anyone since his family’s slaughter. She had done more than give him a kind word when their paths crossed; she’d saved his life, at great risk to her own. ‘Pit, she hadn’t even known for certain his life was in danger, but she had cared about him enough to risk checking anyway.

And then… there was the kiss. A platonic kiss, one that would not have been out of place coming from a close sister. But the emotions that hit Phyllo’s brain when he thought back to it, the way his pulse quickened and his stomach fluttered, he knew that platonic was not how he’d felt about it.

I am such an idiot. Such a blithering idiot, he thought desperately. She’s the margrave’s heir! She’s an archmage! And I’m a blank, forbidden relationships with mages. ‘Pit, as a bleeder I’m obligated to be chaste and celibate, I can’t even have relationships with other blanks!

These thoughts chased themselves in circles around his brain as he tried to come to some sort of grips with them and failed utterly. Rationally he knew that he should probably avoid the bakery from now on. Put in a resignation, cut off from Zuzia before he got into trouble.

But instead he found himself trudging up to the bakery, hoping against hope that Zuzia would be there when he arrived and simultaneously hoping she was not.

She was, the girl sitting at one of the birchwood tables, gnawing on a slice of bread as young Anastazja sat across from her, practicing patterning spells on a teacup.

“Slow down, Azja,” Zuzanna was saying. “Stop flicking your wrist so fast-- you’re trying to put it on patterns, not have your wand slip and shatter it. Here--” Not looking up as the bell jangled, she pulled out her own wand and muttered an incantation beneath her breath; immediately, the teacup began to laze through a rainbow of colours, shifting back and forth between a spectrum of shades. “See? Slowly. Now you try.”

With that, Zuzia lifted her eyes from the table-- and smiled broadly when she saw Phyllo standing near the door, looking mountains better than the last time she’d seen him.

“Hello,” she said, setting the bread down and standing. “It’s good to see you, Phyllo. How are you today?”

“You’ve been gone forever,” Anastazja put in. “Papa thought you died.”

“I, uh…” Phyllo, who’d been returning Zuzia’s smile with a shy one of his own, winced a little at this remark. “I was sick,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

“Well don’t get your germs on the bread,” the child retorted. She grinned suddenly. “Zuzia’s papa came to the shop the other day. Didja know he’s the margrave? He paid us with a silver crown!”

The blank paled, his eyes shooting down to his feet, as Zuzanna leveled Anastazja a withering glare. “Go play in the back, Azja,” she said. “Or-- not play. Weren’t you supposed to sweep before your parents got back? I haven’t seen you touch a broom. And don’t try to spell the dirt away, you haven’t nearly enough control.” She sighed. “I’ll show you more patterning spells later, okay? Remind me.”

The girl puffed out her cheeks. “Sweeping is stupid. I don’t care if Papa says it’s a waste of magic, why can’t we just spell the shop clean? We’re not blanks.”

Zuzanna cringed on Phyllo’s behalf. “Are you sassing me, Azja? Do you think your parents would be glad to hear that?” She pointed at the backroom door, insistent. “Go. Or I’ll tell them you were slacking on your chores and being lippy.”

Anastazja gave another petulant whine, but stood from her chair and sulked out to the back of the shop. Phyllo, his gaze fixed firmly on his feet, murmured softly, “I expected to be doing that, you know. Sweeping. Dusting. Cleaning dishes. I never expected the Stareks to trust me with something like deliveries. Carrying food and money.”

Zuzia sat again, gesturing for the boy to join her. “They’re good people,” she said, tracing a finger along the ceramic of the still-shifting teacup. “In over their heads a lot, I think, but good people. Who can’t afford any-- I hate to say it this way, but proper help, I guess. They haven’t any employees on payroll. Just Azja. And she’s too little to do much. I wouldn’t trust her with a paring knife, let alone a blazing oven or a ten-crown delivery.”

Phyllo couldn’t help but wince. As he sat down, he murmured, “You… when you were talking to her, you talked about her parents. Does she not…”

“No,” Zuzia said. “She doesn’t. She thinks I’m just… just…” The girl laughed hollowly. “The margrave’s heir who has an interest in baking, I guess. She’s too small to question it much. I think they mean to tell her when she’s older. Once she can understand more. And won’t be afraid that someone’s going to just come and take her, too. Like happened to me.”

The blank gave his friend a look full of sympathy. “I’m… I’m sorry.” He hesitated a beat, then, his heart knocking hard against his ribcage, put a hand over Zuzia’s. “I… sort of understand, if it’s any consolation. I had a sister too, before. She was… only eight months old.”

“That must be torture.” Zuzia shuddered. “Not knowing what happened to her.” She knew her father’s men wouldn’t have taken an infant, but on the off chance the child had magic in her blood, they’d not have killed her either. But if the rest of her family was taken or dead… “Hopefully she’s okay,” the girl added after a moment. “I’m sure someone took her in. That they’re caring for her, Phyllo. That she’s okay.”

“I hope so,” he agreed. “I’ll never know for certain, but I dearly hope so.” He cleared his throat. “Though, ah, weren’t there also some children at the table with you and the margrave? I think I remember seeing them anyway.”

“The triplets.” Zuzanna nodded. “They’re seven. Little terrors. I love them to pieces, but it’s like having a pack of puppies that all feed off each other’s terrible ideas. And my father insists they be allowed to carry their wands because no child of his can be seen without one, of course.” She rolled her eyes. “I swear, the next time Gabrijela tries to wake me up with a gods-cursed sparking spell, I’m throwing her out the Iron Castle’s highest keep.”

Phyllo snorted softly. “Sounds exciting, if nothing else. And I thought Anastazja gave the Stareks a hard time. Just wait until those boys are a little older, they’ll be each other’s accomplices in flirting with pretty girls.”

Realizing what he’d just said, Phyllo’s eyes widened and he coughed, his face heating up. “That is to say, erm…”

Zuzia laughed. “Oh, I wouldn’t doubt it. If they’ve the chance, anyway. My ever-enterprising father’s already got his eye on the margrave of Lyse’s heir-- she’s only a couple years older than the monsters. They’ll have to earnestly compete for her hand, I guess.”

“Ah, is that right?” the blank glanced away, his voice oddly strangled as he went on, “And I suppose if he’s planning that far ahead for seven year olds, he probably already has someone in mind for your hand?”

He reflected that it would be easy, in a way, if that were the case. It would hurt, but at least he’d have a solid wall to set against the dangerous, traitorous emotions fluttering in his gut.

Zuzanna, however, only wilted, visibly drooping in the chair. “I don’t know,” she said, averting her gaze. “He… talks a lot. The emperor’s wife has this nephew. Henryk. He’s…” The archmage shrugged. “I only met him once. At the imperial court, when I was ten.” She faltered. “He scared me.”

Phyllo looked down. “I’m… I’m sorry.” He gave a tremulous smile. “I guess in some ways you don’t have much more choice in the matter than I do. Bleeders are… supposed to stay pure. Most blanks can have families but not us.” He swallowed thickly. “Not us.”

“I don’t even know if I’d want a family,” Zuzanna admitted. “It scares me more than Henryk does. The idea of what would happen if my child… well, if he was a blank.” She bit her lip. “Can you keep a secret, Phyllo?”

“Of course,” he said instantly.

“That’s what happened to Tamsin,” the girl whispered. “Princess Tamsin. The imperial court’s official story is that she had an accident. Fell from a horse. But… my father… him and the emperor, they’re…” She let out an anguished sigh. “They share a set of grandparents. They’re cousins. The emperor, my father, and the margrave of Inbar-- they’re all cousins. And… they’re close, I guess. They talk.” She shut her eyes briefly, then opened them again. “Tamsin was a blank. And now there is no Tamsin.”

Phyllo’s face went as ashen as it had been the night of the solstice. “Oh… I… I can see why that would scare you.” Impulsively, he reached out a hand to her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “I… I’d always known blank children were removed from their families but I didn’t think… I’m so, so sorry Zuzia.”

She leaned into his grip, her cheeks drawn in. “If a baker has a blank, he’s removed from their custody,” she said softly. “If an emperor-- a margrave-- has a blank…” She left the unsaid words implicit. “I come of age in less than six months. Henryk’s already seventeen. But… he’s moving nowhere fast. He’s extremely powerful, yes, but the emperor’s fond of him. Raised him in the court as a prince, pretty much, and so wouldn’t let him marry just anyone. I think he’s basically earmarked for me.” She gulped. “I’m hoping I can talk my father into delaying things. Just… for a while. Until I’m a bit older. He’s all about practicality, so I think I can convince him if I play up the ‘I want to focus on training’ angle. Hard for an archmage to train if she’s distracted by a new husband, and well… what comes with that.”

“Y-yeah, I imagine so,” Phyllo said. “Though for what it’s worth, any man who marries you should count himself lucky. You’re kind, smart, brave, beautiful…”

Zuzanna’s cheeks flushed, but bitterness laced her tone as she finished for him, “And I’m an archmage. Just think of all the potentially powerful babies Henryk and I can make for the empire.” She looked at Phyllo again, studying his face. “Just imagine,” she said softly. “Some other life. Some other kingdom. Where we’d both just met as bakers’ children. And there was none of this… madness hanging over both of our heads. Wouldn’t that have been nice, Phyllo?”

He gave a very soft, sad smile. The hand that was still resting on her shoulder gave it a gentle squeeze. “Yeah. I think it would have. The cosmetics are nice, but I bet you’d look just as lovely with flour smeared across your nose.”

“I think I’d prefer it, really,” the girl admitted. “Being a baker, not a margrave. Having nothing to worry about but bread. Everyone says I’m so lucky. That being an archmage is a blessing, an honour, a gift from the gods. But sometimes?” She glanced toward the backroom door. “A lot of the time, really,” she amended, “I envy Anastazja. She can barely even cast a patterning spell, but… she’s happy. She’s loved. And she doesn’t have every eye in the bloody province turned toward her. Expectant. Demanding.”

“I imagine the Stareks love you for yourself and not your rank or powers too,” Phyllo pointed out. “And at least they can give you… an illusion of normalcy. Just for a little.” He withdrew his hand, studying the grain of the wood table. “And… and I care about you too. Not because of your archmagery or whose heir you are, but because you’re a good person. A good friend.”

“Thank you, Phyllo,” Zuzanna murmured. “You’re a good friend, too. And… I really am glad to see you okay. Just thinking of what would have happened to you if I’d not come that day…”

“I’d be dead now,” he said softly. “After lingering in agony. But I’m not, and it’s thanks to you.”

“I’ve been... thinking about that, by the way,” Zuzia said. “How it was just luck that I found you. And that scares me, Phyllo. If something happened to you again, I might not be so lucky.” She bit her lip. “Would you… want me to enchant something? A two-way set of objects-- you have one, I have one. And we could send signals to each other. Sort of like your owner does with your collar. But I could spell them more complicated than that. So we have a whole list of signals, not just one or two. And they could mean different things. Like-- maybe setting it warm would mean a plan to be at the bakery the next day. Setting it cold, though, means… something came up. We could almost talk with it, sort of. And I could bewitch yours to respond to different touches. Motions. Taps, and swipes, and… stuff like that.”

The blank looked surprised at this, but after a moment he nodded. “It would be nice to be able to talk without stolen moments here and there while the Stareks aren’t around… but wait, you’re not allowed outside the bakery, are you? You took a huge risk coming to find me the other day at all.”

Here, Zuzanna grinned. “I took care of that. To save my own hide, really but-- I’m allowed out on my own now. Only in certain neighbourhoods, but… it’s kind of on the honour system. My father trusts me.” She considered. “We could meet. Somewhere else. Just because I tell my father I’m coming here doesn’t mean I have to. We’d have to be careful, of course, not to be seen together-- I hardly want the city guard stopping us and running an inquisition as to why a thirteen-year-old mage girl is wandering about with a bleeder-- and if they found out who I was and reported it back to my father, he would never let me out of the Iron Castle again. But if we found someplace private…”

“I don’t really know of anywhere outside the Baily that would work,” Phyllo admitted. “The blanks won’t question a mage’s presence- like I said before, they know when to keep their heads down and their mouths shut. But it’s… not exactly safe. No one bothers me because I’m a bleeder, and so valuable, and so there would be massive consequences if harm came to me. But…”

“I’m an archmage, Phyllo,” Zuzanna said wryly. “I think I can defend myself against a blank mugger. The city guard might be more problematic, but… their presence is thin there. If I’m careful, I can avoid them.” She cocked her head. “Do you know anyplace in the Baily we could meet? Not your house-- we don’t want to pique the curiosity of your owner’s other bleeders more than we already have-- but… somewhere else private?”

“It’s not exactly hard up for abandoned and derelict buildings,” Phyllo remarked dryly. “Even as badly overcrowded as it is at times.” He was silent for a moment, then finally said, “There’s a church. Had a fire about four years back and while the structure is sound most of the interiors were wrecked. Considering few of the blanks attended services anyway it wasn’t deemed worth repairing. It’s not very big, and anything of value that wasn’t destroyed has been looted, but… it’s secluded. Some of the pews might still be in there to sit.”

“It sounds perfect.” Zuzanna beamed. “I’ll get something spelled for you by next time we cross paths here, and you can tell me where the church is. And then we can use the bespelled objects to set up our first meeting there.” Growing excited now, like a glutton in a banquet hall, she prattled on, “I could even add colour shifts, too. Subtle ones, so no one else would notice it going from bright green to bright purple, but still enough for us to notice, and…” She cut herself off. “Sorry, I’m babbling. I just… like projects. Using my magic for fun things, and not for… for…”

He gave a thin smile. “I understand, it’s fine. It’s nice to see you sincerely excited about something. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.”

There was a click at the door to the back room, signalling Anastazja’s return. Phyllo fell silent, shooting his friend one last look that he hoped was comforting, before the small child began to imperiously demand that Zuzia show her more magic. With a sigh, Zuzanna obliged her, picking up the teacup as she stood from the table.

“We can practice more on this,” she told the little girl, before glancing back down at Phyllo. There was still warmth in the archmage’s eyes, but her voice took on the requisite formal air as she said to him, “I think the Stareks wanted you to deep clean the bigger oven today, if you came by. For a crown. You know how?”

“Yes, Madam,” Phyllo replied, dipping his head and sliding quickly out of the chair. “I’ll get started right away.”

***

Over the next two and a half months, using an enchanted pair of prayer bead bracelets to communicate, Phyllo and Zuzia began regularly supplementing their chance meetings at the bakery with private meetings at the abandoned church in the blank ghetto. These quiet meetings allowed them far more time and freedom to talk, and gradually their conversations took on an increase of deeper, more personal topics.

It wasn’t long before Zuzia learned about Phyllo’s lingering dizzy spells and sensory issues after the miscast curses that she’d broken. Once she did, the girl immediately set about trying to fix them-- but to no avail: the runes already broken, there was nothing tangible left for her to tackle. The remaining side effects were like scars, loitering there even once the injury had been tended, and no matter how much it frustrated Zuzanna, there was absolutely nothing she could do about them.

Phyllo learned to cope with the damage, as he’d learned to cope with everything else about his life that had become unpleasant since his arrival in Meltaim. But it was perhaps inevitable that there would be problems from it.

It was a warm day in mid June when he arrived, hunched and staggering, for one of his arranged meetings at the church. Though he’d long ago learned to school pain out of his expression, the dull, vacant cast of his eyes and the ginger way he walked made it clear that something was wrong despite his best efforts. Zuzanna, seated and waiting for him in one of the dusty chapel’s sagging pews, smiled as she heard his footsteps, rising to face him as she started:

“Phyllo! I’ve got the best news, I--” She paused, her voice dying in her throat as she saw the look he wore, and noticed his limp. “What’s wrong?” She rushed forward, toward him. “Are you okay?”

He winced, looking up into her eyes and letting the pain show in his face. Immediately obvious was that one of the line of brands under his right eye had changed- the blue square that gave him freedom to walk the city swapped for a blue triangle. Her eyes went wide as dinner plates, and she froze in front of him, her jaw gone slack.

“Phyllo.” She reached out, hesitantly, and touched his cheek. “What’s happened? Why do you have a triangle?”

“My master is angry with me, that’s why,” he muttered softly. “He’s confined me to the ghetto for the week. I was being bled in preparation to bless the site of a one of the upcoming midsummer ceremonies and I got hit with one of the dizzy spells. I staggered, and accidentally splashed blood on the officiating priest.”

Zuzanna winced. “Oh. I’m… I’m sorry.” Then something seemed to occur to her. “Your master didn’t hurt you, did he? Punish you beyond the triangle?”

The blank looked away, his mouth drawing on a thin line. He didn’t answer, but the silence, taken with the obvious pain in his eyes, was confirmation enough.

“What did he do, Phyllo?” Zuzanna asked softly. “Please. Tell me. I… I can fix it.”

“If you heal me, my master will notice,” he murmured. “He’ll ask questions.”

She thought of what her father did when the Gorskis’ blank servants badly misbehaved, and her throat went leaden. “Did he whip you, Phyllo?” she whispered.

“Yes,” the young man replied heavily. “He did. Fifteen lashes. And he’s not known for being gentle.”

“Oh, gods.” Zuzanna turned away for a moment, a hand pressed to her forehead, before looking back at Phyllo. “I’m so sorry. I… I wish I could help, that I…” She reached out, lacing her fingers through his. “Sit, at least. Let’s sit.” She steered him to the pew. “You must be in so much pain. I-- I’m sorry I had you walk all the way here, you could have canceled on me, I would have understood--”

He shook his head as she guided him towards the pew and he sat down. “I don’t care if it hurts, I wanted to come. Better at least to have something nice to look forward to instead of wallowing in my own misery.” He leaned forwards in the seat so as not to press his back against the wood of the pew, the muscles visibly twitching under his religious robes, and Zuzanna cringed again.

“I’m… glad I can at least help you that way,” she murmured, her hand still gripped in his. Leaning her cheek delicately against his arm, so that her long hair brushed against his sleeve, she added, “You don’t deserve to be hurt like that, Phyllo. Not ever. And especially not over something you didn’t do on purpose. That’s just… cruel.”

Phyllo shivered a bit, glancing at Zuzia. With her so close, he could smell the soap and perfume on her. Not myrrh or cinnamon, like he was generally made to wear, but something floral, sweet, like a meadow. Swallowing hard, he muttered, “It can’t be helped. As far as my master cares, I’m just an asset. A tool. A… a thing.” He laughed hollowly. “That’s all anyone sees me as.”

“You’re not a thing, Phyllo.” Still pressed against his arm, she turned her gaze up at him. “And your master… he’s… he’s just a prat, that’s what. I should find some way to make him pay. Let him see what it’s like to be hurt like that--”

The blank shook his head. “Not a good idea. He’s a law-abiding citizen of the city, and even if you tried to levy something at him, he has money enough to make a good fight out of it. And in the meantime he’ll be angry, and take it out on us.” He hesitantly reached around with his free arm, pulling the archmage into a hug. “You can’t fix this, or change it, or stop it. But… just stay with me a while? That’s enough.”

“Of course.” His face was very close to hers now. Inches, if that. She could feel the heat emanating off his skin. See the tired bags that underlined his eyes, and the sweat that glistened at his brow from the summer heat. “I would fix everything if I could,” she whispered.

“I know,” he murmured. He could feel himself quivering at her nearness. Almost timidly, he leaned down, so that his forehead pressed gently against hers. “You’re… amazing. Sometimes I think there’s nothing you couldn’t do if you wanted.”

“Thank you, Phyllo,” she breathed.

Tentatively, then, she brushed her lips toward his. Holding her breath as they came together, her heart thudding in her ears as Phyllo returned the gesture. His eyes slid closed, and he reached up the arm that had been holding Zuzia close so that his fingers slid through her chocolate curls. His kiss was gentle, tentative almost, but not as if he didn’t want it. More as if he were handling something so fragile and precious that he had to be careful not to break it.

It was only after nearly a minute that Zuzanna pulled back for breath, though her lips still hovered near his as she whispered, “This is so dangerous, Phyllo.”

“I know,” he said, his voice equally hushed. “Woo, I know. My common sense is screaming at me that I’m being a cursed idiot.” But despite the words, he didn’t pull away. If anything, the fingers of his hand that were still curled in hers squeezed tighter, as though he were terrified if he let go she’d vanish into mist.

“I… I want this,” Zuzanna told him, her voice cracking. “With you, I feel like I can… be myself, not what my father or anyone else wants me to be. And that’s something I’ve not had in… ever, Phyllo. Not since before the margrave adopted me. But…” The girl’s throat trembled. “I don’t want you to feel l-like you have to. If you don’t want to. And… I’d understand. Because if this ever got found out-- if my father found out…” She shut her eyes. “I don’t want lie to you, Phyllo. Or make you think that… it’d end up okay then, in any way. He would kill you. He wouldn’t even blink first.”

“You assume my life would be worth living otherwise,” he said, trembling hard. “Bitterness and loathing, Zuzanna. That’s all I’ve had to keep me going. To keep me sane. My whole life is lived sliding between terror and anger. But for the first time in a long time, I… I’m happy.” He kissed her, gently, on her cheek. “I want this too. I want you.”

She smiled, her cheeks red as roses-- before, abruptly, a far more tentative look washed over her face. “I didn’t tell you my news,” she said softly. “I… I thought it was good news, but now…”

He pulled away slightly, giving them a little space. “What is it?”

“My father.” She swallowed hard. “He agreed to delay any marriage for me by a year, so that I can focus on my studies. Until I’m fifteen, not fourteen. But…” She inhaled unsteadily. “H-his condition for doing so was to make it official. The betrothal. Between Count Henryk and me. We’re getting married on my fifteenth birthday. At the imperial palace, in Taika. T-the emperor’s going to throw a grand ball.”

Phyllo’s face fell. “I… I see. So you’re to be married in a little more than year.” He bit his lip. “We… we can’t ever really… be. Not in an official or recognized way. It would have to happen at some point.” He swallowed hard. “But if it’s inevitable anyway, m-maybe we should try to make the most of things as they are. At least have the memories to look back on.” Hurriedly he added, “If, if you want to I mean…”

“I want to,” Zuzanna agreed hurriedly. “More than anything. Henryk, he’s… I already told you, on the one occasion that I met him, he scared me. He’s… brusque. Loud. Full of himself.” She shuddered. “So… if I’m going to have to be married to the likes of him for the rest of my life once I’m fifteen, t-then at least I can experience something better first. I can have something that’s nice to cherish. Something I’m glad to to have had the chance to know at all, even if I miss it horribly once it’s gone.”

Phyllo gave a slow, gentle smile, his grey eyes full of warmth. “And here,” he joked softly, “I thought you were intelligent. Seems to me we’re both tremendous fools. But I’d rather be a happy fool than smart and miserable.”

“And I think,” Zuzanna agreed, “that we can be two very happy fools.”

Part Two
"Desperate Measures" - Begins April 1322

Chapter Five:

SPOILER: Click to show

It was the brisk spring season in the mountains of southern Meltaim, and in spite of all the misery, pain, and oppression that his life inhabited on a daily basis, the ritual bleeder named Phyllo was unabashedly happy.

It had been nine months now since he and Zuzanna Gorski, the archmage heir to Daire province, had begun their illicit romance. Against all the odds, they’d managed to keep their relationship a secret, and fostered it to the point where Phyllo knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that he wasn’t just infatuated with the sweet mage because she was the first person in nearly a decade to show him compassion. The more time Phyllo spent with her, the more he learned about her, the more convinced he became.

He loved her, with all of his heart.

And it was becoming increasingly clear that Zuzanna-- less than six months from her nuptials to Count Henryk Brzezicki, nephew of the emperor-- returned the sentiment. Her eyes lit up when she saw him, like an inferno blazing. Her cheeks went warm and scarlet. During her countless hours of lessons at the Iron Castle, she kept herself sane by tracing her fingers over the prayer bead bracelet she always wore now on her right arm-- the bracelet she’d enchanted the spring before to serve as a communicator between her and Phyllo, and of which she’d given him the matching link. Sometimes, when she was very wistful-- and her tutors very distracted-- she would press the tip of her wand against the beads, and shut her eyes, and whisper an incantation beneath her breath. And then she would smile to herself, warmed by the idea that somewhere across town, in the blank ghetto that Phyllo called home, his own bracelet was briefly thrumming like a heartbeat. I love you. I’m thinking about you.

Of all the signals they’d agreed upon, this was Zuzanna’s favorite.

***

“It’s a shame you weren’t there, Zuzu, I think you’d have enjoyed it,” Phyllo remarked with a smirk. “The bee landed on my hand, and I turned to offer to take it out of the shop and Anastazja just shrieked. Was begging for me not to get it near her, like it was a demon or something.”

Zuzanna, sitting on the rundown church pew that in some ways had begun to feel like her second home after all these months, snorted. Her cheek leaned against the bleeder’s shoulder, and her fingers twined through his in her lap, she said, “Oh, that girl would have a tizzy fit in the Iron Castle. Did you know one of the triplets caught a salamander the other day? Put it in my father’s study. None of them would rat on the others, so he sent them all to bed without supper. And now they’re only allowed outside if their nurses are with them. They’re despondent, the wretched little dears. They--” Her voice suddenly dropped away, and her face froze; her eyes, previously gazing straight ahead, jumped down to her dress pocket.

The blank frowned. “What’s the matter?” He followed the direction of her gaze and sighed- he knew what that pocket contained. “The margrave wants you back early?”

“Probably.” She frowned, pulling out the small runestone within. Its usual colour was a dull, glassy slate, and when her father wanted her home, it would vibrate and turn to a mossy green. Except-- “Oh, gods.” Zuzanna’s blue eyes widened as she gaped at it now. “It’s red. Godsdamnit.”

“Red?” Phyllo echoed, sitting up straight now with his brow furrowed. “What does that mean? Nothing good, I’m gathering.”

“Green means he wants me to start back home within the hour. Orange-- which he’s only used twice-- means I need to finish up what I’m doing and walk back now. Red?” She looked physically ill. “Red is basically his way of saying that if I don’t drop everything, turn on my heel, and flee home like a chased deer, he will never let me outside alone again.”

The blank shivered. “That… cannot be good. I guess it’s just as well, I have to help Sylwia prepare for her first bleed tonight, but…” He gently tilted her face towards his, and pressed his lips to hers. When he pulled away he murmured, “Whatever’s wrong, I hope it comes to nothing. Good luck, Zuzanna.”

“Thanks.” Sighing, she pulled out her wand and tapped it against the runestone to acknowledge the message’s receipt-- and to stop it from shaking. Then, as it stilled and slid back to its usual shade, she stood and dropped it into her pocket. “And good luck with Sylwia. That’s the little girl, right? The one who led me to you that day last spring, when I… helped you?”

“That’s her yes,” he replied. “Master Jozef thinks she’s come along well enough in her training to ‘actually pay him back all the money he’s sunk into her’ as he puts it.”

“Charming.” Zuzanna rolled her eyes. “Anyway-- I’ll see you as soon as I can, Phyllo. Hopefully Father’s just freaking over something small, and nothing’s wrong.” Taking a step toward the church doors, she glanced back over her shoulder. “I love you,” she added. “Always.”

From his place in the pews, where he would linger for at least a half hour to avoid anyone seeing them together, he gave her a wave and a warm smile. “I love you too, Zuzu. See you soon.”

***

The Iron Castle was in a disarray.

Harried blank servants scurried about the halls in what looked like a wild-eyed panic, and the first of her father’s personal guards whom Zuzanna came across after slipping into the castle’s private quarters took but one glimpse at her-- frizzy-haired and clad in an unadorned wool dress that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a commoner-- before huffing that the margrave wanted to see her in his study, now.

With a stone in her throat, she began ascending the series of winding staircases that led to her father’s office, all delusions she might have fostered back at the church of nothing being wrong shattering like a glass bursting against a tiled floor. On a landing halfway up the keep, she was intercepted by one of the triplets, the little girl, Gabrijela, clad in a tumbling dress of lavender silk, and her wand shifted from its usual plain leather holster into a delicate silver-chained sheath. Feast apparel.

Zuzanna froze. “Why are you dressed like that, myszka?” Little mouse-- a pet name the girl had earned as a toddler on account of her wiry hair and small stature. “We haven’t got a feast tonight.”

“Papa’s freaking out,” Gabrijela gravely informed her. “I’unno what’s happening, but he pulled us out of lessons right when we were getting to the fun spells. And told us we had to get dressed up.” The girl scowled. “And when the boys told him it wasn’t fair, and he should at least let ‘em finish with their casting first, he said he’d paddle ‘em if they didn’t listen right now.”

If Zuzanna’s gut had been chilly before, it suddenly went to ice. Beyond a thumped head here or a yanked ear there, the margrave rarely, if ever, struck his children--and especially not for the triplets merely being whiny. So if he was threatening to paddle the boys…

Dear gods, something was very, very wrong.

“Were you out in the city again?” Gabrijela asked after a moment. “You’ve got flour on your dress.” The girl prodded a splotch near Zuzia’s ribs.

“Yes. I was.” Zuzanna swallowed hard; she’d stopped by the bakery before going to the church to see Phyllo. “But I need to go talk to Father now, Gabi. And your hair’s not done, is it, myszka? Run back to the nursery. I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

With that, Zuzia continued up the stairs, the stone in her throat grown to a veritable boulder. Unlike usual, the door to the margrave’s office was propped open, and Zuzanna forced a deep breath before she stepped inside and cleared her throat. At once, her father, who was not seated at his desk but standing as he seemingly paced the length of the room, whirled to face her, his expression an odd mix of relief and near panic.

"Zuzanna, thanks be to all the gods," he exploded. "I was just about to send a squad out to find you! Of all the days, your hair is in rats and we haven't nearly enough time for you to wash up properly from the city before-" he cut himself off abruptly, pointing a stern finger back out the door. "Never mind, no help for it. Changed, hair fixed, best clothes on. Now."

“Why?” It took everything in Zuzanna to keep her voice from trembling. “What’s happening?”

“I just got word-” here he tapped a small wooden box on his desk, which was magically linked to all the guard posts along the city walls, “from one of our outriders patrolling the roads that the emperor is on his way. He was a few hours out from the city when I called you. He’s apparently decided to make surprise rounds to check on the progress of the gods’ campaigns.” Pointedly the margrave added, “Your intended is accompanying him.”

“My intended?” Zuzia echoed. Then it struck her: her intended. Henryk. “But--” she started, horror creeping over her anew. “I’m not ready to see Henryk!” Or the emperor, but in the face of her fiance, the most terrifying man in Meltaim seemed somehow less potent.

“You think either of us has any choice, Zuzanna?” Izydor demanded. “The emperor’s party isn’t going to just turn away at the door if we politely inform him we’re not prepared to entertain guests.” His voice unusually sharp, the margrave added, “You will behave with dignity befitting your station, and show the emperor that his decision to wed his favorite nephew to you is not misplaced. Do I make myself clear?”

Over the sound of the blood rushing through her ears, Zuzia could barely even hear the margrave; dully, she forced a nod. “Yes, Father.”

Zuzanna turned to leave, and within far too short a time, Izydor was gathering up the members of his family to stand ready at the entrance to the Iron Castle as the emperor’s party was escorted up through the gates. Spreading his arms with a warm, albeit rather fixed smile, the margrave of Daire called, “Your imperial majesty! Welcome to Pastora. You do us a tremendous honor with your presence.”

Stepping out of the magnificent carriage that had brought him-- and Henryk-- from Taika in the west, Emperor Sebellius grinned broadly. He was not a young man, but what he lacked in youth he made up for in finery: he wore an all-silver ensemble, from his tunic to his boots, that shimmered beneath the afternoon sun from what had to have been a breadth of glamours and enchantments. Broad rings, inlaid with gray-white pearls, studded his fingers, and his feathery ebony hair was secured away from his face with a claw-like metal clasp. It did not, Zuzanna thought, look at all comfortable.

“Izydor,” the emperor purred, his voice like silk. “It’s been too long, my cherished cousin! You’re looking well.” He glanced behind his shoulder, back into the carriage. “Henryk!” he crooned. “Come out already, child. You wouldn’t want your bride to think you’re procrastinating on remaking her acquaintance, no?”

“Certainly not, Uncle,” replied a voice from within. A tall, muscular young man stepped out into the light, his hair and a thin mustache as black as the emperor’s and his hand resting casually on an opal studded silver wand sheath. He nodded his head politely. “Margrave Gorski, always an honor.” Turning his attention to Zuzanna, he smiled broadly, “And if it isn’t the pride of Daire- my how you have come into your own.”

Curtseying stiffly, Zuzanna made herself smile. “Emperor Sebellius,” she greeted first, as was proper, before replying to Henryk: “It is a pleasure to see you, Count Henryk.”

Next to her, one of the triplets was staring straight at the emperor and his nephew, and if it hadn’t been even more improper than the child’s gaping, Zuzanna would have flicked him. Instead, she focused on her breathing, and keeping an impassive mask of cordiality painted across her face even as her insides slithered with anxiety-- and repulsion.

The emperor had called Henryk child, but the man standing before her now was most certainly nothing of the sort. Already four years older than her-- eighteen to her fourteen-- his height dwarfed hers, the emperor’s nephew at least two heads taller than she was, and his muscled frame rather made her think he could knock her over with a mere overenthusiastic pat. She imagined cuddling him, or kissing him-- like all the times she’d kissed Phyllo-- and could only barely refrain a whimper. It would be like kissing granite, cold and cut from the earth, not the soft embrace of Phyllo’s arms. His gentle lips. His tender hands.

“Let’s go inside,” the emperor chirruped, taking a confident step forward. He crooked his fingers at Henryk. “Be a gentleman, Henryk. Escort your lady.”

If Izydor was offended by the emperor inviting himself into the castle and taking total charge of the proceedings, he didn’t show it. He only smiled, his gaze turned inwards, and nodded as he beckoned his family and the imperial party inside. Henryk, at his uncle’s prompting, stepped towards Zuzanna with a broad, arrogant smile.

“My lady, if I may have your arm?” he said, holding out his elbow to the heir of Daire province.

She wanted more than anything to refuse him-- and knew that she absolutely couldn’t. “Of course,” she said, taking his arm. “You are very chivalrous, Count Henryk.”

“I certainly do my best to be,” he replied casually as they followed Izydor into the castle. “I should like to do well by my upbringing in the imperial court. It isn’t every day the gods bless our empire with an archmage, after all, and I am honored that I should be granted the privilege to stand by your side.” His mouth quirked sideways into what might have been called a smirk, but he managed to make appear as a sweet, earnest expression. “I understand you’ve committed the year to furthering your magic studies. A wise decision; with the Gods’ Campaigns underway, the empire needs all of the powerful, well educated mages it can get to help the poor lost children of our heathen neighbors to understand their true selves.”

“It’s such a joy, being able to restore those pathetic children to their rightful places,” Sebellius added cheerily. “We’ve not gotten anyone too powerful yet, but I think it’s just a matter of time. I’m trying to find a little gem for poor Suhail.” This was the margrave of Inbar province, and mutual cousin to Sebellius and Izydor both. “You know his daughter has been very sickly ever since winter? Poor thing! He’s been mad with worry.” The emperor glanced down at the triplets. “She’s not much older than they are, only a babe. So I’m hoping to find him another one about the same. A little ray of light for him, and his dear wife Cilla, and their lovely girl. Perhaps with a sister or brother, she’ll find joy, and her health with improve.”

“I’d heard about Suhail’s troubles,” Izydor replied with a sad expression. “Gods willing, another child will help his daughter’s ills.”

As the margrave led them into a formal sitting room, the table loaded with hastily thrown together refreshments, Henryk smiled at the triplets. “Speaking of your youngest, I’m looking forward to getting to know them as well. I hope they will not judge their new brother-in-law too harshly for inevitably stealing some of their big sister’s time away.”

As he sat next to Zuzanna, he gave her a small wink. “Though perhaps we can make it up to them soon enough. You know how children love to play dolly with little babies after all.”

Against all efforts of restraint, Zuzanna paled, her sky blue eyes going wide. Her mind spinning like a carriage wheel, and all possible words dying in her throat just as soon as she’d thought them up, she was grateful beyond all measure when her sister, Gabrijela, broke the unfolding silence with a bright: “I’ve always wanted a big brother! Not like them, they’re so annoying.” She leveled a scowl at the remaining two triplets.

The emperor, seemingly startled by the little girl’s breach of formality and etiquette, froze for a long, terrifying moment-- before he let out a thundering laugh. “Well, I’m sure Henryk will be glad to play big brother to you, little one,” Sebellius sang. “And you can be the nicest little auntie to his and Lady Zuzanna’s small ones.”

Gabrijela beamed; Zuzanna paled further. Izydor gave a slightly breathy chuckle, as if he’d forgotten to inhale for a bit during the emperor’s strained silence. “I’m sure they’ll all love to meet the newest members of the family. And train them in the art of being little menaces.”

Henryk chuckled softly, while Sebellius quirked an obsidian brow. “Why, of course,” the emperor agreed, mock-solemn. “I’m sure they’re perfect experts, what with three bright minds together to dream up ideas.” He looked to Zuzanna, and paused when noted her pallor. “Oh, you poor thing,” he soothed. “You must be a bit overwhelmed. But you needn’t worry any, I promise you. We’re only poking fun.”

“Of… of course, your imperial majesty,” Zuzanna choked out. “I know it’s… all in good humour.”

“You needn’t be nervous, my dear,” Henryk said, putting a possessive arm around Zuzanna’s shoulder. “We are family, no? Or will soon be. A strong, powerful family, bringing glory to the empire.”

Zuzanna stiffened, rage flaring in her like a blinding flash of light. She wasn’t sure what was worst: the way the pet name so casually dripped from Henryk’s lips, how he prattled like a propaganda leaflet about their hypothetical children, or the feel of his arm as he pulled her close to him, his fingers dangling lazily nearly her collarbone. How dare he touch her like this? They barely even knew each other! She shot an almost furtive gaze to her father, silently begging him to tell Henryk off, but Izydor only glanced in her direction with apologetic but stern look, as if warning her not to make a scene.

“Hmm,” Henryk said, turning his head slightly towards her. “I’m sorry, did we drag you away from a meal, Lazy Zuzanna?”

“P-pardon?” Zuzanna was still fighting against the urge to shove out of his grip.

“Just that I caught a whiff of fresh bread on your hair,” he explained. “I know our arrival was sudden, I hope you were able to finish eating.”

The color drained out of Izydor’s face. “She was,” he said quickly, though he knew full well the scent of bread clinging to his daughter had nothing to do with an abandoned meal, he seized on the excuse rapidly. “You needn’t worry about a thing, Count Henryk.”

Sebellius chortled. “We’re going to have work on your compliments, my dear boy,” the emperor said. “You hardly charm a girl’s heart with observations like that. Ah well-- at least we’ve got time yet!”

***

Later that night, with the emperor and his entourage resting in their rooms, the margrave of Daire summoned Zuzanna to his office.

“Gods,” he said, rubbing his face. “When Gabi shouted like she did I thought my heart was going to leap from my chest. I have to step up the triplets’ etiquette lessons.”

Seated across the desk from her father, Zuanna slumped back in the chair, at once sullen and wary. “She’s eight, Father,” the girl murmured. “At least she has an excuse. But Henryk?” She stared down at her lap. “I don’t like him touching me.”

“He’s marrying you in less than six months, Zuzia,” Izydor pointed out. “You’ll have to get used to it. I’m not thrilled about his being so forward either, but it can’t be helped. His influence far outstrips our own and the emperor clearly has no problem with it.” His jaw tightened. “They are close. Henryk and his uncle. No doubt come your marriage Emperor Sebelius will not be at all loath to use his nephew as eyes and ears in Pastora. We’ll need to take care to ensure that this union remains profitable for all parties involved.”

“Profitable?” Zuzanna echoed. “What do you mean-- profitable? Henryk’s going to be my consort, isn’t he? I’m not just a trophy or--”

“Of course,” Izydor interrupted. “I never meant to imply otherwise. But a union is about compromise, Zuzanna, not about one side lording over the other. Political marriage is supposed to be a bonding of two families to solidify their ties. This is rendered moot if the family that the consort marries into isn’t accommodating.”

He steepled his hands. “We will need the emperor’s support in the times ahead. The Gods’ Campaign will not go unanswered forever, you have to know that. The heathens on our borders will try to strike back. So we must appear strong, loyal, and focused on what is best for Daire and the empire above all else.” A beat. “Meaning that once the marriage is finalized, you will need to focus on your studies and your family above all else. No more frivolous trips into the city.”

“No more frivolous trips into the city…” It took Zuzanna a long, miserable moment to realize what her father meant-- and once she did, the girl was on her feet in an instant, like a startled cat. “You… you don’t want me seeing the Stareks anymore,” she said. Almost accused. “You-- you want me to cut them off? You want me to stop having any relationship with them? But--”

“I have been very accommodating letting you see them at all, let alone this long,” the margrave pointed out. “They are bakers, Zuzanna. You are my heir. These are two very different worlds, and you cannot continue to live with a foot in each. Daire must come first.”

“How is my seeing them any different than your taking a day off to go hawking, or for a ride out into the countryside?” She clenched her jaw. “You can’t just bar me from seeing them! It doesn’t hurt anybody! And Henryk must know I’m adopted, he must know I’ve real parents out there somewhere!”

Immediately, Zuzanna regretted her last words. Real parents. Gods, that was not what she’d meant to say. The margrave had always been abundantly clear that he was her parent, not the Stareks. That the gods must have made a mistake in giving such a potent talent to mere bakers. A swapped soul. It was all in the dogma: just like blanks born to mages, or mages to blanks. As far as the margrave was concerned, she wasn’t ever meant to have been anyone’s child but his. He was her real father, the Stareks only the surrogates, his adoption of her simply a remedy of something gone amiss in the cosmos.

Sure enough, Izydor’s expression immediately went hard, outrage plain on his face. “Evidently I have been far too accommodating,” he hissed. “And if they are continuing to foster these misplaced affections, you cannot be separated from them soon enough. I am your father, Zuzanna. I have cared for you, fed you, clothed you, and taught you everything I know of magic and politics. I have given you love and a true family. But it seems you have grown distant from us. That you need a reminder of your place in the great fabric of things, of the role the gods planned for you.”

“Am I not reminded enough?” Zuzanna seethed. “You’re already marrying me to a man I don’t even know, simply to curry favour with the emperor! Binding me to him for the rest of my life, even though him and his uncle scare the hell out of me!”

“Evidently not, if you’re lashing out like a sullen brat over an arranged marriage when almost every blasted noble in the kingdom ends up married to someone they don’t know first,” he snapped. “This is not the behavior of the future margrave, this is the behavior of a petulant child screaming because she was denied her dessert.”

Izydor stood, striding around the room so that he was standing right next to his daughter, glowering down at her. “You are my child. My heir. And it is high time you took up the mantle properly. I have arranged for a feast tomorrow in the emperor’s honor. There will be entertainment. As is customary, there will be a blessing. I want you to give it in my stead. A prayer for the success of the Gods’ Campaigns, for the success of your marriage, and the triumph of the empire.”

She wanted to throw up. “I can’t,” she said. “I-- I’ve… barely even done blood magic, and… not with anything fresh, I--”

“You wanted the year extra for your studies, did you not?” he said mercilessly. “Consider this an extracurricular lesson.” His eyes narrowed. “If necessary we can make it a Rite of Fourteen instead of a standard blood tithe.”

“You… you wouldn’t,” Zuzanna said, her horror swelling. “You wouldn’t even be able to get a bleeder for that on such short notice-- I’m sure whatever dealer you’ve contracted with for tomorrow isn’t going to just let you change your mind and do the Rite of Fourteen--”

“I am the margrave of Daire,” Izydor retorted. “I can give the dealer enough money for five replacements, let alone one. Do you seriously want to test me by pushing this argument?”

Zuzia blinked sharply. “The triplets will be there,” she murmured, as if this changed anything; the margrave hadn’t let her watch a Rite of Fourteen until she was nearly twelve.

“Perhaps if I get them acclimated younger, they will not have the same problems you do with tenderness towards the blanks,” he said, unmoved. “The emperor has put out a call for blank sacrifices. To show the gods our earnesty and grant us success in the Campaigns. Count yourself fortunate it was not my first impulse.”

“Can… can I still see the Stareks until the wedding, at least?” Zuzanna asked. Despite her best efforts, tears were pricking in her eyes. Leaning against the desk, her knees shook. Beneath her father’s scathing gaze, she at once felt very, very young, and far older than she’d have liked. “So t-that I can… at least say goodbye properly. And it’s n-not so sudden.”

Izydor hesitated, as if conflicted. Finally, he sighed, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Alright. Until the wedding.” He turned her chin so that she was looking at his face. “Try to understand, I don’t do this to upset you. I do it because I love you, and I want you to succeed. The gods have a great destiny in store for you, and the Stareks are not part of it.”

She knew what he wanted her to say, but the words tasted like ash on her tongue as she whispered back, shakily, “I know, Father. I know.” She paused, trembling. “I… love you, too.”

He smiled. “That’s my girl. Now you’d best get to it; you have a prayer to script.”

Chapter Six:

SPOILER: Click to show

As Izydor made veiled threats to his daughter in the Iron Castle, across town Phyllo walked down the streets of the blank ghetto, holding the young bleeder child's hand in his own. Like Phyllo she was shaved bald, dressed in black and silver religious robes, hers sleeveless. Unlike him, she wore a leather collar instead of a bronze one, and she had far fewer brands than he did under her right eye- only the bleeder mark and a triangle brand that limited her to the streets of the Baily unless she was on a job for her master. She would accumulate more as she aged, and would be given the bronze collar once she was fully grown, but for now these differences were a stark reminder of how young and inexperienced the child was.

In his palm Phyllo could feel nervous sweat slicking her small hand, and even a cursory glance found her trembling perceptibly hard. Feeling a pang of sympathy for the girl, he squeezed her hand and smiled.

"Sylwia, it's okay to be nervous, you know,"' he said. "I was, too, my first time."

The child winced. "I don't wanna go. I want my mama."

Phyllo bit his tongue. The young girl had been born to a pair of lower class mages, who'd given her up at eight when she’d proven to have no magic- as was customary. The intervening two years she'd spent training as a bleeder; being conditioned to obey, to endure pain without thrashing or crying out, and to the fact that her life as she'd known it was over forever. But she still sobbed for her mother on her bad days.

"I'm sorry, Sylwia. I really am. But you can't see your mother anymore." Phyllo knelt beside the child with a sad smile. "I won't lie to you- our lives aren't fun. But you can endure, if you're brave."

Sylwia sniffled, looking unconvinced, but she nodded reluctantly. Phyllo stood back straight again, turning to continue guiding her through the streets to their destination. He hadn't gone three steps when the older bleeder was hit by a sudden wave of unexpected vertigo. He stumbled, the world swirling around him as if he'd been caught up by a whirlwind spell. As the colors of his surroundings blurred and dimmed, he was vaguely aware that Sylwia was crying out in alarm, but her voice was muffled and far away.

When finally his awareness of the world around him returned fully, Phyllo could see that Sylwia was clinging to the sleeve of his robes, tears streaming down her cheeks. "This has been happening to you for a year! Since that guy messed up and bled you too much! What if it happens to me too?"

Phyllo shook his head to clear it. It was true; these dizzy spells were the result of a bleed gone wrong, but not because he'd been bled too much. No, they were the result of a careless contract on his master's part, to a mage who'd used Phyllo to test out dark spells. The magic had nearly killed Phyllo, and left a permanent mark on him.

"It won't come to that, Sylwia," he soothed, impulsively drawing the child into a hug. "I promise."

She hugged him back, quivering hard. It occurred to Phyllo that a year ago he never would have bothered to try and comfort the child. The bleeders had a dangerous job, and as such generally tried to stay distant with one another. Bonding was a bad idea; it just opened one up to heartache.

Yet since he’d become friends with Zuzia, and started to deepen his relationship with her, the hard coating of indifference and bitterness around his emotions had melted. And he had found himself unable to ignore Sylwia’s distress.

“Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s go. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can get this done.”

The two finally arrived at a sprawling villa near the edge of town, located at the base of the steep hill that, through a series of dizzying switchbacks, eventually led all the way up to the Iron Castle. The family who lived inside, and of whom the matriarch had contracted Sylwia tonight, was prominent by Pastora standards: the woman was a retired army general, with a decorated history in Meltaim’s elite border forces. Tonight, she was throwing a party in honour of eldest daughter’s impending nuptials to the city magistrate; as Sylwia and Phyllo were waved in through the villa gates and began up the long cobbled pathway toward the front door, the glow of magelights seeped out through the massive house’s wall-to-wall plate glass windows, luminescent against the black night.

Sylwia shuddered, clinging to Phyllo like a tick to the back of a hound. “Please, can we just go home?”

“Just remember your training, Syl,” Phyllo assured the child, stroking her back. “All of us have done this dozens of times. It will hurt, and you’ll be weak afterwards, but I’ll bring you back and give you lots of nice food and drink to get your strength back up. You’ll be fine.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

At the front door, the bleeders were met by the villa’s steward, who led them down a collection of halls before delivering them to a small parlour, in which paced a rather aggrieved-looking priest. He took one glance at Sylwia, shaking like a grass blade in the wind, and promptly scowled, his dark eyes narrowing into surly slits.

“You had best not be doing that in front of the guests, little pet,” he drawled. “They’ve paid good money for this. First bleeds aren’t cheap.” His gaze flicked to Phyllo. “You can wait in the wings for her. Gods know I hardly want to carry her out if she gets jelly-kneed. Soil my robes on a whelp’s behalf.”

Phyllo wanted to point out that first bleeds were also bound to have nervous subjects by their very nature, but as was his usual practice he kept his mouth shut and his expression neutrally polite, the simmering resentment only present beneath the surface. “Yes, Master Mage,” he replied instead, bowing. “I’ll handle things if necessary.”

Sylwia said nothing, her head down timidly, but she tried to take as deep of breaths as she could to still her shudders.

Without ceremony then, the priest started toward the parlour door, beckoning for Sylwia and Phyllo to follow. The feast hall they arrived to a few minutes later was not nearly so grandiloquent as was the margrave’s, but it had still been decorated to the point of extravagance, with lush tapestries hanging on the wall and bespelled magi-glows floating like twinkling stars overhead. Tables were thronged around a small platform in the center of the room, which was fringed by a pair of incense sticks and atop which rested the ceremonial font that Sylwia was to be bled into.

“You can wait here, bleeder,” the priest hissed to Phyllo at the doorway. “Unseen, unheard-- understood?”

Phyllo bowed his head, putting one last comforting hand on Sylwia’s shoulder before gently pushing the reluctant girl forwards. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to stand straight and poised as ritual dictated. When the priest swept past the guards that framed the door and entered the room, the child followed.

The priest was a showman, his strides exaggerated as he paraded the girl toward the makeshift altar, the guests falling silent in his wake. He seemed not to care that the child was quite nearly trembling as he pulled his wand and lit the traditional incense sticks, his voice clear and ringing as he crooned poetic about the marriage of the magistrate and the general’s daughter. His hand was poised-- steady-- thereafter when he replaced his wand and withdrew the ceremonial silver blade in its stead, the fingers of his other hand curling firmly over Sylwia’s pale, unblemished arm.

“A first bleed,” he intoned, segueing into the formal pre-rite address, “is particularly sacred. A true marvel to behold, and the purest form of gratitude toward the gods. And so, let us all watch on in prayerful thanks, as we dedicate this blood of the soulless toward the happiness of the gods’ true children-- with our first cut now, let us begin…”

The blade flashed across Sylwia’s arm, and her jaw tightened with pain, but she managed not to flinch. Blood immediately began to pool, crimson, down her arm. As the process continued, the priest fallen silent as was customary as he continued carving the representative cuts on Sylwia’s arm, Phyllo watched from the adjacent hall, feeling a rush of empathy for the child as she endured for the first time a process that he’d been through far too often.

Then, abruptly, as the fifth and deepest cut- the one for blood- was made, the girl gave an involuntary yip of pain, her arm twitching. Phyllo tensed-- and the priest grimaced, his eyes going wide for a moment before he forced a neutral expression back to his face. Around the room, the guests began to murmur amongst themselves, unaccustomed to the sounds of a bleeder audibly crying out. As blood flowed out-- a far heavier flood of it than the streams from the other four wounds-- the priest seemed to debate with himself for a moment, conflicted. Then, at the head table, the general cleared her throat. The woman’s face hard. Her brow furrowed. Expectant.

The priest took a deep breath... and made the sixth cut. Phyllo clenched his teeth hard. He’d been bled more than enough times to recognize that something had gone very, very wrong. The fifth cut was bleeding far too heavily. Sylwia was starting to go ashen, which didn’t usually happen until a minute or two after the seventh cut was made, during the rites performed with the blood.

“Too much,” he hissed. “They’re taking too much.”

The pair of guards who flanked the doorway on either side cocked their heads, startled. “Quiet,” one growled, his entire posture suddenly threatening.

“Or,” the other added, patting her wand, “we’ll make you quiet.”

The bleeder bit his tongue. Sylwia wasn’t the only one shaking now. Phyllo was trembling too, fear like an icy claw down his spine. Inside, as the seventh cut was made into the girl’s arm, she started to visibly swoon, and the priest just barely caught her, blood splashing against his robes. Her eyelids were limp and heavy, and sweat was beading on her brow.

“They’re going to kill her!” Phyllo hissed desperately. “This isn’t right, the contract wasn’t for a Rite of Fourteen!”

“He’s not doing a Rite of Fourteen,” the female guard snapped. “The cuts are done. She’ll be fine, bleeder. Now be quiet.”

“We won’t tell you again,” added her companion.

But Sylwia was clearly not fine-- and the priest seemed to know it. Sweat dribbled down his forehead as he held the girl’s increasingly limp arm taut over the font, his iron grip the only thing that was keeping her from crumpling to the ground. And his voice, strong before the ritual, had taken on an almost squeaky air as he called the bride and groom to the platform so that they could cast, in unison, a traditional spell to mark the merging of their souls and lives.

“Is the bleeder supposed to be like that?” the groom questioned, tentative as he escorted his betrothed to the center of the room. “She’s unconscious.”

“Isn’t that a bad omen?” the bride added. “For her to pass out before the rites are done--”

“First bleeds can be taxing,” the priest cut in with a frozen half-smile. “But the consecration is still pure and right. Not a bad omen at all! I assure you, your union will bloom strong.” Insistent, he went on, “Now, if you may cast the twining spell together… while the blood still flows fresh and holy...”

A bad omen. That was all the mages cared about. That their thrice cursed party wasn't disrupted. Not that a ten year old child was bleeding to death right in front of their faces. All the bitterness, the loathing, the outrage that Phyllo had held close to his chest since his kidnapping eight years ago spiked inside of him. How dare disgusting hypocrites, who claimed themselves superior for having souls where blanks lacked them, act so horrifically callous? What right had they to a happy engagement ceremony at the expense of Sylwia's life?

"The priest wanted me to get her if she swooned, so I'm going to-" he started to snap, moving towards the door, but the guards closed rank quickly, blocking his path.

“Another step, and you’re done, bleeder.” The female guard drew her wand, leveling it toward Phyllo.

Inside the grand hall, the bride and groom were beginning their spell, the tips of their wands coated in Sylwia’s blood. Now limp and leaden as a ragdoll, Sylwia had not just gone pale, but gray. Like stone. While some of the shallower cuts had begun to clot, the fifth slice continued to flow, fountain-like. The priest had shifted one of his hands to clamp over it, as if in some paltry means of staunching the flow, but it was like trying to plug a breached levee with a rag and a prayer.

In another minute, it was over: the bride and groom cast their twining spell, and the priest closed the ritual with a frantically short prayer before, Sylwia scooped up into his arms, he started toward the doors. He wore a tremulous smile as he walked, lest the crowd at large realize more than they had already just how badly things had gone wrong, but the moment he’d brushed back into the corridor-- and ordered the guards to shut the doors behind him-- all scraps of composure vanished like smoke into a silver sky. He nearly tossed Sylwia to the ground below, yanking out his wand as he crouched over her, his robes blood-soaked and his jaw quavering.

“Oh, dear gods,” he hissed, pressing the wand tip to the fifth cut. “Zaszyc.” Light flared out, and the skin began to knit, slowly. Too slowly; the priest swallowed hard and breathed it again: “Zaszyc.”

“That’s not going to do any good if you don’t have a blood replenishing potion on you!” Phyllo snapped, his entire body gone tight as a drum. “You had to know you cut too deep, I’ve been in enough bleeds to know how calculated the cuts are meant to be-”

“Shut up.” As the priest bleated the spell for the third time, now moving on to the shallower cuts, the male guard cuffed Phyllo-- hard-- behind the ear. “Let him work.”

“I need a potion.” The priest’s voice shook. “A blood replenishing potion. Get me one. Now!”

“We haven’t any here.” The female guard raised a brow.

“What do you mean you don’t have any?” the priest snapped, eyes darting wildly up toward the sentries. “That’s part of the contract, isn’t it? Client has on hand all tools of the ritual-- the font, the incense-- as well as any remedial objects the cleric may need!”

“We have bandages,” the male guard offered. “In the parlour you waited in.”

“I don’t need a godsdamned bandage!”

“You’re going to disturb the guests.” The guard glanced behind his shoulder, at the doors that were only a few steps away.

In spite of the pain still smarting in his head, Phyllo was tempted to shout that he didn’t care about the party guests. He felt as though the blood had drained from his own body. They didn’t have any blood replenishing potions. Normally this wasn’t needed; the bleeder would lose a lot of blood, but enough they could survive it with rest and a good bit of food. But that wouldn’t work. Not now. Not when Sylwia looked more like a figure made out of wet, gray river clay than a human being.

Shivering hard, he knelt beside the little girl, taking the wrist of her unmutilated hand in his. “S-Sylwia… Sylwia please…” His eyes pricked with tears, and he clamped them shut. “Why did you wait to heal her?” he snarled, the words wet and raw as he tried to keep back his anguish. “Sh-she’s just a child…”

“They were supposed to have potions!” the priest snarled, pausing from the string of healing spells to place a desperate finger at the top of the little girl’s neck. Grappling for a pulse. And his shoulders drooping when he seemed not to find one. “Dear gods.” He set the wand down, very, very slowly. “I’m going to get censured for this.”

***

Three hours later, Phyllo sat on a stiff leather couch in one of the villa’s lounges, Sylwia’s body-- gone cold now as well as pale-- set on the floor across the room, underneath a rumpled sheet. The priest had finally departed not long before, shaken and miserable, and undoubtedly facing repercussions from the higher clergy for a rite gone so horrifically wrong; the clients, also at risk of consequences on account of not fulfilling their end of the contract by having blood replenishing potions on hand, were several shades beyond indignant. They were now calling the impending marriage cursed-- and attempting to punt the blame for Sylwia’s death anywhere but on their own shoulders, insisting that blood replenishing potions had not been specified in the contract, and they could hardly be faulted for presuming a wholly trained priest would have no need of them, anyway.

Phyllo, for his part, was despondent. His final conversation with Sylwia kept circling in his mind, over and over again, on endless repeat. His promise to get her home. That she would be okay.

Idiot. You should know better than to make promises you can’t keep.

Anger was a live thing within him. Anger at the priest and the mages for their lack of empathy. Anger at himself for not trying to do more to stop the situation once it had begun to downspiral. Anger at this whole thrice-cursed system in Meltaim, where an innocent ten year old girl’s death was given no more reverence than that of a particularly expensive heffer’s might have been-- just because the girl was born without magic.

His head ached from the blow he’d taken earlier, and from his stopped sinuses from crying. His eyes were red and puffy, and his hands still flecked with Sylwia’s blood where he’d touched her. He was a mess, and knew it, and knew that his night was only going to get worse from here.

Along with Sylwia’s body, Phyllo was being kept at the villa until Jozef could come and claim them both, as was legally mandated any time something went amiss with an owned blank. When the man finally arrived, he did not bother to knock, the bleeders’ master looking beyond aggrieved as he strode into the lounge and promptly slammed the door shut behind him. From the odor of ale that clung to him like a perfume, Jozef seemed to have been interrupted in the middle of a celebratory night, and he took but one look at the sheet-covered corpse on the floor before he whirled toward Phyllo, incensed.

“What in the hell,” he demanded, striding forward, “happened here tonight, boy?”

Phyllo looked away, his mouth drawn thin. “The priest cut too deep on the fifth cut. The clients had no blood replenishing potions.” He didn’t bother elaborating. Eight years as Jozef’s slave had taught him this man would not be moved in the least by histrionics or moral anguish.

“I’ve heard the story,” Jozef snapped. As he reached the couch, he hooked his fingers over the collar of Phyllo’s robe, pulling the boy brusquely to his feet. “But twenty years, Phyllo! Twenty years I’ve had my business. Never had a child die on a first bleed! Not once! And not only is she dead, but I’ve been made to understand that you dared argue with mages? That you were trying to order about the priest? As if this weren’t wretched enough, are you trying to ruin my reputation on top of it!?”

The bleeder flinched. “I was protecting your assets, Master,” he said through clenched teeth. He’d been doing no such thing, but it was the only argument liable to make any headway.

“I don’t care!” Jozef backhanded him. “I’m already out a bleeder, and now I have the clients demanding a refund, and the godsdamned priest is apparently insisting he’s never had a death, so clearly it was something wrong with the girl, not him, and he’s going to try to drag me into his censure to show wrongdoing on my end by improper preparations, and--” Jozef cut himself off, abruptly letting go of Phyllo’s robes. “Your arguing gives those lies credence, you ingrate! Makes me look like I have no handle on my blanks! And if I’ve a sixteen-year-old willing to yell at clerics, that makes it very much easier to think I might also have done an improper job with Sylwia!”

“So show them your receipts,” Phyllo snapped back, getting irritated. “For the ritual food. And get testimony from the priests who gave her the ritual baths. What should I have done, Master, sat on my hands while Sylwia bled to death?”

“Stop back-talking me, you miserable brat!” Sharply, Jozef’s hands danced up to the boy’s bronze collar, his fingers hooking over it. “Or shall I lob you out the city gates, Phyllo? See if you can’t scramble back in before the boundary spell activates and chokes the cursed life out of you?” He paused, literally vibrating with fury. “Or no-- that’s pointless. I didn’t pour eight years of crowns into you to have you killed for no reason! But this is already a godsdamned nightmare, boy! And if you’re going to make it even worse, then I might as well cut my losses with you, no?”

The bleeder went tense as a drum. “Y-you wouldn’t…”

Jozef backhanded him again, harder this time. “You heard of the Gods’ Campaigns, boy?” the magician hissed. “The emperor’s got a standing request out for an increase in Rites of Fourteen. I’ve not taken the bait so far because I’m kind. Because I treat my bleeders well. Give them freedom of the city, the right to earn money-- every privilege they could ever dream of! But if you’re going to be a problem?” He laughed, and it was not a joyous sound. “Do not test me.”

Phyllo was shaking again, but this time from fear. He didn’t doubt that Jozef would make good on that threat. It was terrifying- and infuriating. That this man was threatening to kill Phyllo because he’d called out the priest who killed Sylwia. The blank wanted to rage at his master, to tell him exactly what he thought of him.

But it would do no good. Sylwia would still be dead, and Phyllo would only be adding his own corpse to the pile. Instead he bowed his head in submission, and though the words tasted like bile on his tongue, he muttered, “I apologize, Master. It won’t happen again.”

“It had better not,” Jozef menaced. “This is your first and only warning, Phyllo.” Still seething, he turned on his heel, to face the covered body across the room. “You can carry her. We’ll take her to my house for now. Clergy is coming in the morning to collect her body and examine it, to try and figure out what went wrong.” He paused, his fists clenched. “You’ll sleep in the buttery tonight. After I deal with you further. I don’t think I should have to warn you not to resist the lash?”

“No, Master,” Phyllo replied dully. He’d expected as much from the beginning of the confrontation. He moved towards the child’s body, his mind again flying back to the final hour she’d been alive. Their last conversation. The dizzy spell that had interrupted it.

He’d already been beaten once before because one of those spells had hit him while he was at a bleed. All it would take to set Jozef off further would be for that to happen again. A mere moment of weakness over which Phyllo had no control, and he would be a dead man.

***

Phyllo spent several sleepless nights curled in the dank, dark buttery of his master’s home, quivering in pain from the lashes on his back, before finally he was let go to return to his home in the Baily. He’d comforted himself during this time by occasionally kissing the prayer bracelet on his wrist- his way of sending back to Zuzanna the low thrum that meant he loved her and was thinking of her. Sometimes it would take a few minutes, but Zuzanna would usually send a pulse in return, so that his bracelet vibrated for a moment, too. Bringing them together even when they could not be together. A link that could stand to unite them even when the events of their lives conspired to keep them apart.

And gods, how taxing those events were for Zuzanna: the emperor and Henryk didn’t stay long-- only for a little over a week-- but the entirety of it was like one wretched play, never ending so much as pausing here and there for intermissions, none of them long enough for the girl to ever quite catch her breath. The feast where she was made to give the blood blessing went just as miserably as she’d thought it would, the great relief that initially flooded her when the bleeder wasn’t Phyllo quickly replaced by a threading feeling of nausea when it dawned on Zuzia that it didn’t matter. That this boy-- not much older than her, with milk pale skin and eyes like emeralds-- didn’t have to be Phyllo for this entire rite to still be an act of torture on him. He still hurt when the priest slashed the blade. Still shook, ashen, as she dipped her wand into the font.

Afterward, the margrave, the emperor, and Henryk smiled at her. Told her what a good job she’d done. And Zuzanna smiled back at them, but inside she felt only numb. The tang of copper clinging to her nose like a haunting ghost. A reminder of the pain she’d help to bring. A reminder of the person she was expected to be, by the margrave and Henryk and godsdamned Sebellius himself.

If she’d had any doubts before, they were gone now. Vanished.

Zuzanna didn’t want to be that person. Couldn’t fathom being that person, any more than she could picture breathing without air, or slumbering without dreams.

The moment the imperial party cantered out through the city gates, and the castle let out a well-deserved breath of relief, Zuzanna told her father she needed some time to herself and shut herself away in her bedchamber. Then, perched at the edge of her bed, she drew her wand and tapped it against the prayer beads, twice in quick succession; somewhere across town, she knew that Phyllo’s own bracelet would briefly warm. An invitation. Do you want to meet tomorrow?

A few minutes later, the girl’s beads warmed as Phyllo entered his response. Yes. A grin of relief broke out across her face, and she tapped her wand again, in a longer pattern. Noon?

Moments later, the twelfth bead on her bracelet, located to the direct left of the clasp, turned from its usual dark gray to a slightly paler hue.

Noon, Phyllo had agreed.

The next day, Zuzanna could barely focus in her lessons, to the point where her theology tutor dismissed her for the morning nearly an hour early. This didn’t bother her any; it meant she would have some time to meet and talk with the Stareks before making her way to the church-- although she was not yet sure how to tell them about the margrave’s ultimatum. Izydor’s decree that once she and Henryk wed, she wasn’t to see them anymore.

But at least she still had time for that. To think.

To look for loopholes.

Usually, Zuzanna was on edge as she wound her way from the bakery to the Baily, moving slowly and deliberately; today, however, she nearly jogged the meandering course, not wanting to waste another moment apart from the boy. By the time she reached the church, her cheeks were flushed and her heart pounding, and she forced a deep breath and she pushed open the door. Immediately as she stepped inside, she grinned: Phyllo had already arrived, and was seated in their usual pew.

“Phyllo!” She started forward. “Gods, it’s been too long, I’ve missed you, I--”

The bleeder stood as soon as he heard her voice, his eyes rimmed with such deep circles that he might not have slept in a week. His cheek was still swollen where he’d been hit, though the bruise was more green now than purple. He immediately staggered towards the girl, drawing her into a hug with arms that were shaking badly.

“Zuzia…” he whispered hoarsely, unable to get another coherent word out around his relief.

“Phyllo.” Every flicker of warmth in her evaporated, replaced by a slithering knot of dread, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. “Oh gods, what happened?”

He whined softly. “Sylwia. Sh-she’s dead.”

“What?” Pulling back from him, Zuzanna’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean she’s dead? What… what happened to her?”

“I… I was taking her for her first bleed, remember?” he said. “The fifth cut. The one for blood. It went too deep. Punched through an artery. The priest didn’t… didn’t…” He gritted his teeth, rage like a live coal in his stomach. “He refused to stop the rites until the ceremony was over. Even though she had lost consciousness before he’d even put his wand in. And the clients, they d-didn’t have any potions. I tried, I t-t-tried, but I couldn’t save her, they wouldn’t let me save her because I would’ve disrupted the ‘Pit-cursed wedding prayer.”

For a moment, Zuzanna said nothing. Only stared at him in unadulterated horror, her skin gone snowy pale and her jaw open and trembling. Then, almost brusquely, she kissed him, her lips pressing against his. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, taking a hold of both of his hands. “I’m so sorry, Phyllo. That’s… that’s…” She shook her head, incredulous and furious. “It’s not your fault. Please don’t blame yourself, it’s not your fault.”

“I promised I’d bring her home,” he murmured, averting his gaze. “After it was over. That I’d take care of her while she recovered. She trusted me.” He shook his head, a shudder running up his spine. “Zuzia, that’s not all. My master was furious that I tried to intervene. And he didn’t just stripe me. He said… he said if I put another toe out of line, if I mess up one more time, he’ll turn me over to the emperor’s priests as a tribute for the Gods’ Campaigns.”

“No.” Zuzanna froze. “He can’t. He… can’t.” But he could, couldn’t he? He could do whatever he wanted. And no one would stop him. No one would even try. “I need you,” she said, miserable. She knew it sounded selfish-- that there was far more wrong with Phyllo’s master threatening to have him sacrificed than the fact that it would upset her-- but it was all she could think to say. “I… I love you,” she added after a moment. “I… I…”

“I love you too,” he replied dismally. “It’s… it’s why I had to tell you. In case something happens. So you don’t think I ran out on you or something.” He pulled one of his hands free, touching the bronze collar around his neck. “I can’t stop him. Without magic I can’t fight him. And all it’ll take is for one of those dizzy spells to bowl me over in the middle of a bleed. So… so if something happens before you’re married to Henryk, I don’t want you to think I’m… avoiding you or whatever.”

“Henryk.” Zuzanna laughed. A miserable, wretched laugh. “He was here, did you know? Him and the emperor, they came to Pastora. And he’s… he’s everything I thought he’d be, and worse. Already… touching me. And... “ She kissed Phyllo again, almost frantically this time. “My father made me participate in a bleeding. T-threatened to turn it into a Rite of Fourteen when I tried to refuse. Told me I had too much sympathy for blanks. That I was forgetting my place. But I don’t think I want that place, Phyllo. I can’t want it. I can’t do this anymore. Any of it.”

Phyllo tensed. “You had to… oh Woo, I’m so sorry…” He shook his head. “But what will you do? The margrave isn’t going to just let you just quit the job.”

“He’s taking everything away, Phyllo,” she stammered on, her voice growing shrill. “Ending my visits to the city after the marriage. Not letting me see the Stareks. Making me s-spend all my time at the castle-- with Henryk, groomed to take over as the margrave in a life that disgusts me, and--” Zuzia crumpled forward, nestling against the boy. “We have nothing here, do we? Nothing good. Either of us.”

Phyllo shook his head, putting his arms around her protectively. “I said it once before, and I meant it. You’re the only thing in my life that makes me happy.” He kissed the top of her head. “Sending you those messages has been the only thing keeping me from going to pieces after Sylwia died.”

“I want to be yours,” she whispered. “Not Henryk’s. I… I know all along we said this would just be… us making the best of things until we couldn’t anymore, but…” She shut her eyes, agonizing for a moment, before she forced them back open and turned her chin up toward him, meeting his gaze. “W-would you want me, Phyllo? Not just… just for the next few months, stealing kisses i-in a burnt out church but… beyond that?” A beat. “F-forever?”

He gave her a look full of pain, and slowly reached into the pocket of his robes. “In Valzaim, where I was born, there are… traditions that don’t exist in Meltaim. One of them is rings. When you want someone to marry you, you give them a ring as a token of the engagement. Then at the wedding both parties exchange rings, and wear them all the time. The unbroken circle for an unbroken bond.” He pulled out a tiny object from in his pocket- a minute hoop of braided white yarn. “I knew I could probably never give it to you, but… I made it about two months ago, and I’ve kept it with me everywhere. Just… I don’t know. Because a man can dream, I suppose.”

Zuzanna blinked, hard, only just managing to stave back tears as she stared at the makeshift ring in Phyllo’s hand. “Y-you’d marry me?” she asked.

“I’d lose my head for it, but yes. Without a second’s hesitation.”

“Only here,” she whispered. “Y-you’d only lose your head for it here. Somewhere else, though…” Delicately, she reached forward, touching the ring. “Which finger,” she said, “does it go on?”

“The third finger of your left hand,” he answered. With a slight upwards quirk of his mouth he added, “The side of your chest where your heart is. In Valzaim that finger is called the ring finger.”

“Ask me,” she breathed, her cheeks flushing. “L-like you would. If we were in Valzaim.”

He took a step backwards. “This may not be completely on mark- I was only eight when I was taken,” he cautioned. The young man went down on one knee, and held the ring up to her. His voice shaking, he said, “Zuzanna, I love you more than life itself. Will you marry me?”

“Of course,” she said, smiling tremulously at him. “But… only if you promise me one thing, Phyllo.”

He tilted his head. “Anything.”

“That you’ll run with me,” she told him. “Away from… here. Meltaim.” Threading her finger through the ring, she added, “I want you to run with me, Phyllo. And for both of us to never look back.”

The bleeder’s eyes widened. “Leave? I… Woo, I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, Zuzanna, but-” he put a finger to the collar on his neck. “This is going to pose a problem. It’ll strangle the life out of me if I take a step beyond the city gates. It’s spelled against cutting or burning by magic and conventional methods.”

“I can do it,” Zuzanna said. She didn’t even hesitate. “N-not until we leave-- it’ll probably send an alert to your master when I do, but… I can do it, Phyllo.” Reaching down, she put a hand on each of his elbows, guiding him back to his feet. “We’ll need to go east. N-not to Valzaim… they’d kill me in Valzaim. And getting through Macarinth might be thorny. But… we’ll figure it out. We’ll make it, somehow. Together.” Kissing him gently, she finished, “As husband and wife.”

Phyllo was quivering hard. What Zuzanna was proposing was dangerous. So dangerous. But at this point, what did either of them have to lose? It was an all or nothing gambit, but it was their only possible shot at happiness.

Slowly, he put his arms around her shoulders, and held her close to his chest. “You’re right,” he said softly. “We’ll make it. Together.”

“Just one more question for you,” she whispered, savoring in his touch. “Something I think I should know, now that I’m your fiancee.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“Your last name,” she said. “I can’t exactly flee about the continent bearing a margrave’s surname, can I? So I presume I’ll take yours. But--” She smiled. “You’ve never told me yours. What it was back in Valzaim. Before they took it away here.”

He chuckled softly. “Woo, it’s been so long… it’s Panem. Valzick for ‘bread.’ Because my family were bakers.”

“Hm,” she said, her grin turning mischievous. “It’ll take me a bit of getting used to… but I think I can manage it, Master Panem.”

He kissed her, grinning back. “Think of it this way; you’re finally taking up your real birthright. Not as an archmage, but as the daughter of bakers.” He drew her over to the pews, and cuddled close as they sat down. “And that’s a destiny I’ll be happy to share in.”

Chapter Seven:

SPOILER: Click to show

The two of them agreed that they would set a two month timeline to better prepare themselves for the journey they would be undertaking- to gather supplies and for Zuzia to do a bit of research to help her get around the defenses against magical tampering on Phyllo’s collar and brands. They would leave in early July, stowing in a trader’s wagon leaving the city until they were well clear of the gates.

By the time Phyllo returned to his tenement that night, it still hadn’t really sunk in that they were doing this. When initially he’d been captured as a child he’d dreamed of escape. Of rescue. But gradually, as the years had ground on, he’d come to accept that he couldn’t escape on his own. And that no one was coming for him. But here was Zuzanna, ready to throw away a life of privilege and power because she knew that Meltaiman ideology was not right, and willing to bring him along with her.

Willing to be his wife. She who had the hand of the emperor’s nephew promised her had instead chosen him.

Phyllo was giddy, excited… and terrified. So much was riding on this. They absolutely could not afford to be discovered, they had to act natural, but how to continue acting normally when they were plotting such a dangerous undertaking?

He did his best. As one week turned into two, then three, and the little enchanted case that Zuzia had stowed in their church in the Baily filled with dried foodstuffs and peasant clothes to replace his religious raiments, however, the emotional stress started to take its toll. He had previously suffered the awful swooning fits maybe once every other day- now he could have them as often as twice or on bad days three times in one day. The other bleeders grew concerned… and Phyllo began to panic.

When he was scheduled to be bled for a ceremony to celebrate the birth of a high ranking city official’s firstborn child, the terror almost quadrupled. What if he had a dizzy spell during the rites? Jozef would kill him, there would be no question, likely Phyllo wouldn’t even have time to warn Zuzia of what had happened. Jittery, frantic, and doing his best to hide it, Phyllo finally broke, and gently tapped the bead bracelet, twice, to warm Zuzanna’s half. They needed to talk.

Within half an hour, they’d arranged a meeting at the church the next morning, and when Phyllo slipped through the doors, Zuzia was already there, the girl crouched over the small trunk of assembled food and clothing as she added a pouch of chicken jerky to its stores.

“It literally tastes like pure salt,” she called over her shoulder at the sound of his footsteps, “but it’s meat, at least.” Shutting the lid, she stood, brushing the dust and ash from her skirts as she turned to face Phyllo. “Missed me, did you, Master Panem?” she teased, smiling at him. “We only met up two days ago. Normally we manage to make it at least three or four before caving.”

He gave a wan smile, though his hands were clenched. He started towards her, saying, “Zuzanna, I-”

The blank staggered, his head swimming and his vision going dark as blood roared in his ears. The girl was at his side in an instant, rushing forward as she set one hand atop his shoulder and draped her other arm around his back to steady him.

“Shh, you’re alright. Deep breaths, I’ve got you.” She kissed his cheek, and he leaned against her for several minutes, panting and trembling, before he shook his head.

“It just keeps happening, all the time now. Several times a day! I’m…” he reached up a shaking hand to Zuzanna’s face, brushing back her hair gently. “I’m scared, Zuzu. I have a bleed for next week. What if this happens during the rites? I’m dead, my master will kill me, and I… I…” He hugged her. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I wish I wasn’t so weak.”

“You’re not weak,” she insisted. “The spells you had cast on you--” Zuzanna let out a hiss of frustration. “D-do you know why it’s getting worse? Do you think it’s just… the stress, or…?”

“M-must be,” he said softly. “It’s always seemed to play up when I’m anxious or upset, but never this badly.” He gave a thin smile. “Though I’d never been anticipating both an escape from Meltaim and marriage to the girl I love at the same time before, so. Stands to reason.”

She bit her lip, fear swimming into her pale eyes. “There’s… no way you can get out of it? The bleed next week?” But just as soon as she’d said it, Zuzanna shook her head. “It wouldn’t matter, would it? Even if you got out of that one, there’d surely still be something before July.” A beat. “Gods. This is a mess.”

“That’s why I needed to talk to you,” he said. “This can’t go on. I… I’m sorry, it’s selfish of me, and I’d understand if you refused. You have the Stareks here, and the triplets, and everything, and your marriage to Henryk isn’t until September but… I don’t think that I have until July.”

“I…” Zuzanna hesitated, slipping her fingers through his. “I won’t be able to say goodbye to any of them anyway, will I?” she whispered after a moment. “If I started issuing farewells to the triplets, they’d tell our father I’m acting weird. And... the Stareks-- for all the gods’ sakes, I s-still haven’t even told the Stareks I won’t be allowed to see them again after I marry Henryk… and if I said goodbye to them now, even if they didn’t tell the margrave, they might get caught up in it. After. My father will be looking for heads to roll. And I don’t want to do anything that might make him think Izabella and Aleksy are complicit.”

“I wouldn’t either. They’ve been… decent to me,” Phyllo said softly. “It’s better if they don’t know. Don’t suspect. Though they might guess, once it gets out that I’m missing too.”

“I hope no one will ever make the link between the two of us,” Zuzia said. “But… even if they eventually did, we could be gone by then. Long gone. My father… I… I think he’ll presume I’ve been abducted, or that I’ve fled to avoid marrying Henryk. That I’m trying to skulk off into the wilds and lay low. Either way, he won’t think I’m trying to leave the kingdom. Not with… hostilities like they are.”

After all, the three kingdoms that bordered Meltaim-- Valzaim, Macarinth, and Lange-- were coolly neutral at best, and outward enemies at worst… and Zuzanna doubted the Gods’ Campaigns had done anything to improve such frostiness. This was why she and Phyllo ultimately planned on ending up in none of these three countries, but somewhere beyond-- where Meltaim was nothing more than an abstraction, a stranger, not a tangible monster that snatched children in the night and murdered all who resisted.

The problem was, there wasn’t any easy way to get to such places. Not without considerable risk first-- and threading through the viper’s pit on their way to safer pastures. They couldn’t, after all, simply bypass all border countries, not unless they traveled by sea. And given Daire’s eastern and landlocked location, this tack seemed even less feasible than making a break through one of Meltaim’s enemies.

Zuzanna went on: “We were talking about cutting across Macarinth, right? Since they’re not quite so adversarial as Valzaim, and the terrain’s easier than Lange’s. But I’ve been thinking… maybe at first we should go south. To the Valzick side of the Galfras Mountains. And then go east through there, rather than through Meltaim. Because my father won’t think to look for me on the Valzick side. He’d never dream that I’d deliberately list into Valzaim, and no Meltaiman abductor would be stupid enough to go there. We’ll have to avoid the regular patrols, true, both Valzick and Meltaiman-- but… at least not the additional troops the margrave’s inevitably going to send after me.”

Phyllo bit his tongue. “I never thought I’d be reluctant to return to Valzaim. Even if it were just me that was caught by their patrols, they’d likely want to haul me down to Valla and mine me for whatever information I’ve picked up about their great enemy over the last several years. But you’re right, it’s… probably safer. Though travelling in the mountains is not going to be easy either way. It’ll be slow going, and we stand a high chance of getting lost. But… it’ll also be harder to track us.”

Zuzanna sighed, leaning her cheek against his shoulder and wrapping her arms around his back. “When were you thinking of going, Phyllo?”

“It… it would have to be before next Thursday,” he replied. “That’s when I’m set for the bleeding. Perhaps… perhaps Tuesday? That way my master isn’t expecting me for a final ritual cleansing, and we have time to… gather what we can.” He put a hand up to the collar on his neck. “Have you worked out how to disenchant this yet?”

“Tuesday.” Gods, that was only four days away! “I… I…” Her gaze drifted to his collar. “I’ve been skimming some books,” she said. “About the usual spellwork that’s put into them. They’re tamper resistant, but mostly against non-magic means. Because no mage would usually have reason to short out a collar on a blank that doesn’t belong to them-- it’s not like doing so could help you steal a blank that’s not yours, after all. Not with the brands that’d still be there, not to mention taking it off is a whole different beast than just deactivating the spells.” She swallowed hard. “... Those will be harder, though. The brands. The spellwork’s intricate, mages usually study for years to specialize in placing them. It’s not that I can’t get them off, but… I guess it’s like… I don’t know. Trying to bake bread with all the ingredients in front of you, but no instructions. If you try enough times, you’ll probably end up with bread. But… you’ll also make a lot of mistakes first. You might accidentally burn down the bakery. And I don’t want to hurt you.”

He winced. “I… I understand. It’s not really the end of the world if the brands don’t come off, mostly the collar is the problem, since I can’t leave the city as long as the spell is on it. You wouldn’t even necessarily need to take off the summoning portion of the enchantment, just the boundary spell.” He kissed her, trying to inject a little humor into his voice. “I can deal with having marks on my face, and the stupid thing being warm while Master tries to summon me again and again like an angry child calling an antisocial cat.”

“He’ll probably think the spellwork’s just failed, at first,” Zuanna said softly. “It happens sometimes; it’ll send his trigger-stone an alert. He… probably won’t panic until you don’t respond to his summons. And by then, hopefully we’ll be far enough gone that it won’t matter.” She returned his kiss, slowly. “We can slip into a wagon heading out the south gate. As long as we leave in the daytime, the gate’ll be open and they won’t be searching outbound goods. Then we just… hop out when they stop. If we’re lucky, we’ll already be miles out from the city. And then we can just keep heading south. My father always is lamenting how close the Valzick border is to Pastora. For once, I guess that’ll be a good thing.”

“Mmm.” Phyllo grunted in agreement. He hesitated, pulling her left hand up into both of his. “Zuzanna… I’m sorry. For rushing things along. It’s selfish, and cowardly, and we probably don’t have enough supplies yet-”

“It’s not your fault, Phyllo,” she interrupted. “And… I can get us supplies. I’m already running away, my father’s going to be furious whether or not I also steal his purse.” She forced a shaky breath. “I’ll hit the market before we meet up. Get us some more food. Waterskins. And rucksacks to carry everything in. It’ll be… fine.”

Phyllo sucked in a sharp breath at this, but a moment later he shook his head. She was right. It made very little difference. By Meltaiman law she was stealing him from his master, after all.

“I love you Zuzanna,” he said softly, holding her tight to his chest. “No matter what happens in the next few days, never doubt that. And once…” His throat tightened and he went on hoarsely, “Once we’re over the border, and we have some breathing space, I want to do it. We won’t have a priest, and I don’t know all the right words and I can’t cast a twining spell but… well, who in Macarinth or wherever else we end up will know the difference?”

“I love you, too,” she whispered. Then, after a moment: “You know… we’re in a church now, Phyllo, aren’t we?”

A tremor ran down his spine. “I… I suppose we are. And it’d be nice to have… at least this. Before we make our break.”

Daring to let herself smile, she kissed him again. “And if I’m going to be robbing my father blind already, I can snag us some proper rings, too; gods know my family owns enough jewelry. They’ll be the margrave’s wedding gift to us.”

Phyllo actually had to fight back a snort at that. “Oh I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.” The young man quirked an eyebrow. “Just for the record, I… don’t really know exactly how things work in Valzaim. Like I told you before, I was taken when I was only eight so I didn’t have much time to learn these things. We’d kind of have to make it up. Of course I’ve been to plenty of Meltaiman weddings-” Here he held up his left arm, scars out. “But I should hope you wouldn’t ask your groom to also be your ceremonial bleeder.”

“Hmm.” She grinned. “But then how will we know if the gods bless our holy union?”

“If we make it out of Meltaim in one piece, I daresay that someone somewhere is watching out for us,” Phyllo remarked with a grin of his own. He nuzzled her. “Besides it’s hard for me to give nice warm cuddles when I’m all chilled and shocky from blood loss.”

“Oh, I suppose I can cope without, then.” She touched his cheek, tenderly. “You lead the way, Master Panem. I’m but your blushing bride.”

With a wide, beaming smile, Phyllo hooked his elbow in Zuzanna’s and guided her down the aisle between the pews…

***

It was easier than Zuzanna had thought it would be.

Nobody blinked at her as she started out the castle gates, the knights who guarded it merely offering her cordial bowls as she strode past. Down the hill in the city, the merchants with whom she interacted were pleasant, polite: two crowns for two loaves of bread from a baker (not the Stareks; she didn’t dare); apples from a green grocer; a set of sturdy canvas rucksacks from a freckle-faced clothier. She bought a pair of leather waterskins and laughed genially when the seller asked if she was preparing for a trip.

“You could say that, I guess,” she told him, and then she took the canteens and her change and started toward the Pleasant Street district, which hosted Pastora’s southern gate, and where she and Phyllo had agreed to meet (they didn’t want to risk venturing through the Baily together).

She barely recognized Phyllo when she saw him, her husband-- gods, how strange it still felt to use that word!-- clad in a plain tunic and breeches rather than his usual church robes. Smiling at him as she slipped into the narrow alley where they’d agreed to meet-- it was wedged between a sleepy apothecary and a boarded up teahouse-- she tossed him one of the half-filled rucksacks.

“Catch,” she teased, her light tone not all betraying how thunderously her heart was hammering in her throat. “You carried the storage box with you from the church, yeah? You can fill your pack up the rest of the way with its contents. There should be room.”

He caught it, giving her a smile that was equal parts excitement and raw terror before schooling his expression back to the sort of politely neutral mask he’d learned to adopt over the years. “I’ll do that then. You’ve outdone yourself, Zuzu.” He hauled the box out from behind a slightly decrepit barrel and started to put the supplies they’d gathered into the rucksack. “It feels so strange to be out in normal clothes,” he remarked, his voice low. “I’d stopped noticing how much those starched robes chafe.”

“Well, you’ll have to get used to it-- I’ll hardly have my Wooist husband strolling about in bleeder’s robes.” She smirked, before abruptly sobering. “You didn’t have any problems, right? Getting here?”

“No more than the usual,” he replied. “One of the guardsmen stopped me to check my freedom of movement mark but just waved me on. Technically I’m not obligate to wear the robes all the time, it’s just… prudent. Less chance of anyone bothering me, in the Baily or otherwise. And of course my master can hardly be expected to buy additional changes of clothes, now can he?”

“Why, that would be awfully expensive. Speaking of which…” Adjusting her own rucksack so that it hung behind her shoulder, crossbody, Zuzanna reached into the pocket of her oatmeal-coloured dress. “I think my father’s hands are about the same size as yours. So, this really is a gift straight from him. I took it from his bureau.” She held out a plain silver ring, unadorned but clearly high quality. “Do you like it?”

The blank reached out a hand and took the ring, letting it wink up from his palm in the sunlight. Slowly, with a hand that shook, he slipped it onto his finger. The pale grey metal stood out starkly against his dark skin. The ring was slightly loose, but not so much that it was in any danger of falling off. He smiled at her. “I love it. And I thank the Woo you didn’t get caught filching this. I imagine you had some of your own?”

She nodded, holding up her own hand to reveal that she’d replaced the makeshift yarn ring with a silver band of her own. “I still kept the one you made, though,” she said, patting her pocket again. “It’s still special. Because you made it for me.” She took a deep breath, her fingers dancing from her pocket to her holstered wand. “Well. No use prolonging the inevitable, is there? Pull down your tunic collar, Phyllo. And let me see about disenchanting that wretched collar.”

The young man did so, shivering a bit. This was it- once they’d tampered with the collar, there was no turning back. The alarm spell would trigger and Jozef would call Phyllo to have the thing repaired- and report him stolen when Phyllo didn’t answer the summons. The bronze ring was quite plain to look at- the runes that gave it power inscribed on the inside surface and out of immediate sight. It had been given to Phyllo after he was old enough to be deemed to have full adult size, before which he’d had a cheaper, easier to detach leather collar that served the same purpose.

“I’m ready,” he said.

“I apologize in advance,” Zuzanna murmured, “if this hurts.”

And with that, the archmage pressed the tip of her wand against the collar and whispered an incantation beneath her breath. Light flared out, only a flash before it disappeared, a web of runes leaping out in its place and hovering before Phyllo like a mist. As Zuzanna had quite suspected, the warren was complicated, a puzzle comprised of dozens of interlocking pieces. For nearly a minute she simply stared at it, a creeping nausea blooming in her throat, unsure quite where to prod at first.

Then, softly, she said, “So, do you want the good news or the bad news, Phyllo?”

“What’s the bad news?” he asked, feeling it was best to get it over with.

“The spellwork… it’s sloppy. I have no idea who cast it but…” She shook her head. “It’s like… say you were supposed to write down two words on a piece of parchment. You’d separate them, right? So it’s clear which is which. But instead… whoever spelled this collar blurred them together. He didn’t space them. He wiped the ink together. So it’s all one long smudge. Which means it’s going to be frustrating to… unsmudge, I guess. Once I start, I have to work it straight through. And I have to take off the entire spell web. Not just… a part of it, like we were planning. Or the entire thing would collapse. Devolve. And that would be… bad.”

Phyllo frowned. “I see. Would explain at least why we often have trouble feeling the collar warm up in very cold or very hot weather, if the spell is that shoddy. Taking it totally apart is not going to be subtle on Master Jozef’s end, I imagine. But whatever you have to do, Zuzia.” He absently jiggled the ring a little. “So what’s the good news?”

“Um.” She looked halfway between horrified and relieved-- a strange combination that did not at all echo the promise of her alleged good news. “So… before I tell you, I just… want you to know I don’t blame you. For… believing what he told you, Phyllo. You didn’t have a choice. You had to take what he said at face value. It would have been too dangerous otherwise.”

“...What do you mean?” he asked, feeling a thread of unease in his gut. “Believing what he told me? About what?”

“There’s… there’s no choking spell, my love,” she said, her voice cracking. “The runes are tangled, but-- I’ve looked a dozen times. And…” She gulped. “There’s the summoning spell. Then runes against cutting or burning or-- methods you might use to remove the collar, in case someone decided it being solid bronze and basically glued to your skin didn’t make such a move risky enough as it is. And then there’s a periphery spell. That’s it. The summoning spell-- that’s tied to the trigger-stone, and it allows Jozef to summon you. As you know. But the periphery spell, it just…” She met his eyes. “All it does is tell him if you cross out of bounds. An alert. Nothing more than… than how our bracelets hum, when we signal them.” Softly, she said again: “There’s nothing more, Phyllo.”

Phyllo gaped at her, his mouth falling open. “B-but he… he activated the spell when he first bought me, just for a few seconds, to make the point it worked- but no. No that was the leather collar. The one he gives to his underage blanks. I only got a bronze ring a few weeks before he gave me free movement in the city…”

He looked down at his feet, gritting his teeth. “And to think all this time I thought… I thought I’d kept this place from breaking me. That by being angry and not cowed I was… fighting back in a way.”

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “But… you couldn’t have known, Phyllo. There was no way.” She hesitated a beat. “We have two choices now. It’s extremely, extremely unlikely that an entire rune web this complicated would all fail at once. Jozef will have a good idea someone made it fail, though what he thinks that means-- I have no idea. If we’re lucky, he makes bad choices. First flails and flees to your tenement, and talks to the rest of his blanks, and only later thinks to alert the city guard-- who’ll of course then go on high alert, and start searching wagons as they leave the city… but again, that’s only if we’re lucky. If we’re not, and he immediately makes a beeline for the main guardhouse, and they send out a warning to all the gates? Then… well… things might go bad for us.”

She paused again. “So that’s choice one. Choice two? We do nothing. I don’t bother to disassemble it at all. We hop into a carriage, or a caravan-- or, whatever we sight as our best option. We let the periphery spell alert him. It’s… honestly? It’s bad spellwork. Abysmal. I think my tutors would smack me if I ever set something like it-- it’s not even complicated enough to give a location ping, so he wouldn’t even know where you breached the boundary. Just that you have. Even if he somehow got together a search party, or sent out word for traders to search their wagons, we could be pretty far gone by the time he does, I think. Hopefully far enough gone to have ditched our unwitting escort already, although of course that’s not guaranteed.”

He clenched his hands into fists. “I think this pretty trinket has kept me a willing captive long enough. I say we chance it- knowing Jozef, he’ll procrastinate on alerting the guard as long as he thinks it’s possible there might’ve been a false alarm or I might’ve gone out of bounds by accident. He is already in hot water after Sylwia died and I made a ruckus, he doesn’t want to smudge his own reputation further by having it get out one of his blanks tried to escape the city.”

Zuzanna nodded, flicking her wand once and slipping it back into its holster; the web of runes disappeared, vanishing like the last rays of a dying dusk. “I’m inclined to agree,” she murmured. “Either way isn’t entirely safe, but this seems… a hair less risky. And I can still kill the rune chain later. Once we’re safe. If you want me to.”

“Right,” Phyllo agreed. He felt awful. Sick. But in a way, somehow, this had hardened his resolve. Two years he’d spent with nothing stopping him from just walking away from Pastora forever except his own fear. He wanted nothing more strongly than to shake the dust of this wretched place from his shoes forever.

“So then, if we have a game plan, and the brands aren’t coming off just yet either… I suppose there’s no use putting it off any longer,” he said. “Let’s find a ride to hitch.” He took Zuzia’s hand in his, the ring on his finger cool against her skin. Quickly, lest anyone spotted them, he gave her the barest feather-brush of a kiss. “Lead on, my dearest.”

Chapter Eight:

SPOILER: Click to show

Aleksy Starek was just putting the last of the day’s bread to the baskets along the side of the room where the discount day-old bread was kept when he heard a knock at the front door. Frowning, he called, “Izabella, can you get that?”

Counting the cash-box at the counter as Anastazja sullenly mopped the floor behind her, Izabella scowled. “Can’t they tell we’re closed?” she groused back, huffing a sigh. “Doors locked, curtains drawn-- we don’t just do that for fun. It’s past nightfall, for the all the gods’ sakes!”

“The sooner you answer, the sooner they can be on their way,” Aleksy pointed out, giving his wife an unimpressed look. Before either of them could say anything more, however, the knock came again, harder this time.

“Open this door, in the name of our honored margrave!” a sharp voice called from beyond. Aleksy immediately paled, and Izabella visibly jumped, her heart leaping into her throat.

“Azja, go upstairs,” the woman ordered her daughter, shutting the cash-box and starting around the counter toward the door. “And no eavesdropping, understood?”

The child looked surprised at her mother’s tone, and opened her mouth as if to protest, but seemed to think better of it. Putting her mop back in the bucket, she scampered through the door that led to the back of the shop, where the staircase to their private quarters was. Aleksy had turned away from the bread and was running a quivering hand through his hair. Undoing the deadbolt, Izabelle leveled her husband an unsettled look. While she had no idea what this was, she was entirely sure it could not be good. Not at this time of day. Not given the brusqueness of the knocking, and the tone of the man outside.

Still, when she pulled open the door moments later, Izabella was startled to find herself not just gazing at the margrave’s knights, as she’d expected, but Izydor Gorski himself. Immediately, she ducked her head into a bow, her voice tremulous as she greeted: “My lord. What… what brings you out here so late?”

“Zuzanna,” he retorted bluntly, his eyes narrowed and his voice like thunder. “Where is she?”

Aleksy, having come up beside his wife, bowed low to the margrave. “With all due respect, we haven’t seen her in nearly a week, my lord.”

“Impossible,” he hissed. “She left the castle early this morning saying she was coming to visit the both of you.”

Against all instinct, Izabella’s eyes jumped up, latching with the margrave’s. “No,” the woman said, fear coating her voice. “She hasn’t been by in days, my lord. She--” Izabella gulped. “Oh gods. Has something happened to her?”

Izydor’s jaw tightened. “She left early this morning, and has not returned since. I presumed she was still with you. I hoped she was.”

Aleksy went dead white. “Zuzia… Oh gods, no…”

“But…” Izabella reached for her husband’s hand, an increasing terror lancing through her. “She has that stone, my lord, doesn’t she? For you to… call her home, if need be? Or report if she’s in trouble. I… I swear I’ve seen her with it…”

The margrave turned away from the Stareks, his shoulders tight and quivering. “She does. She has not been answering my summonses.” He spun around to one of his knights, snapping, “I want the entire city on lockdown. Not a godsdamned soul enters or leaves, do I make myself clear? Have the guard search every nook and cranny of every street and building, find her.”

“My lord!” the knight in question replied, snapping to a salute before darting off like an arrow loosed from a bow. Izydor glanced over his shoulder at Aleksy and Izabella, his voice for just a moment losing some of its edge.

“If you hear or see anything, come to me immediately. If… if you’ve any affection for her as she has for you.”

“Of course, my lord,” Izabella said, blinking sharply. “I… I know that you’re-- that she’s--” She squeezed Aleksy’s hand, as if in some paltry means of seeking comfort. “I know she’s your... daughter. N-not ours. But we… we care for her deeply. Anything we can do to help-- anything, please, just tell us, Margrave Gorski.”

Izydor nodded curtly, his mouth drawn on a thin line. Then, without another word, he turned and strode back down the street, his men streaming behind him. Only once he was gone from view did Aleksy turn to his wife and pull her sharply into as tight a hug as he could manage, every muscle in his body quivering.

“He talks a-about her like she was our dog,” Izabella whimpered, collapsing into Aleksy’s hold. “Asking if we still have affection for her--” The woman let out a miserable choking noise. “She’s okay, right, Aleksy? She… she has to be okay…”

“Sh-she’s… strong, sweetheart. I’m sure she’s fine. She’ll turn up, sh-she has to.” Burying his face in his wife’s hair he muttered, “She has to.”

***

It was getting on towards midnight by the time Zuzanna and Phyllo finally found a place to hide for the night. They’d managed to stow away with a southbound wagon until it finally stopped to make camp at sundown, and had waited until the murmur of voices distant told them that the traders who owned the wagon were pitching tents a ways off. Then the blank and the girl had slipped off, nipping off the road and skirting the edge of the forest out of sight. They’d been concerned by the dark clouds they’d seen looming on the horizon, however, and despite the risk had agreed it was probably for the best that they look for someplace inhabited to find shelter from the storm. It would do them little good to have made it out of the city only to be struck down by pneumonia the first night of their escape.

It had already started to drizzle by the time they found what they were looking for- a shepherd’s cottage, the goats gathered up under a tree in their paddock and a barn for stowing grain at the far end. The front entrance was locked, but Zuzanna would have been a poor mage if she couldn’t pop open the sort of basic padlock that was all a cottager could afford.

They made their way into the loft- better for avoiding detection if anyone came into the barn unexpectedly- and settled atop the loosely bound piles of hay inside. Just in time too. The storm finally broke in earnest then, rain hammering hard on the roof and a fork of lightening briefly illuminating the darkness inside the barn. Curled up next to Phyllo, her cheek resting on his chest, Zuzanna inhaled sharply; the thick walls of the Iron Castle usually muffled the sounds of storms, and so the girl wasn’t used to hearing-- feeling-- them so acutely.

“I hope it passes by morning,” she whispered, staring at the sloping walls of the loft and mindlessly counting the cobwebs that covered them. “Walking in the mud will be miserable.”

The blank nodded absently, one arm around Zuzanna’s shoulder to comfort her. “A squall this strong will blow itself out fairly quickly. It might drizzle off and on for most of the night but the worst of the thunder and lightning at least should pass.”

He twitched suddenly, and gave an annoyed huff. Phyllo stuck a finger against the underside of his collar, trying in vain to get the tight metal away from his skin. “Just give it up already, would you?” he muttered irritably.

“Is he still trying to summon you?” Zuzanna sighed. “I’m exhausted now, but in the morning I can try to kill the runes. And even if I don’t, we’ll end up out of range of his trigger-stone eventually, presuming he stays in Pastora.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “I wonder if the margrave’s figured it out yet. That I’m gone. I’m sure he sent that runestone of mine blaring all afternoon. Whatever street wretch dug it out of the gutter I dropped it into is going to be extremely confused.”

“I imagine by now he knows you’re not coming back to the castle, at least,” Phyllo replied. “But I doubt if anyone’s figured out where you’ve gone or made the connection between my vanishing and your vanishing. One bleeder blank escaping the city is hardly worth the margrave’s notice- he might not even realize you aren’t still in Pastora.” He nuzzled her. “I… I still can’t believe we really did it, Zuzu. I haven’t been out of that city in eight years. It’s amazing, looking up over the distance and not having the view obscured by the inside of the walls. I’d forgotten what that looks like.”

She smiled softly. “And we’re never going back again. No more Jozef. No more bleeding. No more Henryk or politics or…” Zuzanna trailed a light finger down his chest. “You’re… not upset, are you?” she said after a moment. “That you can’t just… cross the border and try to find the Valzick Special Forces, as you could have if it were just you who’d left Pastora? I mean, if you did that… they’d whisk you home. You’d be safe. Not trudging through the mountains for… for gods’ know how long, desperately threading east. But since I’m with you…”

“Since you’re with me, I have a family,” he said, not pulling his face away from hers. “Valzaim is an idea to me, not a home. My birth family is gone, except for maybe a sister who may or may not be alive, and if she is alive doesn’t know I exist. But you’re my wife, Zuzanna. I love you. And being able to hold on to that is worth any hardship.”

Zuzanna forced away the lump that was threatening to well in her throat. “I love you, too,” she said. “Always.” The girl hesitated for a moment. “And… forget about being tired. There’s something I want to do.” Tenderly, she brought up a hand and touched his cheek. “Your brands. I’d… like to take them off. As I said before, I don’t think there’s anything I can do about the blank mark. But the rest…”

He put his hand over hers. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to exhaust yourself if you don’t need to, it’s okay.”

She nodded. “I’m sure. Just-- tell me if it starts to hurt too much, and I’ll stop, okay? It’s complicated magic. And I’m not trained in it. Not anything more than I’ve skimmed in encyclopedias.”

Phyllo nodded, pushing himself so that he was sitting up. “I’ll let you know, I promise. It’ll be… nice, if you can do it. To get the stamps of being someone’s property off of my face.”

Sitting as well, Zuzia drew her wand, holding her breath as she cast the proper spell to reveal the runes of the first brand. It was a spell she’d never used before, only read about-- it was highly particular and tailored only to the placement, alteration, and dissolvement of mutable brands-- and she winced as the light beam arced out from her wandtip, as if terrified she’d already erred horribly and in another instant Phyllo would be screaming out in pain.

But as the beam disappeared into the light blue square beneath his eye, Zuzia’s husband gave no visible signs of discomfort. A bundle of runes appeared before him, bright against the dimness of the hayloft. Unlike the sloppy spellwork of his collar, these runes had been set carefully, although of course they would have been: how a magician contained his blanks was his own impetus, but the cheek and forehead brands were uniform across the city and had to be set following very strict parameters. And it seemed even Jozef was not willing to cut corners and risk a penalty in this instance. He’d clearly had the professionals mark Phyllo.

“Tell me if it starts to hurt, okay?” Zuzanna said, gingerly teasing at the first rune in the chain. It resisted, and the girl gritted her teeth. “A little burning is… probably normal. But if it begins to feel like someone’s thrown acid on you…”

“I’ve had the rune changed a few times,” he noted. “And yeah it usually sears a little, and it’s prickly afterwards. Like if you hit your elbow sort of, or if a limb goes to sleep. I’ll let you know if it gets to being worse than I can take, but don’t worry too much.” Lifting his arm he said dryly, “A high pain tolerance comes with being a bleeder.”

“Well, if I need your blood, I’ll let you know,” she joked, before squaring her jaw as she focused in on the task at hand.

It was like no rune she’d ever deconstructed before. It wasn’t set illogically, not exactly, but she had only a nebulous idea of what most of the links in the chain did, which made it difficult to decide on the order in which to trim them. After all, she hardly wanted to accidentally take out a core aspect of the spell and send the rest of the runes collapsing inward on themselves in an undecipherable (and likely immensely painful) mess. Nor did she want to end up butchering the web so horrifically that she triggered an inadvertent function-- say, making the mutable brand no-longer-so-mutable. Given the nature of the cheek marks, Zuzanna wouldn’t have been surprised if the city mages who set them included booby traps of a sort. Pits for the uninitiated to stumble into, should they attempt to go finagling with a brand they ought not be touching. And gods only knew what that might mean for Phyllo, if she were to set one off.

“Still good?” she asked him after fifteen nail-biting minutes-- during which she’d managed to unhook and dissolve only a handful of the runes.

“It’s fine so far,” he replied. “It feels… strange? Not precisely painful yet, but it kind of tugs. Like someone’s trying to pry something out of my face. Which, I guess isn’t inaccurate.” He gave her a small grin, then winced. “Ack, okay, that stung, need to not move my face so much.”

“Yes, be a good boy and stay still.” She gave a wavering smirk.

As his wife worked on the magic, Phyllo found his thoughts drifting. He still couldn’t believe they’d gotten out of the city so relatively unimpeded. He wasn’t stupid- he knew this was only the beginning, and they had a long ways to go yet. But he couldn’t help wondering, if they’d had such a relatively easy time getting away… what about Sylwia? If they’d tried this a little sooner, could they have saved her? Gotten her out with them, so she wouldn’t have had to bleed out horribly in the untender arms of a callous priest?

It was a stupid thought. A selfish one. Imposing his own guilt upon Zuzanna and asking her to complicate their escape by taking on a young child who was related to neither of them would have been self-centered in the extreme. But he couldn’t help feeling a painful stab of regret.

Twenty-five minutes later, Zuzanna cut through another few links without adverse effect, and she knew she was now deep into the heart of the spell. She had to remind herself to keep breathing as she continued onward, the very tips of her fingers beginning to ache slightly. Ignoring this, she steeled herself as she puzzled over a particularly esoteric cluster of runes, woven together so tightly that she could barely tell apart where one ended and the others began. Which to tackle first? Logic would say one of the other bounds, but… Zuzanna gulped.

Tentatively, she set her wand on the fringe of the bundle and tugged, only slightly, preparing to snap her wrist away if it gave any signs of resistance.

It didn’t, and at first, relief swelled through Zuzia like a cresting wave. Then, very briefly, she flicked her gaze from the run chain to Phyllo’s face behind it.

And immediately, the archmage knew she’d made a terrible mistake.

“Phyllo, what’s wrong?” she gasped-- just a split second before the entire knot shattered-- dispersed-- into hundreds of tiny pieces, like a plate slamming against a floor. From there, the ripple effect was swift, the nearby links no longer hovering languidly before Zuzanna’s husband, but pulsing-- almost dancing-- before they, too, began to crumble.

Phyllo, who’d been clenching his eyes closed against a peculiar, growing stiffness in his limbs- he’d assumed at first it was just a cramp from sitting still so long- felt every muscle in his body go tight as a drum. His limbs locked in place, his jaw went tight, and he gave voice to an involuntary whimper of pain as he tried to move and found his body entirely unresponsive. Oh Woo, I’m paralyzed, I can’t move, what happened?!

Panic overtook Zuzanna like a blazing inferno, and her wand twitched in her hand as she desperately gawped at the rune chain, trying in vain to think of a way to stabilize it. But the web was clearly beyond salvaging, and the girl could only watch in numb horror as it continued its implosion, the previously distinct pieces melting into each other like candle wax into a misshapen puddle.

She didn’t know how long it took. Maybe a minute. Probably less. By the time it was over, tears were pricking at her eyes; she nearly vomited as she watched the runes disappear back into the brand… and the blue square that Phyllo had worn nearly every day since she’d known him coalesce into…

Zuzia wasn’t even sure. Not entirely. Other than the neatly sketched shape was gone, replaced by a mottled, red-purple lump that looked more like an acid burn than a brand. As if someone had gone and splashed him with lye.

“Oh, gods,” she whimpered. “Phyllo… I…”

He moaned through his forcibly clenched teeth, still unable to move. Then, like an eagle had been holding him in its talons and suddenly let go, his body went limp, and he collapsed forwards into Zuzia’s shoulder.

“Ugh… Everything’s sore… what happened, are,” he hissed in pain as one of his muscles spasmed, protesting its brief lockup. “Are you alright?”

“Am I alright?” She clung to him, shaking. “I just-- I just-- gods, I’m so stupid… I should have been more careful! Are you okay? I… I should try a healing spell-- maybe I can fix what happened, maybe I--”

He shook his head, forcing his trembling arm up to gently put his hand on top of her wand hand. “No. You’re tired. We’re both tired. And we don’t know what might happen if one of the other brands resists being removed. I can deal with it.”

“M-maybe in the morning, then,” she stammered. “Please, I need to try fix it, Phyllo, I--”

“Zuzu,” he said gently, “Once we’re out of Meltaim the brands won’t mean anything. They’re just splotches of color on my face. Unpleasant reminders, but like the scars on my arm; just something I’ll adjust to.”

He slowly, painfully pushed himself back upright, and gave his wife a somewhat wavering smile. “C’mon, they don’t make me look that ugly, do they?”

“Of course not,” she whispered. “I just… want to help, I…” She scooted forward and delicately leaned her forehead against his chest. “I’ve… spent my whole life with my father whispering into my ear about all I could do. How n-nothing was beyond my powers, how…” She bit her lip. “The margrave literally stole me from the Stareks because of how powerful I am. But I can’t even take off my husband’s brands without mutilating him?”

“Having something and knowing how to use it aren’t the same thing,” Phyllo pointed out. “You could hand me that dagger you carry around and I could hold it, but I wouldn’t have the first clue how to actually fight with it. Don’t beat yourself up over not knowing how to do something you were never taught.” He hugged her, gently pulling her down so that they were lying sideways in the hay. “You’re an archmage yes, but you’re only human. And hey-” he gently tilted her chin up. “I’ll take a wife with humanity over one who’s cold and hard but knows how to remove brands any day.”

“You don’t want me to try again?” she murmured, sniffling.

“No,” he replied. “Let’s not take unnecessary risks. But I’ll tell you what you can do for me.” His hands still held under her chin, he took advantage of the position to gently press his lips to hers, and Zuzanna-- after a moment’s startlement-- returned the gesture, blinking back the tears that had been threatening as she did.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you,” she breathed. “I never want to hurt you.”

“I know you don’t,” he replied, brushing back her hair. “It’s okay. It’s gone away, we’re both fine, and we’re free. That’s thanks to you, Zuzu. So don’t beat yourself up over something like this.”

“I’ll try not to.” A beat. “I love you, Phyllo.”

“I love you too, Zuzia.” Pulling her close he murmured, “Let’s get some sleep.”

***

The storm had passed by morning, and Zuzanna and Phyllo headed southeast.

The grotesque splotch beneath Phyllo’s eye had not changed any since the night previous, and it looked particularly macabre beneath the bright spring sun; Zuzia kept stealing glances at it as they walked, anger blistering in her each time she did. Why had she been so reckless? There was a reason the city mages trained for years to set or alter the brands. They weren’t child’s play! Weren’t fodder for a fourteen-year-old to dabble with, archmage or otherwise!

She hated that she’d hurt him. And hated even more than even if he had let her, she had no idea how to fix it.

Trying to weigh the need for a stable water source against the safety risk of running into other travelers, the pair followed a series of small streams but stayed off the roads, Zuzia casting occasional navigational spells to ensure they were still heading in the right direction.

By the time darkness fell, the runaway blank and archmage were in the polar middle of nowhere, mountains rising around them in all directions, their sharp peaks piercing the black sky. Unlike the night before, there was no convenient hayloft to squat in, and so the two settled beneath the stars, curled up together under the sturdy oil cloak Zuzia had bought for Phyllo in her last minute shopping spree back in Pastora. And though Zuzanna knew it was perhaps illogical, ridiculous, that she was curled up in the wide vast open with gods-knew-what beasts lurking near… that night, cuddled up against Phyllo, she felt safer than she had in a long time. Merely finding solace in the thrum of his heartbeat as it thudded in his chest beneath her ear. Savoring in his warmth. The feel of him. The idea that he was hers, and she was his, and even if theirs was a romance of fools, at least they were two happy fools indeed.

***

On the fourth morning of their journey, as they still progressed slowly but steadily southeast, the ills of travel were beginning to catch up with Zuzia. The Galfras Mountains were thick with streams, and so they’d had no want of water, but the hard ground below was not nearly so palatable of a bed as was her plush mattress back at the Iron Castle, and her feet hurt from all the walking. A headache throbbed beneath her temple, insistent, and while she’d skimmed a few essential pain potions from the Iron Castle’s stores, she hardly wanted to waste them on a mere nuisance headache. Not when only the gods knew what the road ahead had in store for them.

And then there were Phyllo’s dizziness spells. She’d seen them before, of course, but still each time her husband lurched in his tracks, screwing his eyes shut as his vision went haywire, Zuzia had to stifle back a scream. They never lasted particularly long-- only a few minutes, at most-- but it was maddening to clutch him, to soothe him, and know there was nothing that she could do to help. For her entire life, Zuzanna’s magic had been her crutch. Her prize. Her solution. And suddenly, it seemed to matter so little. Not where it counted. Not where she wanted it to count.

That was what Zuzia was doing-- comforting Phyllo as he began to recollect his bearings after a fit-- about three hours after they’d set off for the day when a sudden noise snapped the girl’s attention. They were presently traveling downhill, following a bubbling brook that wound and arced between heavy foliage, with towering pines rising all around them like spindly needles. The area was rife with wildlife-- hares, deer, even wolves-- and so at first, Zuzia was only startled, not concerned.

Then, after another moment, she realized something: she was not just hearing noises, but voices. People.

Oh, gods.

“Phyllo,” she hissed, clutching hard to her husband’s arm. Straining her ears against the tinkling of the brook, she could only hear a blurred cacophony of speech, not any individual words. But this far into the wilderness… she knew it could be no one else but soldiers. A border squadron. Her father’s men. “What do we do?”

Startled out of his daze by the tone of his wife's voice, Phyllo looked up sharply. Hearing the voices as well he hissed, "Hide. In the thicket. And hope to Woo they don't spot us."

He grasped Zuzanna's arm, towing her towards a nearby clump of bushes further uphill. As the voices drew nearer, he motioned for her to lie on her belly under the brush, doing so himself. As an afterthought, he grabbed a handful of earth and smeared it across the telltale bright white brand on his forehead. It immediately started to heat, trying to melt away the covering as it was spelled to do for dirt, cosmetics, or similar coatings. But hopefully the men would move on before it got the mud completely off.

“Can you hear what they’re saying?” the archmage breathed into her husband’s ear, her elbows digging into the carpet of moss and pine needles beneath. “Gods-- I can’t make out a word they’re saying, I--”

“Shh!” Phyllo hissed. He was straining his ears to hear the voices, which were coming closer now. Just over the distant crest of a hill, six figures on small mountain ponies appeared. Now that the ridge wasn’t blocking their voices, Phyllo could finally hear them more clearly, but it still took a minute for him to fully process the words. After all, he’d not heard anyone saying them in nearly eight years.

In a voice scarcely louder than a breath, he whispered, “...Valzick. Zuzu they’re speaking Valzick. That’s why you can’t understand them.”

“Valzick?” She inhaled sharply, craning her neck to look at her husband. “... Do you-- gods, do you think we made it, Phyllo? That we’re over the border? I mean, the patrols on both side pass back and forth, but…”

“I’m trying to listen, keep your head down!”

The soldiers in question were in earth-colored uniforms, a mark on their shoulders that, while impossible to distinguish from the distance and through the dense foliage, Phyllo could only presume was the royal seal of Valzaim’s king. As they came closer, he could just barely make out what they were saying.

“...biting me left and right. I swear the healers need better repellent for these midges, this is getting ridiculous.”

“You think it’s bad now, greenhorn? Wait until August, they’ll be out in droves. Besides, once the raids start in earnest you’ll wish the midges were your only problem.”

The first speaker, female by the sound of her voice, made a noncommittal grunt. “Be so much easier if we could just evacuate the border, but it’s not cost-effective. ‘Pit-cursed Meltaimans.”

Phyllo kept silent, listening as they exchanged more inanities with one another. They were all being very casual with one another, not bothering to keep their voices down or move with much subtlety. This, at least in his mind, implied that they felt secure here- and that by extension, this was probably Valzick territory.

None of them seemed aware of his or Zuzia’s presence, but that didn’t stop him from tensing as they rode closer and closer. One of the riders, mounted on a pale gray pony, pulled it to a stop not six feet from their hiding spot, pausing to draw a knife and cut some sort of mark into a nearby tree. As Zuzanna listened to it score the bark, her already-thrumming heart leapt into her throat. Slowly-- very slowly-- she dared edge her hand down toward her wand holster, her fingers sliding over the cool, familiar wood. But just as soon as she’d begun to slide it out, Phyllo shook his head sharply, a warning look in his eyes. He put a finger to his lips, and held the other up to her palm out, trying to signal that she should stay still and quiet.

For a moment, Zuzanna hesitated, her fingers still hovering over the wand-tip. Gods, if things went wrong here-- if they were spotted-- the extra few seconds it would take to draw after the fact might be lethal…

But then again, she could hardly expect to successfully take on a fully trained Valzick military unit on her own. And… she trusted Phyllo. Even if she was terrified-- even if her wand was her crutch, the thing she always reached for in times of need-- for once, she realized it could not be in savior.

Almost imperceptibly, the girl nodded back at her husband. He relaxed marginally, giving her a reassuring smile. Then he turned his gaze back to the Valzicks. They were starting to move off now, talking about how one of their number had a day at liberty soon and how he was going to spend it. Once they’d vanished around a bend, Phyllo waited, still and silent, for several more minutes until he was sure they’d moved off. Only then did he gesture for Zuzia to follow him and crawl out of the bush.

“Woo… that was nail biting,” he muttered, keeping his voice low. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she whispered, but the girl hadn’t yet moved, still belly-down amidst the bracken. “I’m… fine. Just…” Just what? She hardly even knew.

He sat down next to the thicket, holding out a hand to her- it was shaking. “Believe me, I know. But I do have some good news, at least. The fact that they were out in the open and talking freely definitely tells me that they were somewhere they felt entirely confident- their own territory. We made it, Zuzu, we’re over the border.”

Swallowing hard, she took his hand, the pine needles clinging to her dress as she edged out toward him. “That’s good,” she said, trying-- and failing-- to smile. “We… gods, we’re in Valzaim. I… I never thought I’d have reason to find myself in Valzaim.”

“I never thought I’d find myself back here either, so I guess we’re even,” he said. He squeezed the hand she was holding, giving her a comforting look. He could tell she was scared, and he couldn’t really blame her for that. But as much as he wanted to comfort her after how badly she’d been shaken up…

“We need to move on,” he said reluctantly. “In case they double back. We want to be out of their patrol zone as soon as possible and find somewhere sheltered to spend the night.”

“Right.” Shakily, she stood. “A-and… at least we know now we’re making good progress. I doubt we’re far from the border but… Valzaim is Valzaim, right?”

He stood as well, giving her a one-armed hug before starting off again through the trees, heading away from the direction the patrol had gone. “Right.

[Avery]

("Only Magic", continued)

Chapter Nine:

SPOILER: Click to show

Eventually they had gone far enough that the young man was confident they were probably outside the patrol’s normal route. The sun had almost fully set when they found a reasonably promising spot to stop for the night, in the lee of a downed pine tree that was propped between a pair of boulders that kept it from fully falling over. After spreading out the oil cloak over the tree like a tent and piling up some loose leaf litter from the ground in a makeshift “bed,” Phyllo handed his wife half a sausage and a heel of hard cheese, taking the other half and a matching heel for himself.

Zuzanna, however, only nibbled at her portion, washing down every bite with hard swigs from her waterskin-- and eventually, when her food was hardly half-eaten, she glanced toward Phyllo, her lips drawn into a tight line. “You want the rest of mine?” she asked softly. “I’m not very hungry.”

He frowned. “Probably better to save it for later if you don’t want it now, but… are you really sure? We’re doing a lot of walking every day, you need to keep your strength up.”

She nodded, reaching for her rucksack to set the rest of the sausage and cheese back inside. “I’m sure,” Zuzia said. “My stomach’s… unsettled, I guess. I’m sure it’ll be better by tomorrow.” A pause. “I wish we weren’t so far into the middle of nowhere. That there was a barn to creep into or something. I hate camping like this. After… what happened earlier, how close we came to… to…” Her voice trailed off.

Phyllo looked at his wife sadly, sympathy and no small amount of guilt punching him in the gut. While it was true that Zuzanna had fled Pastora in part to escape a life and a culture she couldn’t condone, on some level he still felt guilty that she was now having to live as a fugitive on his account. He reached an arm towards her, scooting towards his wife and hugging her close.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I know it has to feel horribly exposed. I wish we didn’t have to do this either. That I could just explain to the people here that you’re not a threat to them, that you’re my wife, and that I could get you safe passage through the populated areas. But… but I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Zuzanna said quickly, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “And I’m sorry for being so… gloomy, I just…” She shut her eyes. “I don’t want you to think I regret coming. Because I don’t, not for a moment. But I’ve… never been in a situation like this before. Where I’m the one in danger, just because of… who I am. And I know that sound… pathetic, I mean, you’ve spent half your life being punished for things you couldn’t control, but I… I don’t know. I think I’m just starting to realize how… real this is. All of it. And what might happen if things go wrong.”

“It’s not pathetic, of course you’re afraid,” he assured her. “I’m afraid too. All my experience means is that I’m so used to that fear that I’ve adapted to be able to think around it. But it wasn’t always like that. When I was younger I’d do or say things on panicked impulse that backfired against me horribly. Especially during my… my training.” He gave a hollow laugh. “It still feels like such a tame word for what Jozef did. ‘Training’ indeed.” Shaking his head he went on, “The point is, I’m not judging you for how you feel- I empathize, completely.”

“But it was my idea to even come to Valzaim,” Zuzanna replied, nestling tighter against him. “So that I’m the one freaking out the first time we come near a patrol… I mean-- what did I expect?” She gritted her teeth. “I would have drawn my wand on them if you hadn’t stopped me. I could have… I could have gotten us killed-- our first obstacle, only our first, and I could have gotten us killed. I’m… a danger to you, Phyllo-- gods, I’m just… a brash Meltaiman noble’s daughter, I have n-no idea what I’m doing, and what if I g-get us hurt, get you hurt, and--”

“Shhh.” He put both arms around Zuzanna’s shoulders, resting his forehead against her hair. He stroked the back of her head with one hand. “Zuzia, I never really told you much about Wooism did I? When we were in Meltaim. Would you like to hear something that my mother taught me, when I was very young?”

“O-okay.” Her jaw was shaking. “Sure. S-since… most of the kingdoms in the northeast are Wooist, anyway, I… I might as well start to learn, right?”

He continued to stroke her, speaking softly. “There are many books of the Woo that we take our teachings from; the Book of Wisdom, the Book of Strength, the Book of Truth… but the first and most important book is the Book of Heart. It tells followers of Wooism how to live, according to the wisdom and mercy of the Lord Woo. When I was very small, my mother told me a story from the Book of Heart that went a bit like this- ‘A man was travelling down the road, heading from his village to the city to trade his goods. However, he was beset upon by robbers, who stole everything from him and left him wounded and bleeding by the roadside. A priest passed him by, and though he prayed for him, he kept walking on the other side of the road. A man of his village came by, and saw him, but also kept walking. But a third man, his hands in shackles, was a convict working on a road crew. He stopped his work, knelt by the injured trader, and tended his wounds with a ripped segment of his own shirt. He sheltered him from the sun with his body, and gave the trader water from his own skin.’ Then the passage asks, ‘Which of these is a good and virtuous man?’”

“The convict.” Zuzanna opened her eyes again, daring a tremulous smile as she added, “The other two sound like prats.”

“Exactly,” Phyllo replied, kissing her on the cheek. “The parable is meant to show that even someone who’d normally be an enemy can be a far better friend than someone who you would think to trust. The measure of someone’s virtue isn’t what they will do for you in good times, but who stands by your side through the bad ones, even if it gains them nothing, or costs them personal sacrifice.”

“So what, then?” Zuzanna murmured. “We’re each other’s convict?”

“Well you did leave behind a life of luxury to run off into the Valzick wilds with me,” Phyllo replied, a hint of teasing in his voice. “Me- a foreign born blank. What exactly have my countrymen done for me in all the time since I was captured? Nothing. The Valzicks make token efforts to take back stolen children, but they’re too afraid to do anything substantial to stop the raids.” He nuzzled her. “You’re not used to running out in the wilds, and you might make mistakes, but I’ll have you by my side over turning myself over to the ‘protection’ of the Special Forces any day. Besides I’m not exactly Master Wilderness Survival either.”

“Thank you, Phyllo.” She ran a finger down his sleeve. “I guess it’s just… it’s harder than I thought it’d be. Of course I knew it wouldn’t be simple, but… there’s still a difference, I think. Between talking about doing it and-- well, actually being here. In the middle of nowhere. In Valzaim.” She gulped. “And… I don’t miss the life I would have had to lead. I’m so, so glad I’m married to you, not Henryk. That I won’t have to be margrave of Daire, and… all that entails. But… gods, is it awful if part of me still misses… bits and pieces of what I had? The idea of never seeing the Stareks again, or the triplets-- or even in some ways the margrave, it’s just…” She fell silent for a moment before quietly finishing, “I didn’t expect I’d miss them like this.”

“They were your family,” he said softly. “Of course you miss them. I cried every day for a month for my mother and father, until I was sold to Jozef and he started alternating between belting me and withholding food until I stopped- and using magic to mute me in the meantime. Honestly it’d be worse if you didn’t miss them- kind of scary in a way.”

Zuzanna shuddered. “Gods, Jozef gets more and more charming every time you talk about him.” Straightening at last, she turned to face her husband, and after a moment’s hesitation, leaned forward to bring her lips to his. “You always know the right things to say,” she told him. “... T-thank you.”

He returned the kiss, and held her like that for a full minute before pulling away again. “I never would’ve counted myself a motivational speaker,” he remarked with a smile. “I used to be rather a cynic.” He kissed her again, holding her close. Breathlessly he teased, “You’ve converted me.”

Her cheeks warmed. “And hey, if you keep up with the topical Wooist parables, maybe it’ll be your turn to convert someone next.” She touched his lips, gently. “I’ve always been such a blasphemer, anyway. I doubt the Meltaiman gods are very pleased with me.”

“You did steal away one of their sacrificial lambs,” he noted, twining his fingers through those of her free hand. “I imagine they are very displeased indeed. But you don’t have to make the full leap to becoming a heathen as well as a blasphemer just yet. I can be patient.”

She patted his cheek. “You’re a very sweet missionary, my love. We mustn’t let the Special Forces find you, or they’ll snatch you for the clergy.”

He gave a soft snort, resting his forehead against hers. “No thank you. I have a lovely wife now, and Brothers of the Woo aren’t allowed spouses. That is yet another of being a bleeder I don’t think I’m going to miss.”

***

Another two weeks passed, and gradually Phyllo and Zuzanna got into the rhythm of travel. While it still wasn’t comfortable, their feet stopped aching quite so much, and they got better at picking which path would have the least resistance for them to follow while making the most headway. The angled straight east now that they’d crossed the border, aiming for Macarinth and hopefully the lands beyond.

Their endurance wasn’t the only thing that changed. Almost three weeks into their journey Phyllo was nearly unrecognizable as the bleeder from Pastora. The smells of religious soap and perfume had long been washed away by the rain, his grey eyes were bright and lively, and most noticeably, his hair- kept shaved to the roots by church mandate- was growing in strongly. It was hair entirely unlike any wellborn citizen of Meltaim would have, coal black and clinging tight to his head in minute ringlets that, as a whole, had a texture not unlike wool. The former bleeder was even starting to grow a beard, rather to his own amusement. Zuzanna, whose own hair cascaded down to her midback, delighted in her husband’s newfound mane and stubble, declaring they were was much “prettier” than his formerly gleaming dome and clean-shaven face.

“And now you won’t reflect the sunlight,” she teased one afternoon, as they paused at the side of a meandering brook to refill their waterskins. It was creeping to near summer now, and even if the mountains never grew quite toasty, the days still had a penchant for listing toward the wrong side of temperate. “Once it gets even longer, you’re going to have to let me braid it. My sister would tell you-- I’m an expert braider.”

“Braid it?” he asked, sounding amused. “It would take years to grow long enough for that, wouldn't it? At least to get all the sides into the braid without flyaways.”

She laughed. “I can be patient. Unless you’re scared, my love?” Screwing the lid back onto her canteen, she rose, smirking. “Don’t trust me to be gentle? I’m wounded.”

“Not scared, just wondering how you’re going to carry it off,” he replied. “But I look forward to finding out. It will be nice in winter to have something to keep my head warm.” He stood and stretched. “We ready to move on?”

“I’m ready if you are,” she said.

The creek twisted and wound like a coiled snake, flitting in and out between the trees, and Zuzanna walked a few paces ahead of Phyllo, light-footed as she hugged the bank. Up ahead, a hare dashed past, and after startling for a moment, Zuzanna bit back a laugh.

“Gods, it’s like he’s seen a ghost,” she called back to Phyllo, drawing in her shoulders as she brushed past a spindly pine. “We should start hunting soon, maybe,” she added. “Get some fresh meat.” The tree cleared, Zuzia turned to face her husband, a smile tugging at her lips as she continued to walk backwards, slowly. “You know my father hunts? Always tried to get me into it, from the time I was little. But I was hopeless. I hated it. Which didn’t stop him. He took me on a trip with him when I was… nine, maybe? Or ten. I cried the whole time. Then when he shot the fox, I screamed bloody murder. I thought the fearsome margrave of Daire was going to die of embarrassment.”

Phyllo chuckled. “I admit I don’t know much about hunting. It’s illegal for peasants in Valzaim to hunt anything bigger than a rabbit, and-”

He lurched to a stop suddenly, his eyes fixed on some point over Zuzia’s shoulder. With a startled yelp of “Watch out!” he grabbed her arm and dragged her sideways just as a harsh male voice snapped something unintelligible from nearby. There was a brief flash, and Phyllo dropped to the ground as ropes snaked around him and bound his legs and arms.

Just barely maintaining her footing, Zuzanna whirled on her heel, panic flaring through her like a wildfire as she found herself facing a tall, dark-haired man. He wasn’t very old-- perhaps twenty, at most-- with skin as pale as snow and an imposing, muscular build. There was a knobby dark-wood wand clutched in his left hand and a dagger primed in his right… but after a moment, Zuzanna hardly saw either of the weapons. No, what most drew the girl’s attention was what the man wore: a soldier’s uniform, the silver livery announcing him not as a member of the Valzick Special forces, but a part of the Meltaiman border guard.

The guard looked the girl up and down, frowning slightly. “You… don’t look Valzick. Who are you, girl?”

Zuzanna froze, not daring to reach for her own wand with this armed soldier but inches from her-- and her heart gave another start as her eye briefly fell beyond him, and she realized that he was not alone. A second Meltaiman soldier, this one a slightly older, flaxen-haired woman, sat propped against a tree about a dozen paces back, blood dripping from a nasty gash on her forehead and her arm clutched tightly to her chest in pain. Injured. She was injured.

But the man didn’t seem to be.

“I’m not Valzick,” Zuzanna breathed, trying to maintain a modicum of composure. Through the corner of her eye, she could make out the magically borne ropes that were cinched around her husband’s limbs, and gods, how she hated to watch him struggle. How she hated that she couldn’t help. “You’re… you’re on the wrong side of the border,” she continued unsteadily. “S-shouldn’t you be back in Meltaim?”

“And what about you, girly?” the male soldier demanded. “You can’t be older than sixteen. Far too young to be in Margrave Piatek’s border guard and have dispensation to be travelling in Valzaim alone.”

For this soldier to be invoking the name Margrave Piatek meant she and Phyllo had traveled far enough to be south of Inbar province, which belonged to Izydor’s cousin. Moments ago, Zuzanna would have been delighted by this reality: they were making progress! They weren’t just meandering about the mountains, but plodding steadily east! But now, in the face of these soldiers--

“I never said I was in the border guard,” she forced out. “B-but-- I’ve as much right… or l-lack of right… to be in these mountains as you do.” She dared take her eyes off the soldier for a split second to glance down at Phyllo. “Untie him. And let him go. We’re not a threat. And… y-your partner looks hurt. You should focus on healing her. Not heckling us.”

The soldier looked down at Phyllo and frowned. “A blank. A marked one. And… a bleeder from the brand on his face. I would guess he’s not yours. You need to start talking really fast, girl. I have dispensation from the margrave to be here as part of my duties, and I also have authority to make arrests of anyone trying to illegally cross the border.”

“He’s V-Valzick,” Zuzanna stammered. “He doesn’t belong to anyone. And we both know the Valzicks wouldn’t agree you have any right to be here.” She took a step back, very slowly, still resisting the screaming urge to draw her wand. “Tend to your partner,” she said again. “We can all pretend this didn’t happen.”

“Piotr.” Still propped against the tree, the female soldier called out softly. “Piotr-- look at her. You say no more than sixteen, I say not even that. Thirteen. Fourteen, maybe. Brown hair. Petite.” Trying to straighten herself, and wincing as she did, the woman added, “Sound like any dispatch we’ve received as of late?”

The man looked towards his partner, eyebrow raised for a moment. Then he tensed, his head whipping around. “Lady Zuzanna Gorski?” he asked. “The missing heir of Daire province- the archmage. Gods, Róża, you don’t think-”

“Run!” Phyllo hissed to his wife, grey eyes panicked.

“No!” Zuzanna snapped in return-- and then, without wasting another thought on prudence, the girl yanked out her wand. Leveling it in Piotr’s direction, she stammered, “I-If I am the missing heir of Daire, then you’d best not hurt me, right? I said, leave us. Now. Don’t make me hurt you.”

“No one needs to hurt anyone, Lady Gorski,” he said, his tone of voice akin to what one might have used on a feral dog they were trying not to spook. “Your father the Margrave Izydor has been worried sick about you. We can take you home to him. You’ll be safe.”

“No, thank you.” Zuzanna’s hand shook. “Now leave. This is your… your last warning.”

“Whatever lies that blank has told you-- don’t believe them, Lady Zuzanna,” Róża said, with an agonized grimace wavering to her feet. Limping a step forward, the woman smiled, as a mother might to her child. “Put your wand down, honey. You don’t need to be afraid of us. This area is dangerous-- Special Forces everywhere, that’s how I got these bumps, and how Piotr and I were separated from our unit, but… you’re safe with us, okay? We’ll bring you home, I promise.”

“Don’t touch her,” Phyllo hiss desperately, flailing futilely against his bonds. “She is never going back there, not-”

“You have done enough damage, blank!” Piotr snapped, his expression turning ugly. Flicking his wand in the direction of Zuzanna’s husband he said, “Cisza!” - Phyllo immediately recognized the incantation for a silencing spell, one he’d had case on him by Jozef time and again.

Zuzanna’s reaction was almost instantaneous: as the silencer took its hold, she snapped her wrist, her voice dripping with venom as she snarled at Piotr, “Razić!”

But as the light flared from her wand, carrying with it a stunning spell, Piotr-- clearly using his military instincts and training-- danced left, out of its path; the curse slammed into a boulder in the distance, narrowly missing Róża as it did. The woman’s dark eyes widened in shock, and her injured arm still dangling limply, she reached with her other hand for her own wand, holstered at her hip. Piotr, meanwhile, ducked behind a nearby tree.

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Lady Gorski!” he called to her. “Whatever lies the blank has filled your head with, are they worth acting against your own people? Your father has been beside himself with worry, and they say that even the emperor’s nephew, your future husband, has been begging to ride from Taika and search for you himself-”

“Shut up!” Nausea merged with rage in Zuzia’s gut, and her wand trembling like a lace doily hung up to dry in the wind, she flicked her gaze to Róża, who’d only just managed to fumble out her wand. “Razić!” she snarled again.

Róża was far too slow to evade the spell as Piotr had, and the woman could only let out a gasp of pain before she tumbled, deadweight, to the ground beneath. It was far from the first time Zuzanna had stunned a person-- it had been a common move in the training grounds at the Iron Castle-- but it was the first time she’d done it on a real enemy, not merely one of her father’s men; a sour taste coated the girl’s mouth as she watched the woman twitch once before stilling. Blood from the cut on her forehead soaked into the ground below. Zuzia knew she wasn’t dead, but gods, there was certainly no telling such from outward appearances.

Piotr clenched his teeth as his comrade fell. He wouldn’t dare hurt the margrave of Daire’s daughter, but it was painfully clear she wasn’t going to come quietly. Glancing around the side of the tree and pointing his wand at her. Attempting the same spell he’d used to tie up Phyllo he called, “Uwięzić!”

Lightning-quick, Zuzanna veered to the left, the spell not even nipping her. “Cisza!” she screamed, jerking her wand toward Piotr before he could duck back behind the pine’s protection. It wouldn’t hurt the soldier, but at least it would stop him from lobbing any more godsdamned spells.

He flinched as the spell hit, and stuffed his wand back into the holster- it would be useless to him now. Knowing he was badly outmatched at this point, he drew a dagger from his belt. It was his only weapon now. He came out from behind the tree, making a dart towards her. He dodged another stunner, but this sidestep put him almost on top of Phyllo’s prone form. With a sharp flail, the blank hooked his bound legs behind Piotr’s heels, kicking the soldier’s feet out from under him. Piotr fell backwards with a thump, and Zuzanna didn’t waste a moment, slashing her wand again as she hissed a paralyzing spell beneath her breath. It would not cause him pain or even knock him unconscious-- not like her stunner had done to Róża-- but it would lock his limbs nevertheless, as if his muscles had been replaced by lead.

She could tell the moment it kicked in from the panicked look that filled his eyes, and Zuzanna made herself avert her gaze as she flicked her wand one last time, to disintegrate the ropes that bound Phyllo. As the bindings crumbled from his wrists like sand, the girl’s throat trembled, and she simply watched, numb, as her husband staggered to his feet. Phyllo glowered at the mages, but wasted no time in grabbing Zuzanna’s wrist and tugging it, gesturing into the forest. They needed to get out of here before the spells wore off, or worse, the rest of Piotr and Róża’s unit found them.

Only once they’d scrambled far back into the wood, placing at least a desperately jogged few miles between themselves and the Meltaimans, did Zuzia dare reholster her wand-- and take a moment to pause and catch her breath. Leaning over with her hands on her knees, the girl panted, her gut still churning like a storm-battered sea. Gods. Meltaimans! She knew-- had always known-- that the border guard hardly kept their toes solely on Meltaiman soil as they ought to, but running into them so suddenly-- and that they’d recognized her--

“They’re going to tell my father,” she choked to Phyllo. “He’s going to know, Phyllo… oh gods, he’s going to know! You’re dead, I’m caught-- I… I…” Tears sprung to her eyes, and the girl did not bother to blink them back. Phyllo, who had been doubled over and panting hard, shook his head. He pulled her into a tight hug.

“M-maybe the… the Valzicks will find them f-first,” he suggested, struggling to speak around panting and the too blasted tight collar on his neck despite the fact that the silencing spell had long worn off. “They said they already ran… ran into a p-patrol, right? But even if n-not, we have a head start. And these m-mountains are a maze. Them find… finding us again will be like t-trying to find a needle in a haystack.”

“You don’t understand,” she moaned, crumpling against him. “Once my father knows where I am, he’s going to send… I don’t even know, but it’s going to be bad, Phyllo. He’s n-not just going to give up on me, he will use every resource he has--” Zuzanna whimpered. “A-am I stupid? For… for n-not killing them?”

“Kill them?! What-” Phyllo’s voice spiraled up in pitch, but he cut himself off. Battening down his horror at the suggestion, he realized Zuzanna’s point. If the two soldiers had been killed, no one would ever know what they’d seen. In all likelihood it would be assumed they’d been murdered by Valzick soldiers. It would have probably been the most… expedient solution. But the idea still made Phyllo feel sick.

“...No,” he said finally. “You left Meltaim so you wouldn’t have to be that kind of person. Someone who would casually murder another human being for their own convenience.” He tried to silence the voice in his head that was sarcastically pointing out those “humans” were in Valzaim looking for innocent children to abduct, only partially succeeding. He swallowed hard. “Look, what’s done is done. We can’t go back now, it’d be too risky. The best we can do is keep moving. Keep trying to cover ground. No matter how persistent your father is, he can’t send soldiers to trail us into the heart of Macarinth, let alone beyond it.”

“I… I suppose that’s true.” Zuzanna buried her face against Phyllo’s shoulder. “It’s just getting there that we have t-to worry about first.”

***

For the next several days Phyllo and Zuzanna were much sobered, jumping at every crack in the brush and pushing themselves far harder for longer than they previously had. Phyllo, who had in the weeks since their escape begun to thaw from his reticent and somber facade into a much more cheerful, joking person, backslid sharply. He seemed to be having a hard time meeting his wife’s eyes, his expression a mask of frustration and guilt, and he would brood whenever left to his own devices.

Of course, this sudden regression did not escape Zuzia’s notice, and while at first the girl simply reasoned with herself that he’d been startled by the Meltaimans-- same as she had-- and simply needed time to regroup, when nothing had started to improve after nearly a week, Phyllo’s newfound jitteriness began to take a toll on her, too. Each time he flinched at a noise in the distance-- the way he sometimes twitched in his sleep, as though plagued by nightmares-- how his dizzy spells, always a problem, increased in number until soon he was having at least four or five of them a day…

It was starting to make Zuzia physically sick.

“You can tell me, you know,” she breathed to him one night, as they lay huddled together beneath a canvas of stars, and staring up at the sprawling black sky, Zuzanna thoughtlessly, anxiously, began to count the endless expanse twinkling stars. The further east they trekked, the more the forest began to thin, now interspersed with rolling grasslands as well as swaths of uneven, stony terrain that was at times slippery to traverse. Neither type provided much shelter from the elements. “Whatever’s bothering you-- I want to know, Phyllo.”

He started a little as her voice drew him out of his thoughts, and winced guiltily. “I just… I realized the other day how useless I am. If we come across anyone hostile. I’m a blank.” His lip curled with distaste at the word. “I can’t use magic, and by the laws in Meltaim I’ve not held anything sharper than a fork in eight years. I wasn’t even allowed to shave my own hair, a priest or barber always did it.” He burrowed his face into her shoulder. “I’m your husband, I should be able to help protect us. But I’m just… a hostage waiting to happen.”

“You… you can’t compare yourself to me, Phyllo,” she said, her fingers tightening around his arm. “I’ve been learning to fight-- with magic or otherwise-- since I was tiny. I’ve literally spent an hour or two a day for the past ten years in the training yards at the Iron Castle. Of course I’m going to be better at combat than you are.” She kissed the top of his head, where the coiling curls were continuing to grow. “And honestly? Those Meltaimans… they took us by surprise. If that soldier had cast the binding spell on me first, not you? I wouldn’t have been able to parry it, either.”

“And what if he had, Zuzanna?” Phyllo asked, curling himself tighter. “What would I have done? I could have tried to attack him, barehanded or with a stick or a rock. I would’ve been overpowered in seconds, and we’d be halfway back to Pastora by now. It was dumb luck I saw him before he saw us and grabbed you out of the way.” His voice was bitter as he added, “I keep… seeing Sylwia in my nightmares. She trusted me. And I couldn’t save her. I just stood there and watched her die. And it’s been eating me alive knowing that if something happened to you, I’d be equally helpless to stop it.”

“Sylwia wasn’t your fault. Please stop beating yourself up-- you couldn’t have known what would happen to her, you…” She paused, the look on her face darkening. “But I… hadn’t thought about it like that.” Oh, gods. “I…” Although it was not cold, she shivered. “What if I taught you?” Zuzia murmured after a moment. “Obviously you can’t use a wand, but-- we’ve knives, don’t we? The extras have just been lounging in my rucksack since I palmed them from home. No reason you can’t learn to use one.”

He seemed surprised enough by this to uncurl a bit, so he could look his wife in the eye. “You… could you? It’s still like a toothpick against a dragon if a mage comes at us but at least s-something... I don’t want to be a deadweight. I-” his voice trembled, and he blinked sharply. “I d-don’t want you to get… to get hurt, or, or worse trying to protect me because I’m so ‘Pit-cursed useless.”

“You’re not useless, Phyllo.” Abruptly, Zuzanna sat up, clenching her jaw as she stared down at her husband through the wavering dark. “You were kidnapped. Imprisoned. Tortured. You can’t blame yourself for skills you didn’t learn when you were basically a hostage. I’ll start to teach you now. That’s what matters. And… hopefully we won’t run into any more danger, anyway.”

He slowly sat up, nodding. “Amen to that. And… thank you, Zuzu. There’s just… so much that I can’t do, that’s twisted and messed up because of what I was as a blank and a bleeder. But you never cared.” He put a hand to her face, the cool metal of his ring resting against her cheekbone. “Thank you, so much.”

“You’re welcome.” She kissed him, gently. “I’m just… glad that I can help. Now. Even if… if I couldn’t do anything to help you from hurting so much before.”

He smiled. “I’m glad you are too. And speaking of helping and teaching things, I think it is high time I made good on that request you made all those months ago to learn Valzick.” Phyllo shuddered. “Ideally I’d like for there to be as little evidence stacked against us as possible, and us both speaking Meltaiman would look very bad to the Valzick or Macarinthian authorities.”

“That might be a good idea,” she agreed. “I mean-- I can throw around a few phrases in both Valzick and Macarinthian, but… I’m pretty sure I’m not going to get much use out of ‘I don’t understand you’ and ‘Freeze and set down your weapons, or I’ll ribbon you’.” She let herself grin crookedly. “Not if I want to win friends, anyway.”

“No, somehow I really doubt that,” Phyllo replied dryly. “You could always start with Ave- hello. It’s a bit friendlier. Just a little.”

“Hmm, are you sure?” Zuzanna pursed her lips. “But I always greet new acquaintances with the very genial--” She segued into choppy Valzick: “Wand down if you want to live.”

“Certainly your tutor was preparing you to be the best of foreign diplomats,” he said, some of the humor coming back into his eyes. “While we’re at it, why not just go with, ‘I’m a Meltaiman invader come to steal your children in the night, shoot me?’” Winking, he then translated the phrase and added, “I’ll wave my shiny new knife in their faces while you say it- I bet we’ll get the warmest welcome possible.”

“Some might say you’re trying to trick me, traitorous Valzick,” Zuzanna replied solemnly, quirking her brows as, at last, she lay back down, pulling Phyllo along with her. “Now, now, why would you dare be so cruel, my dear?”

He yawned hugely, pressing his forehead against hers and relaxing fully for the first time since they’d run into the border guards. “I’m a soulless dirty blank,” he muttered sleepily, smiling at her before letting his eyes close. “What else am I good for? Besides kissing, of course. I like to think I’m not bad for that.”

Chapter Ten:

SPOILER: Click to show

Jozef Niemec, owner of the self-billed “premier bleeder rental service in all of Pastora”, had never been to the Iron Castle before.

And he had certainly not been in chains.

They bit into his wrists as he sat in a very cramped cell in the massive castle’s damp and dark dungeons, which were located so far beneath the earth that no one had bothered to install even taunts of windows high upon the stone walls, nor taken an effort to install anything more than a smattering of anemic magelights that glowed on the walls like dying candles. No one had yet told Jozef why he was here. What horrific crime he was presumably being charged with, to have been hauled out of his bed at half past midnight by the margrave’s personal guard and dragged to a waiting carriage as his befuddled wife stood gaping on the front porch, their screaming toddler daughter clutched in her arms. Jozef had tried to shout a goodbye to said wife, but he was pretty sure the wind and his child’s screams had swallowed his words.

He hadn’t spoken since.

It had been several hours.

A headache thrummed deep beneath his temple as he repositioned himself on the uneven floor, trying in vain to find a position that would make the chains blister less at his wrists. He failed, and the man swallowed heavily, his throat parched. No one had offered him any food or drink yet; he was very thirsty, and very cold.

At the sound of footsteps down the hall, Jozef took in a deep breath and held it. Dared hope that it was a guard bearing water-- or a blanket-- as he listened to boot-heels click against the ground below. And the man who paused before the iron bars of his cell moments later was certainly well-built enough to be a guard: tall and sturdy, with a shock of ebony hair that was nearly as black as the air all around.

Jozef squinted to see him better through the dark. “Water?” he asked, optimism flaring in him.

“I have some questions for you, Master Niemec,” the man said, his voice cold. “Perhaps, depending upon how well you cooperate, you will be given some water.” He strode closer, his jaw tight. “You realize where you are, no?”

“Dungeons of the Iron Castle?” Jozef guessed. Then: “May I ah, ask what I’m being charged with, sir? As far as I’m aware, I’ve committed no crimes. Least of all ones that would require such… severe reprisal.”

“That is ‘my lord’ to you, not ‘sir’,” the man snapped. “And you are charged with aiding in the disappearance of my daughter and heir.”

“My lord?” Jozef echoed-- before promptly paling in unadulterated horror. He dipped his head into a bow so swiftly that he nearly toppled over in the process, and his words were a jumbled, trembling mess as he went on, “M-my apologies, Margrave Gorski, I-- I did not know it was you, I--” He paused as the rest of Izydor’s words registered more thoroughly. “I… I-- forgive me, but… I have nothing to do with your poor daughter's disappearance. I’ve… heard about it, of course, but… I’ve never even met the girl, never even seen her, my lord--”

“Be silent,” Izydor Gorski said, his voice loaded with venom. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded sheaf of paper. “I have this report from the city guard- you filed it about a month ago, I believe?” He opened the document, reading aloud from it. “Stolen- one blank owned by Master Jozef Niemec. Valzick descent, dark skin, gray eyes, sixteen years of age. Answers to the name ‘Phyllo.’ And then you go on to list his identifying marks, among which is the brand for a bleeder. Is this indeed your report, Master Niemec?”

“Y-yes, my lord,” Jozef warbled. “It is. But… Phyllo-- he… he just ran off, I think… I’d been having issues with him being… d-defiant, and…” The man attempted to steel himself, failed, and continued on desperately, “I did not aid him, certainly. And… I d-don’t understand what he would have to do with y-your daughter in any case?” Hastily, he tacked on, “My lord.”

Izydor’s eyes narrowed. “Your report is dated for the sixteenth of May; the very same day that my heir vanished. And I’ve just received word from the Margrave of Inbar that his border guard found Lady Zuzanna in the company of a marked Valzick bleeder blank, over the border in Valzaim.”

“They’ve… found her?” Jozef brightened considerably. “H-happy news then, my lord! I’m so glad to hear--”

“Past tense,” the margrave interrupted irritably. “She did not come back to Meltaim with the guard. She attacked them, in the defense of your bleeder, and ran off into the mountains again. Now; would you care to talk to me for a bit about this situation? You’ll understand if it paints things in a… questionable light.”

Any trace of joy evaporated from Jozef’s expression like a puddle on a hot day. “I.. I…” His jaw wobbled. “Dear gods above, I-- I have no idea, my lord, no earthly idea. I… I don’t even know how Phyllo would know her-- I… was having issues with his defiance, as I said, but I never dreamed he would… do something like-- like that.”

“Yes, I did a bit of poking around on that score- something about one of your bleeders dying at a first bleed and this ‘Phyllo’ berating the priest, there was a report filed on that as well. Distasteful but hardly relevant.” Izydor frowned. “When you reported him missing you listed the square of freedom and brands to possess money among his marks. Where in the city did he generally go, do you know that much?”

“I-I don’t know. He was a sullen boy. Didn’t socialize all that much. But he… took odd jobs, I believe?” Jozef replied. “Between bleeds. At… a bakery, my lord? Somewhere in… in… Hawk’s End, or-- no, not Hawk’s End. Um…”

Izydor’s face went completely blank, not a jot of emotion readable in it. “Near Exile’s Gate? At the east of town?”

Jozef nodded vigorously. “Yes, my lord. Exile’s Gate! That’s it.” He considered. “Wretched little neighbourhood, I-- I don’t dare venture there myself, but… blanks are like rats, no? They hardly care, they--”

“Be silent!” the margrave snarled. Of all the gods-cursed things, it would have been the Stareks’ bakery. Izydor doubted they knew anything of this, but that mattered little; he should have realized letting his daughter see them, letting her venture regularly to the shady parts of town, was a bad idea. Izydor stalked forwards, whipping out his wand and snarling an incantation that sent the cell door rocketing open. He stalked into the cell so that he was looming directly over Jozef, who cowered back like a kicked dog but had no option of fleeing on account of the chains that bound him.

“Please, my lord,” he gasped. “I’m b-but your faithful subject.”

“Your blanks,” he hissed. “How do you control and monitor them?”

“C-collars, my lord,” Jozef squeaked. “My very little ones have leather collars, spelled so that I can summon them; they’re c-conditioned to respond very promptly to such summonses, or else they’re belted. I t-teach them that young. And… t-the children have a hard boundary spell, too. The collar tightens if they try to leave the city walls.”

“Very well,” the margrave growled. “I presume a business such as yours does not rely solely on children. Phyllo was cited as being sixteen, no? What about your adults?”

“Bronze collars.” Jozef gulped. “Spelled on. Permanent. Also with summoning spells. And… a soft boundary spell. A-although I tell them it’s still hard. Like their leather ones were. And if they miss a summons, it’s a full-on flogging.”

Izydor wanted to scream. It would have been child’s play for Zuzanna to inspect the runes on the collar and determine that the boundary spell was a lax one. Flicking his wand menacingly, the margrave asked, “And why don’t your adults actually have a hard boundary? Why was the godsdamned life not strangled out of your bleeder when he ran off with my heir?”

“Please, my lord,” Jozef gasped. “Y-you must understand-- I own f-fourteen blanks, and… hard boundary spells, they’re expensive-- and… normally by the time one of my bleeders reaches their adult size, they’re trained, they’re docile. I’d n-never had an escapee before Phyllo, not once! A-and had I known that he was… c-consorting with your daughter, I’d have informed you, I’d have turned him over to your mercy myself. I swear on my life, my lord, I knew nothing. N-nothing!”

Izydor was shaking with outrage, but it was plainly obvious that the man was telling the truth. He was too terrified and sincerely shocked not to be. After glowering at Jozef for a long, tense minute, the margrave took a step back.

“Very well, Master Niemec. You have kept your blanks in accordance with all the city mandates, and it appears that this rogue was acting on his own. However- consider this your warning; in your place I would keep much better watch over my blanks moving forward. You don’t want anymore unpleasantness.”

“Y-yes, of course,” Jozef agreed hurriedly. “I’ll… I’ll have hard boundaries on the lot of them by the end of the week, I p-promise you, Margrave Gorski. As I said before, I’m but your loyal, humble subject. And… i-if there’s anything else I can do to help you…”

“The guard will be along to see you released from custody within the hour. I want all the records you’ve kept on the blank Phyllo, dating back to purchase,” Izydor said. “Have them delivered to the guards at the castle gates by tomorrow night.”

“Certainly, my lord.” Jozef did not dare let the margrave see the swell of relief that surged through him. “Why, I-- I can have them for you by high noon. Just as soon as I can gather them together.”

“Good,” the margrave said brusquely. “A good night to you, Master Niemec. Thank you for your cooperation.” He started away, but paused, and then reached into his cloak and tossed a water skin onto the floor before the man. “Here is your water.”

“My great t-thanks, my lord,” Jozef said, snatching the object up into his chained hands like a greedy dog gobbling a bone. “A-and a good night to you, as well.”

The margrave left Jozef then, stopping at the entrance to the dungeons to inform the guard that the man was to be released. That dealt with, he strode up the winding staircase that led into the main castle.

Gods. That his daughter, his heir, would run off with a blank… Izydor had always known she was more sympathetic to them than she ought to be, but he’d never dreamed that she could be so blind as to let one manipulate her like this. There was no telling how long the bleeder had been playing with her affections, how many hours he’d spent in the Starek bakery nursing her unusual unease with bleeds into a full-blown conviction that he somehow deserved her help and protection. And since their flight over a month ago he’d had almost exclusive access to Zuzanna, no doubt capitalizing on it to thoroughly brainwash the girl to his whims.

It was all in the dogma. This was why blanks had to be fully kept in check. If you weren’t careful, they would turn you astray. As Zuzanna had been turned astray.

Fortunately, Meltaim had long anticipated that there might one day be a… need for a subtle, dangerous extraction from foreign soil. After all, it was only a matter of time before the heathens of Lange, Macarinth, or Valzaim decided to take more decisive measures against the theft of the blanks or the more recent Gods’ Campaigns. There were very small but exquisitely trained teams of specialists who had been prepared for tracking, pinning down, and retrieving elusive targets deep within enemy territory. Be they someone stolen from Meltaim, or a potential foreign hostage.

It was time to put these specialists to use and bring his erstwhile heir home. He gave the order to his castle scribe, who would have a request drafted and sent within the hour, if he had any sense. Still too keyed up for sleep, Izydor returned to the private wing but did not return to his bed, instead heading to his office, pacing the floor like a caged cat. After several minutes of his brooding, footsteps suddenly sounded in the hall outside, padding up to the door before-- without knocking-- whoever was approaching stilled to try the handle. Left unlocked, the door yawned inward, and Izydor’s head snapped around. Indignation rose in him, and he whirled to give whoever had walked in on him a scathing lecture, but froze when he saw not an errant, disrespectful knight or servant, but one of the triplets. His daughter.

“Papa.” Gabrijela, barefoot and clad only in a light cotton shift, frowned as she took a step forward-- and then halted anxiously in place upon reading the furious look on her father’s face. “I… I…” She backed away. “I’m sorry, Papa. I d-didn’t mean to bother you--”

“It’s fine, Gabi, you’re not bothering me,” he said soothingly, kneeling down to the child’s level. “But what are you doing up so late? You should be in bed.”

She shrugged, her cheeks drawn in. “I couldn’t sleep. And s-so I went to find you, but you weren’t in your room. And I was scared.”

“Oh honey,” he said, reaching out to the child and drawing her into a hug. “Papa just had some business to take care of, that’s all. You didn’t need to worry.” He kissed her on the crown of her head. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed, okay?”

Gabrijela whimpered, leaning against him but making no move toward the door. “B-but what if you have to go away, too? L-like Zuzia?”

Izydor flinched. All three of the triplets had been distraught since Zuzanna’s disappearance, clinging to him and each other like ticks and despondent as often as not. Very gently, the margrave picked up his daughter- very small and light for her eight years of age- and carried her towards the door. “Papa isn’t going anywhere, Gabi. Zuzia… Zuzia was stolen from us. That’s why Papa was busy- he just found out from your Uncle Suhail. You know how in the church they tell us about how if blanks aren’t kept watch on, they’ll lure us to darkness? That’s what happened to Zuzanna.”

“She… she got stolen?” Gabrijela shifted in her father’s arms, horror-struck, as tears began to flow down her cheeks. “B-but…” Panic seizing her like a vise, she laced her arms around Izydor’s shoulders, clinging to him. “Y-you wouldn’t let them steal me, too, Papa? Right? O-or… you or T--”

“Your brothers and I are staying right here,” he said firmly. “The blanks can only take you away if you let them. Zuzanna… she was kind to them. And they used that against her. You wouldn’t let a blank trick you into leaving your family, would you?”

“No,” the girl bleated. “N-never.” She sniffled. “I-is Zuzia gonna come home soon?”

“Yes, she is,” he said, cuddling his daughter close. “Papa is sending some men to find her and bring her back. Your Uncle Suhail told me whereabouts Zuzia is, so the gods willing she should come home soon. And then… we can help her. So she remembers where she really belongs.” With a sad smile he added, “I’m sure Zuzia still loves you and misses you, Gabi. She’s just a little lost right now.”

“I love her, too,” Gabrijela said. “A-and I hope once she’s back, she won’t leave again.”

Izydor stopped in front of the door that led to the little girl’s bedroom, which was hanging slightly ajar. Pushing it open the rest of the way he replied, “She won’t. Papa will make sure she doesn’t. But for now, you need to get some sleep. Will you be good and sleep?”

She only clung to him harder. “No. C-can’t I come to your room with you?”

Izydor hesitated for a moment, then he sighed. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll stay here with you, how does that sound? Then you can be safe with Papa, but you still sleep in your own bed like a big girl.”

“O-okay,” Gabrijela agreed softly. “And… and then no blanks can steal me. Right, Papa?”

“Right,” he said firmly. “You and your brothers are staying right here- I’ll be sure of it.”

***

The forests continued to dwindle into nothingness as Zuzanna and Phyllo travelled ever eastward, giving way to wide open expanses of mountainside that, based on the hoofmarks they occasionally found in the soil, were the grazing grounds of shepherds, goatherds, and their charges.

“And where there are herdsmen,” Phyllo remarked to Zuzia, “there will be villages. People. We’ll have to start taking more care to avoid the populated areas.”

However, the open landscape brought about another change- though until now they’d been able to hunt rabbits, birds, and other small animals to supplement their ever decreasing food supplies, now such animals were becoming scarcer and scarcer. Phyllo and Zuzanna were very rapidly running out of food to sustain themselves.

“This is the last of the sausage,” Phyllo finally said to her one morning as he doled it out. “After this all we have are three more cakes of journey bread, a bag of nuts, and those cattails we gathered two days ago.”

“Why isn’t there a spell to make food out of stone?” Zuzanna sighed, dourly scanning the landscape that surrounded them. They were presently encamped in a narrow, rocky glen, which featured a wide, frothing river but little in the way of vegetation. “I could try to lob stunning spells at the water,” she added after a moment, only half-joking. “See if we can’t catch us any fish that way.”

Phyllo gave a soft snort. “You’re welcome to try, but fish don’t keep at all well. They’d go bad within the hour, and we’re back to square one again.”

“For the record,” she grumbled, “I regret every hare I let flit before our path back in the forest. There were so many back there, it felt like an endless supply.”

Phyllo sighed, reaching towards his wife and giving her a brief hug. “You couldn’t have known. All the maps you showed me have the Galfras Mountains stretching nearly all the way to Macarinth, so we couldn’t have guessed the terrain of those mountains would shift so suddenly.” He scratched his neck, expression pensive. “If we followed one of the goat tracks we might find a village, but without any Valzick money we-” he broke off, biting his lip as if in sudden thought.

“I still have a few Meltaiman coins,” Zuzanna said. “But… I doubt that would help us any. Not to mention, you can’t show your face or you’d pique questions because of your brands; the Special Forces would be there for you within the hour. And one word out of my mouth, and they’d know I’m not Valzick.” He’d been teaching her his native language as promised-- just as she’d been teaching him self-defense-- but her grasp was still nebulous, and her accent strong.

He absently rubbed at his cheek where Jozef’s brand still adorned it. “Honest purchase is probably out of the question,” he agreed. “But… there are less honest ways, I suppose,” he huffed softly. “And I guess it’s a bit late now to get cold feet about it, considering how much we ‘borrowed’ from the margrave back in Pastora.”

“You want us to steal?” Zuzanna murmured, biting her lip. “I…” She waffled. “I don’t know. I mean-- taking from my father was one thing, he’s not going to miss a pouch of coins, but… these people here, they’re… peasants. If we take food from them…”

“I don’t like it,” he said. “I’m not going to pretend I do. It’s a last resort. But…” He held open the sack again, showing his wife their meager rations. “It might be time for last resorts.”

“What would we even take?” she asked, looking away. “We can’t exactly make off with a goat from a paddock. And I really would rather not break into somebody’s house or business, Phyllo. If we got caught--” She shuddered. “We’ve not run all this time to get snared stealing burnt bread from a cottager’s kitchen.”

“Are the Special Forces liable to be anywhere near some remote mountain hamlet?” he returned. “My hometown was decent sized and there was still two days ride between it and the closest outpost. I’d say you can paralyze or stun a cottager trying to shoo us with a sling or kitchen knife.” He shifted again, looking down. “It’s not ideal. But our options are this, or starve to death. We didn’t come all this way to waste away from lack of food either, Zuzu.”

For a moment, Zuzanna said nothing. Then, reluctantly, she nodded. “Let’s… let’s try our best to be ghosts, though,” she said. “In and out. No one hurt.” Glumly, she glanced behind her shoulder, at the vast terrain that extended beyond, before looking back to the river in front of them. “Follow the water?” she asked. “It’ll probably lead us to a village eventually.”

“Probably,” he agreed, pushing at his knees to stand. He reached out a hand to help her stand as well, adding, “Please… please don’t think I’m happy about this. I’m not. I’d as soon we were able to travel through Valzaim without bothering anybody. But we’re fugitives right now, and we can only do the best we can.”

“I know.” Taking his hand, Zuzanna stood. “And hopefully soon we’ll be in Macarinth. Where-- past the borderlands-- no one will want to murder me.” Darkly, she added, “I think.”

It took the rest of the morning and half the afternoon to reach the nearest village-- and Zuzanna wasn’t entirely sure that the throng of about a dozen rickety houses built on the riverbank really counted as much of a village at all. Small herds of goats and yaks grazed unrestrained in the nubby grass that fringed the outpost, and faded laundry flapped on lines in the wind, sun-bleached and ratty. A clump of children, ranging in age from five to perhaps twelve, played in the shallows of the river, shirtless and laughing; no one seemed to be minding them.

“Where are the adults?” Zuzanna whispered into Phyllo’s ear, as the two crouched behind a damp woodpile that was stacked out back of one of the cottages. “This village can’t just be inhabited by little kids.”

“Out in the fields, I would expect,” Phyllo replied. “Working. Tending the goats and sheep, weeding and watering the crops, that sort of thing. Daylight hours are for working. In the mornings children will help too, sweeping out their homes, churning butter, cleaning laundry, whatever needs doing that little hands can actually safely do.” He gave her a sideways grin. “No nobles or merchants out here to patron your bakery, so there isn’t a nice padding of money under the pillow to make one feel justified lazing about in the heat of the day.”

“Well, let’s hope none of them are inside taking a break.” Slowly, she rose, setting her eyes on the nearest cottage’s back door. “This place seems as good as any. Shall we, my fellow criminal? For some reason, I’m guessing no one here bothers with locks.”

“Even if they did, you could handle that I imagine,” he replied, gesturing at her wand. “But no, probably not. Some might have dogs, but those are more likely to be guarding the sheep than the houses.” He stood as well, quietly following Zuzanna to the house. He paused, ear to the door, but hearing no noises from within jiggled the knob experimentally and found that sure enough it was not locked. The house was a single room, with a pallet in one corner, a rickety table in the middle, and a few cupboards against the wall.

“Let’s hit several places if we can,” he muttered. “So we don’t take too much from any one person.”

“The more places we hit, the more of a chance we have of running into someone, though,” Zuzanna whispered, swiping a wedge of hard cheese off the table. “Let’s limit to just a few, okay?” Adding half a loaf of overbaked bread to her pack, but leaving a glass jar of fruit preserves and block of butter, she turned back toward the door. “Check the cabinets. Then, let’s go. These people don’t seem to have much. And I don’t want to take all their food.”

Phyllo nodded, checking the cabinets in question. As Zuzia had noted there wasn’t much, but he did take a pouch of what seemed to be raisins before closing it. The two of them slipped out again, heading to the next house on the lane. There was a bit better pickings in that one, with one door at the back connecting to a meat curing room- presumably the owner of the house had pigs somewhere.

Deciding to try one more place before booking it, the duo went a bit further afield to the furthest eastern house in the village, the better for a fast getaway afterwards. Like the other two houses, the cottage’s door was unlocked, and Zuzanna held her breath as she pushed it open and stepped into the small front room. It was sparsely filled-- a single oak chair in the corner; a pile of yakskin blankets atop a beaten cushion-- and Zuzia and Phyllo moved gingerly across, the girl’s hand careful as she brushed aside the cloth curtain that separated the house’s entry from its rear. An initial glance through the doorway revealed nothing dangerous, and so Zuzia shuffled through it, scanning the second room as she did.

A woodblock table sat in the center, a slab of flatbread on top of it and a small bowl of nuts resting to the side. And-- gods, was that a crock of blackberries? Zuzanna’s stomach gave an automatic rumble, and she took another greedy step forward. Phyllo followed her into the room, his eyes dancing about in a cursory check of the room. This was going unexpectedly well--

“Laelia?”

As a small voice trilled out from a cozy nook to the left, Zuzanna spun on her heel. Her entire body went to ice as she found herself gazing at a wooden bassinet, with a tiny, pudgy-cheeked infant fast asleep aside. A little boy, no more than five or six, sat beside it, clad in a simple wool frock and his head cocked in befuddlement.

“You’re not Laelia.” He pouted his lips. “Where’s Laelia? She promised she’d come home an’ watch the baby so I could play.”

Phyllo’s eyes widened at the presence of the child, and he internally cursed for not having checked the house more thoroughly. Forcing a gentle smile he replied, “I… I don’t know where your sister is, little man. But I’m sure your parents must be proud of you, watching the little one by yourself.” He glanced aside. “We seem to have come to the wrong place, sorry about that. We didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You’re strangers.” The boy brightened. “Are you from Amabel? Do you know Mama’s sister?” His dark brown eyes glimmering, he demanded, “Did you bring us eggs? Mama said Auntie would bring us eggs.”

“N-no, I’m sorry, we don’t have any eggs,” Phyllo replied apologetically. At least the boy didn’t seem in a hurry to scream for help. “We were, ah, actually just about to leave.”

Zuzanna wanted to ask what the boy was prattling on about, but she didn’t dare; her breath was snagged in her lungs as the child huffed a sigh, crossing his arms at his chest. “I want eggs,” he whined. Then: “You talk funny.” He mulled for a moment. “What’re those pictures on your face for?”

Phyllo felt his shoulders tense. He talked funny? It took him a beat to realize what the boy was talking about, but then it struck him that after all these years in Meltaim, the blank’s accent in Valzick had taken on a distinctly Meltaiman lilt. Even though he’d been born in Valzaim, to a native speaker he didn’t sound it. Phyllo bit his lip, before forcing a smile onto his face again.

“Th-the pictures are… Nothing you need to worry about, son. Just some funny tattoos.”

It was starting to become clear that the child was very bored, and unlikely to let them leave until his sister arrived to relieve him of baby watching duty. Phyllo glanced at Zuzia, flicking his eyes towards the child and lolling his head slightly while drooping his eyelids in a mimicry of sleep. Zuzanna knew instantly what her husband meant, but even as her fingers dropped toward her wand, the girl hesitated. A sleeping spell wouldn’t hurt the boy, but casting on a small child in his own home-- her stomach lurched.

“Papa tattoos our yaks,” the boy announced cheerily. “So we know which’re ours and which isn’t ours. He’s teachin’ me and Laelia how to milk ‘em! But I like goat milk better. I wish we had goats.”

At this cheery remark, the blank couldn’t help it- he flinched, hard, and looked straight down at the floor as he had habitually done for years in Meltaim. It took everything in him not to impulsively cover the rust-orange mark of Jozef Niemec on his left cheek. He swallowed hard, murmuring softly, “It’s… it’s nice your papa lets your help though. You should enjoy getting to spend time with him. Learning from him. I’m sure your papa loves you very much.”

The child nodded. “Uh-huh! Whenever he goes to Amabel to sell hides, he brings me and Laelia and the baby treats back. Last time he got us a wooden dolly!” He grinned. “Wanna see?”

“Maybe another time, kid,” Phyllo replied, giving Zuzia another pointed glace and saying, “For now, maybe you should check on the baby. Is it still sleeping?”

Zuzanna sighed, knowing what she had to do. As the little boy glanced into the cradle, drawing a tender finger along the slumbering baby’s cheek, the archmage quietly drew her wand.

“She’s still asleep,” the boy said, leaning down to kiss the infant’s forehead.

“That’s good. You’re a very good big brother, little one,” Phyllo said quietly.

“Iść spać,” Zuzanna murmured, grimacing as she flicked her wand.

The effect was almost immediate; as he drew back from the cradle, the boy yawned, his eyelids falling shut as though weighted by iron. For a brief moment, he seemed to fight against the sudden urge, but it was a short-lived battle, and in another few seconds he was curled up on the floor. His chest rose and fell steadily as his head lolled to the side, and his dark, woolen curls splayed against the ground.

“Let’s go,” Zuzanna whispered, her throat heavy. “He should be out for at least a few hours, but…”

“Yeah,” Phyllo replied, his gaze turned inwards. “He mentioned his sister was coming to relieve him of babysitting duty sometime soon- we should move.”

“And as much as I’d like blackberries,” Zuzanna said, stepping back toward the room divider, “I think we should be okay with what we took from the other houses. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” he said, glancing at the slumbering little boy one more time before turning to follow his wife. “Let them have their happiness. They deserve it.”

Chapter Eleven:

SPOILER: Click to show

It was easy to make their way out of the village, the newfound thieves merely trodding off east, into the enormous wilds that stretched beyond. For nearly an hour they didn’t talk, perhaps still cognizant that they were within range of the hamlet and not wanting to risk someone hearing their voices carry on the wind, but eventually, as she took a short sip from her waterskin, Zuzanna glanced sidelong at Phyllo.

“What was he talking to you about?” the archmage asked. “The little boy?”

“Nothing much,” he said, his gaze still fixed on his feet. “He talked about his aunt bringing them eggs from the city, his father teaching him how to milk their yaks, how he was waiting for his sister…” Unable to resist the impulse any longer, Phyllo put a hand to his cheek. “He asked about the brands, and compared them to one his father uses to mark their yaks. And he said my accent sounded ‘funny.’”

“Oh.” Turning her head toward Phyllo, Zuzanna tentatively reached out to him, drawing his hand away from his cheek and lacing her fingers through his. “I’m sorry. That… must have been hard.”

“It’s… like looking into a mirror at my own past,” he admitted slowly. “He’s so innocent. So… naive. He doesn’t even have any idea how on the nose his comment about my ‘funny face drawings’ was, but if we’d gone into that building with different intentions…” He breathed in sharply, his lungs shuddering as he clenched his eyes shut. But that was a mistake, because behind the closed lids he could see the face of the last innocent child who had put misplaced trust in him. Who had once had parents, that presumably loved her, and had been ripped from them and sold to a selfish monster to die. Sylwia…

“One wrong raid, and he might have the same marks,” Zuzanna said grimly. She’d known all along how callous it was, filching children in the night as if they were but wildflowers along the side of the road, free for the taking. But the thought of that little boy carried away in the untender arms of Meltaiman soldiers-- the picture that suddenly bloomed in her mind’s eye of young Phyllo being dragged off into the mountain, as his family lay slaughtered and his infant sister screamed… “I think,” the girl admitted, “that… that if I were Valzick, I would want to kill me, too.”

“It’s going to bite them, one of these days,” Phyllo said softly. “It would have eventually anyway, but the Gods’ Campaigns will just make it happen faster. Valzaim, Macarinth, Lange… they’re going to lose patience. And for all it’s magical strength, when you look at it on a map Meltaim… is small. They’re cocky and complacent because before now all that’s been done is increased border security, but that won’t hold forever.” He sighed, hugging himself. “I just wish these countries cared enough to do something about it before dozens more little ones are carted off into slavery, or to be forcibly raised by magic-supremacist foster parents. I…” his voice took on an edge of dark bitterness. “I wish they’d cared enough when it was just blank children being taken, instead of growing indignant only when little mages started being abducted as well.”

“I’m… I’m sure they’ve always cared,” Zuzanna said, but her words rang false. Somehow hollow. “I mean, Valzaim has the Special Forces for a reason, and…” And what? In spite of the elite army division, the raids had gone on for years. Decades. But it was only very recently, with the start of the Campaigns, that Izydor had started grumbling about Valzaim making serious threats. Not of merely a fortified, defensive border presence, but measures beyond. “I’m sorry, Phyllo. I… wish I could say not to worry about that little boy. About any of it. But… I can’t. Gods, how I hate that I can’t, but…”

He didn’t reply at first, his shoulders shaking hard. Finally, he whispered, “Zuzia, have… have you ever thought about it? About if we will ever… y’know. You said once before you didn’t want a family because you were afraid of what would happen if you had a child who was a blank, but…”

“But wherever we end up-- that won’t matter, will it?” she mused. “Nowhere else but Meltaim would a child be… hurt, just because they don’t have magic.” There was a newfound flush of colour to the girl’s cheeks, and a smile tugging at her lips. “I think we’d make cute babies, don’t you? Your hair. My freckles. Pretty walnut-colored skin.”

Phyllo smiled, his steel gray eyes peering up from the ground so that he was meeting Zuzanna’s gaze again. “And we can raise them somewhere secure. Somewhere safe. Where they never need to worry about being whisked away for being a mage, or not being a mage, or for being too strong a mage.” He hugged his wife tight to his chest. “I think I’d like that, once we’ve gotten ourselves set up somewhere. Children who I can love, and who’ll love me as much as that little boy clearly loves his father.”

Pausing in her tracks to melt into his hold and plant a kiss upon his lips, Zuzanna’s face was now red as beets. “You’ll be a good papa,” she said. “Although I do hope you won’t break our poor son’s heart by leaving him alone to tend his baby sibling while you milk our herd of yaks.”

At this Phyllo laughed, letting go of his wife’s shoulders but keeping one hand twined in hers. “We’ll see. Perhaps we’ll get a child so enamoured with playing dress-up dolly with their baby siblings that they’ll be thrilled to get babysitting duty. Would you be willing to console a downtrodden six year old boy whose elder sister still insists on making his hair ‘pretty’ with ribbons?”

“Oh, so we’ve got a daughter and son so far?” Zuzanna quirked a brow. “Hmm, but if we’ve only two, they’ll always be comparing themselves against each other. So we’d best have three. Except then there’ll be an odd one out, like how Gabrijela sometimes feels left out with the boys.” She leaned toward him again, kissing his cheek this time. “Maybe we’ll have to have a whole litter. Like puppies.”

“Ambitious, aren’t we?” Phyllo noted with a smile. “One or a half-dozen, either way, I imagine they will all be beautiful, perfect little ones. And I know they will be safe, happy, and loved.”

***

“I think we’re being followed,” Zuzanna said ten days later, as she and Phyllo hunkered down for the night in a derelict cabin along a snaking riverfront. It was isolated-- nothing else around for miles-- and whoever had once lived there had clearly abandoned the place years ago; cobwebs coated the sparse arrangement of furniture, and Zuzia could hear rats chattering in the walls. But it provided shelter from the elements, and at this point, it was as nice of a lodging as they’d had in weeks. “I’m not sure, of course,” the girl added after a moment. “But I just… I don’t know. I’ve been getting a weird feeling. The past couple days.”

Phyllo, who’d been nibbling absently on a burdock they’d found earlier on the day, glanced over at his wife in surprise. “What? Really? I haven’t noticed anything.”

“I don’t know.” Zuzanna yawned, gazing blankly at the ceiling above and counting up the spiders that lounged on it (there were six that she could see). “It’s… hard to explain. Just-- catching flashes of movement through the corner of my eye, but when I turn to look, there’s nothing there. And… sounds, sometimes. At night. Which I know could just be animals, but-- it’s too orderly, you know? And whenever I sit up to try to listen closer… it always stops.”

“Hmm.” The blank looked around, as if expecting to see something odd then and there. But of course the only movement he spotted was a spider scuttling up the wall nearby. “Well we keep expecting that the margrave is going to send men after us. Maybe the anticipation is making you jumpy?”

“Probably.” She sighed. Without any need to use it as a makeshift lean-to tonight, Zuzia crumpled up the oil cloak, fashioning it into a pillow of sorts. “Maybe it’s because we haven’t seen another living soul in… forever. Except from afar.” They’d stopped in another village two days ago and made another grab for food, this time thankfully encountering no chatty children. “We’ve been walking for so long, and we’ve come across nothing bigger than hamlets of what-- fifty people? Less, even. After living in Pastora my whole life… it’s weird, I guess. These vast stretches of just nothingness.”

“Yeah, I imagine,” Phyllo remarked. “It’s been ages since I was out of Pastora too, so the quiet of the woods took a while to get used to. And even then there were usually birds and bugs. Out here it’s mostly just the wind.”

He chewed and swallowed the last of the burdock, giving a slight grimace at the taste, before lying down next to Zuzia. He smiled at her crookedly, pressing his forehead to hers. “Hey, look on the bright side- the slopes have been shallower and shallower recently. I think we’re getting to the end of the mountain range. That means we can’t be too far from Macarinth now.”

Nestling close against him, Zuzanna returned his look, her blue eyes glinting mischievously. “I didn’t know you’d become an expert navigator, my dear.” She kissed him. He returned it, but before he could do or say anything else, he jerked in surprise, his head twisting around on his neck so sharply that he winced in pain.

“What’s wrong?” Zuzanna sat bolt upright, her dark brow furrowed. Phyllo didn’t move, frozen in place, but after a moment he frowned and shrugged.

“I thought I heard something- some sort of rattling noise. But I guess I must have imagined it.”

She frowned for a moment, before shooting her husband a wry look. “Now who’s hearing things, sweetheart?”

“Ha, ha, very funny,” he retorted, rolling over on his back so he could look up at her more comfortably. “Your fault for infecting me with your paranoia. Maybe we’re both too wound up, we-”

He was cut off as the door exploded into the room, shattering into wood splinters. Phyllo yelped, throwing his arms up instinctively to protect his face as Zuzia’s hand lurched toward her holstered wand. Before either of them had time to fully process what was even happening, however, a harsh female voice barked, “Uwięzienie syfon łuk!”

Light that was an ugly shade of crimson and shaped similarly to a net or a spider’s web shot through the open doorway, lancing toward Zuzanna. The girl jerked to the side and threw herself to the ground, a gasp of shock escaping her lungs as she came down nearly on top of Phyllo. Flat on her belly, she braced for the probable sting of the spell as it nipped her-- but no pain came, and her hand merely shook as she finished yanking out her wand.

“Razić!” The stunner screaming from her lips, Zuzanna sent her own spell hurtling toward the intruder. The woman, however, had already danced out of the way, the doorway empty yet again. To get reinforcements? Zuzia wasn’t sure. “Phyllo.” The archmage’s eyes fell to her cowering husband, and she hefted the oil cloak up into her arms and stuffed it back into her supply bag. “Gods-- Phyllo, we need to go! We need to go! Before she comes back!”

“R-right, right,” he said, rolling over on his stomach and pushing himself up. He snatched his supply pack and flung it over his shoulder before turning to grab his wife’s arm and pull her up. “Woo, are you alright, what did she hit you with?”

“I-- I don’t know. I didn’t recognize it!” Draping her own rucksack over her shoulder, Zuzanna shimmied to her feet. “I… don’t think she hit me, really? It didn’t hurt.” The girl flicked a panicked eye back toward the still-barren doorway. “She can’t be alone. I need to be prepared if we go outside and she’s not alone, I--” Seeming to decide something quickly, Zuzanna used her free hand to pull out the dagger at her hip. “Hold my wand for me, Phyllo. Quickly.”

He impulsively obeyed, letting his wife’s wand fall into his palm a split second before he realized what she was up to. “W-wait, you’re not planning to-”

“I have to.” Gritting her teeth, she held her newly freed hand out flat, palm facing upward, and drew the knife near. “To amplify if I have to stun. That way I can hit more than one target at a time, even if they’re standing apart--”

“And then you’ll be bleeding, and we might not have time for you to heal the cut before it gets dirty and possibly infected!” Phyllo retorted, but he deflated a moment later. “No, you’re right, I’m sorry. Woo, who even was that, a Valzick? A Meltaiman? Someone else entirely?”

“Meltaiman, I think.” Steeling herself, Zuzanna dragged the tip of the knife across her flesh, carving a long but shallow slice across it. “She was using a Meltaiman spell-- I’m sure of it, I just… don’t know what it does.” Grimacing as blood began to seep out, Zuzanna reholstered the dagger and snatched her wand back from Phyllo. “I’m going to keep the wound open for now,” she said, closing her injured hand around the wandtip. “Just… just in case I need more than one spell. You ready?”

He drew his own dagger out of the sheath and nodded. “Let’s move fast- I don’t like the quiet, who knows what they’re planning out there.”

Without another word, Zuzanna started for the door, Phyllo trailing behind her. Outside, the night was inky black, only a crescent of moon and spattering of stars hanging overhead to provide any semblance of light, and at the doorway Zuzia paused, squinting her eyes as she furiously scanned the landscape ahead. For a moment, she saw no items of interest, but then her gaze settled on something-- or, more precisely, someone. The woman, and she was not alone, standing with her arms crossed just inches from the river’s edge as several others paced nearby. In such low light, Zuzanna could make out few details about the group-- not the colouring of their uniforms, or their complexions for that matter-- but she could see that they all had wand holsters.

Zuzanna knew she only had seconds, if that, before they spotted her, and so the girl did not dare let herself hesitate. Instead, the cap of her wand soaked in her blood, she leveled the slim piece of wood outward. “Shut your eyes, Phyllo,” she whispered to her husband, simultaneously doing so herself. And then, without hesitation, she murmured: “Razić!”

A blinding orb of red light flashed out, brightening the night sky like scarlet lightning. Even through her closed eyelids, Zuzia flinched at the sheer intensity, and when she opened her eyes after it dissipated a few moments later, she could immediately tell that her spell had hit-- and it had hit hard: the woman and all the others lay twitching on the riverbank, incapacitated. Stunned. All, that was, save for a single man who’d been at the fringe of the group, and who now stood doubled over wearing a look that-- even through the blackness-- Zuzanna knew must have been shock.

He was reaching for something that had fallen into the mud below.

After one very nauseating moment, Zuzia realized it was his wand.

“Run, Phyllo,” Zuzanna hissed. “We need to run!”

Phyllo didn’t hesitate for an eyeblink, grabbing the wrist of Zuzia’s hand that wasn’t holding her wand and bolting off into the dark. In the distance he heard the man yelling what could only have been incantations, because each was followed by a flash of light. However, blood still dripping from the gash on her hand, Zuzanna parried each spell like a fighter in the ring, a desperate stream of defensive spells tumbling from her mouth, and her wand flaring with its own arcs of light. In between such measures she snarled a litany of offensive curses, but the girl was firing blindly into the night-- and over her shoulder at that. She knew they had little chance of hitting her target. But godsdarned if she wouldn’t at least try.

Fortunately the darkness worked against their enemy as well, and eventually the two were able, through guile and an understanding of the terrain borne of weeks spent wandering it, to shake him off their tail. Still, they didn’t stop, knowing that the man could easily revive his companions and come after them again- they needed to put as much distance as possible between them.

By the time Zuzanna and Phyllo finally stopped for air, the cut on Zuzanna’s palm had clotted on its own, the blood drying against the lashing night air. Barely able to feel the sting of it over her adrenaline and thumping heart, the girl put her wand away and leaned over, her hair dangling in front of her face as she panted in an effort to catch her breath. Well in shape after all this time spent traversing the wilds, usually Zuzia would have had little trouble with such an endeavour-- but suddenly, she found herself unable to quite shake the heavy feeling from her lungs, nor to calm her racing pulse. It felt as if someone had filled her throat with lead and her veins with jittering volts of lightning.

“C-can you give me my water, Phyllo?” she gasped between wheezes, afraid that if she straightened to tug off her own pack and go rooting through it she’d crumple outright to her knees. Phyllo, whose breathing was already well on the way to normal speed (though his neck ached with the effort of breathing so hard around his collar and was starting to bruise) looked towards her in surprise and alarm.

“Y-yeah, of course,” he replied, gently shrugging off his pack and withdrawing the waterskin they’d filled at the river before entering the house. “Here, just take mine. What’s wrong, you don’t have spelling sickness already, do you?”

“N-no, I don’t.” Only the very tips of her fingers smarted at all, and even then only barely. But this did little to slow her trembling as she reached for the proffered water, the cool liquid inside feeling more like a gummy paste as it slid down her raw throat. Nearly choking it right back up, Zuzanna shuddered and could not manage to properly screw the cap back on the canteen. “Gods,” she moaned. “I… I need to sit down, I…”

“Easy, easy,” Phyllo said, instantly bracing his shoulder under her arm. He gently lowered her into a sitting position, plucking the waterskin out of her hand. “Woo, you’re shaking hard, love, what’s the matter? Are you coming down with something? I know that flu symptoms can seem to come out of nowhere, but where you’d have gotten it in the middle of the wilderness like this...”

“No, i-it’s not the flu.” But providing no help to her assertion, Zuzanna sharply leaned forward, her throat spasming as she vomited into the dirt below. “Sorry. I’m-- I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I… I think I just ran too hard.”

Phyllo rubbed his wife’s back with one hand, using the other to help keep her stable. Despite her assurances, he was badly worried. If his wife was getting sick, now, when they had a band of mages that was clearly after them in particular, that was going to be extremely bad for both of them. He hugged her, wincing a little as he felt something sticky from her hair against his cheek- she must have run through a spiderweb on the way out of the cottage…

A spiderweb…

“...Zuzu, are you positive that spell the mage fired off when she first caught us didn’t land?”

“I… I don’t know.” Zuzanna swallowed hard. “I… d-didn’t feel it hit? I figure it must have been something o-offensive but-- I didn’t feel it hit, so…” Leaning back against him, she screwed her eyes shut. Her heart was finally beginning to slow, but she felt… cold, somehow. As if someone had run her through an ice bath. The tips of her toes had begun to go numb. “Can I have more water, please?”

“Yeah, here let me,” he replied, holding the nozzle of the skin up to her mouth and very gently pouring the water in. “Zuzia, maybe you should use that spell that detects runes on yourself. Just to be safe? Please?”

Swallowing down several swigs of water, Zuzanna nodded as she pulled away. “R-right. I don’t think it hit, but…” Drawing her wand, she turned it tremulously inward. “Zdradzać-wnętrze.”

As the spell seeped into her, Zuzanna recoiled, her fingers suddenly aching. The spelling sickness. It was a familiar feeling, but… how? Moments ago barely her fingernails had ached, it shouldn’t have progressed so quickly. And especially not from such a minor spell.

Blinking sharply, she bit down on her tongue as she waited for the spell to take effect, most of her expecting for it to produce nothing. She ought not have any runes cast on her right now-- except for maybe the faint remnants of the mosquito repellant she’d cast on Phyllo and herself the afternoon before. However, when the runes presented themselves a few moments later, twinkling like stars against the dim backdrop of the night air, it took Zuzanna only an instant to realize that she was not staring at the dregs of a simple anti-bug spell.

“Oh, gods.” She nearly screamed.

Phyllo tensed, watching as light winked to life before his wife’s prone body, though as a nonmage he could not see the actual runes that shaped the spell. Like the original casting, this magic was a sickly, ugly shade of crimson, and gave off a sensation of wrongness with which the former bleeder was entirely too familiar.

“...It’s blood magic, isn’t it?” he whispered, his voice shaking with horror.

“Yes,” she nearly sobbed. “I’ve… I’ve only seen anything like this when my father took me to Fort Gracja, j-just a few months before you and I met. Right at the start of the Gods’ Campaigns, and h-he was having special units trained, and…” Zuzanna shook her head. “I wasn’t imagining it. They have been tracking us! Oh, gods. They were just… w-waiting, probably using glamours and shields and biding their time until we were somewhere they thought they could trap us… and t-they were hoping we’d sit and stew after, that it would kick in before I realized what was happening, they--”

“Zuzia, breathe,” Phyllo interrupted, though he would have been lying if he said he didn’t want to panic himself. “Read the runes, I can’t do it for you. What does the spell do?”

“It… it…” She whimpered. “No, no, no. This is bad. This is…” Zuzanna wrung her hands in her lap, despondent-- before very abruptly, she reached to her hip. Toward her knife. Phyllo saw what she was doing and reacted immediately, hand snaking out to snare her wrist.

“No, you just ran two or three miles up and downhill with your pulse racing and a laceration on your hand,” he said sternly. “You can’t lose anymore blood. Please answer me, Zuzanna, I want to know what’s going on.”

“It’s-- a stasis curse, of sorts,” she warbled. “Slow burn, with a delayed trigger onset. T-that’s why I didn’t feel it hit, because it wasn’t activated yet. I… I think they styled it like that because it’s safer. L-lower chance of the person getting hurt-- like you did when that mage w-wasn’t careful back in Pastora, that time I had to save you-- it’s safer if the person eases into the stasis slowly, and isn’t just… slammed into limbo.” Trying to pry free from his grip, she went on, “It’s going to knock me out. Slowly. T-that’s why my feet feel like ice, and it took so long for me to catch my breath, and-- e-everything: it’s starting to kick in, it’s… sliding over me, like… rising water in a flood.” Desperately, Zuzanna finished: “Let go of me. Please. I-I don’t have the magical strength to cut through it right now, I need amplified spells or--”

“If you need blood to strengthen your magic, use mine,” he replied, shoving his arm at her so that the pinkish red scars almost glowed in the light from the magic. “You can’t lose anymore, not when you’re already so weak.”

“No!” Zuzanna’s voice was shrill. “Absolutely not, I’m not going to hurt you!” She pulled against his hold again, as sharply as she could, but the creeping weakness that was beginning to overtake her made it a badly lopsided battle. “Let go. I can’t waste time fighting with you! I need to cut myself and start with these runes soon, or else it’s going to be too late!”

Phyllo, however, took the knife in his free hand and gently prised it out of her grip. “You’re being ridiculous. I’ve done this a thousand times with mages who were a lot more careless and haphazard with my blood than you’ll be.” He tapped the bleeder mark under his right eye meaningfully. Then, he set down her knife, still caked with half-dried blood from earlier, and took out his own dagger. Despite Zuzia’s instantaneous squawk of desperate protest, Phyllo pressed the blade against the fifth line on his arm- the line a priest would slice for the element of blood, and the place where mages who’d used him almost always made their slice- and slashed it open with a swift, clean motion. He barely flinched, a slight inward twitch of one eye the only indication that he felt any pain as blood welled up from the newly reopened wound. He held out the arm to her, a thin smile on his face as he joked, “Sorry I don’t have a font to drip in for you, but we’ll have to make do.”

“If we survive tonight,” Zuzanna hissed, tears flowing down her cheeks, “I am going to bloody murder you!”

And with that, she swiped the tip of her wand through her husband’s blood, taking a deep breath as she then shifted her gaze back to the rune chain and began-- frantically-- to deconstruct it. It was a complicated web, which was never good in a race against time, but at the very least it was impeccably crafted. And unlike the mutable brand spell that she’d badly botched on Phyllo, Zuzia could immediately tell there were no hidden pratfalls in this curse’s composition. It was clean as a waterfall, and the woman who’d cast it had clearly spent no dearth of time practicing and perfecting it before turning it out on Zuzia. There was not a single rune out of place, no links in the chain that ought not be there or which served no purpose. Had Zuzanna not presently been fighting back the urge to vomit again-- this time purely out of nerves-- she almost would have been impressed. Izydor certainly would have been.

The longer she worked, the more pressing the icy feeling in her legs became. Slowly it began to snake upward, expanding from merely her feet and calves into her thighs, and she did not dare let herself entertain the idea of what would happen once it reached her arms. Nor did she allow herself to pay any heed to the spelling sickness as it continued its natural creep, Phyllo’s blood serving to amplify her powers but not to make her invincible.

“I-if I don’t finish this in time,” she murmured eventually, flexing her aching fingers before she began to tackle a particularly dense series of runes, “promise me you’ll run. That you’ll leave me and run.”

“You’ll finish, Zuzu,” he said quietly. “You’re too stubborn to give up just yet. If I have to hold your hand up and point your wand for you I’ll do it.”

“I’m not giving up.” Her lip wobbled. “B-but at a certain point, it’s not going to be in my control. Or yours.”

She wanted to bring up her plea again. Force him to promise he’d abandon her if she failed. But Zuzanna knew she didn’t have time to squeeze agonized oaths out of her husband, not now. The freezing feeling up to her hips, and the spelling sickness starting to burn into her arms, she took another daub of her husband’s blood and turned her attention back to the runes. She couldn’t remember pushing herself this far, not in a long, long time. Back when she was maybe twelve, and that had been a purposeful lesson by one of her fighting tutors, behind the safety of the Iron Castle’s imposing walls. If she’d failed then, she wasn’t going to get anybody killed, only her pride wounded and her rear bruised. But now…

Zuzanna wasn’t quite sure when she crested the hill. The point that she realized she’d slashed through more runes than there were left, and suddenly hope seemed to flare at the end of the previously black and bleak scope of her forward thinking. Numb from the waist down, her fingertips to elbows screamed for her to stop, but the girl only bit down on her tongue and swiped the wandtip yet again through Phyllo’s blood. Then, she quickened her pace. Frantic now. Manic.

Phyllo watched wordlessly, trying to ignore the slightly light feeling in his head. He hadn’t lost much blood, not yet, but enough that he was feeling it. How long had they been sitting here? Ten minutes, twenty? An hour? He kept a hand on the slice on his arm to slow the bloodloss, but periodically gave it a squeeze to keep it from clotting entirely lest Zuzanna needed more. He swallowed hard, having to fight back the urge to say something encouraging or put a comforting hand on his wife’s shoulder. Such a gesture would be more hindrance than help, distracting her from her spellwork.

She’d made enough headway with the rest of the web to get to the latching chain now, but given how weak she felt, Zuzanna knew this would probably be the hardest part. Every muscle, every fiber, every speck of her being begged her to desist, but that would be a funeral knell now. For Phyllo. She’d wake up again halfway to Pastora, and her husband… well, if he was lucky, he wouldn’t be lugged all the way back to the Iron Castle. And if not?

Fighting back a nauseated shudder, Zuzia plunged into the latching chain-- the part of the curse that hooked, claw-like, into her, and which if it weren’t destroyed would keep the spell from wearing off until somebody took it off. Presumably, this was never meant to have been her. She almost laughed, imagining some hapless Meltaiman soldier gingerly prodding her too-still form, desperately praying to the gods that she’d come to once they broke the spell. That they hadn’t accidentally killed the margrave’s daughter. That was how you lost your head. Even if your runes were masterpieces, as these had been.

As she shattered the final rune a few minutes later, Zuzanna held her breath. Only praying that she’d not erred somewhere. That there wasn’t something she had missed, some piece of the gorgeous spellwork she’d brashly overlooked--

Like snow tossed into a scorching hearth, the icy numbness evaporated from her legs. She jerked, reflexively, and then let out a small cry, her wand juddering in her hands.

The spelling sickness had nearly reached her chest.

“There,” she breathed to Phyllo-- before hunching sharply over and vomiting again.

Phyllo winced, putting an arm around his wife’s shoulder to steady her despite the fact that removing the pressure set his arm bleeding again. “Easy, Zuzu, deep breaths. Slow, deep breaths. You got it? The curse, it’s gone?”

“Uh-huh.” She inhaled raggedly, then caught a glimpse of his blood-slicked arm. “O-oh gods, l-let me fix that--”

“Ahaha, yeah how about no,” he said. “You’re at the end of your rope. I’ve had way worse nobody bothered to heal and you know it.” He took his dagger, slicing off a trailing segment of his shirt and using it to bind the cut. “There. That’ll do me for now. If you still want to heal it after you’ve recovered, go for it, but right now? You need sleep. Badly.”

“I-I can’t just sleep.” It took Zuzia three tries to slip her wand back into its holster. “I o-only stunned the people at the r-river-- and not even the one, he was fine, and he k-knows what direction we ran.” Trembling, she picked her knife back up fumbled it back into its place at her hip. “We need to walk. P-put… at least five miles more between us and them-- at least--”

“Then I’ll walk, and carry you,” he said simply. He hooked one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, hefting Zuzanna up bridal style before she could protest.

“P-put me down.” She attempted to rap an insistent fist against his chest, badly misgauged, and ended up whacking empty air instead. “I can walk. L-let me walk.”

“No, I don’t think you can,” he said, turning around a bit to gauge the moon’s position in the sky so he could figure out which way was east. “Even if you could, I doubt it would be a very fast walk. We’re in a hurry, remember?” He glanced down at her with a teasing smile, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Come on now, would you really deny me the opportunity to be the strong one for a change? You’re always defending me, archmage, just this once can I protect you?”

Zuzanna shivered violently, although the night was far from chilly. “I s-should have realized what she’d done. Before it s-started to kick in, I wouldn’t have needed your blood if I’d just r-realized-- they were banking on me n-not to realize, and I didn’t--”

“And I should have taken it seriously when you said someone was following us. Should haves are moot at this point,” Phyllo replied gently, starting off into the hills. “What happened, happened. You’re still alive, and I’m still alive, and for now we’ve slipped the hunters. Let’s focus on what to do next instead of what we should have done before.”

“But I should have k-known,” the girl insisted, as the wavering puzzle pieces seemed to snap together in her racing head. “The m-moment she came in a-alone-- and cast a curse I’d never heard before instead of just a stunner… They were hedging that a spell like that would have a greater c-chance of hitting me, because of its range. And that I-I’d not figure out what it was. That I wouldn’t b-be able to deflect it, as I might have with a stunner. I mean-- if they’d all rushed in a-and just thrown stunners, yes, they’d probably have hit me eventually, but I could have parried some, and hurt them, and they were… they were betting I’d think it missed. And then hunker down in a standoff instead of doing w-what we did-- then they could just slip in and grab me once I was unconscious--”

“But we panicked and confronted them, which they weren’t expecting,” Phyllo finished. “So we got away because we took them by surprise. I imagine if the catch up to us again they’ll be a little more prepared. So we need to take care not to be caught by surprise like that again, and not to let our guard down until we’re well over the border in Macarinth. I’ll try to get as much distance between them and us as I can tonight. You, however, need to rest.”

He backed up the statement by shifting his wife a little in his arms, so that the side of her head was resting against his shoulder, and the slow, steady pulse of his heartbeat thumped in her ear. She whimpered, her eyelids fluttering, and only through sheer grit and will did Zuzanna manage to open them again. Her body ached. Worse than she could ever remember before. Had she ever been this sick after casting? She didn’t think so. Not once in nearly fifteen years. And gods knew the manic sprint through the night-- and the blood magic that had nearly knocked her out-- had done nothing to help.

“T-the world looks woozy,” she murmured, her teeth chattering. “Lurching.”

“Close your eyes,” Phyllo advised, his voice low and maddeningly soothing. “It’ll make you less dizzy if you close your eyes.”

“But I want to stay awake,” Zuzanna insisted; her eyes slowly slid shut anyway. “P-put me down… if I walk, I’ll stay awake…”

Phyllo, however, did not put her down. Instead, still keeping his voice low, and his tone mellow, he started to tell a story he’d once heard from his mother. He spoke in Valzick, not Meltaiman, so Zuzia only understood about every third word, but that was the point. A noise that was soothing and soft, but speaking words she couldn’t force her exhausted mind to cling to so she could stay awake. And though Zuzanna was clearly fighting it, within another few minutes, the exhaustion won the war. Her clattering teeth went still, and her breathing leveled off. Her hands, previously curled into shaking fists, relaxed, uncurling. Phyllo smiled, letting his voice fall silent and nuzzling his wife gently with his nose, the wooly bristles of his beard brushing her cheek.

“This time, I’ll carry you.”

Chapter Twelve:

SPOILER: Click to show

Phyllo carried Zuzanna on through the rest of the night, even though the run from their pursuers and losing nearly a pint of blood had left him somewhat weakened already. By the time the sun rose he was stumbling, and he knew that if he kept trying to move forwards he’d probably fall and drop his wife. It took a bit of searching, but he eventually found a small rock crevice that provided reasonable shelter and shade from the sun. He slipped inside, setting Zuzia’s still slumbering form down on their oil cloak and stationing himself at the mouth of the crevice to keep watch. Though he refused to sleep as deeply as Zuzanna was doing, exhaustion did force him into a light doze at least twice before his wife woke around mid afternoon, in extreme pain, dehydrated, and disoriented. He tended her as best he could, teasing one of the pain potions she’d filched back in Pastora down her throat, but even in her weakened state she could tell he was little better off than she was, and as the potion kicked in, she insisted he get some rest while she kept watch.

“The g-good thing is,” she whispered, “that I doubt the soldiers think I would have been able to get the spell off in time. I imagine they’re canvassing a narrow range-- and even if they find some of your tracks, you carried me. So it’s just one set of tracks. They might assume you’ve… stashed me somewhere. And they’ll be under orders to get me. Not you. Which buys us time. N-not infinite time, but… time still.”

Phyllo conceded his wife’s point, and surrendered himself to sleep. They couldn’t linger long enough for him to fully rest, but at least it was better than nothing.

Over the next several days they flitted from hiding place to hiding place like spooked rabbits, wary of the likelihood that the Meltaiman soldiers would catch them at any time. Eventually they started noticing the odd glimpses that Zuzanna had noted before- Phyllo clueing onto them too now that he knew what to look for- and knew with a sinking dread that the hunters were on their trail again.

It was not a pleasant reality to face, turning what had been a tedious journey through the mountains into a mind game. A veritable match of cat and mouse. They began to camp on the fringes of villages when they could, hedging that the Meltaiman soldiers would be warier to act given the increased likelihood of a Special Forces presence in populated Valzick areas. But in such a rural expanse, there still remained nights where there was nothing but Zuzanna, Phyllo, and the vast wilds all around. They began to sleep in shifts, and so one-- or both-- of them was tired and cranky more often than not. Their pace slowed. Zuzanna found herself nursing headaches more often than not, and Phyllo’s dizzy spells-- which had slowly tapered off as they’d fallen into a rhythm-- flared up again.

In a way, it was maddening. Zuzanna knew the Meltaimans were merely biding their time, but for what end? What were they planning? Obviously they’d been unnerved by her and Phyllo escaping their last ploy, but that did little to solve the quandary of what they might try next. It seemed they’d written of the possibility of merely flying through the brush with curses dripping from their tongues, or else they’d have already tried it again. But if not that-- then what?

One afternoon after about a week and a half after the fraught encounter in the cabin, Zuzia and Phyllo were threading through rolling shrublands when they came across a thicket of raspberries. It had been far too long since either of them had downed fresh fruit, and their greedy hands immediate danced to the briar, plucking the berries-- plump and red, if slightly overripe-- into hand. But as Zuzanna began to allocate the raspberries into a small cloth pouch from her rucksack, she suddenly paused. A sliver of cloth-- or really, it was little more than a thread-- wavered in the wind, snagged against a thorn in the brushwood. Black. Like ink.

She turned sharply toward Phyllo; her husband wore gray, even if by this point of their journey it had sullied to a hazy shade of dirt-flecked brown. A cold snake of unease slithered into her throat, and she flicked her gaze back down to the berries in her palm. Then, with her other hand, she slowly drew her wand. “Ukzac,” she whispered. Reveal.

A web of runes burst out from the cluster, so many of them that it was nearly dizzying to look at it. Abruptly, as if she’d been burned, Zuzanna dropped the raspberries back to the ground beneath. Panic searing through her, she whirled on her heel, as if half-expecting for the Meltaiman unit to appear from thin air at any moment.

“Phyllo,” she murmured, her voice hooking in her throat. “Run.”

Phyllo had heard her incantation, and seen the faint glow of magic from raspberries; he didn’t need a second telling. Grabbing his wife’s wrist, he dropped the berries in his hand and bolted from the thicket, pelting as fast as they both could run. Moments later, shouts broke through the breeze, rising from the other side of the rolling hill. Meltaiman. Godsdamn. Zuzanna and Phyllo bore down harder, dirt flying as they scrambled.

… and then Zuzanna heard the hoofbeats.

“Since when,” she gasped to her husband, “have the Meltaimans had horses!?”

“They don’t!” he puffed in reply. “The only horses we’ve seen at all since crossing the border were the ponies of the… the…”

His head snapped around, and his eyes went wide as he saw the Meltaimans break off their pursuit, spinning around in their tracks and firing off spells- at a mounted patrol of the Valzick Special Forces.

“Wands down, child-stealing curs!” one of the riders called, deflecting a spell shot at him. “You’re all under arrest, in the name of his Hallowed Majesty, King Nereus of Valzaim!”

Zuzanna wanted to swear, gritted her teeth instead, and hoped she wasn’t about to dislocate Phyllo’s wrist as she harshly jerked him into another thicket of briar (this one bereft of any berries). Thorns scraped against her arms and legs, and she had to bite down on her tongue to keep from crying out, but she knew that being stung by nettles and bracken was a far superior fate to being caught by the Valzicks or the Meltaimans. Her husband inhaled sharply in surprise, a hissed curse escaping his mouth as he landed hard, just managing to throw out his other arm to cushion the fall so he didn’t crack his head.

Outside their shelter, the battle between the Meltaimans and the Valzicks was still going. Spells were being flung back and forth like some sort of twisted light show, and there was a very great deal of shouting going back and forth- most of it probably futile, as neither side was fluent in the other’s language.

“Interfering in matters that are of no consequence to you-” one of the Meltaimans snarled while a Valzick with the uniform that marked him as a captain cried back “-Been tracking you blighters for days, you’re not slipping away now!”

“They knew,” Phyllo hissed to his wife. “The Valzicks, they knew the Meltaimans were here. They’ve been trailing them.”

“And probably decided it was time to stop playing ghost when they saw the godsdamned maniacs tear out of their hidey-hole like dogs on a fox,” Zuzanna marveled-- before a dash of horror dawned on her as she realized precisely what this meant. “Hell. That means the Valzicks have, by virtue, been tracking us, too. Predator of our predator.”

The Meltaiman who seemed to be in charge-- the woman who’d cursed her, Zuzanna decided, by stealing glances through the bracken-- was very upset. She had stopped lobbing around rote stunners and segued instead to the old Meltaiman military favorite: ribboning. She landed nothing… or at least, from the lack of pained cries, Zuzanna didn’t think she landed anything… but the girl could tell that both sides were losing patience. Quickly. The Valzick riders had ceased casting spells altogether, merely glowering as they dodged out of the way of the Meltaimans’ attempts and slowly, carefully, used their horses to close rank around the enemy unit.

Phyllo watched this, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. “The Valzicks are mounted and in their home territory- they have an advantage here. But what happens if they take down the Meltaimans? They’ll probably come this way to try and figure out what lured their prey out of hiding, and we’re dead. We need to think of something while they’re both distracted.”

“Well, technically, I’d be the one dead, not you,” Zuzanna muttered wryly. Finally, the Meltaiman soldier landed a spell, and one of the mounted riders swore as it buzzed his ear. Or at least, what had been his ear. “Dear gods.” Zuzanna cringed. “That has got to hurt.”

“At least it was only his ear and not his whole face,” Phyllo muttered darkly, his eyes narrowing. “That’s got them good and mad though.”

And indeed it had. As the injured man fell back, his fellows suddenly got a lot more aggressive, their horses darting this way and that, bowling in feinted charges that forced the tight knot of Meltaimans to break up. The woman in charge, her teeth gritted, launched yet another ribboning spell-- but this time it was returned with a swift, unanimous outcry of stunners from the Valzicks. She could have perhaps parried one, or even two or three, but nearly a dozen sent her crumpling to the ground, twitching like a caught hare. As one of the riders cantered to pin her, the rest of the unit acted again in sync, turning their attention on their next target. The Meltaiman, panic flashing across his face, attempted to lob-- of all things-- a confusion curse. It missed, and in another moment he’d too been stunned, dropping to the ground below.

“So I think our Valzick friends are about to win,” Zuzia hissed. “What the hell do we do?”

“If we run, they’ll spot us,” Phyllo growled softly. “But if we stay here they’ll come this way and find us.”

“Right.” Zuzanna hesitated, as the Valzick riders took out a third member of the Meltaiman unit. “Phyllo… you trust me, right?”

He glanced at her in confusion, but nodded, “With my life. We’ve come too far together for me to do otherwise.”

“Alright. So um.” She swallowed hard. “I want you to crawl out of the briar. Crawl. Do not stand up-- stay on your hands and knees. And um…” She forced a wavering smile, as she wiped a thorn-bitten and bloodied hand over the tip of her wand. “Yell out. To the Valzicks. Scream that you’re an escaped blank. That the Meltaimans were trying to catch you. Beg the Valzicks for help. Draw some of them near.”

The blank’s eyes widened, but a moment later he nodded. It was risky, hugely risky, but… it just might work, if they played it right.

“Don’t take them all out,” he cautioned. “They’ll be sitting ducks when the Meltaimans wake up if you do.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” She beamed, horror-stricken, as the fourth Meltaiman plunged to the ground. “I’ve got a plan. Now go. Before they take out the last Meltaimans.” A beat. “I love you.”

He pressed his lips to hers briefly. “I love you too. Woo watch over us both.”

The blank started to crawl forwards, deliberately letting one leg drag behind him and lurching as if he were injured. “Help! Thanks be to the Woo that you’re here, please help me!”

The Valzicks looked around in surprise at the sound of their own language. Continuing, he bleated in a voice that shook, “They’ve been after me since I escaped, I thought they were going to take me back! Please, I am of Valzaim, stolen when I was a child, give me sanctuary!”

“Calm down, son.” The bewildered captain hesitated for a moment, before gesturing brusquely for about half of his men to canter slowly forward with him, toward Phyllo, as the other half kept rank around the remaining conscious Meltaimans (who also looked immensely confused, and had temporarily stopped lobbing about desperate curses as they tried to peek through the wall of horses to see what the hell was going on). “Can you walk? Where are you hurt?”

“I, I fell when they ran after me,” Phyllo said, grimacing. “I felt something in my knee snap, I c-can’t bend it. It hurts, it hurts so much, I thought I was done for, but you’re h-here, you beat them…”

“You’re safe now.” The captain and his flank drew closer still, the man’s brow creased with concern. “What’s your name, son? Where are you from?”

“Ph-Phyllo,” he replied. “I was born in Alsium, a village in the mountains. It’s a day and a half north of the city of Gaeta, I, I think I remember a training outpost of the Special Forces being in Gaeta?”

The horses drew to a halt only a few paces from Phyllo, the captain dropping his reins as though to dismount. “Aye, I used to be stationed in Gaeta, when I was younger--”

A burst of movement from the bordering briar snapped the captain’s attention, his and his men’s eyes jolting to look-- but the soldiers having no time to otherwise react-- as Zuzanna launched herself upright, her blood-coated wand outstretched. Her voice was very quiet as she hissed out not a stunner, or a ribboning spell as the felled Meltaiman woman had been using, but another of the curses one of the Meltaimans had tried (and failed) to employ: dezorientować.

The confounding curse.

A bloom of light, brilliant and crimson, bulbed out from Zuzanna’s wand, just barely vaulting over Phyllo’s ducked head before it slammed into the cluster of soldiers-- and nipped several of their horses. The effect thereafter was close to instantaneous. Two of the horses, previously calm, began to buck, their bewildered riders tumbling from the saddles, while the half-dismounted captain gawped on, slack-jawed. His own horse hadn’t been hit, but it was just as well, because the beast-- feeding on the others’ panic-- lurched forward. Meanwhile, the fringe of soldiers who still surrounded the conscious Meltaimans, none of whom had been struck, let out shouts of genuine-- not magically crafted-- confusion, one of them breaking formation to canter a step forward, nearer to the din.

This was a poor decision; the Meltaiman closest to him attempted to utilize the gap in coverage to surge forward, a paralyzing curse screaming from his lips as he did. It missed the soldier, buzzed his horse instead, and in another moment, the scene had devolved into utter chaos as a battery of stunners flared in his direction…

… and one of the confounded horses, its rider bucked, gallopped ahead at full speed, reins slapping rhythmically against its abandoned saddle as its very befuddled master shouted after it from where he lay on the ground, sounding like a child whose beloved puppy had just darted off for no good reason.

“Phyllo.” Her heart hammering in her throat, Zuzanna pushed out of the briar. “Now is when we run.”

The man was already surging to his feet, his previous attempts to feign injury abandoned as he whirled after his wife. They needed to get as far from here as possible before the confounding curse wore off.

As he came up even with Zuzanna, he glanced in her direction and gave a feeble, half-hysterical smile, and she laughed in return, almost manically. Bloody scrapes stippled both of their arms and legs from the thorns in the briar, but aside from this, although they’d come close, within a hair's breadth of disaster, by phenomenal luck and some very quick thinking, they had managed to squeak out of danger again.

“I can’t,” Zuzanna wheezed as they ran, “believe that worked!” Fueled by pure giddy adrenaline, she giggled again. “But I guess rounding up your expensive war horses and making sure your Meltaiman prisoners don’t escape is more important than chasing after puzzling figures from the brush!”

Phyllo laughed as well, feeling tears of relief starting to flood over his face. “And this means we’ve shaken the margrave’s men at last as well! He won’t even know what happened to them!”

“Just promise me one thing, my love,” Zuzanna panted, her blue eyes glimmering.

“Oh, what’s that?” he asked, white teeth flashing starkly against his dark skin in a wide smile.

“That we are never,” Zuzanna started, “ever, ever”--she laughed--“going to eat godsdamned raspberries again.”

***

Margrave Izydor Gorski had been to the Shadowed Palace in Taika several times before.

He had not, however, ever come half-expecting to end up in chains.

The margrave of Daire province had been summoned to Taika after the unit he’d sent to find Zuzanna had failed three consecutive times to make their regular report. It wasn’t uncommon for a unit to “go dark” if they had a tail and skip one report. However, three missed reports meant that the unit had to be formally reported missing in action. And seeing as the specialist extraction unit was men beholden to Meltaim as a whole, not to Izydor in particular, that report had to be given to the emperor.

Suffice it to say, Izydor’s imperial cousin was displeased.

“Just take me through it one more time, dearest cousin,” Emperor Sebellius sang, sipping on a goblet of red wine. Beneath the silver magelights that glowed overhead in one of the palace’s ornate sitting rooms, it rather looked like blood. “I give you imperial money to train elite forces in anticipation of retaliation for the Gods’ Campaigns. Trained for stealth missions-- hostage extractions-- use in war. And instead, when we’re not involved in a war at all, you send one of the units I left under your authority after a child.”

Izydor’s eyes were fixed firmly on the floor, and he swallowed hard. “I… I beg your forgiveness, your imperial majesty, it was a rash decision. I’m afraid my j-judgement was… clouded. By the thought of what might become of my precious daughter if she were discovered by the Valzick authorities. By the thought of her in heathen lands, brainwashed and turned away from her true self.” He could feel a cold sweat trailing down his forehead, and went on, “I erred badly, my liege.”

“Of course you’re frightened for her,” Sebellius soothed, his dark brow creased. “It’s only natural, dear Izydor. But… I expect better judgment from you, yes? It just won’t do, having resources whittled like that.” He clucked his tongue, as if he were scolding a petulant child. “From now, if you’re thinking of sending one of the units out into the field, you receive my direct permission first. Imperial writ, with seal. Understood, my cousin?”

“Perfectly, your imperial majesty,” Izydor replied, feeling rather choked. “You are wise and just. There will be no more acting on my own in this matter.”

“I am most relieved to hear.” Sebellius beamed. “And don’t think, Izydor, that I, too, was not worried when I heard of sweet Zuzanna’s disappearance. The poor little misguided dear!” He took another sip of his wine-- before he added, “And Henryk, of course, was positively despondent.”

“I… I would imagine that he would be,” Izydor said, trying not to wince at the idea of the smug young man who’d so openly fondled his daughter being despondent about anything save the loss of his bragging rights bride. “These tidings have been hard on all those who are close to Zuzanna.”

“For weeks, he insisted on holding out hope for his sweet bride,” Sebellius prattled on. Though his voice was honey-sweet, his eyes were narrowed. Hardened. Calculated, as he assessed Izydor-- his dearest cousin-- as a tiger might its possible meal. “But he’s older already, as you know. Waited all this time for Zuzanna to come of age… then a year on top of that, my patient nephew!” Sebellius set down the wine goblet. “He is marrying Zofia Sierzant next month. The future margrave of Abital province, as you know. On her fourteenth birthday. We’re going to have the loveliest ball, here at the palace.”

Izydor knew what that meant. The emperor was giving up on Zuzanna. Not that the margrave entirely blamed him; she’d shamed herself and her family. Even if he had managed to bring her back to Pastora, Izydor knew she would never have been able to remain his heir. Still, it stung to hear it confirmed so casually, as if Sebellius were merely discussing the weather.

“I’m certain it will be an occasion to remember,” the margrave replied softly. “The Lady Sierzant is truly privileged.”

“Oh, Henryk is so excited!” Sebellius smiled, his teeth glimmering like jagged spikes of ivory. “It’s going to be a ball of all balls-- I’m getting the finest entertainment, and such lovely food, and well--” Sebellius waved a hand. “That’s neither here nor there. For you.” His lips closed again, flattening into a frown. “You’ve the triplets still, yes? Have you decided which of them is taking over as your heir?”

“I… have been favoring my daughter Gabrijela,” Izydor replied reluctantly, not liking where this conversation seemed to be going. “She is the strongest of the three magically, and though as any child sees her share of mischief, she is more… level-headed than her brothers.”

“She seemed a charming little girl,” Sebellius agreed. A deliberate pause, then, before: “I want it declared. Legally. Even if Zuzanna were to return.”

Izydor bowed his head low. “Of course,” he murmured, though not without reluctance. “Zuzanna has proven she does not have the adequate disposition for a margrave. It is… better if her sister takes the position.”

“My thoughts precisely, Izydor.” The emperor leaned back in his chair, silent for a moment. “And-- you must understand me. When I say that I am… upset by this entire turn of events. And I don’t mean merely your gross misappropriation of imperial troops. For an heir of a province to run off into the wilderness with a blank? It’s unprecedented. If you were not my dear cousin, and I did not know you so, and know how very much you love your children-- why, I might be quite concerned for the welfare of the remaining little ones, Izydor.”

The margrave of Daire felt his jaw clench. Gods, was he implying…

“I assure you, imperial majesty,” Izydor said thickly, “that my children are in no danger. Zuzanna was given… far too much trust for her maturity, a mistake I will not repeat. The triplets will understand the world and its dangers, thoroughly, and I will see to it that they never stray as their sister did.”

“Henryk will be in Abital soon,” Sebellius said. “I will miss him so; as you know, Julissa” -- his wife, the empress-- “and I raised him here, in the palace. A count in title, but why, he’s come up a prince!” The smile was back, all the more lethal this time. “Once he’s gone, I will have only my little babe, Macaius. And this palace-- it has so many empty rooms!” Eyes shining like diamonds, the emperor finished, “Tend your children, Izydor. And tend them well. Understood?”

“Perfectly, your imperial majesty,” Izydor replied, cold dread filling his veins with ice. “I understand you perfectly.”

“Excellent,” Sebellius crooned. “And my, how strange it is to think. That dear little Zuzanna must be nearly as far as Macarinth by now!” The emperor grinned. “She doesn’t know much about our esteemed neighbours to the east, does she? Daire borders only Valzaim, after all.”

Izydor’s eyes widened, and he had to force back a whimper. “N-no. She does not.”

“Oh, well, my prayers will be with your poor girl.” Sebellius laughed, thunderously. “I’m sure she’ll find sunny blue skies ahead!”

***

It had been about two weeks since Phyllo and Zuzanna’s flight from the battle between the Meltaiman and Valzick authorities, and there had been no indication that anyone was following them. They gradually relaxed, relief that they had shaken their tails and were relatively safe once again making the two genuinely cheerful for the first time in a long while. Zuzanna’s tension headaches vanished, and Phyllo’s dizzy spells retreated to a more manageable frequency.

Further improving their mood was the fact that they’d finally cleared the Galfras Mountains and were travelling now through open grasslands. Golden fields of thigh-high grass stretched for miles on all sides, with only sparse trees and shrubs dotting the landscape. Knowing that this meant they had at long last passed the part of Valzaim that bordered Meltaim, Phyllo and Zuzanna began to angle northwards towards the small country of Macarinth. It was a relief to feel like they were actually going somewhere, instead of plodding on aimlessly and eternally.

One morning, as the two were refilling their waterskins in a narrow stream, the good humor that had been infecting them finally got the better of Phyllo. As Zuzanna turned to put her skin back into her pack, he put a hand in the cool water and, grinning impishly, sent a huge cascade of it into her back. Scowling, his wife whirled on him, her brow knit in exasperation.

“Phyllo!” She set her hands on her hips. “That was not nice, you prat.”

“What wasn’t?” he asked innocently, ruining the attempt to feign innocence by grinning hugely. “I’m just filling my waterskin like a good boy. No prats over here.”

“Oh, are we playing games?” Zuzanna took a step forward, kicking a clod of dirt in his direction as she tapped her holstered wand. “Careful, good boy. It’d be such a shame if a sudden gust of wind were to send you falling flat on your arse in the water, right?”

“Awww, you’d use magic on me? That’s hardly fair,” he teased. “Have you no mercy on your poor blank husband?” He shook his hand, still dripping slightly, so that flecks of water sprinkled Zuzanna’s face. “I was just making sure you didn’t overheat.”

“What golden motives, prat.” Her frown grew. “And don’t call yourself that. A blank. We’re not in Meltaim anymore.” Taking another step forward, she reached out and set a hand on his wrist. “People without magic are just… people.”

He seemed surprised by this, but then he smiled. “I think I could get used to that. Being a person and not a blank.” He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Maybe I’m stuck with the brands and the collar, but where we’re going they won’t mean anything. That’ll be nice.”

Zuzanna trailed her fingers up his arm. “People, however,” she said, kissing his cheek, “apologize when they splash their unsuspecting wife with frigid, brackish stream water, dear.”

He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’m sorry, Zuzu. That wasn’t nice.” He smiled apologetically. “I really am sorry, it’s just… been so long since I felt relaxed. Like I could do something stupid, just for the fun of it, and not be punished for daring.”

She sighed. “It’s alright.” The archmage raised a brow. “And I’d certainly not wish to punish you. That’s no fun.” Leaning forward again, she brushed her lips against his. “We’ve made good time today, I think. It’s easier to walk now that it’s flatter. We could take a few hours off. Relax. By this nice, freezing stream.”

Her husband grinned broadly. “I certainly wouldn’t object to that. We deserve some time off from walking for so long.” He put his arms around her shoulders. “Would give you time to d-”

Anything else he might have said was cut off abruptly when something whizzed directly past his head, so fast he felt a surge of air at its passing. A moment later the object buried itself in the dirt beside them, and he realized what it was- a crossbow bolt.

“What the, ever-living ‘Pit,” he yelped, spinning around in the direction the bolt had come from- almost directly overhead. But there were no trees, how in the Woo’s name…

Then he saw it. Eight huge shapes wheeling in the sky overhead, dark dots against the blue sky. They descended, dropping like stones, to land hard in the grass- completely surrounding Zuzanna and Phyllo before the pair had time to fully process what they were even seeing.

Up close to the things now, manic terror gripped Phyllo so that he hugged his wife as tightly to his body as he could manage; Zuzanna, terror swirling through her, clung back in shock, one arm draped around Phyllo as her other hand lingered, frozen, over her holstered wand. The beasts at first appeared to be eagles, giant eagles with dark gray, almost black feathers and white on their chests and legs. But as the creatures moved and paced, their movements were… not dissimilar to a horse in a trot, nothing like an eagle would move on the ground. And it became obvious why at a second glance- where an eagle would have had it’s back and tailfeathers, instead these creatures bodies extended into a second pair of legs. Horse legs. Huge horse legs, like those on one of the giant draft animals that pulled a farmer’s plow.

Phyllo had never seen one, only heard stories- hippogriffs. Distant cousins of the gryphon, giant monsters that were half raptor and half horse.

And these hippogriffs were in armor, carrying armed-- and armored-- men on their backs. The men had no wands, at least none that Zuzanna could see, but that seemed to matter little in face of the alternating spear or crossbow each wore over his shoulder, as a mother might a baby’s sling, and the curving scimitars at their belts. Almost immediately, the girl’s hand fell away from her wand. Drawing it now would mean certain death, for her and Phyllo both. There was no getting out of this with a carefully placed spell. None.

“Phyllo,” she whispered, pressing herself tight against him, as if he could somehow protect her from the squadron that surrounded them. “W-when did Valzicks get hippogriffs? What happened to their ponies? And-- their wands?”

“I… I don’t know,” he hissed back. Speaking more loudly, he said, “H-hello, good sirs… may I ask wh-why a pair of humble travellers are being m-menaced so?”

None of the men dismounted their steeds, but the one who seemed to be in charge-- an older man with silvering hair and skin the colour of coffee heavily splashed with cream-- nudged his hippogriff a few steps forward, his hand never leaving the haft of his spear. Its tip glimmered beneath the afternoon sun, a menacing silver that winked like a jewel.

“Step away from each other,” the soldier barked. Like Phyllo, he’d spoken Valzick, but unlike Phyllo, the words did not sound natural on his tongue. “And hands up. Identify yourselves at once.”

Phyllo absolutely didn’t want to step away from Zuzanna, and cast a panicked glance at her, but he had the feeling these men wouldn’t hesitate to gut them if they didn’t cooperate. Reluctantly releasing his wife and pulling away from her, he held up his hands, palms out. “Phyllo Panem, and wife. We…”

He peered at the man closer, and realized that his accent in speech wasn’t the only thing that was odd. His uniform was not that of the Valzick Special Forces, or even its ordinary military. Instead it was a pale blue trimmed with gold, even their armor gold washed, so that they called to mind a clear sky with a brilliant sun gleaming from it. And the headplates on the hippogriffs were stamped with an emblem that Phyllo had never seen in Valzaim: a vivid, ornate sunburst.

Zuzanna, however, went from mere shock to outright nausea as the sigil registered in her head. She recognized it from her studies… had once sketched it in the margins of her scroll, during a rather boring lecture by her least favourite tutor…

“King’s army,” she hissed beneath her breath to Phyllo, hands held skyward as ordered. “Macarinthian king’s army.”

If the soldiers had heard her desperate words, they gave no signs of it. Instead, the silver-haired officer pursed his lips, sharply clicking his teeth at his mount as, nearly glowering at Zuzanna and Phyllo, it let out a rather exasperated-sounding half-chirrup, half-whinny. Gods. The hippogriff looked like it might eat them alive, should its master grant permission.

Zuzanna suddenly hated every moment she’d spent daydreaming back at the Iron Castle. Every lesson on foreign studies that had slid in and out her ears without sinking in. Hippogriffs. The Macarinthians had hippogriffs! This felt like something she should have known, or at the very least found out through careful research once she and Phyllo decided to cut through the kingdom-- and how furiously she suddenly hated herself that she hadn’t bothered.

“On your knees, Master Panem and wife,” the head soldier ordered. “Lace your fingers together over your head, like this.” He demonstrated, lifting his own hands above his head as he knitted his fingers flush together, palms facing outward. “Close your eyes. No sudden moves. We will only turn to arms if you resist.”

Phyllo swallowed hard, repeating the instructions in a hurried whisper to Zuzanna- whose Valzick was still spotty at best. Woo, if they made it out of this he was going to put her lessons on the tongue at the top of his priority list from now on!

He moved to obey the Macarinthians’ orders, jaw clenched. “All due respect, sirs, why are you doing this? What have we done?”

As Zuzanna fell to her knees at her husband’s side, hands trembling above her head, the Macarinthian leader, without responding, gestured for four of his men to dismount. They were off the saddle in seconds, two of them swiftly grabbing something out from their saddlebags before they began to approach the teenagers in cautious pairs. Having yet to shut her eyes, a fresh wave of panic flared in Zuzanna as she realized what they were holding. Rope. Oh, dear gods!

“Eyes shut,” the silver-haired man snapped again. Then, again, as if he’d heard Phyllo translating for Zuzanna, he spat the same command in heavily accented, broken Meltaiman, before he switched back to Valzick and went on, “We are going to be asking the questions. Not you. I would recommend quiet cooperation for now, Master Panem. And if I were you, I might advise my woman the same.”

Phyllo was somewhat irked by the comment of Zuzanna being “his” woman, but all the same he muttered, “He says not to ask questions and to cooperate. I don’t know what his intentions are, he won’t tell me, but… I think we should play along for now.”

“R-right.” As the foot soldiers reached her and Phyllo, and one of them immediately began to twist the rope around her wrists as his partner reached to relieve her of both her dagger and wand, she added, “I love you, Phyllo. I-if we get separated… if we can’t talk again…”

His voice choked, he murmured back, “I love you too, Zuzia. Woo willing, this won’t be the end, but I love you too.”

Chapter Thirteen:

SPOILER: Click to show

Tied down to the saddle of one of the hippogriffs, the choppy ride that followed was rather what Zuzanna imagined it must be like to take a nice swim through frothing, boulder-strewn rapids. By the time they landed several hours later, deep in the heart of what looked to be a Macarinthian fort, the girl’s lips were wind-chapped, her eyes stung, and her pale complexion had gone nearly green.

When the soldier with whom she’d ridden moved to heft her off the saddle, her knees nearly collapsed beneath her, as if they’d liquefied. A few feet over, Phyllo, who was being hauled off the hippogriff he’d been affixed to, looked over at his wife sharply in panic, but when he opened his mouth to call out to her the soldier gave him a firm cuff on the side of the head to silence him. Nauseous, terrified, and desperate to protect his wife, Phyllo felt the old, familiar anger and resentment towards unreasonable authority figures such as he’d known in Meltaim rise up in his throat like bile.

The two of them were dragged into what could only have been some sort of prison. Still bound, they found themselves forced into chairs in a small, blocky room and tied with still more ropes to keep them in those chairs. Had Zuzanna not known it would be sheer idiocy-- and if she’d spoken more than broken Valzick-- she would have huffed that this was all very unnecessary, that clearly she and Phyllo were in no situation to be attempting anything aggressive. It was like weighing down a drowning man with an iron ball after he was already a hundred feet deep beneath the sea.

“Stay put,” one of the soldiers growled, standing back to admire his handiwork with the ropes. “Someone will be in with you soon.” He prodded Phyllo’s shoulder, as if for good measure. “You are lucky the colonel has a daughter around your wife’s age. I’d have separated you two.”

And with that, he spun on his heel and stalked out, his comrades hurrying after him, and the last of them out the room slamming the door shut behind him. Phyllo, finally alone with his wife, sagged as much as the ropes would allow. “He said someone is coming to question us.” Lips curling into a snarl he added, “Ham-handed, paranoid, overcompensating brutes.”

“Don’t turn into a petulant brooder now,” Zuzanna murmured, her pulse racing.

If there was one good thing about having been raised to lead a province-- and a garrison of troops-- it was that the girl always, in times of crisis, thought first for a solution. The gears in her brain churning. Snapping. Looking for an angle, a play, a plan.

“If they’re waiting, I think it’s for someone in particular,” Zuzia prattled on. “Probably a mage. An interrogator. This isn’t Meltaim, so they’re not going to be put us under a pain spell-- they’ll probably only turn to torture if we don’t cooperate. I’m guessing they’ll go for a basic truth spell first. And… Macarinth…” She gritted her teeth, desperately racking her memory for all-- anything-- that she knew about Macarinthian magic. “They’re Wooist. But variant, compared to Valzaim, with their spellcasting.” She could hear tutor’s droning voice now, thrumming in her conscious. “The south used to be part of the Synedonese empire. Before Macarinth capitalized during… oh, gods, I can’t remember wars now-- but the point is, Valzaim grabbed half of Synedon, and Macarinth bit off another chunk, but unlike Valzaim they didn’t try to just snuff out all the native culture. And so some of the traditional Synedonese magic structure is now incorporated in their framework.” A beat. “Pair magic. They’re-- they’re very good at pair magic.”

“Ah… alright,” Phyllo replied, though most of this was meaningless to him. “What does that mean for us, exactly?”

“They pair kids,” Zuzanna said. “Young. Really young. Almost like-- gods, have you ever heard of familiars? By the time they’re adults, their magic is literally bonded together, and they can act in near total sync with each other. Which is useful. They can fill each other’s weaknesses and gaps. And in battle, pair-bonded soldiers are able to fight almost like one fluid unit with twice the normal power. Which is um, bad for an enemy, but--” She forced a deep breath. “In an interrogation, we’re going to have to be really careful. I’m guessing they’ll have one of the pair set the truth spell, and the other help to monitor it. That means two mages to look for flares, if we mess up. If they use the kind of truth spell I think they will-- that can delineate between truth and a lie.”

The young man frowned, clearly thinking hard. “Okay so… whatever we say to them has to be the truth, or they’ll know it’s not and be suspicious. I guess our best bet is to keep things as uncomplicated as possible-I was kidnapped from Valzaim young, we met at a bakery, and fled the country together.”

“And I’m Zuzanna Panem nee Starek,” Zuzanna said, blood rushing through her ears she heard footsteps out in the hall. “That’s it, Phyllo. That’s it. Just remember: you cannot lie to them. Manipulate the truth as much as you want-- but no lies. Got it?”

“Got it,” he replied, his expression tense. Any further attempts at conversation between husband and wife were forestalled by the faint rattling of the door, which then opened to reveal a pair of men in the Macarinthian military uniforms. However, instead of spears or crossbows, the scimitars at their hips were joined by a pair of holstered wands. More unusual, and immediately catching Zuzanna and Phyllo’s attention, was the metal bracelet each man wore on his left arm, and which Zuzanna noticed as being carved with runes-- although what they did, the girl hardly recognized.

“Master, Madam,” one of the two said, drawing his wand and tapping it against his bracelet in a lazy manner that almost suggested the action were nothing more than a nervous tic to keep his hands busy, had it not been for the regular repeating rhythm of the taps. “We have some questions to ask the both of you- it is not often we receive such… a peculiar pair of guests in Macarinth. Our superiors are understandably concerned.”

“We’d also heard some odd stories from our compatriots in the Valzick Special Forces,” the other put in, leaving his wand holstered as he seemed to absently polish his bracelet with a thumb. “Of a group of Meltaimans ghosting through their territory doing Woo only knows what. And here you two are, speaking in Meltaiman with one another. A coincidence, we’re sure, but it doesn’t hurt to check, no?”

Phyllo quickly translated these words for Zuzanna, before bowing his head to the two mages. “We’ll answer your questions. I assure you, we have every intention of cooperating.”

“Excellent.” The second mage smiled, his eyes bright.

He and his partner were about the same age, and while they resembled each other little physically-- the one dark-haired where the other had fair locks, the first’s eyes a chocolate brown compared to the second’s emerald green-- there was nevertheless a certain, almost unnerving, quality about the way they carried themselves. Present in the identical squaring of their shoulders, and the listing of their chins as they studied their prisoners, and even in the way they kept fidgeting with their bracelets, like children with a toy. In a way, it reminded Zuzanna of the triplets. How her siblings had always been able to finish each other’s sentences. How they often communicated with glances alone, seeming to carry full conversations without needing even a single word.

Hearing about pair magic was one thing. Seeing it...

“My friend here, Commandant Benigno, is going to cast a simple truth spell on you both,” continued the blonde mage. “It won’t hurt. So no need to be afraid, okay?”

Phyllo nodded mutely. Benigno, taking his as consent, flicked his wand with a muttered incantation, pointing it at Phyllo’s head. He seemed to draw a circle with the rod, and though the young man felt no different he noticed an odd film in front of his eyes- a sheen of light. Looking down, he saw the same sheen over his entire body, yellowish in color. Benigno repeated the procedure, casting the same spell on Zuzanna. Then he smiled, and glanced sideways at his partner.

The blonde soldier finally drew his own wand, but rather than casting any spells of his own, simply tapped it once against his bracelet before slipping it back into its leather holster. For a girl who’d spent nearly her entire life in a society that breathed magic, it would have been an amazing thing to watch-- had she not been bloody terrified. Great. Benigno and his buddy apparently used the bracelets as conduits to share their magic. How wonderful. For the Macarinthians.

“Let’s see.” Benigno’s partner pursed his lips. “Where ought we begin, Benigno? So many questions we might ask!”

“I suppose we should begin with the basics, Azrael,” Benigno replied. “You gave our men your names in the field, but perchance were you not being entirely honest about that? Let’s have them again.” He glanced at Zuzanna, adding in heavily fractured, almost indecipherable Meltaiman, “Name, yours, please.”

“Zuzanna Panem,” she said.

“Your husband’s ah-- name, yes?” Azrael’s grip of the language was even worse. “Not… born with?”

“No,” Zuzanna said. “I wasn’t born with it. I took it when we married.”

“And born name?” Azrael prompted.

She could have laughed. That was the best way he could have phrased the question. “Zuzanna Starek,” the girl said.

There was no waver in the light that was haloing Zuzanna, and the men seemed satisfied. Benigno needled, “Meltaim, born of?”

“Yes,” Zuzanna said. “In Daire province.”

“Province?” Azrael cocked his head, eyes flicking to Phyllo. “What is ‘province’?”

“The word for a region of the country,” he explained. “Meltaim is divided into nine districts, each ruled by a lord called a margrave. Zuzanna is from Daire.”

“And you?” Azrael asked. “Where were you born, Master Panem?”

“In a small village in the mountains of northern Valzaim,” he replied. “I was abducted from my home by Meltaiman raiders when I was eight years old and enslaved as a blank once in Meltaim.” He flipped his head a little, to indicate the brands on his face as best he could with his arms bound.

Benigno folded his arms. “You worked doing what exactly?”

“I was a bleeder,” he said simply.

“Bleeder?” Azrael exchanged a befuddled look with his partner, the two speaking quickly back in forth in what Zuzanna and Phyllo presumed must be Macarinthian, before the man glanced back to his prisoners and continued, “And your girl? What was she? Please, do not tell me you eloped with some priestling who mutilated you.”

“Of course not,” Phyllo said, frowning. “She worked at a bakery where I ran odd jobs for coin. Her parents owned the pl… pla…”

He groaned, slumping forwards as his head started to spin and dark spots danced in front of his eyes. Next to him, Zuzanna startled, straightening as her eyes went wide; Azrael, meanwhile, furrowed his wheat blonde brow and took a demanding step forward. The light cloud was not flaring as to indicate a lie, but something was clearly wrong with the prisoner. An evasive measure? Azrael scowled.

“No games, Master Panem,” the Macarinthian said stiffly. “Commandant Benigno and I, we do not like games. Yes, Benigno?”

“No, but…” Benigno’s face, for once not in accord with Azrael’s, seemed to twist with genuine concern. Phyllo gave no indication he’d heard either man, his eyelids fluttering and his breath coming in panicked, ragged gasps. Turning his gaze to Zuzanna, Benigno grunted, “He fake?”

She shook her head rapidly. “No. He-- he gets dizzy.” When this word meted nothing, she dug through her mind for a Valzick equivalent, stammering out, “Sick. He gets sick. Not fake.”

“He need… heal?” Azrael shared a puzzled look with Benigno. “We-- no have… permissions? For heal.”

“He’ll be fine. Just give him a few minutes,” Zuzanna said, hating that she could not reach out to comfort her husband. “Fine soon,” she added in Valzick. “Needs-- time. Soon.”

The duo shared another befuddled look, but sure enough a moment later, Phyllo shook his head, blinking rapidly.

“You with us again, Master Panem?” Benigno asked. “What was that?”

He flinched, his eyes still blurry. “Once, a few years ago, I was… experimented on by a mage working outside the law. It almost killed me- since then I get spells like that, from time to time. It gets worse if I’m upset or stressed.”

Azrael shuddered. “Pure wickedness.” He shook his head. “But you are fine now?”

“Fine,” he agreed. “Shouldn’t come back for several hours, if at all today.”

“Good. More questions then.” Azrael smiled. “You ran from Meltaim. I presume there’s some fascinating love story involved, and I don’t really care.” He paused. “How did you get out? And why were there Meltaiman elites chasing after you? I have a feeling they were not sent by your wife’s baker parents, no?”

“We stowed away in a trader’s wagon to get out of the city, then we walked,” he replied. At the second question he hesitated. He couldn’t very well deny the elites had been chasing them, the truth spell would go off. But he couldn’t say exactly why they’d been after the duo. Finally, he said, “Zuzanna… angered a Meltaiman noble in the process of our escape. The elites were sent to capture her and bring her back to him. For what intent, I don’t know. What they planned to do with me, I don’t know either.”

“Angered a Meltaiman noble?” Azrael echoed, seeming incredulous. There’d been no flares to indicate a falsehood, but that hardly meant he’d gotten the whole story. The man looked to Zuzanna. “You make-- Meltaiman mad on way out?”

Zuzanna, who’d only caught bits and pieces of the exchange between her husband and the Macarinthian, nodded slowly. “Yes. I did.”

“Who?”

She winced. “His name is Gorski. Margrave Izydor Gorski. He’s um-- in charge of Daire.” She added in Valzick: “Lord of Daire.”

Azrael’s surprise seemed to grow. “You… make lord of Daire mad? Whole lord of Daire?” He demanded: “What you do to him?”

Hell. This would require very, very careful wording-- and Zuzanna was half-afraid she’d set off the light screen, anyway. She did not dare let herself steal a glance at Phyllo, terrified the Macarinthians would read something of such a move, and instead fought to keep her voice level as she said, “My parents weren’t… well-off. I didn’t want to steal from them. The margrave, um, he sometimes patroned my parents’ bakery. I stole from him. To get supplies.”

All of these things, individually, were true. It was merely the causality Zuzanna had feigned, piecing them together as if they were part of one long sequence when in fact the margrave sometimes coming to the Stareks’ bakery had absolutely nothing to do with her filching his purse. Please, please, no flares.

“What you steal?” Azrael insisted. She could see the light waver. Barely. A ripple, as her truth veered so very nearly into fiction, but not an outright flare. She thought it wasn’t a flare. Oh gods, please let Azrael and Benigno not read it as a flare.

“Money,” Zuzia said, pretending she didn’t notice the light’s small jump.

“Any else?”

She wanted to lie, and couldn’t. “Jewelry.”

"Money. Jewelry. To lord nothing," Benigno replied. After a moment of fumbling with what he was trying to say in Meltaiman, he instead addressed Phyllo in Valzick. "Sooner or later any rational lord would realize it isn't worth the resources to keep chasing a criminal. Your petty thefts can't be the only reason this 'margrave' sent an elite unit into foreign territory after you."

Phyllo could have sobbed with frustration. These men were clever- entirely too clever. The more they prie,d the more implicating information he and his wife would have to reveal. And the more they were forced to reveal, the more convoluted their web of half-truths would get, until they were caught like rats in a trap.

Maybe... Maybe if they revealed a very small sliver of the one, particular truth they were dancing around, out of context, it would satisfy the too-curious Macarinthians. Doing so would be a risk, a huge risk, but... they were desperate.

"It... It would if you knew something the margrave didn't want known over the border."

That certainly got Benigno and Azrael's attention. "Oh? And what precious nugget of information are you harboring then?"

Phyllo swallowed hard, feeling his adam's apple catch against the bronze collar on his neck. "The margrave's heir is missing from Pastora."

The duo blinked in shock. Capitalizing on their silence, Phyllo elaborated, "At the time we left, no one in the city knew where the lord's child was. I’m guessing the margrave has been frantic- and desperate to keep word of his heir's disappearance from his enemies. I doubt I need to tell you what use the Valzicks could make of such information."

"His firstborn son vanished... That is knowledge I can see a highlord wanting on a tight leash," Benigno mused to his partner. "And drawing attention with the girl's little theft would have gotten the otherwise uncomplicated flight of a blank and a baker's kid noticed by the Meltaiman authorities."

“It would,” Azrael agreed. “But…” He narrowed his jade eyes. “Maybe the margrave panics. Maybe the whole city knows his son is missing. But how would he know you are missing-- that you’ve fled the city, the kingdom, and your little wife isn’t merely hiding in some slum with all his money and baubles, waiting until he’s given up on finding her?”

Thinking quickly, Phyllo tilted his neck back, “You see this ring on my neck? It’s a collar- it has magic on it that sets off an alarm if I leave the spell’s boundary, which in my case was the city. I worked at the same bakery Zuzanna’s parents owned. I would guess the margrave can put a simple two and two together.”

Azrael looked to Benigno, the two exchanging another few words in Macarinthian. Then, the blonde soldier said, “And you are from Valzaim. Would the margrave have known that?”

“I can’t say for certain, but I would guess my master kept records on me from when I was bought- at the time I only spoke Valzick, so it would not be a hard conclusion to reach. Besides the fact that I look Valzick- no one native born to Meltaim is as dark as I am unless they are descended from a Valzick blank.”

Benigno folded his arms. “And why not stay in your home country? Why come here?”

Phyllo bristled a bit at this. “They would kill Zuzanna- or at the very least make her a prisoner. She’s my wife, I couldn’t let that happen. She helped me escape slavery after eight years trapped in Meltaim, while Valzaim did nothing for me in all that time. I know where my loyalties are.”

“Which brings us to an interesting point,” Azrael said. “Your wife. She attacked a unit of Valzick Special Forces. Valzaim and Macarinth-- we are allies. Our brothers in the Valzick forces are our comrades.” The man leaned forward, threatening. “Translate for your woman. Have her tell us why we ought not simply turn her back over to Valzaim, to answer for what she did.”

Phyllo bit his tongue. Turning to Zuzanna he said, “I told them that the margrave’s heir is missing and he doesn’t want that getting out. Now they’re asking me to translate for you- they want a justification for why we shouldn’t be handed over to their Valzick allies after you attacked the Valzick patrol.”

“Because I-- I didn’t attack them,” Zuzanna said, suddenly immensely, deliriously grateful that she’d used a confounding curse and not attempted to blitz the Valzick unit with a stunner or something else damaging. “I only confused them. A temporary spell that would have lasted only minutes. No lingering ill effects. No pain. I had to use a spell to get away. But--” She glanced briefly at Azrael and Benigno. “Tell them, Phyllo: they’re mages, they’ll understand that what I did… it was just about the least aggressive thing you could do in a desperate situation.”

The young man smiled thinly, turning to the interrogators again. “She says she didn’t- the spell she used was just to confuse them. She says it only lasts a few minutes, and wouldn’t have hurt or damaged them in any way.”

Benigno thumbed his bracelet. “That would corroborate with the… vague and haphazard nature of the account they gave us of the incident.”

Azrael sighed. “Your collar, Master Panem. You said it had a boundary spell. Are there any other spells we should be concerned about? That might’ve accounted for how the Meltaimans were able to track you?”

“I, uh… don’t think so, no, it should only have the boundary alarm, a summoning spell that warms it when my master wants me for something, and then runes to make it resistant to cutting and heating so it can’t be removed.” He glanced at Zuzanna. “My wife looked at the runes on it before we left because my master had told me the boundary spell was a choking spell, not an alarm. At the time she said it was slipshod spellwork and couldn’t have sustained any sort of tracker.”

“And she is a skilled mage, your wife?” Azrael asked. “She is young. No doubt inexperienced.” He looked to Benigno, finally letting a ray of humor slip as he added lightly, “Benigno here-- couldn’t spell his shoelaces tied until he was what, sixteen?”

Benigno gave his partner an expression that was half exasperated, half amused. Phyllo only shrugged. “Magic is everything in Meltaim. When I had only just met Zuzanna her nine year old younger sister was working on… um, I think the best translation would be ‘pattern magic?’ Sorry, ah, the basic intended effect was that objects would change color in a slowly shifting set. Granted the child was still working on it after a month of trying, but as with anything different people have different levels of talent.”

“Alright. Let’s play a game.” Azrael was beginning to look bored. “We’ll call it ‘what-if’. What if Benigno and I, we go out and give our report to our nice colonel? We say the Valzick and his wife are not a threat, that even if this margrave of Daire sent a unit after them, he will surely not waste another after the Special Forces took care of his last. Our colonel decides to set you free. Now-- what does our Valzick do next? Where does he take his wife? What are his plans moving ahead, with an assortment of what I’m guessing is stolen food in his pack, and not a cent to his name?”

Phyllo blinked, caught off guard. “I had not thought that far ahead- we honestly have been more focused on trying to traverse Valzaim than on planning for our crossing into Macarinth. But Zuzanna would not be killed on sight here, would she? As you already know, she’s a mage. I would guess she and I could do odd jobs here and there for a few coins? We had hoped to continue east to… ah…”

Benigno looked unimpressed. “You don’t even know the name of the country east of here?”

The blank winced. “I’m afraid I was not given much of an education as a slave.”

“Lyell,” Azrael supplied, frowning. “The Republic of Lyell.” Crossing his arms, he seemed to debate with himself for several moments. “You have clearly been stealing. Do you plan to continue such thievery, from the Woo-abiding citizens of this kingdom?”

Phyllo was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “We never liked it in the first place- we were just desperate. As long as we can go into Macarinthian cities without fear and make provide for ourselves honestly, I don’t see a reason we should need to steal.”

“You will not steal,” Azrael said, his tone brooking no argument. “If we delve down the path of the ‘what-if’ game, you promise us, on your honour as a man of the feather, that you will not steal, nor have your wife do it for you.”

Phyllo gave a soft sigh, and looked up at the two men, meeting Azrael’s eyes directly. “I promise you on my honor that I won’t steal, and I won’t have Zuzanna steal. We want to live honestly, and openly, not as criminals and fugitives.”

Benigno glanced at his partner, raising a bored eyebrow, and Azrael spared the man a knowing smile. It pulled at the corners of his lips still as he leaned back against the wall, his voice nearly bright as he said, “Excellent. Then I’ve just one more question for you and Madam Zuzanna-- and this is for both of you, so translate for your wife, Master Panem. Is there anything you have not told us, that might be relevant to our interests or prove a threat to Macarinth, the Holy Kingdom of Valzaim, or any other ally of the Woo?”

Great. Just great. Phyllo had no idea how he was supposed to evade such a broadly phrased question. Hoping against hope that Zuzanna could worm them out of this, as she’d done in the field when they needed to escape the Valzicks, he turned to his wife and muttered, “He’s asking if we know anything we aren’t saying that could be dangerous to them and their allies or relevant their interests.”

Of course they were; Zuzanna, her palms clammy, gritted her teeth. Obviously, she could not merely tell them no, or the light screen would flare up like a shooting star. But what, then? If she admitted that she and Phyllo had deliberately misled them, and that in fact she was the margrave’s missing heir, either she’d end up with her head on a post, or she’d suddenly become Macarinth’s most valuable ever political hostage. And Phyllo? She didn’t even want to think about it.

For a long moment, the girl said nothing. Then, softly, she started, Phyllo translating for her as she spoke: “Honestly? Yes. Probably. You’re Macarinthian military. You know better than anyone that Meltaim is… capricious. Unpredictable. I’m sure in all the years I spent there, I’ve picked up knowledge that could be a threat to you. Do I think the margrave will waste another team of soldiers chasing after us? No. No, I really don’t. Can I be positive of that, though? No, I can’t. But what I can tell you is that my husband and I hold no malice for Macarinth. We don’t want to hurt anyone here. And like I said with the Valzicks-- I only confounded them because I had to, not because I wanted to hurt them. That’s half of why I even ran from Meltaim: because I don’t like hurting people. I think everyone deserves to be safe, and happy, and not just… used and abused for the interests of other people. If you let us go, Phyllo and I won’t hurt anyone. We won’t even stay in Macarinth. I can’t make promises about what other people may or may not do. But I can promise you that my husband and I only want to get somewhere safe. Away from Meltaim. That’s… that’s all we’ve been doing all along. Just trying to get somewhere safe.”

Benigno and Azrael were silent for a time, then began speaking softly to each other in Macarinthian again. Finally, Benigno sighed, turning back to the two captives. “If you’ve nothing more of interest to say, then we’ll leave for now and give our report. Someone should be along to deal with you… eventually.”

He flicked his wand slightly. “Can we trust the two of you to behave yourselves if we loose the bindings?”

Phyllo, who could feel the uncomfortable sensation of rope burns all over himself, nodded emphatically. The mage cast another spell, and the ropes fell away from both Phyllo and his wife. Zuzanna, not having understood the soldier’s question, widened her eyes and stiffened in the chair for a moment, startled. What was happening? Were they being moved? Separated? But then, noting the look of relief on her husband’s face, she relaxed. Whatever Benigno had said, it was not a threat.

“I think that takes care of everything.” Azrael took a step toward the door. He gestured to the light screens that still hovered before Zuzanna and Phyllo. “Kill the pretty lights, Commandant? Maybe our visitors can get some shut eye once we’re gone.”

Benigno muttered what was presumably a counterspell, and the halos of light surrounding the prisoners dissipated. Then the two men left, a soft click indicating that they’d locked the door behind them. Their voices, speaking Macarinthian, faded into the distance as they left the room. Once he was certain they were out of earshot, Phyllo staggered to his feet and lurched towards Zuzanna to pull her into a hug.

“Thank Woo, oh thank Woo, I thought I was going to pass out at that last question…”

She laughed, collapsing against his hold. “I will be honest, I have about zero idea what was said during most of your conversation. But they don’t seem like they plan on imminently killing us, so I’m assuming it went well?”

“I think so. I hope so.” He kissed her cheek repeatedly. “Love, if we get out of this, we are seriously prioritizing your mastery of Valzick!”

“We’re in Macarinth now, not Valzaim,” she pointed out. Running a hand through his woolen curls, she added, “Oh, but I remember more about Macarinth now. My war magic tutor always had a stick in her arse about them. Women here can’t serve in the military-- they’re under their husband’s authority, all very nice and patriarchal. Probably why I’m fairly sure, even with my lousy Valzick, that these lovely gents were repeatedly calling me your ‘woman’.” Zuzanna grinned impishly. “See, honey, now you’re the one in charge. So I guess if you want me to learn Valzick, I have to, right?”

He rolled his eyes with a smirk. “Yup, that’s right. Besides I have not the first clue where either of us is going to find a tutor for Macarinthian, and at least a decent amount of people here will know Valzick- away from the border I doubt anybody will have even the fragments of Meltaiman that those two knew.”

“It’s a good thing the friendly Holy Kingdom of Valzaim’s already conquered half the west continent, right?” Zuzanna said brightly. “Outside Meltaim, where no one would dare sully their mouths with such a wicked tongue, I’m guessing it’s the most commonly known language anywhere in the west.” She kissed him. “Macarinth. I still can’t believe we’ve made it to Macarinth. And been captured by their military, and we’re not even dead!”

He gave a soft, burbling laugh, and leaned the side of his face against hers. “It feels surreal, doesn’t it? We’re… actually getting somewhere. Making progress in this mad, delirious fever-dream we cooked up back in Pastora.”

“And as much as I really would have preferred not to be a prisoner of the king’s army of Macarinth, at least we can take a nice nap while they’ve left us to stew,” Zuzanna said. “We’ve got a roof over our heads, Phyllo. Without dripping holes in it, even! And there probably aren’t any bears to lumber out of the woods and possibly eat us.” She draped her arms around his shoulders. “Gods, to think I once had a bed with feathers in it.”

He gave a soft snort, sitting down with her on the floor and leaning up against the wall of the room. “My best bed was a hay mattress when I was eight- I admit I do still miss it sometimes. But at least you’re warmer than a pallet on the floor of a tenement in the Baily, hm?” He nuzzled her. “I am game for that nap if you are.”

Chapter Fourteen¹:

SPOILER: Click to show

A few hours later, Phyllo and Zuzanna were jostled out of their sleep by the sound of the door opening. Azrael and Benigno were back, the dark haired mage shooting his compatriot a dry, tired looking glance before facing the prisoners.

“Translate for your wife,” Benigno said. As Phyllo obliged, he went on, “The colonel has decided you aren’t a threat or worth the expense to keep in custody. So you are to be released, and your possessions returned to you, on the condition that you swear to obey all of the laws of Macarinth while you travel through our domain. Rest assured that if there is any trouble from either of you, you won’t find us so lenient a second time.”

“And then,” Azrael added cheerily, “there’s the other issue. The colonel is already fostering a few reservations, as you can imagine. One of which has to do those.” He gestured pointedly at Phyllo’s rainbow-marked face. “Those are quite attention-getting, no? Would bring up questions on the street. And cause a stir! And rumors! And we’d hardly want any chatter getting back over the border into the wrong ears, right? And bring Meltaimans tromping through these peaceful lands? The collar, you can hide under a tunic. The forehead brand-- just wear a nice hat! But the cheek marks? Awfully garish, Benigno, don’t you think?”

“Indeed,” Benigno said dryly. Glancing at his partner with a very toothy smile he added, “And since I’m still rather tired from earlier, my friend here has most charitably volunteered to have them off to ease the colonel’s conscience.”

“Oh yes, I just love sorting through esoteric Meltaiman magic!” Azrael agreed, scowling at Benigno as he drew his wand. “Just what I dreamed of when Benigno and I here started our valiant military service. Riding hippogriffs, bringing honour to Macarinth, taking colourful tattoos off Valzick fugitive children! It’s all a dream come true.”

Phyllo blinked, then gaped outright. Despite the bantering between the two, he found himself awed by what they were suggesting. They were going to take off his brands? In his wildest dreams he hadn’t dared imagine the Macarinthians would offer to remove his brands. Hesitantly he said, “Are… are you sure? Zuzanna tried to take one of them off not long after we left the city, but it triggered some sort of trap that pained me and paralyzed me for a bit- and-” he pointed to the red-purple blotch in question, “turned a sky blue square into this.”

“Fortunately,” Azrael said, fiddling with his metal bracelet, “I am not a hapless thirteen-year-old girlchild. Benigno and I here are commandants-- that’s an officer ranking, if you weren’t aware. And that means we’ve both got at least five years of service in this army under our belts. Do you think we’ve no experience with booby traps, Master Panem?”

Benigno tapped his partner on the arm and gave him a look Phyllo couldn’t quite read, but which sent Azrael pouting his lips like a scolded child. Phyllo coughed and muttered, “Well she’s fourteen, but I… see your point, I’m sorry. If you could take the brands off I would be very grateful.”

“Ah, yes, fourteen-- forgive me!” Azrael beckoned for Phyllo to stand. “Up, if you will. This is going to take a while, and I’d rather not spend the entire time crouching over.” Already seemingly over Benigno’s silent reproach, he finished cheerfully, “Got thrown from a hippogriff when I was about your age, Master Panem. The old back’s never been quite the same.”

Phyllo stood up wordlessly, fortunately quite used to standing for hours at a time after their long treks through the Valzick wilds. And the process was definitely not a quick one, nor entirely painless as his brands reacted to being fiddled with by prickling and searing. But, when the mage finished with the first of the brands, it stopped hurting. In the past when his mutable brands had been adjusted there had been a lingering stinging sensation for at least an hour afterwards. Now though? There was nothing. Just the normal sensation of unblemished skin. And while at one point Azrael froze midway at a somewhat impatient gesture from his partner, frowning and then giving a slight wince, beyond that the mage seemed to have no issues beyond the time sink.

Still seated on the floor, Zuzanna watched the entire process in something near fascination. She’d seen other mages deconstruct runes before, of course, but it was still always amazing for her-- the different methods and processes people used to tackle the same puzzle. Azrael was a deft mage, his spellwork tidy, and while the girl wasn’t entirely sure to what extent the pair bond that existed between him and Benigno was impacting this present task, its very existence, too, continued to intrigue her. The way each man so casually turned to touch his bracelet on occasion. How Benigno didn’t just see the runes, as she could, but seemed to feel them as if he were the one teasing them apart: how he twitched when Azrael prodded at a particularly dense cluster, as though it were resisting his touch, not his partner’s; how, as Azrael started on the last mark nearly two hours later-- the purplish ruins of Phyllo’s freedom of movement brand-- the dark-haired mage was flexing his fingers, clearly beginning to feel the spelling sickness even though he’d not cast a spell of his own in all this time.

What would it be like, Zuzanna wondered? To share such an intimate part of you with someone else? In Meltaim, magic was the matter of the soul. And as far as she could tell, pair magic was like having that soul split in two. Shared between you and your partner, in every scrap of its being and existence.

“There,” Azrael said finally, as the burn-looking mark vanished from the former bleeder’s dark skin. The man stepped back, assessing his handiwork with pride. “All done. Just pop a hat on that head, and get a tunic with a collar, and no one will ever know your past, Master Panem.”

Phyllo rubbed his cheeks reverently. Though obviously he couldn’t see his reflection without a mirror or other reflective surface, he’d gotten very used to having the blotches of color in his lower peripheral vision. Now they were gone, as if they’d never existed. All his marks of right, his bleeder mark, and the crude dripping laceration of Jozef Niemec’s rental business.

“I… th-thank you,” he whispered, instinctively reaching a hand towards Zuzanna’s. Benigno gave a crooked smirk.

“Just doing our jobs, Master Panem,” he said. “Now then; I think it’s time you were both on your way, no?”

“And just,” Azrael added, “so that we don’t have you tempted to break your very honourable promise not to go thieving, we’ve added a bannock for each of you to your packs. They’ll be handed to you outside the fort gates. Along with your wife’s wand and your daggers. Wouldn’t want to leave you unprotected on the mean road, after all.” The man paused. “Consider the bread your gift from Macarinth! For that nice information about the margrave’s son.”

Phyllo bowed his head, gratitude and relief making him almost want to sob. “Of course; thank you. We won’t give you or your countrymen any trouble, I swear it.” He turned to Zuzanna, giving her a crooked smile.

“They’re letting us go?” she whispered, standing up slowly. “They’re really letting us go?”

“They are,” he replied, kissing her on the cheek. “We’re free Zuzia. We’re really free. At last.”

***

“I must admit, I am surprised,” remarked the Lyellian trader through his translator. “It is not often this far into the interior of Macarinth to meet someone who speaks not a word of Macarinthian.”

Phyllo gave an apologetic smile, replying in Valzick, “Well we’ve only been here a month or so- we’ve not had much chance to master the local language.”

“I see, I see,” the trader replied. Leaning forwards so that his hands were braced on his stall, he gave a cheery smile. “Well no matter- what can we do for you both today? I have some fine saffron imported all the way from Mzia, or perhaps some nutmeg out of Courdon-”

“A bit out of our budget, apologies,” Zuzanna interrupted, in heavily accented Valzick. Over the past few weeks, her grasp of the language had increased exponentially-- in part because Phyllo had decided after their brief stint as military prisoners to go for a sort of ‘all or nothing’ method with her: except in emergencies, he was now refusing to parlay with her in Meltaiman. At all. “Actually,” the girl went on, “we were hoping to find some work.”

“Work?” the Lyellian man quirked an eyebrow. “We’re not presently doing any hiring, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps you should consider making an exception,” Phyllo put in, absently tracing the folds of the turban he was wearing to hide his blank mark with a finger. “My wife is a very, very powerful mage. I would be fully ready to surmise she is stronger than any mage you have working for you.”

“Oh?” The trader looked towards Zuzanna, seeming curious now.

Zuzanna smiled thinly, vaguely feeling again like a trophy on display. Her mind flashed to all the parties the margrave had ever thrown, all the times she’d been forced to dazzle the watching masses with pretty charms and spells as Izydor beamed at her flank. She and Phyllo had dwindled dangerously low on food far too many times for comfort in the last month, especially now that they were following established roads, not simply drifting through the wilderness. Such a tack was safer, and diminished their chances of getting mauled by an erstwhile beast, but it also meant far less wildlife to hunt, even less than in the grasslands… and this was what had spurred them to make this gambit at all. Legitimate work-- not just stray odd jobs as they’d managed to pick up so far past the Macarinthian border-- would mean legitimate money. Stable money. Stable food. And so when they’d spied this traders’ caravan, set up along the side of the road a few hours east of what was probably the biggest city Zuzanna and Phyllo had laid eyes on since Pastora, it had seemed like a bit of serendipity.

Even then, they’d not hoped much. Not from a distance. Traders could be going anywhere: south, to politically unstable Synedon; back west, to Valzaim; or even north, into the frozen wilds of Lange.

Still, Zuzanna and Phyllo had decided there was nothing to lose by approaching-- and almost immediately thereafter, this trader had introduced himself… and proudly announced that he and his men were from-- and headed-- to none of these places at all.

“We’d like to offer you my ah-- services, I think is the word?” Zuzanna said now, trying not to show how desperate she was for the trader to take this bait. “In exchange for traveling with you. To your homeland. Lyell.”

The man’s dark eyebrows flew up into his hair. “You want to travel with us to Lyell? Hm… Well if we did hire you, it would be implicit you’d travel with the caravan, we don’t linger in any one place more than a week or two. All of our hires are given food, board within the wagons, and of course a stipend for their work, the size depending on what they actually do. What exactly can you do?”

Zuzanna didn’t skip a beat. “Anything,” she said. “Give me a task-- I can do it.” She searched for the correct Valzick words. “I can-- demonstrate, if you would like?” As long as he didn’t ask her to set a mutable Meltaiman blank brand, she thought she would be able to rise to whatever spell he dreamed up.

The man looked thoughtful. “You know how to set an alarm spell? Or ward against magics to harm, put a person to sleep, or confuse? All are things we regularly need done. You’d be surprised the mages who think they can simply hit us with a confounding spell and make off with expensive goods.”

“I can do any of those,” Zuzanna said confidently. She wanted to add ‘in my sleep’, but figured it was prudent not to brag. “Pick one. Your ah-- best? Or um…” She shot a beseeching look at Phyllo.

“Favorite,” her husband supplied. The Lyellian turned to another man with his group and called to him in their language. The fellow- who had a wand holstered at his hip- approached, looking curious. The first trader nodded to Zuzanna.

“How about you try an anti-confusion ward? We’ll see if Lucio here can break it after.”

Zuzanna nodded, taking a deep breath as she drew her wand. While an anti-confusion spell might have sounded to a layman to be simpler to cast than a broad ward against harm, and in some senses this was true, it was also a far more specialized incantation. A mage who’d not had an immensely thorough and specific magical education would have likely never cast it before-- which Zuzanna supposed was probably the point. Placed on the spot, an ill-prepared magician’s instinct then would have been to attempt to cobble together a directed ward, tailored only to whatever confounding curse it was that they themselves most commonly used.

But from the perspective of an international trader, this was a trap.

And like hell would she fall into it.

Instead, Zuzanna painted a web. A tangle of runes and incorporeal trip wires that she set not to trigger at a rigid, singular spell, but to react to a minimum combination of rune types. This was because different confounding curses, while largely reaching toward the same end, utilized different means to get there. For example, dezorientować, the Meltaiman confounder, and its Macarinthian cousin might both leave their target in an agitated state with their short term memory scrubbed-- but they would not use the same runes to get there. It was like building a house: someone might use stone bricks, someone might use clay bricks, and in the end both might be perfectly functional houses. And so Zuzanna wanted to make sure that she was accounting for-- and protecting against-- not just stone, and not just clay, and not even just bricks, but all the kinds of materials people might use to build houses. She couldn’t be too broad and have the ward flare like an overwrought watch dog barking at every shadow. But if she set it like a scale, weighted to go off if a certain threshold was exceeded…

“Obviously,” Zuzanna said once she was done, not letting herself smile as she scanned her creation one last time, “you’ll have your own spells you use. And I’d be glad to go along with them-- I am not looking to ah, to… how do you say it… change things? But… if I were setting an anti-confusion ward, this is what I would do.”

Phyllo, who'd been the test subject for her ward, turned to Lucio with an inviting gesture. The man, looking very intrigued, drew his wand and flicked it in Phyllo's direction, muttering. Light zipped from the mage's wand, but fizzled into nothing before it reached its target. Lucio tried several more spells, but not once did Phyllo react with any agitation, confusion, or even a brief start of dazed surprise. Finally the mage spoke, the translator parroting his words for Phyllo and Zuzanna.

"She is clearly well trained for her age," he said. "The spell is as expertly crafted as any I could produce."

"Hmm." The trader was pensive. He looked at Zuzanna again. "You can heal? Fight in our defense if we are set upon by brigands on the road? Mind, knowing spells for combat is not the same as actually having the stomach for it. If need be you must stand your ground against foes prepared to kill you to get at our wares. Can you do this?"

“I know how to heal and fight,” Zuzanna replied. “And I have no problems using combat spells if someone is being…” She searched for the word. “Ah-- if they are… trying bad things.”

“Well, it’s not up to me,” the trader said after a moment. “But if you are serious…” He glanced behind his shoulder, further down the twisting line of caravans. “Would you like for me to fetch my boss? You can speak with him.”

Phyllo gave a smile. “If you would, that would be wonderful.”

The trader gave a soft laugh. “You think that now,” he said, his expression one of amusement. Lucio and the translator had similar expressions. As the trader vanished down the line of wagons, Phyllo glanced sideways at Zuzanna with a raised brow.

“Should we be scared?” she whispered to her husband, reholstering her wand. “I do not like the looks on their faces.”

“I’m not sure,” he replied. “They don’t seem… frightened or nervous, as if their boss is a bad person. More… like there’s some joke between them we don’t get.”

“Oh, lovely.” Zuzanna sighed. “It’s like our Macarinthian mages all over again.”

Several minutes passed before the trader returned, and as promised, he was not alone. A middle aged bear of a man trailed behind him, his bone straight chestnut locks secured behind his shoulder with a leather band. Even from a distance, it was plain to see that he was impeccably well put together, his clothing simple but tailored perfectly to fit his imposing form and his olive skin free of any dirt or blemishes. At his side walked a towheaded teenage boy, perhaps Phyllo’s age, and while his hair didn’t match the older man’s, the rest of their features favoured each other strongly: an oval jaw, petal lips, a heavy brow. A son, perhaps?

Upon reaching Zuzanna, Phyllo, and the translator, the darker-haired man smiled broadly, skimming the strangers up and down with glimmering hazel eyes. “You are a mage, young miss, Felice tells me?” he said after a moment, through the translator. “So exciting! I always like new mages!”

“Um, yes, sir,” Zuzanna replied, her voice sticking. Debating for a moment, she offered the man a curtsey-- and then regretted it when his only reply was a thunderous laugh.

“Ah, no need for such flattery, dear!” He beamed. “My name is Sansone Alesci, and this”-- he gestured to the teenager at his side-- “is my nephew, Alfonso. What are you two called?”

Phyllo, caught very much by surprise at this man’s demeanour, replied tentatively, “I’m Phyllo Panem- my wife is Zuzanna Panem.”

“Well met, Master Phyllo, Missus Zuzanna. It is a pleasure,” Alfonso replied, though his tongue tripped a bit over Zuzanna’s name. His expression was one of amused apology as he glanced up at his beaming uncle. As if by way of explanation he added. “When travelling with the same group of people for months and months at a time, a certain amount of rapport forms amongst the group. So my uncle likes to greet potential employees as he would a friend- do not be intimidated by it.”

Lucio coughed in a way that might have been intended to conceal a laugh. “That is one way to put it. But a wholly inaccurate one. After all, it implies Master Sansone isn’t like that with everyone he meets.”

“Well, in fairness he’s not,” Alfonso replied with a crooked smile. “He’s not like that with thieves and cheapskates.”

Sansone pursed his lips, thumping his nephew affectionately behind the ear. “Now, now, Fons, those are naughty words. We don’t use those, yes? Don’t make me rinse out your mouth.”

Alfonso laughed, giving what was perhaps an apology, though the translator didn’t pass it along. At this absolutely casual, jovial exchange Phyllo gave his wife another wide-eyed, baffled look, which she returned, her eyebrows nearly raised to her hairline. However, before either of them could speak, Alfonso addressed them again.

“So you’re looking for work. Or your wife is anyway- what about you, Master Phyllo?”

“Ah,” Phyllo smiled again. “I’m not a mage, I’m afraid, and I have no skills in particular, but if Zuzanna hires on I can certainly offer myself as another pair of arms to carry goods, clean up, or help set up stalls.”

“Hmm,” Sansone mused, eyes still twinkling. “We are not, ah-- officially hiring, yes? We are much of the way through an over half-year route, and taking on new bodies so late-- it can break up the rhythm of things. But Felice told me your spellwork was most expert, Miss Zuzanna. I must admit, I was expecting someone more…” He considered, before offering, “You are young, yes? Not our usual employee.”

“I am young, yes,” Zuzanna agreed. There was no denying this. “But… I’m a hard worker. And I’ve trained well.”

“Felice says you can ward, and heal, and fight?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“And you are an accurate fighter? Even from a distance? This is important. Bandits, they seldom work alone, you see. And once we resist, they scatter like rats.” He grinned. “And we hardly let them just scamper off into the distance.”

“Yes, I can-- do those things,” Zuzanna promised.

Sansone spared a look toward his nephew. “Hmm. What do you think, Fons? Shall we budget for another mage? Remember, our margin is already off because the broker in Adara had oversold. And we’re a week behind schedule because of that storm in the Synedonese mountains back in June.”

Alfonso looked pensive. “Perhaps these factors could be a weight in favor, not against. We will make up lost time better with more hands to help. I do wonder perhaps if the language barrier will be problematic though- it would be a bit of a bother to have to call for Salvatore,” he jerked his head towards the translator, “every time we need to give them instruction.”

“This is true.” Sansone cocked his head, before turning to address Zuzanna and Phyllo yet again. “You are quick learners? I do not expect overnight fluency, but we have two and a half months left in our route, Woo willing. Long enough to pick up pieces of Lyellian. To understand orders, at least. Salvatore will help, but he is a busy man. He has no time to babysit.”

Phyllo bowed his head, his pulse hammering hard. They seemed to be actually seriously considering this- he could not afford to lose their interest now. “We can pick up simple instructions very quickly.” Gesturing towards Zuzanna he said, “Zuzanna has gone from knowing only a few scattered words of Valzick to fully conversational just in the last month or so. And I have previous experience with learning a language rapidly.” Granted, Phyllo had learned Meltaiman quickly because he had to, and he’d been belted for trying to speak Valzick, but that wasn’t really necessary to say nor anything he wanted to talk about around these strangers.

“She is not Valzick, then, I take it?” Sansone asked. He seemed intrigued. “Where are you from, Miss Zuzanna?”

Zuzia froze. Wishing she could lie, but knowing there was no use in it-- if she was being hired on as a mage, it’d become obvious where she’d learned-- or at very least, where she hadn’t learned-- her spells, which were clearly not Valzick, or Synedonese, or any other country of origin she could have claimed. Gods… if they got rejected because of this…

She took a deep breath. “I’m from Meltaim,” she whispered, bracing herself. Fully expecting for Sansone to immediately crinkle his nose in disgust and horror, and sharply order her and Phyllo away.

Instead, much to the girl’s shock, Sansone clapped his hands together, delighted. “Meltaim!” he exclaimed. “How exotic! All these years I’ve zig-zagged the continent, and never have I met a Meltaiman!” He slung an arm around Alfonso’s shoulder. “See, Fons, it’s just like I told you-- never know what to expect on these journeys! Every day like a treasure chest, just waiting to open!”

Alfonso staggered a step under his uncle’s arm, then gave him a good natured eye roll. “So you’ve said. I admit I don’t know much about Meltaim, but apparently magic is of tremendous importance there? So it stands to reason a Meltaiman mage would be of high caliber.” He tilted his head. “Perhaps there are things you and Lucio could both learn from each other, in terms of magic. I imagine you will have to work together in any case, if you hire on with us.”

“Ah, yes!” Sansone was nearly giddy. “Lucio can introduce you to all our mages! He is in charge, our Lucio-- so he’ll be your immediate boss, but we’ve a whole nice assortment, yes? Mattia and Teofilo-- and Tatiana, she’s from Kyth, you know! And--” Sansone waved a hand. “Well, you’ll meet them in due time. For now… I think I’m forgetting something…” He considered. “Ah, yes! Your wages! What currency is it that you’re seeking? Lyellian is easiest for us, of course, but for a fee off the top we can also do Macarinthian, or Valzick, or Kythian, or-- anything you please, really. Except Meltaiman. We don’t have that.” He laughed.

“Lyellian should be perfectly fine, if that’s easiest,” Phyllo said, beginning to feel immensely relieved and a little excited. From the way the man was speaking, it seemed that he’d more or less already made up his mind. Granted, the former bleeder didn’t want to get his hopes up too high, but this was the most hopeful things had looked for them in weeks…

“Our destination is Romola, in southern Lyell,” Alfonso put in. “You were looking for passage into Lyell, yes? Once we arrive there, you can decide if you want to contract with our company for another run, or move on. But fair warning- once you join up, we will expect you to stay with us at least until we get home. We do not much like being abandoned on the road. As I said, a caravan must be able to depend on one another, for we have no one else.”

“We will stay with you to Romola,” Zuzanna said. “And-- thank you. We… we really are-- glad for this job, and… we will not let you down.”

“Excellent!” Sansone grinned. “Now, if you’ll just follow my nephew and me, we’ll see if we can’t find where our bookkeeper’s gone. He can get your contracts all signed.” The man’s smile tugged into a smirk. “He is not going to be happy with me!” Sansone turned and beckoned for Zuzanna and Phyllo to follow. “After me, my newest employees!”

***

A little over a month into the trip with the Lyellian traders, Phyllo and Zuzanna had settled in well with the group. Sansone was every bit as enthusiastic and easygoing as he’d appeared at first flush, and the rest of the caravan members were at the very least polite- many were sincerely friendly and began making tentative overtures towards their new compatriots as Zuzanna and Phyllo picked up scraps and snatches of Lyellian.

Alfonso in particular, who they learned was in fact the heir to the entire business and making this trip as a sort of rite of passage, approached them as often as his schedule could permit. Being around the same age as the Panems, he tried to engage them in fun little games and activities in their off time- something Phyllo often struggled with, having not had much of a childhood to speak of and little concept of how normal people his age conducted themselves. Zuzanna, for her part, while wary at first after spending so long on the road trusting no one but Phyllo, eventually let her barriers lower. It was strange, feeling safe again. Not sleeping with one eye always open. Not wondering where her next meal was going to come from. Not being afraid of every person she met, but confident that-- no matter the intentions of the strangers they encountered along the road-- she and Phyllo would still be okay. That they had allies to help them now.

Some she even began to consider friends.

As Zuzanna opened up to the Lyellians, Phyllo began to tentatively follow her lead. Unlike her, he didn’t have much of a previous life of trusting anyone besides his spouse to draw upon, so for him it was harder. He kept expecting ulterior motives. Pity at best.

Gradually, though, these apprehensions ebbed. Eventually he was caught without his turban, which led to the inevitable questions about his blank mark and a glossed explanation of blank slavery in Meltaim. To his surprise- and relief- the Lyellians were shocked and sympathetic, explaining that they directly neighbored a country called Courdon that also kept slaves, and therefore they had something of an understanding of the subject. This sympathy proved to be exactly what Phyllo needed to finally lower his barriers the rest of the way, and he started allowing himself to really enjoy the company of the Lyellians.

Another unexpected aspect of their situation- being safe, secure, and provided for- was that they no longer had to devote so much time to travelling as far and fast as possible during all daylight hours (the caravan had wagons for this after all) nor to the all consuming pursuit of food (which was provided to them as per their contract). So aside from being able to make new friends, Phyllo and Zuzanna could now more frequently- and openly- spend time with one another.

This was much to the delight of Tatiana, one of the caravan’s other mages. A forty-odd widow with salt-and-pepper hair and a smile that could set an entire forest ablaze, after hearing the (abridged and altered for their safety) story of Zuzanna and Phyllo’s romance, and their pursuant flight from Meltaim, Tatiana declared that it was the “most heart-pulling thing I ever did hear!” She took the pair under her wing as a mother might, seeming to root for their happy ending nearly as much as they were rooting for it. Unlike Sansone, or even Alfonso, she wasn’t overbearing-- only very cheerful, and very optimistic.

She was also a fascinating storyteller, some of her tales rivaling even Zuzanna and Phyllo’s. Widowed young, and without any children, she’d moved from her home kingdom, Kyth, to Lyell, and quickly fallen in with a rotating band of caravaners. She’d been to nearly every country on the continent-- except, of course, for Meltaim-- and confidently announced that no matter what part of Avani she found herself in, she was sure to have friends nearby. If at first this seemed like an overly lofty claim, Zuzanna and Phyllo quickly learned that it was, in fact, true: every large city the wagons stopped in, Tatiana inevitably knew someone in its bounds. She also spoke bits and pieces of an absolutely dizzying amount of languages, fully fluent in Lyellian and her native language, Kythian, conversational in Valzick and Courdonian, and with a middling ability in several more.

It was Tatiana who first began to prod the pair about what their long-term plans were, once the caravan reached Romola. After running for so long-- and spending so much time simply focused on evading danger-- it was almost strange for Phyllo and Zuzanna to think about. That soon, this would be over. That their lives would not be merely day after day on the harsh road, but… stable, somewhere. Static. They would need jobs. A home. Plans.

“You’ll make enough money off this journey to get set up, I think,” Tatiana mused one day, as the caravan hunkered down for the night outside the city of Zinovia, in the vast plains of central Macarinth. The three of them were sharing a bottle of wine, the stars above shining brilliant and silver. Flitting between Valzick and Lyellian, she continued, “A room letted, if not a whole flat. Although Romola’s rather pricy. Second largest city in Lyell after the capital, and a lot of the legates and high-tiered traders have vacation houses there, even if they don’t call it home outright, like the Alescis do.”

Phyllo thoughtfully rubbed his cheek (finally shaved for the first time in months). “I just worry about long-term,” he admitted. “I… don’t really have any skills. I can’t support us on low-tier dogsbody work forever, and it isn’t fair to keep asking Zuzia to use magic to support us when I know it’s not what she’d prefer.” He put an arm around his wife’s shoulder, smiling thinly. “You deserve a husband who can help support you, not one you have to take care of.”

Leaning against his shoulder, Zuzanna reached up to playfully flick his nose. “All I prefer is not starving to death, really,” she said, stifling a yawn as her eyes trailed the tangle of caravans that stretched behind them, and she mindlessly counted them up as far as her eye could reach. “And if being a magician is what brings in money, well-- that’s what I’ll do.”

Tatiana, taking a healthy sip of the wine, chuckled. “You prepared for a life of dealing with a neverending supply of Sansone Alescis as clients, dear?” She quickly added, “Not to say anything against Master Alesci. He’s a… good man, and good employer. But Lyell, it’s…” The woman waved a hand. “I went to Lyell because I wanted to travel. And Lyell’s all about that-- travel, trade. Money. Always climbing up the social ladder. But it can be overwhelming, too. Even for me, sometimes. And I’ve spent nearly all my time in caravans with largely Lyellian comrades for going on twenty years now.”

Phyllo winced, his expression a wry one. “Social ladders and money. Gee. That sounds familiar.” Hurriedly he added, “No offense, just… I think we would honestly prefer to live simply. At least I know I would. Zuzia?”

“I’d like to have enough money not to worry,” his wife said. “But otherwise…” She shot a knowing look up to Phyllo. “Wheeling and dealing, and impressing people-- parties-- uh, let’s just say those aren’t my… preference.”

“Oh Woo, parties.” Tatiana smirked. “You had best escape Romola before Woomas, then. This is my… Woo, sixth or seventh time working for the Alescis, and Sansone always throws a massive Woomas party once he’s home. Invites the employees. And you can bet he’ll be grinning like a child begging you both to come.”

Phyllo visibly winced. “I… attended my share of parties in Meltaim. Let’s just say none of those memories are pleasant ones. Especially not the… last one I attended.” His left hand- the arm where his ritual scars was- clenched over his knee, and Zuzanna leaned up to kiss his cheek, a sad look twinkling in her pale eyes.

“I’m sure they’re not, poor dear,” Tatiana said softly. She’d seen enough of Phyllo’s scars to know his past was not a joyous one, but she had tact enough not to have gone prying, and neither Zuzanna nor Phyllo had volunteered to share. “You know,” the woman said after a moment, “you wouldn’t even have to stay in Lyell, really. If you didn’t want to. You could still ask Sansone to convert your payment into another currency, once we reach Romola. And go elsewhere thereafter.”

“Elsewhere?” Zuzanna asked. “Like… where?”

“Well… from Lyell…” Tatiana pursed her lips. “Don’t go south or directly east from Romola, unless you want to end up in the Courdonian empire. And let me promise you that you do not want that. But--” She brightened. “If you go northeast, you’ll reach Kyth. Where I’m from. I’m probably a shade biased, but I’d say it’s rather decent. Wooist. No slavery. Which… is a lot more than many kingdoms can say.”

Phyllo looked thoughtful at this. “What do they think of magic there?” he asked. “Any particular opinions for or against?”

“It depends where you go,” Tatiana said. “Corvus, in the south, is very religious, and very focused on magic. Bern, in the north, is a bit of magician’s wasteland, though, and the province of Kine isn’t a whole lot better. The rest? Tolerant. Mages get good work. But… not obsessive.” She finished off her wine. “I’m from Elacs-- in the east. My magic was never much more than just… a character trait I had, I suppose. My father was a mage, too, and worked for our lord. That lord paid for my education in exchange for my working for him, too, when I came of age. That’s where I met my husband-- he was a knight.” She smiled softly at the memory. “But enough about me, waxing about my lost youth. Kyth. I think you two would like Kyth.”

Phyllo looked thoughtful. “I definitely don’t want to go somewhere strongly for or against it. That feels like we might as well not have made the trip at all. But somewhere that it’s just another trait, like being able to sing or something…” He tilted his head. “What about… well.” He made a broad gesture, taking in the concealed brand on his forehead. “You said they don’t have slaves, but…”

Tatiana laughed. “Let’s just say Kyth is very anti-slavery. How Meltaim stole you from Valzaim? That’s what Kyth’s southern neighbour, Courdon, does to its border provinces. To its citizens. You can imagine what sort of attitude this has led toward in regards to ah, slaves who… decide they no longer wish to live in bondage.”

“What about the language, though?” Zuzanna asked, cocking her head. “We’ve already had so many problems with language barriers… and we’re only now just starting to get a grasp on Lyellian…”

“Well.” Tatiana beamed. “I know a very good Kythian tutor. Who’ll teach you free of charge! She’s from Elacs. A mage. In this very caravan!” After a moment, the woman added, “And Fons. His mum’s from Kyth, you know. He dabbles in the language. I’m sure he’d speak to you in it as well, if you wanted. For practice.”

“Before we finally settle, I imagine we’ll know almost as many languages as you do, Tatiana,” Phyllo remarked with dry amusement. He sighed then, turning to his wife. “Well Zuzu? I... admit it sounds appealing, but I’m not sure.”

She mulled for a moment, fiddling with the silver ring on her left hand. After all this time wearing it, it felt like a natural part of her-- just like her wand at her hip, or a cloak over her shoulders. “It’s just a shame,” she said finally, kissing Phyllo’s cheek again, “that we’ll have to miss Master Alesci’s holiday party, huh? I know you’ll be heartbroken. But what can you do? Our new life in Kyth is waiting, after all.”

He gave a soft laugh, leaning his forehead against hers. “A travesty. And you’ll get to miss out on all those social climbing merchant lords jockeying for your contract.”

“You’ll have to promise me you’ll write,” Tatiana said sternly-- but the woman was grinning, too. “Or else I’ll just keep wondering about you dears. And you wouldn’t want to leave me worrying, right?”

“We’ll write,” Zuzanna promised. “Tell you where we end up. We’ll be another pair of friends for you to visit when your caravan rolls through town.”

“Perfect. And don’t you think I won’t take you up on that offer, young lady.” Reaching out to pat the archmage’s knee, she added, “You can tell me stories about your nice domestic life, and I’ll horrify you with tales of whatever Synedonese warlord Sansone has most recently offended, or how loudly he can yell when twelve crates of vanilla pods disappear.”

Phyllo gave a soft laugh. He’d never laughed in Meltaim. But since his escape he’d been doing it more and more often. “That sounds like a plan. No more running, no more bloodshed, no more being afraid all the time. Having a home. A family. Friends.” He cuddled closer to Zuzanna, closing his eyes contentedly. “I think I could get used to that.”

¹Since dialogue is largely in Valzick or Valzick pidgin, Valzick is not colour coded; Meltaiman is teal.

[Shinko]

("Only Magic", continued)

Part Three
"A New Leaf" - Begins January 1323

Chapter Fifteen¹:

SPOILER: Click to show

It was a chilly, blustery evening in the Kinean village of Harmonfield, only a few hours north of the Courdonian border, and the residents of the sleepy hamlet milled about, finishing the last of their work for the day before retiring to their homes and families. The town’s commercial district was not much to speak of, with only a lackluster bakery-- shuttered at this hour-- and a one-room church, but at the very least, Harmonfield could brag of its very own inn (albeit a small and quaint one). A sign over the doorway announced it as “The Holly Tree”, with an image of said tree painted upon it and a second sign beside it embossed to promise food and drink inside. As two figures in worn but relatively good quality travel cloaks pushed the door open, warm air wafted out like a beacon to welcome their weary feet over the threshold.

“G’day to ya,” said a man behind the counter amiably, turning to the sound of the door’s bell tinkling. “What can I do ya for?”

The dark-skinned man at the door paused, his brow furrowed in confusion beneath the turban that concealed most of his head aside from his face. Day, he’d caught that. And What can I. But the rest had been too garbled by whatever regional accent this man was speaking with. Deciding there was no option but to forge ahead, he walked up to the counter.

“My wife, myself, would stay tonight,” he said, his accent even thicker than the innkeeper’s. He gave a polite smile, adding, “How much, two people, one night?”

“Ah, that will be six runestones or gems.” The innkeeper, seeming to realize his guests were foreign, spoke much slower now and stressed the words.

“Six?” The second traveler-- a willowy girl of perhaps fifteen or sixteen, with a tumble of dark reddish-brown hair and eyes like blue topazes-- raised a brow. “That is…” She glanced to her side, at the turban-wearing man, and rapidly murmured something to him in another language. “How is… four?” she went on after a moment, in Kythian again. “We give-- four? Run-stones.”

The proprietor clucked his tongue. “Four is what I pay to have the rooms cleaned. I need to make profit, Miss.”

The girl sighed. “Five?” she asked, smiling hopefully. “We, ah-- can… clean up after selves? In morning. So profit.” Playfully, she patted the other traveler’s arm. “My husband is-- good clean. Right?”

He rolled his eyes. “Done many times.”

The man gave a grunt. “Fine. Five.” He reached under the counter and came up again with a small key that had a numbered tag hanging from it. He set it on the counter, then pulled out a heavy looking book, thumping it down beside the key. Once the innkeeper had opened the book he said, “Your names?”

“Phyllo Panem,” the man in the turban replied. Gesturing to his wife as she counted the runestones, he added, “Zuzanna Panem.”

“Phyllo and Zuzanna? Those are exotic names,” the innkeeper remarked, scribbling. “Where are ya from, if ya don’t mind my asking?”

“Valzaim.” The woman, Zuzanna, continued to smile, but it no longer met her lips, let alone her eyes. “Far trip. Very tired.” She set the runestones on the counter before slipping the pouch that carried them back into the rucksack that was draped over her shoulder, which looked sturdy but very well-worn. Almost battered. “You, ah-- still have… food? Even though is late?”

“Yes,” he replied, trying and failing to hide the look of confused nonrecognition at the name of the country in question. “No meat at this hour, but there is peas pottage, rye bread, and boiled potatoes. And beer of course.”

Phyllo glanced at his wife, a smile quirking at his mouth. “Might need the whole lot to satisfy your appetite, hm?”

She elbowed him. “Be nice.” Then, as she picked up the key from the counter, she dipped her head at the innkeeper. “Thank you, sir. We be-- good guests. Quiet.” Slipping the key into her pocket, Zuzanna turned, eyes falling to the doorway at the other end of the room. “Food through there?”

“Yes, just let the redhead with the tray know what ya want and sit anywhere,” he replied. “Enjoy your stay at The Holly Tree!”

The two “Valzicks” entered the passage and found themselves in a wide, comfortable looking common area, worn but sturdy wood tables dotting the floor and a roaring hearth going on one end. Despite the fact that the travellers were wearing only light cloaks with no evidence of discomfort, many of the other inn patrons were double-layered in thick wool coats and still appeared to be shivering.

“I really don’t get these people,” Phyllo mused. “It’s not even snowing.”

Zuzanna laughed. “Tatiana said it doesn’t ever snow much south of the Kythian capital, didn’t she? This is probably freezing for them.” Placing an order for ‘a bit of everything’ with the indicated redhead, who was perhaps twelve at most and Zuzanna supposed must have been the innkeeper’s daughter, the pair took a seat at a table in the corner. “At least we found this place, right? We were kind of stupid to press this late into the night. I was not going to be happy if we had to sleep in a field. I’ve had enough nights under the stars for one lifetime, I think.”

Phyllo kissed his wife on the forehead. “I’m inclined to agree. And all things considered, I think we can get away with sleeping in a little tomorrow. I don’t like us pushing so hard, especially not now that we can travel legitimately.”

“I know.” Zuzanna sighed, one eye on her husband and the other on the innkeeper’s daughter, who was presently assembling two plates for the inn’s newest guests. Gods, who ever would have known that an assortment of watery pottage and potatoes could look so appetizing? “I just want to get there, you know. Elacs. Copperhead sounds nice, doesn’t it? Far enough from Courdon… big enough where we’re sure to find work…”

“I understand,” Phyllo replied soothingly. “The road from Romola has already been long so of course you’re impatient. I miss it too- having stability, friends, feeling safe… I hadn’t had that in a very long time.”

The girl arrived to their table, smiling at the pair as she slid down the plates. Her fire red hair glinting in the light from the wall-mounted candleholder nearby, she chirped, “Two plates, with a bitta everything! Want some ale, too? Or orange juice.” She bounced a bit on her heel. “We’ve got trees out back. Squeeze it fresh every morning.”

Phyllo blinked, thinking for a minute he hadn’t recognized the Kythian word. “What is ‘oranges’?” He glanced towards his wife questioningly, thinking perhaps she would know, but Zuzanna just shook her head, equally as perplexed.

The little girl grinned. “Ya haven’t had oranges ever? I’ll have to get it for ya, then! Might be better’n ale, anyway.” Her dark eyes glimmered mischievously. “Y’know. ‘Cos of the la--”

The child’s voice abruptly died in her throat at the sound of someone screaming-- loudly-- outside, and all traces of good humour evaporated from her face. She whirled on her heel, jaw falling open, as all across the room the dining travelers stiffened, casting uncertain looks amongst each other. Her previously rumbling stomach suddenly gone to ice, Zuzanna’s hand immediately leapt toward her wand holster as her gaze lurched to Phyllo. What the hell?

“Charlotte!” Zuzanna’s eyes snapped to the doorway as the innkeeper tumbled through, wild-eyed, and beckoned tersely at his daughter. “Come here. Now.”

The girl, still hovering over Zuzanna and Phyllo’s table, froze. “W-what’s happening?”

Phyllo’s hand flew to the dagger sheathed at his side as the innkeeper bleated, “I don’t know, but we’re not sticking around to find out! Get over here!”

More shrieks split the air, followed by the sound of multiple hoofbeats- close, and drawing closer. Zuzanna flinched as she heard the main door to the inn fly open; moments later, a young woman with a sobbing toddler clutched tightly to her chest hurried through the lobby on her way into the common room, an expression of panic on her face.

“Courdonians!” she blubbered, clearly near to hysterics as the child was. “It’s Courdonians, everyone hide!”

Phyllo’s eyes snapped to his wife, an expression of horror on his face. Tatiana had warned them of Courdon, the nation south of Kyth. And she’d told them that Courdon made regular practice of attacking settlements in the south of Kyth to kidnap citizens there into slavery. This was why Zuzanna and Phyllo had taken such a circuitous route to Elacs at all: Romola, the city from which they’d departed in Lyell, was far to the south of the tiny trading nation, and it would have been a far swifter path from it to Elacs province if they’d hooked through Courdon. But Tatiana had strongly cautioned-- even begged-- them not to take such a gamble, and they’d obliged, only cutting east once they’d reached the part of Lyell that bordered Kyth, not Courdon.

But in the end… would this even matter? As the din outside grew even louder, Zuzanna could have laughed in disbelieving despair. So many months spent cutting across the continent. So many enemy nations and miserable ends just narrowly avoided. And they were going to face their downfall in Kyth? In a sleepy countryside inn?

I never thought I’d be living through something like this a second time, Phyllo thought desperately, his shoulders shaking, as making a quick decision, Zuzanna drew her wand. As the other guests in the dining room began to panic, one of them running into the lobby to bolt the front door as several others started ducking beneath their tables-- as if this would stop a determined enemy-- the archmage stood, her heart hammering in her throat. She watched, the gears in her mind churning at a nearly dizzying pace, as the distraught innkeeper flung himself toward their table, taking a rough hold of his still-frozen daughter’s arm.

“Papa.” Tears pricked at the child’s eyes. “I-it’s the raiders, isn’t it?” The toddler in the woman’s arms was screaming at the top of his lungs, his shrieks splitting into Zuzanna’s ears like daggers as Charlotte whimpered on, “They’re gonna take us. Just like happened in Penderfield--”

“Hush,” the innkeeper hissed, his eyes wide and fearful. “We-”

Anything else he might have said was cut off as, with a sound of shattering glass, an arrowhead pierced one of the windows of the inn. Angry voices speaking in a tongue neither Phyllo nor Zuzanna understood flooded into the room through the now open gap. People all around the room shrieked, some heading up the stairs to the rooms and others bolting for the kitchens. Most, however, froze where they were in animal terror.

“Zuzanna,” Phyllo hissed, “Fight or run?”

She clenched her jaw, conflicted. Then, she whirled on the innkeeper. “They-- you call them ‘raider’? Are they… magician?” She gestured at her wand. “Like me? Or… just…” She pointed to her still-holstered dagger. “Just fight, no magic?”

“I… I don’t know,” the innkeeper stammered. “I don’t think they’re mages? But-- they could have some, I… I…” He shook his head, frantic.

“They’re going to steal us,” Charlotte wailed, burying her face in her father’s shirt. “T-they went to the village over last m-month-- on Woomas-- and…” The girl screamed out as another arrow lanced through a second window, bursting it and then nearly taking off a dark-haired guest’s ear before it embedded in the wall only inches from her gawping face. “Papa, don’t let them take me. Please!”

“No one is… take you,” Zuzanna said, wincing. She looked back to Phyllo. “We can’t just leave these people defenseless. And if we run, we’re separating ourselves from the herd. If… if they’re not magicians, and they try to break in here, I think I can get an upper hand. Get a good stunner on, especially if…” Her jaw trembled as she finished softly, “I know you’re going to protest, but I think I should um. You know. Just… because the more powerful my first hit is, the more damage I can do, and…”

Phyllo gave a soft whine of annoyance. He hated how Zuzanna always defaulted to blood magic- usually her own- in a fix. He knew better than most that losing blood wasn't something to be trifled with. But at present he had no counter-argument to offer, except that she use his blood which she wouldn't agree to. Aside for one desperate emergency situation, she had been adamant about distancing Phyllo from his old identity as a bleeder blank who existed only to serve as a vessel of blood for magic and religious rites.

And he had to agree with her about the other people. He didn't want to leave them to the mercy of the slavers. Didn't want Charlotte to have to live the sort of life he had.

Phyllo met her eyes, then glanced down meaningfully. "Please be careful."

Turning to address the room at large he bellowed, "All! If rai-der comes in, heads down! Hear me? Heads down!"

The remaining people who hadn’t fled for other parts of the inn, about half a dozen of them-- including the woman and squalling toddler-- nodded mutely, as did Charlotte and her father. Zuzanna, briefly reholstering her wand, swallowed hard and promised Phyllo she’d be careful-- then drew the dagger at her belt and raked it across her palm. The cut was shallow but long, blood welling up instantly, and Zuzia fought back a grimace at the pain… and then another grimace when Charlotte, watching in befuddlement, let out a gasp.

“Why’re you cuttin’ yourself?” the girl demanded, her chocolate brown eyes wide as full moons.

“Is… okay,” Zuzanna said with a thin smile, wiping the bloodied dagger off on her cloak before resecuring it at her hip. “I just-- it help.” From the lobby, she could hear the sudden sound of someone banging-- hard-- against the bolted front door. Oh, gods. “No hurt much, I promise.”

Phyllo gave his wife a worried glance, but anything he might have said was cut off as the sound of splintering wood echoed from the entrance corridor. He whirled, knife in hand, as armed and armored men charged into the common room. The innkeeper shoved Charlotte down against the wall, cowering, as the rest of the room practically flung themselves down to the floor. Zuzanna did not waste another moment; outnumbered as they were-- the raiding party had to number nearly a dozen men-- she knew that the element of surprise was likely her best, and perhaps only, true option.

“Close your eyes, Phyllo,” she whispered to her husband. Then, yanking out her wand and daubing its tip against the bleeding wound on her palm, she leveled it toward the doorway. “Razić!” she hissed.

Light flared from her wand, brilliant red and blinding. Pressed against the wall, Charlotte let out a shrill, terrified scream as several of the armoured men dropped to the floor beneath, twitching once before their bodies stilled. As the burst of light cleared, Zuzanna gritted her teeth, her hand like a vise around her wand as she reassessed the situation. Even with blood magic, a single stunner was incapable of taking out over ten men at once, and five of the men who’d been at the fringe of the cluster of raiders still stood, blinking and bewildered. One of their gazes locked with Zuzanna’s, and she could see the puzzle pieces snapping together in his head as, his voice shaking, he called out something to his comrades in what Zuzia presumed must be Courdonian. Another split second later, the raiders were lunging toward her. However, there were numerous tables between the men and the mage, and before they even got close Phyllo’s eyes had snapped back open and he’d darted towards the nearest of the men.

The raider in question was armed with an ax, which Phyllo knew could easily kill him in one blow if it landed. Fortunately, the knife fighting that Zuzanna had taught him on the road utilized agility and speed more than anything else, and he quickly dodged the first blow the man aimed at his head. One of the other inn patrons, a sturdy looking middle-aged man, lunged upwards from the floor to tackle the raider around the middle. Startled, the man stumbled, and Phyllo capitalized on it immediately by slamming the pommel of his dagger into the man’s temple. The Courdonian dropped like a stone...

… and one of his cohorts immediately grabbed Phyllo by the back of his turban, yanking the young man off his feet. At nearly the same time, another pair of raiders had shoved to the back wall-- toward the innkeeper and the cowering Charlotte. As her father tried desperately to beat them back with his fists and a prayer, one of the assailants simply laughed, seemingly impervious to the small girl’s hysterical shrieking.

Zuzanna, swiping her wand through her blood again, barely knew where to take aim next. It had been easy when all the raiders were together, but now that they’d split-- and now that they were so close to noncombatants… She knew that any spell she cast would only take care of part of the problem, and it might even make things worse if she nipped an ally in the process. Was it worth taking out two raiders if it also meant hurting Charlotte and her father? Or if she took aim for the man who was grappling with Phyllo and the other patron-- what if the enemy leapt out of the way, and instead she ended up incapacitating the only two other people in this room who actually seemed capable of helping her?

“You thinking, pet?” Zuzia’s eyes snapped to the last Courdonian, who was leering at her as he purred in Kythian that was nearly as broken as hers. “Put that down. Be nice. And maybe we’ll be nice to you, too, hm?”

She gulped, turning her wand in his direction. He was close to her. Straddling the line of too close for her to feel comfortable casting an aggressive spell. “Get back,” she stammered instead, cringing as Charlotte let out another scream, the child clinging to her father like a falling man to the edge of a cliff. “I will not-- warn again.”

At the sound of his wife’s voice, Phyllo’s gray eyes danced back towards where she was standing, and the Courdonian menacing her. Gritting his teeth, he yanked hard against the hand holding his turban, bringing up his dagger as he did so and slicing into the thick fabric. With a loud, harsh riiiiiip the turban fell away, revealing glossy black hair that was styled in at least a dozen rows of thin braids own his head- as well as a pure white brand on his forehead, and the winking luster of a bronze collar around his neck. Phyllo was able to pull free and dart for a nearby table, scooping up a heavy wooden beer tankard and flinging it at the back of the head of the man who was leering at Zuzanna.

It missed, but its clatter as it bounced against the floor briefly snapped the man’s attention away, and Zuzanna capitalized on the moment, flinging another stunner in his direction. He dropped to the ground, deadweight, and she immediately whirled on her heel to face Charlotte and her father. The pair of raiders had seemingly tired of only taunting the little girl and the innkeeper, one of them instead pointing the tip of his rusty dagger against the proprietor’s forehead as his partner worked at prying Charlotte away from her father. The little girl was full-on sobbing now, shaking like a leaf as her father continued to beg fruitlessly for mercy.

Zuzanna’s stomach lurched in equal parts fury and sympathy, and she wanted more than anything to stop the brutes. But she knew that she couldn’t. Not right now. Not with all four people-- friend and foe-- so tightly packed together: a stunner would take them all out, and she wasn’t that desperate. Not yet.

Instead, she spun again, toward Phyllo, the helpful guest, and the last of the remaining raiders. The man in question had certainly not been loath to take advantage of Zuzia’s husband’s distraction, and was presently holding Phyllo around the neck, his arm tight against the Valzick’s throat so that Phyllo was visibly struggling for air. The inn patron whose name Zuzanna did not know was presently grappling with the man’s other arm, in which he was holding a shortsword and clearly intent to use it.

A scream sounded-- and it took Zuzanna a moment to realize that it was coming from her own throat. Just a moment now. It would only take a moment. One surge of adrenaline on the raider’s part, and that blade would be slashing against Phyllo’s skin.

Squeezing as much blood as she could against the metal cap of her wand, the girl bit down on her lip, hard. And then, agonized, she made a decision.

“I’m s-sorry, Phyllo,” she stammered, before bracing herself, aiming her wand, and sending a third stunner toward the raider, the inn guest… and her husband. All three men crumpled, pain twisting their expressions for a split second before their bodies went limp.

Zuzanna almost vomited as Phyllo hit the floor, but she knew there was no time now for histrionics. Tears pricking at her eyes, she turned again, back toward Charlotte, her father, and the remaining two assailants. For the first time, the thugs seemed to be hesitating; the one still had his knife pressed against the innkeeper’s forehead, but his partner had stopped tugging on Charlotte, an unsettled expression painted across his face. He muttered something rapidly in Courdonian, and his friend with the dagger paused. Sparing a moment to glance behind his shoulder, at Zuzanna… and the trail of unconscious bodies spread across the floor behind her.

“Get back!” Zuzanna snarled at them, pointing her wand in their direction. “Or you-- you next!”

The men hesitated a moment more, but seemed to realize that they were better off cutting their losses at this point. They both stepped back from their intended targets, then ran, one of them nearly braining himself as he tripped over a chair leg in his haste to retreat. For a moment, all was still. Then, the woman with the toddler gave a strangled sob of relief, hugging her son tight to her breast as he wailed in terror. This seemed to break the spell on the rest of the room, and slowly the other patrons rose from their places on the floor.

Save two- the unknown man and Phyllo. They still lay stunned on the floor, and Zuzanna knew the spell would hold on them for the next ten or fifteen minutes unless she reversed it manually first. The problem was, as much as she hated it, the girl was also keenly aware that she could not waste any time now bothering to reanimate Phyllo… not when the rest of the unconscious people-- the Courdonians-- would start coming to shortly. It had already been at least five minutes since she’d felled the batch at the door.

The room might be sighing in relief, but this was hardly over. Not yet.

“Get-- get their…” Gods, what was the Kythian word? “Weapons,” Zuzanna cobbled up after a moment. “Get all weapons! Now!”

The other patrons looked startled at this command, but the innkeeper- who had been hugging the near-hysterical Charlotte in an attempt to soothe her- recovered his wits first. “Don’t just stand there gawpin’, ya want them up and at us again? The girl’s right, take their weapons and tie ‘em up. I expect Lord Dexter’s knights’ll be along to fetch ‘em, and we want ‘em still here to be fetched!”

“I can tie,” Zuzanna said, her throat dry. “Just-- get weapons.”

As the other guests obliged, moving to relieve the unconscious Courdonians of their assorted axes, daggers, bows, and shortswords, Zuzanna paced amongst the still bodies, wand in hand. “Uwięzic,” she whispered as she paused at each raider, and immediately, ropes sprang around their limbs, binding them like hogs. Only once she’d secured them all did the girl move to Phyllo and the other guest, her voice feather-light as she intoned twiced: “Ocucić.”

Both men stirred, their eyes fluttering open. Phyllo put a hand to his eyes, squinting a bit against the light before his memory seemed to catch up to him and he sat bolt upright. “The slavers, what happened, is anyone hurt? Are you alright?”

Zuzanna nodded, taking a moment to heal the slice on her hand before she finally dared to put her wand away. “It’s over,” she murmured. “Everyone’s fine.” She gulped. “I’m… sorry I had to do that. Stun you. I just… couldn’t think of another w-way.”

He gave a thin smile, reaching up to take her hand in his own. “No worries, Zuzu, I understand. Better knocked out than dead, hm?”

A soft, tremulous voice interrupted them, asking, “What’s that funny white mark on his face?”

Phyllo tensed; he’d momentarily forgotten that his turban now lay sliced away on the floor. The speaker, Charlotte, muttered, “It looks like a brand. The brands the Courdonians use on their slaves.”

“But Courdonians brand the shoulder or collarbone,” one of the guests said. “Not the face.”

Zuzanna’s gut seized. “Is… nothing,” she murmured hollowly, helping Phyllo to his feet. “Not-- not Courdonian.” Tatiana had told them repeatedly that Kythians were adamantly anti-slavery, that they’d hold no malice and do nothing aggressive to a person with a slave brand. But still, to admit what it was… “Just funny mark,” the girl added. “No concern of you.”

“Ya saved us,” the innkeeper noted. “So I think it’s only fair we leave ya be. But lass, why did ya cut yourself? Ya scared me.”

Right. Blood magic. Which Tatiana had repeatedly told her was not much of a thing outside of Meltaim-- at least, not in day-to-day matters. “I just…” She leaned against Phyllo, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “It helps. For… make strong.”

“I’ve never seen magic like that before,” Charlotte murmured, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “R-red. And so bright.” She looked up at her father. “Papa, when’s the knights going to come? I-I want the knights to come. An’ take the Courdonians away.”

The innkeeper rubbed the back of his neck. “Hopefully by morning. I’m sure someone sounded a call for help with the horn in the square. Hearth’s Hill and Coolsprings both have garrisons and ain’t too far, so the warning should hopefully travel quick.”

Knights. Zuzanna knew the idea ought probably soothe her, but on the contrary it made her stomach tumble even more violently. Perhaps it was merely a hardwired response at this point, when nearly every encounter she and Phyllo had had with the militaries of assorted countries over the past eight months had ended… poorly, to say the least. And so the prospect of facing a band of Kythian knights after she’d used potent blood magic and these people had all seen Phyllo’s brand-- bile rose in her throat, and she swallowed it away.

“We should go,” she said to Phyllo. “Q-quickly. In case… in case the knights come faster than he’s guessing.”

The man bit his lip. “I see your point but… in your condition is it wise? You’ve already had a bad scare tonight and a fight. Not to mention we were travelling longer than we wanted to be in the first place.”

Her condition. Zuzanna scowled. “I’m fine, Phyllo. You know I’ve fought much harder than that and still run five miles through the darkness. And… your turban’s torn up, and they’re clearly going to tell the knights about my blood magic. And what if that raises suspicions? Questions?”

“And what if those slavers weren’t working alone?” he retorted. “When I was taken, there were five men who attacked my village, but there were more waiting in the woods to heal the attackers and subdue their captives. Do you really want to risk men we know will hurt us over men who might?”

His wife hesitated, crossing her arms at her stomach as, across the room, the first of the stunned raiders began to blearily stir, thrashing once he realized he was restrained. His flailing, however, earned him nothing-- except, that was, for a sharp kick in the ribs from the toddler-toting mother, whose son had finally calmed down some and was only whimpering now, not screeching at the top of his lungs.

“This is a nightmare,” Zuzanna murmured. “Every choice a bad one. Again. Gods-- I thought we were past this, Phyllo.”

He reached up to her, drawing his fingers through her chocolate brown hair. “Maybe in the future our first reaction to a crisis situation shouldn’t be ‘use showy, obvious foreign magic.’ Or ‘cut off the thing hiding your blank brand.’ Not a lot we can do at this point, but with any hope the fact that we protected their people should count for something.”

“I wasn’t trying to use obvious, showy magic!” She took a step away from him. “I didn’t have a choice-- if I hadn’t amplified--” Tears once again threatened, and Zuzanna sharply blinked them back. “I did what I had to do. You… you talk like I had this list of options, and I just cheerily decided to go for the glitziest--”

Phyllo’s head snapped back and he winced. “That’s not what I meant, Zuzanna. I’m well aware there are far worse spells you could’ve done in terms of drawing attention. But I just…” He rubbed his face. “You always default to that. To cutting yourself. Blood magic. It’s not the only option, just the most expedient in terms of taking out a bunch of enemies at once. But that’s the thing it’s… aggressive.”

“I’m sorry I’m aggressive when I’m facing down slave raiders!” Every conscious person in the room was staring at them now. Zuzanna didn’t entirely care. “What was I supposed to do? Hunker down in the corner and shield the two of us, and just smile and wave from our bubble of safety as they made off with that little girl?” She jabbed an almost accusing finger toward Charlotte, who at the raised voices had shrunk back into the safety of her father’s hold. “Last time I checked, I’m the one who’s saved us from danger time and time again, not you. So clearly I’m doing something right, Phyllo!”

The man’s expression went absolutely blank, the same face he’d worn for most of his life during his slavery in Meltaim. Despite the neutral mask, however, his voice was thick with hurt as he hissed back, “I’m sorry, my lady, I clearly forget my place.”

This was not Valzick, nor was it Kythian. It wasn’t even Lyellian, one of the other languages both Phyllo and Zuzanna had a smattering of. It was Meltaiman. The language of Zuzanna’s homeland. His grey eyes alight with pain and anger, Phyllo spun on his heel, snatching up the tattered remains of his turban and stalking out of the inn.

Chapter Sixteen²:

SPOILER: Click to show

For a moment, Zuzanna did nothing. Only gaped into her husband’s back as he stormed into the lobby, no longer able to hold back the tears that pressed at her pale blue eyes. It wasn’t just Charlotte who seemed unnerved by her now: nearly every other guest had taken several steps back, staring at the snarling magician with their lips drawn and hesitant looks flickering in their eyes. If she and Phyllo hadn’t already drawn attention… well, they’d certainly not made it better now. Or, Zuzia realized, clenching her jaw tight, it’s me who hasn’t made it any better. Not him. I’m the one who started screaming.

“Are… are ya okay?” Charlotte finally dared break through the silence, the girl’s voice little more than a wisp. “‘Cos… ‘cos…”

“Hush, Lottie.” Her father drew an arm around her chest, protectively. “Let’s… let’s get ya upstairs, okay? To… to bed. Papa’ll deal with…” He surveyed the grim scene before him, nearly half of the Courdonians now awake and writhing on the floor. “With this,” the innkeeper finished.

Zuzanna watched them go, their retreating forms hazy through the screen of tears now obscuring her eyes. Once they’d disappeared up the staircase at the far end of the common room, she forced a shaky breath and started forward, into the lobby where Phyllo had fled. It was cold within the small space, a blustery wind spilling in from the gap formerly inhabited by the splintered front door, and it took but one cursory scan for Zuzia to determine that Phyllo was not there. She shouldn’t have been surprised, but still her heart started thumping just a little more frantically as she edged outside, blinking hard to adjust her eyes to the dim evening outside.

The previously quiet town was in a state of disarray. With most of the Courdonians bound within the inn, the two who’d managed to flee had not been able to take with them all their horses, which now wandered the dirt road looking about as bewildered as beasts could. Locals hurried to and fro, buckets of water sloshing in their arms, and as the distinct smell of smoke registered in her nose, Zuzanna realized with a startled horror that before breaking into the inn, the raiders had set the bakery down the road ablaze. Tendrils of smoke now crept like columns into the night sky above, flames flickering a menacing red-orange.

“P-Phyllo.” Zuzanna’s voice shook as she set eyes on her husband, standing statue-still as he watched the villagers desperately attempt to douse the raging inferno. But it was like a dagger against a longsword. A hare taking on a wolf, the fire already far outside their control and the bakery a total loss, incinerated to its studs. “I… I’m sorry,” she went on, pausing a few feet short of him. “I… didn’t mean t-to say what I did, I…”

“I watched him die,” Phyllo said softly, his mouth set on a grim line as he stared unblinking into the blaze. “My father- ribboned in the face. I could see bone. Mother wasn’t much better. One of the other captives, an older boy, around fourteen, he kept fighting back. All the way along the trip. They killed him with a blackstone when he managed to break a mage’s jaw.” He clenched his eyes shut, burying his face in the remains of his turban. His voice muffled he said, “I know there are worse things, Zuzu. So much worse. But I lived blood magic for eight years. I was a tool in it. Used against my own people. It… it scares me sometimes, how casual you are about it.”

“I’m… I’m sorry, Phyllo.” She wanted to reach out and touch him, but the archmage didn’t dare. “N-no child should have to see that, or g-go through that…” Zuzanna swallowed back bile again. “I d-don’t mean to scare you. Or be so… casual. But I just… it’s…” She let out a noise that was quite nearly a whimper. “H-have I ever told you exactly?” she asked after a moment. “W-why that first time we saw each other… at your first bleed-- well, why my father was so quick to drag me out of that room? When I started getting worked up?”

He lifted his head, glancing sideways at her, and shook his head. She gulped in return, daring to edge up directly beside him, and when he didn’t immediately recoil, smiling tremulously at him. Apologetic, embarrassed, and miserable all at once.

“Archmages,” she said softly. “We have-- when we’re little, we have… I think in Valzick it would translate to ‘obstructions’. The theory is that it’s because the magic… it’s too strong for a little kid’s body, and…” She sighed. “It doesn’t matter the explanation. But what the obstructions do… they present in different ways in different kids. They’re damaging. Some can even be painful. But mine? They were just…” She laughed, bitterly. “I was obsessive, I guess. In weird little ways. Counting, for example. Magelights, loaves of bread, coins-- it puzzled the Stareks, but they thought it was just… a quirk. They let it go. The margrave and his wife? Once they had me, and the margrave’s men were working through the process of softening my obstructions-- which took, gods… it took a while…” Zuzanna looked at Phyllo, sidelong. “He knew why I was doing it, and he wanted it to stop.”

“So he’d interrupt you when you were counting things?” Phyllo hazarded, unsure what this had to do with his first bleed.

“He’d use… I don’t know the Valzick word, but-- negative… jolts, I guess? When he caught me doing the behavior. I had an enchanted bracelet. Locked on. If he or his wife noticed me doing one of my… tics, they called it…” She grimaced at the memory. “Well, they’d spell it to go off. Then scoop me up and carry me out the room, to disrupt the behavior. I would scream. I would panic. I know it sounds-- mad. How bad could it be, getting disrupted? But my obstructions, they were… physical, to me. When they stopped me in the middle of a ritual… it… hurt, I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and…” Zuzanna sighed. “It-- it went the other way, too. If they noticed me resisting the urge, they’d reward me. Treats. Things I wanted. Which-- I know must sound horribly irrelevant to your first bleed, except… t-that was another one of the things that bothered me. A lot. Bleedings. Blood magic in general. Because of the way I was constantly being manhandled and dragged out of rooms, I was… I guess you could say much too aware? Of… how miserable it was, to be made to do things you don’t want. Things that hurt you, but that other people seemed n-not to care about at all.”

Phyllo had been listening to her description of the odd behaviors and the Gorskis’ attempts to discourage them with an expression of bewilderment, but he nodded slowly at the last part of the statement. “I can see why that would have bothered you. And I… definitely was being manhandled through my training and the rites more often than not at that point. So then…?”

“M-my father figured he could use the same logic. Jolts when I panicked while watching a blood ritual-- at home, or at church, or… wherever. And if I was good, he’d lavish me with praise. Rewards.” She finally dared to reach out and set a light hand on his wrist. “By the time of your first bleeding, I was… trained enough, usually. To stand or sit quietly and watch. My bracelet was gone-- h-had been gone for almost a year. But when the margrave saw me starting to panic… well, old tactics die hard, right? He dragged me out of that room. N-not for long, as you know. He couldn’t stay away from the party. But that night, once everyone went home-- he threatened to put the bracelet back on. If I ever did that again. I begged him not to. Pleaded. And he said it was up to me. That if I was a good girl, and acted properly during bleedings, he’d have no need to. But otherwise…”

Slowly, Zuzanna moved so that she was standing in front of Phyllo, shakily cupping a hand beneath his chin and lifting it so that their eyes met. The fire burned at her back, ash drifting through the dim air, and smoke stung at her lungs like lye. Her eyes were red, like burning coals. Her cheeks tear-streaked. Her nose running.

“I hate that it’s so casual to me, Phyllo,” she whispered. “That it’s what my mind lurches to, in times of panic. But I spent nearly my entire life being trained like a dog to revel in it. To always think of it. I ran from being Zuzanna Gorski, but Zuzanna Gorski is still always going to be a part of me. Even if I despise her. Even if I wish I could have left her back in Meltaim. Even if I’m constantly battling to make her go away.” Her jaw trembling, she reached up to touch the white blank mark on his forehead. “She’s like a brand. Inside. I hide her as much as I can. I try to pretend she isn’t there. But sometimes… when I’m acting on adrenaline, when I’m fighting for my life, for your life…”

Phyllo instinctively reached for his wife, pulling her into a hug. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Zuzia. Eight months, four countries, and there are parts of both of us that will never really be free of it, aren’t there? Why does that wretched country have to twist everything it touches? What happened to make it so… so hateful, and wrong?”

“I don’t know.” She buried her face against his tunic. “But at least… at least they’re only our scars, right?” One arm slung around his back, she gingerly set the other atop her stomach. Beneath the billowing fabric of her dress, if one squinted in just the right way, they might have been able to make out the small but definitive shape of a bump. “He won’t have to know. Not any of it.”

Phyllo smiled crookedly, kissing his wife atop her head and reaching a around to rest one of his hands on top of hers. “No. He won’t. No slavery, no being wrenched from his parents for being a mage or not being a mage, no blood rituals. Just… love. Home. Happiness. I’d say eight months and a cross-continental trek are worth that.”

“You can say that again,” Zuzanna whispered, before sighing as she glanced back toward the inn. “We… we should probably go inside, shouldn’t we? Make sure everything’s alright with all the prisoners.” She spared another look to the bakery. “I w-wish I could have gotten outside soon enough to help. But… by the time we dealt with the raiders… the building was already lost. My helping to put the flames out would just be a drain of magic. And-- it’s like you said. If our raiders weren’t alone, I should… conserve. Just in case.”

He sighed. “Yeah. The most that can be done at this point is keep it from spreading. I imagine they started the fire as a distraction, to tie up most of the village while they ransacked the inn.” Phyllo gave a wan smile. “Once we get things situated in there, I believe there are still some plates on the table we paid good money for. We can take them up to our room? Even if you aren’t hungry after tonight’s excitement, I’d wager someone else is.”

“Oh, don’t use the baby as an excuse for your appetite.” Zuzanna allowed herself a small smirk as she poked her husband’s chest. “And we should probably sift through the food first. Make sure there aren’t any, you know-- glass shards in the potatoes and all.” She gently kissed his cheek. “I love you, Phyllo. And… I’m… sorry again. That I… I said those things. I didn’t mean them. I was just… being cruel to be cruel. Because I was upset.”

“I understand,” he replied softly. “You were scared and angry, you just needed an outlet. I like to think I didn’t do half-bad tonight. One guy down, two more distracted for you. Granted, I had help but… well it’s at least a step up from how helpless I was to protect Sylwia.”

Zuzia’s smile softened, turning almost wistful. Sad. “Well,” she whispered, as she took his hand and slowly started back toward the inn, “I do hear that you’ve had a very good fighting tutor, Master Panem. Noble-trained.”

He laughed softly, squeezing her hand back. “Indeed. I couldn’t have asked for a better instructor.”

***

The knights, beholden to a local minor noble called Lord Dexter, arrived early the following morning. As Zuzanna had predicted, the innkeeper gave the knights an account of what had happened, including several details that piqued their interest and caution- the fact that the duo who had helped subdue the Courdonians were foreign; the fact that the woman, a mage, had used blood in her magic; and the fact that the man had a bizarre tattoo on his forehead and a metal collar around his neck.

In spite of this, the Kythian knights were initially nothing but decorus. Apologetic even. They thanked Phyllo and Zuzanna for their help in stopping the Courdonians, and explained that while they had to detain the immigrants briefly for the sake of caution, it was largely perfunctory. The Panems would be asked a few questions, to satisfy protocol, and then they would be free to go.

It was without a doubt the least adversarial confrontation Zuzanna and Phyllo had been in with a foreign military power since their flight from Meltaim, and as she nodded at the knights, Zuzanna couldn’t entirely refrain a smile. A few questions, and then she and Phyllo could be on their way. On the road to Elacs. Their new life but a few more weeks of travel ahead of them.

“Maybe we’ll get a medal of commendation,” Zuzanna joked with Phyllo as a knight called Sir Ralph set them up in a small back room of the inn, where the questioning would take place. “We can be Kythian heroes. Tatiana will be thrilled.”

Phyllo laughed, elbowing her gently on the arm. “Oh I’m sure she would be. Even more bragging rights friends for her to add to her collection.”

“What language is that?” the knight asked curiously as they waited for someone else he’d called to attend the questioning. Phyllo smiled thinly.

“Valzick,” he replied. “It is Valzick.”

Sir Ralph’s eyebrow rose a trifle. “You’ve come quite far, my friends.”

Zuzanna smiled. “Just a bit, yes.”

… And then her stomach pinched as the door opened, and another knight strode into the room. Like his comrades, he wore the livery of House Dexter; unlike the rest, he had not just a sword holstered at his hip, but a wand. A mage. Gods, it was a mage. Which had to mean…

The archmage’s gaze snapped to Phyllo. “Truth spell,” she said, in Valzick again. “Remember how to…?”

“The truth, just not all of it,” he agreed. “Blank and baker’s kid from the fun mage-obsessed country who ran away so they could be together.”

“Now then,” the magician said, drawing their attention back to himself. “We will be casting some magic on you. Nothing that will hurt, it will just make sure you don’t lie to us.”

Phyllo nodded. “Is fair.”

The mage gave both Panems an apologetic smile, then pointed his wand at them. “Verwooteserum!”

Zuzanna blinked, fully expecting that when the spell hit her and she opened her eyes again, she’d find herself gazing at the mage and his comrade through a veil of hazy light. Just like in Macarinth, with the squabbling pair-bonded soldiers.

But there was nothing there.

And her head felt suddenly--

“What is your name, madam?” the magician asked, still smiling.

Zuzanna Panem, the girl thought at once. Except-- no. No! Horror slammed into her like a charging bull as she quickly realized that she hadn’t just thought it. No, she’d answered the mage aloud. It were as if somebody had installed a sieve in her mind, funneling her thoughts straight to her lips without any chance for her to filter them. But… how-- this didn’t make sense, this…

Frantically, she shot a look toward Phyllo, her heart thundering in her ears as the mage went on, now talking to her husband: “And yours, sir?”

“Phyllo Panem,” he replied automatically, his mouth answering almost before he had time to fully process the question. He blinked in surprise at the bizarre sensation, though the full implications didn’t sink in until-

“And you are from Valzaim, Master and Madam Panem?” the knight asked.

“I was born Valzick, but Zuzanna not- she from Meltaim,” Phyllo yammered, his eyes going wide with something near to panic. “And I not live since I very small.”

The mage’s brow jumped up, as he shared a shocked and apprehensive look with his comrade. In the chairs, both Phyllo and Zuzanna were beginning to fidget, the pair realizing with a creeping horror what was happening to them. That this truth spell that gripped them was not anything like its cousin from the west continent. Gods-- why hadn’t Zuzanna thought of this? She’d known all along that different kingdoms utilized different breeds of magic to accomplish the same end-- had even gloated in such knowledge back in Macarinth, when she’d constructed an anti-confusion rune for the trader, Lucio-- and yet-- and yet--

“Meltaim?” asked the mage. “That is… unusual.” He leaned forward, his smile gone. “Yet you claimed you were from Valzaim before, Madam Panem, yes? To the innkeeper. To our friends” -- he gestured to Sir Ralph-- “when they spoke to you out in the common room. Why lie?”

“Because who I am-- much dangerous,” Zuzanna said, the words leaking from her mouth even as her brain screamed for them to stay bottled. “And Valzaim safer.”

“Dangerous?” The mage pursed his lips, all traces of humor vanished from his person. “Why? Who are you?”

Phyllo struggled to stop his tongue from speaking on, physically biting down on it so hard he could taste blood. Zuzanna was not so lucky, her tongue loose as she helpfully replied, “Zuzanna Gorski. Heir to a… lands. My father’s-- charge. In… charge? Cousin with-- with--” She was suddenly deliriously grateful that she didn’t know the Kythian word for ‘emperor’.

The mage might as well have been punched, his blue-green eyes flying wide open as he demanded, “Heir? To lands? That means nobility, that…” He muttered something beneath his breath that Zuzia presumed was a swear. “He’s… looking for you? Your father?”

“Probably, yes,” she agreed. No, no, no. Stop, Zuzanna, stop!

“And your-- your magic, it’s strong, they said you used… blood magic last night, with the Courdonians. You’re well-trained, clearly. That’s-- because you’re an heir? Nobility?”

“Yes,” Zuzia assented, before oh-so-cooperatively adding, “And because I… my strong-- is… archmage, you say it?”

The magician went dead white, Phyllo desperately blurting, “Her father s-stop looking, probably. Almost a year! She leave to be my wife! I… I am… półwyrób, is how Meltaim calls, not a mage, a slave. We only want live quiet!”

“Almost a year?” The mage crooked his brow again, asking of Zuzia, “How old are you, anyway?”

Sixteen, she wanted to say. It was what they’d been claiming all along in Kyth and Lyell, ever since Tatiana had cautioned them that in the east, the age of majority was almost universally higher. Instead, she found herself chirping the truth.

“Fifteen,” she said. “Turned fifteen in… last falls.”

The mage swore again, gesturing to her swollen belly. “And you’re pregnant, yes?”

“Baby in summer.” Due nearly four months prior to her sixteenth birthday. Phyllo instinctively reached his hand out to hers, squeezing it, terror making his whole body quiver.

“In Meltaim, adult at fourteen. In Valzaim, when first moon-cycle. We marry before we know different in east.”

“But it is different here,” the mage said grimly, and then with a deliberative look toward Sir Ralph, he slashed his wand abruptly.

Zuzanna could feel the hazy curtain lift from her mind like a blanket suddenly being pulled from over a slumbering form. As her wits returned to her, she leaned forward sharply, letting out a small, disbelieving sputter. No. This was bad. So bad. She wanted to try to stammer out some explanation-- wanted to figure out a way to mitigate the damaging truths this mage had just unearthed, but… what was there to say? There was no taking it back. Every secret she and Phyllo had kept carefully concealed over the past eight months had been spilled to the dark, gushing like a river overtaking its dam. The floodwaters already risen. The lies they’d clung to drowned beneath its rushing course.

“I don’t think,” the mage said softly, stepping forward to remove Zuzanna’s wand, and both her and Phyllo’s daggers, “that I need to tell you two not to resist, right? That this will… all go better for you if you cooperate with our orders?”

“Not send us back,” Phyllo whimpered. “They kill me. Kill baby. Zuzanna… worse than dead. Please.”

The mage sighed. “I need to send a pigeon to my lord. Dexter. It’ll be… his choice, as to what happens next. But I will say this: if you’re cooperative, it will go better than if you fight us. He’s a reasonable man. But… if you act like a threat, he will treat you as a threat. Do you understand?”

Zuzanna nodded mutely, clinging hard to Phyllo’s hand. “We-- we is understand,” she whimpered. Then, to Phyllo in Valzick: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I d-didn’t mean to tell, I… I just… I couldn’t stop I…”

“It’s not your fault, Zuzu,” he replied softly. As the mage stepped back with their weapons, he pulled his wife into a tight hug. “We’ll make it. We’ve made it this far right? Somehow, we have to make it.”

***

The distinctive sound, like birdsong if a bird could be given a voice like a flute, echoed over the air of Medieville. It was a crisp midwinter day, and everything was coated in a liberal blanket of white- which made the ebony feathers of the phoenixes that landed in front of one house in particular stand out even more strikingly.

The particular occupant the rider accompanying the birds was looking for, however, was not near the window to see the phoenixes landing. Medievillian winters were exceptionally cold to people born and raised in Corvus, and the best place for a Corvid to be this time of year was wrapped up in blankets, near a fire, and decidedly away from windows and the chill that seeped in through them.

Luckily, not everyone was as dramatic about the cold as Leif Jade; the birds hadn’t stood in the snow longer than a few seconds before Kirin’s startled, “Leif!” made the archmage turn away from the spellbook he’d been studying and toward his husband, who had paused by one of the windows.

“What is it?” Leif set the book aside and got to his feet, holding the blankets around his shoulders. He could feel the change in temperature in the wood of the floor under his feet as he covered the short distance between the fireplace and the opposite wall.

Before Kirin could answer, Leif saw what he was talking about, and it wasn’t the distance from the fireplace that made his blood freeze. “Those - those are Accipiter phoenixes?!” he choked, so startled to see them that the statement came out sounding half-like a question. “What’re they - Henry must have sent them - but - ” He cursed and started for the door, tossing the blankets onto one of the chairs. “What in the ’Pit does Henry want that’s so important?”

“It must be an emergency; that’s the only reason phoenixes would be sent out of Corvus, right?”

“Right. But - what emergency? If something happened in Raylier, Henry’s got Stefan and Regina for mages, and he could hire more out of the city, they wouldn’t need me for - ” Leif stopped, his winter cloak halfway off its hook by the door. “Unless this is something like that curse. Or - or somebody’s dying - or both, it could be both again!”

Kirin put a hand on his shoulder. “Leif - it’ll be all right. If it’s a curse, you’ll break it. But we should hear what they have to say first; maybe it isn’t as bad as you think?”

Leif forced himself to take a breath that actually filled up his lungs and reached up to put his hand on Kirin’s. He’d need to pull the fingers of his gloves back on before he went outside, he noted distractedly. “Right...you’re right.” He tried to think. “Maybe the roads are too snowed in for a carriage to get here quickly - it’s might not be the worst emergency, but there’s just not time to wait for the snow to melt. Or maybe it’s...maybe they’re coming back from a mission. They need supplies, or...something.” That seemed rather unlikely, though; why would the fireknights, even the Accipiter ones, know offhand exactly where he lived?

Well, whatever it was - Kirin was right that he should wait to find out for certain what they were here for before panicking over it. ...Kirin probably hadn’t intended for Leif to only put off the panicking part, but phoenixes generally meant “emergency” and Accipiters definitely meant “dramatic”; Leif did not have a good feeling about this. All the same, he hurried to put on his winter clothes - winter cloak, fully-fastened, the fingers of his falconry gloves pulled over his hands, and of course, thick boots. Kirin seemed content with boots and his winter cloak draped over his shoulders. Leif was no longer surprised by the Stallions casualness about the cold. He might even have joked about it, if he had he been less consumed by whatever feeling lay between daunted and terrified. As it was, Leif just nodded as if he knew what he was doing, and pushed the door open.

The air was sharply cold on Leif’s face, and as ever the chill seemed undaunted by the extra layers of thick fabric he was wearing. But despite being freezing and despite the way his stomach contents felt like they were turning to stone, Leif couldn’t help admiring the phoenixes as he approached them.

Leif had seen and even ridden a Jade phoenix before, so the size and features of these birds ought to have seemed familiar. They did not - he was still amazed at how huge they were, how strong they must be, how surprisingly well they blended the features of so many birds; the long neck of a swan, the beak and talons and glare of an eagle, the long legs of the flightless birds of the south... These were particularly interesting as he hadn’t actually seen Accipiter phoenixes up close; the black parts of their feathers reminded him almost of a raven’s shiny plumage, though the shimmers were slightly different shades of black instead of purple or green.

They were supposed to be friendly birds, eagle parts aside, and clever - almost human-smart - and Leif wondered in the same distant, distracted way he’d thought about his gloves what it might have been like to visit the Accipiter mews as a child. Back then, it had been essentially impossible for him to get there; the Accipiter mews were, strangely for a Corvid lord’s city, not on the manor grounds. To get to them, Leif would have had to cross a good half of Raylier, and that after slipping past the guards on the Accipiter estate. The chance of the latter had been ludicrously small, and the former...well, he had been brought into the city enough times to know it was unfriendly to someone who couldn’t tolerate much noise or touch or social interaction. He probably wouldn’t have gotten even close without being overloaded.

Which was too bad - Leif would have loved even getting to look at the phoenixes. It would have made leaving Raylier harder, especially if he’d taken a liking to any of them in particular, but...

He heard Kirin’s footsteps stop behind him, and realized he ought to come to a halt, too. Leif turned his attention away from the birds and to the fireknights. Or, rather, the single fireknight accompanying the two-bird flock. “Ah - hello, Sir. I’m Leif Jade; I take it you’re here on orders from Henry? Is it an emergency, or, would you like to come in?”

The fireknight, who had been consoling the smaller of the two birds as it puffed out its feathers against the cold, turned to Leif with a polite smile. Before he could get a single word out, however, the larger bird gave an aggrieved sounding noise akin to a raven's caw, butting its head against his back. The man sighed, turning to the bird and murmuring, "Lavern, all light." The phoenix immediately perked up, looking almost relieved. With a rush of pure white light down its wings and tail feathers, fire sprang to life on the bird's body. The smaller of the two birds edged closer to its comrade, and with a rueful head shake the fireknight turned to Leif again.

"Forgive me, Master Jade, Master Mao, the way these great babies carry on you would think it was acid I was asking them to stand in and not snow," he said, his voice carrying traces of a light, whispery accent. A moment later, as the fireknight removed his helmet and flight goggles, it became clear why- shimmering red eyes and long pointed ears marked the man an elf. His right ear was shorter than the left, scarred in such a way that suggested the end had been at some point burnt off, but it was still well longer than any human's ear. Opposite the short sword all fireknights wore, the elf had a short wand holstered at his belt, as well as several small bottles clinking against each other.

"I am Major Astor Malpass, rider of Aubrey," he went on with a bow. "Normally I would offer my hand but from what I remember of the household during your childhood you do not care for such things. To answer your question about Lord Henry- yes and no. He gave me orders to fly here, but it was only as an intermediary for Lord Everett. It is not an immediate emergency, however, at least I was given no such impression. It is however… a very difficult situation, so perhaps everyone being comfortable while I try to explain is best.”


“Oh - uh, well - yes, come inside, then.” There was a lot Leif wanted to react to. He was an elf - though now that Leif thought about it, he thought he vaguely remembered hearing something like that when he was a child - from Henry, maybe? It might explain how he knew about Leif’s childhood, enough to make that pointed comment...but then, Leif wouldn’t have guessed that any of the fireknights were ever aware of Leif’s sensory issues. It wasn’t as if Lord Accipiter would have discussed it in meetings with his general and lieutenants. ...Hopefully this didn’t mean Leif had offended Malpass at some point in the past by refusing a handshake.

There was also the fact that whatever this was, was coming from Lord Everett. Leif was relieved that he wouldn’t have to work with his eldest brother, but an assignment from Lord Everett that called for phoenixes was bound to be serious...

Though speaking of phoenixes - one of them had set itself alight and that was absolutely fascinating - Leif had always wondered how the whole process worked, if it was a natural property in their feathers or magic that made them able to burn without actually burning, or if the fire itself was magical- and how did a phoenix make a spark to set the fire in the first place, and then spread if over such a wide area, or did it work the same way a mage might cast fire from their wand?

It took a physical effort to stifle the questions and limit himself to remarking, “I’m sorry I can’t offer the phoenixes shelter, too - I don’t think the mews are big enough.” He motioned toward a small building that, with its finely-latticed windows shuttered against the cold, admittedly didn’t look much like a mews at the moment. What was obvious was that it was definitely not tall enough or wide enough for the phoenixes.

“Will they be alright out here?” Kirin asked. Leif looked over to see the Stallion also watching the bird with interest. “It looks like they won’t be cold, at least…”

“They should be fine, so long as we don’t leave them hours and hours,” Astor replied with a smile. “And hopefully we shall not be doing so- the issue at hand isn’t an emergency but I do believe Lord Everett wants it addressed with all deliberate haste, so they should manage with Lavern’s fire in the meantime.”

“Right - I suppose we should get to the issue, then,” Leif said, restraining a sigh and leading the way back to the house. At least they’d be warm while talking about whatever magic-related crisis had come up this time.

Leif was quick to suggest they take seats by the fire, pulling up a third chair for Major Malpass and making sure it was close to the hearth; it was even colder in the sky than on the ground and he figured the elf must be freezing. “So,” he asked as he settled in the chair opposite the elven fireknight, “What seems to be the problem?”

Astor sat on the chair in question, giving a slight sigh of relief before addressing the Jade. “Well first of all- do you know much of the empire of Meltaim, Master Jade?”

Leif’s brow pinched. “Not very much - just that they’re…” he searched for a diplomatic way to say “a bunch of lunatic magical zealots.” Unable to find one, he amended, “They consider mages superior to nonmages; they’re like Courdon in some ways, but if they divided their society by magical ability instead of who you’re born to. I know they aren’t Wooist...I think they worship multiple gods, but I couldn’t tell you any of their names or what they’re worshipped for.”

“As much as is relevant, at least as far as I was told,” Astor agreed. “Admittedly I’m not particularly knowledgeable about them either. But the reason I bring it up is because about two and a half weeks ago in Southern Kine, Courdonian slave raiders attacked a small village called…” Here he drew a small sheaf of paper out of his pocket, and then went on, “‘Harmonfield.’ Two foreigners at the local inn helped to fend them off, but in the process concerned the locals a great deal. One of the two was a mage, who utilized blood in the process of her casting; the other was a man who had a slave brand on his forehead. Not his shoulder or collarbone, but on his face.” The elf looked grim. “The two were questioned under truth spell, where they revealed that the girl was in fact the daughter of a Meltaiman highlord, who’d eloped with the man- a nonmage slave- eight months ago.”

“A blood mage?” Leif suddenly found himself on the edge of his chair, fingers digging into the ends of the armrests. “So - she had blood on hand? Or did she take some from someone there, or…?”

“She used her own, apparently,” Astor replied, shaking his head. “Cut her palm, according to witness statements, and coated her wand tip in the blood.”

“Well...that’s better than her taking it, or having murdered a relative to get it - but still.” After all, Conri the skinwalker had apparently started out, like the rest of his village, using only his own blood for blood-magic. That had ended up with Conri murdering his father, turning himself into a bear to murder an enemy village, and then forcibly turning elves into skinwalkers as well in order to build himself a new “family”. “I don’t like it. And with Meltaiman attitudes...although, if she ran off with - married - a slave...well, you can’t love someone that much and think it’s right to treat them as property; and if not them, why the other people sharing their station? So...presumably she at least realizes the Meltaimans have their heads… Well, that they’re wrong about nonmages being inferior. ...I still don’t like her using blood-magic, though. Even if it’s her own blood she’s using. Not to mention, it’s illegal.”

Leif looked back at Astor. “If they’ve been interrogated, that means she’s in custody, and I assume they took her wand. And it’s not an immediate emergency, so is it safe to guess you don’t need me to fight here...that there’s something else?” He probably should have let Astor finish before going on his rambling tirade.

“Well, there’s actually quite a bit more,” Astor admitted ruefully. “For one thing, her supposed marriage to the slave? It’s completely null and void. The girl is only fifteen. But seeing as how neither of them knew that would be the case, they’ve been carrying on as if they were married- and the girl is pregnant.” A beat. “She’s also an archmage.”

Chapter Seventeen:

SPOILER: Click to show

Leif’s eyebrows had already gone up at hearing the girl was pregnant - but that she was an archmage - Leif nearly shot to his feet. “She’s - she’s an archmage? An archmage using blood-magic?” He remembered something else Astor had said. “‘Pit- and you said her father’s some Meltaiman lord? ‘Woo, no wonder she ended up so far east, he’s going to want her back - badly!”

“From what Lord Everett explained in his letter, they admitted they were pursued, but that they shook that off somewhere in Valzaim and have had no troubles since,” Astor said, again consulting his sheaf of paper. “But yes it is a… concern. However, both of them insist that they can’t go back, that it would mean the death of the young man and the unborn, at the very least. Lord Guy and Lord Everett can’t in good conscience send them back, but they also can’t justify releasing them when there is so much about the girl that could be a potential hazard. We don’t really even know if she’s trustworthy, given the blood magic. That’s where you come in, Master Jade.”

“...Oh?” Even to himself, Leif sounded uneasy.

“Our lords have decided since the girl is underaged, and will not turn sixteen until September, the most expedient solution to the problem is to assign her a legal guardian who will keep watch on her and ensure she is trustworthy,” the fireknight said. “And seeing as she’s an archmage, there is only one person that the lords could agree would be able to keep such a ward in check.”

It took Leif a moment. “...Me? But - I don’t - we - “ He gestured between himself and Kirin. “We don’t - Lord Everett has met me, why would he want to put me in charge of a fifteen-year-old? A pregnant fifteen-year-old?”

Belatedly remembering that Astor hadn’t gotten his orders directly from Everett - who probably hadn’t given whoever had passed the orders on to Henry an intricate breakdown of the pros and cons of the decision, anyway - Leif slumped back in his chair and managed, “I - sorry, he gave the order - he must be sure.” Leif, however, was not - he understood the logic of putting an older archmage in charge of a younger one, but being her legal guardian, being anyone’s legal guardian…

Mentally retreating from the idea for a moment in the hopes he might be able to gather some composure, he asked, “What about her husband? What happens to him? The lords aren’t sending him back to Meltaim - which, good, they shouldn’t - but he’s going to want to be with his wife, I imagine?” It felt odd, calling a fifteen-year-old someone’s wife; granted, there wasn’t much difference between fifteen and sixteen...but even sixteen seemed a little young to make that decision to Leif. Maybe it was just the fact that Leif himself had been so much older when he’d gotten married. Even his siblings had been eighteen at the youngest, if he was remembering correctly.

Astor shrugged. “That I was not given a briefing on. I presume the Kineans will tell you when you get down there to pick up your new ward- incidentally that’s why Lord Everett asked your brother to send phoenixes instead of sending his own from Solis. The flight from Medieville to south Kine and back is going to be long and exhausting enough for the birds without adding an additional trip to and from Solis. I am given to understand that there will be phoenixes and a fireknight from House Escalus waiting for us when we arrive to carry the girl- and perhaps her husband, perhaps not.”

Leif nodded slightly, but said nothing for a moment, trying to regain some sense of equilibrium. A pregnant, teenage, married Meltaiman archmage, who used blood-magic. Lord Woo, not to be rude, but at this point I think you just enjoy testing me.

“...Kirin?” he asked at last. “I know this is an order, we don’t have much choice, but…”

Kirin was more visibly composed than Leif, not that doing so was exactly a demanding task at the moment. His tone thoughtful, Kirin said, “Well, someone does need to keep an eye on them to make sure they’re not a risk. And if they truly don’t mean any harm, then they probably need a safe place to stay. It sounds like they’ve been on the run for a long while, which must have been especially hard on a pregnant young lady.”

“That’s true,” Leif agreed, frowning as he rested his chin in his hand. “Lots of exertion from the walking and the magic...if they’re on the run they’re probably eating cheaply at best, stolen at worst - not the best balance of nutrients for the baby or the mother. Getting sleep must be difficult. And if she’s only fifteen…”

Lessons from Leif’s time at Our Woo of Charity had started coming back to him; he and the other male seminarians hadn’t learned much about handling births, as that was considered inappropriate work for men, but all the seminarians had been given instruction in dealing with pregnant patients, including what might make a pregnancy more risky. This Meltaiman archmage was matching a concerning number of those criteria.

“It looks like we don’t have much choice,” Kirin said, “but it also seems like the right thing to do.” He gave Leif a half-smile; though Kirin was of course too polite to say it, Leif could tell his husband wasn’t thrilled about it, either.

Turning back to Astor, Leif nodded slightly. “I suppose that’s that, then.” Slowly, he got to his feet. “Will I need to bring anything, or are we heading off as we are?”

The fireknight stood as well. “It will take us at least two days to reach Kine, and two more to get back, so you should probably pack at least something for the trip- not too much, though, and I doubt you’ll need anything specialized.” Bowing again he added, “Though I am only the messenger, Master Jade, I do apologize to both you and your husband. This must be jarring.”

Leif gave a dry chuckle. “To say the least. ...Though, ah, that’s not your fault,” he added, realizing suddenly that he hadn’t exactly been overly-polite to the knight. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. I’ll be back in just a few minutes; you’re welcome to stay by the fire, Major - ‘Woo knows Corvids are not meant for these sorts of winters.”

Astor gave a soft laugh. “Well the both of us are going to be someplace a whole lot warmer, very, very soon.”

***

Kirin followed Leif to the bedroom as he went to pack. The archmage felt almost numb as he retrieved his satchel from the wardrobe and set it on the bed; for a moment, he could only stare at the bag as Kirin quietly took a seat beside it.

“You know,” Leif said at last, “I thought unexpected children was one thing we were guaranteed not to have to worry about.”

“Me, too,” Kirin said with a faint smile. “But we’ll manage. Maybe we’ll even like parts of it.”

“Maybe.” Leif turned to the wardrobe and started pulling out shirts. “But that doesn’t mean we wanted to go through it. I suppose it’s at least not a baby, but…’Woo, a teenager - no, two of them! I didn’t even like teenagers when I was one!”

“They won’t be all difficult, I’m sure. Everything they’ve been through probably matured them a lot as well.”

“...Yes. I suppose that’s true.” Leif sighed, coming back and dumping the shirts into the bag. “Although a Meltaiman archmage…”

“An archmage who ran away,” Kirin reminded him. “And married someone without magic. Maybe she’ll be something like you.”

“I don’t know that that’s necessarily a good thing. Better than being Meltaiman, sure,” Leif admitted, opening a drawer and pulling out more clothes, picking mostly at random. “But I know I’m not always easy to get along with.”

“You and I manage all right.”

“Well, that’s at least partly because you’re the most patient person I’ve ever met.” Leif shut the drawer with his elbow and dropped another load of fabric into his bag. “And another chunk is probably me learning from you how not to be so...high-strung all the time.”

Leif sighed, his brief smirk fading. “I know you’re right, we’ll get through it. We sort of have to, Lord Everett apparently isn’t giving us the luxury of choice. ...But I’m sorry, by the way.” He moved the satchel aside and took its place next to Kirin. “You were more or less dragged into this because of me; it’s my head of House ordering this, my being an archmage that made him do it… I know you like magic, but sometimes I wonder if it must feel like more trouble than it’s worth.”

He’d meant the last mostly as a joke, even managing the tone to go with it. Kirin, however, just leaned against Leif and said, “It’s worth it. Your magic is part of you, and you’re worth it.”

Even after all this time, sometimes Kirin could say something that struck Leif in the heart like the friendliest of arrows. “‘Woo, sometimes I wonder how I could possibly deserve you,” Leif said with a feathery laugh as he wrapped an arm around Kirin’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure which of them turned the gesture into a hug, but suddenly, there they were, arms around each other. It felt good to have Kirin so close, his soft hair on Leif’s neck and cheek, a touch of his body heat seeping into Leif’s fingers, the slight pressure around his back and chest that meant Kirin was hugging him back...

“...I almost wish they’d brought another phoenix,” Leif confessed. “I know you need to stay and help Lord Ambrose and handle the books, and it could be dangerous if...I don’t know, if something happens. But I wish you could come.”

“I do need to be here in case Ambrose needs my help,” Kirin said. “But I would have liked to come with you. A chance to fly a phoenix would have been interesting, too. They’re supposed to be friendly...and they look like they would be soft.” Leif smiled; it wasn’t much of a surprise that Kirin would be interested in phoenixes, given his love of dragons, equally fearsome-looking and - for the most part - flight-capable creatures.

The Stallion’s tone became more serious, however, as he added, “If it could be dangerous...be careful, Leif.” Kirin’s fingers tightened slightly, just enough to pull the cloth of Leif’s shirt and for him to notice it. “I want you to come home.”

“So do I - and I’ll be careful,” Leif promised. “It sounds like the Kineans confiscated her wand, so there shouldn’t be anything to worry about archmage-wise. And I’m not getting killed by a teenager - even in death I would never live that one down.”

One of the phoenixes made a noise outside, and Leif frowned, his eyes flicking toward the window. The birds must be getting restless. “Sounds like we don’t have much longer. I’ll...we’ll, I guess, get back as quick as we can.” Though reluctant to leave everything here, from the house to the hug, Leif lifted his head and pulled back enough to give Kirin a kiss. He may have lingered over it a little - it was going to need to last him a few days, after all.

“I love you,” he added when they were through.

“I love you, too. And I’m serious.” Kirin put a hand on Leif’s shoulder. “Please be careful.”

“I will. And I’ll be back before you know it.” With a sigh, Leif slowly got to his feet and picked up the satchel. “Enjoy the peace and quiet while you can; it might be the last the house sees for a while.”

***

Lord Dexter, of Rotherham, Kine, was calling Phyllo and Zuzanna guests.

This, however, was most certainly not the word Zuzia would have used had she been asked to describe their situation in the weeks after everything fell apart in Harmonfield. While it was true that the spare bedroom they’d been put up in at the lord’s manor, about a day’s ride north of Harmonfield, was cozy and well-kept, guests did not usually have an armed guard posted at all times outside the door. Nor were they prohibited freedom of movement. Nor did they have everyone with whom they interacted staring at them like they were three-headed beasts come hither from hell.

Zuzanna supposed she and Phyllo probably would not be getting that joked-about medal of commendation.

At the very least, Dexter had not attempted to separate the husband and wife-- yet. Zuzia was terrified that the time for this would still come, and the idea of it… “I wish they would tell us more,” she whispered to her husband in Valzick on day sixteen of their ‘guesthoood’, sitting at the edge of the bed as she gazed dourly out the chamber’s window. The room was three storeys up, so no one had bothered to lock it. And even though the native Kineans were freezing, Zuzia and Phyllo had largely left the glass wedged open, reveling in the brisk, fresh air. “I feel like I’m some-- piece of livestock. Just… wasting time until they slit my throat.”

Phyllo, who had been pacing the room like a caged cat, grunted softly. It hadn’t escaped his notice that the Kineans seemed far more afraid of his wife than they were of him- and by extension the unspoken threat that if something happened to Zuzanna, they might be “merciful” to him. After all he was just a blank, not a margrave’s archmage heir. Not that losing Zuzanna was anything he would have ever called a mercy if given the choice to express an opinion on the matter.

He sat down next to her, putting one arm around her shoulder and placing the hand of his opposite arm on her stomach- the swell of the child within now visible even at a casual glance. “At least they’ve had midwives in here looking at you- I imagine they’d not have bothered with that if they were planning to hurt us. Has he settled, by the way? You mentioned he was fidgety this morning.”

Despite the gloom and unease that had become so normal to her over the past two weeks, Zuzanna couldn’t help but smile at talk of the baby. “No, he’s a little…” She struggled for the Valzick word for a few moments before settling on, “... Never stops. Always moving. I bet he’s going to be athletic.” She chuckled. “More energy than the triplets, gods help us both.”

Phyllo laughed softly. “He would have stamina, being conceived on a cross-continental hike. Hopefully energetic or not he is not as… much as Sansone was. I wonder how that man’s poor mother managed.”

“Wine.” Zuzanna smirked, slipping into fractured Lyellian as she said, “Nectar of the heavens.” Blue eyes twinkling, she kissed her husband’s cheek. “I’ve never met people so excited about wine. You said they were Wooist, but I don’t know. I think they might just worship grapes, sweetheart.”

Anything else they might have said was cut off when a knock sounded at the door, and the voice of Lord Clement Dexter called in, “Are you both decent?”

Phyllo resisted the urge to roll his eyes and called back in heavily accented Kythian, “Yes.”

The door opened, and in walked the lord of the Kinean-Courdonian borderlands. But he was not alone. Leif, who had taken a deep breath on the other side of the door in an attempt to prepare himself, stepped in after Lord Dexter. The first thing he noticed was that the window was open - sadly, no birds visible through it. His eyes flicked back to the teenagers. His teenagers, or at least, the girl, at least, temporarily.

...She was definitely pregnant, and small as she was, Leif didn’t know how she’d been passing herself off as sixteen. So he could also check off “small build” on his mental list of risks to a healthy pregnancy.

He looked over at the boy, too - her husband, apparently. Leif guessed he was a few years older than his wife, which possibly explained why he hadn’t automatically been added on as a ward of Leif’s as well. There was a curious mark on the boy’s head, not at all hidden by his hairstyle. It must be the slave brand Major Astor had mentioned; while it looked more like a tattoo than a Courdonian slave brand, Leif knew firsthand that sometimes scars didn’t look like scars.

“...Hello,” he said after a slight hesitation. Meeting new people was something he was never going to be good at. “I’m Leif Jade.” He’d been told the two spoke somewhat broken Kythian, and made a mental note to keep his word choice simple. “Have you been told why I’m here?”

Phyllo frowned, putting an arm protectively around his wife. “We told nothing. Not since brought here.”

Leaning into her husband’s hold, Zuzanna’s eyes only loitered on Dexter for a moment before she began picking over the so-called Leif Jade at his side. He was… not old, exactly, but not quite young either. Blonde. His skin darker than hers was, tan bordering on bronze, but not nearly as deep in hue as was Phyllo’s.

He had a wand at his hip.

Of course he did. Wonderful.

“You casting more spells on us?” Zuzia guessed. Nearly accused. “Because we-- we already answer questions. Many time. And told nothing. Just questions, questions, questions. We have-- no more… no more to tell? He… know everything.” She shifted her gaze back to Dexter, glowering.

“You aren’t being questioned,” Dexter replied. “I’ll explain in a moment. But first-” he turned to Leif. “I don’t believe you’ve been properly introduced. These are Phyllo Panem, and Lady Zuzanna Gorski-”

“Not Gorski.” Zuzanna’s tone was laced with venom as she cut in over Dexter. “Panem. Zuzanna Panem. And not lady, either. Not no more.” She clung harder to her husband, almost defensively now, as if she half-expected Dexter and Leif to make a go at separating them at any moment. In the absence of questioning, why else would the lord of the estate have shown his face again, rather than sending in guards to interrogate them and bring them meals as he had been for over two weeks now? “I’m not letting them move us apart from each other,” she hissed to Phyllo, in Valzick. “If they try, I know you hate me being aggressive, but--”

He shook his head desperately, though his arms clung tight around her shoulders and he leveled a glare at the noble as if daring him to part them.

Dexter frowned. “Legally the marriage between you two is not binding, since… Miss Zuzanna is underage. Which is in part what I’m here to talk about.” He gestured at Leif. “Master Jade has been sent here because he, like you, is an archmage. Seeing as you are underage, by Kythian law you will need a guardian; he has been appointed to that task.”

When there was only a moment of silence in response to this, Leif nodded slightly. “Ah. Yes. The idea is, you’ll come live with my husband and I in Medieville - it’s about two days from here by phoenix.” He wondered if they knew what a phoenix was, but considering it was a bird it might not be wise for him to launch into an explanation, or they were going to be on the topic for a while. “Until Miss - Zuzanna, correct? Until she turns sixteen.” Noticing how the two were clinging to each other, Leif added with the faintest dry humor to his tone, “I take it Master Phyllo will be coming as well.”

Her jaw falling open, Zuzanna hardly knew which point to leap onto first. She hadn’t recognized every word Leif and Dexter utilized-- especially not since the latter seemed to have a penchant for flexing his vocabulary muscles-- but she’d caught… enough. Archmage, for instance. And underage. And ‘taking you with me to Medieville’.

“... But.” Zuzia shook her head, rapidly. “We is-- ah, go to… Elacs, yes? Not… Medieville. And I…” Gods, how much easier this would be if the Kythians spoke Valzick! “I no need… how you say it, guard-in? Not child.” Her voice was very, very firm on this point. “And-- archmage, it’s… no. That is-- what is word? Not… not a lot? You cannot be archmage. Too… easy.”

Leif’s eyebrows rose - this was the first time he’d run into that particular argument. “I don’t know about easy, but I am an archmage.” Sensing that stubbornness was going to be a pattern here - just the trait he’d wanted in his archmage, bloodmage, pregnant teenage ward! - Leif offered, “I can prove it.” He drew his wand, careful to keep it pointed away from the jumpy teenagers. Instead, he aimed it at one of the bedposts and without so much as a twitch of his mouth to speak an incantation, gave the instrument a flick. Green light flashed out of the wandtip, and just as silently as he’d cast the spell, Leif willed the magic to take the form of a kestrel. The semi-transparent, green-toned construct landed on the bedpost, looking sideways at the two teenagers and tilting its head.

As Zuzanna watched the spell take effortless form, she squared her jaw. “Again,” she demanded. Her brain screaming that she must have missed something-- blinked as he’d whispered an incantation beneath his breath-- that surely he couldn’t really be an archmage. The chances! “Do-- do again.”

Phyllo, however, shook his head, addressing her in Valzick. “I saw it too- he didn’t speak when he cast the spell. He’s telling us the truth Zuzanna.” The young man turned back to Leif. “You… you keep until sixteen. What then? We still… what is word, kept somewhere we not want stay?”

“...Prisoners?” Leif guessed, summoning the kestrel to his glove with a flick of his wand before holstering the tool. “No - well, as long as we can be sure you’re not dangerous.” Was that too unfamiliar a word, dangerous? “That you won’t hurt anyone in Kyth. Meltaim and Kyth would probably be enemies if they were closer together. So we need to be careful.” He did not think this explanation was going to go over particularly well.

“We protect Kythians!” Phyllo objected, his voice laced now with despair as much as anger. “From slavers! Not even kill slavers when fight! Not injure worse than bump on head! Where danger?”

“We could have-- have gone,” Zuzanna hissed, the girl gone from incredulous to furious. “Leaved? After helping. Instead we stay. To help more. And make sure all is-- is good. For Kythians!” As though he could sense his mother’s anger, the baby stirred in Zuzanna’s belly, and she set an automatic hand over her bump. “I not need guard-in! And not danger! Not go with you. No.”

Sometimes Leif hated being right. “Those things are definitely points in your favor. Trust me, I like the idea of Courdonian slavers getting knocked about. But...there are some concerns. Worries,” he clarified. “Your father is a... margrave, you called it?” he asked, glancing at Lord Dexter to check that he had remembered correctly. “And there are connections between him and the emperor of Meltaim, right? We won’t send you back,” he added quickly, “but if we’re going to keep a fugit...ah, a wanted runaway in our borders, we need to make sure we’re doing it safely.”

“But-- my father, he… he not know I’m here.” Zuzanna was nearly pleading now. “And Sebellius-- he…” She shook her head. She didn’t have the Kythian words to express how the Meltaiman emperor would have never wasted any more men fetching a blank-loving magician who’d already gotten an elite Meltaiman military unit killed. “He not want me,” she finished shakily. “Sebellius no… no danger.”

“...You’re an archmage,” Leif said, confused. Maybe he was missing something. “But - even if the emperor doesn’t want you now, what if he changes his mind? Or if your father finds you somehow? Trust me - if that happens, being in the...er, being...being under House Jade’s...protection? Guard? is better than not,” he said, remembering rather vividly the confrontation with Rodin Duval over Xavier in Medieville’s town square so many years ago.

Seeming to sense this argument would never end if allowed to go on, Lord Dexter cut in. “Master Panem, Miss… Panem, this is not for arguing. You will stay with Master Leif until September. If nothing bad happens in that time, you are free to live as you like. But this is for your safety as much as ours.”

Phyllo clenched his jaw, looking towards his wife. “They aren’t going to let this go.”

Zuzanna seemed to be lurching between a myriad of swirling emotions: desperation, shock, blazing fury, the feelings lancing through her at a dizzying speed as the baby continued to flutter in her belly. “We helped them,” she growled in return. “We helped them, and they’re treating us like criminals. Even godsdamned Macarinth wasn’t so absurd, and that was after I’d half-attacked a Valzick military unit!”

“I know, but arguing more is just going to make them angry,” the man said, sounding frustrated but defeated. “I think our best bet is to go… go along…”

A horribly familiar sensation spiked in Phyllo’s head- a near paralyzing vertigo that made the entire room around him seem to be spinning. Blood roared in his ears until he was nearly deaf, and his eyes went blurry and dark. No longer aware and barely conscious, he gave a loud groan and slumped sideways, clutching his head with one hand and almost dragging Zuzanna off the bed entirely. Zuzia, immediately aware of what was happening, let out a sharp hiss of air, bracing herself as she gripped harder to her husband, just barely managing to keep him from falling.

“Shh, it’s alright,” she stammered, and then swore in Valzick. Repeatedly. “You’re okay, honey, y-you’re okay.”

Leif blinked, startled - clearly something was not right. The kestrel leaped from his glove and vanished as Leif stepped forward, reaching out one hand to help Zuzanna keep Phyllo from falling and the other for his wand. “What’s wrong, is he hurt?”

“No touch.” Even though the logical part of Zuzia knew that Leif was merely helping, his sudden close proximity made her want to scream. “He-- okay, he just-- he…” In her rising anxiety, the girl could barely string together Kythian words anymore. “P-please-- just… no touch, back… back away, please...”

Leif faltered and drew his hand back. “All right, I won’t touch him. This has happened before?” He wanted to ask again what exactly “this” was, but even he could tell this was not the time to try and pry answers from her. “Is there anything that helps, or…”

As Zuzia mutely shook her head in the negative, Dexter rubbed the back of his head and coughed. “This has happened a few times since we picked them up, Master Leif. As Master Panem explained it- it took a bit of doing since he was having trouble chaining the right words together to get the idea across- but apparently he was at one point during his slavery used as a test subject for a mage who cast so many dark spells on him that it almost killed him. These strange swooning episodes have been happening to him ever since. His ah… wife,” here Dexter frowned, “says they get worse when he’s upset or worried.”

“It… just take-- some minute,” Zuzanna whispered, gently stroking his hair. “Then he okay.”

Leif scowled. “It must have been powerful magic, if it left an effect like this. ’Pit-spawned -” He just barely refrained from a word that was probably not appropriate to use in front of Lord Dexter or the girl who was supposed to be his ward. “...dark mages,” he finished after a breath.

Phyllo gave a sudden, shuddering gasp, his eyes fluttering open. He clung harder to Zuzanna as he tried to regain his equilibrium, his breathing fast and coughs wracking him- he’d been leaning in such a way that the collar had pulled tight around his throat, partly cutting off his air. He scrabbled at it with the hand that wasn’t holding his wife, trying in vain to pry the wretched thing away from his neck, but as usual he couldn’t even get a single finger under the metal.

“Stop.” Zuzanna set a firm but gentle hand on his wrist. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” She swallowed hard. “Are you alright?”

Phyllo shook his head, whining softly but still breathing too hard to get anything coherent out. He stopped clawing futilely against the collar, though his skin was somewhat irritated where he’d accidentally scratched it in the process.

Leif looked between the two of them, and the collar - why had Phyllo stopped trying to take it off, clearly it was causing a problem? “...Shouldn’t the collar come off?” he asked Zuzanna, seeing as she wasn’t the one trying to catch her breath. “If it’s hard for him to breathe?”

“No come off.” She bristled-- again. What, did this archmage think she’d have left it on her husband all these months if she’d had any other choice? “No…” She pantomimed slipping a key into a lock. “Like… like this,” she added after a moment, slipping off her wedding ring to draw a comparison, the smooth band an unbroken circle of silver.

Phyllo nodded, turning around backwards to show Leif that the collar was a solid ring of bronze. “Magic also,” he added, his voice raspy. “So no cut. No burn. Loud sound if run away. Other magics. Zuzia say… not good magic? Is ah… mess?”

“Bad runes,” Zuzanna agreed, slipping her ring back on. “Not-- apart much? Like…” She wished she could demonstrate with her own wand-- in the language of magic, which she’d always spoken best of any-- but of course, her wand had been confiscated back in Harmonfield. They hadn’t yet given it back. Instead, the girl gritted her teeth and held her hands out, lacing her fingers together into a deliberately tangled heap. “All touch. Go for one, and-- must take all, or… or…” Frustrated, she let herself slip into Valzick as she muttered, “They’ll go ‘boom’.”

“...It’s a slave collar?” Leif realized. “I - I’m sorry, I thought it was…” Well, he’d thought just an ornate piece of jewelry, but in retrospect, that was a stupid thought. “Nevermind. But it has runes on it - messy, bad runes?” He considered their descriptions. “...Someone cast the spell...not incorrectly - wrong - but...something isn’t right with the runes...”

Archmages, blood mages, sloppy spellwork, escaped slaves who had been victimized by mages...it was like all of Leif’s past experiences were coming together at once. “I’d like to take a look at them, if you don’t mind.” Glancing at Lord Dexter, he added, “Er, maybe later - but if I can undo the runes, that would at least get rid of magical protections on the collar. I’m not sure how to go about getting the whole thing off from there - close as it is to the skin, we’d have to be extremely careful. But you shouldn’t have to be stuck with it; if it’s that tight, it can’t be comfortable, and I doubt you need or want it as a reminder.”

The idea of this strange archmage pointing his wand at Phyllo made Zuzanna want to scream. “No.” She reached back for her husband’s hand. “I-- I can… take runes. I did not… do before because I have no way to take collar off after. But…” She leaned forward, her blue eyes narrowed. “Give me wand back, and I can do.”

Leif crossed his arms - young or no, she practiced blood-magic and had been little but aggressive so far. “No. You’ll get it back eventually - if you convi - show me you’re not a threat. But not right now.” Glancing at Phyllo, he added, “I’ll leave it alone if you really don’t want me examining it, but if you want to talk about it later and change your mind, the offer’s still there.” He would, at least, try to look into ways of physically removing the collar once it was disenchanted; that was going to be a task in of itself.

“But-” Dexter put in, “For the moment, what we said before is still true. You are going to stay with Master Leif in Medieville until you are sixteen, and then he will give us his judgement on if it is safe to let you and Master Panem go. Bristling up like a badger cannot change that- the high lords of Kine and Corvus have agreed to it.”

“Badger? Bristling?” she asked, the unfamiliar words lingering on her tongue for a moment before Zuzia realized this unknown turn of phrase was hardly what mattered most. Her entire body nearly simmering with wary rage, she creased her mahogany brow. “I am not danger. Or-- bad mans. I did help for Kythians. Why you make me prison?”

Phyllo, sensing that his wife was going to keep arguing if allowed to, put his hands up on her shoulders and turned her so she was facing him. “Zuzanna, they aren’t listening to us. I don’t want to do this either, I hate it. But we have no choice. If they’re already afraid of you, how much worse is it going to be if you keep snarling at them? All we can do is play their stupid game. Show them we’re not a threat. If September comes and goes and nothing bad happens, they’ll have to let us go.”

“We should have stayed in Lyell.” The young archmage blinked hard, refusing to let herself cry even as tears began to threaten. “We got greedy. We got greedy, and now… now…” Perhaps it was merely the stress; or perhaps it was the hormones borne of the fact that she was over halfway along in her pregnancy. Whatever the case, Zuzia abruptly crumpled forward, burying her face against her husband’s tunic. “I c-can’t do this anymore. Always… always looking over my shoulder. Not knowing w-who to trust. And now it’s not just me, it’s not just you, it’s our baby and…” Her voice dropped to near nothingness. “I’m scared. I’m so, so scared, Phyllo.”

“I am too. I thought we were past this, that we were safe. But… but we can’t give up. Not after everything. We’ve come so far, we can’t just give up now.” He hugged his wife close, then looked up at Leif. “Some… things. We come. But some things.” He set his jaw. “Promise if we not dangerous, we not be hurt. We be… stay safe. Me. Zuzanna. Baby.”

Leif was a little confused by this request - what reason would they have to hurt them if they weren’t a danger? ...Then again, this man was a former slave. In a kingdom ruled by mages. ...’Pit.

Leif nodded. “You’ll all be safe.”

Phyllo swallowed hard, and nodded. “Other thing. We know that Kyth law say Zuzanna child. Our married not… not good. But can… keep quiet? Not for us. For baby.” Here, the former slave’s eyes stung a bit, and his voice became thick. “If baby born when marriage not good, people talk. Say bad things. Make baby sad. In, in Meltaim, all time, people say bad things to me, because not mage. But cannot help not mage. Baby cannot help Kyth laws. So, so please?”

“I...I suppose so?” Leif again felt a little discomfort at approving it - but considering they had already gone through so much together, Leif rather doubted they wouldn’t make their marriage official as soon as Zuzanna was of Kythian legal age. So was there really any point in insisting it wasn’t official yet?

Besides, the last thing he needed was something else for one or both of them to get huffy over; considering Zuzanna’s sharp protest when addressed by her maiden name, this was probably not a battle worth fighting. “All right - I’ll keep it quiet. You have wedding rings, anyway, that’ll be enough for most people that they won’t even ask.” He pulled back the ring finger of his glove and tapped his own wedding band to indicate what he meant, doubting the specific term had been taught to them in Kythian yet.

Phyllo glanced at Leif’s ring and nodded. “Thank you. We come. We no make trouble.” He nuzzled Zuzanna. “Right?”

Still pressed tight against her husband, the girl nodded reluctantly. Then, slowly, she turned her cheek out toward Leif. “One-- more questions?” she asked, her voice soft. “Medieville… is… north, yes?” She spared a brief glance to the still-open window. “Is… not so… hot?”

Leif actually laughed. “It’s freezing in Medieville right now.”

“Water go… to… cold?” For the first time during the entire exchange, Zuzanna seemed to be fielding some emotion that wasn’t merely shock, indignation, or fury. “And fall on ground? Make… white?”

“Snow? Yes, there’s snow - or there was when I left. I doubt it’s melted, but even if it has, I’m sure more will fall again soon. There’re a few more months of winter yet.”

“Snow.” Finally, Zuzanna let slip the faintest trace of a smile. “I-- like snows.”

Leif resisted the urge to sigh with relief - at least there was one thing that hadn’t started a fight. “Then you’ll like winter in Medieville. ...Summer, maybe not quite as much, but.” He shrugged. “One problem at a time.”

Chapter Eighteen:

SPOILER: Click to show

The Panems were given back most of their travel supplies- having sworn under truth spell days before that none of the Kythian money they were carrying was stolen and had in fact been earned by honest employment- but Leif kept hold of their weapons. While his offhand mention of phoenixes as their method of travel had been mostly ignored in light of everything else he’d had to say, when he finally brought his new charges out, their reactions were rather dramatic. The birds- two in Accipiter black and white, three in Escalus orange and blue- were striking, and like nothing either of the Panems had seen before. When Phyllo asked again what these huge birds were, and the Escalus fireknight explained, his jaw had fallen open.

In Valzaim, which was staunchly Wooist, there were stories of phoenixes- birds who were said to be avatars of the Woo himself sent to earth. But no one had actually seen any. He hadn’t been entirely sure if phoenixes were real or just a metaphor for something in the Books. But when, at his request for proof the birds were really phoenixes, one of them was instructed to set itself ablaze, he was bowled over with awe and not a little reverence. Leif had to smile at this; he might only have been almost a Wooist priest, but he could still appreciate a moment of religious wonder. And they were birds, giant birds - of course they were impressive!

… Zuzanna was not impressed.

“We… go on these?” she asked, gawping like one might at a thrashing, venomous snake. She spun on her heel, toward Phyllo. “They’re like the hippogriffs!” she snapped, in Valzick. “And I wasn’t pregnant then, and I-- still nearly threw up, and--”

Phyllo winced, snapped out of his reverie. “I don’t think they plan to sling us over their rumps like packages like happened with the hippogriffs, or they wouldn’t have so many extra. If it’ll take two days for these things to fly us to their city, it’ll probably take us weeks to travel there on foot. I seriously doubt that we’re getting the luxury of objection on this point.”

She let out a huff of frustration. “Of course we don’t. Why would we? We’re just their godsdamned prisoners, after all.” She looked back to Leif. “I get… sick? Before. When I have… go in sky. And I not have-- baby in me. Then.”

Major Astor, the Accipiter fireknight, looked surprised. “You’ve flown before?”

Zuzanna nodded hesitantly, though she hardly knew the Kythian word for ‘hippogriff’. “Yes. Not on-- pho-nix, but…” She gulped. “Did not like. Bad time.”

“It…” Phyllo hissed. “Bird. Horse. Bigger than phoenix. Meaner.”

“Well,” Leif offered, “phoenixes aren’t mean - you should be careful around them, but they’re not aggressive - er, they won’t attack you,” he clarified. “The motion-sickness, though...if this were Corvus, I’d ask if we could get some nausea-fighting potions from Lord Dexter, but I don’t think he’ll have any on hand…”

“I have some,” Astor offered. He patted the small glass vials on his belt, making them clink against each other. “Normally I’d carry explosives as well as restorative potions but this being an escort mission I only have the later onhand. But I have plenty of them.” Turning to Zuzanna he repeated more slowly, “I have potions, so you will not get sick. I have been making potions for a hundred years- they are very good. Lots of practice.”

Zuzia furrowed her brow, studying the knight. She’d never quite seen somebody like him before. His ears, his eyes-- and gods, her Kythian was lousy, but… did ‘a hundred years’ mean what she thought it meant? “Is… not hurt baby?” she asked after a moment. Vaguely, her mind flickered back to one of her very first encounters with Phyllo, back in Meltaim. Her offering him ginger to ease his nausea as he’d gorged himself in advance of a bleed.

Gods, how it seemed like a lifetime ago.

“I-- thank you, but… baby is…” She smiled thinly. Hesitantly.

“It won’t hurt your baby,” the elf assured her, unclipping a vial of something greenish and offering it to Zuzanna. “It is very mild. Very gentle. It would be safe to give to very small children if need be- we sometimes have to take people out of danger in the air, and they get sick, so I give it to them. Pregnant, young, old.”

“O-okay.” Tentatively, Zuzanna accepted the vial from the elf, swallowing it in one gulp. “Thank you. I is…” She didn’t know the Kythian words for what she wanted to say… and doubted a brightly murmured Valzick ‘thanks for not slinging me over the saddle like a satchel whilst I’m bound with ropes’ would get her anywhere far. Instead, she merely dipped her head, hoping he’d understand the gesture. The elf smiled in reply, inclining his head in return.

“Hold out your hands,” the Escalus fireknight instructed, drawing two of the orange birds closer. “So they can see them. And bow a little. It shows the phoenixes you are friendly. If they touch your hands with their beak, it means they are okay with you, and you can ride them. Don’t worry- they are very gentle.”

Zuzanna obliged timidly, half-convinced the phoenix she offered to would take a notch out of her hand; it didn’t, and she couldn’t refrain a loud sigh of relief afterward, as it drew back away. Phyllo, swallowing hard, held out a hand to one of the phoenixes, a big orange and blue male with a tall, slightly curved crest. It regarded him curiously for a moment, then bumped his hand with its beak… and then, making a questioning chitter, ran its beak down Phyllo’s arm. Belatedly, the young man realized it was his left arm he’d held up- and the bird was nudging the tip of its beak against the old scars of his blood rites in Meltaim. He inhaled sharply, yanking his arm away and clutching it close to his chest with a soft whimper. These were holy birds and he’d gotten those marks in heathen rituals…

Leif, catching Phyllo’s sharp motion from the corner of his eye as he offered a hand to the second Accipiter phoenix, looked over with alarm - but the huge Escalus bird didn’t seem to be acting at all aggressive. “Is everything all right?” he called over.

“Fine,” Phyllo called back, though his trembling voice advertised he was lying. “F-fine.” He reached out a hand to the startled phoenix again, his right hand this time, and gave it a few tentative pats to calm it. Woo, what if it had somehow sensed something off about those scars? He’d had other things to think about on the trip east, but now he couldn’t help but wonder about all those years in Meltaim, and what it meant for him as a Wooist…

Pushing these concerns aside, he let the fireknight help him up onto one of the birds, and strap him into the saddle. Once everyone was ready- Leif, Phyllo, and Zuzanna instructed not to try and use the reins for anything, because their phoenixes would just follow the fireknights- the small flock of five took to the sky. Flying in a saddle on phoenixback was infinitely less terrifying and nauseating than straddled over the rump of a hippogriff. Phyllo’s stomach still felt like it was doing backflips every time the bird dipped and rose with its wingbeats, but after a time he adjusted to the motion- though he didn’t quite dare look anywhere except for directly ahead. And while Zuzanna-- and the baby, for that matter-- did not exactly take to the skies like, well… a bird to flight, at the very least she made it through the trek without throwing up. Which was a far better outcome than she’d been anticipating. (As much as she hated giving gratitude to these captors, she was going to have to thank the elven knight again once they landed.)

Eventually they stopped for the night in a city the fireknights identified as “Scorzen.” Astor and his companion from the Escalus company were quartered with the fireknights based in Scorzen, those of House Lazuli. Leif and his companions, meanwhile, rented space at a small but comfortable inn. Bringing their few things to the room didn’t take long, and Leif, even more uneasy than usual about trying to start conversation over nothing, asked, “So - dinner now, or do your stomachs need time to settle?”

“Baby want dinners.” Zuzanna sighed, glancing ruefully at Phyllo. “Your son is a monster. Very demanding.” Then, looking to Leif again, her voice was deadly bright as she added, “No Courdonians this north, yes? Last inn dinners… fun.”

It took Leif a moment to put together what she meant. “Oh - no, no Courdonians this far north. The slave-raiders wouldn’t attack a major city like this one, anyway, not unless they want a whole flock of angry phoenixes chasing them down.” He opened the door to their room, frowning a little at the noise drifting up the stairs. The crowd hadn’t been drunken or raucous, but there were a good number of people down there. He wasn’t worried about being overloaded, it wasn’t loud enough for that - but outside stress and frazzling situations tended to make Leif an even poorer conversationalist than usual. “How would you two feel about having dinner brought to us instead of going out there to eat?”

“You… not trust us to… not run?” Zuzanna quirked a brow. “We be good. Promise.” There were four wall-mounted candleholders in the inn room. And one flickering stand in the corner, casting shadows across the floor. As her eyes leapt from one to the next, the girl silently tabulating them in her head, and Zuzanna realized what she was doing, she almost laughed. … And then flinched instead. “N-not run,” she said again, softer. “We listen.”

Phyllo glanced at his wife in surprise, looking concerned. However, he said, “Maybe quiet is good. Been… how you say, upsetting? Been upsetting weeks. Quiet good.”

Leif nodded slightly. “Agreed - quiet is good.” He frowned a little at Zuzanna’s flinch, but at this point doubted she would appreciate him asking about it. Perhaps it was just a stroke of discomfort from the baby - though that was something he’d need to watch out for. You are too young to be carrying a child! Leif thought.

“I’ll go let the staff know to bring us food, then,” he said instead. He had already enchanted the window locked, and placed a light ward on the door so he would know if anyone crossed it - they would be there when he got back, or he would at least be intercepting them before they made it ten steps down the hall. “I’ll be right back.”

True to his word, Leif wasn’t gone long before the door opened again and he - and a serving boy - returned with food for the three. Stew, bread, fruit juice, and water - not extravagant, but certainly filling. Leif hastily cast a spell on an end table to lengthen it so they could actually set the food down.

Only when everything was ready did Leif realize that saying grace over the meal might be something confusing to the ex-Meltaimans. He had no idea what dining customs in Meltaim might be like, or whether they had anything remotely similar. Should he try to explain what he was doing beforehand? Would that just make things more awkward? Why did every little piece of this situation turn into something difficult?

The sudden burst of annoyance was at least helpful in pushing Leif into action; he wasn’t going to skip saying grace just because he felt a little uncomfortable. If they asked what he was doing, he’d tell them. If not, fine. It wasn’t as if this was the weirdest thing about Leif they were ever going to see. All the same, he kept the prayer relatively short and quiet, and swapped out most of the usual “we”s for “I”. Silently, he added, Lord ‘Woo, I don’t understand why you wanted things to go this way - but I’ll go along with it. Just...please give me a wing here. I have no idea what I’m doing.

Phyllo, however, seemed unsurprised by this, though it was clear he didn’t quite follow everything that was being said. As Leif wrapped up he muttered under his breath in Valzick to Zuzanna, presumably some sort of explanation. She nodded in return, smiling softly. Even barely understanding what her new guardian had said, the prayer seemed a whole lot more benign than any prayer back in Meltaim. Gentler. Just like everything else Phyllo had told her so far about the religion of his childhood. … She supposed suddenly, keeningly, that there were without a doubt far worse people to be held captive by. And that a person who said grace before supper probably wouldn’t renege on his promises not to hurt them. (... She hoped.)

Relieved not to be across the table from a pair of baffled expressions, Leif started on the food. He knew that he probably ought to be making small-talk, but he wasn’t great at it at the best of times; after a long day like this one, just the thought of it made him tired. Instead, a few minutes into the meal he brought up a topic that wouldn’t have surprised anyone who knew him. “So - the phoenixes were better than the giant horse-birds, I hope?”

Zuzanna laughed, taking a sip of juice. “Yes. Horse-birds… not nice? Big as…” She gestured to the table below. “And up, down, up, down, when in air. Awful.”

Phyllo nodded emphatically. “Phoenixes gentle. Horse-birds not. But…” he bit his lip, rubbing a thumb on one of the scars on his left arm. “Not sure good ride. For me.”

“Oh? Why not?” Leif asked. Hesitantly, he added, “It looked like something happened when you were showing it your hand?”

Phyllo tensed a bit. “Hard… to tell of. I…” he looked away. “You Wooist. Not like it. M-maybe, not like me.”

Leif set down the chunk of bread in his hand. “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to - but…” Picking his words very carefully, he said, “If it’s something you did - it wasn’t bad enough that the phoenixes - holy birds, mind you - refused to carry you, and the ‘Woo says we should be forgiving when people are truly sorry for things they’ve done. ...And if it was something you were forced to do - the only person I’ll not like are the people who made you do it.”

Phyllo gave a soft noise, a barely audible whimper and reached for Zuzanna’s hand with his own. Setting her juice down, she accepted the gesture, smiling gently as she threaded her fingers through his. In a voice that shook he said, “In Meltaim, there is… some slaves who are called hemofilik. Is… is made bleed, for Meltaimans. For magic sometimes, yes, but also for… how you say, when priest does prayer for people?” He swallowed hard, and held up his left arm, showing Leif the seven, equally spaced horizontal scars as his sleeve fell loose. “I was hemofilik. Meltaiman gods not Woo. Never liked. Always Wooist. But… my body, my blood give to not-Woo. For eight years.” He whimpered again, squeezing Zuzanna’s hand.

Leif’s stomach twisted with horror - some gods wanted blood from their followers, he knew that; religions like Carriconism called for animal sacrifice, and then there were old pagan gods who had demanded the blood of humans. But the idea of gods so bloodthirsty that their worshippers had relegated an entire class of people to give their blood to them… He resisted making the sign of the triple-feather for fear of Phyllo misinterpreting the gesture as being against him, but it was a struggle.

“I’m so sorry, Phyllo - they had no right to do that. Obviously, but - still.” He edged his plate aside to put his elbows on the table. “It’s not your fault, and I can’t imagine the ‘Woo would blame you for it. You didn’t give your blood to those gods - the Meltamians took it.”

Phyllo rubbed his face with the heel of his left hand. “Over and over. Body made… clean? Not know the word. Good for gods? As in writings. Smells, baths, foods.” He looked to Zuzanna. “Zuzia see it. Zuzia there for… first time. When I ten years. Not like either.”

She bit her lip. Hard. “They… make him hurt. It…” Her eyes fell to her plate below. “My father… he…” Automatically, she touched her wrist. As if she could feel the long-gone imprint of the enchanted bracelet there, the one that had jolted her as a small child. “Bad things,” she finished softly. “To Phyllo. And when I not like…”

Leif needed a few seconds to put everything together, but when it all came together, his already-uneasy stomach lurched. “Ten? They started taking blood from you when you were ten? ‘Woo above - do they not - ” He sighed. “No, I’m sure they do comprehend - uh, know, I mean. They must know how little blood a child has to spare. They just don’t care, I would assume. ‘Pit-spawn…” He huffed, and forced his temper back, before looked at Zuzanna. “When you didn’t like them hurting Phyllo, something happened?”

Zuzanna shrugged, almost leadenly. “I… because I archmage, I have…” She had no idea of any Kythian word that was even close to ‘obstruction’. “... Things. When I… small. Where I do-- things my father no like. So he give me-- like collar, but over my…” She gestured to her wrist. “It was not just-- Phyllo? But… all hemofilik. That made me… not happy. When I show him this, Father would set off collar. So it… ah…” Failing yet again to find the words, Zuzanna pressed her teeth together and made a small buzzing noise. It was not quite accurate to what the enchanted cuff had done to her, but it was near as she thought she’d get. “Then I learn. Not to… show him, that I not like the hemofilik. But inside, I still… did not like. Watching people hurt. Children. Adults. S-so many.”

“Things? What thi - oh, if it was when you were a child - are you talking about your blocks?” Leif held his hands over the table, trying to figure out how to explain what he meant. “There’s...a sort of pressure...” He mimed pressing down on something with his hands. “But in your head? Maybe?” The only other archmage he’d ever come even close to meeting had been killed before Leif had even reached the same city. “Were the blocks broken? I think it should have been...a test with crystals? ...Like rocks, but shiny?”

Zuzanna nodded. “When I… four. Test. And then…” Even so many years out from Izydor’s conditioning methods, and the lengthy process to soften her obstructions, the memories of the entire ordeal were some of Zuzanna’s worst. “It take time. To-- make them gone. Not fun. Father was… how you say, strict? No room for… making mistake.”

“Hmm. I didn't realize the effects would linger after they were broken properly… That explains why you’d be more sympathetic - uhm, that you would understand Phyllo - all the people being bled - being in pain, and how it feels. Or the general...badness of it, anyway. ...I take it that wasn’t where or when you started getting to know each other properly?”

“No,” Phyllo replied. “See one time, across big room. Zuzanna look at me, I look at her. Say not words, see again not… five years? But remember. I…” he groped for the word. “Water. From eyes. When bleed. So Zuzanna remember me. And she upset- no one upset at hemofilik. So I remember her.”

“I see.” It didn't speak well to the Meltaimans that in eight years of being forcibly cut and bled, Phyllo had, by the sound of it, seen only one person discomforted by it. He tried to press that aside; this was probably only the start of Meltaim’s list of atrocities. “So...how did you meet again, then?” Leif hoped this story would be happier for them to tell; ‘Woo knew this situation was tense enough without adding childhood trauma to it.

Phyllo glanced towards his wife and rubbed the back of his neck. “Is… how you say, lot to story? We tell most ask who we is that Zuzanna is baker child. We met in bakery. Is… not lie. In Meltaim, parents you born to easy change, if power is right…”

***

The remainder of the journey went by quickly, despite Leif’s nerves and the fact that the former Meltaimans’ continued wariness made most every interaction the three had stretch dramatically. Especially if Leif had to try and convince them to do something they didn’t particularly want to do.

But their conversation the first night of their trip seemed to have done at least some good; things didn’t devolve quite to the level of confrontation as their first meeting on the rest of the trip. Their introduction to Kirin when they did arrive went better; Leif wouldn’t have called it friendly, exactly, but it was hard for people to dislike Kirin, and he’d decided to introduce Kirin simply as his partner rather than a second authority figure directly. He hoped that still implied that Kirin was to be listened to as much as Leif was; if he was mistaken, he would clear up the misunderstanding. Pointedly.

Leif showed them the house as well, including the guest bedroom where Zuzanna, at least, would be staying. The tour didn’t take very long; after all, the house was meant for two people, there hadn’t been any plans for needing lots of extra space for future children, and he didn’t show them the inside of the mews just yet.

Phyllo took this all relatively quietly, though there was a fire in his eyes that indicated he hadn’t fallen fully back on his old Meltaiman habits of passively accepting anything that was done to him. He was a little surprised to learn that Leif’s husband wasn’t a mage- but not unpleasantly so. It helped to relax his guard with the Kythian archmage, albeit not by as much as Leif might’ve hoped. The former slave was still clearly somewhat guarded, and stuck to Zuzanna like a burr. His wife seemed intent to return the favour, clinging to Phyllo’s hand after the tour as she pointedly verified that he’d be allowed to stay in the bedchamber with her, as if she still did not quite trust that Leif would not attempt to separate them. Leif confirmed that they could share the space, a decision he’d made fairly early on while traveling; it was clear he was going to be fighting a lot of battles, and considering Zuzanna was already pregnant - what more could really happen in terms of sharing a bed? - this didn’t seem like one worth the time and energy it would take to argue and enforce. He also couldn’t help imagining how very much like his father or Henry he would look trying to separate a couple.

Leif was happy to be back home and with Kirin, but otherwise, mostly what he felt that night was tired, resigned trepidation. He had already been pretty sure he would not be good at dealing with teenagers; the past two days had not dissuaded him of that conviction. But Leif didn’t have a choice; Lord Everett wasn’t going to rescind his order, and when Leif thought purely logically, he knew that he really shouldn’t. All he could do at this point was keep trying, and hope to ‘Woo that things improved.

Whether by the feathered god’s intervention or the more subtle work of time passing, things did start getting better. One week, then two, then a third went by, and as Zuzanna and Phyllo became more accustomed to the place and - perhaps to a lesser extent - the people, their conversations with Leif didn’t turn into arguments quite so often, and there were considerably fewer suspicious glares and remarks cast his way.

In light of this, Leif had started actively pondering what to do about removing Phyllo’s collar. Every time he saw it, it was like a reminder of the young man’s sad history; for Phyllo, it must be even worse. He was fairly certain he could get the runes off; it would take time and care, he imagined, but he doubted it could be worse than something like the archmage’s curse he had broken on Sieg a few years before.

That left the problem of how to physically remove the blighted thing. The only way Leif could think to unseal it was a cutting spell - too dangerous to use when the metal was not even a finger’s width from Phyllo’s skin - or using heat to melt it - obviously not even a consideration. Fortunately, however, Leif had a friend who regularly worked with metal and always seemed to have tricks up her sleeve.

“Here it is,” Leif said as he, Zuzanna, and Phyllo arrived at the Braham-Dylas Lock and Key Trust. He had given them a brief explanation of who Morgaine was and what he wanted to ask her about over breakfast; they had taken it with some wariness, but nothing close to the wild objections Zuzanna had made back in Kine. Phyllo was willing to go along with it provided Leif promised to be careful- which he did- and Zuzanna, apparently convinced by this point that Leif was not a monster harbouring nefarious secondary intentions (even if he’d still refused to return her wand), after some hesitation deferred to her husband’s judgement. At the end of the day, it was his slave collar, after all, not hers.

“If she’s with a customer, we’ll wait, but I sent her a note and think we should be all right at this time of day, anyway,” Leif added, before knocking on the shop door and pushing it open.

There was a soft chime from the bell above the door, and sure enough there were no customers. There was a calico cat sprawled in the doorway, however, whose only reaction to the newcomers was to yawn and blink lazily in their direction. “Excuse us, Rust,” Leif said dryly, stooping to pick up the cat or at least nudge her out of the way. The animal rubbed her cheek against his hand, but obligingly stood and moved out of the path.

“Hello there,” called a voice gone rough with age, but one that held a wealth of good humor and energy despite that. Sitting at a counter at the far end of the room was an old woman, silver hair visible from under a blue sash, and a maze of wrinkles surrounding one brown eye- the other eye was firmly shut, almost unnaturally so. She smiled at the newcomers, “Glad you made it- I am not loath to say it took some doing to clear all the midgets out of the shop. Had to convince Lawrence and Ciara to take them for a family reunion at the Finnegan place.”

“Midg… it?” Phyllo muttered, looking at his wife in bafflement.

Zuzia only shrugged, her lips pursed as the studied the stranger, having caught perhaps a third-- or less-- of the woman’s greeting. “She said names, I think,” Zuzanna told her husband, in Valzick. “People they know?” She glanced to Leif. “This is-- collar helper?”

Leif nodded. “Yes - Zuzanna, Phyllo, this is Morgaine Braham; Morgaine - Zuzanna and Phyllo Panem. Sorry we forced you to chase the rest of the shop off; I know how much you hate scheming.” He grinned. Morgaine laughed in reply.

“Oh of course,” she said cheerfully. Turning to the newcomers she nodded her head, slipping down from the stool behind the counter to walk towards them- and revealing that she was only about as tall as the middle of Phyllo’s ribcage. Once she’d drawn level with them, she offered a hand to shake- a well-wrinkled hand that was clearly calloused and even burned in a few small places. “Good to meet you, Zuzanna and Phyllo.”

“Ah, good to meet you,” Phyllo replied, cautiously extending his hand to the old woman’s. His blank brand was hidden behind a new sash on his forehead, but he couldn’t help instinctively tensing at the expectation of being tested or judged in some way. She shook firmly but with no squeezing that would indicate aggression or a challenge, and he relaxed a hair.

Zuzanna gave a polite smile, but did not take Morgaine’s hand. “Good to meet,” the girl said. “Thank you for, ah-- help offer.”

The woman seemed a little surprised when her hand was left hanging in midair, but a moment later glanced in Leif’s direction- specifically at his falconry gloves- and let her arm drop. Smiling back at Zuzanna she said, “Of course. Perhaps we should all sit then? This’ll be tricky to figure, might as well not be standing awkwardly in a chilly doorway.”

Chapter Nineteen:

SPOILER: Click to show

Morgaine led the way further into the shop, and through a door behind the counter- which opened into a bedroom. “We added this room on when my partner and my student started having kids,” Morgaine said by way of explanation. “I sleep here, so no one else will bother us even if they do come home early.” She gestured to a table in the corner, with five small but sturdy chairs by it, sinking herself onto the squashy looking bed. “Sit, please.”

Zuzanna obliged first, a hand hovering over her swollen belly. Now nearly six months into her pregnancy, it protruded unmistakably beneath her loose dress and winter cloak, and the baby was more active than ever. “Thank you,” the girl said. “Feet is-- ah, get big. Shoes almost no fit.”

“I know the feel,” Morgaine replied with a sympathetic smile. “I’ve had three babies- my first pregnancy was twins. I felt like I was staggering around with the weight of a house on my front end.”

Phyllo’s eyebrows shot upwards as he sat next to his wife. “You… twins? Is two babies, yes? But… but you is… small.”

At this Morgaine burst out laughing. “You’re telling me?”

“My, ah-- mother, she has… three baby at once,” Zuzanna said. “Very glad I only have one.” Her cheeks warm, she patted her bump. “He make me big enough.”

“No doubt,” Morgaine remarked. “If you get hungry while you’re here, just let me know.” She quirked an eyebrow at Leif. “I may not take the stairs as easily as I used to, but I think Master Jade has been here often enough to know where everything in the kitchen is hm? Or he could always just be lazy and send one of his birds to fetch something.”

“As long as you don’t want them to brew tea or prepare anything,” Leif agreed cheerily. “If that’s the case, I suppose I’ll have to make the trek myself - but yes, I should be able to make something simple without leaving your kitchen too messy.”

“I am okay,” Zuzanna said. “Baby not hungry. Yet.” She grinned ruefully at Phyllo, seated beside her, before gesturing toward his collar. “Master Leif say that you… could maybe fix, Miss Braham? That you works with locks?”

“I do yes,” she replied. “Been locksmithing for getting around forty years now, so if there’s something I don’t know about metal and how to crack it open, probably it doesn’t exist.” She smiled. “So- the collar, do you mind if I look at it more closely?”

Zuzanna, leaning toward Phyllo, bit her lip. “It-- still have runes on it. So no can do much yet. And it… very close to skin. Easy to-- to hurt him.”

“I just want to look,” Morgaine assured her gently. “I promise if he’s at all uncomfortable, I’ll stop right away.”

Phyllo glanced sideways at Zuzanna, looking wary, but he sighed. “Okay.”

As he sat down beside her, she said, “Leif didn’t tell me what sort of metal it was- you didn’t know the word for it in Kythian?”

“No,” he replied. “In Valzick is called broúntzos.”

“Hmm.” The locksmith inspected it closely. “Too dull for copper. But too dark for brass. I’d guess bronze.”

“Oh- that sound close to Meltaiman word,” Phyllo remarked, glancing at Zuzanna in surprise.

“I’d have included the Meltaiman name in the letter, if I could have figured out how to spell it,” Leif put in apologetically.

“Letters different,” Phyllo supplied. “At least Zuzanna say- I can’t read.”

Morgaine gently pushed the young man’s shoulders, getting a look at the ring from all sides. Then, apologizing to him, she gently prodded it, seeing how much give it had- which was not much.

“How in blazes did they fit this in the first place?” she asked incredulously. “I can’t imagine the procedure was at all comfortable.”

Zuzanna shifted, looking uncomfortable. She hadn’t been there when Jozef had had this collar put onto Phyllo, of course, but she knew the general process most owners utilized with their blanks. “Make-- awake, but still,” she said. “So no move. Then… I think you would call it-- metal mage? Trained with metal from young age. Use magic to…” Gods, she needed to work on improving her Kythian. “Make metal… so can bend? With magic. Then shape it around neck. And spell hard again. Then set spells on top. To keep shape.”

Leif leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “They used a paralyzing spell? But if they’re bending it with magic and not welding...well, actually, as close as it is around his neck, it probably would have been more dangerous if he moved.” Though that probably hadn’t been the Meltaimans’ real concern; more likely they would just consider their annoyance at any small shifts, not to mention outright resistance, more important than a slave’s comfort or freedom. “But the metal - they used magic to bend it? Or - no - you were trying to say they make it...bendable?”

Leif frowned at the collar in thought. “Do you know if that spell would make the metal soft enough that we could use just....a small tool of some kind to make a tear in it, and pull it apart that way?” He was picturing something like dried but not-yet-baked clay; if you added water to it again, you could use your hands to pry apart an unfired piece.

Zuzanna considered. “I have never-- cast spell?” she said after a moment. “I know what it is, but-- only from book. And it… not meant to be cast after setting spells.” She swallowed hard. “I do not know what-- what happen if it cast then. After all this time. How collar will… act.”

“I guess that wouldn’t be the best option, then,” Leif admitted. “...I’d say we should test on metal that isn’t around someone’s neck, but another few years is far too long to wait.”

“I’d not chance it,” Morgaine agreed. “Metal isn’t meant to bend that way. If you force it to, magically or otherwise, you get…” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a paper thin sheet of what seemed to be copper. She flicked it with a finger, repeatedly up and down- and after about a minute the metal rather dramatically sheared in half, jaggled where it had cracked. “It’s called ‘metal fatigue.’ No one is exactly sure how it works, but if you stress metal by bending it too much in an unnatural way, it’ll eventually shatter under the strain. We don’t want bronze chips cracking off into Phyllo’s neck.”

Zuzanna winced. “Nothing that can hurt him.” The girl looked dour; even now, months after the Macarinthian soldiers had taken care of Phyllo’s mutable brands, Zuzanna could keenly remember the feeling of horror that had bloomed in her as she’d set his freedom of movement brand moulting into a glossy burn mark. All it had taken was one errant move. One wrong rune tugged on, and it had all come crashing down, and Phyllo had been in agony.

“Definitely not,” Leif agreed. “I suppose it was too much to hope we could use the same spell; this collar is designed to keep anyone from removing or tampering with it. They wouldn’t do this the way they do if it was easy to work around. Or through.”

Morgaine gave a soft chuckle, “No, I don’t imagine they would. But I also don’t imagine they account for a perfectly mundane, non-mage lock-cracker taking a stab at it. Here’s my thought- you talked about him being paralyzed when they put it on so he didn’t fidget. Might honestly be easier if we do something similar here- put him to sleep somehow, so he doesn’t thrash or twitch by accident. Then…”

She stood, walking out into the shop. A moment later she returned with a small utensil, like a screwdriver but covered in dull bumps. “This is a tool called a metal file. It takes a while, but it can slowly chip into metal, without sharp cutting. Uses friction- like if you rub your hands together and they get red? If we cut two holes with it, one on each side, the collar should hopefully come off.”

It was… simple. Almost exceedingly simple, Zuzanna thought.

… And no mage in Meltaim would have ever had the patience to try it.

“Could work,” the girl admitted after a moment, hesitantly. “Once Master Leif take off runes.” A beat. “Or… if he let me take off runes. With my wand.” She shot Leif an almost sheepish smile.

“I don’t think so,” Leif said mildly. “If you want to help me figure out how to despell the thing without the runes devolving - er, falling apart - you’re welcome to. But that part is strictly limited to staring at written-down rune chains.”

Looking back to Morgaine and Phyllo, he added, “As for keeping you still, Phyllo - I have a potion that puts a person to sleep and relaxes their muscles, so you wouldn’t even twitch out of instinct or because of a dream. I’ll have to get some things like your weight and the like to give you a safe dose, but that would be shortly before we went ahead with the file. I think it would work. And it seems like the one choice we’ve been offered that doesn’t put you in danger of getting hurt. What do you think?”

He bit his lip. “You use… back-forth rubbing yes? How to not rub skin, when get most way through collar?”

“It’s tight,” Morgaine replied. “But there is some give. The file is dull- all I’d need to do to keep it from abrading- rubbing- your skin would be to slip a cloth under it.”

He considered this, then slowly nodded. “This could work. Meltaiman mages lazy. If a thing takes too long without magic, what is point?” Glancing at Zuzanna sardonically he said in a high voice, his mouth quirking up slightly, “Why sweep floor? We’re not półwyrób.”

Zuzanna rolled her eyes. “What do you bet Anastazja still can’t set patterns?” she murmured in Valzick. But there was a note of melancholy to her tone as she added, “If you think it safe… we can try. But-- if it hurt him… you stop, yes?”

“Of course,” Leif said. “We’ll figure out another way if we have to, if it hurts him.” Tilting his head, he asked, “Not...pół...what was that word? I’ve never heard it before.”

“Is Meltaiman word,” Phyllo explained. “Has… many meanings. Person who is not mage most direct. Also… gives feeling that person is… not complete? Inferior, slave, animal. Ah… like box, but there is nothing in box.”

“Empty?” Morgaine queried. Phyllo shrugged.

“No, but close enough.”

“It not true anyway,” Zuzanna said softly. She sighed. “Just… bad. Like most of Meltaim.”

Leif scowled, looking rather hawkish again. “Someone not having magic makes them incomplete, as far as they’re concerned? Idiots - magic is added, not a base piece that goes missing!”

“Not what Meltaimans think,” Phyllo remarked, moving back over to his wife and hugging her, one hand on her swollen stomach. “Meltaiman say if person has no magic, they have no… Don’t know the word. Is part that makes person a person. Part that goes away to the Woo when we die.”

“...The soul?” Morgaine asked, her expression incredulous. “These people think if you’re not a mage you have no soul?”

“That’s - what? That is not how souls work!” Leif sputtered. “They’re not tied to magic - why would they be? That makes no sense! It’s - souls aren’t tied to abilities, or anything you’re born with - you’re born with a soul, that’s how it works! That’s as ridiculous as saying someone doesn’t have a soul because they were born deaf or because their hair is - I don’t know, whatever color some trumped-up Meltaiman highlord doesn’t like. Let’s say blond.” He gestured toward his head to make it clear the only reason he was choosing that particular color was because he would have to be insulting himself if he meant it at all seriously. Which he didn’t. Because that would have been immeasurably stupid. “The more I learn about Meltaim, the more I want to just - I don’t know. Set it on fire? That sounds cathartic.”

“I know is bad.” In Phyllo’s arms, Zuzanna had stiffened, and her voice cracked. “Know very much, okay? No need for…” She clenched her teeth. “It’s monster. But my monster. Not yours.” Barely above a whisper, she added bitterly, “And I think anyone with soul would not want to burn entire country of people. I have… siblings there. They are nine. Is not so easy a matter as you seem to think.”

Leif turned to her in surprise, mouth open to protest - but he noticed her posture, and his brain caught up to the way her voice had cracked. He took a breath, tried to control his temper. ...Younger siblings - he could sympathize with not wanting them hurt. Though Cham and Jon weren’t raised to think my husband’s subhuman just because he doesn’t have magic...but - I don’t know, maybe that’s part of why she’s upset.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said after a moment, his voice much quieter. “...And I wouldn’t actually burn the country, or actually hurt anyone unless they were threatening someone else.”

Zuzanna nodded shortly. “Is okay, I guess. You just like… talk.” A wry look flaring in her pale eyes, she muttered to Phyllo, “And my father always thought I had a mouth that worked faster than my head.”

“Maybe is archmage thing?” Phyllo suggested with a crooked smile, not having spoken during the heated exchange because in a lot of ways he could understand both Leif and Zuzanna’s viewpoints.

“Maybe,” Leif agreed, with a flick of a smirk. The humor disappeared from his expression as he took his silver feather pendant in hand, his thumb rubbing absently over the raised vane-patterning. “...Back on the subject of souls, though - I spent the first twenty years or so of my life studying religion - well, not the years I was too young, obviously, but - you get the idea. I’ve never seen anything that suggests any person is born without a soul, or that magic has anything to do with it. Magic is a valuable gift and a powerful tool - but so are cleverness, and strength, and diplomacy - ah, people-skills - and courage, and art, and empathy, and - well, not rambling on and on, especially until you offend people, that’s a talent, too.” He shrugged slightly. “They’re all important. Honestly, some of them are more important than magic. ...And if some god’s idea was to create people without souls so they could be...used - why also give them those sorts of non-magical skills?”

Tilting his head slightly, somehow not looking quite so much like an irate buzzard this time, Leif said to Phyllo, “I imagine a person created without a soul would be very...hollow. You don’t strike me as hollow.”

The young man swallowed hard. “In… in all time in Meltaim, Zuzanna was the only one to see me. I felt… like a person. But… is same here, in ways. Zuzanna is archmage, and Gorski, and everyone is afraid. Me? I am just slave. Just półwyrób. Not important.” He hugged his wife again, pressing his face into her shoulder. “Thought Kythians take her away. Because not worth trouble to keep me with her. No worth. Empty. Nothing. Półwyrób.”

Zuzia grimaced, gently touching the back of her husband’s neck. “You are important,” she whispered. As the baby suddenly shifted in her belly, Zuzanna quirked a small, melancholy smile. “And your son is getting sad. He doesn’t like to hear his papa talk about himself like that.”

“You give me worth, Zuzu,” he said softly. “I would be nothing without you.”

Morgaine bit her lip, casting Leif a sad look. Leif met her eyes briefly, sympathizing, as Phyllo and his wife exchanged words in Valzaick. When they seemed done, Leif said, “I’m sorry we’ve made it seem like you matter less than Zuzanna, Phyllo. And that you had to worry we’d separate the two of you; I sort of know what that’s like. I think everyone’s attention has been on Zuzanna only because people are...worried about her. What she can do, her health considering this pregnancy, that Meltaim might be willing to go to more extreme measures to get back an archmage than they might for any other citizen - a lot of reacting to fear. But that wasn’t fair to you, and I’m sorry. Mage or not, former slave or not - you’re not worthless.”

Leif knew by this point in his life that he could speak all day, and it wouldn’t make a difference right now. Rebuilding such a damaged self-perception and sloughing off eight years of mental abuse was going to take a long time. Part of him wanted to continue speaking in the same vein, anyway, but the more rational part of Leif’s head told him to stop. “I hope you can see your own worth properly someday, but if you need something to lean on in the meantime…” He nodded at Zuzanna. “Your wife sees you as someone worth spending the rest of her life with. We haven’t known each other long, but I’m fairly confident in saying I doubt she would have agreed to that had she not felt you worth that commitment.”

“She’d certainly not have walked across the entire continent with you if she didn’t,” Morgaine agreed. “Listen Phyllo- when everyone in the world is telling you that you’re worthless, and no one is saying you are worth something, part of you will start to believe it. Even if you know better, part of you will believe it, because how can that many people possibly be wrong? You can tell yourself ‘I’m worth something’ but it’s an empty sentiment, one you cling to out of desperation. Because you can’t help hating yourself, and feeling worthless. But if just one person accepts you, that’s when you can start to forgive yourself. That’s when you find courage, and can start to see the things about you that are good. You don’t have to feel bad for needing that push. For needing someone else to see the good in you, so you can see it too.”

The old woman smiled thinly. “I’ve been there- Woo I’ve been there, more than once. My friends and family pulled me out of it. You have Zuzanna. Hopefully, you both can start to make some friends here too. I know you aren’t exactly in Medieville because you want to be, but this isn’t a bad place. The people here… they are good. A lot of them understand suffering. Maybe you’re something like prisoners here, but if you have some friends, at least the next few months can be a little easier to deal with.”

Phyllo didn’t reply to this at first. Then, softly, in Valzick, he murmured, “We have not had real friends since Alfonso and Tatiana and Sansone and the rest… I… I miss it. Them.”

“Me, too,” Zuzanna agreed, sighing. The girl grimly smiled again as something dawned on her. “We never did write Tatiana, did we? About where we ended up. Dear gods, she’ll have a tantrum when we explain what’s happened.”

Phyllo laughed softly. “No doubt. We should do that later today. Have a messenger draft a letter for us. But for the moment…” He turned back to Leif and Morgaine. “Is… hard. But thank you. We… had friends, when in Lyell. Would like again.”

“Well, you’ve got a lot of people to pick from, if you’d like,” Leif said. “Morgaine’s right, there are a lot of good ones here. ...How you want to go about making them, I’ll leave to you - and maybe Morgaine has advice. As you’ve seen, I’m...not the best at making friends, even when I’m trying,” he admitted with an apologetic half-smile.

Phyllo gave a soft chuckle. “Can start by giving us square, maybe?”

“Giving you square?” Morgaine repeated, quirking an eyebrow.

Zuzanna smirked, pecking her husband’s cheek. “Freedom,” she said cheerily. “To walk city. By self. Like good prisoners.”

“I suppose that would help, with finding new people,” Leif admitted. The idea made him a little nervous; though they hadn’t really tried to escape and he hadn’t caught them even seeming to make plans to do so, this would technically be an opportunity if they wanted to take one… Then again, he still had Zuzanna’s wand, which he doubted she would want to leave without - and she was uncomfortably pregnant, hadn’t she mentioned her feet swelling just a short while ago?

And I suppose it’s hard to tell if someone’s trustworthy or means any harm if you never give them the chance to prove it either way... “All right. Sure. Maybe let me give you a quick tour or pull out a map or something first, but...it would probably be nice for you two to get a chance to leave the house and see the city properly.”

Zuzanna beamed. “We not get lost. Pastora big, too.” She grinned at her husband. “And less hills here. Better in snow.”

Phyllo tweaked his wife’s nose, smirking. “You grew up in Pastora. Don’t get cocky, love.”

“I didn’t grow up in the Valzick mountains,” she said brightly. “I think after that, a walled city should be okay.” The archmage looked back to Leif, then Morgaine. “Plus,” she added, “we have friend. If we lost in market, Madam Braham help us.”

The old woman smiled. “I’d be happy to. I’ve lived in this city for almost twenty years, there isn’t much of it I can’t find my way around in.” She quirked an eyebrow. “But first, let’s work on getting that collar off of Phyllo. Then you two can wander the city without people staring at you too much.”

***

Phyllo was lying on his back on a couch in Leif’s house, resisting the urge to thumb nervously at the collar around his neck. His head was pillowed on Zuzanna’s legs, which put his ear in the interesting position of being right next to her swollen stomach. So he was briefly distracted from his nervousness about the inspection Leif was about to do on the runes of his collar when he felt a sudden, gentle impact against his head.

“Was that…?” he asked, glancing up at Zuzanna in surprise.

She smiled. “He very energy today. All morning.” Zuzia stroked a hand through her husband’s woolen hair. “Maybe he know Mama nervous.”

Phyllo grinned, putting a hand up to her stomach and stroking it. “Little one telling you no need. Be okay.” He swallowed hard, feeling his adam’s apple bob against the metal of his collar as he looked up at Leif. “Ready?”

“I am,” Leif confirmed. He was seated on a low stool beside the couch; a small table at his elbow held a stack of parchment and an inkpot with a quill poking out of it. If the spellwork was as messy as Zuzanna claimed, it would likely be easiest to just copy the runes down on paper and study them, rather than making Phyllo lie here while they pored over the enchantment itself. He drew his wand, pointing it at the bronze collar. “This won’t hurt,” Leif assured him, not for the first time. “I’ll cast whenever you’re ready.”

Phyllo set his hand down again and nodded. Leif muttered an incantation that set a cloud of glowing green light particles falling from his wand. They gathered in the air over the bronze collar, and gradually the cluster of mist-like light grew. After a moment, then the light flickered, and hovering runes appeared over Phyllo’s neck. Leif used his wand and free hand to draw the runes up and at an angle that both he and Zuzanna could read.

“...Oh, ’Pit, this is…” Leif wrinkled his nose at the runes. “Whoever cast this smeared the whole thing together?”

“I tell you, is bad, bad spell,” Zuzanna said, sighing. “His master was-- bad man. How you say-- not like spend money?” She frowned, eyes flitting about the tangle of convoluted runes. “There are three different spell. Or, supposed to be three, but they all mashed together. No cut or burn.” She held up one finger. “So master can call.” She held up a second. “And ah-- alert if he go out city.” She held up a third.

“Call spell make collar warm,” Phyllo added. “When he use… rock? Spell tied to. But not much good. When very warm outside, or very cold, sometimes cannot tell collar warm up. Then he beat us for not coming fast.”

Leif winced a little. “I’m sorry, Phyllo. ...I’m not surprised some part of the enchantments didn’t work properly, though; with the spellwork laid out like this, one of these other spells or the way they’re hooked together is probably keeping that piece from working as well as it should.”

He considered the runes for a moment. “So we need to find a protective spell, a spell tied to a triggering object, that also triggers a heating spell, and...hmm. Part of the third spell would react to a ward or the like on the city borders, but it must be connected to something else to give an alert to, right? What kind of alert is it, do you know?”

“Probably tied to same… trigger? As heating spell,” Phyllo mused. “Master no like spend money. So spell one thing, lots of spells. Less money. But kind of alert… don’t know. Zuzanna, you look at magic before, you see it?”

“It just send-- alert. To master’s…” Frustrated, she muttered the Meltaiman word for ‘triggerstone’. “No else. In Meltaim, we call it… soft spell? Not hard. Hard would be-- bad things happen. If ward set off.”

Leif’s brow furrowed as he tried to puzzle out exactly what distinction Zuzanna was trying to explain to him. “So, a soft spell sends an alert, but a hard spell would make something bad happen? ….Oh - wait - it’s like wards and warded shields? One just tells the caster when something’s crossed it, and the other tells you when something’s approached and tried to cross and keeps them out? ...Or in, I suppose?” He looked back at the runes of the collar. “Except you couldn’t use a warded shield around a city, at least not conveniently...so if there had been a hard spell on the collar, it would have...tried to stop Phyllo from leaving by force, I would guess?”

“Yes,” Phyllo replied. “Hard spell make collar… smaller. On neck.” Phyllo gave a demonstrative gagging noise, holding up his hand in a choking gesture.

Leif winced again. “Oh. ...Well, at least that spell isn’t on this one. Did you remove it, Zuzanna?” he asked, though he was fairly sure she’d implied that she hadn’t disturbed the runes at all.

“No,” Zuzanna said softly. “It… was not ever there. I have not touched runes. Only looked.”

“Master had it on child collars,” Phyllo added softly. “Say it on adult collars too- he lie. Because we… tame. By time we are grown. Too scared not to believe.” He gently pressed his face against his wife’s stomach, feeling the taste of bile in his throat at the old bitterness from the memory. “Could have left. But didn’t. Stay at heel like good, trained dog.”

Leif shook his head. “You couldn’t have known he was lying. Even if you suspected - er, if you thought he wasn’t telling the truth, testing it would have been too dangerous. You did what you needed to do to stay alive in that situation; you shouldn’t blame yourself for that. Your former ‘master’ is the one who should be blaming himself, for forcing people to be so afraid to doubt his word.” He kept his tone low and didn’t go on, though he could have; he didn’t want to repeat his mistake in Morgaine’s shop.

“Is what I’ve been telling him,” Zuzanna agreed. Then, with a glimpse back toward the runes: “You can… fix, Master Leif?”

Leif nodded. “It’ll be tricky, and I think I’ll need to pry the spells apart first - but all the spells work, meaning that all of their pieces must be here; the spells themselves ought to be stable enough. The challenge then will be figuring out how to get rid of each spell safely. ...Well, maybe if I removed only the protective charm on the metal, taking the others off wouldn’t matter...but I think I should wait until I’ve had a look at all of the spells before we consider that option, just in case.”

Remembering the last time he’d worked to disenchant something large, foreign, and attached to a person, Leif asked, “Do you think it’s likely they would have put traps in any of these? It seems like that would be overkill, but they also seem determined to keep these blighted collars on people…”

“... No,” Zuzanna said after a moment’s hesitation. “They… not expect mage to try take off without permissions. Wouldn’t normally-- do much for them, in Meltaim. Not when slave would still have… other marks.” And those, she knew far too well from experience, were dripping with traps. But at least that problem was in the past now, Phyllo’s esoteric mutable brands long gone.

“All right,” Leif said, thinking of the tattoo-like mark he’d seen on Phyllo’s forehead when he’d first met the young man, and that he now kept hidden. “I’ll keep an eye out for them, of course, just in case - but I’d be very glad not to have to fight traps and the legitimate parts of the spells.”

Leif traded his wand for the quill in the inkpot, and trying to be both quick - so he wasn’t keeping Phyllo and Zuzana stuck here for too long - and neat - so that he could read the runes with complete confidence later - he began copying down the myriad of runes. This was going to be quite the project.

Chapter Twenty:

SPOILER: Click to show

The next day, Leif had cleared as much space as he could from the desk and worktable in his study, the better to spread the pages he had transcribed yesterday. He’d made another, smaller page afterward, this one with scribbled notes from the things Zuzanna and Phyllo had told him about the enchantments - what the three spells were, that the collar changed temperature, that the trigger might be stone; things that might be helpful in hunting down where to even begin looking for the spells.

He had told Zuzanna again last night that she was welcome to help him puzzle out the runes, and the Meltaiman archmage agreed, now sitting beside Leif with a cup of tea in hand. “Baby likes this kind,” she announced with a smile, taking a sip from the steaming mug. “Is-- cin’mon, you say it?”

“Cinnamon, yes,” Leif confirmed. “It’s definitely one of the better ways to make tea; I’ve never understood why people prefer the bitter ones to sweet. Next time you get the pull, try darjeeling drowned in honey - Corvid honey, if you can find it, from orange blossoms. A mug that size noticeably improves the pull.”

“Pull?” Zuzanna asked, her gaze cast on the warren of sketchings fanned before her. Leif was adept at transcribing runes onto paper-- better than she was. Distantly, the girl began to count them-- their spindles, their curves, the way they twisted and flared-- before catching herself, at which point she gulped. “... Sorry. I… not mean to do that.”

Leif tilted his head, confused. “Do - do what? ...I didn’t see you do anything wrong?”

“I…” Zuzanna hesitated. “Sorry, I just… used to my father… noticing when I--” She shook her head. “Is I guess… left over. From when I was little. Things I did. I think you called them ‘blocks’? I would-- count. Had to count. And so even once I’m older… my father…” She smiled, but there was little joy to it. “He always notice. And tell my tutors to look for it, too. So if they catch me…”

“...Oh. I’m sorry.” Leif’s gaze dropped to his own drink, a mug of heated apple juice. “The blocks are bad enough on their own - I wish parents wouldn’t try to fight them like misbehavior.” He took a long sip. “So your blocks made you need to count? That’s interesting - mine weren’t like that at all. ...I was oversensitive to touch and noise, and...whatever part of your head is supposed to help you read facial expressions and learn how to socialize - mine didn’t work very well. Still doesn’t, and I’m still oversensitive, but…” He shrugged slightly. “You said you were tested, when you were...four, right? But you still have the symptoms, at least sometimes?”

“Mostly when I… bored. Or stressed. Not thinking,” Zuzanna said. “Father always say that-- ah, body’s need to do it is gone. And has been since I’m six or seven, no older. So it’s just habit left now.” She laughed softly. Grimly. “Is why he get so mad when I do it. As I tell before, when I little I have-- collar, on wrist.” The archmage raised a hand and tapped her ear. “But once it gone, Father just… pulls hard. And makes me leave room. Immediately.”

“‘Woo, it’s not as if you were setting fire to things - if he felt you needed to be snapped out of it, he could have found a better way than pulling on your ear! ...Oh - oh, right, sorry, that reminds me - I said ‘pull’ earlier and you didn’t know what I meant, right? It’s that feeling you get when you use too much magic.” He held out and flexed his fingers, a gesture he had seen in so many other mages and even used himself that he was confident Zuzanna would know exactly what he was pantomiming. Just to be safe, though he added, “That sort of...tugging feeling from inside, but not anywhere you can actually reach.”

“Oh.” Zuzanna nodded, her smiling warming. “Zaczarować schorzenie. Is what we call in Meltaiman.” Taking another sip from her mug, she used her other hand to trace a delicate finger over one of the sketched runes. “Not fun. Try to avoid.”

“Zac…” Leif shook his head, already unable to remember even close to all of the syllables. “Well - it sounds like a properly-strong word for it. ‘Pull’ feels like the best Kythian word to describe the feeling, but it isn’t exactly dramatic.” He smirked a little. “I agree, try to avoid it. And if you can’t do that, at least try to keep it to the arms. ...I hope you don’t already know this from personal experience, but you really don’t want it in the chest. It’s at least as bad as everyone says.”

“Have gotten… close,” Zuzanna said, shuddering at the hazy memory from the Valzick wilderness, when she’d desperately clawed at the stasis spell. “Sick for… days. But-- didn’t have choice.” Her tone grew pensive. “Life or death.” Setting down her mug, Zuzia tapped the drawing she’d been outlining with her finger. “This rune. You should-- start with this rune. When you pull apart Phyllo’s collar. It’s base rune, I think.”

Leif studied the rune, and the ones around it, and nodded. “I think you’re right, yes.” He reached over for a quill from one of a few pots of ink; the quill he pulled had red in the feather, and the ink on the quilltip was red as well. He scrawled a small symbol beside the rune Zuzanna had indicated. “I don’t know if you use the same marking system; this just means ‘start’.”

After setting the quill back, Leif studied the rest of the page, and then let his finger trail over the runes on the next. Frowning, he double-checked the page number he’d scribbled on the bottom. “All right, this is the next page...but I feel like runes are missing. I thought he just set everything too close together, but that base rune shouldn’t be all by itself there.” He glowered at the page, taking another sip from his mug before setting it aside. “Maybe we’re in the wrong place - I don’t understand what else that rune would be there for, but...”

“No, it is base,” Zuzanna insisted. “It just-- it--” She let out a hiss of frustration. In Meltaiman, or even Valzick, she could have explained her conclusion easily. But in Kythian? She felt as though she were but a student again, impelled by her tutor to explain a treatise she’d been assigned for homework-- and never read. “... Can I show?” she asked after a few moments, biting her lip. “I know I… not allowed wand yet, but-- I will not keep. Just… borrow. To show. And I will not do anything bad. I promise.”

Leif’s head snapped up in surprise. She wanted to borrow her wand? His immediate impulse was to say no, like he had the other times she’d asked about it. ...But it was important he understand how these enchantments were put together. All the Meltaiman knowledge in Zuzanna’s head was useless if she couldn’t express it in a language Leif could understand. So far, she hadn’t shown any violent urges - a sharp tongue, but nothing worse than that. She’d even said borrow this time.

It could be that she was just a very good actress. ...It could also be that she was just a fifteen-year-old archmage whose blocks had given her a perspective other Meltaiman noble children didn’t get in their upbringing.

Leif reached into his wand holster, drew Zuzanna’s wand, and held it out to her. “Only to show me what you’re trying to say.”

It’ll be fine, he told himself, and most of him believed it. The part of him that had spent the past decade or so dealing with mages at varying degrees of lunacy and sociopathy, however, hissed that he was handing a wand to an archmage. It will be fine.

Zuzanna smiled as she took the familiar wand into hand, as if it were a long lost friend with whom she was reuniting after far too long spent apart. Resisting the urge to merely stroke it as one might an endearing puppy, she flicked her gaze to the various instruments strewn across the worktable: quills, ink pots, a candlestick. She needed to direct her demonstration on something solid and tangible, and since she supposed Leif himself probably would not volunteer as a subject--

“I cast on extra quill, yes?” she asked, seeking permission. “Want to do… two things. To show. How spells should be. Then how spells is. What I think bad mage did.”

Leif nodded, reassured by the fact that she hadn’t started firing spells. He pulled open a drawer of his desk, pulled out two large feathers with broken feather vanes, and set them on the table. “I’m not very good at throwing quills away. Feathers and all.”

Zuzia picked up the first quill, cupping it in the palm of her left hand as she pointed down her wand with her right. She knew she hardly had time to patch together an entire replication of the runes that should have been on Phyllo’s collar-- nor did she even entirely know how-- but she could make a simplified model, at least. Like the dollhouse little Gabrijela had back in Pastora, designed to emulate the vast Iron Castle at a fraction of the size and complexity. All that mattered was that Leif understood the concept… not that she impressed and terrified him with an expert grip on specialized, arcane, and cryptic Meltaiman spells.

“I cast now,” she warned as a courtesy, before murmuring the first incantation beneath her breath.

Light bulbed from her wand, bright and shimmering, and Zuzanna fought back a grin as she coaxed it to set against the broken quill. It had been so long since she’d cast any magic. As long as she could remember ever having gone since she was four-years-old. And even this little spell-- it was like a sip of water after spending days, weeks, without. She’d nearly forgotten what it felt like. The hum. The release.

Very carefully, as if it were one of her tutors’ critical eyes studying her and not her mandatory guardian’s, Zuzanna positioned the rune chain borne of the incantation just so. Then, with another heads up to Leif, she lifted her wand, flicked it again, whispered a follow-up spell, and arranged its runes beneath-- a second, distinct layer to a nimbly crafted web. Once this was threaded to her satisfaction, the young archmage gave a final forewarning before repeating the process and breathing one last spell.

“How it should be,” she said then, gingerly nudging the small but tidy cluster with the tip of her wand. “Separate, yes? You see?”

Studying the glowing runes, particularly the base runes, Leif nodded slightly. “Yes, I see.” Structurally, it was what he’d expected to see on paper.

“Three base,” the girl went, still smiling faintly. “And even if we try to make mess…” Like a cat pawing at a dangling ribbon, Zuzia swiped her wand, as if trying to congeal the distinct runes together. They resisted, the edges wavering and some of the smaller spindles and curves cracking-- but the separateness of the structures remaining eminently clear. “Now mess. But still three base, see?”

Leif nodded. “The base runes give the spells some stability. Not enough that untangling that would be fun - but you can imagine what it started as.” Tapping his feather pendant absently, the Kythian archmage asked, “So what do you think the mage who enchanted Phyllo’s collar did?”

“Bad, bad magic,” Zuzanna replied, a bit too brightly. “Like… this.”

Her cheeks flushed-- almost giddy-- she set the first quill back upon the desk and palmed the other, smoothing it once before she pointed her wand against it. Then, rhythmically, like a violinist playing a burst of notes without ever lifting his bow, she cast the same three spells as she had before. Never replacing her wand. Never flicking her wrist to cut off between incantations. Only piling each successive rune on top of each other, so that they all sprouted off the same nebulous base like a chimera: a single body hosting a blur of fighting, snapping heads.

“One base,” she said firmly, with an almost mournful sigh offering her wand back to Leif. “Lazy. Bad, bad magic. Over time, runes settle. Become even more bad mess. But never was separate, see? So we cannot-- look at it as separate that became mess. But mess that became even more mess.”

Leif took Zuzanna’s wand back, actually meeting her eyes for a moment as he did so. All right - that had gone well. ...He would think more about that later, however; right now, there were the runes to attend to.

Studying the feather, Leif nodded. “That explains it; the runes I was looking for aren’t there because he didn’t bother with a proper base for multiple spells, just for one - that lazy...- hmph. “ He waved his hand as if to flick the unspoken curse away. “He was just trying to get it done faster, it takes longer to build a spell like this out properly - but it’s worth it to keep your spell from...being this!”

Leif rested both hands on the table, leaning over one of the rune-covered sheets of parchment. “...All right. This makes it trickier. It’s...it’s almost like a curse’s latching hook...well, no. A latching hook branches, and each piece has its own branch that starts on the chain. And a chain has stability all through it - this...it would be easy to hit the wrong thing in just the right way and accidentally set something devolving.”

He studied the feathers a moment, then pointed carefully to the one she had used to demonstrate the casting style of the collar’s enchanter. “Maybe we need to work in the other direction - start from where the spell stops, and work back to the base rune. We might need to work around spots if they’ve settled into each other any - ‘Woo I hope they haven’t, but, wish in one hand… Anyway. I think trying to take as little out of the base as possible at a time would be safest. We need to be very, very careful there.”

“Go slow?” she asked, mulling. In Pastora, as she and Phyllo had deliberated in the Pleasant Street alleyway over whether she ought to kill the runes before they fled the city, she had been leaning toward a… decidedly different approach. Soaking a rag in oil and then setting it alight with a match, instead of tenderly nursing a bundle of kindling until one managed to scrape a spark. “I was going to-- make… fast. Whoosh. When I nearly try to break spell back in Pastora.”

Leif’s eyebrows rose like the wings of a mantling bird. “You were - you were going to try and do it fast? How?” He glanced back at the runes, then the feathers, then Zuzanna again. “Unless there’s a Meltaiman disenchanting trick I don’t know about, I don’t see a way to do that which wouldn’t risk, if not guarantee, the spell devolving...”

“Is… instinct, I think you call it? About how runes act.”

This was the same instinct that, later the same evening of their escape, had sent her plunging headfirst into a mutilating trap, but Zuzanna decided this additional information probably would not help allay Leif’s apparent horror. This had always been an issue of contention back at the Iron Castle, between her and Izydor, and her and her tutors: she tended to follow gut feelings. And because those gut feelings were usually good ones, they mostly turned out well. Like that first day when she’d saved Phyllo back in his tenement house, slashing apart the stasis spell that was about to kill him. That had gone off without a hitch.

Most attempts did.

… It only became a problem when they didn’t.

Half of her arguments with Izydor in the last year before she’d run away -- and therefore half the times she’d had her mouth scrubbed out for backtalking-- had come to be over such instances. The margrave had insisted that she couldn’t just float by on natural talent forever. That there was a reason her tutors wanted her to sketch out runes and mentally assess webs without live spellwork before she plunged into a task. Zuzanna hadn’t seen the point. What did it matter if she could draw replicas of the runes, so long as she could set them or tease them apart in practice? If she-- mostly-- managed to reach satisfactory end results without rigorous preparation ahead of time, then what was the point of adding extra steps and headaches?

If she could swim in the deep end, why bother wading in the shallows?

“I just… start,” she added after a moment, pretending that she didn’t notice the shock and distaste that underscored Leif’s expression intensifying even further. “I not normally-- do all this? Drawing, talking. Puzzling. I just… start.”

Leif opened his mouth twice without quite knowing what he wanted to say - but on the third try, he gestured to the runes and said, “Well - if you had gone for the base runes of this enchantment - I think you would have set the entire thing devolving. These spells are sitting on Phyllo’s neck - if they go, all the effects of a devolving spell - burning heat, freezing cold, paralysis, rot, fire, ice, explosions - those are literally right at his throat. I know it was a desperate situation in Pastora, but - but ‘Woo, Zuzanna, you have to be careful! You’re an archmage, you have so much power - and maybe instinct, fine, I’ve heard the theory that archmages are more intuitive when it comes to magic - and sometimes you don’t have a choice and that’s...that happens. But - just because it’s faster doesn’t meant it’s better.” He motioned to the quills she had enchanted. “Right?”

For several moments, Zuzia said nothing. Only scowled, as a flare of annoyance rose in her. Then, as her eyes trailed toward the quills, she let out a small, wry laugh. “Adults,” she said. “All same. Meltaim, Kyth-- must always know better.” The girl shrugged. “Okay, so slow. Start at top, not base. Anything else?”

Zuzanna, however, wasn't the only one feeling annoyed, and Leif, not phenomenal at reading tone or interpreting people at the best of times, didn’t hear the grudging admission in the joke. Even if he had, he might have reacted the same way; this was not a subject he wanted any illusions about.

“It’s not about me being an adult, and it’s not even about you,” Leif retorted. “I promised Phyllo I wouldn’t hurt him - this is how I make sure I can keep that promise, and get that collar off without hurting or killing him. If rune-study is too dull for you or you feel it’s beneath your dignity as an archmage, you're free to leave. If not - “ he flipped through a few of the parchment pages. Curtly, he said, “When I’m working back from the tips, I’ll need to make sure to ground any two-Ayr chains - all the Pyet-Bal-Eit chunks that normally do it will be on the base-side. There’ll likely be several of the two-Ayrs in the spell for the alert that goes to the trigger object.” He pulled out one of the pages and circled a two-Ayr chain with his finger. “Here’s one.” Trailing his finger down the rune chain, he found and circled three runes. “And here’s the Pyet-Bal-Eit.”

Leif reached for a quill made of a blue jay feather, but instead of using the blue ink himself, he held out the quill to Zuzanna. He didn’t expect her to take it. “You feel you’re good with working runes on instinct? Find two-Ayr chains and write in possible ways to ground them on the other side of the Pyet-Bal-Eit pieces.”

Zuzanna hesitated, not taking the quill-- nor mentioning that she’d barely understood most of what Leif had said. “You… are sure?” she asked, all traces of humor vanishing from her face. “That base would-- make runes go bad? Because I…”

Because she what? Wanted him to be wrong? Had nearly started with the base back in Pastora all those months ago, entirely confident that it was the best way to approach the web? She’d not even considered beginning at the tips, at least not for more than a fleeting moment.

Swallowing hard, Zuzia gingerly took the quill. “I… I almost killed him, didn’t I?” she whispered. “J-just like… like with…” His brand, she finished in her head, but the girl could not bring herself to murmur this aloud. “Y-you draw for me?” she asked. “I not know-- ‘ayr’, or… other words-- but… if you draw, I will know what you mean by this?”

Leif glanced up at her, a little surprised by the admission - but after a moment he nodded slightly and opened another drawer of his desk to retrieve a blank piece of parchment. As he picked out a quill for black ink, he answered her earlier question. “Yes, I’m sure about the base. It’s holding three spells in one place and it doesn’t have the proper support structures. The smearing is going to have put runes near ones they shouldn’t be, especially where the bases are all nested together. Trying to remove spells from there, working with that many runes while they’re under that much strain - there’s a huge risk something would go wrong. You could set off a chain reaction in a spell you’re not even touching, or give it a jolt a normal spell could take but this one can’t...it might have just collapsed from the strain of things moving.” His voice was oddly low, considering how emphatically he had spoken earlier. Sometimes forcing himself not to shout or speak too loudly kept Leif from saying the first things that came into his head, which were generally not productive additions to conversations when he was angry.

As he continued drawing large runes on the page, Leif added, “And if something had gone wrong - yes, you could have killed him. If it had been a very bad devolve, the effects could have hit you as well, or taken out the entire city block.”

Part of him was frustrated enough to want to go on - but what good was it going to do? More likely than not Zuzanna would just get angry at him all over again, and at least if Leif left it here, her realization of what her rushing might have done might be the final chord of the discussion.

Finishing the last rune, Leif turned the page toward her. “If it helps, write the Meltaiman names under them; I didn’t realize they had different names there, though I suppose that does make sense. This one is Ayr...”

***

Leif was right: it was best to start with the tips of the spell, and although it was a complex process teasing the mess of runes apart, with a careful, expert hand and copious amounts of patience, the older of the two archmages deftly managed it. Zuzanna would have never admitted it, but it was fascinating to watch him work. He was so… precise. Orderly. His power so vast, in a way she’d never seen before.

The Meltaimans would have loved him.

Zuzanna didn’t know whether to be darkly amused by this fact-- or merely deliriously grateful that Leif had been born in Kyth and not Meltaim.

Once Leif had done his part, Morgaine was called to Leif and Kirin’s place to fulfill her end of the bargain. She arrived with not one but three different files, heavy duty gloves, and some cloths for protecting Phyllo’s neck from the files while she worked. It was obvious the former slave was nervous about the procedure. Once he’d dutifully downed the potion Leif gave him, however, the nervous tension went out of him as his muscles almost instantly slackened. Within five minutes he was so deeply asleep that he could have been stabbed and wouldn’t have reacted, and his body so limp that his hand lolled on his wrist when Leif lifted it periodically to check his pulse.

The locksmith set about filing through the now disenchanted collar. It was not a quick process by any stretch, taking fully an hour to punch through just one side of the collar. Morgaine suggested that if they wanted Leif and Zuzanna could occupy themselves elsewhere; Leif declined, explaining that he wanted to keep an eye on Phyllo to ensure he continued responding normally to the potion, as did Zuzanna. One hand over her very swollen belly, the girl sat as close as Morgaine would allow and watched with a hawk-like eye as the woman worked, her metaphorical breath held. Hardly able to believe that after all this time, it was finally coming off. This penultimate sign of his life of misery. This weight he’d had to carry with him all the way from Meltaim, soon to be gone at last.

Finally it was done. With two holes broken through the collar, Morgaine was able to gently prise the too-tight metal away from Phyllo’s neck, leaving nothing but a faintly paler ring of skin on his neck where the thing had chafed and left scars. These Morgaine advised they might apply lotion to for a week or so, until the skin got used to being exposed again.

Morgaine swept up the last of the bronze shavings that had fallen on the floor of Phyllo and Zuzanna’s makeshift bedroom as they waited for the young man to wake up from the sedative, and Zuzanna sat beside her unconscious husband, gently stroking his hair. Her voice was soft as she asked Leif, “How long, you think? Until he is awake?”

“It shouldn’t be long now,” Leif said, checking Phyllo’s pulse again. “We could technically force him awake at this point, I think - but that would be like waking him up in the middle of the night, he’d be groggy for a while. It’s best to let him come out of it on his own, he’ll feel much more refreshed. It’s amazing how much difference such a small amount of time can make.”

“Like nice nap.” Zuzanna smiled, flicking her glance toward Morgaine. “Thank you again. For-- helps. We are very… thanksful?”

Morgaine smiled, setting the broom aside and sitting down with a soft thump on a nearby chair. “You want ‘thankful’ or ‘grateful.’ And you’re welcome. It was my pleasure. Technically I may be retired but I’m always willing to do a good turn for friends.”

As the locksmith spoke, one of Phyllo’s hands twitched, and he moaned softly. Quickly, Zuzia lifted her hand from his hair and laced her fingers through his, hushing him softly. He quieted for a moment, then his eyes fluttered open. Though still glazed with confusion briefly, recognition came into them and he reached up a free hand to his wife’s face, brushing her cheek.

“Zuzu… Is it…?”

“Gone,” she agreed. “All gone.” Laughing under her breath, she added in Valzick, “All of the crowns Jozef spent on that wonderful piece of equipment-- wasted. I weep for him.”

Phyllo pushed himself up into a sitting position, though from the faint trembling in his arms it was apparently the potion’s muscle relaxant hadn’t completely worn off yet. The young man put a hand up to his neck, where he had for nearly three years felt the constant presence of a metal abomination that made it hard to breathe, that chafed constantly, that was cold against his skin in winter and hot in summer… and felt nothing. Only slightly raised scars. He swallowed thickly, and for the first time in a long time felt no resistance on his adam’s apple.

“It’s… it’s gone,” he agreed, his voice a hoarse whisper. His eyes stung, and he smiled a wide, beaming smile. “Woo, it’s gone. Not... not collared like animal, like pet. It’s gone!”

Leif watched the young man’s elated reaction with a smile of his own. Having the collar off had to be an immense relief both physically and emotionally - Leif couldn’t imagine dealing with such a clinging, temperature-sensitive weight clamped around his neck for nearly as long as Phyllo had endured it. “It’s about time, isn’t it? Congratulations - that has to feel much better.”

Phyllo laughed, hugging Zuzanna as tightly as her baby bump would allow. “Is like before, when I small. Had collars since taken from Valzaim- animal skin, then metal. Rubs, stings, hot, cold, tight- so long stopped notice. Used to bother, all time. But gone.” He kissed Zuzanna on the nose, then the forehead, and as she giggled and squirmed, batting him away, Phyllo turned to Leif and Morgaine with a tearful smile. “Thank you.”

Leif dipped his head. “You’re welcome - I’m glad we could help.”

Morgaine grinned broadly. “Always a pleasure. And-” she held up one of the collar halves, which she had set on a table along with the bronze shavings she’d swept up. “I’m sure you both would get some enjoyment out of smashing this thing with a hammer, but if you’ll forgive an old merchant her wild ideas- a cheapskate for spells your master might have been, but this is good bronze. If you like, I could melt the collar down for you back at the shop, and you could sell the nugget for a bit of money.”

Zuzanna cocked her head for a moment, as if considering, before the girl beamed. “For baby!” she said brightly, squeezing Phyllo’s hand. “Can use money to get things for baby.” In Valzick, she added, “I’m sure Jozef would approve, right? Of a collar he paid for being used to buy supplies for the baby of his chaste and celibate bleeder?”

Phyllo snorted outright at this, giving his wife a knowing smirk. Morgaine quirked an eyebrow, tilting her head. “Care to share the joke?”

“Is thing in Meltaim,” Phyllo replied cheerfully. “Hemofilik is meant be like brothers of Woo- no wife, no children. Be, how you say, pure?”

“He very pure now!” Zuzanna outright chortled. “Pure papa, hm?”

“Ahh, chastity and celibacy,” Leif said with amusement. “Very overrated. I like this idea - it has just the right touch of justified vengeance.” Glancing toward the window, he added, “And while you wait for it to sell, you can start scouting the market for a place to do your celebratory shopping.”

Zuzia nodded. “You can come with?” she asked the archmage. “If you wants.” Batting her eyelashes, she teased, “Be helpful prison guard. Make sure no one charge us too much because our Kythian bad.”

Morgaine shot Leif an amused glance, her eyes twinkling with merriment. “His patented hawk scowl would definitely be good for that.”

At Morgaine’s comment, Leif broke out of his surprise at being invited on what he’d assumed was going to be a private trip for the young couple, and laughed. “It would be - and if they’re stubborn, I can throw actual hawks at them. You won’t be overcharged on my watch. With properly-timed mantling, maybe one of the raptors and I can even find you some discounts.” He smirked, but his tone was a bit more serious as he added, “I wouldn’t call myself your prison guard, though; contrary to how much I spent the past few months boarding the house up against the cold, I really don’t want to run a prison here.”

“I joke,” Zuzanna said quickly, before hesitating for a moment. Fingers still twined through Phyllo’s, she exchanged a quick look with her husband. Then, softly, she said, “You is not… just guard? I have been…” She shook her head. “I still worry. Sometimes. Especially when you… gets mad. At me.”

Like when she’d attempted-- badly-- to make a dark joke about her mistaken assessment on the collar runes by teasing that Leif was just a know-it-all. It had, at the time, seemed an easier approach than admitting her error. Than showing him vulnerability. Than admitting that she’d been wrong, that she’d been cocky, that she’d been dangerous. Just like the Kythians feared.

She went on: “I just… do not want you to tell bad things. To Lord Dexter and-- all them. Every time I mess up, I worry that... well, you are guard. You will tell them. And I will be called danger.”

Leif nodded slowly, considering this. “I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to make you feel...anxious, I suppose is a decent word. What exactly I’m supposed to be in relation to you has been confusing for me, too; Lord Everett’s instructions were very vague and, well - you’ve probably figured out well-before this that I’m not exactly adept at figuring out relationships. But I don’t want to be someone you’re afraid of, I know that...I don’t think you want a guardian in the sense of a parent-type of person - and frankly, I don’t think I ought to be trying to be one.”

He tapped his fingers against the silver of his feather pendant. “As for mistakes - well, you’re fifteen. Also a human being. Mistakes are going to happen, and when they’re things like the spellwork we were talking about - I can’t sit by and let you keep making the mistake. But I promise I’m not lunging to my desk to write to Lord Everett anytime one happens. I don’t expect you to be perfect - just, when you make a mistake, acknowledge it, and try not to make it in the future. There might be consequences, depending on the situation...” He shrugged. “But nothing ridiculous or unfair. We can talk to Morgaine if there’s disagreement on that; she’s not afraid to tell me when I’m being overbearing and insufferable. Right, Morgaine?”

The old woman smiled. “I can help with that. I raised two children, corralled Rosalie at her worst, and played mentor and pseudo-mom for Ciara; I daresay I have a pretty solid handle on what is or isn’t a reasonable way of handling a young person making a mistake.”

Phyllo glanced at his wife, rubbing her back absently. “Is… fair, I think.”

“And,” Leif added, “I’ll try not to be so...crabby.”

“Fair,” Zuzanna agreed. “Like tutor. Not prison guard. Or father.” She offered Leif a small smirk. “Just make one promise to me?”

“Tutor - that sounds reasonable.” He’d more or less been a tutor for Xavier and Elin at one point, after all, so he at least had something like a track record. Tilting his head, he asked, “What promise?”

“When I bad-- yell at me, lecture me, okay, is fine. But…” Her blue eyes glimmered drolly. “No pulling my ear? Very much would like to leave that behind in Meltaim.”

With a wry smirk, Leif said, “Absolutely - I promise, no ear-pulling.” The odds of Leif ever touching her for any reason other than an emergency were so low as to be almost none, but even he suspected that would be an odd thing to say.

“Very good.” Zuzanna snuck a kiss onto Phyllo’s cheek before adding, “I always want archmage tutor, you know. Back in Meltaim. Someone who know what it’s like. To be… like this.” She laughed. “And since you guardian, I not even have to pay you! Good deal.”

“Ahh, so being caught in Kine was all a ploy to get yourself an archmage tutor, I see. Well, I’ll try to make it worth all the plotting. Hmm - now that you mention it, I’ve never had an archmage student; it should be interesting.” Leif glanced at his wand holder, hesitated...but then looked back up and said, “Though I guess it would be more interesting if you could use your wand in magic sessions.”

Zuzia’s eyes widened. “Yes,” she breathed. “Much more interesting.” Breaking into an outright, gleeful grin, she said hurriedly, “I will be good. Only cast with permissions and-- good student! Promise. I will even take notes! Instead of just making, ah-- bored drawings, you say it?”

“Doodles, I think,” Leif guessed. “All right, then - magic lessons. Maybe we can wind up friends after all.”

Chapter Twenty-One:

SPOILER: Click to show

Over the next several weeks, as February edged into a chilly March, Leif began to work with Zuzanna on magic almost daily. Although in many ways allowing the girl controlled and supervised access to her wand was just a small privilege, the effect it had was profound on her, seeming to go a very long way toward thawing her disposition toward the older archmage. He was no longer merely her forced guardian-- a spy for the lords who thought she might be dangerous, and who was keeping her in the capital against her will without any apparent benefit for her-- but a valuable teacher. A mentor. Someone from whom she could learn… even if he quickly proved to be rather firm in this regard, much like her tutors back at the Iron Castle (fortunately lessons with Leif came, as promised, with one-hundred percent fewer ear yankings).

Leif, for his part, was a little surprised - but not unpleasantly so - to find that he’d sort of missed having a student. It was an extra responsibility, extra socializing, and Zuzanna did have some tendency to lapse into negating the written portions of the lessons, including the runework. But it felt more than worth it in the moments when she finally correctly recited all the pieces of a particular rune chain and explained why they were arranged the way they were, or when she figured out how to cast a difficult spell. She hadn’t been lying when she said she had good instincts with the runes; when she got it right, she did get it right.

And of course, learning about Meltaiman magic was an opportunity Leif had never really even considered he’d have. He was not at all interested in learning blood-magic, of course, but even in spells with Kythian counterparts could be vastly different in structure or effect or both. Sometimes a spell was barely recognizable as its Kythian counterpart - which Leif supposed was to be expected when the two countries were writing spells so far apart from one another; it was like any other language, with vast regional differences despite the shared runic alphabet.

Leif was tentative with his questioning at first - as tentative as he could be when it came to a subject of his interest, anyway - since he knew by now that some people found his enthusiasm for topics like these awkward. But Zuzanna seemed to like telling him about it well enough, especially if she was able to use her wand to demonstrate - so Leif kept asking. It was an enormous improvement over their nebulous, almost antagonistic relationship earlier.

It was near the end of one of these lessons in late March, as Zuzanna neared the seventh month of her pregnancy, that Kirin knocked on the not-quite-shut door and came in with a letter for Leif. It was sealed with green wax and the stamped emblem bore a phoenix, but when Leif opened the letter, he found it wasn’t from Lord Everett as he’d expected. Sometimes he half-forgot his younger sister Chamile was a Jade, and could use the House seal when sending official letters.

Lord Everett, the letter explained, wanted to know how things were going with Zuzanna and Phyllo, and Leif’s assessment of their potential danger. Apparently Chamile had volunteered to be the one to visit and get said update. “I mean, I’m really afraid of the heavily-pregnant fifteen-year-old who let herself be taken into custody by the Kythian knights,” she had written, “but I’ll try to be brave for your sake, dear brother!”

“What it say?” Zuzia asked as Kirin slipped back out the room, pursing her lips from where she sat beside Leif with a mess of heavily scrawled-upon parchment sheafs spread before her on the worktable. They’d been practicing her transcription of Dov runes-- which, according to Leif, Zuzanna was ‘sloppy’ at sketching, even if she could cast them beautifully; her tutor had informed her that she wasn’t casting any more spells until she’d drawn at least a dozen of them to his satisfaction. “Green seal-- is from your lord, yes?”

“Yes - or at least, from someone in his House. My little sister is taking advantage of having official business to use the fancy waxes. Lord Everett’s sending her here the week after next to check in on us. I guess he didn’t want to try sending a wagon through the snow drifts back in the winter,” Leif added with a smirk.

“Sister?” Zuzanna grinned. “I will have to impress. So she tells good things to Lord Everett.” Setting down her quill, she gestured grandly at the tangle of sketchings Leif had deemed unsatisfactory. “I will draw her pretty picture! And Phyllo can bake her nice cake. And you can tell her all about how Meltaiman archmage is very good student who is not danger to Kythians, and has not used her wand to hurt Master Leif even after he makes her spend three hours drawing Dov runes.”

“I’m sure that will impress her the most,” Leif agreed with a grin. “I can hear it now; ‘Three hours of him scowling at your work and you didn’t use even a teensy sparking spell?’ I wonder if she’s bringing Jon too - he’s my younger brother, her twin. ...Oh, I suppose not; his church is busy that week. Some baptisms, weddings, some of the seminarians are getting ready to graduate… Ah, well. Maybe another time he’ll be less busy.” He continued reading, and abruptly, his face fell. “...Oh. She’s...visiting Raylier first. ...No, I don’t think it’s going to go well, either, Cham. ‘Woo be with you.” He sighed and folded the letter. “Well - by the time she gets here, she should be fine.”

“Raylier?” It took a moment for the word to register in Zuzanna’s head. “Oh. That is-- where you are from, yes? Like Pastora for me?” She furrowed her brow. “It is… not good, to visit home? You has other siblings there, right?” The girl was pretty sure Leif had a gaggle of them. “I still misses my siblings. It was… not them, that I wanted to leave.”

“It’s...a long story,” Leif said, frowning at the letter. “But I guess the short of it is - Raylier is where I was born, but it isn’t home. And I had a lot of reasons for wanting to leave, some of my siblings among them.”

Shaking his head, Leif forced the brooding thoughts away. “But I’m not the one stuck visiting them - so, no point in scowling over it. I should be helping you figure out this rune. You have a ways to go yet before I let you present one of these to Chamile.”

***

The pigeon from Chamile telling Leif and his household that she’d arrived safely at Marson Manor came much earlier in the morning than the Kythian archmage had expected, but he dutifully pulled on a cloak to shield himself from the chilly morning and headed to the Marson’s small estate to greet her and escort her to the house. Ambre, Leif’s elven-bred aplomado falcon, landed on his shoulder as he was locking the house’s door; she was probably feeling cooped-up from the long winter, too. The falcon came and went from Leif’s shoulder throughout the trek, stretching her wings and treating the winding streets and sharp curves of the town like an obstacle course; Leif would have to let her chase the lure sometime today to work through her excess energy.

Even with the cold, it might have been a nice walk had there not been some sort of building project going on near the edge of the market. The sounds were carrying far on the bitter air, and though Leif was never quite at an angle to see what it was, he knew by sound alone that it involved hammering, chiseling, people shouting, stones grinding against one another… And that even over the sounds of the usual morning marketplace activity; only nobility really started the day closer to noon than dawn. While the smell of food wasn’t unpleasant, the growing squall of people buying and preparing it was. Generally Leif could more-or-less ignore the bustle of the market - but the construction noise was setting him on edge.

It was a relief to be allowed into Marson Manor, where the walls and a few charms muffled the sounds outside considerably. A servant left with the announcement of Leif’s arrival and returned with Chamile in tow; she seemed to be in good spirits despite the chilliness, the travel, and her half-week’s stay in Raylier. Leif let his sister give him a brief, light hug, exchanged some only slightly-awkward pleasantries with the Marson staff, and finally got them on their way back to his and Kirin’s home.

“’Woo is is chilly!” Chamile declared as they started off. “Do you ever regret not talking Kirin into moving south?”

“Yes and no.” Leif rubbed at his ear as if it might dispel the construction din, which had not ceased while they were in the Manor. At least they were heading away from the marketplace now. “I miss the milder winters and it getting to be spring before May, but Kirin would hate Corvid summers as much as I would hate Bernian winters. Here, we each hate the weather for half the year, so it’s nice and even. Speaking of family, how’re Reynold and Antony?”

“They’re good - of course, Reynold’s his usual stern-faced self, so you couldn’t necessarily be able to tell, but he’s well. Antony’s doing just fine - he’s figured out how to get into things and make a mess. We should never have taught him to walk,” she added with mock-disappointment. “You should come visit sometime soon - I know you’re busy and maybe it won't be until your ward’s all grown up, but he’s learned to say the ‘l’ in Uncle!” she added this last bit with the sort of sing-song tone merchants sometimes used when trying to entice customers.

“I’ll try to make it soon,” Leif promised.

“And now my turn - speaking of family...” Chamile’s dared to poke her hand out from her cloak to make a ‘come on’ sort of gesture. “Just ask already, I know part of you does want to know.”

Leif made a face...but admitted, “I’m just...wondering how they took the news. Henry sent phoenixes to get me to Kine, but he didn’t exactly follow up with a letter, of course. And Markus hasn’t been in Raylier in a while, either.”

“Markus has more important things to do than spy on our family for you,” Chamile teased. “But the answer is...wait for it...they’re not thrilled about it.” She made an exaggerated expression of shock, putting the sides of her hands to her face and gasping.

“I’m astonished - next thing you’re going to tell me is that Ambre has feathers and that the sky is blue. How thrilled was Mother? This is two archmages she doesn’t have her hands on now.”

“She’s pretty steamed over it,” Chamile confirmed. “And I think she’s partly furious because this is almost what she wanted - you taking care of a miniature archmage. She was just picturing said mini-mage being her grandchild, not someone totally unrelated to her. No honor for Accipiter in a mage they can’t claim as their own blood, or even claim by proxy, what with you being a Jade and all.”

Leif snorted, slipping a treat to Ambre as she settled on his shoulder again. “Of course.”

“She also, ah...expressed disappointment about the age gap.”

“...Age gap?”

Chamile gave Leif a look that clearly said she thought he was being deliberately obtuse. “Leif. Come on. She wants archmage grandbabies. How does one get grandchildren of any magical ability?”

“What? But - ‘Pit, she’s still on about that? Zuzia’s far too young!”

“Yes, yes she is - and don’t worry, Mother got caught in her own web of disapproval and can’t actually approve of a teenager and an old crone like you marrying each other.”

“Even if we were the same age,” Leif seethed, “I’m married, she’s married - she’s having a child with her husband, for ‘Woo’s sake! And ‘Pit, she needs to let the fact that I’m not having children go!”

“Yes, well...she’s still disappointed about that. And as far as she’s concerned, the marriage is invalid since she’s fif-”

“Keep it down,” Leif warned. “I promised I wouldn’t let that spread.”

Chamile nodded slightly. “Well, let’s just say she’s considered Zuzia’s age.”

“And?”

“...And I think Father and Henry are keeping her from using our nephews to try and...bring her into the fold?”

“...What.”

“Regina said Mother talked to her about sending Bryon and Rolf to visit you. Bryon’s probably less than a year younger than your Meltaiman - Mother didn’t say ‘try to sway her feelings’ but apparently there was something about ‘making friends’. Regina said something about not using her sons as… ‘inexpensive courtesans’ was probably how she’d have put it in polite company.”

“And Mother had the nerve to accuse Alain and Kirin of setting me up?”

“I guess if you can’t beat them, join them?” Chamile shrugged. “You shouldn’t have to worry about fighting off any of our nephews, though; Father and Henry made some comments that make me think they know it’d be a losing battle and they’d just look like idiots if they tried. I mean, she’s already traveled halfway across the continent with this guy, and like you said, she’s having a child with him. I doubt she’d be swayed by little fifteen-year-old kids from a minor House, who don’t even carry the House name.”

“I don’t see it, either,” Leif agreed. He shook his head in distaste. “This is low. Even for her.”

“She’s desperate,” Chamile said. “And now that Henry and Astrid are running things...I don’t think she knows what to do with herself now that she has all this time. It’s kind of sad.”

Leif said nothing, unable to banish the snide, bitter thought in his head that maybe if she hadn’t been completely absorbed by the mysterious mounds of paperwork and meetings all her life, had made time for other things, settling down wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe a lot of things wouldn’t be so bad.

“But, hey, there’s plenty of time for complaining about that later,” Chamile said. “Looks like we’re almost there anyway - how about you check my pronunciation real quick? I want to make sure I’m pronouncing your ward’s name right. I checked a book on the Meltaiman alphabet I found in the Jade library, but it was really old so it might be out of date. And it kept growling at me so I had to sit down and fix the protective enchantments so they stopped thinking I’d left the library because I moved the book to a table five feet away from the shelf.”

Her pronunciation confirmed to be correct, Chamile was escorted into the house. Leif boiled water for tea, automatically getting out the cinnamon sticks in case Zuzanna wanted a cup of cinnamon tea when she woke up. Chamile presented her brother with a gift of a fresh jar of Corvid orange blossom honey; Leif was a little suspicious at how soon afterward Kirin joined them - he’d always had a sweet-tooth - but Zuzanna and Phyllo arrived not long afterward, so perhaps it was just later than Leif had realized. Leif made introductions between his sister and the former Meltaimans; Chamile, being Chamile, greeted them with a friendly joke, and asked about how they were settling into Kyth. Leif mostly listened as the three of them talked, keeping his interjections largely responses to teasing comments in his direction.

It wasn’t long before the topic turned to Zuzanna’s pregnancy and the baby, and when she heard the couple was still gathering supplies, Chamile suggested they go into town and she could perhaps make up for having brought a gift for Leif and Kirin, but not for their guests. They agreed, and after finishing breakfast, Zuzanna and Phyllo left the room to get ready.

“You two want to come along?” Chamile asked Leif and Kirin as she draped her cloak over her shoulders again. “I’d like to see how you and the Panems get along, if only so I have some information to use if Lord Everett asks.”

Leif hesitated - but the construction work should be done by now, he figured, and as long as it was the usual market noise, his oversensitivity shouldn’t bother him too badly. “Yes, I’ll come,” he agreed. “I probably ought to just on principle; your green’s going to draw attention and I don’t want any thieves thinking they’ve found a good mark.”

“Please - I can send any robber running off crying,” Chamile said, drawing her wand from the holster hidden under her dress sleeve.

“Yes, I know - I’m intervening for the thieves’ sake.”

Despite having lived here for several years, Leif and Kirin obviously didn’t know the best places in Medieville for buying baby supplies. Leif had been on only a few of these excursions with the Panems, not nearly enough to oppose the two of them setting their course. He hung back with Kirin, intending to keep an eye on the crowd. All seemed well until they got close enough to the market to hear that Leif had been wrong - the construction noise was not over with.

It’ll be fine, he told himself, wishing his lighter spring cloak came with a hood. He tried to pay attention to the conversation the others were having.

“Want to get-- ah, I think you call it… cradle?” Zuzanna said lightly as they threaded into the din. “So baby doesn’t have to jam into bed with Phyllo and me. Bed is already small.” Smiling, she squeezed her husband’s hand and added dryly, “Good thing we no have rent, right? Can spend all our Lyell money on baby.”

Phyllo nodded. “Lots to get.” He gave a slight grin, glancing back at their escorts. “Morgaine had to talk Zuzia out of already getting clothes in all boy colors. She say that ‘babies have ways of surprising you’ and it not hurt anything to wait for proper fitting anyways.”

“Morgaine will see.” Zuzanna beamed. “He is boy. I just know. Instinct-- like with runes.” She shot a baleful look toward Chamile. “You have baby, yes? Mother’s instinct.”

“I’ve had one, yes - we were hoping for a boy, though, so that might have skewed things a bit. And hey, even if he’s a she - there are so many Houses and minor Houses in Kyth you could just say whatever colors in honor of one of those.” Chamile said with a grin. “But it sounds like you already picked a different color? I’d hate to send anything from Corvus and have it clash with his other things.”

“Orange,” Zuzanna said. “My favorite color. And is not boy or girl. And--” She grinned at Phyllo. “It will look pretty with baby’s skin. Especially if he is darker, like Papa.”

“If baby get Mama’s eyes, then with orange clothes will look like phoenixes we rode,” Phyllo joked. “So is minor Kyth house after all. But boy or girl, and color of clothes to make pretty, is not matter. Just want baby to be not sick and happy.” He smiled in Leif and Chamile’s direction. “Is what any Papa wants, yes?”

“Any good papa,” Chamile agreed cheerfully. Leif, his thoughts going back to the conversation he’d had with Chamile that morning, managed only a thin smile and a nod in reply. Another cluster of people passed close by them, and Leif edged closer to Kirin and set his jaw against the babble of their talking. The pounding of hammers and the repetitive but irregular tink-tink-tink of chiseling stone was only buried for a few seconds by the fresh noise.

Phyllo seemed a bit surprised by this lukewarm response, and glanced at Zuzanna with confusion. More tentatively he said, “Leif is not think so? I… I want be good Papa for the baby. I know I am… young, and not knowing how children work, so if something is not good, I want know. I want do this right.”

“I - no, I’m - I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant.” Leif ran his thumb over the veins on his feather pendant.“You’re absolutely right - that’s what a good papa should want for his children. Health and happiness. You’ll do a great job, Phyllo.”

Chamile frowned a little at Leif; he thought her expression was concerned rather than disapproving - but she traded it for a genuine smile as she looked back at Phyllo. “Hey, don’t mind Leif’s moods. I can tell you’re gonna do just fine. Mother’s instinct,” she added with a wink at Zuzanna.

“I hope so,” Zuzanna said, sighing. “I never have much-- experience. With mothers. My birth mother, I am taken away from her when I’m little. And margrave’s wife…” The girl shrugged. “Die when triplets are born. A week before my sixth birthday.”

Phyllo put an arm around Zuzanna’s shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. “You help to raise triplets though,” he pointed out. “And after three, one baby should be not so bad. And if baby takes after Mama in ways, we will not pull his ear for it. Patient and gentle.” He kissed his wife’s cheek by way of demonstration.

“You’ll figure it out,” Chamile promised. “Just...hold onto all that love and patience and such you’ve got now, store it up - you’ll want extra on hand the first few months when he doesn’t sleep through the night. I wish I could give you more advice for further down the road, but my husband and I are only two years in with Antony - so we’ll have to see if what I do works first.”

“I will try be very patient,” Zuzanna said. “More than Father was with me. Especially with my… blocks. Bad memories. I do not want my son to have bad memories.”

“Good,” Leif said. “It’s good to learn from your parents’ mistakes.” He tried to sound casual, but he was not having the easiest time focusing on the conversation, with the noise in the background and the uncomfortable, bitter old feelings trying to rise at the vague topic of bad parents. Kirin reached out across the short distance between them and took Leif’s hand, giving it a light squeeze. Leif tried to take a breath. He shouldn’t be this frustrated - maybe he shouldn’t have asked Chamile about the Accipiters. Granted, he hadn’t expected to hear that his mother was concocting such wild and insulting schemes, but he should have known it wasn’t going to be good news.

This, coupled with Leif’s vagueries about Raylier not being home back when he’d received Chamile’s letter, sent a frown curling at the corners of Zuzia’s lips. “Your parents-- is make a lot of mistake?” the girl asked-- lightly, but there was a vaguely prying lilt to her tone.

Leif hesitated, but it wasn’t exactly surprising Zuzanna had put two and two together. “Yes - lots of them, and lots of big ones.”

Chamile added quietly, “Our parents aren’t...well, firstly, they’re not very affectionate, but they’re also not good at equally splitting attention. They’re the lord and lady of a region - basically a big chunk of Corvus - and all of the work it takes to run that took most of their attention. Most of the rest of it went to some of our older siblings. There were eight of us, so it’s not exactly surprising, but...it’s a lot of work. Maybe they shouldn’t have had so many children - I mean, I know I’m the seventh-born so I shouldn’t be complaining...but it’s a weird choice.”

“Oh, but how else were they going to funnel children into each of the career paths they wanted?” Leif asked sarcastically.

“There was that, too,” Chamile admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. “It worked out for them - and us - better than it had any right to.” She glanced at the Cathedral as they passed it.
“Though not everybody’s entirely happy with where they ended up, or where they would’ve ended up.”

Phyllo followed her gaze, and something clicked in his memory. “Oh- Leif, you say that when you were… twenty, and before, you were learning about religion? But now you are mage for your lord?”

“Yes,” Leif agreed. “My parents wanted me to be a priest. And I liked theology, Lord ‘Woo, all those things. The church I was training at even had an eagle - an all-white Veluzian eagle, she was enormous and absolutely beautiful…” He forced himself to stop speaking about Lunari even as the facts about Veluzian eagles flooded into his head - along with more agitation at the fresh noise of a merchant hawking his wares in a loud, swooping voice, and striking some sort of chime to underscore his words.

“And,” he sighed, figuring he might as well address the inevitable, “no, they weren’t training me to be an archmage. Regular magic, yes, but...they decided not to have me tested as a child.”

Phyllo frowned. “Really? In Meltaim all children are tested by ah… srebrne oczy, I think Kythian would be ‘silver eyes.’ For power. To see if they are strong, or languid, or półwyrób, or… archmage.”

“And… how your block helped, then?” Zuzanna added. “If not test? That is only way to know. If… behaviors are just child being-- bad, or… block.”

Leif gave her a half-smirk with no humor to it. “You’re right, it is the only way to know. So no, the blocks weren’t helped. They didn’t break until I was almost twenty; that’s when the magic finally forced its way out on its own.”

“What?” Zuzia spoke this as though it were a swear. “But… but…” She could barely wrap her mind around it. Even when she’d been a four-year-old, Zuzanna’s blocks had been apparent-- and at times severe. The idea of letting them fester-- and worsen-- until… gods, until she was five years older than she was right now? “I do not understand. Didn’t they… know? That something was not right? I… I-- was bad, bad child. If I not allowed to act as blocks wanted me to act, I… panic. Tantrum. Scream until I lose my voice. How… how did parents not… know?”

“They knew something was off. I had a lot of weird habits, didn’t like to be touched. Couldn’t talk to people. I panicked, too, if people wouldn’t stop touching me, or trying to talk to me, or wouldn’t keep quiet. They thought I was just misbehaving and...I don’t know, they always acted like there was something to be gotten from lying to them about it, or trying to get away when people wouldn’t listen when I asked them to be quiet or to not touch me. As if I could fake overload.” He snorted.

Chamile added quietly, “There were also our older siblings. The three oldest ones, they were...loud, and two of them were constantly getting into fights. One of our older brothers is kind of a cad.”

“He’s kind of a cad the way trout is kind of a fish,” Leif put in.

Chamile nodded slightly in assent, but only said, “And of course, the other oldest was Father’s heir. I think most of the time our parents focused on the ones who were being loud, and the rest of us just sort of slipped under their awareness. Which might have been better for some of us, but...not for Leif.” She ran a hand through her hair, almost agitatedly. “Our parents made a lot of mistakes.”

“I am sorry.” Zuzanna sighed. “That sounds… miserable. I can barely even picture.” She swallowed hard. “So magic-- force its way out? How? You are always lecture me about how magic gets angry if you are not careful. How it will hurt me if I just… do wrong things to runes. So if yours was all trapped…”

Leif nodded. “It got worse the longer it was trapped. And then...well, I guess there’s a point where the blocks can’t just passively hold the magic back anymore. They have to force it down - and - I don’t know if it was the same for you, but maybe there were moments where it wasn’t bad, where you weren’t feeling your urge to count - but then there were times when you could maybe feel it coming? Whatever change happened to me made it feel like my blocks, my sensory overload, was coming all the time.” Kirin squeezed Leif’s hand again; this time, Leif returned the gesture, though he wished his hand wasn’t shaking. “As for how it got free - I guess - well, that eagle I mentioned? Some of the priests were trained to hold her on the glove, like I do with my raptors. And I wanted to try it - I couldn’t think clearly enough to realize how bad an idea that was. She was heavier than I thought and I’d never tried real falconry before, so...I couldn’t hold her steady, and she slashed me. I think the fact that I was hurt so badly made the magic react, and that’s how it broke through the blocks. It fixed the slashes, all on its own - I don’t know how it knew, but it did. And it was so much better after that, but, all those years of the blocks…they left their mark.” He shrugged slightly. “I imagine that explains some things, hm?”

Phyllo winced. "Sounds very bad- my sorries, Leif." He frowned. "You was at church... Priests never saw anything was wrong either? Healers? Friend in Lyell tell us that Corvus is much like Meltaim; magic is very important. How that many people in magic place not bother to look?"

Leif explained, “There haven’t been archmages in Corvus for a long time, and even when there were, I guess their blocks must not have been especially dramatic when they were young. And of course, they would have gone away when their blocks were softened. People know the blocks are a thing archmages have, but I think just...it’s not the first thing they think of. It’s called archmage-testing, not block-testing, after all. I don’t think anybody connected my problems to anything magic-related. The healer my parents had was my father’s sister, so of course she believed him when he said it was a behavior problem, instead of me when I said it was physical. The priests at my church - they were also healers, actually - they did know something was wrong with me. There was no way they could have missed it. They at least didn’t assume I was making it up, and I think they were looking for something...but it was probably something physical, not magical, they were looking for.”

“For all Meltaim’s badness, at least… that would not happen there.” Zuzia shuddered, gesturing to her left as they approached a woodsmith’s shop. “They would-- make cradle here? Or have pieces for?”

“They would have pieces, at least,” Kirin confirmed, as Leif belatedly recognized the shop as one Kirin sometimes bought wood from for his various craft projects. . “And I believe the woodsmith would take a commission; I don’t know how expensive it might be, though.”

Not at all opposed to getting inside a building and out of the noisy street, Leif agreed, “We can at least see what he’d charge for it, and decide if the quality’s worth the money.”

“Good thought,” Phyllo agreed. Tracing his hand along the scar on his neck he added with a lopsided smile, “Baby- My baby-” he corrected himself, “deserves good made cradle. Not getting cheap just because cheap.”

Inside, the woodsmith pointed the group toward the back wall of the shop, where he had a few premade cradles on display… before, as they began toward the items, he seemed to notice the understated but still apparent finery of Leif, Kirin, and Chamile’s outfits. High quality materials. Closely tailored. Nobility-- at which point a broad smile appeared on the merchant’s face, and he clapped his hands together.

“No need to settle for anything pre-forged,” he said brightly. “I could easily commission something custom. Could even ah, paint it up? In your House’s colours, if you’d like.”

Zuzanna glanced toward Phyllo, amused. “Haven’t we always wanted silver and purple cradle? It will feels just like home.”

The man’s mouth quirked upwards at the corner. “Why not go for silver and black while we are talking? Match those clothes Papa wore every day until finally someone came along who was not too cheap to buy him casual things.” Glancing backwards at Kirin and Leif he smirked widely. “Or would make horror for Leif and Chamile’s friends back home in magic region if had archmage’s baby’s cradle made in Bern colors?”

“I like that idea,” Leif said, quietly but at last with some humor, as he put an arm around Kirin. “Yes, our parents and Henry - our oldest brother - will definitely be horrified; they’ve had such terrible experiences with Stallions corrupting their archmages. ...Though it would be very interesting to explain to Lord Ambrose how the baby of a Jade’s ward wound up in Escalus orange and Stallion red, hm?” Kirin laughed and nodded.

“Politics.” Zuzanna smirked. “Is very happy to be away from.” She looked to the woodsmith. “No paint needed. And-- we okay with premade. No need fancy. Not want to take advantage of nice noble’s gift.” She beamed at Chamile.

“The baby won’t be able to appreciate fine woodcarving, anyway,” Chamile said with a return grin. “But do pick the one you like best; if I’m giving you a gift, I want it to be something you two like!”

Phyllo nodded enthusiastically. “Chamile will tell Lord Everett about our fine choosing of baby cradles. We want to make good impression, after all.”

“‘Lord Everett, they picked a baby cradle in the safest way I can imagine,’” Chamile said in a dramatic voice. “‘It could be a ruse, but I think it’s safe to say they will not endanger Kyth with their taste in furniture.’”

Zuzia chortled, tracing her finger along a darkwood bassinet with painted-white trim. “You have learned our trap,” the girl said. “We will enchants the cradle into weapon. It is our plan all along.”

Phyllo sniggered, kissing his wife on the cheek before the two of them started poking around the cribs. In a more serious voice Phyllo asked, “We are not make bad impression, though? We do just want to live quiet. Raise our baby.” Wistfully the seventeen year old added, “My father was baker. Simple life. I miss it.”

“From the sound of it, you could use a simple life after everything you two have been through,” Chamile sympathized. “And you’re making a fine impression - I feel like if you two were here to do something villainous, you’d have done it by now. And hey, you got Leif to like you - that takes a lot of not being an awful person, and a lot of patience on your part.”

“Thanks, Chamile.”

“You’re very welcome, Leif!” Waving her brother off, Chamile asked in a more serious tone, “What is it you’re planning to do when the year’s up? I imagine there’ll be offers from all sorts of noble Houses, but that doesn’t mean a simple life, even if it’s comfortable. It definitely means politics.”

Phyllo pursed his lips. “Not sure. We have been thinking not so far into future. Had been meaning to go to Copperhead, before we were caught. But…” he glanced sideways at Zuzanna. “Has friends. Not sure if we want to uproot again, like with friends in Lyell.”

“Not want to work for nobility,” Zuzanna said firmly. “But otherwise…” She shrugged. “I guess we will think once we are there. And all the lords release us from prison.” Her grin toward Leif was entirely teasing.

“Oh, but how will you pass the painful, never-ending, torturous minutes of your imprisonment without a dream to cling to?” Leif asked, the woeful tone of his voice not at all a match to the smirk on his face. “Imagine how fortifying the thought of sending me a package full of deadly Copperhead vipers would be!”

“But then who will teach me?” Zuzanna said grimly. “I will be only archmage in Kyth. All alone. With no one to yell at me because I almost set rune chain devolving after I go for Ayr rune before Dov.”

“True. And if you were the only archmage in Kyth, you’d probably have to pick up all my odd jobs. Breaking spells, fighting evil mages and crazy animals, playing bodyguard against Courdonians… you don’t need all that stress. Especially on top of raising a child.”

“You… will still teach me?” Zuzanna asked, moving to examine another of the cradles, this one slightly larger and painted a bright, apple green. “Even once I am not your ward. I do not know if I could… pay. For noble tutor. But-- I likes learning. From you. It is like… all my tutors, my whole life, they tell me things. But they do not understand. What it feels like inside me. But you know. Which… makes it better, I guess. Even when you are mad at me.”

“I can still teach you, if you want.” Leif was a little surprised to hear this - but then, it wasn’t as if he didn’t enjoy giving the lessons, which would have been rather reprehensible if Zuzanna wasn’t also liking them, or at least getting some benefit from it. “I don’t know about payment - we can talk about it sometime, when you have more of an idea of what you and Phyllo are doing - but if you like learning from me, well...I don’t see any reason we should stop your lessons. An archmage teacher for an archmage student makes sense. And those times I yell aside...you’ve been doing very well. It hasn’t even been that long and I can already see you improving; we must be doing something right.”

“I am finally able to do no talking spells!” Zuzanna said brightly. She nudged Phyllo. “Only simple. But still!” Spelling without speaking-- an archmage perk, as she’d always heard it explained-- had long been a source of exasperation for her in Meltaim. Her tutors had been working with her on it since she was twelve or thirteen, with resoundingly little success… but infinite frustrations. With Leif, though, it had finally clicked. Like a puzzle piece snapped together with its mate after far too long of mismatched attempts. “I must show you, Phyllo,” the girl added. “Is very neat! Like… like magic.” She laughed.

Her husband chuckled. “Is… Nice. Having mages to help Zuzia that not also looking down at me. I love her, but magic is a thing that is not for us to share.” He sighed softly, tugging at his headband absently. “At least if I cannot help her with no talking spells, I am still good for kisses. I think Kirin would be not happy if Leif gave Zuzia that.”

Zuzanna elbowed him, hard. “Prat,” she said in Valzick. Then, grinning: “What about green cradle? Will be very bright. Like springtime with his orange clothes!” She looked to Chamile. “You is approve?”

“I like it - green’s a good color,” she added with a wink and a motion to indicate her cloak, which was in the color of the family she had married into. “And maybe Medieville will take a hint and give us some springtime in return!”

¹Since dialogue is largely in Valzick, Valzick is not colour coded; all other languages in this part are color coded.
²Since dialogue in the first scene is largely in Valzick, Valzick is not colour coded; however from the second scene on the dialogue is mostly in Kythian, so for the rest of the story henceforth, Kythian is not color coded and Valzick is.

[Avery]

"Only Magic", continued

Chapter Twenty-Two:

SPOILER: Click to show

Chamile’s visit felt like it went by very quickly, and to Leif’s disappointment, they were soon saying final goodbyes. Chamile told them that she intended to give a good report to Everett, and as far as she could see, things would remain unchanged for the four occupants of the house. Leif was hopeful that would be the case; he had given Chamile as detailed an account as he could of the past few months, including some of the rough patches in his and Zuzanna’s relationship, as well as how they had sorted them out eventually. Leif still didn’t really understand why Lord Everett had trusted him with this situation in the first place, but at least if the Jade lord had started to second-guess himself, Chamile’s information should be reassuring.

Sure enough, things continued as normal for the next several weeks without interruption or even much comment from Solis. Nothing from Raylier, either, to Leif’s vast relief. Sometimes he was angry with his family for how passively they accepted Leif’s decision not to communicate with them - usually, however, he was quite happy with that arrangement, and considering his mother’s insane scheming, it was definitely good not to see any of his nephews appear at the door.

There were other things to concern himself with, anyway. Maybe it was the officiality of delivering a formal report to Lord Everett - or at least, a representative for him - but it really struck Leif that he trusted Zuzanna not to do anything malevolent. He was concerned about her tendency to jump into spellwork without proper preparation, and there would need to be a long and serious talk about blood-magic and Kythian laws at some point. But aside from that…

These thoughts were in his head as Leif and Zuzanna wrapped up a lesson one afternoon, in which she finally managed to wordlessly cast a spell a little more difficult than the ones she’d been getting the hang of during Chamile’s visit. As always, before she left the room, Zuzanna held out her wand to Leif, smiling grimly though silently at him as though she were a starving wretch dutifully offering her last slice of bread as a tithe to her lord. Leif looked from the wand to his student’s face, and then to the pages of runes he was stacking.

“Why don’t you...hold onto that, Zuzia. It’s getting annoying, trying to draw my wand out around yours as well, and seeing as Lord Everett doesn’t seem to think this is all a trap…”

The girl blinked. Hard. “... I… keep?” she asked, her head lolling to the side in confusion. “Even though lesson is over?”

“That’s right.” Leif set the papers aside. “Now, I don’t want you trying to set or undo any enchantments, stick to spells you know how to cast - and absolutely no blood-magic...but I’ve been thinking, if I’m confident enough to tell Lord Everett that you’re not going to intentionally cause any harm...there’s not really any point in me holding your wand hostage. After all, as you’ve pointed out,” he added with a grin, “you’ve never tried to curse me with it even when I’ve been scolding you for racing through the runework like a child trying to get to dessert.”

The smile that bloomed between Zuzanna’s lips was dazzling. “Yes!” she promised. “I will be good. No bad magics.” She laughed, patting her hip where she’d given up wearing a holster some time ago. “I will have to figure out how to put holster again. Given that I am… big. None of old things fit. Everything very uncomfortable.”

“Maybe you can do what Chamile does, and wear it on your arm,” Leif suggested. “I don’t know if your holster has the straps for it, but I’m sure I have an old one of mine around somewhere that does if you need one.” His tone of voice an attempt at enthusiasm but tinged with no small amount of nervousness, Leif agreed, “You’re getting pretty close to nine months along, aren’t you?”

“Midwife think late May or early June.” It was presently nearing the third week of April. “Baby is getting restless. And is getting hard to sleep, because I am so big.” Her smile softened, growing tender. “I am excited to meet baby.”

“I’m sure,” Leif said with a small laugh. “I’ll bet he’s excited, too, he has a mother and father to properly meet, after all. And I think I’ll breathe easier when you’re supporting him from outside rather than in,” he added with a crooked smirk - the healer in him was getting more and more nervous as the pregnancy went along, and even though there was already a midwife on the case, Leif had been less and less able to help bouts of what most people would probably have called nagging.

Absently stroking her wand, Zuzia resisted the urge to reach out and set a hand on Leif’s shoulder. “You know,” she teased, “someone might thinks you are starting to care about me. The scary Meltaiman danger and forced ward. Be careful, Master Leif.”

And with that, the girl turned and started out the room, waving over her shoulder at Leif as she gently shut the door behind her. Leif rolled his eyes and lifted his hand in a wave back, but returned to tidying up the study with a smile. They’d come a long way from that first meeting, where Zuzanna had indeed been a potentially dangerous Meltaiman mage and an intrusion on Leif’s space. He probably ought to have seen it coming; all of his friends and loved ones came from very strange first meetings.

***

For once, Phyllo was alone in the house with Leif. Kirin was off at Stallion Manor, doing his work as the bookkeeper there, and Zuzanna had arranged to spend some time with Morgaine at the Lock and Key trust getting tips for her impending birth and the early weeks of raising an infant. The young man was feeling somewhat at loose ends, a feeling he was experiencing more and more frequently as of late, with little to occupy his time considering that he was not undertaking any lessons in magic.

He’d considered asking for permission to take on a job, but… what? He had no skills applicable to anything but pure manual labor, his time as a bleeder had seen to that. And as he’d learned working for the Alescis’ caravan, even freedmen didn’t make much worthwhile coin doing grunt tasks like lifting and hauling.

He was absently practicing some wrist movements with his dagger- having gotten it back from Leif not long after Zuzanna got back her wand- when Leif entered the room with an annoyed expression and his satchel hanging heavily from his shoulder. He removed the bag with both hands and heaved it onto a small table by the window with a low thump and an irate huff. He did a double-take at the dagger in Phyllo’s hand, but seemed to catch himself and remember giving the blade back. “H’llo, Phyllo,” he said, rubbing at his shoulder. “You look bored; is everything all right?”

The young man’s hand stilled and he sheathed his weapon with a shrug. “Just occupying self,” he said evasively. “Not much to do when Zuzanna is away.” He gestured at the mark on his forehead, presently bared since he was not out in public and the headband made his forehead sweat. “No magic practice for me, eh?”

“I suppose not,” Leif said, a little hesitantly. He tried to think of suggestions for perhaps more interesting things, but most of the house’s leisure supplies were either magic-oriented, or were Kirin’s personal art materials and tools. “Hmm. I guess we should stock the house better for guests so they have things to do. I...I imagine you weren’t given much chance to take up hobbies over the past several years?” He was definitely treading into sensitive territory now - but maybe it was about time. It was nice to be with your partner, but they couldn’t be around all the time.

Phyllo gave a soft laugh. “No, not really. Was allowed to wander city, but do what? I made some money doing errands for Zuzia’s birth parents at the bakery, but Jozef- my master- almost always take before I could spend. To buy little things. Snacks, beer, whatever he want at time. Mostly he just let us earn money so he could use as rainy-day funds.”

“Sounds like a charming man,” Leif said with a distasteful expression, opening his satchel. “As if it wasn’t enough he was letting people take your blood. Hopefully one day he has the misfortune to buy something poisonous with that stolen money.” The archmage carefully drew three small potion bottles from the satchel, set them aside - and then pulled out a large, pale brick with spatters of colorful paint all along one of its sides. “Well...any thought what you might’ve done with that money had this Jozef not been working hard to ensure a nice, cozy place for himself in the ‘Pit?”

Phyllo snorted softly, but then shrugged. “Perhaps more comfortable clothes. I always back then wore things for religion in Meltaim. Required for bleeders to have, and why Jozef waste money on more clothes than he need? But religious clothes… scratchy, stiff, heavy.” He gestured to Leif with a crooked smile. “You know what I mean.”

“They’re not exactly high-quality material,” Leif said wryly. His own religious garb at Our Woo of Charity hadn’t been too terrible texture-wise - fortunate, as it would have driven his oversensitivity mad - but he wouldn’t have called the robes the most comfortable clothes, either. “But that’s one thing when you’re choosing to live in service to the ‘Woo - or, whichever god, I suppose - and giving up some earthly comforts. But when you’re forced…” He shook his head. “That’s just adding insult to injury.” He heaved another brick out of the satchel, this one also spattered with color. “...Well, insult to insult to injury - you’re Wooist, having to wear the clothes of another faith must have been…” Leif tried to find a word, but eventually shook his head. “It would have felt so wrong to me - not that it would be my fault in that situation, but all the same.”

“I hated it,” Phyllo agreed. “But you know what worse? I know more… much more about Meltaim religion than Wooism. My heart is always with Woo, but they take me when I just eight. I not had learned much yet about the Woo. What I learned, a lot I forgot because I was so little.” He drew his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them. “But so many Meltaim ceremonies, all the time. Learned more than I ever wanted to know.”

“I’m sorry,” Leif said. “It’s not your fault - like you said, you were surrounded by Meltaiman worshippers. And there’s not much you’d be expected to remember at eight - I couldn’t have told you much about Wooism when I was eight, and I was being groomed for the priesthood,” he added with a half-smile. “But if your heart was always with the ‘Woo...then you knew enough. And...well, there’s no reason you can’t learn the things you missed out on learning as a child now, if you want.”

Leif glanced at the bricks and the potions on the table. “I...do need to get started working on this, but - if you have nothing else to do, you could give me a hand? It’s not all magic; actually, it’s mostly going to be a lot of sitting around and waiting, so I could give you...a refresher course, I suppose? I might as well use that decade and a half of theology training.”

The young man smiled crookedly. “Sure, can help. Was not doing anything anyway, and be nice to talk about things that are comforting from when I was small.” He tilted his head. “What you need me to do?”

“Mostly help with these potions, and some mixing. See, someone found a way to enchant paint so it resists cleaning spells and being painted over...and that someone is using said paint to vandalize shops and houses. It’s not an enchantment, at least not alone, but it’s definitely magic, so - potions are probably involved. I have a few suggestions from Marson’s potionmistress about how to use these potions and some spellwork on paint that might make it resistant; so the plan is to try and find the combination they used, which would make it easier to figure out a way to clean it. I’d appreciate some help making the paint-and-potion mixes, and then painting them onto these generously-donated bricks.”

Rummaging around in his satchel, Leif pulled out parchment and a quill...and with a frown, dug around the bag a little more. “Ach - I think I left my inkpot at the potionmistresses. ….Yes, I did, I knew I shouldn’t have put it on her desk. Phyllo, would you mind grabbing a pot from my study for me, while I get the paint out of the foyer?”

Phyllo stood up, stretching his arms upwards. “Can do it. Be back in moments.”

As the archmage headed into the foyer, Phyllo made a beeline for Leif’s study. If he remembered right, there should be plenty of inks in Leif’s desk drawer, assuming there wasn’t any sitting on top of the desk outright. As he opened the door, the young man was unsurprised to find that the room was not unoccupied- a red-eyed white bird with grey and black wings was sitting atop a stack of books on the desk, fastidiously preening its feathers.

Ayleth, Phyllo noted absently. He’d seen Leif’s birds around often enough, and knew by this point that as long as he didn’t bother them, generally they wouldn’t bother him. Turning his attention away from the kite, Phyllo approached the desk again. There were no inkpots in immediate view, but after a second he saw one nestled against the books that Ayleth was perching on. Phyllo leaned over, reaching out to snag it so he could head back out to the sitting room, but the kite looked up sharply from its preening, and with no more warning than a slight bob of its tail, shrieked and lashed out with its talons. The young man jerked in surprise and pain as the razor claws bit deep into his right arm. He stumbled back several steps so that his elbow hit a lockbox sitting on a table in one corner and sent table and lockbox clattering to the floor.

The kite flared its wings and shrieked again, a loud, grating, almost rasping noise - and then it looked abruptly toward the door, seconds before Leif darted through the doorway.

“Hadrian!” he shouted. The kite, perhaps threatened by Leif’s furious voice and expression, shrieked at him, too - until he noticed Leif reaching for his wand. “Out!” Leif snapped, pointing toward the window with his free hand. The kite retreated with a final, indignant series of chitters.

“‘Pit - I am so sorry, Phyllo!” Leif hurried around the table to the younger man. “I had no idea he was in here or I wouldn’t have sent you in - here, let me heal your arm - ‘Woo, I am so sorry!”

Phyllo, who’d been watching the proceedings mutely, gave a thin smile and shrugged, pressing a hand to the cuts on his arm. Already the blood was flowing liberally down his dark skin, and puddling somewhat on the floor beneath, but surprisingly he didn’t give any evidence to being in any pain. Even when he pressed against the wounds he didn’t show any visible discomfort. “Is alright- not so bad, these cuts. Should have been more careful. I thought was Ayleth.”

Leif frowned, perturbed by Phyllo’s calmness and his lack of apparent pain. For a moment, he thought it was strange that the sight of the blood didn’t bother him - but common sense kicked in a second later. Of course blood - even this much - wouldn’t be quite so disturbing to Phyllo - he’d been enduring wounds like this for nearly a decade. The rest of the calmness was still worrying, but this would be a little fast for shock to set in.

“Hadrian’s getting red jesses, or something - so other people can tell the difference between him and Ayleth. Assuming I ever let him out of the mews again. Here, I’m going to hold your arm steady...” He reached out and put his hand under Phyllo’s elbow to gently lift the man’s arm a little. “Terwoogeo,” he said with a flick of his wand. The blood disappeared, leaving Leif a clear view of three slashes, one relatively minor but the other two quite deep. “‘Pit, he didn’t skim you, either. ...You’re taking this surprisingly well,” he remarked, glancing up at Phyllo before his eyes flicked back down to the wounds. “Vulnera Sanwootur!”

Phyllo blinked, then actually looked embarrassed. “It hurt. Hurt a lot. But I am trained not to show pain. Not to react when I am cut. No flinching, no yelling, no jerking away.” He sighed. “Hemofilik are started young. At eight or nine. Special magic that feel like a knife, without actually cutting. To get them so they do not show pain, because showing pain is insult to the gods. Then actually cutting begins, small at first, but bigger and more. To ah… desensitize? Is word? To lot of blood. Take two years, usually, for to be fully trained.”

Leif looked up sharply. “They - they use - and they make you - well of course you’d be in pain when you’re having your arm sliced open against your will! The blighted idiots - if not showing pain is that important, maybe they should be the ones donating blood!”

He forced himself to stop rambling and take a slight breath. The bleeding on the first cut had stopped, so he moved to the second gash. After repeating the incantation and starting the circuit around the wound, green light spilling in ribbons from his wand to knit the skin back together, Leif said, “I’m sorry - that’s - that’s horrible. The cutting-feeling spell…’Woo, that sounds - there are spells like that that are banned here, because their only possible use is torture. The idea of them using it on children....” Leif couldn’t put into words the horror of that mental image, the way it made his stomach curl and writhe and his shoulders stiffen. “That’s not even getting into the actual knives.”

Phyllo gave a mirthless laugh. “Is very thorough training, though. By time is done, we not dare to try and resist the knife.” A look of old pain flashed across his face, and he murmured, “Not even when… when priest cuts too deep. When blood is… too much.”

Leif sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Oh - oh, ‘Woo, of course - if they’re cutting along the arm...there are three major arteries, if they hit even one… But they could heal it, right? With magic?” He had a feeling that the answer was “no” - or worse, “yes, but they won’t”.

Phyllo’s lip curled, and his jaw clenched. “They can. They did, but only after engagement ceremony was over. After… after she was gray, like old river clay. After it too late to matter.” His voice hitched, and he clenched his eyes shut. “Is loss of two hundred crowns for cancel the ceremony after it start. Is o-only bad luck if ten-year-old girl on f-first bleed is killed.” He gasped softly, his shoulders shaking. “I tried to stop it. I was there, to watch the little one. Sylwia. But they would not let me help. They pointed wands at me, and said I was finished if I stopped the bleed. Sh-she was o-only ten!”

Slowly, Leif lowered his wand; his eyes had gone very wide with horror - he hadn’t realized Phyllo was talking about someone specific until he’d abruptly slipped into past-tense, but no wonder it had burst out so suddenly. He couldn’t even imagine, watching a ten-year-old girl bled to death - purely because she didn’t have magic, and nobody - nobody - bothering to draw a wand and fix it! Or, well, they’d drawn their wands - but only trained them on the one person with any shred of willingness to do the right thing. These people were monstrous, and the gods they worshipped could only be some sort of escaped ‘Pit-creatures.

Leif clenched his fingers around his wand, forcing the anger aside. He couldn’t do anything for the girl - Sylwia, Phyllo had called her? - now, except pray the ‘Woo had taken her spirit under his wing, instead of letting the Meltaiman gods getting hold of it. But he could at least try to help with the pain left behind. “I’m so sorry, Phyllo.” As always, he hesitated before doing it - but he put his wand-hand on Phyllo’s shoulder. A little awkward, as he was still holding the wand, but that hand also wasn’t bloody and supporting an injured arm. “I can’t imagine having to see that happen to someone, and being stopped from doing anything to help…” He glanced at Phyllo’s face, actually making and holding eye contact. “...It wasn’t your fault - you know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

Phyllo shook his head, trying to stifle back a sob. "This is what Zuzia tells me. That I should not blame myself. That all free man and woman in the room were mages, and I would have been taken down before I got close. But... But how I can not feel is my fault? Sylwia, she was afraid. She was crying for her mama. I hold her, and I tell her is all going to be fine. She will hurt, and she will be sick, but will get better. She ask me if I promise is true, a-and trust me wh-when I say yes."

He covered his face with his free hand, inadvertently smearing blood across his forehead and nose. "No one else care when she pass out. Non-mage has no soul. Is not person; is animal. She die, and it is like if you kill milk cow you borrow. Is a loss of money for owner, but nothing for crying. Meltaiman believe this, as strong as Wooist believe phoenix is holy bird. And they believe non-mage is like demon; if mage feels sorry for them, is kind to them, they turn the mage evil, so that mage betrays their people. Is why margrave gives up to chase Zuzia. In Meltaiman eyes, I am evil non-mage who has turned her evil too."

He hugged himself. "Are they wrong, really? I can not help Zuzia- she protected us, whole way to Kyth. I am trained like you train a dog so I not show when I am hurting, or care about blood. I p-promise Sylwia she will be okay, and th-then I watch her die! What good am I? It is like Meltaimans say- I am empty, worthless, only able to hurt!"

“That’s not true,” Leif insisted. “That’s what the Meltaimans tell themselves so they don’t have to feel guilty about treating people like - like walking wells of blood - but that doesn’t make them right! If they were - then, wouldn’t that mean Sylwia was soulless and evil? And not just her, but - all the non-mages in Meltaim? All the non-mages here? That can’t be right. And before you try it - if they’re not evil for not having magic, then that rule can’t only apply to you.”

He hesitated briefly, unsure which specific comment to tackle - but it was obvious which weighed heavily on Phyllo the most. “What happened to Sylwia...that wasn’t your fault. Promising it would be all right wasn’t...I don’t think it was the wrong thing to do. I don’t know what else you could have told her; as far as you knew, whoever was doing the cutting was…competent - it should’ve - well, the whole blighted society shouldn’t have happened, but - that ceremony shouldn’t have turned out that way. ...But...you gave her some comfort when she was alone and afraid - trust me, that means so much, just knowing someone cares. And when things went bad...if they were drawing wands on you, you must have been trying to do something, trying to help. It isn’t your fault the situation was so out of your control, or that so many ‘Pit-fiends were walking around in human disguise - any one of those mages could have stepped in, and they didn’t. Of every one of those people in the room, you were the only one trying to the right thing - that’s the opposite of evil and soulless.”

Phyllo fell silent for a time, pondering this. Leif gave him a moment, turning his attention to the final gash on Phyllo’s bloody arm, and when that was done, returning to the smaller lines that remained of the earlier marks to finish healing them properly so there was nothing left to scar.

Finally, the young man murmured, "She... Still die. I try help, I try force into room, but can do nothing. When I rage at priest, Jozef whip me so bad I am sick for days. Then he... He say I will be sacrifice. If I am problem. Because it ruin his business if I not behave."

Phyllo waved a hand vaguely. "This is one reason we run, Zuzia and I. She could not do it- what Meltaim want of her, with the bleeding and child stealing. I was walking around with sword on my neck, waiting for to lose my head." He looked bleak. "We run into many troubles. I am help in only few. Zuzia protect us. B-but I want help too. I want provide for her, and our little one. But can I? All I know is bleeding. And I have... not good history of trying to look after little ones."

“This will be different,” Leif promised. “You’ll have resources, freedom, you’ve learned how to use a knife… As for providing - there’s always something. And if not, you can learn; there would be plenty of people willing to help, if you need or want it.” Leif paused to cast another Terwoogeo spell, clearing away the rest of the blood. “As for Zuzia doing a lot of the protecting...well - if she’s anything like me, the idea of someone hurting her husband makes her angry, and scared, and sick to her stomach - and I’m sure you feel the same way about the idea of her being hurt. Wands just...tend to be a quicker way of enforcing that point.

“But I would be very surprised if you didn’t protect her in some way, too - maybe not as physically as you might think of protection, but...strong as archmages may be magically, we tend to have areas where we’re not nearly as capable.” Leif tapped the side of his head. “I can fight bloodmages and gryphons and wolves - but ‘Woo help me if I have to try fighting my own temper, or my lack of social skills, or my family. Maybe I protect Kirin physically - but he protects me from my own head. I’m sure you do the same or similar for Zuzanna - I know when she’s upset, she turns to you for comfort and support. That’s a kind of protecting, too.”

There didn’t seem to be any remaining cuts on Phyllo’s arm, but nevertheless Leif asked, “Anywhere else that hurts? If not, could you flex your fingers for me?” He opened and closed his own fist in an automatic but probably unnecessary demonstration.

Phyllo flexed his fingers obediently. “Is fine, I think. Thank you. My elbow is bruised where I back into the table, but it is nothing.” He gnawed on his lip. “Zuzanna is… rash. I love her, but sometimes she does not think. Or is too proud to let go when is needed. But I not survive long without learning patience. Acceptance of things that must be, even if I not like them. So I try to… advise caution. But I wonder if that is good, or is just slave in me imposing upon my wife.”

Leif shook his head. “I don’t think it’s you imposing. She is rash, and proud - and like anything, sometimes that’s good, sometimes...not so much. Caution is important. Sometimes it’s better to accept a situation and work with it, instead of fighting it. You both have different strengths and weaknesses. If all goes well, I think you’ll learn to balance them, and learn from each other.”

Phyllo gave his fingers another flex, then smiled shyly. “Thank you, Leif. For… letting me talk of my troubles. It is hard to speak of these things with Zuzia. She is… too close? I think is best way to say. Feels guilty, even though she not hurt me. Is… too personal.”

“I’ve noticed she takes Meltaim-related things...a little personally,” Leif agreed with a slight nod. “I’m sorry about that; you should be able to talk about your hurts, too. If you ever need someone to listen, I’m willing.” Remembering what they had begun talking about earlier, Leif added, “Or, if you want someone completely outside the situation - there are the priests at the Cathedral.”

Phyllo winced a bit at this, clenching the hand of his scarred left arm. “Y-yes. That is true…” He sighed softly. “You are sure they will not… be of horror? About what I am?”

“They’ll be horrified at what you went through,” Leif emphasized. “But no Wooist priest worth their Woocifix would hold it against you. Because what you are is a Wooist - one who was stolen from his home and forced to participate in a religion whose gods he never followed. The ‘Woo wouldn’t hold it against you, and neither should any priest. ...But if it makes you uncomfortable…” He shrugged slightly. “Some people don’t care for the church. If that’s what you decide, that’s what you decide. But the option’s there. ...Maybe pray on it?” He half-smirked. “The ‘Woo would probably be a good advisor on religious matters.”

At this, the young man actually laughed. “You know, back in Meltaim when I marry Zuzia, it was… not ordained. Obviously, could not marry by Meltaim laws, and Wooists in Valzaim would have killed her on sight. So we just… do ourselves. Pray to Woo to bless it even if there is no priest.” He cocked his head. “Much the same, I suppose?”

Leif nodded. “Exactly - just asking him to listen. If nothing else, it sometimes helps get your thoughts out and in order.”

“Yes,” Phyllo agreed. “Is good to talk, sometimes. To have someone who listen.”

Phyllo stepped around Leif, picking up the ink bottle from his desk and offering it to the archmage. With a smile he said, “Here- Sorry for upsetting your bird, but I get it eventually.” He looked thoughtful. “You say you will help me to learn about Wooism, as I could not after I was taken. Can ask a question?”

Leif took the ink with a smile. “Thanks. And don’t apologize - Hadrian’s always in a bad mood, and he shouldn’t have attacked you in any case. He’s getting sent being back in Solis if he’s going to be attacking people.” He shook his head a little to clear it, then said, “And yes, of course - what’s your question?”

“My little one,” he said. “When is born- could he be… What is Kythian word, where baby is cleaned in water for the Woo? Was done to me when I was small, and to all babies in Valzaim.”

“Baptism,” Leif said. “And of course - the priests would be happy to. ...And it’s not a requirement, but something maybe to think about and talk about with Zuzanna - I think they’d also be happy to give you an officially Wooist wedding. If you like - some people couldn’t care less about the ceremony or the public...ness of it all. But seeing as you didn’t have choice before, it seems only fair you get one now.”

Phyllo brightened at this idea. “If… if Zuzia was okay, I would like. She… said on the road she might convert. Was most just joke, but she never like Meltaiman gods, so I could ask. I just… worry about ceremony, if people realize we were not married before the baby was born. Like you say, is… public.”

“Hmm....well...technically you were married before, just, Kythian laws…” Leif honestly still thought fifteen was rather young to get married, but he’d since been informed Meltaiman law allowed it. He didn’t like it, but he comprehended it - and it was at least better than bloodmagic and keeping an entire caste of people oppressed and calling them soulless purely because they’d been born without magic. “If Zuzanna converts, maybe the two of you can say it’s...a renewal of your vows, to tie the two of you together as official Wooists. You asked for the ‘Woo’s blessing, and he didn’t do anything ominous like pelt you with sparrows or turn the ring to ash, so I think that means the first one counts well-enough.” He shrugged. “Or, it can be a private ceremony, between just the two of you, or just with friends who already know.”

Phyllo chuckled at Leif’s remark about being pelted with sparrows, but nodded eagerly. “Is good thought. I will talk of this with Zuzia.” His expression became gentle and almost wistful. “Still sometimes is hard to believe. That she leave everything, and come across continent to be with me. She is… better woman than I deserve.”

“Or maybe you’re a better man than you think,” Leif countered, and with a slightly-teasing smile asked, “Do you think Zuzanna would settle for just anyone, Phyllo?”

He laughed. “No. She had emperor’s pet nephew promised her hand. Instead she chose me.” Curling his lip, Phyllo added, “She say that emperor nephew was creep. Touching and hugging without permission her when they just barely engaged.”

Leif made a similar facial expression - unwanted touches were something he could very much understand hating. “How very endearing. He’s probably lucky Zuzanna left Meltaim - I can only imagine if he’d kept that up, the emperor’s nephew would not have liked the spells coming from Zuzanna’s wand.”

The younger man laughed. “No, probably not.” His expression softened and he added, “Thank you, Leif. For being friend.”

Leif blinked, a little startled, but he recovered, smiling gratefully. “You’re welcome - and thank you for being patient with…” He tried to think of an appropriate phrase, but wound up just gesturing to his head and saying, “my social issues, and the prison guard misunderstanding. I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot, but I’m glad we got to this point eventually.”

“I am too,” Phyllo said. A smirk ticking at his mouth he added, “Even if your birds are not as friendly as you.”

“Well, there are rabid dogs and wild boars friendlier than Hadrian,” Leif said wryly. “But the others...well. Maybe I am friendlier than they are. But you can’t tell anyone - or how else will I terrify the next wards Lord Everett sends me?”

Chapter Twenty-Three:

SPOILER: Click to show

As Zuzanna’s pregnancy entered its final month, Leif suggested they could put her magic lessons on hiatus until after the birth, but Zuzia baldly refused. “I am giant,” she said stubbornly, a hand set over her very-swollen belly, “but can still magic. I keep learn.”

Leif tepidly agreed, although he kept her curriculum limited, restricting her only to tasks that saw her seated and fairly sedentary, such as drawing runes (a perennial favorite of Zuzanna’s, of course). Nevertheless, the lessons with Leif were still usually the highlight of Zuzia’s day, and so she didn’t complain… much.

“There,” she said one day during the second week of June, dramatically flicking her wrist as with one last flourish she finished drawing a Tae rune. It was the final piece to a rather intricate sketching of a scenting spell, and in Zuzanna’s humble opinion, it was beautiful. “And you say I cannot draw.” She beamed. “Look for errors, Master Leif. You will not find.”

Leif pulled the paper close, scrutinizing it carefully. “I never said you couldn’t draw, only that what you were drawing wasn’t up to par. I knew you had something more like this in you, you see,” he added, glancing up with a grin before returning to his inspection. “Hmm...I’d say this rune could use a thicker line so it doesn’t look too much like Ayr, but I see the line is there, so technically, not an error…”

“Line is perfectly thick,” Zuzanna insisted. “It is clearly not Ayr-- see, there is no spindle here”-- she jabbed a finger toward the bottom-left of the rune-- “and the flares are--” The girl’s voice abruptly died in her throat, her eyes darting from the scroll of parchment down to her lap. “Oh,” she squeaked. “Oh… gods.”

Leif set the page down, his heart abruptly hammering hard. He tried to sound calm - urgent, but calm - “What is it, what’s wr- happening?”

“I…” Abruptly, Zuzanna scooted back the chair… thus revealing to Leif the small puddle that had formed on the rug below, liquid dripping down the legs of the chair. “Midwife tell me about this. It called--” The young archmage inhaled sharply. “Oh gods. This means… this means…”

Leif stood up abruptly enough to knock his chair back. This was it, what he’d been on edge about for weeks now. “The baby’s coming, right?” Oh, ‘Woo, he’d known this was due sooner rather than later and it was almost a relief that it was starting, because that meant the waiting would stop - but at the same time, Leif was so afraid something might go wrong, for Zuzanna or the baby or both... The Meltaiman archmage had of course been eating and resting well - or as well as she would let Leif, Phyllo, and the midwife insist on - for months now but she was still small and very very young and -

Stay calm! he reminded himself. His mental voice didn’t sound very calm at all. “Okay - all right, ah - contractions! Have those started yet?”

“No,” Zuzanna said quickly. … Before biting her lip and adding, “I mean, my stomach is-- hurt? On and off since breakfasts. But… not all the time. Just for a little, then it stop, and start a bit later…”

Leif blinked once. Then again. “That’s - Zuzia, those are contractions! You should’ve - you know what, nevermind. Contractions since morning. Okay - let’s - let’s get you somewhere you can lie down, and I’ll send - or I’ll go…someone will go get the midwife.”

“Okay.” Swallowing hard, Zuzanna stood-- but the girl had only made it a single step from the worktable before her gaze fell back to the puddle on the floor. Her hand dancing to her wand, which was now holstered at her arm as Leif had suggested, the girl said softly, “Let me cleans up first, so it does not stain rug--”

“Zuzanna Panem, if you touch that wand I will summon it right out of your hand!” Leif moved to her side, trying to usher her to the door. “You are having a baby, this is not the time for cleaning spells!”

“Well, baby is not coming out this minute,” Zuzanna retorted, but the girl’s hand nevertheless fell away from her wand, and she allowed herself to be escorted out of the room.

The hall outside smelled of sugar and baking goods, and as Leif led Zuzia toward the guest room, it occurred to the girl that Phyllo must be occupying his time by baking. He’d been doing this quite a lot lately… much to his pregnant wife’s ravenous delight. He’d gotten quite adept at a variety of treats, in particular of the sweet variety. Zuzia thought his strawberry handcakes could rival those Aleksy and Izabella made back in Pastora.

“Phyllo.” As they passed the doorway that led into the kitchen, Zuzanna paused and peered in. Her husband seemed to be in the process of cleaning up, a waste bin in one hand as he swept lemon rinds into it with his other. “Lemon cookie?” she guessed, taking another sniff at the fragrant air.

“Yes, they just went in the oven,” he replied, glancing up with a smile. “Morgaine has been showing me a lot of-” He frowned suddenly, noticing the saturation of his wife’s skirts. “Zuzu, why are you all wet?”

Leif poked his head around the doorway as well; he hadn’t picked up nearly enough Valzick yet to understand what Phyllo was saying, but he assumed it was interruptible by this particular news. “Zuzanna’s going into labor - she’s going to have the baby. Help me convince her to get to a bed, please?”

Phyllo’s jaw clenched, and he almost dropped the waste bin. Setting it down, he strode sharply towards his wife, saying, “Baby is coming? Zuzia, yes, lie down. Leif, should I… get water or… or maybe, maybe go to find the midwife, or I-”

“Maybe wait on midwife?” Zuzanna mused, looking entirely nonplussed. “I mean… it is maybe-- false labors, midwife tell me that can happen--”

“And what,” Leif demanded, “if it isn’t false labor?”

“Zuzanna, stop being happy-stubborn,” Phyllo said tartly. Slipping once again into Valzick, the language he was more comfortable in, he added, “If you think I won’t carry you like I did out in the wilds when you wouldn’t rest, you are wrong! Because I will!”

At this, Zuzia cracked a nearly glib smile. “Oh, but I’m much heavier now, Phyllo.” She sighed. “Okay. Fine. I will go to beds.” Reaching for her husband’s hand, the archmage added, “And… I know it’s not traditional, but-- I want you to stay? Please? Until he’s born. So I… I won’t be so scared.”

Phyllo swallowed hard, taking Zuzanna’s hand in his own. “If that’s what you want Zuzu. Leif and the midwife will have to throw me out by force.” He turned to the older mage, adding, “Kirin could go to find the m-midwife, maybe?”

“Sure, he can do that - you’re staying with her, I take it, Phyllo?” Leif motioned for the couple to continue down the hallway. Phyllo nodded.

“She want me to stay. For to comfort,” he explained. Giving a very nervous smile as he guided his wife after Leif, he touched Zuzanna’s swollen stomach. “You make it across five countries and learn three new languages in last year- this easy, right?”

Stepping into the bedroom, Zuzia only shook her head. “I guess,” she murmured, as Leif tossed extraneous pillows and blankets off the bed and straightened the covers.

“It will be alright,” Phyllo said softly, kissing her on the cheek. He was trembling, but he kept his voice firm. “Aren’t you excited to meet your son?”

She nodded, pacing toward the bed. “Yes. Of course.” Her fingers still threaded through his, Zuzia sat, slipping not into Valzick, but Meltaiman, as she whispered, “I’m just… I don’t know. I’ve known it’s going to happen but now that it is--” She bit the inside of her cheek. Hard. “I was with the margrave’s wife,” she said. “When her water broke. She was on bed rest already, but… I was sitting with her. She was reading me a story, when… it happened. And she gave me a kiss on my cheek, and I ran to tell my father. He had my nurse take me.” A beat. “I never saw her again.”

The young man hugged her around the shoulders. “That isn’t going to happen this time, Zuzia. I… I know, how hard it is to lose your mother. I know. But it’ll be alright.” He gave her a wobbly smile. “I didn’t tell you did I? Why I’ve suddenly been asking Morgaine to teach me how to bake?”

“No,” she said. “You didn’t.” She squeezed his hand. “I thought you were just trying to keep your elephant happy.”

Phyllo laughed softly, watching out of the corner of his eye as Leif dropped a bundle of towels on the nightstand. “Well that was the reason, but it wasn’t just to keep you happy while our baby is stealing all your food away. It was because when we’re finally allowed to be married and live on our own, I want to help support you and our son. And… well, my last name is Valzick for ‘bread’ isn’t it? And since I was a child I wanted to be a baker like my father.”

Through the layers of fear, Zuzanna let a slip of a smile through. “We… we will have to teach our son to sweep,” she whispered. “Help out in Papa’s shop.”

“We will,” Phyllo agreed, leaning his forehead against hers.

“I’m getting Kirin, to get the midwife,” Leif said, his eyes flicking between Zuzanna and Phyllo. “I’ll be back in just a minute.”

Phyllo nodded. “I will stay, and call if anything changes.” With a brisk nod of his own, Leif swept out of the room.

The young man turned back to his wife and gave a wistful sigh. “I have been looking into what it would take to become a baker. I will have to apprentice somewhere first, and probably it will be some years of working for a place before I can maybe have my own but… It’s honest work. Simple work. And it’s what I’ve always wanted.”

“I think it’s a good idea. And I’ll be standing behind you every step,” she said, before wincing as her stomach suddenly cramped. Gritting her teeth, she drew away from her husband and leaned back against the wooden headboard. “But first,” she murmured, “I suppose it’s time to meet our son.”

By the time the midwife, with a young teenaged apprentice at her side, arrived about an hour later, Zuzia had changed into a light wool shift, her feet bare as she curled up in the bed. True to the archmage’s predictions, the midwife at first attempted to insist that Phyllo leave, but after several staunch refusals, the woman seemed to realize that it was a lost cause.

“But,” she warned, her dark brow creased, “labours-- especially first labours-- can take a while, Master Panem. Don’t expect this to be over by suppertime, hm?”

Indeed, it was well past midnight by the time the midwife declared it was time to push, and Zuzia was deathly white as she obliged, clutching to Phyllo’s hand with so much intensity she might have been a hawk clinging to its prey. Sweat glossing her forehead, she swore-- repeatedly-- in every single language she knew… and invented some new curse words while she was at it, lobbing them alternately at the midwife (because “why I cannot have more potion!?”) and Phyllo (for being half-responsible for her present agony, whilst suffering none of the according pain… Well, except for his hand, anyway, which she supposed she was probably crushing but did not godsdamned care).

The baby came into the world red, slick, and squalling, its arms flailing as the midwife gave its back a healthy pat and her apprentice moved to clamp the cord. “Good lungs,” the older woman marveled, wiping the newborn’s face with a damp rag. “We’ve got a fat, healthy baby here, proud Mama and Papa.”

“Should be fat, as many cookies and cakes as I have been feeding him,” Phyllo replied dryly, though there was a broad grin borne out of equal parts relief and excitement on his face. Glancing at Zuzanna he added, “Though I imagine he’s probably hungry. Again.”

“He?” The midwife, continuing to clean off the baby, laughed softly. “No, you gave no cookies and cakes to him, Master Panem.” She shifted the child in her arms, so that it was facing Phyllo and Zuzanna. “To her, however…”

“Is… is girl?” Zuzia, her cheeks flushed ruby red, gawped, her eyes trained in disbelief on one part of the infant in particular. She sputtered on: “But… I am sure-- it’s-- it’s-- son, I am sure, whole pregnancy--”

“I’ve been a midwife for twenty-six years, dear.” The woman chuckled again. “And while my bones might creak where they didn’t used to, my eyesight’s still sharp.” Taking several short strides to Zuzia’s side, she gently lowered the still-squawking infant onto the teenager’s chest. “You’ve got a girl, honey. A perfect little girl.”

Phyllo laughed, hugging his wife around her shoulders. “At least your instincts for runes are still good.” Looking down at the child, his expression softened. “Her eyes. Like mix of your and mine. Blue-gray-smudged.”

Gingerly, as though she were afraid of breaking her, Zuzanna stroked a finger down the baby’s pudgy cheek; reflexively, the infant turned toward her mother, her lips parted. “So much hair,” the new mother breathed. “Wool! Like yours.”

Phyllo laughed again, and gently stroked the infant’s head. “But it’s brown. Like yours. Not black. She is lighter than me too, but darker than you. Like… like tea with cream.” He kissed Zuzia. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“She looks like a toad.” Zuzanna beamed, and as Phyllo elbowed her with a smirk, his wife dreamily amended this to: “Our toad.” As the midwife’s apprentice draped a blanket over the infant’s naked form, the young archmage let out a wistful sigh. “I suppose,” she said, “that we can’t name her Alexander, huh?”

“I don’t imagine Aleksy is getting his namesake yet, no,” Phyllo agreed. “I mean there is Alexandra, but knowing him he’d lift an eyebrow at a girlchild being named after him.”

“She doesn’t look like an Alex, anyway.” Zuzia kissed the crown of the baby’s head.

Phyllo chuckled at this, and gazed back down at his newborn daughter fondly. She was starting to fuss a little, her mouth open wide. No doubt she wanted her first meal. The midwife’s apprentice cleared her throat.

“Here, let me help ma’am,” she said pointedly, shifting the baby so that it was within easy reach. Helpfully she added, “Perhaps your husband can undo your shift.”

“Oh, I, uh-” Phyllo glanced down at Zuzanna, his face heating a little, but she only laughed in return, her sweaty brow raised in apparent amusement at his sudden mortification. With a bemused sigh, the new father obliged, and soon their daughter was drinking greedily.

“That much hasn’t changed at least,” Phyllo remarked. “She still eats like a monster.”

“I can’t believe I’m a mother,” Zuzanna breathed, rhythmically stroking the infant’s back. “To a… a real baby. Who… cries and-- nurses… and…”

“I know; it… it still doesn’t feel quite real somehow.” He leaned sideways so that his arm was wrapped around her shoulder, and their heads touching. “She’s so small, and she’s… totally dependent on us. Can we… can we really take care of her? Can we really keep something so small and fragile safe, and be good parents?”

An odd look came across his face, and Phyllo bit his lip. “Zuzia… she needs a name right?”

“Usually that’s what you give to babies, yes,” Zuzanna agreed.

“Can… Can we call her Sylwia?” he asked tentatively. “Or… I suppose if she is to be Kythian, a Kythian sounding version- Silvia. It is… a pretty name, and I…” He trailed off, unable to fully articulate exactly why he wanted this, but knowing all the same that he did, more than he might have guessed a moment ago.

“Silvia,” Zuzanna echoed. “I…” Silent for a moment, the woman swallowed hard-- then smiled. “I like it,” she said softly. “Silvia Panem. And… maybe Isabella? For her middle name. So… so that we’re still giving a nod to my birth parents.”

Phyllo nodded. “That sounds good to me. Silvia Isabella Panem. A pretty name. And it will fit her well, when she becomes pretty instead of being a toad.”

The midwife stayed through the rest of the night, to both help clean up and ensure there were no post-labour complications, and Zuzia, Phyllo, and little Silvia were fast asleep by the time the professionals finally left a little bit after sunrise. Although they had the bright green cradle Chamile had bought for them set up beside the bed, Zuzanna slept with the baby on her chest, Silvia swaddled tightly in a cotton blanket as her cheek lay against her mother’s collarbone.

“We should introduce her,” Zuzanna yawned to Phyllo, when Silvia’s squeaky squall roused her parents a few hours later. “To Leif. After she’s eaten again.”

Phyllo nodded. “Yes- and you should eat something too. We both should,” he amended. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. You feed Silvia, and I’ll see if Kirin got those cookies out of the oven for me before they turned to charcoal.”

Soon enough, both parents and infant were satisfied (though at Leif’s insistence Phyllo had returned with a more substantial breakfast of bacon, orange wedges, and buttered rolls) and Zuzanna’s temporary guardian was invited in to meet his new houseguest.

Leif came into the room very quietly, easing the door shut behind him before approaching the bed. “Feeling all right, Zuzia?” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

Zuzia nodded, tenderly running a hand across the infant’s kinky hair. “Tired. But good.” She broke a soft smile. “I am wrong. It is girl, Master Leif.”

“Well, at least she’s not a rune chain,” Leif remarked, smirking briefly at Zuzia before his eyes fell on the baby. “Did you decide on a name for her yet?”

Zuzia nodded earnestly, practically glowing as she shifted the infant so that she was facing up toward Leif. “We are going to call her Ayr, of course. After Mama’s favourite rune that she is very, very good at drawing. And for middle name? We are torn. Between Mama’s second favourite, Dov, and her favourite combination, Pyet-Bal-Eit.”

Phyllo rolled his eyes as Leif raised his eyebrows and looked between Zuzanna and the baby. “...So she is a rune chain,” he said at last, and slowly a smirk spread over his face as he went on, “Little Ayr Pyet-Bal-Eit Panem - you could fit a Dov in there as well, I think, then you wouldn’t have to chose at all. Maybe figuring out where it should go will be your next assignment when you’re ready for lessons again.”

Phyllo snorted softly, reaching over to stroke the baby’s hair. “We call her Silvia. Silvia Isabella Panem.” He gave Leif a look that was equal parts sad and strangely relieved; Leif looked back at him, actually making eye contact, his expression shifting from recognition to surprise to understanding.

With a slow nod, Leif said, “That’s a beautiful name. She’s going to grow up safe and happy and well-loved.”

He looked back to the infant. “Hullo, Silvia.” He was using the soft, slightly higher-pitched voice he generally used for raptor hatchlings. “I’m your Uncle Leif - we’ll get to know each other later, if your mother doesn’t get too mad at me for making her do runework.”

“Uncle Leif?” Zuzanna toyed over the name like a cat might a beam of light. “But… no.” Her soft smile turned into a full-on grin. “You are my guardian. And so her… grand-guardian, yes?” The girl chortled. “Grandpa Leif!”

Her husband laughed outright at this, shaking his head with a wide smile.

Leif sighed dramatically. “I was hoping if I staked a claim as Uncle, I would avoid being Grandpa...but I suppose I should’ve known better. Grandpa Leif, then.”

***

By the time she turned a month old, little Silvia Panem no longer quite looked so much like a toad, to Zuzanna’s great relief. Less to the young archmage’s delight, a muggy summer had settled over Medieville, the air often as thick as soup and thunderstorms frequently roiling the air. Pastora, nestled in the mountains, had seldom grown beyond ‘vaguely warm’, and Zuzia suddenly found a great amount of sympathy in Kirin, the two frequently lamenting together over the insufferable heat. Phyllo, who’d grown up in the same mountains on the Valzick side of the border, was equally unamused, but better at keeping it to himself given his long ingrained habit of not complaining when he was uncomfortable. Instead his frustration with the heat was expressed by frequently fretting over his daughter, checking to ensure she wasn’t sweating or dehydrated and frequently taking her out of her swaddling during the hottest part of the day.

It was on one such day, as Zuzanna stifled a yawn in the kitchen while nursing a cup of iced tea, and Phyllo rocked the cranky Silvia, that a knock sounded from the front door. Zuzia rose, as though to answer it, but before she could, Leif, who was standing across the room, stepped away from the repairs he was making to one of the raptor perches. “I’ve got it,” he told Zuzia, motioning for her to go ahead and sit down again as he headed into the hall leading to the front door.

Expecting to find nothing more innocuous than a messenger or one of his or Zuzanna and Phyllo’s friends, Leif instead opened the door to find a middle-aged woman whom he’d never seen before, her sea green eyes narrowed into apprising slits as one of her hands hovered near her waist, where she had an ash wood wand visibly holstered.

“And you are?” she asked without preamble-- as though it were Leif knocking uninvited on her door and not the other way around.

Eyebrows rising, his hand automatically darting to hover over his own wand, Leif answered flatly, “Leif Jade. This is my home. Who are you?”

If she recognized the noble last name, it sparked in her no diffidence; her voice was molten as hot lead as she returned, “My name is Tatiana Kendal. And if you’re Leif Jade, then we have very much to discuss.” She pursed her lips. “You’re the nobleman who’s been keeping a young pair of Meltaimans, yes?”

...This was odd. “What makes you ask?” Leif asked in an attempt at evasiveness; he had no idea what her motivations might be.

“Let’s just say I’m a friend of theirs,” Tatiana said, glowering. “Who received a very concerning letter some months ago about your… ah, shall we be diplomatic and call it your guardianship of Zuzia? Imagine my surprise to hear that she and Phyllo were being kept in Medieville against their will! For the truly despicable crime of being foreign.”

“Kept against - “ Leif was suddenly sorely tempted to slam his forehead against the door. “They never sent you another letter, did they? I was only - you know what? Come in. They’re in the kitchen, they can explain this to you, and I can ask them why they only sent you one letter.” Leif turned from the doorway, motioning for the woman to follow him.

She obliged, a dubious scowl still etched across her face as Leif led her through the hall toward the kitchen in the back. Inside, at the sound of footsteps, Zuzanna snapped her gaze toward the doorway. It lingered on Leif for only a moment before falling beyond him, to Tatiana-- at which point a smile lit up her face.

“Tatiana!” she exclaimed, bouncing to her feet. Gods, how long it had been since they’d seen the Elacsite mage, not since the Lyellians’ caravan had ended its journey in Romola all those months ago. “You… you is here! In Medieville!”

Phyllo, who had finally gotten Silvia to stop fussing and lay quietly in his arms, whipped his head around in surprise when he heard the name fall from his wife’s lips. He gaped in open shock at Tatiana, then gave a bemused laugh. “We did not know you was coming- why you not say? Would have made more ready.”

Leif, lingering by the doorway with his arms crossed, suggested dryly, “Maybe she was just imitating the lack of letters you two apparently sent to her?”

Phyllo looked up at the Kythian archmage in confused bafflement, while Tatiana slipped around him, striding over toward the Meltaimans. “I didn’t want to… raise the interest of any authorities who might be reading letters to you,” she said vaguely, before beaming as her eyes settled on Silvia. “Oh! He’s gorgeous.”

“She.” Zuzia grinned. “Her name is Silvia. She turn one month old yesterday.”

“Such a pretty baby!” Tatiana cooed… before bristling as she glimpsed back at Leif. “I do hope you’ve not deemed the infant a threat, too, Lord Jade?”

Leif rolled his eyes. “For ‘Woo’s sake - Zuzanna, Phyllo, would the two of you like to explain that we settled the issue of prison guard versus legal guardian a good few months ago, so Miss - Kendal? - doesn’t feel the need to try and escape off with you into the night?”

“Oh!” Zuzanna’s smile grew, so that the girl was nearly glowing. “It is okay, Tatiana. Leif is not prison guard. He is teacher!” Giddy as a child on Woomas, she sidled up to Phyllo and gently took the half-awake infant into her arms. “He is even going to be grandpa to baby,” the girl added cheerily. “Because we haves no family here!”

Phyllo, letting his arms fall as Zuzanna took charge of the baby, gave an awkward laugh. “Ah… sorry for not sending another letter to makes clear? We were… upset before. But has realized we were confused. Or… not confused, but that Leif not as bad as Dexter and high lords. He know we are not danger for Kyth now.”

“So… you’re not here against your will?” Tatiana did not look entirely convinced yet.

“Leif is friend,” Zuzanna confirmed. “We might even stays once he is not guardian. In Medieville. Because he teach me!” Shushing Silvia as the baby let out a short cry, the girl asked, “How long you is in town? Because--” She looked back toward Phyllo. “This is perfect!”

Phyllo’s mouth twitched slightly. “Zuzia, maybe we are being to apologize to Leif? Before discussing visiting with old friends. I think Tatiana gets wrong idea and Leif gets not-so-warm greeting.”

“... Oh.” Zuzanna’s beaming smile turning into a sheepish grin, she turned to face Leif. “Sorry. We, ah-- should have write again. But… got so distracted, we just… did not think?” She rocked Silvia back and forth. “Um. This-- if we do nicer introductions-- Leif, this is Tatiana Kendal. She is from Elacs, but works now in Lyell caravans. As mage. She is the one who suggest Kyth to us! And… Tatiana, this is Leif. My prison guard turn tutor turn grandpa to baby!”

“More or less,” Leif agreed. “Uhm...pleasure to meet you, Miss Kendal.”

“And you as well.” Tatiana’s expression had softened considerably. “Sorry for the, ah, misunderstanding.” She leveled a withering look toward Zuzia and Phyllo. “Trying to keep me on my toes by sending me snarling into the home of a high lord, hm? Glad to see you two are still very earnest whilst fostering absolutely zero common sense.”

Zuzanna smirked. “This is why I have guardian. Because I am child in Kyth, after all.”

Phyllo sighed. “We really are sorry, Tatiana. And Leif. It has been… busy few months. Last one especially.” His face split in a wide yawn, and he rubbed his eyes wearily. “Not slept more than three hours at a time since Silvia was born. She is very demanding.” He quirked a smile. “Take after noble grandpa. She want to be a princess.”

“Oh, no, you can’t blame that on me,” Leif protested. “I would never teach someone to be noisy. Now, if she starts demanding birds, I will take full responsibility for that.”

“She sound like a bird when she’s angry,” Zuzia pointed out, kissing the little girl’s forehead. “But--” She smiled at Tatiana again. “Like I was saying. This perfect timing! You will still be in town tomorrow morning, I hope?”

“Carvan’s stopping for a few days to offload,” Tatiana agreed. “This is one of the biggest stops on the northeastern continent route that Sansone’s running this year. Largest city until we hit Tiraspol in September.”

“Good!” Zuzanna turned her attention to Leif. “She can come with us tomorrow, Leif? Please?”

“It’s your event - or your baby’s, rather,” Leif pointed out. “If you want Miss Kendal there, she’s certainly welcome.”

Phyllo smiled broadly, turning to Tatiana to explain. “Is Silvia’s official Wooist baptism. With priest and church and everything.” The young man positively glowed in spite of the heavy bags under his eyes. “After so many years in Meltaim I never thought I would have child, and especially did not think my child could be made Wooist and washed in Woo-blessed waters!”

“Oooh, exciting.” Tatiana grinned. “Of course I’ll come.” She raised a brow. “Shall I invite Sansone, too? He’ll be so excited. Why, he might even get you a gift! And Lyellians don’t joke about gifts.” She cooed to the baby: “Do you want a pretty woocifix necklace that weighs more than you do, precious?”

Phyllo laughed outright at this, looking to Leif with an amused expression. “Sansone is boss of caravan. He is very kind man but… strong personality. How you say… enthusiastic?” He grinned. “If he want to come, he can come. Just warn him that if he says hello to our guardian, not be offended if Leif does not shake hand.”

“It’s nothing against anyone else,” Leif assured Tatiana. “And I can manage if need-be, as long as I have my gloves, but I do have a...sensitivity issue I try not to antagonize.”

“I’ll do my best to caution him,” Tatiana promised. “But… my deepest apologies in advance if he still tries to hug you like a drunken fool, Lord Leif. He’s…. friendly. And I think he has a bit of a soft spot for Zuzia and Phyllo.” She laughed. “All season he’s been talking about them to our new employees. The little Meltaiman lovebirds he rescued off the side of the road. You two are going to become an Alesci caravan legend, I swear.” She grew a little sheepish. “Particularly since I’ve been huffing about how I'm going to ah, rescue you. Everyone’s… pretty invested by now.” A beat. “... The church might get crowded, once word spreads.”

Indeed, the chapel was well-packed the next morning, although at least Sansone managed to refrain from folding Leif in a bear hug, merely beaming at the man as he chattered in broken Kythian about his “excites” and how “relief” he was when Tatiana clarified the supposed hostage situation. True to the Elacsite mage’s predictions, however, the Alesci boss was less able to restrain himself from presenting Zuzia and Phyllo with an ostentatious gift, Sansone grinning as, before the service began, he handed them a glimmering metal woocifix on a chain.

“Good quality!” he assured them, as if anything else would be a crime. “She will has whole life! Gift from Uncle Sansone!”

Phyllo smiled with amused indulgence; doubtless this woocifix was worth more than the couple’s entire net worth. In a fragmented pidgin of Lyellian and Kythian he replied, “Thank you, Sansone- without your help and friendship we would not have gotten this far.”

But then it was time for the ceremony to officially begin, and Phyllo had to leave his old friend to approach the altar at the head of the room. As was ceremonial, he was dressed in stark white, with only a few trims of silver and gold to break up the color. It made his coffee colored skin look even darker, but the silver brought out matching shades in his eyes so that the whole ensemble was far from unflattering. It had taken a bit of finagling to work out a way to cover the brand on his forehead- within the church one was not supposed to wear a hat or head covering of any kind save for a woman’s modesty veil if she chose to wear one- but eventually Leif had, with the help of Baron Marson’s potionsmistress, managed to concoct a cosmetic that lasted a while longer against the melting effect of the spells on the blank brand. It would still eventually run off, but it should last through the ceremony with no problem.

Little Silvia, like her father, was dressed in white, her outfit a cute lacy confection that Morgaine had gifted to the Panems via her connections to the Medieville weaver’s guild. She observed the proceedings with curious blue-grey eyes, blinking owlishly and giving an occasional yawn from her father’s arms.

While Phyllo stood with Silvia on the right side of the font, Zuzanna beside him, Leif stood to the left, looking on as the baby girl’s Woofather. He was dressed in simpler white attire, the color broken up by a few patches of gray, including his gloves, to keep it from too-much resembling priest or parent ensemble.

It was nice, if a little surreal, to be at the head of a church; it would once have been the place he did his life’s work, after all. Mostly, however, Leif could ignore that. Welcoming someone into the ‘Woo’s flock was a joyful event, and this one especially, considering what it meant to Phyllo.

The priest standing behind the altar gave the traditional prayer, welcoming everyone into the room and announcing the baptism of little Silvia Panem into the flock of the Woo. Through this process the child almost dozed off several times, prompting Phyllo to give a gentle smile and bounce the infant a little to wake her. When the time came for the actual baptism, however- though the water had been warmed magically for the baby’s benefit- she was wide awake. As dictated by tradition in most of the southern parts of Kyth, the baptism was a submersion, meaning little Silvia got the rather unexpected experience of being dunked completely into the font of holy water. She came up sputtering and squalling, but once the priest indicated the baptism was complete, Leif quietly drew his wand and cast a spell that gently warmed the water out of the baby’s clothing and off her skin.

With that, the priest glanced toward Zuzanna, and as he did, a smile ticked at the corners of the girl’s lip. Casting a knowing look toward Leif, she took a step forward, causing Phyllo to jolt a little, and had his arms not been full of Silvia he might’ve tried to reach out and stop her. What on earth was she doing, this wasn’t part of Silvia’s baptism ceremony? Zuzanna, however, seemed to know exactly what was happening, beaming as she came to a still in front of the font. She looked to the priest, expectant. Barely able to fight back an out-and-out grin toward Phyllo as the cleric began to speak.

“Mrs. Zuzanna Panem, wife of Phyllo Panem and daughter of Aleksy and Izabella Starek- is it your sincere wish to open your heart to the love of the Lord ‘Woo, and take your place under the protection of his feathers?”

“Yes.” She and Leif had practiced this several times over the past few weeks, ever since she’d broached the idea with him after Phyllo had mentioned wanting to set up a baptism for Silvia. They had not, however, told her husband, Zuzia glibly deciding it would be best as a surprise-- and from the look on his face as she stole sidelong glimpses back towards him now, her husband could most definitely be counted as not just surprised, but stunned. “I do wishes this,” she added.

Phyllo gawped openly, his dark gray eyes wide and round. Then, a small smile quirked at the corner of his mouth, and he gave his wife a smirk that didn’t at all match the tenderness in his eyes. You minx, he thought wryly.

The priest held out a hand to take Zuzanna’s, and then solemnly intoned, “Zuzanna, I now baptise you in the name of the Lord ‘Woo, for forgiveness of your sins, and the protection and love of his holy feathers.”

Then, giving her a slight lift of an eyebrow in brief warning, the priest put a hand to the back of her head, and gently dunked her head face first into the font. Zuzanna braced herself as her head was submerged beneath the water, distinctly grateful that-- unlike her daughter-- she was much too large to be immersed outright, and she had persuaded Leif that it would be very disruptive to the entire ceremony for them to have to shift from the church to a service out at the riverfront. After several moments, the priest brought her dripping head back up, and she reached up to wipe at her eyes as the water dripped from her mahogany curls. There was a great clamor of applause from those watching in the pews, and as the priest finished up a last address to the crowd, Phyllo stepped up to his wife with a lopsided smile.

“You sneaky creature,” he muttered to her.

“Now I’m not just an apostate,” she returned cheerily. “I’m a heathen. With my heathen baby and husband.” Zuzia placed a hand on the still-fussing Silvia’s kicking leg. “And I was only thinking practically, you know. A two-for-one deal! Sansone would approve.”

Phyllo chortled, and as the priest gave the signal that brought everyone in the room shuffling to their feet, he gave his wife a feather-light kiss on the cheek. “I love you, Zuzia. Thank you. So much. For everything.”

“Don’t thank me,” she replied. The girl was almost smirking now. “Thank Lord Woo. He’s my god now, you know.” She looked to Leif. “You are official Woofather now!” Zuzia clapped her hands together once. “Now you can never escapes us, Master Leif.”

With an expression of mock surprise, Leif gasped, “Ah, no - it was all a trap! I ought to have seen it coming - but I suppose it’s too late now.” He smirked, but as he came over the join them, the expression became more genuine. “In all seriousness - congratulations, and welcome to the faith. I knew I’d bring you to the side of bird-worship eventually.”

Epilogue:

SPOILER: Click to show

Zuzanna’s 16th birthday, in the last week of September, brought with it good news: after a conferral based on regular reports Leif had been sending south, the powers-at-be who’d mandated her containment agreed that it was safe to let the archmage live freely. Despite the fact that she and Phyllo now got on well with Zuzia’s mandatory guardian, this was welcome news; Leif and Kirin’s modest house had been growing too small for comfort in recent months, especially with little Silvia a factor. Zuzanna rather suspected the older archmage and his husband would be vastly relieved when the baby was merely a visitor to their house, not a squalling resident of it.

… And Zuzia and Phyllo were looking forward to having some privacy, too.

The remainder of their Lyellian caravan money, plus the odds and ends Phyllo had earned over the past several months running errands for merchants in the marketplace, was thus turned toward finding a place for the pair to call their own. They knew they didn’t have nearly enough for a freestanding house as Leif and Kirin lived in, nor even much of a proper flat; but after careful poring and searching, they managed to find a one-room apartment over a tea shop. It was… quaint, to say the least, and the roof was leaky, and its only view was of a shadowy alley. But it smelled nice-- of sugar and cinnamon and steeping tea-- and it was in a safe part of town, and best of all, it was all theirs.

So there was, then, just one matter left to address.

“I can’t believe it’s today,” Zuzanna breathed to Phyllo one morning during the second week of October. The air outside was beginning to grow crisp, the trees gone rainbowed and the days grown short. She and Phyllo were curled up atop their bed, nestled beneath a thick quilt as Silvia snoozed nearby in her bright green bassinet. “I feel like we’ve been waiting forever.”

He nodded emphatically, “It’s been… a very, very strange year. And that’s by our standards,” he added with a smirk. His expression sobered, and he looked thoughtful. “We’ve… we’ve really done it, Zuzu. It took us almost two years, and a lot of pain and heartache, but we’re free. We’re finally, really, completely free. To live together, openly, as a family. No more lies, no more hiding, no more running.”

“You’re going to make an honest woman out of me.” Zuzia giggled, sitting up as Silvia let out a small noise from the cradle. “Misses Phyllo Panem. Officially.” As something occurred to her, she ruffled his long, cornrowed hair. “You’re marrying me, Phyllo!” she exclaimed. “And I’m not only the daughter of a margrave, I’m also the former ward of a Kythian high lord. So-- you’re practically a noble now! Your dream come true.”

Phyllo blinked in surprise, then rolled his eyes and nuzzled his wife so that the faint stubble on his chin tickled her neck. “Nope. Nuh-uh. I abdicate my position, thank you, I will pass.” He grinned. “I understand politics is dreadfully boring. I’ll just stick to making cookies for my two favorite girls. Or well, for one of them. Silvia can have some when she’s older.”

“When she has her first bite, it’ll be like old times,” Zuzanna joked, standing up and lifting the infant from the cradle. “Just like when she was in Mama’s tummy.” She fondly stroked the girl’s thick hair, so much like her father’s in texture-- before turning on her heel as a knock sounded at the front door. “Oooh.” She bounced the baby as she strode to answer it… a walk which, given the apartment’s modest size, took all of about three seconds. “I’ll bet that’s your favorite person, Silvs.”

Shifting Silvia into one arm as she undid the latch and deadbolt, Zuzanna was all smiles as she pulled the door open-- and found Leif in the hall with his satchel over his shoulder and a potion bottle in hand. “I do have nice clothes, they’re in the satchel,” he said, raising his free hand in a preemptive defensive gesture. “I figured I should try to avoid getting them a mess before the ceremony even starts.”

“And here I was, afraid you would go see your hawks in your dress clothes.” Zuzanna laughed, stepping aside so that Leif could come in. She nudged her chin toward the potion. “A gift?” she teased.

“Yes, but not for you - that comes later. ...Or, well, I guess it will produce an effect you’ll like - but it isn’t for you.” Smiling at Silvia, he said, “I understand someone’s getting fussy more often than she should, hm? Morgaine said it sounded like colic; I did some reading and found out there’s a potion that helps it.” He fished around in the satchel, carefully drawing out a little metal construct - it looked like a wide, shallow dish supported by three long, curved legs. “When she gets fussy, just pour some of the potion and about a half-spoonful of water into the dish here, and then light a candle under it; the vapors from the potion should help calm Silvia down. The potionmistress supervised me brewing it, don’t worry.”

Phyllo, who was climbing out of bed while his wife and Leif talked, gave the archmage a smile. “Thank you, Leif. That will be a big help. I don’t know what it is, I’ve heard babies cry before but for some reason when Silvia cries it’s like I can’t help but panic and want to fix it now.”

He turned towards the drawer in one corner of the room, pulling out a shirt- he normally slept without unless it was very, very cold- while Zuzia accepted the potion from Leif, smiling broadly at him.

“I am glad you come early,” she chirped. “You can hold Silvia while Phyllo and I get ready. So she will not cry in her cradle.” The woman held the lightly fussing baby out toward Leif. “She like Grandpa. Don’t you, precious?”

“Hopefully - I mean, I haven’t tried to have her perch on my arm like a bird, so she shouldn’t have too much reason to dislike me.” Leif took the baby carefully; it had taken him a little time to be sure he could hold her without triggering his oversensitivity, but it was generally alright so long as she wasn’t making too much noise. “Though that makes me wonder, should I teach you to hold birds once you’re bigger, Silvia?” he asked the baby, quietly but cheerfully.

Phyllo laughed, taking out the jar of cosmetic for his brand and carefully applying some to his forehead. “That will be something. Little Silvia Panem, falconer.”

Silvia, four months old now, responded to Leif’s cheerful demeanor with a wide smile, gurgling happily. Her father smirked, “Seems she says yes.”

“No birds until she is older,” Zuzia chided lightly, strolling over to the drawer and pulling out a wool dress to wear over her undershift. It was the nicest that she owned-- and somehow, miraculously, free of any spit-up or drool stains-- and so she supposed it was probably the most suitable for a wedding. “You are going to be dressed nicer than the bride and groom, Leif,” she called over her shoulder. “I think it is unfair advantage, though. You is noble. While we is just sad peasants. With endless free supply of leftover tea from nice Mistress Gardner downstairs.”

“Well, about that - not the tea, but the clothes...” Carefully, he pulled up the flap of his satchel and wriggled out a little book. “This has some spells for - admittedly only temporarily - adding some magical effects to fabric - changing colors, adding sparkles, extra flowingness to skirts...there’s also something about fireproofing material, which is meant to coordinate with spells for setting fabric on fire. I’m only telling you about that one to tell you ‘no’ in advance. Other than that - let me know what you two want and I’ll make it happen. No need for the bride to bother with rune chains on her wedding day.”

Zuzanna nearly squealed. “Orange?” she demanded, holding the dress out toward Leif. “With-- with-- sparkle, and--” She grinned toward Phyllo. “I can design you, too? I will make us coordinate, you will love it.”

Phyllo tilted his head. “You will make me orange and sparkly too? I am not sure orange will look as good on me as on Silvia.”

“Coordinate,” Zuzia said. “Not match.” She kissed his cheek. “I gave birth to your squawking toad child, my love. Can’t I pretty please design your wedding outfit?”

“I can always take enchantments off and put new ones on,” Leif offered. “I’d prefer you didn’t drive me to the pull with indecisiveness or a desire to see all the options - but I can fix it if it doesn’t turn out quite the way you had in mind.”

“Leif is agreeing with me!” Zuzanna seemed delighted. “Is a first! Now you must say yes, Phyllo. You cannot ruin this history moment!”

Phyllo sighed, kissing his wife on the cheek. “Very well. I will give this to you as a wedding present. You can make my wedding outfit. Just no sparkles, please?”

“I will be… what is the word-- moderate, with sparkles. Promise.” She looked back toward Leif. “Thank you, Leif. This is best gift. I will have to draw you perfect rune chains as my thanks during next lesson.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Leif said with a smile. “I just thought, well, you know - you ought to have things...nice, on your wedding day. Now that you have the freedom to do it a little more luxuriously, and enjoy the whole thing.”

Swapping the dress in her hand for Silvia, Zuzanna resisted the urge to hug the older archmage, settling on cuddling her daughter close instead. “Thank you,” the girl said again. “For-- for everything. I know… we did not get along, at first. But--” She swallowed hard. “I am very glad, Leif. That I had to be your ward. It is strange for me to think that if Phyllo and I had just… gone on to Elacs like we wanted, we would not know you. We-- we pick Kyth because it is far from Meltaim. And… and safe. But…” She smiled crookedly. “It was just a place, you know? An end. Now, though…”

For a moment, Zuzia hesitated. Her eyes drifting slowly between Phyllo, and Leif, and Silvia in her arms. Tears pricked at her eyes, and she abruptly blinked them back. No crying, Zuzia, she scolded herself. Don’t turn into a gushing fool.

“In Meltaim,” she said finally, “they have… strange ideas about family. And I always thought them-- mad. The way the margrave just-- picked me and told me I was his. It did not make sense to me ever. Not… not really. I thought: that is not how it works. You cannot just pick your family. But…” She took a deep breath. “Meltaim is not right. It is wrong to just… take a child away from loving parents. I believe this more than ever, since Silvia was born. But I think I understand now, too. That family is not just what you’re born with. That… that as you get older, you can pick. You can make new people family.” Zuzia laughed softly. “Even former prison guards.”

Leif laughed a little, too, but his tone was earnest as he agreed, “People with the most opposite blood can be the best family - I don’t know what it is about Medieville that draws all the right people together, but thank the ‘Woo for it; I couldn’t imagine being surrounded by so many people and still being happy when I was a child - I guess it just needed to be the right people. Former bristling badgers, even,” Leif added with a grin.

Shifting so he could look more directly at Phyllo, the older archmage said, “And don’t think you’re getting left out of this - you’re family now, too, whether you like it or not. That means you have to endure your prison guard-in-law telling you he’s impressed by how far you’ve come, and that he knows you’re going to go even farther, and that he’s looking forward to the day he can stop by your bakery on the way home.”

The young man felt his face heat, and he chuckled softly. “Three years ago, my life was nothing but anger. I keep myself sane by resenting the Meltaimans, and letting that anger keep away the lonely, and the hopelessness. When I meet Zuzia, she seems to be one of a kind. The only person in the world that look at me and see not a brand, not a hemofilik, but Phyllo.” He gave a lopsided smile. “But then we travel, and meet the traders of Lyell and the people in Medieville, and I see I was wrong.”

He wrapped his arms around Zuzanna, planting a gentle kiss on Silvia’s forehead. “There is much kindness in the world, if you look. Our way has not always been easy, but I would change nothing that has happened.” Phyllo’s eyes were shimmering, and he blinked a few times before adding with a thick laugh, “Not even brain turned off moment with grumpy kite.”

Laughing not-entirely-steadily himself, Leif said, “Well - I’m still sorry Hadrian hurt you, but I am glad you had that ‘brain-turned-off moment’. You needed - deserved - to talk about that. ...They say the ‘Woo works in mysterious ways, and that whatever happens, he’s set ways to pull through it - I’m glad those ways got you here eventually. It’s...this is a good place. And - last sentimental thing I’m going to say for now, it’s back to sarcasm after this - but it’s even better with the three of you living here.”

“And now you could not get rid of us even if you try,” Zuzia joked. “But I am glad, Leif. That you feels the same.” Slowly, the archmage swept the room again, her eyes drifting once more to Leif, then Phyllo, and finally Silvia in her own arms. “Family,” she said softly. “This is best family I could ever dream, I think.”

Phyllo nodded in agreement. “Countries are just lines people draw on maps, and magic is luck of birth. Valzick, Meltaiman, Kythian, archmage, nonmage- we all people. Where we are all together is home.”

[Avery]

Two-part collab with Shinko - featuring the Vastchers, in spring of 1347. =3 It is legitimately cute. \o/

Fatherhood: Part One

SPOILER: Click to show

“Two weeks?” Safira Vastcher asked, frowning at her husband as she sat at the edge of their bed, buttoning up her billowing nightgown. “They really need you in Illusiem for two weeks?” Her dark brow creased, she set a hand on her belly, conspicuously round beneath the folds of her dress. “You’re going to miss Cyd’s birthday,” the woman added. “She turns six on the ninth, Dirk. She’s excited to celebrate.”

The man sighed, rubbing the scars on his left shoulder distractedly as he set his starched shirt down across the back of the futon across the room. “I know,” he muttered softly. “I hate it. Having to leave on such short notice and at such a time. But… these are literally the first Lyellian traders to dare to come into Ruom since the siege in Cesthen started almost three years ago. We need to make sure that the minor lords are doing as Father’s asked and bolstering their knights and militias to secure the roads. And since they’re going to be in Illusiem and one of House Erling’s few surviving reeves is stationed there, Father figures we can secure his loyalty and check on the traders at the same time. Apparently he’s been… lukewarm in his letters.”

“It’s just so far.” Safira sighed, pulling down the blankets and nestling beneath them. “I mean-- I know Illusiem’s only a few days’ ride from Cesthen, but from here in Urvane...” A little more than half a year into its reformation after being granted to Dirk’s father, Baldemar, the capital city of Cesthen had yet to be deemed safe enough for the newly-minted Vastchers to move to permanently. While both Dirk and Baldemar alternated traveling there on a regular basis to oversee repairs, their respective wives and children had yet to set a single toe into the House’s new seat. “I’ll be gigantic by the time you get back,” Safira said after a moment. “The midwife told me if she didn’t know better, she would think it’s twins from how humongous I’ve already gotten. I can’t believe I’m only six months along.”

Dirk couldn’t help but smile. “The healers are certain they’ve only heard one heartbeat in addition to your own when they scan you. But clearly it’s going to be a big child.” He sat down on the bed beside his wife, though he didn’t bother pulling up the covers. “I’m Father’s heir- this sort of thing is my responsibility. As the king so charmingly put it, according to the notes Father took, we are expected to fix the damage to Cesthen and the other cities in the former Erling territories ‘within a reasonable timeframe.’ I can’t imagine that was anything but a tactful way of saying ‘get it done as fast as humanly possible or there will be hell to pay.’”

“Oh, my father can go choke on his rhetoric. Like he could do a decent job fixing up a city-- he spends all his time hiding in Rakine these days.” Safira snorted. “But…” The woman narrowed her pale blue eyes, studying Dirk as he slipped beneath the blankets. “Illusiem-- that’s… the third largest city in Erling-- er, our territory, right? And it’s… safe? I mean-- safer than Cesthen, or… any of the other big ones?”

“It got off surprisingly well during the rebellion,” Dirk confirmed. “It’s why the reeve- apparently his name is Master Cornell or something- survived the war. It’s a big city because it’s situated around a natural hot spring and both the spring and the sulfur vents are useful to healers and alchemists, but it’s… not much of an economic or military hotbed. So it wasn’t worth the rebel’s time to do more than ensure the people there released the slaves.”

“A hot spring sounds nice,” Safira said wryly. She hesitated a moment then, a thoughtful look slipping over her face, before she reached out a tentative hand, draping her fingers over Dirk’s wrist. “What if… what if…” She took a deep breath. “What if you took Cydney with you? To… Illusiem.” Hurriedly, as if she were expecting a swift denial, the woman prattled on, “I mean, if it’s-- safe like you say. And Cydney… she’s been so… so excited over her birthday, and she’ll be sad that you’re leaving-- and she’s already so… insecure, e-ever since Rakine, I just… I just…”

“Take Cyd?” he repeated, lifting an eyebrow. He rubbed his scars, looking pensive. “She’ll be bored to tears with all the talking and politicking. I’d have to find someone else to bring along to occupy her when I’m on business. But there… is going to be a faire, to celebrate the merchants returning and Ruom getting back on its feet. And hells, she might enjoy the hot spring too…”

“She’s still anxious, Dirk,” Safira said. “I mean-- I know we’ve explained to her-- gods, dozens of times that we’re married now, that you’re her papa now, but she…” The woman shook her head slowly. Sadly. “She doesn’t even remember Sutter anymore, I don’t think. What it is to have a father. And her time at the palace… she was already shy, but my father just… destroyed whatever confidence she did have.” Safira gulped. “Our baby’s due in June. And I just-- I’d… really like Cydney to feel comfortable by then. With… you, as her father. And I love her more than anything in the world, but when I’m here for her as a crutch-- she… she will always go to me first, not you. I’ll be the one she sees as her-- parent, not you. But… if it were just you and her-- having fun, and… bonding, well… I think maybe it would… sink in? Solidify in her head, that you’re her parent, too, and...” She looked away. “I’m sorry. I probably sound stupid, don’t I?”

“No, I see where you’re coming from,” Dirk said. “If I’m being honest, it’s been… hard for me a little, too. I love her, don’t get me wrong, but part of me still has a hard time clicking that she’s my daughter now instead of my baby cousin. She tolerates affection and comfort from me but it’s obvious she prefers it from you- even if you’re rather hard-pressed to hold her in your lap recently.”

Safira nodded, a relieved smile breaking between her lips. “Right. And-- I think if we spun it to her as… a birthday gift-- a birthday trip with Papa-- she… she would be excited, Dirk. That you want to spend time with her. My godsdamned father convinced her t-that… that love is… revocable. And I worry about her. That she feels… inadequate, or-- a burden. So you making the gesture to take her somewhere special… I think it’d mean a lot to her.”

“I’ll see if I can arrange it,” Dirk promised. “I do still need to find someone to keep an eye on her while I’m attending to formalities. A nurse maybe, one of her cousins or my mother would make it less of a one-on-one trip.”

“Perhaps just a maidservant?” Safira suggested. “I worry that if Cyd’s with a familiar nurse, she’ll cling to her. And a maid should be able to watch her well enough while you’re occupied.”

“That works,” Dirk agreed. “And I can spin it as a semi-vacation for the maid since she’ll be at liberty when Cydney is with me. So that whoever I bring along doesn’t decide to complain about how babysitting isn’t in her contract.”

Safira laughed. “Pick an indentured. She’ll be so happy to get out of the city that she won’t whine for a moment.” Unlike the noble family’s regular servants, those who’d agreed to an indentured contract-- a number of them former slaves of House Cantour-- required express permission from their lords to leave Urvane city limits.

Her husband actually smirked a bit at this. “Good notion. You are as always cleverer in this sort of thing than I am.” He hesitated, looking a bit conflicted. “Do… you really think she’ll enjoy it? Spending time with just me? She’s been clinging to you like a tick since she got back from Rakine…”

“She might be a little homesick,” Safira said. “But… yes. I do think she’ll like it, Dirk. And-- it’ll be good for her. She needs to be comfortable with more than just me. I… I want her to be able to seek reassurance and affection from you, too. And for her to feel like you’re her papa just as much as you’ll be the baby’s papa.”

“Alright,” he agreed. “I’ll get it arranged, and we can surprise her with it tomorrow at dinner- her special birthday trip with Papa.”

***

Cydney was indeed very surprised by the announcement at supper the next night-- although, true to Safira’s prediction, the little girl seemed rather excited, too. After all, Dirk had made countless trips away from Urvane since House Vastcher’s inception, and Cydney had been invited on precisely zero of these jaunts, knowing of them only in the souvenirs and gifts Dirk occasionally brought back for her.

“Is… is Mama gonna come?” the little girl asked after the initial astonishment and delight receded.

“Nope, Cyddie,” Safira replied levelly. “Just you and Papa-- won’t that be fun?”

Cydney pursed her lips. “Uh-huh.” She glanced toward Dirk, seated across the table from her. “W-will I still get a cake? On my birthday?”

“Of course,” Dirk replied with a wide smile. “What sort of birthday doesn’t have a cake? No birthday that I’m in charge of. And since it’ll just be you and me, that means you can have as much as you want- you won’t have to share with certain greedy hogs we both know.”

“Aw, man!” Dirk’s younger brother Amicus groused from further down the table.

Cydney let a small grin through, shooting it toward Amicus. “You’ll just hafta eat oats instead. Like a real piggie!”

“Be nice, Cyd,” Safira chided, but it was apparent that the dark-haired woman was only barely refraining a laugh. She reached out a hand toward her daughter beside her, smoothing the girl’s frizzy blonde curls. “You’ll have fun, hon. Mama’s sure of it. And don’t spend a moment worrying about me here, okay? Mama will be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Cydney cocked her head.

“Positive,” Safira said firmly.

Two days later, Cydney and Dirk departed from Urvane Manor shortly after dawn, accompanied by an indentured maidservant to help care for Cydney as well a contingent of Vastcher knights, all of whom were dressed in the fuchsia-and-cream livery of the fledgling House. It was still a work in progress acquiring a full and proper garrison of knights-- especially since Baldemar hardly wanted to simply snatch all of House Cantour’s loyal men-- but they had enough now for a respectable escort, at least… and they had a modest flock of gryphons, too, inherited along with the Erling lands. The beast’s feathers caught beneath the early morning son as Dirk belted Cydney down to the saddle, the little girl fidgeting with the goggles her stepfather had fastened tightly over her eyes.

“Do I hafta wear them?” she asked. “They’re squeezing.”

“Yes, you do,” he replied gently. “It’s for safety, Cyd. I have to wear them too, y’know. Don’t worry, it’s just until we get to Illusiem.”

“‘Kay.” Cydney sighed. “How long’ll it take to get there?”

“We should arrive a little bit before lunch time,” Dirk replied, as he climbed into the saddle behind his stepdaughter. “So a couple of hours. If it helps, I could tell you some stories while we’re flying? So you don’t have to think about the strap pinching. Whatever stories you want to hear.”

Cydney agreed, wheedling a steady supply of yarns out of Dirk over the next several hours, most of them fairytales that she’d clearly heard many times before-- which only made her giggle when Dirk inserted novel twist endings, the little girl insisting that he retell them right (“The lizard turns into a prince, the princess doesn’t turn into a lizard!”). In addition to passing the time, the chatter also helped distract Cydney from what turned out to be fairly choppy skies, the flock of gryphons assailed by heavy crosswinds that led toward several carefully maneuvered altitude shifts along with not-infrequent formation shifts, as the knights and Dirk attempted to find the least dangerous-- and nauseating-- flight path. If Cydney noticed her stepfather’s white-knuckled grip on the reins, or the way his stories were occasionally interrupted by orders shouted over his shoulder at the knights, the little girl didn’t show it.

“You’re good at flying,” she announced to him once they’d finally landed near the rear stables of a well-appointed inn, and Dirk had unbelted her from the saddle. It was a little bit after noon, the sky above a clear and cloudless blue. Cydney added, “Better’n Uncle Elias. He keeped swervin’ when I hadta fly with him.”

The heir of House Vastcher gave a wry laugh. “I learned some gryphon flying when I was in the army during the war. I commanded a whole squad of soldiers, you know. So I had to learn. But I bet your uncle was just trying to avoid rebel air patrols. To keep you safe.”

He started towards the inn, adding, “You hungry? Once I rent some rooms for us we can get some lunch.”

Cydney, flicking a final gaze at the knights as they set about stabling the gryphons, shrugged before jogging ahead to fall in step beside Dirk. “Are we stayin’ here?” she asked, jerking a thumb at the inn’s main building. It was clearly well-kept, with a stone-brick exterior and latticed windows of which the frames seemed to be sporting a fresh coat of paint, but by the standards of Urvane Manor it might have been but a measly shack. “There’s no fence! Or… knights.”

“Yes, we’re staying here,” Dirk said, an amused smile on his face. “This is an inn- it has lots of rooms where people can pay money to stay for a little while. Merchants stay here too, and maybe some of the more well-off military officers. So it doesn’t look much like a noble manor, and it doesn’t have knights, but that’s why we brought our own. They’ll get rooms right beside ours so that they can still keep us safe if we shout for them.”

“Oh.” Cydney mulled for a moment, then nodded in understanding as they neared the front door. A large, vibrant sign over it was painted with an image of a bed, a disembodied smiling face floating above the rendering; a second sign beside it featured a sketching of a frothing mug of ale. “What’s it say?” Cydney asked, pointing toward the block lettering carved above the two advertisements.

“It says ‘The Knight’s Ascension Inn’,” he replied. Indicating the second sign, he added, “And that one just says that they serve alcohol here. Buuut I don’t think we’ll be partaking, you might be turning one year older but you’re still not quite old enough for that.” He ruffled the girl’s blonde curls affectionately as they walked in.

“But I’m gonna be six,” Cydney said sagely.

And with that, the girl gave a visual sweep of the large, airy lobby that stretched before them. There was a dining area to the right, well-packed at this hour and abutted by an arrangement of faded but cushy-looking couches, while straight ahead there was a polished wooden staircase that led to the inn’s upper level. Finally, to the left sat several couches more, as well as a tall counter with a leather book and brass bell atop it.

Dirk’s stepdaughter raised a tawny brow. “We hafta sleep in here?”

Dirk looked down at her in mock surprise. “What, you don’t want to camp out on a couch? But wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Nuh-uh.” Cydney bit her lip, shrinking in against Dirk’s side as the gazes of a number of the chattering diners fell on the lord and his child. The little girl swallowed hard, her own eyes listing toward the tiled floor below. “Everyone’s s-staring at us,” she whispered.

Her stepfather sighed, kneeling down and giving her shoulder a squeeze. “I was only joking Cyd, we don’t have to sleep in here. We’ll get our own rooms, with nobody to stare at us, I promise. And you don’t have to be afraid, okay? I’m right here, and nobody is going to bother you.”

“‘Kay,” Cydney murmured, reaching out to gingerly hook her fingers through his.

She glimpsed over her shoulder, stare falling back on the counter just as a dark-haired man hurried out from behind a beaded curtain to staff it; when the innkeeper’s own gaze settled on Dirk and Cydney, he looked halfway between awe and terror. He began to fuss with the leather logbook in front of him, his motions a bit too dramatic and sweeping to be anything else but a desperate attempt to look as though he weren’t suddenly a quivering mess of nerves.

Cydney whipped her attention back toward Dirk. “Could… could you carry me?” she asked, her voice feather-light.

“Sure,” Dirk agreed, though he privately hoped that he could draw Cydney out of her shell a little bit during this trip. The ex-soldier was still in pretty good shape, but even so carrying a five-going-on-six-year-old in his arms was no mean feat.

Still, in a way it was a little gratifying. She trusted him enough to ask him for comfort when she was nervous. Granted, had Safira been present Dirk was under no delusions that he would’ve been Cydney’s first choice, but wasn’t that the point of this venture? To get her used to looking to him as someone she could rely on?

Picking up the child, he walked over to the innkeeper and gave a cool, polite smile.

“How much for two rooms? One for myself and my daughter, and one for our retinue.”

“Ah-- that… that would be… five silvers, my lord,” the man stammered, trying-- and failing-- to seem as though he weren’t ogling Dirk’s fine clothing and jewelry. Although the lord had dressed down for travel, his very high status was still apparent in spades. “P-per room. So… ten in all.” He added quickly, “We’re-- we’re Illusiem’s most upscale inn, so we’re… higher-priced than most, but our service is well worth it, I promise you.” A beat. “... My lord.”

“Very well,” Dirk replied, reaching into his coin purse with the hand that was not supporting Cydney. “Two adjacent rooms, then, for Lord Dirk Vastcher, Lady Cydney Vastcher, and retinue.”

As the name seemed to register in the proprietor’s head, if anything he went even paler. “Of c-course, my lord,” he said, reaching beneath the counter and coming back up with two silver keys. “I’ll give you our finest rooms-- on the upper level, in the rear. They’re v-very private. And…” He held the keys out toward Dirk. “If you need anything during your stay, just let me know, Lord Vastcher. My entire staff is at your service.”

The rooms letted to the Vastcher party were indeed quite nice by inn standards; after passing the key to the smaller one to the knights (and maidservant) as they finally strode in, with the Vastchers’ luggage in tow, Dirk led Cydney to the roomier of the two, which overlooked the back courtyard and was decorated homily, with kitschy artwork on the wood-paneled walls, a ceramic wash basin in the corner, and a wide, iron-framed bed tucked into a semi-private alcove. Cydney narrowed her eyes scrutinizingly as she drifted about the space, pausing after a few moments to run her fingers along the wool blanket that dressed the bed-- before her attention was caught only seconds later by a thick book that sat on the nightstand, its dark leather cover inlaid with gold-leaf lettering.

“They have stories here?” she asked Dirk eagerly.

Dirk glanced down at the book and chuckled. “In a manner of speaking, though not what you were hoping for I think. It’s a book of the holy writ of Carricon.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “But there are sure to be bards and minstrels at the faire in a few days, and you can hear as many stories as you like then.”

Cydney smiled, turning toward her stepfather. “Will there be fire-breathers? Amicus told me that Carmella told him that Becka told her that faires got people who breathe fire. Like dragons.”

Dirk laughed. “I can’t be certain, but there might be! But there’s sure to be jugglers, and dancers, and places where you can pet cute animals… and all sorts of things. Hey, if you’re bored right now, fire’s probably not a good idea inside but…”

He reached to his side, where he kept holstered a cedar wand. Holding it up to his mouth, he whispered a spell and blew gently. Bubbles, in all the colors of the rainbow blew from the tip of the wand, swirling about the room. Cydney bit back an outright grin, her eyes rapidly flicking between the magically-borne artefacts as they slowly began to pop in bursts of vivid light. Her blue eyes twinkling like stars, she climbed up onto the bed and sat with her legs crossed, either not noticing or-- more than likely-- simply not caring that she was still wearing her dirt-caked boots.

“Didja know Uncle Kyland can juggle?” she asked brightly. “He showed me an’ Amicus with napkins when you was in Cesthen last month! After his birthday feast, ‘cos Mama said he’d had-- he’d had--” Her expression was as near to a smirk as a five-year-old could manage. “He drinked a whole bottle of grown-up drinks. He was very giggly.”

“Oh my,” Dirk replied, grinning. “Well, I’m impressed he was coordinated enough to juggle properly when he was giggly on grown-up drinks. That was a real treat you got though- I haven’t seen Uncle Kyland juggle since I was very young. Not much older than you are now, actually. I almost forgot he could do it.”

“He said he learned how in the army. With swords!” Cydney’s voice dropped to nearly a whisper, as if she were somehow afraid of offending Kyland’s pride as she solemnly supplied, “But Amicus said he was just eggs… eggs… eggs-zag’rating.” The girl yawned and leaned back against the headboard.

“I’m pretty sure the army doesn’t teach people how to juggle swords,” Dirk agreed. Without commenting on the child’s apparently sudden drowsiness- she had been up since before dawn, so it made sense- he shifted so that he was sitting against the headboard next to her. He gingerly reached for the girl’s boots to unlace them, adding, “I happen to know from my Papa that Uncle Kyland learned that trick when he was fourteen from a Lyellian carnival girl he had a crush on.”

“Lyell!” Stifling another yawn, Cydney chewed on her lip. “We’re gonna see Lyellians, right? And all their pretty stuff!” She reflected for a moment. “Maybe we could get Amicus a gift. ‘Cos he couldn’t come. And he won’t get birthday cake.”

“Yes, we are, and we certainly could if you want to,” Dirk said with a smile. “But the Lyellians aren’t here just yet- they’ll arrive tomorrow to start setting up, and then the faire will start the next day.”

He pulled off her boots and set them beside the bed. Putting a cautious arm around her shoulder- and hoping that Cydney wasn’t about to jerk away on impulse- he said, “For now, why don’t we get some rest after the long flight to get here? I can send the maid out to get some food if you’re hungry?”

“Can’t we look ‘round the city?” Cydney asked, rubbing at her eyes. “I thought you said we could go to the market, and look ‘round, and--”

“And we’ll be in town for two weeks,” Dirk interrupted with amusement. “We’ve got plenty of time for sightseeing, honey.” On impulse, he leaned over and kissed her forehead. “For now, I think you’re tired. You wouldn’t have much fun if you tried to look around right now anyway.”

Cydney turned her chin toward him, blonde brow creased in consternation. “I’m too old to take naps,” she announced, almost grimly. “I’m almost six. And… Amicus says only babies take naps.”

“Amicus likes to say things that he thinks will justify him being taken way more seriously than he deserves,” Dirk said with a snort. “Cydney, Papa is twenty-five and he still takes naps sometimes. When you’re tired, you sleep. Nothing baby-ish about that at all.”

The child considered. “... You’ll take a nap, too, then?”

“I might eat something first, but sure,” he said. “I’ll take a nap too.”

“‘Kay.” Cydney reached behind her, fussing with the feather-filled pillow for a moment before slowly lying down and nestling her cheek against it. “... Tell me a story?” she asked. The girl looked at the religious tome on the night table beside her. “But not from there. ‘Less it’s a parable. A good one.” A brief pause. “An’ you can’t make up your own ending ‘cos that’s sac… sac…”

“Sacrilegious,” Dirk supplied, amused. He gave a fake pout. “You’re stifling my creativity, Cydney. But fine, I’ll be good and stay on script.” He thought for a moment, then smiled. “Once upon a time, there was a clever blackbird that lived in a nest atop the Sultan’s palace in Mzia…”

***

Once Cydney woke up again two hours later, Dirk did indeed show her around the city a little until nightfall, a tour he continued the following morning. After he and Cydney had lunch together, the young girl chattering animatedly as she dug enthusiastically into some spiced mint beef over white rice, Dirk left her with the maid while he went to introduce himself to the reeve. He was, after all, technically still in the city on business.

Master Cornell, a dark skinned, black haired man in his early forties, was absolutely polite, if rather cool. He showed Dirk around his offices, and the two of them got acquainted with one another. Dirk explained that he would be visiting with the Lyellian traders for the next several days during the faire, and that he’d see to Illusiem as a whole once that was attended. Cornell agreed to this plan, and after a few more diplomatic pleasantries the two parted company.

With the sun on its way down in the sky Dirk met up with Cydney again, taking her out to dinner before the two of them turned in for the night, Cydney once again plundering Dirk’s fast-depleting well of old fables and folktales before she would consent to sleep. However, burrowed beneath the wool blankets, the child did not fall into slumber quickly; rather, she tossed and turned in the darkness for nearly an hour, the metal bed frame rattling in protest beneath her each time she did, until finally Dirk put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Cydney, what’s the matter?” he asked softly. “Your pillows not comfortable enough?”

“I’unno,” the girl murmured, flopping over yet again to face her stepfather. Squinting against the dimness, she added, “I… j-just can’t sleep. S-sorry if I’m botherin’ you.”

“It’s okay,” Dirk assured her, rubbing the child’s shoulder in an effort to soothe her. “I just want to help is all. Papas are supposed to help their little girls when they can’t sleep, right?”

“I’unno,” Cydney said again. She hesitated. “I just… I…” The girl pressed her lips together. “I miss Mama,” she finished finally.

“Ahhh,” Dirk felt his stomach twist a little. Stifling the faint prickle of hurt- Cydney didn’t mean that personally after all- he smoothed back her dark blonde hair. “You haven’t been away from her so long in a while, huh?”

“Nuh-uh,” Cydney agreed, gulping as she shifted herself closer to her stepfather. “N-not since I got… taked away. B-by Grandpa.”

Dirk moved closer to Cydney as well, gently hugging the child closer. Since his marriage to Safira, he’d learned a great deal about the king that made him understand just why his stepdaughter had come home from Rakine petrified of her own shadow. Safira, after all, had scars on her back and arms from Oliver’s tender mercies, scars that as her husband Dirk had seen.

“I know you miss her, sweetie,” he soothed. “But I promise that your Mama is just fine, and you’ll see her again in two weeks. That’s it- just two weeks, not months and months like last time. And hey, I’m more fun than Grandpa, right? I bet my stories are a lot better.”

Cydney nodded reluctantly, snuggling up against Dirk’s chest. “Uh-huh,” she whispered. “Grandpa’s n-not nice. I… I…” Her lip wobbled. “I’m g-glad you’re my papa now. And… not him.”

“Me too,” Dirk said softly. “I promise, Cydney, no matter what I’ll keep you safe. I know it’s a little strange for you, suddenly me and your mama being married and now you’ve got a baby sibling coming. But I’m glad that I get to be your papa, because that means that I can make sure no one ever hurts you again.”

The child froze, snapping her chin up to look Dirk straight on. “Y-you know?” she whimpered. “About… a-about me being bad? ‘Cos… ‘cos Grandpa said that i-if anyone knew, t-they’d n-not want me, and--”

“He lied,” Dirk said bluntly. “A mean, mean lie because he wanted to scare you into behaving. I promise, there is nothing you could do that would make me or your Mama or your Uncle Bahl or Aunt Millie… or any of us not love you and want you. Even if you misbehaved a little, the way he hurt you was not an okay way to handle it.” He kissed her forehead again. “You’ll never hurt like that anymore, and even if you do naughty things we will still be here for you. That’s what family does.”

“You p-promise?” Cydney asked, burrowing her face back against him.

“I promise,” he said, hugging the forlorn child.

“‘Kay,” she whispered, shutting her eyes again. “I… I love you, Papa.”

Dirk was startled- this was the first time he could recall Cydney actually calling him that. She’d always either avoided addressing him as anything at all, or defaulted to the familiar “Uncle Dirk” she’d used during the rebel occupation. He smiled, resting his chin against the back of his stepdaughter’s head.

“I love you too, Cydney. Goodnight.”

***

“I wanna see if there’s fire-breathers,” Cydney wheedled the next morning, walking on her tiptoes in some vain effort to see over the tall heads in the crowd as she and Dirk, trailed by an escort of knights, threaded through Illusiem’s central marketplace. Beneath the warm late March sun, it had been transformed into a labyrinth of tents and stalls, minstrels and acrobats, a thrumming tangle of noise and colour and life. “Amicus’ll be so jealous if there are,” the child added. Almost sharply, she tugged against Dirk’s iron grip over her hand. “Why do I gotta hold on? I won’t go nowhere, I promise!”

“It’s very crowded,” Dirk explained. “It’d be easy for people to run between us and us to accidentally get separated. Trust me, it’s better if you hold my hand.”

He looked around, beyond the trio of knights that was trailing him and Cydney like a pack of faithful hounds. “I don’t see any firebreathers right this second,” he said. “But look over there- see the girl dancing up on the rope between those two trees?”

Cydney glanced in the indicated direction. “Uh-huh.” She squinted her eyes against the bright white sun. “What if they fall? Wouldn’t it hurt?”

“There’s a net,” he replied. “You just can’t see it because of the crowd. If she falls, she’ll land in the net. But they’re very good at what they do- they almost never fall.” He grinned suddenly. “And Carmella complains that it’s hard when her tutor makes her walk so that she has books balanced on her head. Imagine if she had to do that!”

“She just likes to whine,” Cydney said with a knowing nod. “‘Bout everything. Becka says she was born with a lemon in her mouth.” The girl giggled. “But Becks whined for like, ever after she got in trouble last month for skippin’ all her morning lessons so she could sleep in late. So maybe she’s got a lemon, too.”

Dirk chuckled. “Well Becka comes of age in a year, and now that Uncle Kyland is the lord of Urvane she has prospects for marriage- hopefully she swallows that lemon soon.” He glanced towards Cydney with a tilt of the head. “Come to think of it, we’ll have to get you started in lessons soon, now that you’re old enough. Hopefully you don’t find a lemon hidden under your tongue, hm?”

“I’ll be good in lessons,” Cydney promised. “Better’n Amicus is. He only just started a coupla months ago, and he’s all mad ‘cos he gets his ear pulled by his tutors like, every day, and--” Cydney’s voice fell away as she spotted something up ahead, and her eyes went wide as full moons. “Papa!” she breathed. “Is that… is that…?”

Dirk followed the direction of Cydney’s gaze and chuckled. Up ahead, there was a man with a torch in one hand, and a wineskin in the other. However, whatever was in the skin was clearly not wine, because after taking a healthy mouthful of the stuff the man spat it back out into the torch, sending a jet of flame into the air.

“Why yes, Cyd,” Dirk replied cheerfully. “Looks like we found your firebreather.”

Cydney beamed. “Amicus is gonna be so jealous.” She pulled again on Dirk’s hand. “Could we go closer? Please?”

“Sure, but we have to stay behind the ropes that the performer put out,” Dirk cautioned. “Those are for safety, so nobody watching gets burned. But there’s a lot of people gathering, hmm…” His gray eyes glimmered. “Tell you what- so you can see over the crowd, would you like to ride on my back?”

“‘Kay!” Cydney grinned as the performer prepared to shoot another flame. “After… after we watch, could we get somethin’ to eat? Somethin’ sweet?”

“Well it’s not your birthday yet, so no cake,” Dirk said with exaggerated sternness. “Buuut I might be talked into some of those.”

Cydney’s stepfather indicated a stand a bit of the ways back from where they’d come, where a man was doing a brisk business selling strawberries dipped in caramel and rolled with nuts. The child’s grin broadened further, her bronze cheeks flushing. Pulling her hand out of Dirk’s grip, she turned around and held her arms toward him, so that he could lift her up.

“After the fire-breather!” she said brightly. “And… and thank you. For takin’ me here. This is fun, Papa.”

Dirk hooked his hands under Cydney’s armpits and gently settled her so that she could see well over the crowd. Every bit as happy as the child was, he replied, “You’re welcome, honey. I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

Fatherhood: Part Two

SPOILER: Click to show

And a good time Cydney continued to have. They continued the pattern that they’d set on the first day, with Dirk spending quality time with his stepdaughter at the faire in the mornings, then after the two of them had lunch together departing to attend to his diplomatic business with the Lyellian traders who were in attendance. To his relief he found that they had nothing but good to report of the safety of the roads, though in some places they needed some work as they’d become full of potholes and overgrown. Dirk made note of these places where maintenance was slack to send on to his father in Cesthen, who would no doubt want to address the issue.

Once he was done with the traders, Dirk would then return to the inn in the late afternoons to have supper with Cydney, then spend some quiet time with her before bed. However, on the third and last day of the faire she overheard some people in the common room talking of events and shows that were only happening after dark. Dramatic magical light shows, bards putting on theatrical plays, something about an enterprising cook who made a show out of the flames in his grill before serving the food…

“Why can’t we go?” Cydney needled over a supper of pottage and rye bread. The girl’s lips were pursed as she slathered copious amounts of butter onto her bread-- then, after a single bite, decided to top the butter coating with… yet another layer of butter. “It sounds fun! And it’s the last night, Papa!”

Dirk had to fight back a sigh. While the Lyellians would continue to ply their wares for another week in town, tonight was the last official night of the faire. But…

“The crowd tends to get… rough after dark, Cydney,” he replied. “Lots of people drinking grown-up drinks.”

“But I wanna go,” Cydney whined. “I’ll be good! And hold your hand. And I won’t drink no grown-up drinks!” Pouting, she reached for yet another pat of butter, spearing it with her knife. “Please?”

“Not so much butter, Cyd,” Dirk said automatically. He rubbed his face. “If we go, you have to promise me that you’ll stay right with me. Holding my hand means holding it the whole time, no yanking loose! And if I decide we need to leave somewhere because the people are being too rowdy, no arguing. Got it?”

Cydney nodded quickly as she merrily slathered the butter onto the bread (though wisely did not reach for another pat thereafter). “Uh-huh. I promise!”

“Alright,” Dirk conceded. Part of him still wasn’t wild about this, but at least with the city in good repair it should still have a decently functional city guard to break up any fights or haul off troublemakers. “What do you want to see first?”

“Magic lights!” Cydney replied. She stuck her tongue out at her stepfather. “We can see if they’re pretty, or if yours are better, Papa.”

Dirk couldn’t help but give an affectionate smirk at that. “Alright, you can be the judge of who has the prettier lights. Finish up your bread and we’ll go.”

And off they did go. As Dirk rather expected, being trained mostly to use his magic for inane things like summoning spells or self-defense, the showmen had a much more impressive display than anything he could’ve summoned up. Cydney, however, still informed Dirk afterward that “your lights are good, too, Papa”-- before bouncing on her heel as her stepfather led her to the next attraction of the night: a sword swallower.

“Is that a real sword?” Cydney asked as she gawped at the performance, with her free hand patting the scabbard at her stepfather’s hip that held the Vastcher lord’s own longsword. “Like yours?”

“Not exactly like mine, but it is a real sword,” Dirk replied. “It’s pretty impressive isn’t it? I definitely can’t do that, I’d hurt myself if I tried.”

As Dirk was speaking, the knight to his right suddenly tensed, making Dirk glance in the man’s direction. A little ways off in the crowd, two men were talking to each other in increasingly agitated, clearly slurred voices. Cydney, following her stepfather’s gaze, craned her neck to watch them, the girl drawing closer to Dirk as one of the drunkards jabbed a clumsy, accusing finger toward the other’s chest. This, alas, seemed to be a poor decision: the other belligerent reacted with a shove of his own, the heel of his palm landing with an audible thud as he pushed back. Several shades beyond intoxicated, the first man stumbled, just barely catching himself before he went falling on his rear-- and, as he seemed to realise what had just occurred, clenched and raised his fist in an attempt at escalated retaliation.

“My lord-” the knight said brusquely, and Dirk nodded.

“Right. Cydney let’s go see something else, hm?” he said, gently reaching down to pick the girl up.

Cydney, however, went stiff and frozen, digging her heels into the ground below. Her eyes latched onto the fighting men as though drawn by magnets, she could only let out a small gasp as the first man’s fist went flying, connecting solidly with the second drunkard’s jaw. … At which point a third man-- previously a mere bystander, but from the way he was swaying on his feet evidently just as blitzed as the other two-- stepped forward, shouting in a very inebriated strain of the low tongue for everyone to stop…

… and for his valiant efforts earning himself a punch of his own as he attempted to hold the aggressor back from delivering a kick to his already-felled victim.

“Cyd, we’re leaving,” Dirk snapped, picking the girl up despite her stiff uncooperativeness as all three of their knights closed to make a wall of fuchsia and cream between the lord and the escalating brawl.

In her stepfather’s arms the girl was almost deadweight, twisting her neck back as if to get another glimpse of the ruckus. Several more bystanders had joined in now-- though whether it was to help end the brawl or simply to throw some punches of their own was not altogether clear-- and limbs and fists were flying in all directions. The initial good samaritan was flat on his face in the gutter, while from amid the clamor somebody else was screaming about their nose being broken.

“Why’re they fighting?” Cydney whimpered. “Papa, why--”

“I don’t know,” Dirk replied grimly. “But probably over something stupid. When people drink a lot of adult drink and get angry they… overreact. And these men have had far too much adult drink.”

He carried the limp, terrified child away from the escalating din, barking sharply at one of the knights to fetch a member of the city guard once they were around a street corner and clear of the brawl. The knight obliged quickly, hurrying off as Cydney began to squirm against Dirk’s hold. Though they were far enough away now to be out of sight of the brawl, they could still distantly hear it-- and from the sounds of it, it had gotten even worse, with at least a dozen voices melding together into a cacophony of drunken shouting and screaming.

“C-can you put me down, Papa?” Cydney stammered, blinking back tears as they pricked at her eyes. “I… d-don’t wanna be carried, I…”

“Alright, but stay close to me sweetie, don’t let go of my hand,” Dirk replied, gently setting the girl down on the cobblestones below. “I’m sorry, I wish you didn’t have to see that, that wasn’t fun at all.”

She bit her lip, hard. “Am… am I in trouble?” she sniveled.

“What? You didn’t do anything, why would you be in trouble?” Dirk asked, bewildered.

“‘Cos…” Cydney lost the battle against her tears, letting out a choking hiccup. “‘Cos you told me I-I had to listen to you… and… when you said we were leavin’ I… I didn’t listen, and…” She sniffled. “Please, I didn’t m-mean to be bad, I’m sorry.”

Dirk immediately knelt, putting a hand to the girl’s shoulder, but the girl immediately flinched and he drew his hand back sharply. “Cydney, honey, I’m not mad. I promise I’m not mad. You were scared, you were just scared, I understand. Lots of people freeze up when they’re afraid.”

“I-I didn’t mean to,” the girl repeated, her voice shaking. “I… I…” Cydney forced a jagged breath. “You’re n-not gonna t-take me back to the inn a-and belt me?”

“Wh-what?” Dirk stammered, horrified at the suggestion. Even the two remaining knights looked taken aback by the question. “Sweetie, no, I would never belt you unless you did something on purpose that was dangerous for you or somebody else. Like you said, you didn’t mean to fight me, you just got scared. I’m not going to punish you because you got scared.” He very hesitantly reached towards the girl, and wiped at the tears falling from one eye with a thumb. The girl flinched again, though the motion wasn’t as sharp as previously. With a sigh, Dirk pulled his hands away, holding them up defensively. “Look honey, I’m not touching you, okay? And I won’t until you’re okay with it. Please don’t cry, Cydney, please?”

Cydney’s jaw trembled, and she brought up a sleeve to dab at her eyes. “I’m s-sorry,” she mewled. “I just… G-Grandpa always did... and he said that… that...” Abruptly, she crumpled forward, burying her face against Dirk’s shoulder. “Could… c-could I ask you something, Papa?”

He very gently put his arms around his stepdaughter in a hug, stroking her trembling back. “What is it, sweetie?”

“You… y-you and Mama won’t give me back, right? Once the b-baby’s born?” She wrapped her arms around Dirk’s neck, clinging to him. “‘Cos Grandpa… h-he… he…”

Dirk felt his blood turn to ice, and he shook his head sharply. “If your grandfather told you that the new baby would be a replacement, don’t believe him. It’s just more of his mean lies. Your baby brother or sister is going to be an addition to our family, not a replacement for you. You’re still going to be just as important, and we’re never sending you back to Rakine. Never ever.”

“He t-told me that once Mama was m-married again, and… h-had new babies, with her new husband, t-that… that maybe she’d w-want me to just… live away at the palace and…” Cydney forced a slightly deeper breath, as finally several members of what seemed to be the city guard rushed past, toward the clamor. “You’ll still k-keep me? ‘Til I’m a grown-up?”

“We will. I will,” Dirk said firmly. “I love you, Cydney. You’re my daughter now, and papas are supposed to look after their kin. And I will. I’ll love you and take care of you until you grow up to start a family of your own.”

She nodded. “O-okay. I… I l-love you, too, Papa.”

Dirk, relieved that Cydney seemed to be calming down, kissed her on the crown of her head. “Say, how’d you like to get to be the first one to hold the new baby when it’s born? After Mama and Papa of course. You can be a good big sister and give the new little one lots of hugs and love. Maybe while we’re still at the faire I could buy you a new dolly to go with Miss Bunny, so you can practice how to hold babies.”

Through Cydney’s tear-streaked expression came the skeleton of a tremulous smile. “Can the d-dolly have yellow hair? Like m-mine?”

“Certainly,” Dirk replied cheerfully. “And maybe if you still want to after we get the doll we can go see the play that the men at the inn were talking about. Your new dolly can sit in your lap and watch it with us, how’s that sound?”

“O-okay.” A beat. “Can… can I s-sit in your lap?”

“Of course, Cydney,” Dirk said with a fond smile. “I’d like that a lot.”

***

Though the faire was over, Dirk’s work in Illusiem had only just begun. He spent two more afternoons with the Lyellian caravan, getting news from them of the other areas of Ruom province as well as beyond- now a highlord, he knew that sooner or later the Vastchers would have to take an interest in foreign policy, so it didn’t hurt to start getting a handle on things early.

Once he had concluded his business with the caravan, Dirk finally rejoined with the Illusiem reeve, Master Cornell. From then his afternoons were spent either ahorse, touring the city and getting an idea for how it was governed (a potential model to follow as the Vastchers stabilized other major cities in their new territories) or mewed up at Cornell’s manor speaking with him about what he would need from his new liege lords and vice versa.

The mornings during this time, as before, he spent with Cydney. Sometimes they went out into Illusiem, poking around shops that sold toys, clothes, or candy, other times they simply sat in their room at the inn or on a bench in a quiet square, enjoying each other’s company more sedately. On the morning before Cydney’s birthday, Dirk even rented a horse from the local stables and took his stepdaughter for a joy ride through the hills just beyond Illusiem, something the young girl enjoyed immensely-- and that was, like many other things so far during the trip, a novel experience for her, given that she’d spent much of life heavily sheltered during the tensest years of a long and bloody war.

Unfortunately, when Dirk went to the reeve to conclude his work with the man that afternoon- negotiating for the price of an export tax on local sulfur to the other regions of Courdon- the talks ended up more complicated than he’d anticipated. He tried to secure the following day off from negotiations, not wanting to spend half of Cydney’s birthday wrapped up in political jockeying, but the man insisted he had his own affairs in the city to get back to and would rather not drag things out longer than necessary.

When Dirk informed Cydney of this news that night before bed, the little girl was… displeased, to say the least. “But you said this was a birthday trip,” she quite nearly accused, as she lay in bed burrowed beneath the wool blanket. “I don’t wanna spend my birthday by myself.”

“I know sweetie, I don’t want you to either. But this is really important, and…” He broke off seeing the expression on the child’s face.

Cydney’s lips were pressed tight, her jaw lightly trembling. “It’s my birthday,” she said again, as if Dirk could have missed this fact the first time.

This was exactly why he’d brought her along in the first place. So that he wouldn’t be missing her birthday. If it wasn’t for the fact that they needed Cornell’s loyalty and couldn’t afford to offend him by seeming caught up in their own importance, he would have just flat out told the reeve to wait the day. But he couldn’t in good conscience. Not with his House’s seat of power still so shaky.

But gods, the look in Cydney’s eyes made his heart feel like someone was sitting on it.

“Tell you what,” he said finally. “Why… why don’t you come with me? So you don’t have to be alone. All I have left to do is some talking about taxes, so you can sit with me and have some tea while we finish up. Then after I’m done, I’ll take you out for your birthday cake. The one that Amicus isn’t getting any of.”

“Really?” Cydney asked, wariness still edging her tone. Then: “I’ll… I’ll be good, I promise, Papa. Quiet and-- and… good.”

“I know you will, Cydney,” he soothed. “You’re a good little girl, and I’m so proud of you for how well you’ve behaved on this trip. I know you’ll be good tomorrow. And then the day after that I won’t have anything left with the reeve, so it’ll just be you and me the last day we’re here.”

“‘Kay.” She smiled at him, softly. “Thank you, Papa. I love you.”

“I love you too, honey.”

The next day, they spent the morning looking around the market at various knicknacks and curios, since Cydney still wanted to bring something home for Amicus, and since despite the doll he’d gotten her at the faire Dirk felt that the girl deserved a “proper” birthday present on her actual birthday. Cydney selected a silk ribbon, bright pink and trimmed with an intricate herringbone pattern-- which she then demanded Dirk immediately tie around the bottom of her long braid (he obliged).

After a meal together, Dirk then brought Cydney with him to Master Cornell’s manor. Fortunately the man had accepted his young houseguest’s presence with good grace. He had tea made up for everyone, and remembering Dirk’s reason for arguing to have the day off with his daughter in the first place, ordered a little extra for Cydney- which manifested in the form of a glass piled with layers of yogurt, blueberries, blackberries, raspberries, and nuts.

“I understand it is your birthday, young miss?” he said cordially. “My cook does excellent parfaits, I hope you will enjoy it.”

“Uh-huh.” Cydney smiled as she stirred a spoon through the generous dessert. “I’m six,” she added. “And… thank you. It looks tasty.”

“You’re welcome, my lady,” Master Cornell replied. He smiled in Dirk’s direction. “I understand you’ve adopted her formally? Since your marriage to the Lady Safira.”

“I have,” Dirk replied, his voice far more cool and formal than it had been during any of the other times Cydney had been with him that week. “She is being raised and cared for as my daughter.”

“Of course,” Cornell agreed. Glancing at Cydney he asked, “And you like it? With Lord Vastcher and his family? You and your mother are happy?”

Taking a bite of the parfait, Cydney nodded. “Uh-huh. Papa’s nice. And Mama’s gonna have a baby.”

“That’s very exciting! I bet you’re looking forward to being a big sister.” Cornell tilted his head quizzically at Dirk. “How far along is Lady Safira?”

“Six months,” Dirk replied, trying to stifle his annoyance at the blatant wheedling. “The baby is due in June.”

“My congratulations,” Cornell said, dipping his head. “I’m sure Lord Sutter would have been overjoyed to know his wife and daughter were being well cared for.”

“I should hope,” Dirk replied neutrally. “My cousin was a talented lord, and caring for his lands is only half of the obligation inherent to taking lordship of Ruom. His family needs looking after as well, and I am happy to give Cydney the father she has been lacking since the siege.”

“I’m sure,” Cornell said smoothly. “Well, let’s get our business over with then, that the poor dear may actually enjoy her birthday with Papa.”

Fortunately, things proceeded relatively easily from that point. It was about two hours conversation to resolve the issue of the taxes, during which time Cydney, after finishing her parfait, sat relatively quietly, only interrupting a handful of times: twice to ask how much longer it would be, and once more after that to request a glass of water. Otherwise she occupied herself by fiddling with her new hair ribbon, and tracing her fingers over the intricate pattern on her teacup, and nodding along as if she understood a word Dirk and Cornell were saying as they talked numbers.

By midafternoon, Dirk was wrapping up the last of his business with Cornell, who while still neutrally polite seemed a shade less frosty than he had on Dirk’s first meeting with him. Relieved, both to have won the man over a little and to finally be finished with his business in Illusiem, Dirk led Cydney back out into the city, where he reached for her hand and smiled.

“Well, you were a good girl just like you promised,” he said cheerily. “I hope that parfait didn’t fill you up too much- know what it’s time for?”

Cydney pursed her lips, thoughtful, as she obligingly threaded her fingers through Dirk’s. “... My cake?” she guessed.

“Your cake,” Dirk confirmed. “You’ve been a good, patient young lady, and now that I’m done with work the rest of the day is going to be all about you.” He tilted his head. “When you were at the palace, did you ever get to try something called chocolate?”

“Nuh-uh,” Cydney said. “Is it yummy?”

“You’ll see,” Dirk replied with a smile.

Before long, he’d brought his stepdaughter to an upscale bakery, the wooden structure painted white with red accents. They headed inside, met by a wall of sugary scented air, and Cydney’s eyes immediately fell to the glass display case along the far wall, which was teeming with all ilks of sweet treats: cakes, muffins, frosted bear claws and fruit-laden tarts. It would have been enough to feed a small army.

The man behind the counter opposite the display case looked up as the bell jangled, and immediately dipped his head into a bow when he saw who was walking in. “My lord, i-it’s good to see you again, you are m-most welcome.”

“I trust you’ve finished my commission?” Dirk asked mildly. The man nodded rapidly.

“Yes, my lord, I have it in the back, I’ll fetch it presently.”

A moment or two later, he plunked a cake down at one of the tables in the bakery. It was a beautiful thing, chocolate frosting decorated with a dozen or so raspberries. Cutting into it to give Cydney a slice, Dirk revealed that the cake itself was a raspberry marble cake, white and pink swirled inside the frosting layer.

“Here you go, sweetie,” he said cheerfully, placing the slice in front of Cydney. “Happy birthday.”

Cydney beamed. “It’s pink!” she breathed. “Like my ribbon!”

Dirk laughed. “That’s right, it is. I thought you might like that.”

As the baker slipped back behind the counter, Cydney prodded at her slice of cake with the tines of her fork. “Are you gonna have some, Papa?” she asked. The child grinned. “Amicus is gonna be so jealous-- he only got white cake for his birthday!”

The girl’s stepfather smiled. “Do you want me to have some? I figured since it’s your birthday cake I’d let you decide if you want to share or keep it all to yourself to have some more later.”

“You can have some!” Cydney said. “It’s too much all on my own. And you like ras’berries too, don’tchya?” She speared a first bite of cake onto her fork. “Thank you, Papa. This is my favourite birthday ever.”

Dirk leaned over so that he could give Cydney a light kiss on the side of her head. “I’m glad, Cydney. You’re a very good girl and you deserve the best birthday ever.” Taking up the girl on her offer, he cut a slice of cake for himself as well. Then he smiled. “You want to know a secret? I’ve never had chocolate either. Your Aunt Millie told me about it though, from when she was a little girl. She says it’s really yummy. Now we can both find out if she’s right.”

“‘Kay,” Cydney agreed, still grinning-- and with that, she took a bite of the cake. As she chewed her eyes widened, the girl nearly giggling after she finally swallowed it down and declared, “It’s really good, Papa. Sweeter’n caramel!”

“Oh?” he said, taking a bite of his own. It was very good- he could see why his mother had suggested it. “You’re right! It’s very tasty! You better eat quick or I might just gobble up your piece!” He grinned and tickled the girl on the neck to make it clear he was joking.

“Nuh-uh, that’s stealin’,” Cydney retorted. She took another generous bite, then added, “Do we still getta go to the hot springs tomorrow, Papa?”

“We do,” he agreed. “And since I’m all done with my work, we can take the whole day to just relax before we head home. I bet the hot springs will feel really good on your feet after so much walking around, hm?”

“Uh-huh.” The girl nodded. “Is it really like the baths at the palace? But outside?”

“So I’ve been told,” Dirk replied. “But that’s another thing we both get to try for the first time. They tell me the baths are a little bit stinky because of some of the stuff in the water, but it’s supposed to be really good for your skin according to the healers. Make you nice and lily soft.”

“And then after we getta fly home?” Cydney asked.

“Mm-hm,” Dirk agreed. “You can tell Mama all about your fun trip. And Amicus, as long as you’re not too braggy. Remember to be nice.”

“I will,” Cydney promised. A devilish smirk, however, ticked at the corners of her lips. “He’s never been outta Urvane, you know. Or been in hot springs! Or gotted to eat chocolate. Or gone to a faire!”

“He’ll get his chance I’m sure,” Dirk said with a laugh. “But for now it’s your turn- and you can have all the fun you can stand.”

***

As Dirk, dressed only in light trousers, led Cydney up the carefully carved staircase in the rocks towards Illusiem’s hot springs, he couldn’t help crinkling his nose a little at the smell. A light mist of steam hung everywhere, bringing with it the pungent smell of sulfur. At his side, holding his hand as ever, Cydney looked equally as repulsed, the girl’s face screwed into an expression of pure disgust.

“Why’s it smell like that?” she asked, fidgeting with her free hand with the light shift she wore. “It’s gross, Papa.”

“I warned you,” he replied with a comforting smile. “It smells like that because the hot springs have sulfur in them. That’s a kind of stuff that smells really bad. But the hot springs feel really good. Don’t worry, your nose will get used to it after a bit.”

“Which one are we gonna go in?” Cydney asked as they reached the top of the steps, the girl surveying the several steaming pools that stretched before them. She indicated the spring closest to them. “What ‘bout that one?”

“Hmmm…” He shook his head. “That one looks a little deep. Let’s try this one over here.” He towed the child to a much shallower basin, one he could easily sit in and still be mostly out of the water from the waist up. It verged a little bit deeper further along, but nowhere was it deep enough he was worried too much for Cydney’s safety. The rocks all around the edge of the spring radiated warmth into the noble’s bare feet, and Dirk smiled down at his stepdaughter. “Doesn’t that already feel nice? And we haven’t even gotten wet yet.”

Nodding, the girl slowly edged in, not letting go of Dirk’s hand as she did. “It’s like a bath!” she chirped, swirling her free hand through the water. She glanced back over her shoulder at him. “You comin’ in, Papa?”

Dirk edged into the water as well, unable to suppress a slow sigh as the warm water washed over the muscles in his legs. “It is like a bath. Feels really nice, doesn’t it? Even if it is stinky.”

“Uh-huh!” Cydney smiled, letting go of Dirk’s hand as she waded over to a rocky ledge toward the side of the pool and perched atop it. “Can we come back here sometime? With Amicus an’ everyone?”

“Hmmm, perhaps,” Dirk said, sitting down in the pool. “Though we’ll need a lot of nurses and servants to keep track of everybody. Especially Amicus. He’d find a way to get up to his eyeballs in both the water and trouble, and have to be yanked from both by the scruff of his neck.”

Cydney giggled. “Amicus is fun, though. He knows good games.” She leaned back against the lip of the pool. “Will the new baby play games, Papa? Once they’re older?” She cocked her head. “I won’t be the littlest anymore! That’ll be fun.”

“When they’re older, yes,” Dirk agreed. “Tiny babies don’t do much but eat and sleep. They need all their energy for getting bigger.” He ducked his head back a little, letting his reddish-brown hair soak for a few seconds. When he straightened again, the Vastcher heir said, “Can I tell you a secret, Cyd?”

Her eyes widened. “Uh-huh! I’m good at secrets.”

“I’m a little nervous,” Dirk said with a lopsided smile. “About the new baby. If I can be a good papa for him or her. It’s kinda silly, I know. I’m a grown-up and I should be fine. But I want to be able to be a good papa, and I haven’t had much chance to learn how to do that before now. Take care of a itty bitty baby.”

“But you’ll be a good papa,” Cydney said solemnly. “You’re nice. And… and…” Standing, the girl waded over to him, slowly, and nestled into his lap. “You don’t make me scared,” she whispered. “And you don’t… you don’t tell me mean things. Just to make me be good.”

His smile turned sad, and Dirk hugged the little girl. “Of course not. I couldn’t do that to you, Cydney. Even if you were naughty and got into trouble, I never want you to think I don’t love you. That’s not how love works, no matter what your grandpa said. Even if someone makes you mad or upset, if you love them you still love them. You might need a little while apart to calm down, but that doesn’t mean you don’t still care about each other.” He leaned over a bit so he could put his cheek against hers. “You know I love you, right?”

“Uh-huh,” Cydney whispered, wrapping her arms around his ribcage without her drawing her cheek away from his. “Sometimes I get sad that I don’t remember my first papa. But…” She pursed her lips before finishing softly, “But it’s okay now. ‘Cos I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry you don’t remember your first papa too,” Dirk said softly. “But he sent you and your mama to us so that we could look after you if something happened, and that’s just what we’re going to do. I think he’d be glad that you’re happy and having the best birthday ever.”

“And he’s in the heavens, right?” Cydney asked. “Watchin’ out for Mama and me?”

“He is,” Dirk agreed. He knew that Safira didn’t have the most pleasant memories of Sutter, from her accounts of the man, but he also knew that the former Erling lord had loved his daughter unconditionally. “And he’ll watch out for you your entire life from the heavens.”

“And you’ll be here for me in the real world,” Cydney said, kissing her stepfather’s cheek. “I love you, Papa. Thanks… thanks for takin’ me on my birthday trip. I’ve had fun. And I’m really happy you taked me with.”

“I’m happy that I did too,” he said, kissing her on the nose. “I had lots of fun spending time with you. And just ‘cause we’re going home tomorrow, that doesn’t mean it’ll stop. I know I have to work a lot, but don’t be afraid to come to me if you want to talk, or play, or just sit with me. I’m always happy to spend some time with my little girl.”

***

The following day, Dirk, Cydney and their retinue arrived back in Urvane not long after lunch time. While when the Vastcher men had first started making trips around the region to conduct business the family would all pile out of the manor to greet them upon their return, by this point the procedure was so rote that there was little fanfare. However, there was one person standing in the yard as the gryphons landed in the grass and folded their wings: Safira.

The woman grinned broadly as she waved to Cydney and Dirk; in return, the little girl nearly vaulted herself off the gryphon once Dirk pulled her goggles off and unstrapped her from the saddle. She bounded over to Safira’s side and wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist, beneath the rise of her swollen belly.

“Mama!” Cydney exclaimed. “Hi!”

“Hi yourself, Cyddie.” Safira chuckled, ruffling the girl’s windswept hair. “Did you have fun?”

“Uh-huh!” Cydney beamed. “I got to go to a hot spring! And a faire! And… and…” She let go of Safira to glance behind her shoulder, toward Dirk. “Papa got me cake! Chocolate cake!”

Dirk smiled warmly, sliding out of the gryphon’s saddle more sedately before handing the reins off to one of the knights. “The traders brought some chocolate in with them, so when I heard that the bakery had gotten a hold of some of it, I thought I’d treat her,” he explained, walking up to his wife.

“Sounds very tasty,” Safira said, smiling down at Cydney. “Did you like it, hon?”

“A lot!” Cydney confirmed. She placed a hand over her mother’s bump. “Has the baby been good, Mama?”

“Saw the midwife just yesterday.” Ostensibly Safira was replying to Cydney, but her gaze had fallen to Dirk. “Everything’s fine. Based on the way I’m carrying, she’s swearing up and down it’s a boy. Though of course that’s in the gods’ hands, eh?”

“It is,” Dirk agreed with a smile. “Though it would be a load off for everyone if it was a boy, I’ll just be happy for you and the child to be healthy.” He gave Safira a pointed look, then glanced down at Cydney and added, “Cyd’s excited to not be the littlest anymore, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” Cydney said. “And Papa said once the baby’s older, I can play with it.”

“That’s right,” Safira said, smiling softly. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she added, “Why don’t you run inside, Cyddie? Aunt Millie’s just sat down for tea with Carmella and Amicus and some of the other kids-- I bet there’s still some left for you if you hurry.”

“You’ll come?” Cydney asked.

“In a few minutes,” Safira said. “I just want to talk to Papa for a little bit first, okay? Plus…” She touched the girl’s cheek. “You’re six now, aren’t you, hon? A big girl! You can get to the tea room all by yourself, I bet.”

“I know where it is,” Cydney agreed. She patted the baby bump one last time. “I’ll save you a sweet roll if there’s still some left, Mama.”

“Thanks, baby,” Safira said, waiting then for Cydney to scurry off toward the manor before she glanced back to Dirk. “She… she seems like she had a lot of fun, Dirk,” the woman said. “Thank you for taking her.”

“Thank you for suggesting it,” Dirk replied. “You were right- I think she really needed that.” He folded his arms. “She… told me some things. Did you know that the king told her once our child is born that you’ll want to send her back to Rakine?”

“He what?” Rage flared across Safira’s face, hot as the sun above. “I-- I… oh gods, I could kill that bas--” She cut herself off, forcing a deep breath, her voice strangled as she added, “That… that must be why she’s been so broody about the baby being born-- why she’s been… insecure, and…” The woman pressed a hand against her forehead. “As if it wasn’t enough for him to beat her black and blue. As if… as if…” She let out a furious, frustrated hiss.

“I have not been including the king’s good health in my prayers over the past few weeks, I assure you,” Dirk remarked grimly. “But I told her it wasn’t true, and I think she believes me. I wish I’d known so I could have addressed it a lot sooner, but I’m glad that we got to have a heart to heart about it before the new baby was born at least.”

Safira nodded shortly. “Right.” A beat. “She… she called you ‘papa’ just now, didn’t she, Dirk? She-- hasn’t done that before. Not really.”

A smile ticked at Dirk’s mouth, and he nodded. “She did. It surprised me the first time but you were right. I think the one-on-one time helped to cement things.” Wistfully he added, “For both of us.”

“I’m… I’m glad,” Safira said. “I’ve been so worried about her since we got her back, and I just…” The woman shook her head. “It’s nice seeing her happy, Dirk. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Saf. You know, she wants to visit the hot spring again sometime,” he said, his voice deceptively casual. “With everyone. She mentioned Amicus specifically.”

Safira laughed. “I know I’m not his mother, but I don’t think I’d trust that boy around water unless he’s on a leash.” She smirked. “Did you know I caught him having dared Arcadia to climb up to the top branches of the maple tree in the east courtyard yesterday? She made it up alright. Down, however…”

“Ah, gods,” Dirk moaned, rubbing his face. He looked down at Safira’s swollen belly, his voice pleading. “Little one, if you have any love for your parents, please take after your big sister and not your uncle.”

“At least your mother got good practice with her hovering charms,” Safira joked. “But yes. Let us pray that our little imp is not quite so impish as Amicus.” She paused, sobering. “Though… at least, however he-- or she-- turns out to be… we know one thing: our baby will grow up loved. And safe. And… that’s what matters. That’s what’s important.”

Dirk nodded, sobering. “Right. And whatever might have happened in the palace last year, whatever King Oliver tried to convince Cydney of, I’m going to prove it wrong. I promise, Saf. Our children will all grow up loved, and safe- and Cydney is no exception.”

“Thank you,” Safira said again. “I… I appreciate it, Dirk. M-more than you could ever know.”

Dirk gave Safira’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, then turned towards the manor. “I have to tidy up my notes to send along to Father in Cesthen, and I think Cydney is waiting for you in the sitting room. But I’ll be along later on.” He smiled. “We’ll show off how good I’ve gotten at putting ribbons in her hair.”

[Avery]

A four-part collab with Shinko featuring Phyllo and Zuzanna. Takes place beginning summer of 1324 (so about 9 months after the conclusion of "Only Magic"). ^__^ As a note, didn't colour tag languages because eye burning, but you can presume when Phyllo and Zuzanna are alone they're speaking Valzick, and with Kythians, speaking Kythian. XD

Ripple Effect: Part One

SPOILER: Click to show

The thunder overhead gave a low growl, momentarily drowning out the gentle patter of rain on the streets of Medieville. Water collected in rivers on the cobbles at both sides of the street. Most people had taken shelter from the storm inside, but a few individuals had been caught outside and far from available warmth. One such person was Phyllo Panem.

The young man who was dashing through the deluge looked to be no more than twenty years old, if that, with skin as dark as coffee grounds and black hair clinging to his scalp in a dozen thin braids. He was wearing loose clothing that looked like it had probably come from a secondhand store; once perhaps green, his tunic had faded to a pale shade of gray-green and was mended in places with mismatched thread. However the garment was still fairly sturdy, and though saturated it still held its shape, not threadbare and stretched.

He finally reached his destination and ducked inside, coming into a quaint tea house. The smell of tea and spices permeated the air, and the warmth of the braziers almost immediately started to dry his damp skin. The proprietor at the counter on the far end of the room glanced up as Phyllo walked in, but immediately turned her attention back to sorting herbs when she recognized him. He was no customer, something he proved by heading around the edge of the room towards a door behind the counter.

Inside the door was a staircase, one that led up into a tiny one-room flat. The ceiling was damp, as it always was in the rain, and the only furniture was a bed, a bassinet, and a wardrobe in the far corner, but to Phyllo the place was home.

"Zuzia," he called out to his wife cheerfully, walking over to where she was propped up on the bed feeding their one year old daughter. Continuing in Valzick, the language of his birth country rather than his adopted home of Kyth, he said, "I finished scouring the scorch marks from that inn's oven and fireplace. You should thank the rain, if the storm hadn't broken when it did I'd probably still smell like coal and ash. How was your day? Silvia been a good girl for you?"

Shifting Silvia in her arms, Zuzia flicked her gaze up toward her husband. The teenager, her long mahogany hair tumbling over her shoulders in frizzy curls, wore a thin smile, but it scarcely met her lips, let alone her eyes. “She’s been good,” the girl said, matching Phyllo’s Valzick. “A bit sleepier than usual, but quiet, at least.” She gulped. “H-how was your day, love?”

"Aside from getting covered in soot and then soaked, well enough," Phyllo replied, already in the process of pulling off his wet tunic. As it came away from his dark skin, multiple thick, ropey marks became visible on the young man's shoulders; scars, deep scars that continued onto his back. His left arm was marked as well, but where the marks on his back were jagged and criss-crossed each other haphazardly, the scars on his arm were much different. Seven straight, evenly spaced lacerations that had a clear, malicious level of meticulous precision about them.

In spite of this evidence to a past in which he had known a great deal of pain, Phyllo was smiling. He draped the sodden garment over the edge of their wardrobe he went on, "The innkeeper gave me two precious gems for the chimney, and another for the stove. I figure we can use three towards our expenses and put the other three towards our savings." He gave an aggravated sigh. "I wish I were contributing more to it since it's at least in part for my apprenticeship, but... Progress is progress, right? I think at this rate we can move into a bigger place by Woomas- and we'll have enough for that apprenticeship by a little into February."

Considering it was presently the middle of July- only two weeks shy of Phyllo's nineteenth birthday- this might have seemed like it was a ways off still. But the Panems had been saving since last September for this, and working like fiends towards that end goal: Phyllo's childhood dream of being a baker, forgotten for a time while he lived as a slave in Meltaim, but recently reawoken with a vengeance now that he was free to live his own life once again. When he spoke of it- as now- the young man's grey eyes glowed with excitement. An ambition, a drive, a dream to strive for; it had lit a fire in him that couldn't possibly be missed.

“February,” Zuzanna echoed, but where Phyllo’s tone had been layered with excitement and anticipation, his wife’s was quiet. Almost strangled. “February would be… would be…” She shut her eyes briefly, then forced them open again. “Phyllo,” she murmured. “I… I have something to tell you.”

Phyllo seemed to register Zuzanna’s distress, because he froze in the process of digging for a dry shirt and looked around at her. “What is it? What’s wrong, Zuzia?”

Zuzia faltered for a good, long moment, busying herself with setting Silvia back down on the mattress as the baby finished with her meal. The teenager’s hands were trembling as she moved to rebutton her dress, and her blue eyes were cast solidly down on her lap beneath. Avoidant. Dread-filled.

“I… I went to see Madam Cottrell today,” she said finally-- then outright winced as she awaited her husband’s reply.

“Cottrell? The… the midwife who helped with Silvs?” Phyllo asked, sounding rather baffled. As little Silvia pushed herself up on the bed and gurgled happily at her parents, Phyllo came over and sat on the blanket beside her. “Why? Has something happened with Silvia?”

Zuzanna shook her head. “No, she’s fine. I just… I…” She forced a deep breath, still refusing to meet her husband’s gaze. “The past month or so, I just… I’ve been feeling-- nauseous sometimes, and then I… there were a few… other things, and I thought it couldn’t be but I wanted to make sure, and so I made an appointment with her, and I w-wasn’t going to tell you because I was sure I was just being paranoid, but then… then--” Finally Zuzia looked at Phyllo, her blue eyes hooking with his steel gray ones. “Phyllo,” she nearly whimpered. “I’m pregnant.”

The young man gaped at his wife, his silvery eyes blank with shock. “You… you’re… B-but you’ve been taking those herbs, Healer Stabstrike and Leif both said you wouldn't get pregnant again if you did! H-how?”

“Madam Cottrell told me that… that-- the herbs usually stop pregnancy, but they’re not… guaranteed.” As Silvia crawled toward the edge of the mattress, Zuzanna reached out and scooped her daughter back towards herself, settling the squirming baby in her lap. “They c-can fail sometimes, I guess.” She shushed Silvia as the infant let out an indignant squawk at being restrained. “Did fail,” Zuzia added. “She… she said they did fail. I--I asked her five times if she’s sure, and… and she is. She said she’s positive, Phyllo. She thinks I’m two or three months along.”

Phyllo swallowed hard, forcing himself to sound chipper. “Well… I guess Silvs is getting a baby sibling, huh? Someone she can play with when they’re both older- and maybe this time it’ll be a boy, so Aleksy can get his namesake after all.” He faltered, then said softly, “Woo, it already cost us so much money preparing for when Silvia was born, and she practically outgrows all her clothes every month…”

“We’re… not going to have it, Phyllo,” Zuzanna agreed miserably. “The money. Not… not by the end of the year, not by February-- not with this baby… and…” She buried her face in her daughter’s thick hair. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Her husband looked towards the small window on the far wall of their flat, silent at first. The rain outside slapped against the glass, blurring any view that might have been visible outside, even if there had been a view to see aside from the wall of the adjacent building. This little flat was barely big enough for the three of them, there was so little to it, and now they would have to stay here even longer. Woo knew how long.

Especially if Phyllo didn’t have a steady job.

Phyllo realized that the window wasn’t the only thing blurring, and he blinked sharply. “It’s… it’s okay,” he said softly. Forcing the cheer back into his voice, though it was noticeably muted, he said, “It was… a child’s fantasy anyway. To be the man I’d have been if Meltaim never kidnapped me. We can only live in reality, not in the past.” He knelt down beside the bed, putting his arms around Silvia and Zuzanna both. “I have my freedom. My family- and our family is about to get even bigger. We should… we should be happy. To welcome our new little one.”

“We… we can still save up,” Zuzanna whispered, squeezing back tears. “As much as we can-- we’ll do it, we will, it’s not just a fantasy, Phyllo. It’s not. I won’t let it be, I…” Her voice trailed off, as though she could no longer force the sweet nothings through her teeth.

“It’s okay Zuzia,” he whispered. “It’s not your fault, alright? Please don’t blame yourself. It takes two people to make a baby, it just happens the woman is the one to carry it. Besides it’ll be… good for Silvia. To have a playmate close to her age.”

“I… I suppose,” Zuzia replied. Pulling away from Phyllo, she gave a grim scan of the compact flat around them. “Where will we even put another cradle? Unless… unless we move Silvia to bed with us and then reuse hers for the new baby… but even then it’ll be so cramped, and… if both of them are crying-- and, Woo, how am I going to still work contracts, I feel bad enough saddling our friends with babysitting occasionally with just Silvs, let alone two babies, and...” Her throat trembled. “We’re g-going to make this work, Phyllo-- r-right? Somehow?”

He swallowed hard. “We’ll figure out something. I promise. We always figure out something.” He kissed her cheek. “And I… I could stay home with the little ones, most of the time. I can’t feed them but I make less money than you do anyway so I… I may as well be useful, right?”

“You shouldn’t have to stay home,” Zuzanna murmured. “You… you should be able to have your apprenticeship and--” She cut herself off, letting out a frustrated hiss as she did, and for several moments an uncomfortable silence percolated in the air. “February,” the teenager said finally. “The midwife… she thinks the baby will be born sometime in February. She says the h-heartbeat is strong. Healthy and strong.”

“That’s good,” Phyllo replied. Letting a slightly teasing tone edge into his voice, he asked, “So then, Mama, what do your instincts tell you this time? Boy or girl?”

His wife let herself smile, though only barely. “Nope,” she said. “I’m not guessing this time. Not after how badly I went wrong with our definitely-a-son Silvia.”

“Aww, not even an idle speculation?” the father-to-be needled. “What pronouns can Morgaine use to tease us if we aren’t insisting the child is one gender or the other?”

“Cake,” Zuzia replied with a knowing nod. “Our… our little cake.” She nuzzled Silvia again. “Because I’m sure you’ll be stuffing me full of them, right? Just like when I was pregnant with Silvia. For the practice. F-for when you get your apprenticeship.”

Phyllo smiled thinly. “If Morgaine and Leif let me borrow their ovens, I will stuff you and the little cake so full that you get even fatter than you did with Silvia. I will have to carry you to your contracts.”

Zuzia pouted her lips, mock-sullen. “Oh, be nice,” she scolded. “Silvia was already a toad when she was born-- you don’t want this one to be a dragon, do you?” She leaned her forehead against him. “Think of your poor hand, Phyllo. And how hard I’ll be squeezing it when I’m in labour.”

He sighed. “I suppose you have a point. Alright- no dragon babies. Just a cake. A nice, fat, sweet little cake in the oven.” The young man stood, ruffling Silvia’s hair so that the baby giggled. “If I’m not to be a baker of bread, I may as well be a baker of cakes, hm?”

“You’ll be a baker of everything,” Zuzanna said firmly. “One day. No matter what life throws at us… I’m going to make sure of it.”

***

Over the next few weeks, Zuzia and Phyllo tried as best as they could to adjust back to life as usual. For Phyllo this meant many long days performing a variety of odd jobs, which ranged the gamut from running errands for merchants (as he’d done back in Meltaim) to digging ditches... and nearly everything in between. One such job, about a fortnight after Zuzia’s announcement, saw the young man helping out with the dinner rush at the King’s Arms Inn after its usual kitchen assistant came down with a flu. Phyllo spent the night ferrying dishes between the stove and dining room, refilling beer tankards, and occasionally lending the inn’s main cook, Lydia, a hand with tending the main dish of the evening: a thick, meaty stew, which required occasional stirring to keep its heat distribution even.

Afterward, as the raucous dining room finally quieted and the kitchen closed for the night, Lydia offered Phyllo a smile and a tired thanks. “I think you’re a better assistant than my actual assistant,” the woman joked, raking a hand through her crimson-red hair. “He should get the flu more often, eh?”

Phyllo gave a short laugh. “I do my best. It’s nice to keep busy. I had a lot of idle hours, once upon a time, and no real productive outlet for spending them. It’s nice to feel like I’m doing work that’s appreciated.” Turning away from the entrance that lead out into the common room, Phyllo pulled off the white bandanna he wore to cover the brand on his forehead, and mopped the sweat from under it with a sleeve.

“I know what you mean,” Lydia said, her eyes lingering on his brand for only a moment before her gaze dropped down toward her own collarbone. She was wearing a high-necked dress, as she always did, but had one glimpsed beneath it, they’d have spotted scars of slavery not wholly unlike Phyllo’s. “You live in, ah-- the Stone District, right? Near the northeastern part of wall?”

“Yes,” he replied. “In an apartment over a tea shop called Scent of the South- apparently because the owner imports her teas from M… Mz… I will never get that pronunciation right, sorry.”

“Mzia,” Lydia said without faltering. “Hellish kiln of a place.” She gave Phyllo a thin smile. “Let me walk you. Inn’s nearly out of turpentine, and our supplier’s located up that way.” The woman chuckled. “Mustn’t run out of turpentine, after all. Then Ilsa wouldn’t be able to polish the furniture.”

Phyllo smiled back. “That would be unfortunate. I’ve never known a person to take such personal affront to having a drunkard crush a table leg. I was telling Zuzia the other day she should start charging Ilsa whenever she fixes something for her- not like she wouldn’t do the same to us if the situation was the other way around.”

Lydia snorted, motioning for Phyllo to follow her as she started toward the door. “You should have seen her when we had two buffoons get into a scuffle the other week. One of ‘em fell onto a chair. Crushed it. I think dear Ilsa nearly passed out.”

Phyllo followed the older woman, tying his headband back on as he walked. Soon the two of them were walking down the dark streets of the city, only the flickering light of a few token lanterns illuminating the streets.

“It’s strange,” Phyllo remarked absently. “I’m still not quite used to the city being… dark like this. Even though I’ve been in it and ones like it for going on two years now. But back in Meltaim, all the lights are magical, and set to perfectly illuminate the area around them. Only the… part of town for the slaves used oil lamps. I still associate them with the ‘bad’ area of the city.”

“I rather like it,” Lydia said. “It’s… peaceful, in a way. Especially on nights like this-- when it’s warm and breezy, and the moon’s nearly full, and the stars aren’t hidden by clouds.” She stifled a yawn. “Not so fun in winter, though. When you can’t see the ice through the dimness. Broke my arm that way a few years ago. I swear, no matter how long I live here, I will never grow used to the cold.”

Phyllo grinned. “Zuzia and I grew up in the Galfras Mountains- much colder than winter gets here. We find the summers to be awful personally. Whenever she comes home from a contract where she has to work outside, she complains incessantly about the heat and casts ice spells around the edge of the window. I think the heat’s been getting to her even worse recently, she’s been broody as all ‘Pit. That or this pregnancy’s making her grumpier than Silvia’s did.”

“She’s pregnant again?” Lydia quirked a brow. “My congratulations. Your little one’s, what-- a year? Last time Zuzia was at the inn, she mentioned the wee scamp’s getting a decent grip on the whole ‘walking’ thing. You two chasing her in circles around the apartment yet?”

“She’s started mimicking us and applauding herself when she makes it a few steps- and looking at us to prompt us to clap too,” he said, an affectionate smile on his face. Coughing, he added, “Sorry, I thought Xavier would’ve told you about the pregnancy- he was there when we mentioned it to Leif last week. We just found out recently- an early birthday surprise for me, I suppose.”

“Nineteen, isn’t it?” Lydia asked. “So terribly old, Master Panem.” She chuckled softly. “You and Zuzanna have any plans for the big day?”

He winced, shaking his head. “We’d… been hoping to find a babysitter for Silvs and poke around the market a bit, have a night on the town, but that’s not really feasible anymore.” In a voice deliberately neutral he went on, “We’ve had to dip into our savings to work on preparing for the new baby.”

“I see.” Lydia’s voice was etched with sympathy. “I… take it the rest of the plans are on hold, then?” she prompted after a moment’s hesitation. “I know last month when we ran into each other in the marketplace, you seemed pretty optimistic. That you’d get the funds for a bigger place and apprenticeship sooner than later.”

“Yeah that’s… not looking to be happening anymore,” he said softly. “At least not for a while.” Forcing a smile onto his face, he said, “It’ll be fine, I’ve had to give up worse things. Besides, I’m getting lots of practice baking cake-babies which is even better than cake-pastries, right?”

“Cake-babies?” Lydia laughed. “Please tell me that’s a metaphor.”

“It is,” Phyllo assured her. “Zuzia’s been calling the baby our ‘cake’ instead of a son or daughter, since last time she tried to guess genders she ended up being wrong.” He sighed. “It’s an expensive little cake, though. I don’t know how much longer I can scrape by with odd jobs- I’ve been trying to find a permanent position for more steady money. But you know how it is; no skills aside from those that are useful for being a slave, which apply to nothing but menial labor that people don’t hire full time employees for.”

“I’m sorry, Phyllo,” Lydia said. “That sounds like a lot of extra stress that you certainly don’t need. I wish I could help, somehow, that I…” She paused as something seemed to occur to her. “You know,” the woman went on slowly, “I… don’t want to promise you anything, but-- you’re… fine with a long workday, right? And… doing any variety of tasks?”

“I’d need to find a sitter for Silvia, but I wouldn’t mind at all,” Phyllo said. “My tasks aren’t exactly the same all the time now anyway. What’s on your mind?”

“You know Morgaine Braham’s partner, right? Ciara?” When Phyllo nodded, Lydia went on, “Her little sister, Daria, is married to a greengrocer. They’ve a little shopfront in the main market, so it gets a fair bit of traffic. Usually Daria and her husband can manage it as a team, but he’s been away a lot recently-- his mum lives out in the countryside, a solid half-day’s ride from the city walls, and ever since his dad passed last year, she’s been doing… poorly, to say the least. Luke wants to bring her here to the city so she can live with him and Daria, but the old bat refuses, so he’s been traveling back and forth a lot. And Daria, ah-- let’s just say she’s been a tad bit overwhelmed suddenly running the place largely solo. Particularly since she’s also got three little moppets to tend and supervise.”

“So she needs some help around the shop, and perhaps to corral the little ones,” Phyllo intuited. “Well if you would be willing to put in a good word for me, I’d be in your debt, Lydia. If she’s anything like Ciara or Lawrence hopefully I should be able to get along with her well enough- even Briar I think doesn’t hate me,” he added with a crooked smile.

“Oh, you would know if Briar hated you,” Lydia confirmed, smirking. “She’s certainly not shy. But--” She sobered again. “I’ll talk to Daria, Phyllo. As soon as I can. And let you know. She’s been a bit hesitant to bring someone in because of the kids, but hey-- you and Zuzia have babysat Muriel Lynn without throwing her out a window, so I think you’re pretty trustworthy, eh?”

“Strawberry shortcakes and danishes make for excellent bribes of good behavior,” he replied with a wink. “Though I’ve been informed that they make her an outright hellion by the time we hand her back. Elin’s got me under written contract not to feed the kids more than one sweet per visit, or suffer unspecified dire consequences.”

Lydia and Phyllo parted ways not long later as the pair arrived to the latter’s home-- and in the few weeks that followed, Phyllo heard no news of the possible job. He was just about to give up on the prospect when a courier caught him outside the teahouse one morning, bearing a message from one Daria Glenn. “Madam Glenn says, ah-- to drop by at your earliest convenience,” the messenger recited. “She’d like to speak with you. At Glenn & Family Grocers’-- located two blocks west of the Grand Woo Cathedral, she says to look for the green-and-white banner.”

Surprised, but relieved, Phyllo swept by their flat at the teahouse just long enough to drop off some groceries- and to let Zuzia know where she could find him later if she needed. Zuzia nodded without further comment, rubbing her bleary eyes as she watched Silvia playfully pat one of the potatoes her father had brought home as if it were a puppy. Usually such a move would have earned a cracked smile from her mother, but today Zuzia only sighed. Phyllo gave her a concerned look, wondering if the pregnancy really was taking more of a toll on her than the previous one had. Resolving to look into it later, he kissed his wife on the cheek and bid her and Silvia goodbye, earning a babbled “Buh-biiiiiiie!” from Silvia-- but only a wan smile and murmured “Good luck” from Zuzia.

As Lydia had mentioned, Glenn & Family Grocers’ was situated smack-dab in the middle of one of the merchant market’s busiest stretches, on a wide boulevard that was teeming with both foot and horse traffic. Though modest in size compared to some of its neighbours, the storefront was nevertheless impeccably well kept, with a pebbled stone exterior and, as promised, a large white-and-green banner flapping over the door. Inside, a plethora of fruits and vegetables glistened up from assorted bins and shelves; the air smelled crisp and vaguely damp, like wet earth.

“Mama!” A small boy of no more than four or five sat on a stool behind the counter at the front corner of the shop, his legs dangling several inches off the floor. Grinning sheepishly at Phyllo as the front door swung shut behind him, the child craned his neck toward the warren of shelves behind him. “Mama, we’ve gotta cust’mer!”

Phyllo chuckled, giving the child a somewhat cheeky grin. “You the boss of this nice shop, young sir? I bet you are, you look very clever like a proper merchant.”

“Uh-huh!” The boy jutted his chin pridefully, the sunlight that streamed in through the shop’s broad front window bringing out snatches of gold in his pale brown hair . “I know all ‘bout veg-a-bulls! We got-- we got ’tatoes, and… and-- onions, and ooh-- we got berries, too, but those isn’t veg-a-bulls, those is fruits--”

“Charlie!” came a curt voice as a rather harried-looking woman rushed out from amidst the maze of displays. Though she couldn’t have been older than her early twenties, the years had clearly run her ragged: dark bags underscored her light blue eyes, and she looked like she hadn’t combed her frizzy blonde hair in weeks. There was a baby, perhaps six or seven months old, glued to her hip, and she bounced the child idly as she said to Phyllo, “Sorry about Charlie, sir. He’s a bit-- ah, my husband calls him social. Which is a nice way of saying that he has never met a word he doesn’t want to soon have gushing out of his mouth.”

“I know lotsa words!” Charlie supplied with a grin.

“Yes, that’s the problem,” his presumable mother returned. She looked back to Phyllo, sighing. “How can I help you, sir?”

“You don’t need to apologize, Madam, he wasn’t bothering me at all. And actually I was hoping that I might be able to help you,” he replied, bowing his head politely. “My name is Phyllo Panem- I believe you sent for me?”

“Ah!” Recognition crossed the woman’s face. “Of course-- I was hoping you’d come!” She smiled, kissing the baby’s white-blond hair as she began to fuss. “I’m Daria Glenn, this is-- well, you’ve met Charlie--” she gestured to the still-beaming boy “-- and this one in my arms is Summer. Which-- before you ask, no, she was not born in summer, but it’s a ‘family name’, according to my husband, and he was rather insistent.”

“Summer was borned on Woomas!” Charlie chirped. “Me and Blair wanted a puppy, but ‘stead we got Summer, and--”

“Charlie.” Daria cringed. “Anyhow. Um. I hope I’ve not scared you away already, Master Panem. As you can see, things here are… slightly chaotic, to say the least. I’ve got these two-- plus a three-year-old asleep in the back who… Woo, I don’t even know but he’s been coughing for days, and then there’s the shop to manage, and my husband’s not back until the weekend, and--” She forced a deep breath. “You… probably want to run back out that door, don’t you, Master Panem?”

He chuckled softly. “Believe me, Madam Glenn, I’ve been in far more overwhelming situations and faced them down- if you find my help agreeable, I’d still like to offer it.” Glancing down at Charlie he added, “Besides, I’ve my own one-year-old daughter and another child due in February- I should consider it practice if anything.”

“Call me Daria, please. And-- I would be extremely happy for the help. It’ll probably be a bit of a hodgepodge, depending on the day. I mostly need just… an extra adult, I suppose? Someone who can count inventory, or tally up purchases, or accept deliveries-- but at the same time, somebody I can also trust to hold Summer when she’s fussy, or feed the boys breakfast.”

“I already eated breakfast,” Charlie informed his mother.

Daria just barely refrained an eye roll. “Yes, you did. Such a good memory, honey.” She let out a gusty sigh. “I’ll be honest, we run a fairly tight ship here, financially. We rent this space, and given the location, it’s not cheap. And once we add in the fact that Luke’s spent the last few months traveling back and forth between here and his mother’s house--” She shook her head. “What were you looking for, Master Panem? Pay-wise?”

“I’m not looking for much,” he said. “I know that the sort of work I’m putting myself out for is the sort of thing that… just about anyone could do really. Up to now I’ve mostly worked whatever errands I could get from people. I’m just looking for more stable work so that I don’t have to worry about going a week or two without bringing in any income to support my wife and my daughter.” He absently ran a hand over his sleeve, rubbing at one of the scars concealed under the cloth. “Would something in the neighborhood of five runestones per day be reasonable to you?”

Daria considered for several moments. “I…” She winced as Summer let out a shrill cry, squirming like a live (and very furious) snake in her mother’s arms. “You said-- you’ve a one-year-old, yes?”

“I do,” he said. “Just turned in June. Why?”

“Three,” Daria said. “Per day. And-- you could bring her with you. When you work.” As if it occurred to her that she might be coming across as stingy, the woman added, “I just-- Lydia told me your wife works, too, so I imagine that you two juggle the baby, and if you have to pay for babysitters that’s not cheap, so… this could save us both money. You and me.”

“That… that would be a Woosend, right now we’re having to alternate asking Morgaine, Ciara, and the Lynns to watch her for us. But are you sure? She is one years old, and while I can corral her, babies… are babies.”

“It’s fine,” Daria assured him, as Summer let out a louder, angrier squawk. “Woo knows this place is hardly a haven of calm, anyway. And two adults for four children is still a much better arrangement than one adult for three.” Prying Summer from her hip, she began to rock the squalling baby back and forth. “So. When could you start?”

Ripple Effect: Part Two

SPOILER: Click to show

When Phyllo explained the terms he’d agreed to with Daria, it was clear that Zuzanna was tremendously relieved to have the burden of Silvia’s care during the day off of their ever-lengthening list of things to worry about. He came to the store the following day to start working, little Silvia in a sling on his back. The one-year-old looked over his shoulder curiously as he went about his business in the store, doing everything from sweeping the floor to hauling crates from wagons to tallying inventory. When the children grew restless and fractious he entertained them, telling stories he remembered from Valzaim and occasionally making a game out of getting the older two to help him put veggies on the shelf.

It wasn’t easy work certainly; the hours were long, the workload neverending, and it seemed impossible to start a task and finish it all the way through without either being interrupted by someone or called away to a more urgent chore. But Phyllo worked hard and didn’t complain, and Daria seemed genuinely relieved for his assistance-- as did her husband, Luke, when he occasionally made it back to the city for a brief stay before heading back to the countryside. The children, too, quickly took to Phyllo, with Charlie and his little brother, Blair, delighted to have an adult around who wasn’t their oft-exasperated and chiding mother. (That Phyllo occasionally came to work armed with cookies and slices of cake to be rewarded to them if they behaved most definitely helped in this regard, too.)

Phyllo often arrived home late and exhausted, but his efforts were manifest in a steady stream of income that he and his wife could funnel into their living expenses and preparation for the new child to come. However, when Phyllo was home, either finished for the day or simply taking a day off, he was surprised to find that Zuzia, despite being relieved from her usual daytime care of Silvia, seemed just as exhausted. Over dinner she would smile politely as her husband talked about his day, and afterward she’d dutifully tend and nurse Silvia, but otherwise she seemed exceptionally eager to simply nestle up in bed, buried beneath a mountain of blankets.

Increasingly concerned for her, Phyllo started to hint that she might want to check with the midwife or healer about the chronic fatigue. By this point there was a slight bulge starting to grow in her middle, disabusing any doubts as to the fact that she was indeed pregnant, and Phyllo couldn’t like the idea of her health declining so sharply when it had done nothing of the sort during Silvia’s time within her mother. However, Zuzia starkly rebutted all such suggestions, insisting in pointed tones that she was quite fine, there was nothing wrong with her, that he need not worry so much.

“You don’t need to fret about me, Phyllo, okay?” she told him time and time again. “I’m perfectly alright. I promise.”

But fret Phyllo did, and the almost snappish tone of her responses hurt. He knew that his wife was stubborn, especially when it came to admitting her own vulnerabilities, and he began to make it a point to do whatever he could to support her in ways she wouldn’t take offense to. He brought tea and sugary drinks and snacks to her to help with her energy, rubbed tight, tense muscles in her back when they lay down at night to sleep, and tried to take as many of the chores around the apartment on himself as he could.

One evening, about two months after he’d taken the job at the greengrocers, Phyllo arrived home exceptionally late. It was mid-autumn by this point, well into the harvest season, and it seemed like shipments were coming in almost daily from the farmers outside the city. His muscles burned from hauling crates, his head ached from tallying inventories, and Silvia was fussing and squalling from being kept up well past her bedtime. When he opened the door to the flat she was dead to the world in her sling on his back, one thumb in her mouth. As late as it was he expected to find his wife in a similar state on the bed- minus the thumb sucking of course.

However, as Phyllo blinked to adjust his eyes to the pitch black room, it quickly became apparent that Zuzia was nowhere to be found. The bed was empty and neatly made, clearly untouched from morning-time; there was no sign of anyone having eaten any recent meals; and while the Panems had started a new candle the evening before, it still was only burned a fraction at the top-- meaning it hadn’t been lit at all today.

Which meant Zuzia hadn’t come home after dark.

Phyllo’s heart leapt into his throat, and his first impulse was to dart back downstairs immediately. This late at night any number of unsavory sorts could be out and about, and while Zuzanna was well capable of looking after herself under normal circumstances she’d been so exhausted lately…

However, any panicked impulse to rush back out into the blackened streets was forestalled by the sudden sensation of movement at his back- Silvia shifting position in her sleep. Phyllo clenched his teeth. He didn’t want to take the baby back out there on a wild goose chase, but he absolutely couldn’t leave her alone either.

But what do I do?!

He could try to alert a guardsman, but that presented the same problem as looking for Zuzia. He would likely wander blindly for ages before finding anyone who could help. All of their personal friends were too far away to be of any help, either in watching Silvia or in searching for Zuzanna on Phyllo’s behalf.

Shaking, his teeth clenched, Phyllo sat on the bed and gently shifted Silvia’s sling around so he could hold her in his arms. She snuggled against his chest, drowsily babbling a string of syllables that, while incoherent, rose and fell in a pattern akin to speech. He bit his lip hard, stroking the child’s soft brown hair as he wracked his brain for something- anything- to do.

Perhaps half an hour passed-- and Silvia had fallen back asleep in her father’s arms-- before the sound of footsteps padding up the stairs from the shop below broke through the still and quiet air. Moments later, the front door creaked open, a petite shape slipping in through the dimness.

“... Phyllo?” As Zuzanna’s eyes settled on her husband, sitting ramrod straight on their bed, she froze. “What… what are you doing awake?”

“Zuzanna,” he croaked, his voice hoarse with relief as he stood. He paused only long enough to set Silvia in her cradle before bolting towards his wife and pulling her into as tight a hug as he could manage around her five-months-pregnant belly. “Where were you, it’s almost midnight! I was terrified something had happened when I got home and you weren't there!”

“I… I…” She blinked, as if startled by Phyllo’s reaction. “I was just-- out. Taking care of some things.” Zuzia bit her lip. “I’m sorry if you were worried. I… I didn’t think I’d get home so late.”

“Taking care of some things?” he asked, his voice a tremulous warble. “What things? I seriously want to have Leif have a word with whoever it is that’s insisting on doing business so late at night!”

“Calm down, okay?” Zuzia pulled back from him. “I’m sorry that I scared you, but it just… time got away from me, and…” She shook her head. “It won’t happen again. No need to pull Leif into this, Phyllo.”

Phyllo flinched back from his wife’s tone, clenching his teeth. “What has gotten into you, lately? You’re stubborn but you don’t usually act like you have something to prove to me.” His grey eyes cast down to the floor he murmured, “You’re exhausted all the time, you never talk to me anymore, and now this... What’s wrong, Zuzia?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” the teenager insisted, pressing a hand to her temple as Silvia shifted audibly in her cradle. “Again, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. But can we just-- go to bed, please? Before we have a screaming baby?”

Phyllo stared at her, blinking hard against the sting of moisture in his eyes. Even this wasn’t like Zuzanna’s usual self. Usually if he snarled at her, baited her, she got angry and lashed back. Instead she was still evading. He felt like he was talking to a brick wall instead of to his wife.

“Are you angry about something?” he asked softly.

“No,” she said, taking a step around him, toward the bed. “I’m not mad. Just… tired. I’m just tired, Phyllo. It’s nearly midnight, and I’m tired, and-- I’d like to sleep. That’s all.”

The young man clenched his eyes shut. “Fine. I… I’m sorry. For flying into a panic over nothing.”

Zuzia pausing, glancing back toward him for a fraction of a moment before she looked away again. “Goodnight, Phyllo,” the teenager whispered.

Without looking at her or turning towards the bed, he whispered back, “Goodnight, Zuzia.”

***

Over the next several weeks, nothing changed. Zuzanna continued to be seldom present in the flat, evasive when she was there, and generally so exhausted she wasn’t much of a conversationalist. Phyllo grew more and more frustrated and despairing- and his concern was not assuaged when finally Zuzanna did have an appointment with the midwife, and that worthy confirmed that to all appearances the pregnancy was going well. So if her behavior wasn’t because of the baby… what was causing it?

He had a suspicion. An old, niggling suspicion that he’d not given much credence to in a while, but one that flared up with a vengeance now. And the more Zuzanna blew him off, the stronger that voice in his head nagged. Soon the mother-to-be wasn’t the only one in an almost constant ill mood, with Phyllo generally somewhere between frustrated and despairing unless he was forcing cheer for the sake of Daria’s children or Silvia.

It was about a month after his and Zuzia’s midnight confrontation when Phyllo arrived to the greengrocer’s one morning to find the door, unusually, locked tight. Only after knocking for several minutes did Daria Glenn materialize, the young woman clad only in a rumpled nightdress and with eyes so red she looked as if she hadn’t slept in weeks-- even though Phyllo had seen her only the day before looking as normal as ever.

“Phyllo.” Daria’s voice was little more than a raspy haze as she pressed a hand against her pale temple. “Thank Woo you’re here.”

“Daria, Woo, what happened?” he asked her, caught off guard by how wretched she appeared. “You seemed perfectly fit yesterday.”

“I barely even know,” Daria groaned. “I was feeling fine last night, and then I woke up burning up, and…” She shuddered. “Could you-- could you go to the apothecary for me? I’ll give you money-- any money you need, and…” The woman leaned against the doorway, standing alone clearly a feat for her. “And then have a courier send a message to-- not Briar or Lawrence, they’re probably busy, and Ara was ranting yesterday about having a heavy workload… but… Lydia. Send a message to Lydia. Maybe she could come by if the inn’s slow, and help out just a bit? Woo willing.” A beat. “And take Charlie with you? If you don’t mind. He’s been a menace since dawn.”

Phyllo nodded, shifting the sling that held Silvia so that it rested more comfortably on his back. “Right. Can do. I’ll get Charlie something to eat while we’re out, maybe if his teeth are glued by breakfast he’ll be quiet a while.” A thought seemed to occur to him, and he reached into his pocket, withdrawing several small packets that wafted the fragrance of sweet leaves, herbs and spices. “Here- the owner of the teashop where I live gives me and Zuzia these from time to time to pass to people around town as free samples to draw business. Might help your head until I get back.”

“Thank you.” Daria accepted the proffered tea. “And if Charlie whines about having to hold your hand, tell him he’s getting carried otherwise. That should quiet him quickly.”

Phyllo laughed dryly. “I hope he doesn’t try to call that bluff. I could probably hold him, or Silvia, but not both. But I’ll keep the threat in reserve.”

In spite of Charlie’s rambunctious energy, Phyllo managed to quite him briefly by the expedience of a pouch of thick, chewy beef jerky. This lasted through the visit to the apothecary and most of the visit to the courier, but he managed to polish off the snack in time to turn the trip back to the shop into an incessant barrage of chattering and attempts to drag Phyllo by the hand to see various “cool” and “awesome” knick knacks that drew his attention as they passed.

With no adult company at the shop that morning, Phyllo found his thoughts drifting. Seeing Daria so exhausted and ill reminded him uncomfortably of how badly off Zuzanna had been in recent months. But at least Daria had the sense to rest and ask for help, where Phyllo’s wife was rejecting every attempt he made to even get her to admit there was a problem.

Lydia eventually arrived to help ease the burden shortly after noon, the redhaired woman smiling as Charlie and his little brother, Blair, immediately catapulted themselves toward her like cats launching on mice. Rather than dodging, however, she wrapped her arms around them both, smiling fondly at the boys as she ruffled their hair.

“I hear your mama’s sick,” Lydia said, scooping Blair up into her arms. “You being good boys for Phyllo, I hope?”

“Uh-huh!” Charlie, still clinging to her waist like a tick, nodded earnestly. “We’re real good, Aunt Lydia! Helping to put ‘way all the veg-a-bulls!”

Phyllo gave his friend a tired smile as he emerged from behind one of the shelves. “Except for the part where you were harassing Blair again for not being able to tell broccoli apart from cauliflower. Just because he can’t tell his colors well doesn’t mean you need to be mean.” He glanced warily back at the door that led to the private apartments, adding, “And keep your voice down, the babies are still sleeping.”

“But we could wake ‘em up!” Charlie suggested. “So Aunt Lydia can see Summer and Silvia! Aunt Lydia, wanna see--”

“No, absolutely not.” Setting Blair back down, Lydia wagged a stern finger at Charlie. “Let them sleep, Charlie. Babies need sleep, okay?” She looked to Phyllo. “I can only stay a few hours,” she said apologetically. “I need to get back to the inn before the dinner rush. But while I’m here-- what do you need the most help with?”

“Right now we’re sorting the most recent shipment,” Phyllo answered. “Checking the vegetables for bugs and whatnot. This should probably be the last big delivery of the season before winter sets in, so once we sort it half needs to be put into the drying shed for the winter. You can help with the sorting, or if you prefer you could take the cleaning supplies and tidy up a little- I’m afraid that’s gotten neglected in the chaos a bit.”

“I can help sort,” Lydia said. Glancing back down at the boys, and watching as Blair fought back a yawn, she added, “Want me to take them to the back first? I’m thinking they could use a nap, too.”

“Nuh-uh!” Charlie insisted. “I don’t need a nap, I’m not a baby--”

“Everyone likes naps,” Lydia said brightly, hooking the boy under his armpits and hefting him up. “I mean-- your mama’s taking a nap right now, isn’t she? And she’s a big person. Just like you!”

“I agree,” Phyllo said with a firm nod. “When people are tired they should rest.” He glanced away, adding more quietly, “Otherwise you just worry people. And y-you don’t want your mama to have to worry when she’s sick.”

“And afterward,” Lydia said, beckoning for Blair to follow as she began with Charlie toward the rear door, “maybe you can have a nice snack, okay? If you’re good and quiet boys.”

“Jerky?” Charlie asked hopefully, with a glance toward Phyllo.

“Maybe,” he replied, amused in spite of himself. “If you’re good for Aunt Lydia.”

He watched as the woman took the boys into the back, returning to his work with the produce. His earlier slip gnawed at him, making him want to scream with frustration. Why was a four year old easier to reason with than his wife?

You know why. You just don’t want to admit it.

The young man clenched his teeth so hard it was a wonder that they didn’t crack under the strain. However, it wasn’t until a droplet landed on the head of lettuce he was holding that he realized he was crying, and with a snarl of frustration he violently rubbed at his face with a sleeve. It was only once he’d pulled his arm back away that he noticed Lydia through his peripheral vision, the woman hovering in the rear doorway as she returned from depositing Blair and Charlie in their beds.

“Phyllo…?” Her voice was whisper-soft as she padded toward him. “Are you okay?”

He looked away, unable to meet Lydia’s eyes. “No. I’m… I’m useless, and pathetic, and I can’t do anything, a-and everything’s falling apart a-and-”

“What?” She knelt down at his side, her green eyes swimming with concern. “Why are you saying that, Phyllo? What happened?”

“I don’t know,” he hissed around clenched teeth, squeezing the lettuce so hard that the leaves on it ripped audibly in his fingers. “But ever since… ever since Zuzia told me she was pregnant again sh-she won’t talk to me, and she’s exhausted constantly, and she’s never home, and I can’t get her to tell me where she’s going or why she’s so tired all the time! Wh-when I try to talk to her she just snaps at me, and I don’t know what to do!”

“Is she… nervous, you think?” Lydia asked gently. “About the baby?”

He shook his head. “She barely even talks about the baby. ‘Pit she doesn’t talk about anything anymore except to ask me about my day and then nod along. But she won’t… come places with me, she’s always too tired, or has something arranged but she won’t explain what.” He set the lettuce down and sat on a stool nearby, squeezing his sleeves. “I… I c-can’t help but worry. Worry she… sh-she might…”

“Might what?”

“Might…” he choked. “Regret it. Me. Tying herself down to a man who has nothing worthwhile to offer her or our children.”

All of it came bubbling up all at once, after months of being throttled back. No, not months- years. Years he’d held these insecurities close to his heart, since that first moment back in the Baily in Meltaim when he’d realized how he felt about Zuzanna.

“I’ve… I’ve wondered, all this time, what she even sees in me, why someone with as much talent and intelligence and education as her would marry a slave who doesn’t know how to do anything but sweep floors and stand around like an impassive monster when people are bleeding. And just… the new baby probably just hammered it in, because now I can’t get the education in the trade like I wanted to and she does and always will make way more money than I do and I’m j-just useless, but she doesn’t want to say it because she can’t do anything about it when we’re legally married so she’s been avoiding me and… and…”

He bent double over his lap, his throat too thick to get another coherent word out, as Lydia winced outwardly in sympathy, setting a ginger hand on Phyllo’s shoulder. For a long moment, the woman said nothing, as if she couldn’t scramble her thoughts together-- and when she did finally speak, her tone was at once firm and riddled with empathy.

“Zuzanna ran across the continent with you, Phyllo,” she said. “She left behind a life of luxury. Of every privilege a person could ever dream about. And she did that because she loves you.” Lydia paused for a moment, studying Phyllo’s stricken face. “How she’s been treating you… I can’t pretend to know why she’s doing it. But-- if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life, it’s that you can’t just sit idly by and let things happen to you. You’re hurting. Badly. And she loves you, no matter how she’s been acting. And so know what you need to do, Phyllo? Go home tonight. Don’t just… ask her what’s wrong with her, but tell her what her actions are doing to you. Point out to her that she’s not operating in a bubble. That her behaviour has consequences for you. And-- and if she loves you as I’m so sure she does… she will open up. She will. I know it.”

He winced, biting his lip hard. “I… I know you’re right, th-that I should talk to her. Instead of just… stewing in it. But what if she doesn’t talk to me? She’s been evading me for months every time I try to talk to her about anything deeper than the weather!”

“And if you don’t try,” Lydia countered, “then she definitely won’t open up, Phyllo. Don’t let fears of the unknown stop you from doing what you need to. From doing what’s best for you-- and her, for that matter.”

He didn’t reply at first, but after a time he nodded. “Right. You’re… you’re right. I have to at least try.” The young man rubbed his face with the heel of his hand. “I’m going to go crazy before the baby is born otherwise.”

“Tonight,” Lydia said again, softly but very firmly. “When you get home tonight. Before your mind has time to give you reasons why-not.”

“Tonight,” he agreed. I just hope I’m not about to hammer the final nail in the coffin of our relationship.

Ripple Effect: Part Three

SPOILER: Click to show

When Phyllo arrived home that evening, he was unsurprised to find that despite the chaotic, exhausting affair of having run the store almost entirely by himself for the better part of the day, he was home before Zuzia. He took advantage of the quiet in the apartment to collect himself, doing his best to organize his thoughts for the uncomfortable conversation that he knew was about to come. He rocked Silvia until she dozed off, then set her in her bassinet and took up a vigil leaning against the wall by the door, so he would hear his wife coming up the stairs and be ready to confront her when she came in.

It was past nine when Zuzanna finally arrived, the archmage sparing her husband a thin smile as she came through the door-- a smile that promptly disappeared when she read the look on his face. “Phyllo?” she asked. “What’s the matter?”

“You were late getting back again,” he said softly. “Where have you been?”

She cocked her head, shutting the door behind her. “Nowhere in particular,” she replied. “Just… had some errands, and… you know.” Zuzia shrugged.

“Funny thing, you seem to be running errands nowhere in particular a lot more often than not these days,” he retorted. “Please don’t lie to me, Zuzia. Where are you actually going?”

“Do you want a list or something?” Zuzanna raised her brow. “I don’t know, Phyllo. A bunch of places. I… had a contract I was working on, and I needed materials, and--”

“And that kept you out until well after nightfall?” he demanded. “Has been keeping you out until after nightfall nearly nightly for the past three months? Don’t play coy, I want actual answers, not evasions.”

“What are you, my father?” Zuzia snapped. This was clearly an attempt at deflection-- and the girl seemed to know it, her voice taking on a frantic air as she added, “It’s not a big deal, Phyllo, I don’t see why you’re being so--”

“Because I feel like I’m not even bloody married anymore!” he snapped, losing the fragile hold he’d gotten over his emotions since his conversation with Lydia. “I barely see you, and when I do see you I can’t properly talk to you because you’re always tired or have somewhere you urgently need to be! I want us to be a family, to have lazy days where we just go out or visit with friends like we used to!” His grey eyes filming, he went on, “I want us to get excited together for our new baby! But instead all I ever see anymore is the back of your heels as you’re walking down the stairs or the back of your head while you’re sleeping!”

He clenched his hands into fists, squeezing his eyes shut in an effort to stem the tears that were trying to break free again. “I… I’m just trying to work out where I went wrong, Zuzia. What… what I d-did that made you not want to be around me anymore. Not trust me with your problems anymore.” He collapsed against the wall, the anger running out of his voice to be replaced by raw anguish. “I don’t know what I did… but whatever it was, I’m sorry. If it’s because I can’t help as much with the money, or because I got you pregnant again, or whatever it was just… please, please, I’m sorry!”

For a very long moment, Zuzanna said nothing, the teenager standing stunned and stock-still as she stared at Phyllo’s agonized form. She blinked hard, several times, tears pricking at her pale eyes, before she brought a tremulous hand up to wipe them away. Then, at long last, she took a hesitant step forward, her entire body suddenly shaking like a leaf in the wind.

“I r-ruined everything, Phyllo,” she whimpered. “You don’t understand. I ruined everything.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” he asked, his voice thick with the tears he was fighting so hard to keep back.

“Things were going right,” his wife stammered. “For once, they were going right. We-- we were saving up, and we were going to get a bigger place, and your apprenticeship, and I… I just…” She squeezed her eyes shut. “They didn’t fail, Phyllo. The… the herbs. I kept forgetting to take them. Don’t you get it? I forgot to take them. Everything was going good for once-- and I ruined it because I couldn’t remember to take a gods-cursed herb with my morning tea!”

Phyllo stared at her in confusion, but finally seemed to process what she was saying. “You… you’ve been avoiding me? Because you felt guilty that you forgot the herbs and got pregnant again?”

“No,” she sniffled. “But I… I had to fix it, Phyllo. I ruined everything, and I-- I had to fix it. I couldn’t let everything fall apart because I was stupid-- I couldn’t let you give up on your dreams because I’m… I’m… careless and impulsive and brash and whatever the hell else everyone else has always said about me.” She forced a jagged breath. “... But I knew that if you knew what I was doing, you’d tell me to stop. That it was okay, that I didn’t h-have to, that your hopes were just hopes and it didn’t matter if they came true-- but it does matter. It does matter!”

He instinctively lurched forwards, putting his arms around her. “Slow down, Zuzia, I don’t understand what you mean. Please, just… take a minute, get your thoughts together, and explain all this to me.”

Zuzanna, however, only shook her head, abruptly shimmying out of her husband’s hold. She stepped around him, and for a moment it looked as though she were headed for Silvia’s cradle (it was a minor miracle the infant had dozed through the exchange thus far). But instead of stopping at her daughter’s side, Zuzanna paced beyond it, still shaking as she crouched down on the floor and ran her fingers across one of the faded wooden floorboards. Her fingers clumsy, she pried it up, then reached into the newly opened gap in the floor.

“This,” she murmured as she pulled out several sizable cloth pouches. They jangled in her hands as she stood again and turned to face Phyllo. “This is what I’ve been doing. Why I’ve been-- been tired, and… away a lot. And I knew that if you knew, you’d t-tell me to stop. But I couldn’t stop. I-- I couldn’t. Because I made a mess of everything, and I needed to fix it, Phyllo.” Then again, as if it were a miserable admission all its own: “I needed to fix it.”

The tears that had been threatening in Phyllo’s eyes finally spilled over and he wanted to hit himself. “You… you’ve been trying to earn the money for the apprenticeship? F-for… for me?” He squeezed his arms, feeling his nails dig painfully into the skin through his sleeves. “Woo, and all this time I… I was worrying that you regretted… Zuzia, I’m so sorry.”

She clenched her trembling jaw. “I-I’ve been doing research, too,” she stuttered. “A lot of research. About-- how to make it happen. And… I know w-we wanted something in the city, but-- there are… villages outside, too. Past the walls. And it’s cheaper there. T-to live. To work. All of it. And… and…” Hitching another fractured breath, she glanced to the bags of money in her hands. “That night I got home s-so late, and you were panicked, it was because I was… I was out. In one of the villages. I know I-I shouldn’t have gone alone, but… there’s a bakery there. A little bakery. And I’d been exchanging c-correspondences with the owner, and he wanted to meet, and…” She shrugged miserably. “He’s willing to do a payment plan. If w-we can come up with a down payment. And then it’s just-- it’s just somewhere to live that we’d need to find, and houses there-- houses, not even flats-- are just a fraction of what they are here, and… and…”

Phyllo said nothing, guilt gnawing at him too much for him to properly get the words out. He slid slowly down to his knees at Zuzanna’s feet, tears streaming down his face.

“I’m such an idiot… you’re… you’re wonderful, and resourceful, and you never give up and I d-don’t deserve someone like you. I j-just gave up and jumped to conclusions and doubted you and Woo, I’m such a worthless-”

“No,” Zuzia cut in. “I… I should have told you. I just-- g-got the idea in my head, and even once I could t-tell you were upset I just… kept on with it. I was stupid, I’ve been so stupid, just like with the herbs, and--” She shook her head rapidly. “I-I was going to make it your Woomas gift. The m-money. I’ve been working-- oh gods, I’ve been working… so much, Phyllo. And I n-nearly have it. The down payment. I’m just… a few weeks away. Maybe a m-month.”

He reached out a shaking hand to her, palm up. “Sit with me?”

Zuzanna hesitated for a moment before nodding shallowly, her motions slow as she dropped down beside him. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, Phyllo. For… for getting us into this mess, and-- and worrying you and… everything. I l-love you. Please, I just-- I just want you to know how much I love you.”

He reached an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. “I know. And I’m thankful for that… every day. That someone like you could love someone like me, and go to so much trouble for my sake.” The young man kissed her cheek. “It’d be dumb of me to try and stop you now that you’re so close, after you’ve gone through so much already. But…” He smiled, a faint light of humor in his eyes, “if you still want to give me a Woomas present…?”

“Someone like you?” Zuzia echoed. “You’re the b-best person I’ve ever met, Phyllo. Of course I could love someone like you.” She nestled her face against his shoulder. “For Woomas…?”

“Stay with me,” he said simply. “Me and Silvs. Don’t go anywhere. I want us to just… be together, and catch up.” He gave a watery chuckle. “Bond with our cake baby.”

She sniffled again. “Okay. Of c-course. I-I’d love that, Phyllo. And… after the New Year-- the… the baker. He w-wants to meet with you. I’ve been feeding him excuses but…” She gulped. “The village is called Sallertown. Terrible name, I know b-but-- it’s nice. Quiet. About… I don’t know, five miles outside the city gates? A long walk, but… riding it’s not bad, and-- and there are so many fields, and there’s woods, and…” Zuzia smiled wistfully. “We could g-get a cottage, I think. For barely any more than we’re paying for this little place. With… nice open land around it, and a hearth, and… a nice loft to shove our monsters into once they’re older. S-so we can have privacy downstairs.”

“You really have been researching this,” Phyllo noted with a smile. “That sounds… nice. Our own place, with a roof that doesn’t leak and room for our family to grow. But still close enough to see our friends in Medieville when we want.” He nuzzled her. “I look forward to meeting this baker. Impress him with my long resume of Medievillian children who vouch for my pastries.”

“He’s nice,” Zuzia whispered. “He and his wife, they’re older-- m-maybe fifty or so. And they had a son who they thought would take over, but he died last winter. Unmarried. Childless. So they’ve been looking for an apprentice since.” She placed her palm against his. “I t-told them our last name is Valzick for ‘bread’. That baking’s in your blood. They’re excited to meet you. Really excited.”

“Sounds like it’s been waiting for us,” he mused. “How long did it take you to find this place?” Shaking his head, he whispered, “I’m so sorry. For doubting you.”

She shrugged. “A m-month or so. I looked into a lot of different villages, but-- some were too far, and others didn’t have any apprenticeships and… when I found Sallertown, it just-- it just seemed right, you know?” Zuzia bit down on the inside of her cheek. “It’s okay, Phyllo. You don’t need to apologize. I’m sorry. That I worried you. I was just being… proud. Stupid a-and proud.”

“But if you weren’t stupid and proud, who would be there to make me be brave? Or to remind me that no matter what Jozef tried to convince me, I am worth something as a person?” he asked with a smile.

“You’re worth everything, Phyllo,” Zuzanna said. “My everything. You and Silvia and…” She hovered a hand over her swollen belly. “And the little cake, too. Complicated little bugger, and it’s not even born yet, huh?”

“He or she just wants to keep us on our toes, I’m sure,” Phyllo remarked with amusement. Phyllo hesitated, then gently tilted Zuzanna’s face towards his and kissed her.

Zuzia returned the kiss, lingering for a long moment before she finally pulled away. “I love you, Phyllo,” she murmured. “So much. You, and both of our little pastry babies.”

“I love you too, Zuzu,” he said. Grinning mischievously, he added, “And I’ll be sure to love all of our little cakes to come.”

“No more cakes for a long while after this,” she said firmly, giving his arm a light, playful punch. “And besides,” she added after a moment with a grin of her own, “if Silvia was a cookie, and this one’s a cake-- our next would be a pie, anyway.”

***

When Woomas arrived, as promised, Zuzia took a break from her manic working to spend quiet time together with her husband and daughter; and a week later, just after the New Year, she and Phyllo left Silvia with Morgaine for the day so that they could set out for the quaint village of Sallertown. It was a long walk, and bitterly cold, with spindly snowflakes falling languidly from the sky and a steady wind rippling the air. All the same, Zuzia found herself quite enjoying the length of it. Spending time on the quiet road with just Phyllo at her side-- in a way, it was like traveling back in time to their journey across the continent. Just the two of them, together. As she’d always wanted.

It was shortly after noon when they finally arrived to the village, and Zuzia held Phyllo’s hand as the two began down the little town’s main-- and only-- proper road, which hosted its scant offering of commercial buildings. A sleepy-looking church, the woocifix atop its snow-dusted steeple in good need of repainting, was flanked on one side by a tiny inn and on the other side by a greengrocer’s; across the street from it was a tiny apothecary, a candle- and soapmaker’s shop, and a blacksmith’s place that seemed to share a storefront with a leathermaker. And then-- located at the very end of the stretch…

“You see it, Phyllo?” Zuzia chirped, unable to refrain a smile. “It’s cute, right? The little cake painted over the door?”

He chuckled. “A little cake like our little cake,” he said, patting her vastly swollen stomach. “It’s like destiny. You knew all along, didn’t you, young man-or-lady?”

Zuzia laughed. “That’s one way of thinking about it, I guess.” As they reached the bakery, she reached a gloved hand toward the door and pulled it open; immediately, warmth and the sweet smell of baking bread floated out, like a beckoning hand inviting them in. “Good, right?” Zuzia asked Phyllo.

He smiled broadly. “Must remind you of home,” he said cheerfully. “Though Kythian bakers seem to use different herbs from Meltaiman.”

He entered the building, his eyebrows lifting a trifle. The walls on the inside of the store were largely comprised of shelves, which extended from about two feet above the floor all the way to the ceiling. These shelves were packed with everything from buns to fritters to cakes, one wall even sporting jars of honey and various jam flavors for spreading. Though not quite upscale enough to sport a glass-fronted case, the counter was still loaded with baskets and trays of bread and pastries, and every inch of the place was immaculate- no flour or powdered sugar anywhere but on the proper trays.

As a bell overhead tinkled to announce Zuzia and Phyllo’s entrance, an older, silver-haired man quickly scurried out from a doorway behind the counter, a broad smile on his tan, wrinkled face. “Welcome, welcome,” he greeted-- before he seemed to recognize the young, snow-dusted archmage, and his dark eyes grew glossy with excitement. “Mistress Panem! It’s been too long.” His gaze swept toward Phyllo. “And you must be Master Panem. I’ve been waiting to meet you for months now, young man-- so many nice letters exchanged with your lovely wife!”

Phyllo smiled, inclining his head politely before walking up to the counter. “It’s good to meet you as well, Master… Williston, was it? My wife has told me many good things. I hope we both prove the equal to her bragging,” he added, eyes glimmering with amusement as he cast a glance at his wife.

“Yes, yes-- sorry, forgot to introduce myself!” He chuckled, gesturing to himself. “Osborn Williston. And this”-- he turned his hand out toward the shop around them-- “is my bakery. Been in the Williston family, since-- Woo, I don’t even know. But a very long time.” Eyes falling on Zuzia’s visibly swollen belly, he added, “Here, shall we head to the back and take a seat? We can chat while I babysit the egg tarts that are in the oven. Fickle little demons-- you overbake them by a minute and they’re worthless, I swear.” He turned. “Follow me, if you will.”

Phyllo obeyed, looking around with interest as they entered the back kitchen area of the shop. Not nearly so clean as the storefront, the kitchen counters were dusty in places with flour and yeast, the surfaces covered in a hodge-podge of half-finished baked goods. Yet even here there seemed to be a method to the madness, a careful articulation of what needed to go in the oven when and an assembly line of decorations for the various artsy desserts.

“This really is nostalgic,” he remarked softly.

“I know,” Zuzia agreed, swallowing back a lump in her throat as Osborn showed them to a small, cluttered table in the corner. The archmage took one seat while her husband took another, and the baker lingered behind them, using a wooden poker to shift the egg tarts that were presently cooking in one of the kitchen’s several roaring ovens.

“These are some of our best sellers,” Osborn commented brightly. “A secret recipe. And when we have leftovers, we bring them to the church after services-- the little kids go crazy for ‘em. I swear, the Jackson kids would trade their souls for a bite.” The baker chuckled, glancing back toward Phyllo and Zuanna. “Anyway-- I don’t want you to be nervous at all, Master Panem. I just… want to talk to you a bit, I suppose. Get to know you. Get an idea as to, well-- as to whether I think we could be a good team, the two of us. As I said before… this bakery’s been in my family for generations. And so I don’t just want any old apprentice. I want someone who I can trust with this place, one day. Who’ll love it as much as I do.”

Phyllo nodded, folding his hands in front of him. “I understand, Master Williston. I certainly wouldn’t want to ask you to leave something so precious to someone you didn’t trust.” He glanced sideways at Zuzanna, adding, “Though I believe my wife told you that the surname ‘Panem’ comes from the word for ‘bread’ in the country where I was born. My father was a baker, and my grandfather before him. Sadly I lost the family bakery to… bandits, when I was very small, but as a child I wanted nothing more than to continue our family tradition and become a baker, and since settling here in Kyth I’ve hoped to find a place where I could live out that dream.”

“So your wife told me,” Osborn agreed. “And… what sort of skills do you have, when it comes to baking? Obviously I’d give you all the training you need, but of course it’s rather-- pertinent to have at least some level of knowledge coming in.” A twinkle crept into his eye, as he glanced toward several rounds of bread dough that were wrapped in linen cloths as they proofed in baskets on a nearby work table. “Say, for example,” the baker went on, “I told you those are on their final proof. Do you know what that means?”

Phyllo honestly didn’t recognize the term, but he’d spent enough time in the Stareks’ bakery to recognize what was happening to the bread regardless. “You’re letting it sit so that it rises into shape,” he replied. “It kind of… fills with air on the inside if you leave it out, so that it gets round at the top. Then you bake it once it’s risen fully.” Remembering a lecture that he’d witnessed Izabella give to Anastazja once he added with a crooked smile, “But you can’t leave it for too long or the bubbles in it pop, and then it becomes mushy and collapses in on itself.”

“Right!” Osborn seemed pleased. “And what about sweets, Master Panem? Your wife told me you’re very good with pastries and sugary confections. Which are, of course, ever popular.” He smirked. “Sold out on nearly everything during Woomas. I think I single-handedly supplied frustration to every single parent in this village, given all their sugar-addled children.”

Phyllo laughed. “Well I’d be lying if I said they were pretty, I’m still getting the hang of decorating so that they look fancy, but I’ve been the source of similar annoyance as a babysitter. I can bribe the children to behave for me- but they’re crazed with sugar by the time they get home.”

He reached into a small pouch he’d brought along, and set it on the table. “I figured you might want an example, so here- I made these yesterday. They’re a little cold after walking through the snow, but I made them to keep for a few days so they should still taste alright regardless.”

Pulling off the cord that kept the pouch closed, he revealed the contents- cookies. There were three different kinds inside, and though as he’d admitted they weren’t the prettiest cosmetically, they were also not burnt or poorly formed in any way that would detriment their viability for eating. There were oatmeal cookies stuffed with raisins and candied oranges, gingerbread cookies, and Phyllo’s personal favorite, lemon cookies coated in powdered sugar.

Osborn sidled up to the table and glanced into pouch, smiling softly as he shook out the assorted cookies. “Came prepared, did you?” He took a bite of the lemon. “Hm. Tasty-- good mix of sour and sweet.”

“He’s good with citrus,” Zuzia offered, watching in anticipation as Osborn nibbled on the other two confections. “Cookies were the easiest to transport, but of course he can make other things, too. Cake, bread-- anything, really.”

“And you’re all self-taught?” Osborn asked, polishing off the oatmeal cookie with a second generous bite.

“Mostly,” Phyllo replied. “Some of the recipes were given to me by friends to try, and the old locksmith in Medieville helped me to get the hang of the basics of measuring and kneading and such, but I’ve been experimenting on my own since.” He chuckled. “The oatmeal cookies were an idea I had after listening to a friend’s daughter complaining about how she wanted candied fruits and raisins and why couldn’t she have both because it wasn’t fair.”

Osborn chuckled. “Ah, children-- light and bane of our lives.” His eyes dropped again to Zuzia’s protruding belly. “This is your second, right?”

Zuzanna nodded. “Our first is a year and a half old.”

“It’s nice,” Osborn commented. “To have them close in age. My son-- Woo rest his soul-- was only thirteen months older than his baby sister. They were thick as thieves growing up. Even if she never quite understood the allure of baking like her papa and big brother did. She’s almost thirty now-- lives a few villages over with her husband and kids-- and I still wouldn’t trust the poor dear to punch a loaf of rising bread.”

“Reminds me of Anastazja,” he remarked, smirking at Zuzanna. “My wife’s sister. She would be… twelve, thirteen now? She did her best, but her best was…”

“I’m sure Anastazja had many talents,” Zuzia remarked dryly. “Alas, they had yet to be discovered the last time we saw her.”

Osborn laughed, finally taking a seat at the table beside Zuzanna and Phyllo. “My wife-- I wish you could meet her, Master Panem, but she’s out visiting the grandkids today-- always tells me I follow my heart, not my head. But…” He inclined his head. “I like to think I’m good at reading people. And…” Osborn shrugged. “You seem like a nice young couple. Earnest. And you’re willing to live in the exciting little hamlet that is Sallertown, which is, ah-- not the easiest thing to find in an apprentice, believe it or not.” He steepled his fingers. “I think we could make this work, Master Panem. If you’d like.”

Phyllo chuckled. “Believe me when I say that we have had enough excitement in our lives for any dozen people- a quiet place to call home would be a Woosend.” He nodded eagerly. “I am ready to learn everything you would teach, Master Williston. And you may call me Phyllo, if you like.”

“Of course. And call me Osborn,” the baker replied. “So-- I know I spoke to Zuzanna at length about the payment. And… as I said before, I’m not looking for merely a successor, but someone who’ll… feel like family, I suppose. Which is why I’m willing to compromise somewhat on the dues for the right person.” He glanced between the husband and wife. “I wouldn’t ask to you upend your lives when the missus is so heavily pregnant. But I would like to get my apprentice started sooner than later. When are you due, Madam Panem?”

“February,” the archmage replied. “The middle of February.”

“What if we aim for the spring equinox?” Osborn suggested. “March. Based on my previous conversations with Madam Zuzanna, I don’t expect you to have the full amount we discussed before by then. But… whatever you don’t have, we’ll put on a payment plan, okay? Over the next few years.”

“That sounds perfectly reasonable,” Phyllo agreed, sparing Zuzanna an expression that, for the first time in months, carried some of that excitement he’d lost upon learning of his wife’s second pregnancy. “We were planning to poke around while we were here and see if there were any empty apartments or houses that we could save up for. Provided we find a good place, spring equinox would be perfect.”

Ripple Effect: Part Four

SPOILER: Click to show

It was about a month and a half later, on a frosty February night, that Zuzia shook Phyllo awake from a deep slumber at half past four in the morning, her voice leaden with anxiety as she hissed: “It’s coming. The baby-- it’s coming!”

Phyllo nearly bolted from the bed, staggering to pull on his shoes and cloak so that he could run to fetch the midwife, Madam Cottrell, and disappearing again once she’d arrived to drop Silvia off with Morgaine, who’d agreed in advance to babysit the girl when it came time for the birth of her little sibling.

Like it had been with Silvia, Zuzia’s labour was a lengthy one, and it was shortly after midnight nearly a day later that Zuzanna and Phyllo Panem finally became proud parents again. As Madam Cottrell cleaned off the baby, Zuzia clamped a hand to her sweaty forehead, watching the newborn as it kicked and screamed, clearly brandishing a healthy set of lungs.

“I’m afraid to guess,” the archmage murmured, fighting back an exhausted, half-delirious smile. She looked to Phyllo beside her, finally letting go of his hand (which she’d been clutching to with a vise-grip for the past eighteen or so hours). “Tell me, sweetie. What do we have?”

Phyllo shot a questioning glance at the midwife, who smirked slightly and turned the baby. His smile broadened, and he gave his wife’s shoulder a squeeze.

“It’s a boy, Zuzu. This time we really do have a son.”

She raised a skeptical brow, wary after the last time, when she’d fervidly insisted Silvia was a boy up until the moment of her birth. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” he said with a laugh. The midwife chortled as well, holding the squalling infant out to his mother.

“You have a healthy, if not especially happy right this second, little boy Mrs. Panem.” Smirking, she added, “Congratulations.”

“Alexander,” Zuzanna whispered, stroking the boy’s dark hair as the midwife set him on her chest. “Alexander Panem.” She considered for a moment. “He’s darker than Silvs was when she was born, isn’t he? Like Papa.” A beat. “... We never figured out a middle name, did we? Given that we spent the whole pregnancy calling him our cake.”

“I don’t suppose we did,” Phyllo agreed, bemused. “And I don’t think he’d thank us when he was older for making his middle name ‘cake.’ Though I might still call him that out of habit.”

“Forget Alex, Leif would smack us both if we made his middle name ‘cake’.” Zuzia laughed softly, before sobering again. “I… I’ve been thinking, though. About… if it was a boy-- what we could use for his middle name, and…” She looked up toward her husband, meeting his eyes. “Alexander. After my father. And so I was thinking… w-what about S-Stephanos? For yours?”

Phyllo blinked, his mouth falling open. “I… I didn’t think you’d even r-remember, I… Woo I’ve only brought up his name what… twice? If that. I…” He swallowed hard. Phyllo only had very vague, distant memories of his father. And sadly, the sharpest of these memories was of the day Stephanos had died- ribboned in the face by Meltaiman raiders. But what memories he had of his life with his family in Valzaim were good ones, and Phyllo knew that he had loved his father unconditionally, and had dreamed of being just like him someday.

“Yes.” Phyllo agreed finally, kissing his wife on the cheek. “I’d… like that. A lot.”

Zuzanna stroked the baby’s back. “Alexander Stephanos Panem. Also known as cake.” She blinked back tears. “I… I know it’s probably just post-labour emotions speaking, and-- and I will never be so careless with my herbs again, but…” The archmage kissed the crown of her son’s head. “I’m glad I forgot to t-take those herbs, Phyllo. For once I’m glad I was stupid.”

Phyllo wrapped his arms around his wife and son both, nuzzling Zuzia’s cheek. “I know what you mean. Now we’ll have a house, and I’ll become a baker, and we have a perfect, ugly little cake-son. Heh- Silvie’s going to be so confused when she gets home.”

“She’ll be happy once she learns she now gets to sleep in bed with Mama and Papa,” Zuzia said. “She’s climbing out her cradle half the time to snuggle with us, anyway. And now we won’t have to get up to deposit her back in.”

“Always a plus,” Phyllo agreed with a laugh. “We’ll just be getting up to haul Alex out of the cradle when he shrieks for his supper.”

***

The addition of a second demanding baby made the already cramped one-room apartment feel downright oppressive. Even though it was a little disappointing that they would no longer be within casual walking distance of all of their friends in Medieville, it was with relief that Phyllo and Zuzanna received a letter from Sallertown confirming the sale of a small two-room cottage with a loft and stone-fenced yard.

However, it was not without fanfare that the Panems left the city. Their friends, in congratulations to the young couple for their success, showered them with housewarming presents. Morgaine, despite being long retired, personally made them a lockbox in which the could keep safe all their personal treasures, and sent her partner Ciara to Sallertown a week ahead of the Panems to fit their new cottage with the best locks that could be installed on it, while Daria Glenn nee Kidde gifted the young family with a pile of Charlie and Blair’s outgrown clothes for Alex. Even Leif, Ambrose, and the Lynns gave them tokens of affection and well-wishing, making their last few days in Medieville proper very emotional for all parties involved.

Juggling luggage and two babies, the Panems hired a coach to take them from the city gates to Sallertown (a luxury Zuzia joked cost nearly as much as their house had, and that they were “never doing again, I swear”). In addition to making the trek physically much easier on them, it also made things a bit swifter, cutting down the journey to a modest hour, give or take.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” Zuzia commented as they finally stopped to unload. It was late morning, and warm for the earliest days of spring; a pale sun gleamed overhead, the sky blue and cloudless. “And I can’t believe it’s ours,” she added, glancing toward the quaint cottage that rose beyond a faded wooden gate. “Woo, this would cost a fortune in the city.”

“In the city everything is protected by the walls,” Phyllo noted. “So of course it’s more expensive. But still… I never thought we’d have something like this.” He smirked. “It’s no Iron Castle, but it is infinitely better than our little closet above Scent of the South, neh?”

“Mamaaa, whassat?” Silvia queried, tugging on Zuzanna’s skirts and pointing at the little stone brick cottage.

“It’s home, baby,” Zuzia replied, shifting Alex into one arm so she could reach down and ruffle the tot’s hair. “Our new home. We’re going to live here now, isn’t that fun?”

“Home?” the girl repeated, tilting her head. She grinned. “Go inside?”

“Sure, we can go inside,” Phyllo agreed with amusement. “Just let Mama and Papa get the rest of our things out of the carriage alright? You can play in the grass while you wait as long as you stay close.”

“Play!” the girl trilled, bouncing up and down with Zuzanna’s skirts still clenched in her fists. “Playplayplayplay! Hide-seek, Mama?”

“Nope, no hide-and-seek,” Zuzia said, taking a step toward the cottage as Phyllo turned to heft one of their bags out the carriage. “You stay where Mama and Papa can see you, okay?” She swung open the gate. “Be a good girl, Silvs. Or Mama’s going to pick you up, too.”

“Wanna walk!” Silvia objected hotly, looking as enraged as if Zuzanna had just suggested throwing a kitten into a river. “No hold, Mama! Big girl!”

“That’s right, you are a big girl,” Phyllo agreed, grunting as he dragged another parcel out of the carriage. “And as long as you’re good Mama won’t have to carry you, right?”

“No hold,” Silvia said firmly, crossing her arms. Abruptly, her expression shifted to one of delight, and she pointed across the yard. “Mama, Papa, a fluh-erfly! A fluh-erfly!”

As Zuzia’s gaze fell toward a bright yellow butterfly that was fluttering through the tall grass of the yard, she laughed softly. “Yep, that’s right, baby. A butterfly.” She stepped through the gate, beckoning for the toddler to follow. “Come on, hon. Let’s go see.”

Though their progress was somewhat slowed by the occasional new neighbor come by to say hello- strangers were a rare sight in Sallertown, and strangers with noticeably foreign accents speaking an unknown tongue unheard of- soon enough Phyllo finally finished moving all of their belongings out of the cart and inside the bounds of the little stone fence around their new yard. Silvia had been kept reasonably well distracted by the expedience of tearing up weedy flowers, which she then demanded Zuzanna weave into a crown for her- “Like Rosa-wie!”

Fortunately, this burst of exuberance also meant that by the time the Panems drifted from the yard into the cottage proper, the little girl was yawning up a storm-- and although she protested when Phyllo scooped her up into his arms, she was out like a spent flame within minutes. She snoozed with her head against her father’s shoulder as Phyllo and Zuzia padded around their new home, both of them fighting back dazzling grins as they took in all the space. It was only two proper rooms-- an open space that doubled as both a kitchen and living room, with a sizable hearth in the corner, and a modest bedroom beyond-- plus a loft overhead, but compared to the flat they’d left behind in Medieville...

“We’ll have to get some more furniture,” Zuzia breathed. The cottage had included a few basic pieces in the sale price-- a table; a storage trunk, kitchen shelf, and some chairs; a thin, hay-stuffed mattress in the bedroom-- but there was still plenty of space to add furnishings and decorations. “Maybe a sofa,” she suggested after a moment. “Like Leif has. And another shelf, too-- we can use it once the little imps start inevitably accumulating more toys.” Silvia already had several stuffies and a treasured ragdoll.

“And we’ll need another mattress in the loft,” he agreed. “For when the kids get big enough that sleeping with us isn’t practical and neither is using the cradle.” He suddenly grinned. “Or if we’re feeling adventurous, we could save up until that magic year and buy a proper bed. Put the mattress we already have in the loft.”

“What scandalous talk, Master Panem!” Zuzia teased. “A bed? Why, next thing I know you’ll be suggesting we buy a spice rack or-- or…” She gasped in mock horror. “Or a rug.”

“Well while we’re talking about spending money, there is also investing it,” he said cheerfully. “Once we’re a bit more settled, Briar told me we might be well served getting some sort of easy to care for livestock animal; that they’re useful to have for extra income in a place like this. She suggested chickens as an easy starting point for a beginner, which’ll give you eggs and meat to sell and pretty much all you have to do is toss them some feed a few times a day. Could help to supplement us while I’m apprenticing and not making any actual money.”

“Chickens? That’s madness now.” Zuzanna beamed. “Ooh, but then we’ll have to get a dog, too. To guard them.” Her blue eyes twinkled mischievously. “You want a puppy, Phyllo? We could get something fluffy and cute and exceptionally stupid. My father used to say some of his hounds had dust for brains.”

Phyllo laughed. “Get a cute little puppy, throw it in with a two hens and a gaggle of chicks, then it’ll imprint on them and no fox will stand a chance.” He shook his head. “Silvia’s going to love it here. Her own yard to chase ‘fluh-erflies’ in, space inside to play, a puppy…”

“I suspect our little sleeping princess is going to get into a whole lot of mischief, eh?” Zuzia asked lightly. With a fond glance toward the slumbering infant in her own arms, she added, “And Alex, too, once he’s older. And… to be honest with you-- well, I wouldn’t have it any other way, my love.”

He smiled, leaning over to give Alex a gentle peck on the forehead. “Can you believe all this started with a desperate, wild hair in a burnt-out church in Pastora? What would you have thought if someone had suggested back then that this is where we would be three years later? Two kids, our own house, my apprenticing to become a baker, us discussing a dog and chickens…”

“In Kyth, no less,” Zuzia marveled. “Woo, I’d barely even heard of Kyth back then. Even Macarinth seemed a world away.”

“And now you’re fluent in three languages and conversational in a fourth,” Phyllo teased. “I have a feeling we’re going to be village gossip-fodder for some time.” He tilted his head. “I’ve been wondering… do you still have it? The little yarn ring I gave you that day?”

“Of course. You’re going to laugh, but…” She nudged her chin toward the leather wand holster at her hip. “Take it out, Phyllo. My wand.”

Obediently, Phyllo shifted Silvia so that he could hold her with one arm, then reached into his wife’s wand holster to withdraw her old, metal capped Meltaiman wand.

“Now look,” Zuzia instructed, and when her husband’s steely eyes fell on the wand in his hand, she shook her head. “Nope. Not there. On the holster, Phyllo. The trim on the inside. Notice anything?”

Still holding a toddler in one hand and the wand in the other, Phyllo leaned over to peer into Zuzanna’s wand holder. His eyebrows rose a trifle as he recognized the braided white yarn inside, though it was by now a somewhat dingy gray-brown. “You magicked it into your wand holster?” he asked.

“Bonded it to the leather,” Zuzia agreed. She blushed. “Just so-- I wouldn’t lose it. And… and so my fingers would brush it. Every time I draw or replace my wand.”

Phyllo smiled fondly at her, gently sliding the wand back into place. “It’s fitting. Everything we have now started because I wanted something I never thought I could actually have and made that thing- and now we have all I ever dreamed of and more.”

He swallowed thickly, stroking Silvia’s hair. “Thank you, Zuzu. For… for finding this place. For not giving up. Ever. Even when all I had to offer you was myself and a little hoop of cheap yarn.”

“Thank you, Phyllo,” Zuzia replied. “I… I can’t even imagine what my life would be like if I’d never met you. The idea of still being in Meltaim--” She gulped. “Of… not having you, or our babies… You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And now we’ve got our cottage… and your apprenticeship and…” She smiled, blinking back tears. “We’re going to be happy. We’re going to be so happy, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Phyllo agreed, putting an arm around his wife so that all four of the Panems were pulled into a hug. “We are.”

[Avery]

Collab with Shinko. Takes place in spring of 1326, and a loose companion to Echoes of the Past.

Divine Mercy

SPOILER: Click to show

The seas were very calm.

Standing on the upper deck with his arms hooked over the rails, Niketas Floros—boatswain of the venerable S.S. Karon, a spicer out of Valla—let out a contented sigh as he gazed down at the waves that gently lapped against the ship’s wooden hull. It was a nice change, Nik thought, from the violent storms that had thrashed the Karon and its crew during the last leg of their journey, off the northern coast of Valzaim. Spring squalls—that was what the captain had called them; Nik rather thought that was just a pretty name for rotten luck. But at least they seemed to be past such calamity now, with the seas here smooth as glass and the sky above a pale, perfect blue as the morning sun shone bright and warm.

“You see that, Nik?” called a voice from behind.

Nik turned his head, grinning crookedly when he found the Karon’s cook, Avram. Silver-haired and with dark skin that was wrinkled as old leather, Avram had been sailing these seas since before Nik was a crying babe in arms. The Karon was his home, its rotating crew his family. This was Nik’s third season aboard. In a way, the crew had become his family away from his real family, too.

“That’s Meltaim,” the cook went on, pointing a finger out toward the snatch of land that was just barely visible at the horizon. “Woo-cursed place, aye. I always hold my breath every time we sail past.” The man pursed his lips. “Not that Langean ports like we’ll hit next are my favourite, but least I ain’t gotta be scared of gettin’ my head branded like a cow’s.”

“They really brand people?” Nik wrinkled his nose. “Barbarians, that’s what they are. I can’t believe anyone would really do that to others.”

Avram laughed. “Aye, my naïve little boatswain. Always seein’ the good in people, even madmen.”

Niketas rolled his dark eyes, lifting a hand from the rails to rake it through his long, woolen hair. “I like to think the world isn’t only wickedness.” He let his gaze fall from Avram back down to the water. “At least it’s pleasant out,” the man added. “The Woo giving us safe passage through treacherous seas.” He furrowed his brow at the sight of something bobbing in the water nearby, floating atop the gentle waves. “You see that, Av?” he asked, his gut seizing even before he entirely knew why; Nik leaned further forward. “Woo, what is that?”

Avram frowned, squinting out into the water. Then, abruptly, his skin went ashy and he spun around, cupping his hands to his mouth and calling, “Man overboard! Man overboard!”

In an instant the upper deck had plunged into calamity, sailors scrambling as they sighted what Niketas had: a body, face-up but unmoving as the current carried it, so small that it only took Nik a split second to realise that it was a child. He let himself freeze in shock for just a fraction of a moment before he scrambled to aid in the recovery, his training taking over as he helped to heft the Karon’s lightest dinghy over the rails, frantically lowering it toward the water. But the skiff had only been dropped about halfway down before, with a rising horror, Nik watched a rolling wave turn the child over, the little one’s face angling underwater. As the back of the child’s dark, wet hair glinted beneath the morning sun, Niketas clenched his jaw.

“Av!” he called sharply to the cook. “Here, take the rope for me and help with the skiff-- I’m going in!”

“Are you mad, boy?” the cook demanded, but nonetheless he took the rope. “Can you even swim?”

“Aye!” Niketas yanked his tunic up and over his head, lest he get weighted down by the fabric; he seemed to consider shucking his boots, as well, but decided after a moment that this would take too much time. “Just get the skiff down, Av. I’ll be fine!”

And with that, the man leapt over the rails, plunging toward the sea below.

The wind was knocked out of him as he hit the cold waves, Niketas shutting his eyes tightly as the salt stung against them. But he knew that if he let himself grow disoriented, the Karon’s crew would have two rescues to contend with, and by then it might be too late for the child. And so the boatswain forced his eyes back open, taking a moment to find the bright, wavering surface above, then held his breath as he kicked his way back up. As he broke above the waves, Nik’s throat spasmed, and he let out a sharp, wet cough. His ribs ached, as did one of his arms, but in response he only gritted his teeth, his burning hazel eyes frenetic as he scanned the water around him in search of the child.

He could have cried from relief when after five or ten seconds he spotted the little one, bobbing deadweight only a few dozen feet away. Bracing against the pain, Niketas paddled over as quickly as he could, his usually steady hands shaking as he reached out and drew the limp form into his arms. As he turned the child-- a boy, it seemed, upon closer inspection-- over from his belly to his back, Nik inhaled sharply at the pallor of his complexion. He looked dead. By Woo, he looked dead.

“I’ve got you, little one,” the boatswain choked out, cradling the boy’s cheek against his chest. He glanced back over his shoulder, toward the Karon and its skiff. “Hurry up!” he called out, his voice cracking. “This kid is in bad shape!”

The boy was still unconscious when the dinghy hit the water about two minutes later, stock-still as a mannequin as Nik hoisted him over the side and then climbed in himself. The lurching ascent back to the deck was fraught, Niketas staring desperately down at the child as he patted his back with all the strength he could muster, praying with every scrap in him that the boy would sputter awake. Woo, how small he was: pale and fragile as a dandelion, with hair like maple and a dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t have been any older than Nik’s eldest daughter, who’d just turned six in January. Perhaps even younger. Dear lord, how had a boy so tiny ended up drifting about the ocean like a piece of refuse? After all, he was far too small to have been on a merchant ship. And passenger ships rarely listed to these parts. So-- how then? How?

“Please, please,” Nik murmured as the skiff reached the deck. “Please, wake up, little one. Please.”

Back aboard the Karon, Niketas had barely managed to wobble to his feet again before the ship’s healer intercepted them, beckoning hurriedly for Niketas to set the child down on the deck. Nik obliged, feeling as though he might vomit; his mouth tasted of bile and salt.

“Meliton, is he alive?” asked another of the crewmen, and the healer waved an agitated hand.

“Give me a moment and we’ll see,” Meliton retorted. He knelt beside the child, putting one hand to the boy’s neck and the other atop his chest. A moment later he said, “I feel a pulse, but he’s not breathing. Hold-” the healer drew his wand, muttering a short spell that, a moment later, saw the child gagging and spitting. The healer turned him sideways, and the boy threw up a stream of ocean water before falling still again, though this time with a noticeable rasping noise that indicated he’d started breathing properly.

“Oh, thank Woo.” Nik’s fingers skimmed over the metal woocifix he always wore around his neck. “He’s going to make it, Meliton? Please-- tell me he’s going to make it.”

“I can’t be certain, Niketas,” the healer admitted. “There’s no telling how long he was in the water or how he got there. Let me give him a once-over for injuries and anything else that might be of concern.”

Meliton flicked his wand again, causing a bulb of light to flare, spreading outward as it neared the boy’s chest. The healer hissed softly. “He’s got a concussion- a bad one, he must’ve hit his head either going into the water or at some point while he was drifting. Hypothermic, or very near to it- he must’ve been in the water for at least an hour, if not longer, it’s a wonder he’s still alive at all. We need to get him out of these wet things and warmed up, now. Avram, get some tea going; Leo, bring some extra blankets from the stores.”

As Avram and Leo hurried to oblige, Nik plunked down onto the deck and tremulously began to pry off his sodden boots. “Where-- where could he have even come from, Meliton?” the man stammered, flinching as his ribs twinged with each breath. “Unless… oh Woo.” He glanced painfully back over his shoulder, peeking between the rails to take a brief glimpse of the craggy knot of land against the horizon. “He-- he couldn’t be from Meltaim, could he?”

“Well he certainly isn’t from Valzaim, not with that complexion,” Meliton retorted. “And Lange doesn’t really partake much of ocean travel- and what little they do, they wouldn’t bring a boy so young out with them for.”

As he spoke, the man was slowly peeling off the child’s sodden clothing. The boy was like ice to the touch, but despite this he wasn’t shivering, and his raspy breathing was very shallow. Once the child’s shirt had come away, the ivory skin underneath was revealed to be bruised across large portions of it, making Meliton wince in sympathy.

“Who are you, little man?” he asked softly. “How did you get out here?”

“We’ll have to talk to him once he wakes up,” Nik said with a heavy lump in his throat. Once he wakes up. Not if. He couldn’t even stomach the thought of if. “Let me… let me go fetch an extra tunic of mine. It’ll be big on him, but… better than nothing.” Barefoot, the boatswain staggered to his feet. “And once I get back, I’ll stay with him until he’s awake, alright? I don’t want the poor thing to come to alone. He’ll be terrified enough already. You can even put him in my berth, if you’d like.”

“Alright, but once the boy is settled I want to examine you as well,” the healer said in a no-nonsense tone. “That fall into the water was no joke, and if you’ve hurt yourself I want to tend it now, not after you make it worse trying to work with it!”

“Fine.” Niketas took a lurching step away. “Once we’ve got him comfortable and resting in my berth, I’ll be your willing patient, Meliton. But for now… let’s focus on the boy.”

And with that, Niketas was gone.

***

Half an hour later, with the child in dry clothes and swaddled beneath several blankets in Nik’s small berth, Niketas followed through with his promise and allowed Meliton to examine him. The diagnosis was frustrating to the boatswain but wholly expected: two broken ribs (quickly healed), a sprained arm, and a mild knock to the head. Meliton told the man he ought take the rest of the day off, which usually Niketas would have objected to, but since he wanted to sit vigil by the boy’s side anyway, the boatswain didn’t raise a fuss.

“I’ll let you know once he’s conscious, alright?” he told the healer-- his brand of a dismissal. “So that you can examine him again.”

Meliton agreed, leaving the boatswain with the child for the time being. It was some hours before, his lips still dusky blue and his face twisted with misery, the young boy gave a soft whimper, his eyes fluttering open. They were pale amber-brown, ringed around the outer rim with green; hazel, not unlike Niketas’ eyes.

As the child’s pupils latched hazily on his, Nik’s heart skipped a beat. Thank the Woo, he thought, his voice gentle as he said, “Hello there, son. I’m glad to see you awake.” He gave a soft smile that he hoped was reassuring. “I know you’re probably confused right now, but you’re safe, okay? I promise.”

The little boy blinked, his face twisting with confusion. “Co? Gdzie ja jestem? Jest zimno, boli mnie głowa.”

Niketas narrowed his eyes. To his ears, the boy’s words sounded like gibberish-- Woo, had the child hit his head that hard? … But then, on second thought… “You’re speaking Meltaiman, aren’t you?” Nik sighed; he should have expected this, but still it made his stomach lurch. Meltaiman. This child truly was Meltaiman. “I… I’m Niketas,” he went on, gesturing toward himself. “Niketas. And you…?” He pointed toward the boy.

The child nodded slowly, wincing at what was no doubt a splitting headache from his concussion. “Niketas. Ja… Ja…” The child hesitated, biting his lip. Distress was blooming on his face, and it quickly warped into panic. “Ja nie pamiętam . M-mam na imię , nie pamiętam!” He looked up at Niketas, his eyes overflowing with tears as he clenched at the blankets, more gibberish words flooding from his mouth in tones of clear, unadulterated terror and confusion.

“Shh, it’s alright, little one.” Though Nik had no idea what the boy was saying, his distress was nevertheless clear. The child’s cries could have been those of Nik’s own children, and his father’s instinct flared as he gently set a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry you’re scared. But… you’re okay now. You’re safe.” He emphasized again: “Safe. I promise.” He tapped the woocifix around his neck, hoping the boy might understand what this meant.

The child looked down at the woocifix, briefly, but a moment later he collapsed against his pillow, tears still pooling out of his eyes. “Mama. Chcę moją Mama!”

Nik’s heart froze again; another cry that he’d understood in spite of the language barrier. Willing himself not to shake, the man hesitantly ran his hand across the child’s still-damp hair. “I know. I’m sorry, little one.” Niketas swallowed hard. “But I won’t leave you, okay? I-I don’t know where your mama is, or what happened to you… but I’m here for you now. And you’ll be safe. I promise you that, as a man of the feather.”

The little boy sniffled, but seemed to take comfort from Niketas’ touch, leaning a little into his hand and closing his eyes. After a moment, the child’s sobs quieted, and his breathing leveled off as he slipped back into slumber.

***

Later that evening, after Meliton had coaxed the boy out of slumber again and examined him for any further injuries, the healer informed Niketas that he would sit watch over the child for a little bit. Nik tried to object, but his argument was quickly swallowed when Meliton informed him that this was not merely a request: the captain of the Karon had asked to speak with him. And whether or not he’d promised the child he wouldn’t leave his side, the boatswain could hardly risk such egregious insubordination.

So,with a lump in his throat, Niketas nodded toward Meliton and made his way toward the captain’s chambers.

“You… wanted to see me, sir?” Nik asked after being granted entry. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and his palms were suddenly sweating. Forcing a frozen smile, he added, “I should be alright for duty by tomorrow-- Meliton just wanted me to rest the night.”

“While that is good to hear,” the captain replied, looking up from the map on his desk with a cool, dispassionate expression, “I want to know why it was necessary in the first place. Just what the ‘Pit were you thinking, jumping overboard like that today? You could’ve been killed.”

“I… um…” Niketas faltered, eyes plunging toward the ground. “He was drowning, sir. The boy. I was afraid if I waited until the skiff was lowered, the sea would have already claimed him.” Hastily, the boatswain added, “He was so close to the verge already. … Sir.”

“Hm.” The captain’s expression was unreadable. “So, now we have a little Meltaiman child, no idea who he is or where he came from or how he ended up so far out to sea. We can’t precisely deposit him in the nearest port town for someone to find his parents, can we?”

“No, of… of course not.” Nik wasn’t entirely sure what the Meltaimans would do if a Valzick-flagged ship dropped anchor in one of their harbours, but he suspected it fell somewhere along the spectrum of murdered and tortured, then murdered. “He’s… a child, though, sir,” the hazel-eyed man added after a moment, fidgeting absently with his woocifix. “I wasn’t going to leave him to drown in the sea.”

The older sailor gave a soft sigh. “I appreciate your altruism, but… A bit more caution, next time? It ill serves the rescuee if their rescuer breaks every bone in his body jumping into the ocean on a panicked impulse.” Rapping his knuckles on the desk, the captain added, “And I should hardly like to write a letter to that effect to your children.”

Nik grimaced. “Right. Of course not.” He braced a hand against his forehead, rubbing it. “What… what do you mean to do with him, sir?” the boatswain tested warily. “He doesn’t speak a lick of Valzick. And he can’t be more than… five, maybe six.”

The captain pursed his lips. “As young as he is, he’ll start picking up a new language fairly quickly, if he’s immersed in it. Probably the best course of action is to keep him here until we put to port in Lange. Then, we can leave him at a church as a foundling, or whatever authority handles such things in their country. Langeans are strange.”

Nik’s entire body went frigid. “You plan to just… leave him there? In Lange?” The sailor shook his head. “He’s not Langean, sir. And Lange is-- is-- they’re heathens and... ” Niketas swallowed hard, feeling suddenly very nauseous. “You can’t just kick him off the ship there. You can’t.”

A very dangerous look crossed the captain’s face. “You are hardly one to tell me what I may or may not do, Niketas. A ship on a months-long international trade expedition is no place for a child. He’ll be constantly underfoot, eat our carefully rationed food supplies, and I could be here for hours listing the ways he could get hurt or killed just from ignorance or carelessness. It’s best for him and us.”

“The Woo put him in our path for a reason,” Niketas retorted, even as his heart began to thrum in his knotted throat. Talking back to the captain was a risky path to tread, and Nik knew it. Even still, he couldn’t stop himself from continuing, “He’s terrified, he’s hurt, and I promised him he would be safe now. I can’t just… dump him in Lange.”

“Niketas,” the captain snapped sharply. “This decision is not in your hands, and the boy wouldn’t have understood such a promise anyway. We will leave him in the custody of men who are equipped to handle an orphan. That is final. You are dismissed.”

Niketas just barely swallowed back a long string of curses, clenching his hands into fists to stop them from trembling. “Sir,” he breathed, not taking a step toward the door as he’d been commanded to. He once again ran his fingers over his woocifix, almost compulsively. “The Woo wouldn’t send a child into the path of our ship so that we could… abandon him at our earliest convenience.” The man fought to keep his breathing level, thoughts whirling at lightning speed as he considered for a moment, then rashly blurted, “He can share my rations; I’ll go hungry, not the rest of the crew. And he can sleep in my berth. I’ll care for him. Tend him. Keep him out of the way and punish him if he’s a nuisance. I’ll--”

“-Have to leave him in an orphanage eventually anyway,” the captain snapped. “We are not raising a child on this ship, children have no place at sea. And I am not going to go the next however-many-years of you swooning from hunger and not doing your work properly. What about the long term, Niketas?”

For a long while, Niketas said nothing. His head still spun, and his gut was still churning and cold. Logically, the boatswain knew that the captain was right: the high seas were no place for a small child, and rations were often tight enough on the Karon already, without Nik having to parcel out servings to a growing boy.

But the thought of just abandoning the child on the heathenous shores of Lange.. of taking this miracle the Woo had given them and disposing of it-- disposing of a little boy-- as one might a piece of unwanted garbage…

“I’ll keep him,” Nik said finally, his voice at once hesitant and firm. “Once we finish the season and drop anchor back in Valla, I’ll take him with me. Bring him down south, to my hometown.”

The captain looked highly skeptical, giving Niketas an expression one might offer a child who hasn’t done their schoolwork properly. At length the older man remarked, “Your wife is not going to be thrilled with you.”

“Phoibe will manage,” Nik said, though on a broad level he knew that once again, the captain was right. His wife already had three small children, and a husband who spent much of the year away at sea; another little one would be a burden, there was no doubt. “She… lives at my family’s inn, anyway,” the boatswain added, pretending that he wasn’t justifying his suggestion to himself more so than the captain. “My parents run it. They can help her when I’m gone.”

“...If the child is a menace,” the captain said after a long silence. “If he is ill-behaved, or proves haughty and unstable as his countrymen, we will leave him in the first available port. Until then, he is your responsibility, and I fully expect you to keep up with the work I’m bloody paying you to do.”

“Of course, sir,” Nik said quickly. “I’ll-- I’ll be sure to keep him in line. And I won’t slack on my duties. I promise.” He tapped his woocifix again. “Thank you, captain.”

The captain flapped a hand. “Make sure he learns Valzick, and quickly. So you can uphold that promise. Dismissed.”

***

Over the next several weeks, the little boy did gradually settle into life on the ship. Though initially he was skittish as a spooked deer around all the strangers- recovering from a traumatic head injury certainly not helping that- once he’d recovered physically the child started to open up more and actually act like a child. He was energetic, athletic, boundlessly curious, and almost exasperatingly outgoing. He would babble in Meltaiman at anyone who seemed to be willing to pay attention to him, though he quickly learned to avoid those among the crew who had a stronger prejudice against Meltaim in general.

Further attempts to get the boy’s name proved as fruitless as the first- in face anyone seeming to be asking for it was met with rapid, sharp breathing and if they pressed, a breakdown into hysterical sobbing. Soon, Niketas and the rest of the sailors stopped asking altogether, Nik instead electing to bestow upon the child a nickname: Apotonero-- which in Valzick meant ‘from the sea’. And although the moniker clearly confused the boy at first, the child not wholly understanding what it meant in relation to himself, within a few days of Nik choosing it, the newly minted Apotonero-- or Nero for short-- seemed to catch on, pointing to himself and repeating the unfamiliar word. When these gestures were met with confirmation, the child smiled shyly and nodded- from then on readily answering to the new name.

Having a name to answer to proved an immense breakthrough for the boy, facilitating communication with him at least insofar as allowing the crew to get his attention when they needed to. With this wedge as an opening, the little boy started to pick up scattered bits and pieces of Valzick. Simple words and phrases at first such as “hello” or “I’m hungry” but gradually Nero came to speak enough of the tongue to be at least conversational in it, if not entirely fluent and with an impossible to ignore accent. Once the boy was proficient at communicating in Valzick, Niketas strictly forbade him any more chattering in Meltaiman, determined to prove to the crew that the boy was adapting and to disassociate him as much as possible from his hated homeland.

One night, about three months after Nero was fished out of the ocean, he and Niketas were sitting up on the deck together, the little boy gazing up at the vast swath of stars overhead. After a stretch of Langean ports, the Karon had finally made it back into Valzick waters a few days ago, and was currently straddling the vast kingdom’s northern coast as summer edged towards it plateau. After a series of domestic ports, they were due back in Valla by the middle of September, just before the autumn equinox; Niketas hoped to make it back to his home village, in the southernmost part of the kingdom near its border with Tengiz, by the time October began. It all at once seemed so close and so very far away… and he still had no idea how his wife, Phoibe, would react to the boy he’d plucked out of the swallowing sea.

“Is… seeing before,” Nero murmured now, his brow furrowed as he gazed upwards. “These stars. I… I would shapes to make in them. Someone else is with me. I… I know someone else is with me. But is black, their face. I am not seeing it.”

Niketas smiled lightly down at the child, setting a hand on his shoulder. “Constellations,” the ebony-skin man clarified. “They’re called constellations, Nero. They help the captain navigate the ship. So we don’t get lost in the ocean, and we know we’re going the right way.” He nudged his chin toward a glimmering smudge of stars straight ahead, shaped loosely like a bird’s beak. “We call this one the Woo’s Kiss-- can you guess why?”

The boy followed Niketas’ gaze, squinting is hazel eyes. “It is… a shape like, like a… a…” he made a frustrated noise. “Would call it marchew. Is… like this.” He made a triangular shape with his hands. “And is orange, with leafs on end.”

Nik furrowed his brow for a moment, perplexed, before he realised what the child was saying. “Shaped like-- a carrot?” he guessed, miming gnawing on something. “You’re right-- it is. It’s called a triangle.” He squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “And yep, that’s one way of looking at the constellation. But it also looks like a bird’s beak, doesn’t it?” He gave a short whistle, reminiscent of a bird’s chirp, then tapped his lips.

“Oh! I see it, I see it!” the child said, his face brightening with delight. Nero made a shape like a bird’s beak with his hands and cupped it over his face. “Like this? Woo is to kiss the sky with is beak, is why the stars have that name?”

Niketas laughed. “Yep. You’ve got it. The Woo kissed the sky, and now his mark helps sailors find their way. It’s one of the Woo’s ways of helping people reach land safe and sound. Neat, right?” Over the past three months Nik had spent a not-insignificant time telling the boy about his faith, largely by way of bedtime stories culled from the Books; once they were back in Valla, he planned on having the child baptized officially. “A few days from now, we should reach our first Valzick port, you know. Isn’t that exciting, Nero?”

“They like me there?” he asked worriedly. The child gnawed on his lip. “Some sailors not like me, because I am born Meltaim. Even… even though I not… not r-r-remember…”

“Don’t worry, Nero,” Nik said. “You were born in Meltaim, but you’re going to be Valzick from now on, and… that’s what counts, okay?” He draped his arm around the small boy’s shoulders, drawing him close. “And you’ll be with me. I’ll protect you no matter what. Keep you safe and happy. I promise.”

Nero leaned into Niketas’ hold, still biting down on his lip. “I remember the stars. Learning them. I… I was somewhere with sand. And the waves noise. Kshhhh, kshhhh. I remember this, b-but not the face with me. Why? Why I cannot remember?”

Niketas winced in sympathy, swallowing back the sympathetic knot that quickly tangled in his throat. “I’m so sorry, honey,” he murmured, pulling Nero into a hug. “It’s not your fault you don’t remember, but I know how upsetting it has to be. But--” He tipped the child’s chin up, so that Nero’s eyes met his. “What matters is that you’re safe now. And you can make new happy memories, moving forward.” Nik spared another glance toward the Woo’s Kiss constellation. “And the Woo’s watching over you, Nero. Always. That’s why he helped me find you.”

“B-but,” the child blubbered. “Why is Woo take my old memories? I… I m-miss Mama, but I do not see her. I do not hear her voice. I…” he choked on a sob, tears starting to spill out from his eyes. “I cannot r-remember my name, wh-why is Woo take my n-name away?”

“I don’t know, Nero,” Nik admitted, stroking the boy’s hair. “And I’m so sorry. I wish you could remember your name, too.” He sighed. “Just-- don’t ever feel like it’s your fault, okay? No matter what it is… it’s nothing you did wrong, I’m sure of it.” Niketas forced a smile. “At least your headaches have gotten better, haven’t they? In the last week or two. That’s been nice, right?” For the first long while aboard the Karon, headaches-- likely borne of Nero’s severe concussion, according to the healer-- had plagued the boy almost daily.

“Y-yeah,” Nero murmured. “And I am not get dizzy and sick so much when the ocean is rough.” He was quiet for a time, still cuddled against Nik’s chest. Then, very softly, he said, “B-but somebody wasn’t liking me. Back in Meltaim. Right? Th-they put me in the water. I…” he whimpered. “I am bad. If s-someone tries to send me away in the w-w-water.”

“No,” Nik said, a bit more shrilly than he’d intended. While he still had no conclusive idea about how Nero had ended up half-dead in the sea, the boatswain-- and the rest of the Karon’s crew-- had begun to foster suspicions, largely based on the fact that so far, the small child had shown no signs of being a mage. And given how the Meltaimans were rumoured to treat non-magicians… “Nothing you did would have made it okay to put you in the ocean, Nero. You’re a good boy, such a good boy. And I’m so, so happy that I found you. That you’re safe now.”

The little boy choked on a sob, hugging Niketas. “You… You are safe. When I am with you, it is not so scary. Not remembering.” Nero closed his eyes, nestling his head against Nik. “I am… I am s-scared. What if… you go away too? What if I am not to remember you?”

“I won’t go away, Nero,” Niketas promised, hesitating for a moment before he scooped the boy up into his arms and cradled him close to his chest. “The Woo led me to you, and I’m not going to turn a blind eye to that call. Not ever.” He sighed, his gut slick with churning sympathy. “Once we dock in Valla, I’m going to take you with me. Down south to my hometown-- it’s called Cepheus. You’re going to love it there, buddy. It’s right on the sea, and my mum and dad run an inn with lots of room to run around, and…” Nik gulped, rubbing the little boy’s back. “My wife is there. Phoibe. And my daughter and two sons. You’ll get to know them all.”

Nero perked up slightly at this, looking up hopefully. “And… a-and we can play? Me and you and… and your kids? I… I don’t think I have brothers or sisters. Or…” he bit his lip. “Or f-friends. I am remember being alone. Always alone.”

“You won’t be alone anymore,” Nik said. “My kids will love having a new playmate. And there are lots of other children around the town to play with, too. You’re going to have so much fun.”

Nero smiled, a warm, bright smile that illuminated his fair, freckled face. “Y-you promise, Mister Niketas?”

“Promise.”

[Avery]

Collab with Shinko. Takes place in December 1346.

A Prince of Nowhere

SPOILER: Click to show

Phyllo Panem loved winter- Medieville summers were always agonizingly sweltering for a man born in the thick of the Galfras Mountains of northern Valzaim, but by December he was in his element. In fact so cheery was he that, as he emerged from the kitchen of the Panem bakery to put out several freshly made jars of grape and apricot jam on the display shelves, he found himself humming a Woomas song under his breath.

“Grandpaaaaa,” sang a high, young voice, and Phyllo looked down with a smile at the small child who was addressing him. The little girl, brown of hair and peculiarly tri-colored of eyes, beamed up at him as she tugged his trouser legs.

“What’s up, Molls?” he asked, speaking Valzick as he always did when he was alone with family. The girl grinned, replying in a thickly accented attempt at the same language.

“It’s almost Woomas, Grandpa,” she said matter-of-factly. “And, and I is wanting to ask a question!”

“I wanted to ask a question,” Phyllo corrected. “And sure, what’s your question?”

“Do we has the big feast here at the bakery, or, or are we go to Medieville to has it with Aunt Silvia and Great-Grandpa, or-”

The girl’s question, however, was abruptly interrupted as the door leading into the bakery swung open with a soft groan of its hinges and a tinkle of the bell that was poised overhead. A gust of frigid air swirled inside, a mist of snowflakes hitchhiking along with it, and the girl whirled, beaming.

“Grandma!” she squealed, darting for the figure that emerged from the flurry of snow and icy wind. She latched herself around the newcomer’s legs, squealing, “Hi, Grandma, hi!”

“Hello there yourself, Molls.” As the door thumped shut behind her, the middle-aged woman chuckled softly and ruffled the child’s dark hair. “You being a good girl for Grandpa?” she added, sweeping off her wool cloak hood; beneath, her mahogany hair— studded here and there with stray strands of silver— was frizzy as the ‘Pit, her wavy curls sticking in every which way. Her blue eyes listing toward Phyllo, who still stood behind the counter, she teased, “If she’s not been good, we shall have to force her to go outside and play in the snow. The horrors! And she can’t come back inside until she’s made two pretty snowmen.”

Molly giggled, and Phyllo chuckled along with her. “Hmmm. I don’t know, Zuzia. She’s been rather naughty. Her and Jamie both. Maybe they should both go out in the snow.”

“You’re silly,” Molly informed her grandparents. Tilting her head back, she creased her eyebrows up at Zuzia. “Are you okay, Grandma? You’re… yellow, like the good yellow, but there’s prickles of… of… it’s weird, like red but not quite red, between red and pink.”

“Grandma’s fine,” Zuzia assured her, kissing the crown of the girl’s head. “Why don’t you go upstairs to the flat and fetch Jamie, love?” Both Molly and her older sister, Jamie— along with their little sister Kathleen— lived above the bakery with their adoptive father, the second eldest Panem child, Alex. Speaking of… “Is your papa still out at the McKenna’s dairy farm, Molls? Woo, he’s been there all day. I bet he regrets bringing Kath with him, eh? Aren’tchya glad you didn’t go?”

“Kathy is gonna be so cranky, her nap was s’ppossed to be forever ago,” Molly said, nodding fervently.

“I offered to keep an eye on her,” Phyllo mused. “But Alex insisted it would be fine, he didn’t want to force me to mind the shop and a toddler at the same time.” He met his wife’s eye, then grinned at Molly, “So, about Jamie and those snowmen?”

“Ohhh, right!” Molly nodded. “I’ll go get her!”

As the four year old turned and thumped up the stairs to the flat, Phyllo transferred his gaze back to his wife. “So, what do you want to say that you didn’t want little ears eavesdropping on? That apparently has you red-pink-but-not-quite.”

“I got a letter from Silvia today,” Zuzia said with a small shrug. “Apparently… well, did you know Muriel Lynn’s back in town? Back from Courdon. Finally.” She crossed her arms at her chest, looking more dour than the happy news ought to have announced. “She’s been back for about two or three months now, or so Silvia says.”

“Oh?” Phyllo looked extremely startled. “Woo, that long? Granted, I’m sure she was plenty of people in the city to catch up with after ten years away at war, but I’m surprised this is the first we’ve heard about this. Is she staying with Ciro and Sarah at the inn? Or at Leif and Kirin’s place?”

“No,” said Zuzia. “She’s got her own cottage, apparently. Near the east wall?” The archmage frowned. “But that’s not what jarred me.”

Phyllo sat down at one of the bakery’s small tables, gesturing for his wife to join him. “So what, then?”

She sat, leaning back in the chair with her arms still crossed. “You know how we’d heard she’d gotten married?” Zuzia replied. “But then, of course, information out of Courdon was always so hit or miss during the war, and we didn’t have anything further, and—” She shook her head. “Well, it’s true. She is married. And she brought him back with her. They’ve got four kids already.” Zuzia exhaled softly. “And that’s not even the crazy part, Phyllo.”

“The fact that Muriel ‘I’m going to fight and you’re not going to stop me dad’ Lynn spent the war pregnant and popping out babies isn’t the crazy part?” Phyllo asked, seeming torn between amusement and astonishment. “What is then?”

“Her husband,” Zuzia said grimly. “He’s a prince.”

Phyllo frowned, looking at his wife skeptically, as if waiting for her to reveal the punchline of some joke. However, there was not a scrap of humour to Zuzia’s face, her jaw stiff, her cloud blue eyes flat.

“So… dare I askhow this came about?” Phyllo said slowly. “I was under the impression that the rebels were fighting the nobility, not having their children.”

“Silvia didn’t seem entirely clear on the details herself,” Zuzia said. “Other than this prince’s name is Gerard, he and Muriel have been married for quite some time now and have four children together, and he’s the second-born son of the bloody king of Courdon.”

Phyllo rubbed his forehead, fingers trailing under his white headband. “Well… The more power to her, I suppose. If anybody has the wherewithal to pull that stunt off, it’s her.” He smirked briefly, then sobered. “If the king’s son was married to the daughter of the rebel leader long enough to have four children with her, I suppose it isn’t surprising he’d agree to come back to Kyth with her. Likely his parents aren’t particularly happy with him.”

“You’re not… concerned?” Zuzia’s eyebrows snapped flat, a scowl ticking at the corners of her lips. “A girl we’ve known nearly her entire life comes home after a war, married to a prince — and not just a prince, but the son of the king she was fighting against— and you’re… you’re not worried, Phyllo?”

The Valzick man quirked an eyebrow. “I trust Muriel’s judgment. And I trust Xavier and Elin’s- presumably they know about this, and I imagine if they had significant objections the marriage wouldn't have gone over in the first place.”

“Oh, yes, because Muriel so frequently obeys all of her parents’ wishes,” Zuzia said dryly. Uncrossing her arms, she tapped a finger against the tabletop. “I want to talk to her, Phyllo. Personally. At least— get her side of things. I mean, yes, I suppose we could ask Leif, maybe, since he might know, or— try to write Xavier and Elin as they’re down in the Courdonian court making nice with their daughter’s father-in-law the big bad king, but…” The archmage was now nearly grimacing now, as if the entire situation disgusted her. “I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

“And what makes you think she’ll take cautionary words from us anymore than she will from her own parents?” Phyllo asked. “I mean we can go see her, certainly, it’d be nice to catch up but… not in the context of trying to dissuade her from a man she’s been married to for years and has four kids with, she’d throw us right back out.”

“Okay, fine,” Zuzia conceded. “We won’t go in with my wand out and ready to blitz her nice husband. But— I do want to talk to her, Phyllo. This whole thing, it… worries me. And I know I’d feel better if I got the story from Muriel directly.” She dared a grim, contemplative smile. “And if I got to meet this prince who apparently charmed his way into the enemy’s heart.”

Phyllo shook his head, a bemused grin flitting across his face. He stood up, putting a hand on his wife’s shoulder and giving her a look loaded with irony.

“Yes, m’lady Margrave. Whatever you say.”

She blinked, silent for a moment— then abruptly beamed, rising to peck her husband on the cheek. “Well,” she said, mock brightly, “if he’s as darling and sweet as I clearly was to win you over, then we won’t have a problem, right?”

“Certainly,” Phyllo agreed cheerily. Waggling his left hand, so that a silver band on his ring finger glinted in the light from the window, he added, “Maybe their wedding jewelry was also an unwilling gift from Muri’s new father-in-law; we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”

“Monday,” Zuzia said; it was presently Friday. “I’ve been meaning to go into the city, anyway— I’ve got a potential client who wants to meet with me. We can pop by Muriel’s beforehand, maybe? If we set out early. And that way we can still get back here in time for you to help Alex out with closing duties.”

“Alright,” Phyllo agreed. “We can meet Silvs and her kids somewhere for lunch maybe, while we’re there. Leif too, if we can drag him out in the snow.” He kissed his wife’s cheek, adding, “Don’t worry so much, love. I’m sure everything will be fine.”

***

Beneath the pale rays of the morning sun, the quaint cottage just a few blocks from Medieville’s eastern wall looked rather… bedraggled, Zuzia had to admit. It seemed to have been quite some time since somebody had cleared the front walk of snow, and drifts of it rose calf-high as she and Phyllo passed through the unlocked front gate, stepping into a web of skinny shadows that were cast by a barren oak tree a few feet ahead. The front door might have been painted a cheery red once upon a time, but since then it had faded to a worn, rusty sort of colour, the wood as battered as an old ship’s hull. The front porch was missing several slats, and the ones that were there creaked underfoot as Phyllo and Zuzia stepped onto them.

“This is a far downgrade from a palace,” Zuzia said.

“Mm,” Phyllo grunted in assent. He gave his bandana a slight tug to make sure it was securely covering his forehead as he added, “Though still a step up from our lovely closet over Scent of the South- remember that?”

She chuckled. “Couldn’t forget it. At least we always had delicious tea, right?” Taking a deep breath, Zuzia raised her gloved hand and rapped it once against the door. “Here goes nothing. Hopefully Muriel’s not too upset about us showing up unannounced.” She’d considered sending a note in advance, of course. Considered— and then promptly rejected it. After all, Zuzia had always found that people were far more genuine— and, in turn, one learned far more truth— when there was no time in advance to cobble up a rehearsed story.

“At least we have a bribe for the event that she’s unhappy with us,” Phyllo said, tapping the shoulder bag at his side that was bulging and emitting a slightly sugary aroma into the crisp December air. However, any further conversation was forestalled at the sudden sounds of shuffling from inside— followed by a man’s deep voice, sounding rather frazzled as it called in heavily accented Kythian:

“Yes? Who is there?”

The prince, thought Zuzia with a frown; she’d been hoping for Muriel. “It’s Zuzia and Phyllo Panem,” she called back nevertheless, tone as pleasant as she could force it. “Here to see Muriel? We’re, ah— family friends. Very old family friends.”

“Panem?” echoed the presumed prince, as Zuzia and Phyllo could hear him fiddling with the locks. Moments later, the door eased open, revealing a tall, dark-skinned man with hair the colour of jet and eyes like burnt embers. “You’re… friends of Muriel’s?” he asked, tilting his head. “I’m sorry, but she’s not home.”

Phyllo blinked in surprise, then he chuckled softly, elbowing his wife. “Should’ve sent a letter ahead after all, Zuzu.” He nodded his head politely. “Hello, sir- as my wife already said, I’m Phyllo Panem- I believe you met our daughter a week or two ago?”

“... Right.” The prince spared a thin smile. “Silvia, right? She gave us a free round at the tavern where she works. Muriel was, ah— quite pleased.”

Zuzia returned the cool smile with one of her own. “Yes, that’s our daughter. And— it’s such a shame Muriel’s out, we were really hoping to see her. You know when she’ll be back, ah…?”

“Gerard,” said the prince. “I’m Gerard. And…” He shook his head. “No, I’m not sure, really. She had quite a few errands to run around town.” He hesitated for a moment, studying the wind-chilled, snowflake-dusted couple, before he added, “If you wanted to wait for her, you’re… welcome to, though. I apologise in advance for the mess— we’ve got four kids and not nearly enough hands to wrangle them all— but… it’s warm inside, at least. Blessedly warm.”

Phyllo glanced sideways at his wife. “What do you say? You’re the one who has a client to meet later.”

“That’s not for awhile,” Zuzia said. And all the gods in the world knew, she was not going to miss this opportunity to dissect the prince. “Thank you, Gerard. You’re very kind to offer.”

“No problem.” Gerard stepped aside to let the pair in, still smiling hesitantly. “You want anything to eat or drink? I’ve got some tea that might still be hot. And… well, not much to eat beyond some bread and beans, but you’re welcome to have some, if you’d like?”

“Actually,” Phyllo said as he stepped over the threshold, his silver-grey eyes glinting devilishly, “I might be able to help with that. I don’t know if Silvia told you my profession? I’m a baker. And I had brought along something for Muriel and her family to share.”

He turned the shoulder bag forward, lifting the flap on it to reveal a carefully sealed in cake, slathered with a thick layer of frosting that Phyllo and Zuzanna’s son Alexander had stylized in rosettes.

“I hope your kiddos like strawberry cream cake,” Phyllo added with the grin of a man long used to hopping children up on sugar and turning them loose for their parents to deal with afterwards.

“Alas, not at all,” Gerard replied, a hint of humour slipping into his tone. “You certainly aren’t about to become my eldest girls’ favourite people ever.” As Zuzia and Phyllo stepped inside, the prince turned on his heel. “Here, follow me. We can talk in the kitchen.”

“Of course,” Zuzia said. “Thank you.”

The cottage was just as small as it had looked from the outside, the breadbox-sized foyer quickly opening up to a cluttered room that seemed to serve no dearth of purposes: there was a battered sofa near the doorway, edged by a weathered wooden dining table with a collection of mismatched chairs, and beyond that stood a crackling hearth and stretch of countertops. In the back corner, beside the door that presumably opened to a bedroom, rested a large wooden bassinet that was piled high with cozy blankets— and which featured not one, but two slumbering infants, one of them perhaps six-months old, the other maybe a year older.

“Again, sorry for the mess,” Gerard said, nodding toward the warren of children’s toys that littered the floor. “You can set the cake on the counter, Master Panem. Then feel free to take a seat.” He gestured to the kitchen table. “I can carve up the cake.”

“Cake?” All eyes in the room whipped toward the bedroom door as it creaked open and a young girl of perhaps four tumbled out, her emerald green eyes wide as full moons. “We’ve got cake?”

Phyllo blinked in surprise at the sight of the girlchild, then he had to quickly cover his mouth to stifle a laugh, lest he wake the babies. “Oh Woo, she is Xavier’s grandchild alright, Zuzu. Look at her hair.” He grinned at the child, who indeed had locks the same shade of crimson as her grandfather, and added, “Yes, there’s cake- strawberry cake, I hope you like strawberries.”

“Uh-huh!” she chirped, flouncing toward the table— and paying absolutely zero attention to the second, older girl who emerged from the bedroom at her heel, arms crossed at her chest, expression tentative. “You know Grandpa? ‘Cos—”

“Corbin,” Gerard cut in, wincing. “Manners, please? Do we greet visitors by interrogating them?”

“Ummm.” The girl, Corbin, grinned sheepishly. “I’unno, Papa.”

Zuzia couldn’t help but chuckle— fiery Muriel’s child, indeed. “It’s all right, ah— Corbin, your papa said? My name’s Zuzia, and my husband’s Phyllo. And yes, we do know your grandpa. And your mama, too, since she was even smaller than you are.”

As Corbin giggled brightly at this piece of information, Zuzia glanced toward the second child, who was still lingering in the bedroom doorway. Where Corbin was dark of skin this girl was light, with a honeyed-bronze complexion and amber freckles dusting her cheeks. Her hair, too, was far paler— a milky strawberry-blonde— as were her striking, mint-green eyes. The two girls looked absolutely nothing alike; beyond the fact that they were both girls, Zuzia couldn’t find a single feature they held in common.

Following his wife’s gaze, Phyllo gave the older girl a soft smile. “Hey there, honey. You don’t have to be nervous, we’re friends of your family. What’s your name?”

“Aislin,” she murmured, reluctantly padding over toward the table. Her eyes drifting toward her father, she whispered something to him in what Zuzia and Phyllo could only presume was Courdonian— but Gerard just shook his head with a small smile.

“Kythian, hon,” he chided gently. “Our visitors don’t speak Courdonian.”

“No one does,” Corbin announced dourly, plunking herself into one of the chairs. “‘Cept Mama and Papa and— and Uncle Ciro and—”

“A very fascinating list, yes,” Gerard cut in. “Thank you for providing it, Corbin.” He glanced back to Zuzia and Phyllo. “Sorry. Corby’s a bit… chatty.”

“You met Silvia already,” Phyllo replied with a smile. “Don’t worry, we’re well used to that sort of thing. Not to mention we’ve babysat Muriel more times than I can count when she was small, and certainly she was a… spirited kid.”

“So I’ve heard.” Riffling through one of the counter drawers, Gerard pulled out a large carving knife and immediately set about divvying up the cake. “I’m pretty sure Xavier’s working theory is that Corbin’s a bit of… what did he call it? Cosmic repayment?”

Zuzia guffawed. “Well, I suppose if there is justice in this world, that’d make perfect sense.” She tilted her head, contemplative. “So… he’s well, then? Xavier? I couldn’t quite believe it when I heard he and Elin were staying in the Courdonian court.”

“He and Elin were doing fine, last I saw them,” Gerard agreed. He began to allot the cake slices onto plates. “Though I think they’re just as incredulous about the whole ‘part of the court’ thing as you are.”

“We had to come here, though,” Aislin murmured, shoulders drawn in as she sat beside Corbin. “‘Stead of staying in Courdon. J-just after Robbie was born.” She glanced toward the infants in the bassinet, who were still— mercifully— fast asleep; apparently they were well-used to slumbering through clamor.

Phyllo felt a swelling of empathy for the young girl, and he gave her a sad smile. “It’s confusing and scary at first, huh? Coming to a new place. Zuzia and I aren’t from Kyth either- you might’ve guessed from our accents and well…” He made a broad gesture, taking himself in general in. While darker skin tones certainly weren’t unheard of in Kyth, a man the color of coffee grounds with kinky, woolen black hair done up in braids was certainly a head turner.

“Where’re you from?” Corbin chirped, grinning like a cat as her father set one of the cake plates in front of her.

“Valzaim,” Zuzia said. “It’s very far away.”

“Farther than Courdon?” Aislin asked.

Her father quirked a brow. “Yes, quite a bit further, I do believe,” he confirmed. “That’s a terribly long journey, neh? You take a ship here? I’ve an uncle who did the same, believe it or not. It took him ages on the sea.”

Phyllo shook his head. “We hired on with a Lyellian caravan to make the journey. Travelled overland.” This wasn’t strictly a lie, just not the whole truth- but Phyllo wasn’t in a hurry to give his and Zuzia’s entire, complicated, potentially problematic history to a complete stranger. Let alone a former prince of a slave nation. “It took us about… what Zuzu, nine months I think?”

“Mmhm,” Zuzia said— as Corbin squealed in awe.

“That’s how long a baby takes!” she announced. “Mama had Robbie in her tummy for so long. And Ammy, too, but I don’t ‘member that ‘cos I was little. ‘Stead of a big girl.”

“You’re still little,” Aislin informed her.

“Nuh-uh,” Corbin retorted, taking a generous bite of cake. “I’m four soon.”

“A wise and enlightened age, four,” Phyllo noted with obvious amusement. To Aislin he added, “And what about you, honey? How old are you?”

“Seven,” Aislin said.

“Nearly grown up, this one,” Gerard said dryly as, cake plates fully doled out, he finally took a seat himself. “Right, Ash?”

She pursed her lips, not even cracking a smile. “I dunno.”

Her father sighed. “I’m just joking, love. You don’t need to be so broody, okay?”

Phyllo glanced at his wife, then smiled. “So… if she’s seven, you must’ve met Muriel at least… eight years ago? Or so?”

Phyllo somehow didn’t think that was the case- the girl looked nothing like either Gerard or Muriel. She didn’t even resemble Xavier as Corbin did, her eyes and hair both far too light. But it was as good a segue as any, and he knew Zuzanna wasn’t going to stop prickling with tension until she got her questions out of the way.

Gerard visibly hesitated, the smile he wore faltering for a moment before he recovered. “Aislin is actually… a relative of mine’s natural child,” he said carefully. “We took her in when she was two. Adopted her.” As Aislin— clearly uncomfortable with the attention— slumped down in her seat and intently focused her gaze on her slice of cake, her father went on, “Muriel and I met in… 1340, I believe? Or thereabouts.”

“They falled in love,” Corbin provided. “And gotted married. And then I was borned!”

“Ah, and I’m sure it was all that fast and simple, eh?” Zuzia said lightly. Batting her eyes in the perfect portrayal of innocence and naivete, she added, “So, you were a rebel, too, then? And you met afield?”

“... Somewhat,” Gerard said, stiffening. He furrowed his brow, dark eyes suddenly sharp— and he’d clearly seen right through Zuzia’s mask as he said carefully, “I know that you know people who… well, know. Who I am. You needn’t play coy with me, Madam Panem. I’m not much one for games.”

Phyllo shot his wife a somewhat exasperated look. He really should’ve known better than to trust her to do or say anything subtle. In all the time he’d known her, that had never been how Zuzanna operated.

“If Muriel whacks you, I am going to stand back. And watch. And inform anybody who asks that you brought it on yourself,” he informed his wife dryly.

She scowled, cheeks flushing a little. “You’re a prince,” she said to Gerard, all pretenses discarded.

“Was a prince,” Gerard corrected. “Second-born son of King Oliver III and his wife, Queen Zaria. My older brother, Cassian, is the heir to the Courdonian throne.” He smiled again, but there was no longer even a hint of warmth to it. “I left it all behind to join the rebellion. And that’s where I met Muriel.”

Part of Zuzia wanted to demand to know why he’d have left behind such a life of luxury to join the enemy of his father’s crown— but then again, once upon a time she’d done something not all that dissimilar. “I imagine that took… quite a leap of faith,” she said instead. “A lot of trust in the rebel army’s practises.”

He let through a watery chuckle. “It was tense for some time,” he agreed. “But well worth it.” He glanced fondly toward the girls, then the infants slumbering in the cradle. “Papa got some of the best kids ever out of it, eh? After Mama wooed him.”

Corbin beamed. “Uh-huh.” She grinned at the Panems. “Papa says Mama um, um…” She giggled. “Stealed his heart.”

Phyllo actually smirked slightly at that, running a hand through Zuzia’s hair. “Once a lovely lady does that, you never get to have your heart back. But that’s okay, at least they’re warm to cuddle with in winter.”

She sighed, relaxing by a hair. Did she trust this prince? Hells no. But… so far, he seemed pleasant enough, at least. Sweet with the kids. Civil and personable. Grudgingly— even if she didn’t wholly agree with the move—she had to admit that she could see how someone like Muriel had gravitated toward him. After all, Muri always had been the wild child of the three Lynn kids. Daring. Adventurous. So put her in a war zone, then give her a handsome and charming prince…

“Papa doesn’t like winter,” Aislin said. “He’s always cold. And I am, too.”

Gerard laughed. “It’s been a bit of a shock to my system, yes. I think Muriel’s found my whining rather entertaining.”

“Well… if you’re going to be staying in Medieville, it’s alas something you’ll have to get used to,” Zuzia said softly. She dared needle, “Are you, Gerard? Planning to stay…? I imagine it’s... quite a difference from Courdon.”

“Unless things change drastically, yes,” Gerard said. “We’ll be staying in Kyth.” Hesitating for a moment, he flicked his gaze back to his daughters. “Say, girls. What if you enjoyed the rest of your cake in your bedroom? While Papa and the Panems talk about some… grown-up things.”

Aislin nodded, the girl springing to her feet in an instant, but Corbin was not so easily swayed. “We’re not s’posed to eat in the bedroom,” she informed her father. “You get mad when we do.”

“Well, I’m not going to get mad now,” he replied. He winked at her. “You can even eat with your fingers if you want, Corby. So long as you wash up afterward.”

“Oooh.” The girl was suddenly grinning. “Really?”

“Mmhm.” He waved his hand toward the bedroom. “But only if you hurry, this is a limited time offer, my dear.”

“The frosting does taste the best when it’s licked off of fingers,” Phyllo added with a crooked grin. “I aught to know, I’ve have to swat five kids and three grandkids worth of fingers out of mixing bowls over the past twenty-plus years.”

“C’mon, Corby.” Plate in one hand, Aislin reached for her sister with the other. “Let’s go.”

Gerard shot his elder daughter a grateful smile. “Close the door, hon?”

Aislin nodded. “Okay.”

The room fell into a silence then, the adults watching as the girls trundled back toward the bedroom, Aislin indeed shutting the door behind them. Once she had, Gerard stayed quiet for several moments, steepling his fingers anxiously. Then, he looked back toward the Panems, an almost wistful expression creeping across his dark face.

“I know I’m… probably not your favourite person?” he said then. “Just on principle. Which is— something I’m well used to, by this point.” He exhaled softly. “I don’t blame you for it. If I were you, I’d probably be wary, too.”

Zuzia straightened in her chair, taken aback by the prince’s humble frankness— particularly given his earlier wash of hostility after she’d feigned ignorance of his identity. “I was just… worried,” she admitted with a shrug. “Most of what I know about the Courdonian nobility— let alone the monarchy— isn’t… all that positive, shall we say?”

“That’s because most of them are gits,” Gerard said without skipping a beat. “My father’s a monster and my older brother’s not much better. To say nothing of much of my extended family.”

Phyllo snorted softly. “I imagine you’d have to think so, to join the rebellion.” His eyes flicked towards Zuzanna and he added, “I helped with one of the escaped slaves during the war. A young girl who used to belong to the same family that owned Xavier. She took a very, very long time to recover any sort of normalcy.”

Gerard hissed softly. “Barbarians. It always drove me mad— how my father’s men would claim we were the monsters, yet they were the ones hurting innocents with impunity. It was— it was disgusting.”

Zuzia raised a brow, startled by the prince’s sudden ardour. … Not that she didn’t understand; Woo knew she’d felt no shortage of similar feelings about her own family back in Meltaim. No shortage of disgust over the fact that she’d been associated with them, tied to them, intimately interwoven with their horrifying beliefs and actions. Seeing such an ideation in someone else for once was… strange. Like peeking through a slightly warped mirror. Wanting— expecting— to find in it someone alien, hateable, and instead discovering only a misshapen version of herself. Different in so many ways and yet… undeniably similar, as well.

“You… you can’t go back, can you?” Zuzia murmured, as a keening realization rippled over her. “Your family, they’d…”

“Kill me?” Gerard shrugged, clearly long ago having accepted such an unpleasant fact. “Yes. Without a doubt.”

Phyllo winced. “I’m sorry, Gerard. That must be…” The man bit his lip, then offered a wavering smile. “But at least you have Muriel. And your children. The kids clearly adore you, even if Aislin doesn’t seem especially thrilled with life at the moment. And Medieville may be strange- I know it was to us when we first arrived- but it’s not a bad place to live. Eccentric certainly, but that just means the stranger of us don’t stick out as much.”

He snorted. “Eccentric. That’s a good word, yes.” The prince sighed, taking a small bite of his cake slice. “I don’t mind it much, really. The weather aside, it’s… all right. And my kids are safe here, which matters most. It might be a little more pleasant if I didn’t have so much of a stigma trailing me, but…” Gerard shrugged. “Hardly anything I can do about that. I can’t exactly change the fact that I was born a prince of Courdon, even if sometimes I wish that I could.”


“Hopefully it’ll fade eventually,” Zuzia murmured, yet another wave of unexpected empathy lancing through her. “The longer you spend here, and the more people realise that you aren’t your family. That you’re… different. That you’ve shed them.”

“I can only hope,” Gerard said wistfully. “At least the kids don’t seem all that fazed by it. To them, it’s just— normal, I suppose. Papa was a prince, and now he’s not, and also what’s for dinner tonight and can I play in the snow.” He laughed softly. “Sometimes I envy a child’s view of the world.”

Phyllo looked down with a crooked smile. “Yeah. The innocence is refreshing, in a lot of ways.” The baker then pointed to the cake in front of Gerard, adding with a teasing smile, “Though at least a sugary snack is a nice way to feel like a kid again, if only for as long as it takes to eat it. I do apologize if it’s not up to your usual standards, though, I’m probably not comparable to royal pastry chefs.”

“I spent six years in rebel camps,” Gerard said dryly. “Sometimes I think our gruel was more dirt than anything. This is delicious, Master Panem.” His eyes glimmered. “And between you and me, the royal pastry chefs at the Gilded Palace are often far too eager with the heavy spices. Everything ends up tasting the same. I think they could learn a bit from you.”

Phyllo felt his face heat a little, and he smiled. “Thank you. Baking’s in the blood, really. ‘Panem’ is actually the Valick word for ‘bread.’ Not nearly so prestigious a birthright as a noble title, but I’m proud of it all the same.”

Gerard laughed. “A fitting name, I think.” But the prince then sobered a bit, his voice taking on a more tentative pitch as he brooked, “Valzaim’s… terribly far. And I can’t pretend I’m not a bit curious. I don’t mean to pry, of course, but…”

“How did we end up here?” Zuzia finished for him.

“I was going to try to phrase it more diplomatically, but… yes, I suppose that.”

Phyllo looked down at his hands, his expression pensive. “It’s… complicated. I presume Courdon’s not especially interested or versed in the politics of the western end of the continent?”

“I know very little of it,” Gerard admitted. “Just the basics— names of kings, ruling philosophies, which countries are friends and which are seething enemies.”

Phyllo leaned forwards, bracing his elbows on the table. “Valzaim has a neighbor to the north- Meltaim. What do you know of them?”

“Not a whole lot.” Gerard gnawed on his lip, as though he were racking the deepest reaches of his memory. “They’re isolationist, yes? Mages. I know they were involved in a war some years ago with essentially every other country they bordered. And I know they lost. Beyond that…” He shook his head.

“All of that is true,” Phyllo agreed. “But did you ever wonder what the isolationist mage country does with its nonmages? I’m sure you know that two mage parents have every chance to have a nonmage child. Muriel’s a good example, even if Elin’s not a traditional kind of mage.”

Gerard nodded. “Right. Of course. But— no, I’ve never really… thought about it.” He darkened. “But I’m beginning to suppose it’s nothing very good?”

“They enslave them,” Zuzia said simply. “In Meltaim, nonmages are called półwyrób. There’s no literal translation in Kythian, but it basically means… a void. Soulless. Nonmages are seen as subhuman. Like animals.”

The former prince’s eyes widened. “So— what, if a mage parent has a nonmage kid, they just… sell them into slavery? Gods. That’s… disgusting.” His gaze fell to wand holster visible at her hip. “You’re a mage, though. And…” He looked to Phyllo. “You’re… not. But—” Confusion crossed Gerard’s face. “You said you were Valzick, right? Not Meltaiman. And last I knew of, Valzaim had nothing against nonmages.”

Phyllo gave a very dark smile. “Tell me Gerard- bluff and bluster about treaties and lack of evidence aside, how much of the slave population in Courdon before the war was native to Courdon?”

“It… depends how far back you looked within their lineage,” Gerard said, realisation creeping over him. “Go back far enough, and well…” He swore. “They steal, then? Meltaim? Go plundering nonmages from their neighbours just to enslave them?”

Phyllo reached up to his forehead, pulling off his headband to reveal the slashed white circle he usually kept hidden there. “They steal children. None younger than seven, but none older than thirteen except by mistake. Easier to break and train them. I was born in Valzaim, yes. But I haven’t actually lived there since I was eight years old.”

“And… you, Madam Panem?” Gerard asked, eyes knit in confusion. “You are a mage, so…”

“I was born in Meltaim,” Zuzia confirmed. “We just— usually say Valzaim because it’s easier. Less to explain.” She sighed. “We… have more in common than you might believe, Gerard. You were born a prince. Me? I was raised the heir of a margrave— that’s like… a Kythian or Courdonian highlord. My father ruled a province. The province where Phyllo was taken after his abduction.”

“Zuzia never liked it,” Phyllo put in. “The things Meltaim did. And even aside from the slavery they did some… awful things.” The baker shook his head. “The two of us met by chance, and Zuzia struck a chord with me because she was different. She treated me kindly, was concerned about my welfare, talked to me about her life and her troubles… and well, one thing led to another.” He grinned crookedly, leaning sideways to give his wife a peck on the cheek.

“So you ran,” Gerard said— not a question, only a naturally borne conclusion. “Gods, that… must have been hard. What I did was mad enough, and I had someplace fairly close to run to. A viable option closeby. Given that you ended up all the way in Kyth…” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine you did.”

“No,” Zuzia agreed. “We weren’t running to someplace in particular. Just… away from Meltaim.”

Gerard let out a soft, almost wondering breath. “Funny, isn’t it?” he said. “A prince of Courdon and noblewoman of Meltaim, having a conversation over strawberry cake in the capital of Kyth.” He looked to Phyllo again. “Gods, you must have had… fears about me, then. Once you heard who I was. If you were a slave once, and… you knew I was once a prince of a slaving kingdom.”

“Once upon a time, I might have been,” Phyllo replied. “If you had been a mage as well as a prince, I might still have an old, instinctive tremor of unease. But well… look who I married. Was I a bit skeptical when I heard? Of course. But if there’s one thing my life has taught me, it’s to always keep an open mind. Be wary, but don’t make hasty judgements.” He patted Zuzia on the head as one might a dog, adding, “That’s Zuzu’s job.”

She elbowed him with a scowl. “I just wanted to make sure Muriel was okay,” she insisted. To Gerard, she added, “She might have given us many headaches over the years, but she’s like a niece to us. We care about her, deeply.”

Gerard nodded. “I… I understand.” Polishing off his cake, he asked lightly but nervously, “So, ah— hopefully I’ve passed, then? And you shan’t be dragging my wife away for her own protection?”

Zuzia snorted. “Oh, you say that as if she wouldn’t deck me if I tried.” The woman smiled. “But… yes, Gerard. I’d say you’ve passed. Although…” Glancing at the babies still sound asleep in their cradle, she deadpanned, “Give the poor woman a break, would you? Those two don’t even look like they’re a year apart.”

Phyllo laughed, giving Gerard a wink. “Trying to keep her off the frontlines at the end of the war, no doubt. Nothing to do with she’s very pretty and very fiery.” Nudging his chin towards the cradle he added, “What are their names?”

“The older one’s Amalia,” he said fondly. “The little one is Robert. I wish I could at least retort that they’re certainly more than a year apart, but…” He smiled crookedly. “Ten and a half months separating them, alas. Don’t worry, Muriel punched me very hard when she realised she was pregnant again already.”

“I’d expect nothing less of her,” Phyllo replied with a crooked grin. Slipping his bandana back on, he added, “We live a bit out of the city, in a village called Sallertown, but we’ll have to drop by whenever we’re in to see our friends here. Stuff your little ones with cake and cookies.”

“Of course,” Gerard said. “Though now that your interrogation is over, perhaps you could write ahead next time?” he joked. “Make sure Muriel’s actually around so you can catch up with her.”

Zuzia’s cheeks burned. “Right. Yes, we’ll definitely post ahead.”

Phyllo chuckled, kissing his wife’s cheek again. “Never change, Zuzu, how else will you keep my life interesting?”

Gerard outright guffawed. “Interesting wives,” he echoed. “What would we do without ‘em, eh?”

As if on cue, there was a sharp yelp from the bedroom, and a resounding thunk. Phyllo quirked a brow. “Look to our equally interesting children, I suppose.”

“You successfully babysat Muriel, you say?” Gerard asked, rising to his feet. “Because you know, if you ever wanted to offer…” The former prince grinned. “I hear Corbin gives her mama a run for her money.”

Zuzia laughed. “We’d be happy to.” She glanced to her husband, smiling softly. “Right?”

Phyllo chuckled as well. “Just like old times.”

[Celestial]

Guest-posting here because...because.

Anyway, a collab fic between me and Avery featuring everyone's favourite Tsarevna/princess/rebel, Julia. Takes place in 1360.

Reunions: Part 1

SPOILER: Click to show

Emil looked up as the sound of rapid hoofbeats alerted him to the rider approaching from the gate. It was the courier whom he had sent with the group of knights to welcome the Alaric entourage. His return could only mean one thing.

“Your Grace,” the man exclaimed as he leapt off his horse and hastily bowed to the Grand Duke. “The escort has met up with the Courdonians and is now leading them towards the castle. They should be here very soon.”

“Good,” Emil said with a curt nod, lifting up his hand to brush aside a lock of grey hair that was only barely tinted with its former shade of bright red. He tucked it under the circlet resting upon his brow, his fingers briefly brushing against the large garnet embedded into the silver. “I suppose for now, all we can do is wait.”

He lowered his hand down on to his hip and glanced around. To his left, his wife stood in a bright crimson dress, a matching veil covering the lower half of her pale blonde hair in order to hide how short it was. Lucrezia’s grey eyes stared away from him, towards the gate, but he could see by the twitching of her face and the light tapping of her foot that she was impatient. The situation to his right was no better. Ainsley was standing stiffly and awkwardly in place with an expression than an unfamiliar observer could easily mistake for annoyance; not a good impression to make on his bride-to-be.

Despite his own nervousness, the Grand Duke smiled cheerily, the corners of his mouth shifting his beard aside as though it was a curtain. “Don’t be so grim,” he leaned over and squeezed Ainsley’s shoulder. “I’ll deal with the others, you just try to be nice to Princess Corbin.”

“Mmm, yeah,” the young man murmured, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“S’not the others he’s worried about, is it, Ainsley?” Lucrezia remarked, a sly grin forming on her face.

His only response to his mother’s ribbing was to look up at the sky, his impassive face betraying nothing. Emil chuckled.

“I’ll help however I can, even if it means handling the pleasantries of our other guests. Besides,” he lifted up his head, proud as a king. “I’m only one who speaks the language here.”

Lucrezia rolled her eyes and nudged her husband’s side with her elbow. “Show-off,” she said, though her voice had a hint of affection in it. “For a northern lord, you’ve had to deal with Courdon a lot. First that princess, then your mother getting involved in the rebellion, and now this girl...”

“Life is strange,” Emil shrugged. “I thought you’d know all about that, Seagull.”

She gave a snort at the pet name he had for her. “Yes, yes,” Lucrezia sighed. “Don’t embarrass yourself trying to impress them; you’ve not had much practice in High Courdonian.”

“No, so this is a good opportunity,” the Grand Duke declared before holding up his hand and pointing to the gate, from where the sound of men and horses had suddenly began to emanate. “Shh, here they come,” he winked at Ainsley. “Be good.”

The young man sighed. “Yes, father.”

Less than ten minutes later, hoofbeats thundered again as the promised party finally reached the gates. Bolstered by both the Grand Duke’s knights and a retinue of their own, to outward appearances it seemed to be a whole lot of pomp and protection for a rather scrappy contingent: just four men, dressed finely but blandly, and two women with them. As soon as the horses came to a halt, the travelers dismounted, wearing patent looks of relief on their faces as they stretched their saddle-sore limbs. One of them, an older man with silver-blond hair and eyes like mint, turned toward the waiting Stallions with a bow and cordial smile.

“Your lordships,” he greeted in heavily accented Kythian. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last.”

Emil blinked, distracted from staring at the Courdonian entourage by the man’s voice. It was strange: he could have sworn one of the women looked...familiar. However, that was impossible; he did not know anybody in the Courdonian court. Before he could be called out on his leering, however, he turned to the older man, a broad grin stretching across his face.

“The pleasure is all mine, your majesties,” the Stallion stepped forward towards the arrivals. “And it is an honour to welcome you to Destrier Castle. I am Grand Duke Emil Stallion,” he gestured at Lucrezia and Ainsley behind him. “That is my wife, Lucrezia, and Ainsley, my son and the one to be betrothed to the princess.”

He held his right hand out. “And your name?” he asked and glanced down. “I apologise, my high Courdonian is rusty. I get little practice up here.”

The blond man quirked a brow, seeming almost amused. “I am surprised you speak it at all,” he said, voice buttery soft as he switched to his native tongue. “My name is Prince Elias Alaric. The princess is my grandniece.” He gestured behind him toward the younger of the two women: a striking, tan-skinned girl of perhaps sixteen or seventeen, with tumbling hair as bright as a smoldering flame. “Corbin, come here. Say hello.”

“Yes, Uncle Elias,” she murmured, swallowing hard as she took a step forward and dipped into a formal curtsy. Green eyes trailing Lucrezia and Emil before they settled finally on Ainsley, Corbin forced a wan smile. “Hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

“Likewise, Princess Corbin,” Emil glanced down at the girl, examining her. “Don’t be scared. I know it must be...uhh…” he paused as he tried to remember the word. “Strange, to be here, but I’m sure you’ll like it here.”

He straightened back up, putting his hands on his hips as he turned back around. “Ainsley,” he called to his son. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud, come say hello to Princess Corbin.”

Lucrezia smiled slyly and shoved Ainsley’s forward by the shoulder. He stumbled but quickly caught his balance, and after pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, approached his father and his bride-to-be.

“Hello,” he said, his voice and expression completely neutral. “You don’t speak Kythian, do you?”

The girl’s lips curved into something close to a smirk. “My mother’s Kythian,” she said. “So of course I speak it, Lord Ainsley.”

“Be polite, Corbin, he was merely asking,” chided one of the other men. Tall and black-haired, he looked to be perhaps in his thirties, with skin like burnt caramel and eyes dark as flint. “It’s so nice to meet you all, your lordships, your ladyship,” he added with a shallow bow. “My name’s Prince Gerard-- I’m Corbin’s father.”

Emil grinned widely at Gerard. “I should have guessed by the resemblance, though I assume she gets her hair from her mother,” he chuckled softly. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it; you might not be able to tell by this lifeless grey mass but once mine used to be as offensively bright as Ainsley’s.”

The younger man, already cowed by his mistake with the princess, ground his jaw together. “Father...” he grumbled under his breath, folding his arms.

“You should know not to mind your dad’s silly remarks, Ainsley. Besides, you have a princess to make a good impression on,” Lucrezia said in an affectionate tone, stepping forward. She shot Corbin a polite but genuine smile. “Don’t mind him, or my husband. They’re both two ends of an extreme; too sour and too sweet.”

“You don’t mind either though, Seagull,” the Grand Duke put his arm around his wife, squeezing her shoulder without any hint of self-consciousness before smiling at Corbin. “She’s right though; don’t be shy around Ainsley. He’s all bark and not much bite.”

“I’m not shy,” Corbin said, though the way her throat bobbed as she gulped heavily implied otherwise. “And… and it’s okay, Lord Ainsley. You couldn’t have known I spoke Kythian. Not given where I’m from.”

Her granduncle smiled thinly, glancing over his shoulder toward the three people who still lingered behind him as Stallion grooms led away their horses. The two remaining men were of starkly different ages, one perhaps in his early forties while the other couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, but otherwise they resembled one another in nearly every way: sandy blond hair with just a bit of curl to it, clear blue eyes winking out from beneath long lashes, angular jaws and honey-bronze complexions. The woman, on the other hand, was lily pale, her tumbling jet black curls swept into a loose ponytail over her shoulder, and her eyes the same mint green as were Elias’s. She looked to be in her thirties, or perhaps a bit older, and when she noticed Elias looking at her, she took a step forward, a wan smile between her lips.

“Let me introduce you to the rest of our party,” Elias said to the Kythians. “This is my niece and Gerard’s cousin, Princess Julia Altair, nee Alaric. And her husband, Lord Augustin Altair, and their son, Lord Dorian.” He chuckled softly. “Forgive Augustin-- he doesn’t speak a lick of Kythian.”

Emil nodded absently but he had barely heard what Elias had said. At the mention of Julia’s name, his head snapped around to the woman who had struck him as familiar before, except now he suddenly understood why. She had changed in the intervening twenty years but nevertheless, like an optical illusion snapping into place, he suddenly began to notice the features of the teenager who had once lived in the castle with him. Almost nobody else possessed the mix of Langean and Courdonian traits that she did.

“Emil!” Lucrezia cried, clicking her fingers in front of his eyes. “Snap out of it, she’s not even that pretty.”

He convulsed as though awakened from a dream and turned to look sheepishly into his wife’s hardened gaze. “Sorry, Lucrezia,” he murmured. “It’s not that, I’ll...I’ll explain later.”

Removing his arm from his wife, he nodded to Augustin. “It’s nice to meet you,” his cloudy blue eyes flickered over to the woman beside him. He blinked several times as though in a dream. “Is it really you? After all these years..?” Emil smiled weakly. “I suppose congratulations for your husband are in order?”

“Nice to you see as well, your lordship,” Julia said crisply; speaking in Kythian, the slight burr of her accent was immediately patent, a stark contrast to her relatives’ way of speech. “And thank you. Even if…” She gestured with a small smile toward the teenage boy. “... it’s probably a little late for wedding wishes.”

Elias just barely refrained a wince at his niece’s pointed tone. “You and Julia were, ah, acquainted once, yes, your lordship?” he asked. “She didn’t think you would remember her. Since it’s been such a long time since your last encounter. But it seems she was mistaken, hm?”

The Grand Duke nodded. “She made herself hard to forget, for everyone here,” he looked back at the dark-haired woman, still looking half-dazed as though he was expecting to wake up at any moment. “I still can’t believe you managed to make it back here. How?”

“Julia?” Lucrezia raised an eyebrow, turning to her husband. “That Julia? The one whose mother taught you high Courdonian, and the one Grand Duchess Isabelle-”

“Yes, her,” Emil stated, continuing to look at Julia in front of him. “Does your brother know? That you’re here?”

Julia bristled. “I don’t think that has much of anything to do with you, your lordship,” she said thickly. “Though I thank you for your concern.”

As Gerard and Elias both cringed in unison, Augustin-- clearly understanding his wife’s acerbic tone even if he didn’t speak the language she’d been using-- took a step forward. Slinging a heavy arm around Julia’s shoulder, and drawing her close to him, he said, “Is everything all right here?”

“Everything’s fine.” Julia forced a deep breath.

“It’s alright, Lord Augustin, I only asked your wife a question. We...knew each other, long ago,” Emil sighed before shaking his head. “We should probably discuss this later.”

A smile slowly returned to his face and he turned around, gesturing back towards the castle’s main Keep. “Perhaps now, we can go inside? I’ve asked the servants to prepare rooms and refreshments for everyone. You must be tired after your journey, your highnesses, and while you’re here, my home is your home.”

“That sounds excellent, thank you,” Gerard replied, letting out a palpable sigh of relief. “Your hospitality is much appreciated after our lengthy trip.”

“I am sure. My mother did once tell me that a trip to Courdon is a tiring process and I can certainly believe her,” Emil laughed heartily before turning on his heel and heading towards the entrance. “Follow me then. Once we’re inside, I’ll let the servants take you the guest chambers where you may relax,” he shot Ainsley a wink. “And perhaps later you can take Princess Corbin for a walk around the castle?”

Ainsley closed his eyes briefly in exasperation. “Alright,” he glanced at Corbin. “If you like.”

The Grand Duke smiled a little but as he turned to Julia, his smile was replaced with a much more melancholy expression. “And could we talk later? At your convenience, of course, but...I do want to speak with you, Julia. There’s a lot of things I want to lay to rest,” after a short while, he added one last word “Please.”

Julia nodded, a bit reluctantly. “Of… of course, your lordship,” she said.

***

That night, the Bernian nobles held a succulent feast to welcome their Courdonian visitors, the castle’s grand hall bedecked in both Stallion maroon-and-silver and Alaric red-and-gold as the guests dined on a mouthwatering array of traditional Bernian dishes: heavy stews, game meat pies, roasts, salty smoked fish and creamy puddings spiked with generous amounts of genuine Bernian drink. There were minstrels, too, and a never-ending flow of wine, and with so much food, drink, and merriment, the banquet didn’t wind down until nearly midnight-- leaving the already road-worn Courdonians several shades beyond exhausted by the time they finally worked their heads to their pillows.

It wasn’t until midmorning the next day that any of the foreign visitors roused, and it was not long afterwards that the Grand Duke made his way to the spread of guest suites the Courdonians had been allotted. He paused in front of the room that had been allocated to Julia and her husband and took a deep breath before giving the door a single firm, insistent knock.

“Julia, it’s Emil,” he spoke softly, using his name instead of his title in an attempt to put her more at ease. “Is this a good time?”

It was not Julia who replied, however, but Augustin, the lord’s face inscrutable as he edged open the door. “Your lordship,” he greeted in Courdonian. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Emil stiffened as he was greeted by Augustin but nevertheless met the Courdonian’s gaze, not wanting to back away just because of the cold reception. “I wanted to speak to Julia. Ask her about what happened with...everything, to check how she is. And apologise, I guess? For what happened in the past.”

“I see.” His blond brows furrowed, as though in consternation, he stepped aside, calling over his shoulder: “Julia. It’s the grand duke, for you.”

From deeper within the chamber Julia padded to her husband’s side, the woman dressed plainly— by Courdonian standards— in a pale gold dress and only a few pieces of jewelry. When her eyes hooked with Emil’s, she gave the Stallion a tepid smile, curtseying to him.

“Your lordship,” she said, in Kythian. “Was there something that you needed from me?”

“Hello Julia,” Emil replied, nodding his head respectfully before straightening out his spine and meeting her gaze. “I already told your husband, but I wanted to see how you were. As well as perhaps ask you some questions if you feel up to it. I also want to apologise,” he bowed his head. “On behalf of the House and on behalf of my mother especially. She would have wanted that.”

Julia raised a brow, looking surprised— but not unpleasantly so. “All right,” she said. “If you’d like, your lordship. And— thank you. I appreciate the apology. A lot more than you probably realise.”

“I think I can imagine,” Emil stood aside and gestured in front of him. “Would you like to walk this way, Julia? I arranged some drinks, snacks and a comfortable sitting room where we can talk without being disturbed.”

Before Julia could take a step out into the hall, however, Augustin crossed his arms at his chest, angling himself as though to block the doorway. “Taking my wife somewhere, your lordship?” he asked thickly. “I think I’ll be coming with, then.”

The Grand Duke’s eyes narrowed slightly. “With all due respect, Lord Augustin, you do not need to be like this; I have no bad intentions towards your wife.. This is business from our past; it does not concern you.”

He turned his head to Julia, raising an eyebrow. “He’s certainly a man of Courdon. However, this is Kyth, Julia, and my castle; it is up to you whether you want him present.”

“It’s all right,” Julia said. “Gus and I have no secrets from each other. Whatever hurt I’ve found in Courdon…” She shook her head very firmly. “Gus isn’t part of that. He’s never been part of it.”

The corner of Emil’s mouth twitched. “Very well,” he directed his attention to the Courdonian man. “You may come, Lord Augustin, but know this; your wife has agreed to it. It isn’t my decision.”

Turning around, he proceeded down the corridor and gestured for the two to follow him. “This way. We can have more privacy to talk.”

Leading them further along, Emil took the Courdonians up the stairs towards the Stallion family’s apartments. Turning right took them to a small door, which he opened, revealing a cosy antechamber. Tapestries lined the walls, enclosing a couch and an armchair, flanked by two side tables. Upon them stood a silver platter lined with several glasses of wine and a bowl of fruit, which Emil wasted no effort directing their attention to with a wave of his left hand.

“Help yourselves. Get comfortable” he said, taking a seat in the armchair and folding his hands. “We can talk when you’re ready.”

Julia and Gus nodded politely, each taking a goblet of wine before they settled beside each other on the couch. Once they had, the husband and wife exchanged a quick set of glances, Gus murmuring something to her in Courdonian— to which Julia only shook her head, as if she were dismissing a concern of his.

“The wine is good,” she said to Emil then, turning to face the Stallion lord as she segued back into smooth Kythian. “What vintage is it?”

“Veresian, 1358,” Emil swallowed painfully, lowering his eyes. Getting up, he poured some of the wine into another goblet and carefully sipped it before sitting back down. He cradled the cup in his hands for a while, silently contemplating some thought that had settled in his mind.

“I suppose I should start with what you probably want to hear the most,” the Stallion turned his gaze up to Julia. “I am sorry about what my House has done to you. Not just me, but the one who got you into this,” he sighed. “Mother refused to speak about you for a long time, Julia, even when she saw your name in the treaty. Only on her deathbed did she say something.”

Emil bit his lip. “She wished she could apologise to you. She regretted never having that chance.”

Julia didn’t reply for a moment— only clasped her hands in her lap, so tightly as to look uncomfortable, and slowly nodded her head. Then, the woman murmured, “Thank you. That means a lot to me. A… a whole lot. This late, an apology doesn’t fix what’s happened to me, but— all the same, after so many years of suffering and uncertainty… it does mean a lot. Just to hear it.”

“I’m glad. I know it doesn’t fix anything, but I thought you’d like to know anyway,” the Grand Duke smiled sadly before sighing, his shoulders slumping. “I never understood why Mother allowed you to go. I wanted to know but asking her was fruitless so eventually, I gave up,” he glanced up at her. “All I know is that the day after you left, I walked in on my parents fighting about you, violently and bitterly. They never did that before, or since.”

There was no hiding the curiosity in his eyes as Emil looked up at Julia. “What exactly happened then?”

“I was grief-stricken,” Julia said after a moment’s consideration. “Heartbroken. Beyond Paul, my mother was all I had— and when she died so suddenly…” The woman swallowed hard; it was clear that even all these years later, this was not an easy topic for her to discuss. “I was just a kid. A devastated kid. And so I… fixated, I suppose. I couldn’t bring my mum back from beyond the grave, of course— but I became convinced that I could somehow… vindicate her, I suppose. Hurt the people who’d so hurt her.”

“And thanks to my mother’s troops, you had the means,” a frown marred the Grand Duke’s brow. “But I don’t understand why she would let you go. It makes no sense to let a child take part in a covert operation like she planned, and yet she let you leave, she trained you...and she regretted it ever since.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mother wouldn’t do that, not unless she had some kind of plan…or it was a mistake she was too proud to admit,” Emil bit his lip. “Mum hated admitting she was wrong...but would she really not take back something like that? When your life was at risk?”

“I don’t know,” Julia said simply. “I’ve spent decades puzzling over why she would have let me go. Feeling hurt and betrayed that she did— that someone I trusted would have just… sent me into a warzone like a pig to slaughter. All I know is that we argued. She finally snapped and said fine, if I wanted to go, then I’d go. And… that was that. If she had any deeper plan, I was never privy to it. If she tried to take it back, then I suppose she tried much too late.”

For a moment, Emil sat silently before he sighed deeply. “Mum…” he slumped in his chair. “If you argued and she snapped, it was unlikely she had any other plan. Mother was a good, intelligent and kind person...except when her temper and pride got the better of her. That’s what must have happened.”

The Grand Duke rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Then she let you go...and my dad must have gotten wind of it,” he smiled bitterly. “It explains the argument. Dad was a knight through and through; he’d not have wanted children getting hurt.”

He picked up his cup, taking a sip from it to calm his nerves. “I am sorry, Julia. Personally sorry for my mother’s...flaws. If it helps, she did try to find you. Sent the Hounds in your direction, except when the news came in you were dead, well...she washed her hands of it, until the treaty came through.”

“I did almost die,” Julia said. “Came within seconds of it, really— then spent the next year and a half wishing I’d just let it happen because life with my uncle was so miserable. A sad state of things, isn’t it? When a fifteen-year-old thinks she’d be better off dead.”

“It is sad. And yet, from everything I heard about King Oliver and his cruelty, from Mother and from others, I cannot bring myself to be surprised,” Emil closed his eyes, regret flickering across his face before he looked back up at Julia. “But you said a year and a half? What happened after that?”

“I ran away.” Julia swallowed hard, her throat bobbing. “With one of my cousins. And the next six years after that were…” She smiled softly, glancing toward Gus. “It was… nice in the rebellion, wasn’t it?” she murmured to her husband. “Dangerous, of course. Stressful. But— for the two of us, nice. Together.”

“Well, I can never speak ill of the opportunity that let me meet the love of my life,” he agreed, reaching across her lap to squeeze her hand. A little colour seeping into his bronze cheeks, he added lightly, “And Dori wasn’t such a bad souvenir, either.”

Emil allowed himself a small smile at the display of affection between the couple, a gesture he quickly hid by lifting his cup to his mouth. “Nice to know happiness can bloom even in a warzone, and your son seems like a good boy too,” a frown crossed his face. “Except it did not last? The treaty…you had to go back.”

“My uncle made sure of it,” Julia said, segueing back into Kythian. “Threw a tantrum like a spoiled child, and after getting so close to a favourable treaty, the idea of… of everything falling apart on my account…” She shuddered. “It was hell, after I was returned to him. He beat me half to death— I still have pain from it sometimes, even all these years later. In my shoulder. He whipped it down to the muscle, then beyond.”

“Son of a-” the Grand Duke broke off with a cough as he suddenly remembered who he was speaking about. It was generally unwise to talk in such a way about a foreign king. Nevertheless, he could not stop his cloudy eyes from remaining dark. “No wonder he was killed. I’m only surprised nobody had the mind to do it sooner.”

“He didn’t have many friends,” Julia agreed with a small shrug. “No one was sad to see him go.”

“No, I imagine not. Given how many enemies he must have made, I’m guessing it was hard to track down any suspects too,” Emil’s gaze flickered up to Julia. “Still, you must have been relieved to be free of his clutches. Given how he seemed to treat everyone, I bet you were not the only one too.”

“He was the king,” Julia said simply. “Most of his court didn’t dare speak against him, but his family…” She laughed, darkly. “At the funeral, we all put our mourning faces on in public, of course. But in private? I think his siblings all got drunk in celebration. I’d turn around and find Aunt Zaria just… smiling to herself. And even the little ones— his granddaughter Cydney was six. And she asked my aunt Anna, very genuinely, why everyone was pretending to be sad when Grandfather was so very mean?” She jutted her chin. “Nobody mourned him in earnest. Nobody.”

“Exactly as he deserved. I’m sure mother would have been pleased to hear, if she had lived long enough herself,” the Grand Duke went silent for a brief moment, ruminating on the memory, before looking back to the woman in front of him. “I can tell you there was plenty of celebration in Kyth too. Everyone was glad to not have our southern neighbours be ruled by that monster. So a happy ending all around.”

He laughed softly. “We probably wouldn’t even be sitting here having this conversation if King Oliver was still alive. We wouldn’t have wanted to be his allies and he wouldn’t have let you go.”

“No,” Julia agreed. “He wouldn’t have let me come. Even with Cassian, it…” She shrugged, lip bit. “Well, it took a while. I’d have come sooner otherwise. To see Paul.”

This caused a frown to appear on Emil’s face. “Why would he not let you go? I know Courdonians are protective of their female family members but...Paul is your brother. If he was so concerned, he would have sent an escort instead of forbidding you completely.”

Here, Julia hesitated. “It’s complicated,” she said. “Personal.”

The Grand Duke narrowed his eyes. “If King Cassian is hurting you and controlling you just as his father did before him…”

“He’s not hurting me,” Julia said quickly. “And I… I am happy. With Gus, and our kids. I don’t have a bad life, your lordship. I truly don’t.’

“And yet you’re still under King Cassian’s thumb. That doesn’t seem right to me,” Emil’s gaze flickered over to her husband. “Why is it, Lord Augustin, that the king still has control over your wife’s movement? It’s too much for simple protection, is it not?”

“She’s close kin of his,” Gus said, though it was difficult to miss the sneer he suddenly wore. “Intimately tied to the royal family. And Kyth… hasn’t always been Courdon’s best friend, shall we say? I believe any monarch might foster some… concerns, in this case. Do I necessarily agree with Cassian’s restrictions? No. But he’s my liege, and he’s Julia’s close kinsman. I do at least grant that he has some valid reasons in his choices, and I’m not in a position to challenge him. Nor is Julia.”

“Cassian is very… Courdonian,” Julia added. “A good man, but he tends toward the manically overprotective side when his female relatives are concerned.”

The Grand Duke taped his fingernails against the wooden table, skepticism apparent in his eyes. “Something still feels off,” he murmured, glancing between the two people in front of him. “His niece is marrying my son so I want to err on the side of caution. I hope you understand my concern; I want to be sure I am not making deals with another King Oliver.”

“You’re not,” Julia said firmly. “He is a good man, and he loves Corbin like his own. He would never do anything to hurt her— or kin of hers, as you will be once the wedding happens. You gain a friend in Cassian; there’s not anything to be worried about. I promise, your lordship.”

Emil pondered this, stroking his short beard, before folding his hands on the table and nodding. “Alright. If you’re not troubled by him, then whatever the deal is with Cassian is none of my business,” he looked back up at her, his eyes softening considerably. “In any case, you’re here now. I imagine you’ll be wanting to see Paul too?”

“Of course,” Julia said. “He’s the reason I came— we’ve a meeting set up the day after tomorrow. At a pub in town.” She smiled softly. Wistfully. “I can’t even imagine how much he’ll have changed.”

Emil chuckled, picking up his cup of wine. “Oh, he’s changed quite a lot since you saw him when you were both children, I’ll tell you that much. He’s a blacksmith now, and a good one. House Stallion still conducts regular business with him because of that. As for the rest…” he smiled, taking a sip of drink. “It isn’t my right to spoil the surprise. You’ll find out when you meet him.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Julia said, a sudden slight flush to her pale cheeks. “I’ve missed him— and gods know, I wish I could have seen him years ago.”

“I can only hope, for your sake, that it goes well,” Emil smiled before lowering his eyes. “Regardless, thank you for the time you have given me, Julia. It helped clear things up, a lot.”

“You’re welcome,” Julia said. “And… thank you for the apologies, your lordship. They do mean a lot to me. Even after all these years.”

“It’s what mother would have wanted, Woo rest her soul,” the Stallion said with a nod and drained his cup. He stood up, pushing himself against the table. “I best be getting to work. You can stay here as long as you like, or feel free to wander around the open areas of the castle,” he bowed to each of the Courdonians in turn. “A good day to you both.”

Reunions: Part 2

SPOILER: Click to show

Three days later, Julia’s heart was hammering in her throat as she and Augustin stepped from the overcast Bernian afternoon into the shadowy innards of the sleepy tavern. As the door swung shut behind them, Julia forced a deep breath, mint green eyes glimmering with anxiety as she slowly swept the room before her. At this time of day— it was a few hours past noon— the place was lightly occupied, with only a few patrons scattered at the heavy oak tables that dotted the room, and with seemingly nothing to do, the scruffy barkeep behind the counter immediately called out a jaunty greeting. Julia returned it, her voice cracking.

That was when she saw Paul.

The brother she’d been apart from for over twenty years looked very different— as she supposed she must have, too— but even so, the moment her pupils latched with his, she recognised him immediately. He was seated at a cosy booth in the rear corner of the tavern, back against the wall, a half-drunk mug of ale in front of him. She had left him behind as a scrawny boy all those years ago, but the man sitting before her now was tall, with thick muscles forged from hard labour. He wore a leather belt over a brown woolen shirt, its sleeves rolled up to expose minute burn scars which dotted his forearms. His black hair was cropped close, unable to hide his mint-green eyes, eyes which were full of anticipation and worry.

Paul sighed, picking up his mug and taking a drink from it before putting it down and turning his head towards the door. As soon as his gaze fell on Julia, he stiffened, gasping before lowering his head. Lifting up his hand, he gestured for her to come closer and take a seat.

Once Julia had sat down, he remained silent, not daring to look up. Occasionally his face twitched with flickers of various conflicting emotions that left their marks as they passed through his mind. Eventually, however, they managed to coalesce into words: “Hello Julia,” Paul murmured, his voice strained. “It’s been a long time.”

“Too long,” she returned softly, her heart hammering in her throat as Augustin silently took the seat beside her. “You… you’re looking well, Paul. Gods, I— I can’t believe you’re all grown. I mean, I knew you would be, but…”

“It has been twenty-two years since you last saw me, Julia. I’m not a little boy anymore,” her brother replied, his words venomous. Immediately, he bit his tongue, wincing with regret. “So...” Paul’s eyes flickered up to Augustin. “I take it this is your husband then? Do you want to introduce us formally?”

“This is Augustin,” Julia said, slipping into Courdonian— she knew her brother spoke it, thanks to their mother conversing in it often with them when the siblings were children. “Augustin, this is Paul. My little brother.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Paul,” Augustin said, smiling gently. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Good things? Nice meet you too, Augustin,” Paul’s Courdonian had an even stronger Bernian burr than Julia’s but that was not the only difference: it was also much shakier. “Ah, sorry, you not speak Kythian? My Courdonian...gotten worse. Not much practice. Know almost nobody speaks it here, except Grand Duke Emil.”

“Better than my attempts at Kythian would be,” Augustin said dryly. “You sound fine, Paul.”

“Though if you want to talk in Kythian, we can,” Julia said, effortlessly transitioning back to her brother’s most natural tongue. “Augustin won’t mind— he’s grown rather used to it during our trip.”

“I’d prefer it if we spoke Kythian, yes. I’m going to have enough difficulty speaking without having to struggle to remember the words too,” Paul rubbed his forehead. “Woo, Julia I...I can’t believe it. Ever since I got that letter from you, I thought it was a dream.”

He paused, swallowing and biting his lip. “Part of me wanted to burn it as soon as I got it and never speak to you again. But I also...really wanted to see you.”

“I’m sorry,” Julia said simply. “That I left you, Paul. I… I wish I could have back sooner. So much sooner. I’ve been trying for… so long. So, so long.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Paul couldn’t help but let a note of bitterness slip into his words. “Were you just too busy fighting in that ‘Pit-forsaken rebellion to have time for your brother?” his voice wavered. “Was a Courdonian slave army really better, or more important to you than I was?”

“I couldn’t,” Julia said, her stomach twisting sharply. “Once I got there, within months I was in our uncle’s custody, Paul. Mum’s older brother. The king. And he… he…” She shut her eyes briefly, the memories lancing over her like a knife. “I got away from him,” she admitted. “After a few years. But Courdon was a warzone. Travel was dangerous, and I… I was afraid that if I came back here, I’d be in trouble with Grand Duchess Isabelle. F-for not letting Uncle Oliver’s men just… kill me when they found me. And then after the war…” She laughed here, darkly. “Cassian hasn’t let me come. Until now. In fact, he expressly forbade it.”

Paul swore under his breath. “What gave him the right...if he knew what it was like for me...” he gritted his teeth. “I still wish you had never left. After Mum died and you left, it was...horrible. I used to lie awake crying, terrified and alone, wanting somebody to come comfort me.”

He cupped his hands around his mug of ale. “The Stallions were nice enough to me, sure, but they weren’t family,” his shoulders slumped. “Back then, all I ever wished for was to have you or Mum back. If I had that, I would never have asked for anything else.”

“I wanted to come back,” Julia croaked. “Not long after I left, I wanted to come back so badly. And I couldn’t. I… I couldn’t.” She swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry, Paul. I-I can’t imagine how you’ve felt all these years. You didn’t deserve that. You never deserved it.”

Paul closed his eyes, putting his hand over his eyes. “I hated it. Even now, I hate remembering those years. But...” he looked up at her. “You’ll be glad to know things got better. I got an apprenticeship with a blacksmith, which gave me something to do. And,” a smile formed on his face. “I met my wife there. She was my master’s daughter. When I eventually mastered the trade and we got married that’s...that’s when I realised I was happy again.”

He laughed wanly and shook his head. “Yeah, I know: I’ve been living such a calm, domestic life while you’ve been in Courdon,” Paul sighed. “You were always the adventurous one. Nice to know that, of all things, that hasn’t changed.”

“My life’s hardly much of an adventure these days,” Julia said, daring a small, wavering smile. “Most of my time is spent chasing after my kids.” She gulped for what felt like the umpteenth time. “My eldest son came here with us. To Bern. I didn’t bring him today because I w-wanted to talk things out with you first. But…” She forced a deep breath. “I’d love if you could meet him, Paul. Before we head home. His name is Dorian. He’s sixteen.”

“I think I’d like that. It would be nice, to see the other side of my family,” Paul’s smile grew a little. “Maybe he’ll get on well with my own son. He’s thirteen, a little younger, but they should hopefully get along.”

“I’ve got two littler kids, as well,” Julia said. “So Dori’s well used to getting on with younger relatives. Not to mention the whole gaggle at the Gilded Palace. The… the royal kids.” She exhaled softly. “How many kids do you have, Paul? Gods, it feels so strange that I don’t even know.”

“I didn’t know anything about you before you wrote to me so it’s hardly surprising,” Paul said with a shrug before that fond smile appearing on his face again. “I have three, including my eldest. Come autumn, it will be four too, and I don’t even know what I’ll do then, except hope for more work to feed that extra mouth,” he sighed, looking up at Julia. “Guess you never have to worry about that, living in the palace and all.”

“I don’t live in the palace, actually,” Julia said. “I haven’t for a long time. Thank the gods.” She gave her husband a soft smile, switching back into Courdonian as she said, “Gus and I have a house out in the city. That’s just ours.” She sobered again. “Are you… on hard times with money, Paul? Because I… I could try to figure something out for you, I could—”

Paul shook his head and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Nah, I’m fine. Stallions are paying me good money for the work I’m doing for them and when that runs out there’s always other jobs for a master. Especially since I’m applying to join the guild now and my eldest has begun helping me around the workshop,” he laughed softly. “Maisie - that’s my wife- always tells me I worry too much; guess she’s right after all, if I’m also worrying you.”

He sighed. “If you want to help me out of some kind of guilt, Julia, don’t. I hate to say it but...I’ve made it this far without you.”

“It’s not guilt,” Julia said, unable to hide the sudden hurt that was swirling through her. “I want to help because you’re family, Paul. Because I love you. Because you’re my baby brother, and you deserve to be happy and secure. Leaving you was a mistake. A mistake I’ve regretted for so many years. And I know I can’t fix the hurt I caused you— I’m not stupid, I’m not naive. But… I do love you, Paul. So much. I always will.”

Her brother blinked, startled by the sudden outpouring of emotion from Julia. He swallowed as he pondered her words before finally looking up at her. “I’ll be fine, really. Don’t worry about me, Julia. However, you have no idea how much hearing that means to me,” Paul said and blinked several times. “I always wondered after you left whether you did love me, or whether I was just some burden left behind by mother for you which you didn’t want.”

His breath hitched. “When you left me, I hated you so much. Sometimes I hoped that you died in Courdon as punishment for leaving me alone. But as the years went on, I found that I couldn’t hate you. I didn’t know whether I loved you either but…whether you loved or hated me...” Paul’s hand reached across the table towards her. “I missed you, Julia. A lot.”

She blinked sharply, tears suddenly pressing at her eyes, as she shakily clasped her own hand with her brother’s. “I was a kid,” she whispered. “A grieving, manic kid. I wasn’t thinking when I left. And once I did think… I regretted it so much. I w-wanted to come back to you so much.” She hitched a fractured breath. “It wasn’t until I had my own kids th-that I realised quite how… awful it was. That I was fourteen and grief-stricken and they just let me… leave. I’ve carried around a lot of guilt and a lot of anger. I wish things had been different, Paul. S-so different. For both of our sakes.”

“So do I. But you know what?” her brother squeezed her hand, blinking rapidly. “It’s alright. I’m alright. I have a loving wife, a good family and a steady job I’m good at. I’m not alone anymore, and I’m not angry or miserable like I once was,” tears finally rolled down his cheeks, unable to be held back in the face of his emotions. “I would do anything to turn back time and get you to stay in Bern after Mum died. But I can’t and...it’s fine. I’m fine, and I hope you are too, with Augustin and Dorian and all your other kids, even if it’s down in Courdon.”

“I am,” Julia confirmed softly. “It’s… not the life I had planned. But I am okay. I’m okay. And I’m so gl-glad that you are, too.”

Paul lifted up a thumb to the corner of his eyes, wiping the tears that were pouring out of them. “I- I am,” despite the waver in his voice, he still managed to smile. “So...do you want to come see my family? I’ll have to warn Maisie but I think she’ll be curious to meet you. I’ve told her a lot about you,” he looked away briefly. “Not always good things, I admit, but a lot nevertheless.”

“I’d love to meet your family,” Julia said. “Once you’ve talked to them. And… I know Dori will be excited to meet some cousins from my side of the family beyond the royal gaggle back in Rakine.”

“It will be different, if anything. I might not be hard up, but obviously a blacksmith’s home is nothing compared to a royal palace. They probably spend more on one feast than I make in a year,” Paul sighed, his smile acquiring a hint of discomfort. “So I hope neither he nor you, or your husband, will mind the meagre conditions.”

“Gus and I spent years living in rebel camps,” Julia said. “And fortunately Dori’s noble upbringing means that if he has any complaints, he’ll know to keep them to himself.”

“We’ll still put our best tableware out for you, and I’ll tell the kids to be on their best behaviour,” Paul replied. “I’ll discuss it with Maisie. You’re staying up at the castle, right? We’ll send somebody up as soon as we’ve gotten things sorted to tell you the arrangements. How does that sound?”

“All right,” Julia agreed. She hesitated. “Would it… would it be all right if a few others came, as well, maybe? We have an uncle who was very close to Mother when they were kids, and I know he’d love to meet you, Paul. And… a cousin of ours, as well. The cousin who helped me get away from Uncle Oliver back during the war. He’s heard a lot about you.”

Paul laughed awkwardly, rubbing his forehead. “Woo, it will be a squeeze, and I’ll have to sweet-talk Maisie to get her to agree to host so many people but…” he nodded. “Yes, please, bring them too. I’d love to meet them all.”

He shook his head a little. “Our uncle and our cousin...it’s hard for me to comprehend. I always knew we must have family from Mother’s side but they were always so abstract. Just shapes without a name or a face. And yet I’ll have them under my roof, sharing my food,” he closed his eyes. “It’s a lot to take in. I almost feel like when I received your letter again.”

“I know it must be overwhelming,” Julia said softly. “But… they’re nice, Paul. Good people. Our cousin— Gerard— has been a rock for me since the day Uncle Oliver took me in. And our uncle, Elias… he’s a good man. He loved Mother very, very much. I think what happened to her gutted him, in a way. He was her baby brother. He adored her.”

“I don’t doubt that they’re good people, Julia, it’s just odd for me to think that they’re real, not just ideas or stories Mother told us,” Paul remarked, looking up at his sister. “But they’ll seem real enough when they’re squashed into my home, I know that much.”

He laughed softly. “We’ll figure it out, don’t you worry. Tell them to save the date. I’ll get Maisie to cook an extra large goose for us all.”

“Ah, don’t whittle away your grocery budget on our account,” Julia said. “We’ve been traveling enough lately, we’re certainly used to pottage and bread.” She smiled, patting her husband’s arm. “Elias and Gerard speak Kythian, at least. So no awkward translating needed.”

“Just as well; I have a lot of things to ask them. But as for expense...,” Paul smiled and shook his head, waving his hand dismissively. “Julia, I’m having my family, not my in-laws, over for the first time in my life. Let me go all out for you.”

“All right, all right,” his sister conceded. “But let us bring some wine, at least? Or whisky. Bernians still have a thing for whisky, I presume?”

“I’ll never say no to a drop, especially if somebody else is offering,” her brother nodded. “Not too much though: we can’t talk if we’re all drunk out of our skulls!”

“Of course. I look forward to it.”

Reunions: Part 3

SPOILER: Click to show

The invitation came the next day, carried to the castle by a thirteen year old boy whose relation to Paul was very clearly apparent by the dark hair and green eyes they shared. Paul and his wife had come to an agreement to host their guests the day after, in the late afternoon, giving everyone ample time to prepare. Included with the message were directions to their home; a workshop with an apartment over it just off from Guildhall Square. Not far from the castle and certainly easy to get to even on foot.

The street itself was easy to find: it smelled of fire and iron from the smithies located all the way down its length. Paul’s house itself, while crammed between two other buildings just like it, was hardly shabby. Made of stone covered in shale roofing with the only wood in sight being the door and window frames, it stood three storeys tall, with the entire first occupied by an open shop front through which it was possible to glimpse the smithy. At the moment, however, unlike most of its surrounding workshops, it was closed and the scent of a roast emanated from it instead of the stink of steel.

Knocking on the door was like prodding a beehive: immediately the sound of activity filled the other side, with heavy footsteps and excited cries ringing through the hallway beyond. Eventually, there was a scrape of metal against metal as a bolt slid out of its latch and the door opened, revealing Paul standing on the other side.

“Ah, good, you’re here at last,” he grinned at the guests and gestured for them to come in. “Maisie, kids, we have guests!”

“Is it your sister?” breathed a high, tinny voice as a small girl of perhaps seven- or eight-years-old skidded into view. Julia and the rest of the Courdonians could only watch on silently as the child grinned up at them, revealing a smile that was missing its two front top teeth. “Hi!” she chirped, mint green eyes glimmering. “I’m Annie.”

“Hi there, Annie.” Julia chuckled. “Yes, I am your papa’s sister. And these are my husband and son”-- she gestured to Dorian and Gus— “and my cousin, Gerard, and uncle, Elias. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“You, too!” Annie agreed. She turned her gaze up at Paul, smirking. “You’re right, Papa,” the girl announced. “She does talk funny! Do they all talk funny?”

“Annie! They talk funny because they are from somewhere very far away. We should be understanding about it and not rude, like you just were,” Paul chided before patting the girl on the head and giving the Courdonians a sheepish smile. “Sorry. She’s the most energetic out of my kids. None of them have been far outside Destrier either, let alone Bern, so they’re not used to...well, foreigners.”

He swallowed slightly before the sound of footsteps alerted him to a presence behind him. A red-headed woman stepped out of the kitchen, leading a boy of no older than four by the hand. She smiled widely when she saw the visitors.

“Hello! You must be Paul’s family. I’m Maisie, his wife,” she cast her eyes around them. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Especially Julia,” her gaze stopped on the woman.

“I’m afraid I’ve been gossiping,” Paul said before gesturing to the little boy by her side. “Cory, come on, say hello to our guests.”

“H-hi,” Cory murmured in a voice that was almost a whisper. As soon as the word had left his mouth, he pressed himself against his mother’s skirts, only occasionally peeking out from them at the Courdonian party.

“He’s rather shy. Paul tells me he was the same when he was his age,” Maisie said, stroking the boy’s auburn hair before turning her attention back to the guests. “Our eldest is in the kitchen minding the fire. Dinner is almost ready. We have some bread, cold meat and cheese to start you off while the goose cooks.”

“Make yourselves comfortable in the meantime,” Paul gestured inside. “It’ll be cramped with all of you here but my home is your home,” his green eyes focused directly on Julia. “We are family after all.”

“Of course,” said Elias, smiling softly down at Paul’s little boy. “Gods, aside from his hair— you know who he looks like, don’t you?”

“An imp?” Annie suggested brightly. “That’s what Mama says. ‘Cos - ‘cos he’s real shy and quiet if he doesn’t know you, but then when he does know you, he’s real naughty sometimes - and he likes to giggle, and—”

“Am not and do not!” Cory suddenly exclaimed before resuming clinging to his mother’s skirt. However, that did not stop him from looking up and sticking his tongue out at his sister.

Maisie put her hands on her hips, glaring at both the children. “Cory, Annie, you two behave. We do have royalty in our home after all,” she shook her head before glancing at the visitors. “Kids. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.”

“I would much rather live with them,” Paul said, taking Annie’s hand and turning to Elias. “Who...who does Cory look like, your High- Uncle E- Elias?” he paused. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to refer to you.”

“Uncle,” Elias said quickly. “No need for formality, all right?” He smiled toward Maisie and the children. “Not from any of you: you’re family.” He swallowed hard. “And… your mother. He looks like your mother, Paul. His nose, his lips…”

“The Alaric eyes seem to have a way of stubbornly persisting, too, don’t they?” Gerard mused, gesturing toward Annie. “It’s just like looking at you, Julia. Or at Mattie, or Aislin, or…” He shrugged. “At anyone in the family.”

“They find a way, don’t they? Like...like Alarics do, I suppose,” Paul swallowed, looking back at Cory. “I wasn’t sure. After all these years, my memories of mother have faded so much. But hearing you confirm it, Uncle...it’s comforting,” he smiled a little. “Like mother’s spirit is still with us.”

His wife rolled her eyes. “And you promised you wouldn’t get morose today, dear,” she strolled up to him and gave him a peck on the cheek. “But if you are going to, you might as well do it sitting down at the dinner table, with warm meat and potatoes to fill our bellies and drive away the sadness.”

“Ah, yes, dinner,” Paul exclaimed and stepped inside the house, pushing open a door on the left of the hallway. “Once you’ve left your cloaks and shoes at the door, come on through. We managed to somehow scrounge up enough seats for everyone, even if Cory will have to sit on my lap to accomplish that.”

He led them into a snug room that looked over the inner courtyard and whose walls were decorated with bright, colourful embroidery. In the centre was a large pine table with a woven basket loaded with bread, butter, several types of meats, cheeses, jugs of water and ale, and various mismatched tablewear Clustered around it was a series of equally mismatched chairs. The scent of food in here was almost overbearing, emanating from an open doorway to the right. A cursory glance inside revealed why: it was the way to the kitchen. In there, somebody was bustling about: the same boy who had delivered the message to the castle. He peered out from the doorway, briefly scanning the guests, but quickly returned to his business in the kitchen.

Paul stood aside, letting the guests look over the room. “Have a seat, help yourselves,” he looked nervously over the food on the table. “I hope this is enough for you. It isn’t a royal feast but, well, I figured you’d not be expecting one here.”

“It’s lovely,” said Julia’s son, Dorian, in very heavily accented Kythian. Obliging Paul’s request and taking a seat, the boy added, “I don’t know if I’ve ever had goose— not much of a Courdonian dish. I’m excited to try it, Uncle Paul.” A beat. “I… hope it’s all right if I call you that?”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Paul smiled awkwardly. “If I can call Uncle Elias that, I don’t see why you shouldn’t call me that too.”

“So many new experiences for you, dearest,” Maisie said with a soft laugh, patting her husband on the shoulder and looking at Dorian. “You’re missing out then. Goose is not commonly eaten in this part of Kyth, it’s only for special occasions, but I’d say this is pretty special. You’ll love it, I promise...Dorian, that’s your name, right?” she put a hand on her hip. “Hearty Bernian grub is nothing like Courdonian royal palace food. And in my opinion, the former is better too.”

“Maisie!” Paul looked sheepishly between her and his guests. “No offence meant, all of you.”

Julia snorted. “It’s fine. Honestly, I’ve never much gotten used to court food— it’s like Courdonian nobles don’t think a dish is a dish unless it’s fried, smothered in cream sauce, or both.”

“Julia has horrified many royals with her affinity for porridge and plain bread,” Gerard said, grinning crookedly at his cousin.

“You don’t eat porridge?” Annie asked, quirking a dark blond brow as she slathered a heel of sourdough bread with copious amounts of butter. “But why not? Porridge is nice. ‘Specially when you put dried fruit in it! Or goat milk.”

“I guess...royalty doesn’t have a taste for it?” Paul shrugged, sitting down beside his daughter. “They must eat other things for breakfast.”

“Their loss,” Maisie smiled at Julia. “Can’t do much for you in Courdon but if you get sick of whatever they’re feeding you up at the Castle, come down here. We’ve got plenty of porridge and plain bread. Good bread too: we’re friends with a local baker.”

She was about to say more when the boy they glimpsed in the kitchen poked his head out of the door, his black hair falling over his blue eyes in messy locks. “Mum, the potatoes are done. What do you want to do with them?”

“I’ll take care of them, Owen, don’t worry,” Maisie shifted herself towards the kitchen, followed by Cory like he was a tick that was clinging to her. When she approached her elder son, she pushed the boy gently on the shoulder. “You go say hello to our guests.”

“You sure?” he looked down at her belly. “But the baby-”

“Is not a problem. You go say hello to Paul’s family,” she replied and strolled past him, disappearing into the kitchen.

Owen stepped out and sat down on the chair besides Annie, raising up one hand in greeting. “Hello, again,” he said, picking up a chunk of bread and covering it with cheese. “We only usually have mum’s family over. We’ve never had anybody from dad’s side.”

“Well, I’m glad we can finally change that,” Julia said, smiling at her nephew. “It’s very nice to meet you, Owen.”

“Nice to meet you too,” the boy took a bit out of his sandwich. “Auntie, I guess.”

“Didja know they don’t eat porridge?” Annie asked her brother, brow furrowed gravely. “Or goose!”

Owen almost choked on his food. After a quick slap on the back from Paul, he managed to swallow and stare at the Courdonians, wide-eyed. “But how do you live without porridge? What do you eat instead?” he frowned. “So weird.”

“See, finally someone understands.” Julia laughed. “A life without porridge is a sad, confusing one indeed.”

“Ah, yes, a tragedy,” Elias said dryly. “To face a breakfast table set with only pastries, meat, fresh fruits, and puddings. I’m surprised you’ve not starved to death across all these years, dear.”

“You’re funny, Uncle Elias,” Annie announced. “Are you really a prince? I’ve never met a prince! Do you live in a palace? Do you get to stamp letters with pretty wax? Do you know the king—”

“Annie, please! One question at a time,” Paul laughed before giving Elias an awkward smile. “Sorry, Uncle. She’s a curious child and she isn’t afraid to let you know it.”

“It’s all right,” Elias said. Smirking toward Gerard, he added, “Certainly not the first time I’ve encountered a chatty girlchild relative, hm?” He looked back to Annie, green eyes twinkling. “Yes, I’m really a prince— and so is Gerard here. We both live in the palace, and… yes, I suppose I’ve stamped some letters with wax before. And yep, we certainly do know the king. He’s my nephew and Gerry’s big brother.”

“Just like Owen’s your big brother,” Gerard added.

“Is he scary?” Annie queried. “Y’know. ‘Cos he’s the king!”

Julia outright guffawed. “Cassy might like to think he’s terribly frightening, but between you and me, honey— no, not particularly. Not with his family, anyway.”

“That’s reassuring. You get all sorts of rumours about the King of Courdon up here, it’s nice to hear something from someone who knows him,” Paul remarked, picking up a slice of cured meat and placing it down on bread, followed by a piece of cheese. “To be honest, the idea of royalty is so...alien to me. I’ve never been able to get my head around being related to a royal family, let alone both the Langean and Courdonian ones.”

“I thought Paul was pulling my leg when he told me that, but eventually I realised he was serious” Maisie said as she poked her head out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. She tilted her head at Julia. “So satisfy our curiosity, Julia: what’s the King of Courdon really like?”

“Ooh, trying to get me to commit treason, are you?” Julia quipped. “Well, let’s see… He’s friendly enough with his family, though probably fairly intimidating if you’re not. Earnest. Sometimes a bit… too earnest.” She smiled balefully at Gerard and Elias. “He’s not the most subtle, is he? Sometimes he requires a more… situationally aware hand to guide him through delicate matters.”

Elias coughed. “Julia. Let’s keep this… safe, yes?” he said— not in Kythian, or even Courdonian, but Mzian.

“Keep what safe?” Augustin— who’d previously been a silent observer to the conversation on account of his Kythian skills, or lack thereof— quirked a brow.

“Chatter,” said Elias. “Just chatter.”

“Exactly. It’s only chatter,” said Julia. She looked back to her brother, asking lightly in Kythian again, “Probably haven’t heard that language in quite a long time, hm?”

Paul shook his head. “Only from the rare Mzian trader who makes it all the way here and I can count how many of those we’ve had on my fingers. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the language completely,” he frowned. “Why did you suddenly bring it up?”

“You shouldn’t speak languages we can’t understand in our house,” Owen said pointedly at the Courdonians. “It’s rude, you know.”

“It is,” Elias agreed. “My apologies, Owen.”

“It won’t happen again,” Gerard added with a sigh.

“I’m curious, though,” Elias said, clearly attempting to redirect the conversation, “do any of you beyond Paul speak Courdonian? Or only Kythian?”

“Not me,” Owen said after wolfing down his sandwich. “Dad tried to teach me Courdonian but I didn’t see why I should learn a language I was never going to use.”

“In other words, he got bored and promptly forgot any lessons I had to give him,” Paul said, rolling his eyes.

“As for me,” Maisie came out of the kitchen carrying a large dish loaded with potatoes. Her husband immediately leapt up, taking it from her and placing it on the table. She snorted before turning to Elias. “I’m a born and bred Destrier woman, Elias. Any Courdonian I did learn was from overhearing the words Paul shouted if he burned himself at the forge and I suspect I should not repeat that in front of royalty.”

Paul blushed. “Probably not,” he smiled up at his wife. “Is the goose ready?”

“Ready and waiting. If you want to bring it out and spare me trouble, that would be wonderful,” Maisie replied, already taking a seat. Her husband nodded and rushed into the kitchen. “There’s also some beans and a pot of gravy I made up if you want to get those!” she called after him.

“It smells delicious,” Julia said. “Gods, so many childhood memories flooding back to the surface— old-fashioned Bernian peasant fare.”

“Nothing but the best for our guests,” Maisie chuckled. “Wait until dessert too. I made bread and butter pudding and there’s plenty of blackberry jam to go with it.”

“We picked ‘em ourselves,” Cory murmured, climbing up on to his mother’s lap. “Last autumn.”

“There’s still so many wild brambles around the city walls, Julia, just like when we were little,” Paul exclaimed, coming out of the kitchen with an enormous metal serving tray, inside which, still sizzling in its own juices, was a large goose, its skin lightly covered in salt, pepper and herbs and roasted to perfection. The Murrays cleared some space on the table and he put it down, returning briefly to the kitchen to collect the beans and gravy. Once those were placed down beside the goose, he sat down, drawing in a deep breath to properly savour the scent of the feast.

“Help yourselves, there’s plenty for everyone,” Maisie said, gently pushing Cory off so she could divvy out food to her children. The boy whimpered and ran towards Paul’s chair, climbing up on to his lap as soon as he had sat down.

“A little cling, is he?” Julia mused, chuckling. “Just you with Mum when you were small, Paul. You clung to her like a burr until you were, what— ten?”

“Nine, Julia, I was nine,” Paul chided her with a gentle smile. He stroked his son’s hair. “I don’t mind. I know when you’re little, the world looks terrifying. It’s important to have somebody there who you can rely on to guide you through it and comfort you in the process.”

Julia nodded. “It is. And I’m… I’m glad you can give your kids that, Paul.” She swallowed hard. “That all our respective kids can have that. What we didn’t, after Mother died.”

Her brother nodded. “That’s all I want for them: to not know the hardship that we went though,” he glanced up at Julia. “And I would want the same for your kids too.”

“Well, as far I can tell, you’re both doing an excellent job of it,” Maisie remarked, placing a plate of food right in front of Paul. “Now, let’s eat. If you want to be sentimental, you can discuss it when you have a full stomach.”

“Probably a good idea,” Paul got up to pour himself a mug of ale from the jug before suddenly he remembered. “Say, Julia, didn’t you say something about whisky? Or was that idle inn talk?”

Elias outright guffawed. “Oh, don’t worry, we Courdonians don’t just talk.” He glanced to Gerard. “It’s still in your satchel, hm?”

“Aye,” Gerard agreed, smirking. “Strongest stuff I could find. The man who sold it to me said if you’re not careful it’ll set your lungs on fire.”

“Then we’ll just be careful not to inhale it,” Paul said with a laugh. “Bring it out after dinner! We’ll have some.”

“You’ll have some,” Maisie sighed and patted her stomach. “None for me,” she looked around the room with a stern glare. “So none of you imbibe too much now. I don’t like dealing with drunkards in my own home at the best of times, let alone while pregnant.”

“Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure if they all got rollicking drunk while they’re visitors in your home, Uncle Cassian would strangle them all the way from Courdon,” Dorian said brightly.

“If mama doesn’t first,” Owen remarked in a dry tone before shoving a bit of potato in his mouth.

“So let’s be careful not to upset the King of Courdon or the queen of this household,” Paul chuckled lightly and lifted up his mug of ale. “To family, whether old or new. And to having a good time without anybody getting strangled.”

The room filled with a clinking of glasses and echoes of the sentiment before everyone sat down to eat. Despite the relatively simple meal, or perhaps because of its simplicity, it went down a treat with the hosts and guests alike. Before long, the goose had been stripped down to the bones which Maisie took away to use for soup stock later. The rest of the food disappeared in between snatches of conversation. Dessert only arrived on the table due to the insistent begging of Paul’s children, but once it did, it was consumed in a flash and once again, highly appreciated by everyone who ate it.

By the time dinner was declared well and truly over, the sun had begun to set. Paul ushered them into a small living room while his wife and daughter cleared the table and Owen set up candles so that there was enough light for them to see. The oft-spoken of whisky was finally brought out and distributed amongst the company, just as Maisie announced that it was time for the children to go to bed. They all made great noises of protest but their mother held firm, only giving them time to say goodbye to their guests. Owen had given them all a wave and a measured goodbye, except for Dorian who he gave a much more enthusiastic smile and wave to, along with a promise to come see him before he left. Cory was much shyer, not making much eye contact, but at the urging of his father, he gave Julia an enormous, unexpected hug. Annie only grinned as she theatrically curtsied her goodbye, before trailing after her siblings and loudly announcing to Owen that was not going to sleep before he told her a story (“A good one, too!”).

Freed now from the children’s company, Paul settled with his guests and the alcohol they had brought. The conversation, carried over from dinner, lasted well into the evening. Even when his wife came back into the room, she mostly sat off to the side, save for an occasional comment, letting her husband make the most of his time with his family.

Eventually, the candles began to burn low, the sky outside grew dark, and the bottle of whisky was almost finished. This state of affairs did not escape Paul’s notice. Taking a sip of the amber alcohol, he looked up at his sister and the rest of his Courdonian family, smiling.

“I’m so glad you came today,” he said, running his fingers around the glass. “I knew it would be nice but I didn’t think it would be...this nice.”

“It was,” Julia agreed, stifling a yawn. “Your family’s lovely, Paul. And… catching up with you, spending time you again…” She shook her head. “It’s nice. It’s… so nice.”

Her brother nodded slowly, though the drooping of his eyes made it look as though he was falling asleep. “Do you have to go back to Courdon?” he asked quietly. “I know your family is there and moving for them would be difficult, especially for Augustin but...after today, I realise how much I still care for you, Julia. I don’t want you to just disappear into the aether again.”

“I do,” Julia said softly. Almost mournfully. “Cassian’s letting me visit, but… he wouldn’t let me stay. And…” She glanced toward Gus and Dorian. “Courdon is all they know. My girls, too. It’d be selfish of me to force them away from that. From everything they’re used to.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t communicate, though,” Elias said. “The crown’s not short on parchment, Paul. You two can write as much as you’d like. Whenever you’d like. And…” He considered for a moment. “I don’t know if you want to, but if you ever did want to visit— I’ll just say that Cass is very big on the whole ‘making amends’ line of thought. He’d pay for your journey in a heartbeat. Your whole family could come. As guests of the royal family.”

Paul smiled, resting his head in his palm. “That would certainly be something, especially for the children. They’ve not known anything besides a Bernian craftsman’s life. But even if King Cassian pays, Courdon is a long way away and between my job and the kids, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to make the time. I’m sorry, Uncle,” he said quietly before looking up and turning to his sister. “But I would love to write. I don’t care how much it costs to get a messenger to Courdon. I don’t want to lose you again, Julia, not after finding you after all these years.”

“Well, the invitation’s always open,” Julia said, a lump knotting in her throat. “I don’t want to lose you either, Paul. We’ll write. As much as we can.”

“We will, Julia. Even so…” Paul reached out and put his palm on her hand. “We’ll have today, and we’ll have the knowledge that both of us are living good lives. That’s not something we had last time,” he smiled. “Even if we’re leaving each other again, we know where the other is and how they are doing. I think that makes a difference.”

“Your mother would be very happy,” Elias murmured, giving a wistful smile. “Seeing her kids together again. Her grandkids meeting. Everyone happy. Safe.” The prince gulped. “And it makes me happy, too. Happier than you know.”

“I can guess, Uncle. I’m happy I got to see Julia again, and even happier I got to meet her family. My family. And I hope mum, wherever she is, can see us now,” Paul sighed, swirling the last drops of drink in his glass. “Please thank King Cassian for me, for letting you all come here. It means so much to me to finally have Julia back and to be able to communicate with her again, even if it has to be by letter.”

Gerard laughed. “Oh, but then we’ll go and give Cassy a big head.”

“That would be such a shame,” Julia agreed. “Cassian, with an ego? The world might never recover!”

Paul snorted. “Well, do let him know I’m grateful anyway, because I am. Even if you have to do it in such a way as to not inflate his ego.”

“Of course,” Julia said. She chuckled softly. “It’ll help butter him up when I nicely request a vastly increased parchment budget.”

“I doubt it will dent the royal treasury too much, or at least I hope it won’t. I wouldn’t be able to keep up with the letters if it was the case,” Paul replied.

Dorian smirked. “Uncle Cassian just bought four new gryphons to add to the palace breeding program,” the teenager said brightly. “Including one that was wild-caught, despite the fact that wild ones are a bugger to tame. And despite the fact that he’s already got more gryphons than any reasonable person would know what to do with.”

Julia leveled her son a bemused, withering look. “Oh, be nice, Dori,” she chided. “But—” She looked back to Paul. “I think Dorian’s point is that our sending letters back and forth won’t be much of a dent on the royal budget. Even I still have problems wrapping my head around it sometimes, but… their pockets are deep. Very, very deep.”

“Deeper than mine are, but that’s hardly a surprise given that you have access to the Courdonian crown’s funds,” Paul laughed softly and looked up, meeting Julia’s gaze. “So we’ll keep in touch. And it’s a promise this time.”

“”I love you, Paul,” Julia said. “So much.”

“Me too, Julia,” her brother replied quietly. “After all this time, I love you too.”

[Avery]

A very Fun collab with Tiger , featuring Leif and Zuzia just a few months after the end of Only Magic. Knowledge of Only Magic is not required to read this, though, as it features... a whole new fun cast of characters. 8D

Thick as Thieves: Part One

SPOILER: Click to show

It was shaping up to be a particularly ferocious winter’s evening - the wind whistled and gusting against the outer walls and windows, and Leif had been outside long enough today, taking care of his raptors and making an appointment at the Keep, so he had no trouble imagining just how bitter it was beyond the drawn curtains and glass. January cold was a nasty, mean-tempered thing, all sharp winds and a deep freeze that sunk straight into the bones. Even the snow, which lay a few inches thick on the ground, looked half-frozen, slippery, and hostilely windswept. Nothing like the pre-Woomas snows that at least gave the illusion of being soft.

Thankfully, though, Leif was indoors for the evening and had no plans to go out anytime soon. He was certainly not about to excuse himself from Kirin’s company; the two were huddled together on the couch in front of the fireplace, a blanket around their shoulders and hot drinks on the low table in front of them. Leif had a thick book balanced on his lap - he and Kirin were taking turns reading aloud interesting sections and commenting on the elaborate illustrations of the dragon encyclopedia Leif had borrowed from the Keep library. Leif didn’t know as much about dragons and art as he did, say, birds and magic, but he could certainly try to learn, and he definitely enjoyed seeing his husband’s enthusiasm.

And sometimes, it was fun to poke at it and see what happened. “So I see what you mean about the wingflap not lining up where it should here,” Leif said, tapping the illustration in question with the thumb of the hand holding the book, his other hand occupied twisting strands of Kirin’s hair. “But what’s wrong with its legs, exactly?”

“Well, if this dragon jumped out of the book, this hind leg here…” Kirin circled the leg on the opposite side of the dragon’s body with his fingertip. “Would be longer than its other three legs.”

“How can you tell when you can’t see a good three-fourths of it? Not that I don’t believe you - I just don’t see what you’re seeing.”

“Well, that’s the problem - you can see too much of it. See where this leg in front is? That means the other legs should connect here. And then it would only go this far out...and bend here…” Kirin traced where the accurate bones should have been, marking a shape that, indeed, even padded by muscle and fat and scaly hide should have been tucked almost entirely behind the seated dragon’s body. “Most if it’s very good,” Kirin said, “but that leg isn’t right.”

“Poor dragon, cursed with a too-long leg. ...Though if it’s a stooping hunter, that not quite so bad. Maybe an advantage, even.”

“You’re just looking for an excuse to compare it to a bird, aren’t you?”

“Hmm. I don't know; that doesn't sound like something I’d do.”

Kirin briefly lifted his head from Leif’s should to give him a dryly amused look. “If it’s bird-dragons you want, you must be anxious to get to the wyvern section. Do you want to skip ahead?”

Leif set the bookmarking ribbon woven to the spine across the page. “Well, much as I love bird-like dragons, maybe they can wait a little.” He pulled his arm more tightly around Kirin’s shoulders and leaned back a little as he set the book aside. Kirin shifted so he was facing Leif more head-on…

But before they could so much as start leading up to a kiss, there was a knock at the door.

Leif twitched, glancing toward the doorway with confusion. “Who in their right mind is wandering around out there?!”

“It's not that cold,” Kirin said. “...Maybe someone’s carriage or cart got stuck?”

“Maybe.” Leif sighed. “It could be important, if they’re risking this weather. Let me go see who it is.”

Leif, despite himself, felt cross as he started down the small hall, pulling his gloves on as he went. Of all the nights for someone to wind up in trouble… Poor Kirin was going to wind up with a complex at this point, what with Leif constantly being called away for things.

Whoever was at the door knocked again as Leif reached for the handle with one hand, his winter cloak with the other. “Just one se - …Zuzia?”

The teenager on the other side of the doorway, wearing an unseasonably light wool cloak as her tumbling dark curls hung loosely over her shoulders, smiled sheepishly. “Good night!” she chirped in heavily accented Kythian, seeming not to realize that this phrase was usually utilized as a farewell, not a greeting. Fidgeting absently with the wand that was holstered at her hip, she added tentatively, “Is this, ah— good time?”

“Well…” Technically, no, it wasn’t - but Zuzanna probably had a lot of other places she would rather be in weather like this, so it could be important. ...Most likely. Though why she wouldn’t start out mentioning that…

There were a lot of things Leif had never quite figured out about teenagers and their social decisions. He wasn’t even fully competent in adult social interpretation.

“Why don’t you come in,” Leif offered, stepping back from the door. He added dryly, “I'm sure you're getting close to fainting from the heat out there.”

“Thank you.” She brushed past him into the front hall, sweeping off her cloak. “How much fires you have going in here?” the girl teased as she made quick work of pulling off her thin leather gloves. “Like a kiln, Leif. I might burn.”

“And without them, I might freeze solid,” Leif joked back, shutting the door and not bothering to clarify that there was only one fire burning in the house. “I can try opening a window or two next time to let in your delightful frostbite-giving breezes, but you didn’t exactly mention you were coming over. ...Did you? I haven’t forgotten something, have I?”

“No, no,” Zuzia assured him. “Don’t worry, you is not that old, Master Leif. Yet.” She laughed, somewhat humourlessly, before she quickly cut off the sound when she realised Leif wasn’t laughing, too. The girl swallowed hard. “I just… need to talk to you. About, ah— business things?”

Leif blinked at the sharply-cut off laugh - it hadn’t sounded quite right to begin with, and to be replaced with this sudden...nervousness? It was strange. His tempered annoyance was quickly turning to worried concern.

“Of course,” he said. “Do you want to sit down? I can put on some tea.” Business things...one of her commissions? Maybe someone’s refusing to pay her?

“Okay,” Zuzia agreed. She hung her cloak over the coat tree, then followed Leif as he started toward the cottage’s cosy kitchen. When they arrived, she took a seat at the kitchen table as Leif set out toward the teapot, the girl still fidgeting as she asked, “Kirin home? We can, ah… see if he wants teas too…?”

“He’s here,” Leif said as he flicked his wand to fill the teapot with water. “I’m sure he’ll be in in just a minute.” Kirin was probably rearranging the living room at the moment, ensuring a fire wasn’t about to start and possibly trying to make it look less like they’d spent the entire evening so far cuddling. “What kind would you like? I have cinnamon, barley...chamomile...” he added, noticing the girl’s inability to keep still.

“You pick,” Zuzia said, once again attempting to smile. Poorly. “I like all. Not picky, you know.”

“Chamomile it is,” Leif said, setting a magical fire under the teapot to start it boiling, then plucking a few cups out of one cabinet and a small box of chamomile flowers out of another. “So,” he said, attempting to sound casual and doubting he was succeeding, “everything all right with you and Phyllo and Silvia?”

“Is great,” Zuzanna replied, without meeting the archmage’s eyes. “Silvia is sleep better at night now. I think she likes the cold— like her mama.” The teenager fiddled with her sleeve. “And Phyllo is good, too. Working odd job. Trying to make moneys.”

Leif raised his eyebrows, looking up from the tea preparation. Zuzia usually sounded much more enthusiastic when talking about her family. Much louder. He caught sight of movement in the hall, and Kirin stepped into the room. Judging by his expression as he looked at Zuzanna, Leif thought he wasn’t the only one to catch something off about the girl’s tone.

“That’s good to hear,” the blond archmage said in reply to Zuzia, speaking slowly. “You don’t sound especially happy, though.”

Kirin, taking a seat at the table, nodded in agreement. “Everything’s not all right, is it?” he asked.

“Well…” Zuzia quailed, cloud blue eyes falling on the table beneath, as though there was very much of interest to be found amid the grains of wood. “It is just… I taked a job?” the teenager said. “Um, a bit before Woomas? So… a month ago. Maybe six week.”

“All right…” The teapot began whistling, and Leif pulled it off the fire. As he poured the hot liquid into the cups of chamomile, he asked, “What kind of job?”

“Well… it pay good money,” Zuzia said, as if that clarified anything. “And…” She dared look up again, immediately regretted it, and shot her eyes back down. “At first, it is… fine? I do my work, I get money, all is good. And— easy work, too, Leif! Spells I know since I am very small. It seemed like dream come true, you know?” She bit her lip. “And even better, it is only at night. When Phyllo does not work, so he can be home with Silvia. So no having to deal with babysitter, or having to bring her with. Some clients do not like if I bring her with.”

“That doesn’t sound bad,” Leif agreed, though reluctantly. He brought the tea cups to the table, setting one in front of Zuzia and then serving Kirin and himself.

Kirin tilted his head. “It was fine at first?”

“But something happened?” Leif guessed. “Zuzia - if something’s gone wrong or someone’s tried to cheat you, I’ll help. But I need to know what the problem is, exactly, first.”

“Right,” Zuzia conceded. She gulped again, harder this time, and forced herself to look at Leif and his husband. “You… promise you will not be mad?”

Leif didn’t like the sound of that. But he’d been through enough conversations where a shouted lecture waited on the other side, and could empathize with the trepidation too much not to try and make some kind of reassurance. “I’ll - we’ll - focus on fixing whatever happened. ...And I won’t yell,” he promised.

“Well… it’s the client,” Zuzanna said. “Or— clients, really? There are many of them. All in one company.” She forced a deep breath. “I think they may be, um…” A beat. “Erm. Well. How do you say— criminals?”

Leif stiffened. “Criminals? How - what kind of criminals? Did you see them do something, maybe - “

Kirin, his attention still on Zuzia, reached out a hand and touched Leif’s arm. “Leif, I think we should ask one thing at a time.”

The Kythian archmage hadn’t quite realized he was starting to rise from his seat until he forced himself to relax back into it. “Right. So… How did you find this out? What happened?” Maybe that would answer multiple questions at once.

“Well… you know how some merchants at market will have mages cast on their expensive items?” Zuzia asked hesitantly. “And then they must take off spell when item is sold, or else item has bad mark on it? That show it is stolen and who real owner is? To help stop impulsive thieves. Make their goods not worth targeting— too much effort to steal.”

“Yes,” Leif said. “I’ve helped track a couple of those stolen things down...” He took a small sip of tea. Theft marks. ...That was not, he realized, a promising change of subject.

“So, hypothetically,” Zuzia continued. “Say, um. You were hired by this… client. Who say they are merchants. Shippers. And they want you to cast conceal spells on items? To make them look like something else— something worthless. Because they say they are shipping items out of city, and they do not trust their middlemen, and so items looking worthless means middlemen— or bandits— are not tempted to steal. And they say that they want item concealed and not just— marked like most merchants do because marks are not foolproof. Skilled mage can just pop them right off. And then…” She exhaled very slowly. “Say you are going through latest batch of goods. And, ah… a few of the items? They have this steal mark. The one company says they do not use. And when you go investigating, you find that it is not theirs. It um. Belongs to someone at market. A different merchant, who you do not think even knows the people in this company.”

Leif was silent for a moment, his mouth occasionally moving as if to form words but then thinking better of it. He’d promised not to yell, to focus on the problem… “I - well - all right, well...I guess they’re...some kind of blackmarket organization. Steal some stock, get a mage in your inner-circle to remove the marks...and then get a stronger one to put a good concealing spell on them. So nobody investigating sees anything that’s been reported missing.” Leif pressed his fingertips to his forehead. The cover story didn’t even entirely fit - hiding valuables from middlemen perhaps did, but from bandits? Items on the road were carried in sealed crates, sometimes in covered wagons; the bandits were just as blind to the contents with or without the concealing charm, and unless Zuzanna was disguising them as rocks or something equally worthless and inedible, the bandits would take the goods anyway!

“I - I guess I should have warned you. Specifically about blackmarket dealers,” Leif amended, because he had tried to tell her to be careful about clients.

“I had bad feeling,” Zuzia admitted, biting the inside of her cheek. “But… the money is so good, and Phyllo wants to save up for apprenticeship so bad, I just…”

Leif sighed. “It must have been tempting. “ He forced himself to take another sip of his tea. “...All right. Well - you know for sure now, and we know now - we have to go to the city guard with this. Probably the sooner the better.” Leif cast a glance toward the partially-covered kitchen window and grumbled, “In this weather, I doubt they can move much. If we go now, we shouldn’t be stuck there too late answering questions.”

“Well, the thing with that is…” Zuzia was very nearly mumbling as she told Leif and Kirin: “I have meeting set up with criminals tonight. At um. Eight o’ clock thirty?” It was presently seven forty-five.

“Eight-thirty?” Leif repeated. “So we have forty-five minutes? Zuzia…” Leif had to swallow the rest of his sentence to avoid breaking his promise not to yell.

“But that should still be plenty of time to get the guards,” Kirin said. “You might not be able to tell them the entire story first, but I’m sure they would take your word for it that someone’s up to something .” Turning to Zuzanna, he asked, “Where do they have you set the enchantments?”

“That’s the other thing.” Zuzia placed a hand against her forehead, half-shielding her eyes as though in embarrassment. “There is not… place. At end of shift, they tell me when they want me to work again, and give me place to meet one of thems. And then I wait there, and someone come to take me to second location. It change every time. Different houses, mostly. Of… different company member.” Hastily, as though she could feel Leif’s scornful reply coming already, she added, “They say they do this for secure! So if anyone would try to steal their goods, they do not even know where to steal from. And… so they are not burdens. You know, because if they always worked at same house, that person’s family would be very inconvenienced, and so instead by rotating, it is less bother to their families. Because they are only there working sometimes, not every night.”

I should have expected as much, Leif thought, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “All right - so - that’s something we’ll have to work around.” He opened one eye and peered at Zuzia. “Before I suggest another unworkable idea - is there anything else we ought to know? Are the goods explosive, do they have mages on-guard, does all the work take place in cellars…?”

“They are all very nice,” the girl offered. “Pay on time. Friendly.” She considered for a moment. “After last time, when I finds the stolen items, I tell them I has friend who is mage and could maybe helps, too.” She dared a wavering smile. “Thinking ahead, you knows? I say he is just move here from outside city. That he is just commoner. I thought noble might scare them. I didn't mention archmage— then they might have realized I am lying. And who you is.” Zuzia was talking very fast now. Almost disjointedly. “You don't have to come, of course. If you don't wants.”

“Well,” Leif admitted, “our best bet to finding it would be them leading us right to it… And I definitely don’t want you to go alone, if you go at all.” Leif glanced at the clock again. “Kirin, if we have you go get the guards once we leave, they should be able to come find us, and the blackmarketers. We just need some way to signal where we are…”

“It can’t be anything too obvious, though,” Kirin warned, adjusting his grip on his tea cup uneasily.

Leif’s eyes darted down to his husband’s hands at the slight movement, and suddenly he stood up. “I have an idea. When I was refining the shield bracelets so they would show me where you were on a map, I had to do some tests to make sure they would line up properly. I should still have one or two of them lying around. And those bracelets don’t cast shields, so I could use it without them knowing. But you and the guards would have the map. As soon as a colored spot shows up, you’ll know where to go.”

Leif glanced down at himself. “...I should probably change as well, hm? If I’m not supposed to be a nobleman.”

“And your name,” Zuzia said. “I tell them it's… it’s John. John Bird.” The teenage archmage blushed. “It is first thing I think of.”

Leif blinked, then chuckled - slightly shaky, but genuine. “Well - that’ll be easy to remember, at least. And if I go by ‘Bird’, I’ll never look suspicious by not answering to my name.” As he started unwinding the cord of his necklace from the clasp of his halfcloak, Leif asked, “Does Phyllo know about any of this? I’m guessing not or I hope he might’ve mentioned talking to me right away...”

“I did not want worry him,” Zuzanna said. “He is at home. With Silvia. Thinking I am just at regular job.”

“Ah. I see.“ Leif glanced at his own husband, but decided now wasn’t a good time to discuss sharing information with a spouse. “Someone would have to stay with Silvia in any case, I suppose.”

She nodded, almost mindlessly— before in the blink of an eye, a wholly different expression exploded across her face. Her eyes widened; her jaw tensed. Her voice was verging the line of shrill as she said: “Oh, gods. I forgot. I— forgot!”

Leif started, taking half a step back. “Forgot what?”

“They know,” the young archmage breathed. “The criminals, they know! Wh-where I live. They… they insisted on walking me home a-at first. I didn’t think anything of it— I thought they was just being nice, because I am young, and it was dark, and…” Her jaw chattered. “But they know. If something goes wrong, they know where I live!”

Leif cursed. “So they’re in danger, too - and if we send the guards…” He slumped against the counter. “If anyone’s watching, they might guess you tipped them off.” Thrusting his fingers through his hair, Leif scowled at the floor for a moment.

Finally, though, he looked up and back at the table. “Kirin...maybe, once you’ve told the guards - you can get a guard in plainclothes to come with you, and go get them? You can just make it seem like Phyllo and Silvia are coming here for a visit - and then they’ll be behind the protections we have on the house. And if anyone tries something before you make it back here…”

Kirin nodded and pulled back his sleeve a little to show the shield bracelet he still wore. Leif kept the shield charm on it renewed; if Kirin was going to wear it all the time anyway, Leif might as well make sure it was useful. “I’m sure we’ll make it back here safely,” Kirin said as he rose to his feet, presumably to prepare for travel to the guardhouse. “They wouldn’t want to cause a scene, especially if it looks like an innocent visit.”

“They had better not,” Leif said darkly, a hint of a threat not directed at Kirin or any of the Panems in his voice. With a grunt, he straightened again. “Okay - anything else, Zuzia? Anything?”

“I… I don’t think so,” the girl replied. She rose from the table, slowly. “And… I am sorry, Leif. F-for making such a mess. I just— the money has been so good that I… I ignore the bad feelings. Until it is too late.”

Leif hesitated, gathering his thoughts together. “Well - I wish you’d come to me about those bad feelings earlier. ...But better late than never, and I know you wouldn’t have gotten into this if you knew everything from the start. I mean,” he added with a slight grin, “your Lyellian friends would be mighty upset if you became a smuggler.”

Zuzia only sighed, unable to crack even the smallest of smiles. “Thank you for helping,” she said. “I… I appreciates it, Leif.” A beat. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

At this, Leif’s smile turned softer and more genuine. “Any time, Zuzia - what are prison guardians for, after all?”

***

Leif disappeared into the bedroom for a few minutes and returned in as shabby an outfit as he could manage. For the most part, the best he could do was wear older clothes - a faded white shirt, dirt-stained pants, and cracked boots - with some magic to fray the edges, add a few tears, and spatter some dye to look like stains. He’d removed his feather pendant all-together, worried the silver chain alone would attract attention, and in the same spirit, kept the retrieved bracelet under his gloves.

He gave Kirin the map tied to the bracelet, as well as a hug. Kirin was clearly worried, and in an attempt to lighten the mood, Leif whispered, “We’ll pick up where we left off later, all right?” The Stallion’s smile was thin, but there.

The three stepped out into the frigid night - Leif did not own a thin or dishevelled winter cloak, because that meant potentially not being warm; the best he was able to do was quickly turn the Jade-green fabric a dull brown instead. At the end of the path, Kirin went one way, and Leif and Zuzia the other.

“So, how much work do they usually give you to do in a night?” Leif asked to try and distract himself from the cold.

“It depends on the batch,” Zuzia replied, exhaling softly so that her breath fogged before her in the dry, chilly air. “Usually few hours of work, sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less. Spells are complicated, but… not hard, you know? Just… long.” She bit her lip. “I wonder if it is all stolen. Or just some. Because how can they even steal so many things, you know? They would get caught, wouldn’t they?”

“If they were stealing it all from one place, probably. This could be part of a bigger group, one that’s stealing from a lot of places, and some of it just gets routed through Medieville. Though, as much as you’re implying they give you to enchant...maybe some of it is legitimate. I guess that would make it easier to hide stolen goods.”

“Gods.” Zuzia shuddered. “They are— are… like lords. Of crime!”

Leif actually laughed, surprised by Zuzia’s dramatic proclamation. “We do call their bosses ‘crime lords’, actually.” His amusement faded as he went on, “And some of them probably have territories they work that are about as big as a minor lord’s land, at least. ...It is strange so much of it comes through this city, though; I guess there’s a market near the First Holy Church of Woo, for stolen things at a decent-enough price, and there’s a lot of traffic and shiping to hide in, but getting caught...it’s a big risk.” A sharp wind blew across them and Leif grimaced, hunching his shoulders against the gust.

When it had passed, he managed to unclench his jaw and ask, “So, they must have at least one other mage to takes off the theft-marks - do you ever see any mages around?”

“So far, just one,” Zuzanna said. “His name is Colby. He is sometimes one who escorts me to house.”

“Well, that’s good - if things do wind up going sour, it sounds like they would have only one mage at most, and we can fight our way out of that easily enough.”

“It is just all the other criminal we will have to worry about,” Zuzanna said. She sighed. “It will be like Kine all over. With slavers.”

“Well, slavers and smugglers are different beasts - slavers expect a fight. Blackmarket thugs should be more likely to cut their losses and run. But we’ll be careful - and we’re summoning the guards, so if they’re not smart enough to surrender, there’ll be plenty of backup.”

Thick as Thieves: Part Two

SPOILER: Click to show

“Here we is,” Zuzia murmured about fifteen minutes later, as she and Leif paused beneath the awning of a candle shop near the fringe of the Merchant’s Market; the shop was shuttered for the night, and the quiet street seemed— by all appearances— empty save for the two archmages. “Hopefully criminal will come soon. I must admit— it is a little cold, Leif.”

“It’s far more than a little cold - but considering I never thought I’d hear you say even that much, I will take it as a sign from the ‘Woo - miraculous things might happen tonight.” Leif looked up and down the street again, and suddenly tensed. “There?” he muttered, nodding slightly toward the end of the street, where a stocky man was turning the corner. He had his head down against the wind and his hands jammed in his pockets - or at least, Leif thought it was his pockets. When the man reached them, looking up enough to reveal a furrowed brow and bits of light hair poking out from under his hat, Leif realized the man had one hand in his pocket, the other against a wand holster.

“Panem,” the man said with a small jerk of a nod in Zuzia’s direction. “We weren’t sure you’d show.”

“Good night, Colby.” Zuzia wanted to pat herself on the back over how calm she was keeping her voice. And how well she was doing at not flashing Colby— the syndicate’s sole known mage, the one whom she’d told Leif about before— an awkward, telling grin. “Of course I show. And like I say last time to Master Kubrair, I even bring friend! If you are interest in his work, too.”

The mage turned his stern expression to Leif, who managed to keep his grimace internal as he held out a hand to Colby. “John Bird.” He tried to keep his face in the shadows, just in case anyone was on the lookout for the archmage who sometimes wound up in the middle of magical crises - though anyone who knew that much about Leif probably would also know that Zuzia was close to him and therefore not the best prospective member of a smuggling ring.

Colby gave his hand a brief shake. “That’s what your friend said.” He tilted his head at Zuzanna. “We’ll see about his work - personally I think Master Kubrair was fine with just you on board. But no harm trying out someone new, I suppose.”

Leif nodded. “Well - ah - we’ll see what he thinks.” Hopefully Zuzia had been clever enough not to paint John Bird as an unflappable socialite.

“I think he will be happy with John,” Zuzia put in, as brightly as she could manage. “He is good mage! Like I said, not powerful as me but he is so good with his spells that it makes up for his less power.”

Leif managed not to smirk or give Zuzia a wry look. Instead he shrugged and nodded.

“He’ll get his chance to show off,” Colby said with a light, dismissive wave. “We’ve got a pretty good shipment coming up tonight.” Apparently the stocky mage felt that was enough of an interlude to leaving, and he turned, giving another small wave to indicate Zuzana and Leif should follow him further down the dark, cold streets.

***

The house Colby led them to was on the larger side of Medieville’s dwellings, probably close to the size of Leif and Kirin’s home. It looked dark and lifeless from the outside; all the curtains were drawn and no light fell onto the snowy streets, and if Leif had been passing it on the street, he would have assumed everyone inside was asleep.

When they stepped inside, however, the house was well-lit, and in fact bustling with movement. Leif counted seven people, not including himself, Zuzanna, or Colby, as the blackmarketers’ mage led them through the front parlor, past a sitting room - there were crates along one wall there, but oddly, they continued on - through the kitchen, and finally, into a dining room.

“Don’t sit at the head of the table,” Colby told them. “But wait here a minute. Master Kubrair is going to want to speak to you before we get you started on any work. And some other members of our shipping company might stop in, too.” He smiled and added, “Don’t be nervous if they have questions for you.”

Leif nodded, Zuzia only blinked owlishly, and Colby left the room.

“I...guess this is a hiring interview?” Leif whispered to Zuzia. “That’s...odd. Did they make you do this?”

“Not… exactly,” she replied as she reluctantly took a seat, and Leif lowered himself into the chair beside her. “I mean, they talk to me some, but— before they take me into a house, you know?” She gnawed on her lip. “I have never been to this house yet. I do not know whose it is. But… it is nice, isn’t it? Nicer than any of others.”

Nicer than it probably should be, she thought, but couldn’t bring herself to say. Her stomach pitched. She lowered her hand, almost subconsciously, so that her fingers grazed the tip of her holstered wand. Amidst so much uncertainty, it was only a small comfort. But a comfort nonetheless.

Leif nodded in agreement with Zuzia’s assessment of the house, his mouth drawn into a thin line. Either someone high up was involved in this, or these criminals were making a lot of money. ...Possibly both.

“I’d bet,” he ventured slowly, “this is the man in charge’s place. Ku...Kubriar? Have you met him before?”

“Kubrair,” Zuzia said. “And yes. Here and there. He comes by for a bit, checks on how everyone is doing, then leaves. Big boss, you know? He does not stick around.”

“Right...I guess you wouldn’t want to get caught at the helm of this.” Leif almost said more in that vein, but refrained. At least everything he and Zuzia were saying shouldn’t be suspicious - any criminal would most likely be curious about their potential new boss. “Apparently he likes your work; that’s probably a good thing, right?”

“But why this meeting?” Zuzia murmured, voice still feather light. “Why would he bring you to his own house when even I have not been here before, you are new and—”

The archmage’s voice abruptly fell away at the sound of footsteps echoing against the floor of the kitchen they’d passed through. She and Leif turned in their seats just in time to watch as a reedy, red-haired man strolled through the doorway, Colby hot on his flank like a dog lapping at his master’s heels. Kubrair.

“Good evening,” the crime boss said, tone smooth and rich as dark chocolate. Shimmying past Zuzia and Leif so that he could take a seat at the head of the table— Colby promptly sat at his right hand— Kubrair smiled toothily. “It’s good to see you again, Madam Panem. And nice to meet you, Master… Bird, was it?”

“Yes, that’s right. ...You’re Master Kubrair, then?” Leif hoped he was saying the name correctly this time.

“Indeed, I am.” The ginger’s smile grew. It was not a particularly friendly grin. Not so much the look a man gives toward a potential employee, but rather more like that an axe murderer flashes his victims before cleaving them to bits; Zuzia’s fingers tightened over her holstered wand. “Merrick Kubrair at your service. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Master Bird. I’ve heard so much about your talents!”

Leif did not like the man’s smile. He glanced at Colby, who had his elbows on the table, his chin rested on his interlocked fingers and his hazel eyes flicking between his boss and the two other mages. Leif didn’t like that calculation in his expression, either.

“Thank you. Sir,” Leif said to Kubrair, deciding it was safer for the moment to appease the crime boss. “I, uh - I’m not as strong a mage as Zuzanna, but she said it sounded like you could use more hands.”

“More hands might be useful,” Colby remarked; his eyes were on Leif and Zuzanna, but the comment was clearly directed toward Kubrair.

“Quite useful,” Merrick Kubrair agreed. He tilted his head, clear blue eyes narrowed. Appraising. “So. We could talk in circles. Meaningless, evasive circles. But I’d rather… not. Wouldn’t you rather not, Colby?”

“I’d rather not,” Colby agreed, letting his hands drop to the table. “So, how do we put this…”

“Put what?” Zuzia asked, her heart beating somewhere near her throat.

“You are going to help us,” Merrick said. “You and this, ah, Master Bird. With… hmm, shall we call it a job, Colby? Let’s call it a job.” The redhead frowned, something dark— furtive— crossing his milk-pale face. “I had hoped we wouldn’t have to… do things this way, Madam Panem. Truly, I had hoped. But…” The man shrugged. “Sometimes life doesn’t go the way we planned.”

Leif’s jaw tightened. “Do what things? What are you talking about?” He was getting closer and closer to simply drawing his wand and demanding to know what was going on - ‘Pit, maybe he would give them his real name and see if the mention of House Jade made them more cooperative.

“Give us a moment,” Colby scolded.

“A moment for what?” Zuzia demanded. She, too, seemed about to yank out her wand and level it in the criminals’ direction.

… Which made it all the more concerning when Merrick said lightly, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Madam Panem.” His gaze drifted toward Leif. “You, either, Master Bird.” A beat. “Or should I say Lord Jade? Doesn’t matter much to me. Regardless of your name, it would be very foolish to hurt me or Colby right now. That is, unless you don’t care about…” He paused, turning to Colby once more. “What was the husband’s name again? Kiernan?”

“Kirin,” Colby corrected.

It was possible, however, that Kubrair might not have heard the correct name over the squall of Leif’s chair as the archmage shot to his feet. His wand was in his hand and aimed at Colby without him having consciously decided to draw it. “What did you do?!” he snarled, so furious and panicked he was suddenly almost unable to breathe - hot anger lashed in his chest, his heartbeat shot to the pace of a hummingbird’s wingbeats, and everything in his direct line of sight seemed oddly sharp and very strikable...even as his thoughts flooded with all the possible ways Kirin could have been attacked by these ’Pit-spawn, and how had they gotten past the shield, and if they’d hurt him….

Colby drew his own wand, rising from his chair as well. “We understand you’re concern - but he’s fine now. We’re treating him very well. Like Master Kubrair said, we just want leverage.”

“Kirin is not leverage!”

“No? Master Jade, you haven’t cast a single spell on me yet - I think he’s doing the job wonderfully,” Colby said. “But listen - we’re not unreasonable. And we’re not stupid - we took him in gently, we’ll hold him gently, and as long as you give us the help we need, he’ll be released gently. Not a scratch on him, not a hair out of place!”

“You didn’t,” Zuzia growled, joining in on the wand-drawing party. She pointed it first at Colby, then at Merrick, then at Colby again. “If you hurt him—”

“Please, madam, calm down,” Merrick advised. “Truly, there’s no use getting hysterical. Why don’t we all talk about this like adults?” He placed a surprisingly gentle hand on Colby’s arm, urging, “Sit, Colby. And you two— please, sit as well.”

“Do not tell us what to do!” Zuzia snapped. Her wand was now back on the redhead.

Merrick sighed. “Like I said,” he prattled on, seeming not to care overmuch about the fact that two very angry archmages currently had him at wandpoint, “we didn’t want to do things this way, Madam Panem. We had hoped you would be more… sympathetic to our inclinations, shall we say? That you’d have seen the theft-tags we planted on that last shipment and… not done anything overly rash in response. But then, of course, you didn’t even make it through the shift before you suddenly, urgently had a friend you wanted to bring with to the next job. Even then, we’d hoped things wouldn’t escalate to quite this extent. But alas. It’s like I said before. Things don’t always go as we plan”

Zuzanna blinked. “You planted…?”

Colby gave her an exasperated look as he took his seat again, elbow on the table to keep his wand up and poised. “Of course they were planted. I’ve been taking theft-tags off shipments for years; I don’t miss seven or eight from one crate.” His hazel eyes flicked back to his boss. “I guess you were right; the setup wasn’t too obvious.”

Merrick nodded. “Told you,” he said. Then, to Zuzia: “We’d hoped you might be more… sympathetic to our sort of business. That upon finding the tags you’d turn the blind eye, or at least not go running to nobles.” The man sighed, almost as a father might to the child in whom he’s very disappointed. “We still had a sliver of hope after you asked to bring your friend. Maybe it was just a coincidence, after all. But then we sent tails after you. And when we realised you’d given us a false name for him… that ‘John Bird’ was in fact a Jade nobleman…”

“So, what then?” Zuzia snarled. “You are going to blackmails us into helping you? We won’t!”

“Now, Madam Panem,” Colby chided, “before you get too carried away with this idea to throw your friend’s husband to the wolves - what about your family? We did walk you home a few nights. Now, he has’t come out of the flat, but we have people watching the place.”

Zuzanna’s entire face went red. “You wouldn’t, you monsters, you wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh, let’s not get histrionic now.” Merrick waved a dismissive hand. “Come on, Madam Panem. Lord Jade.” He nudged his chin again toward the archmages’ abandoned chairs. “Sit, please. Put those silly wands away. Let’s all talk like adults, all right?”

Leif wanted very badly to strike them both, to make them tell him where Kirin was, and to call off the people around Zuzia’s home, and he had no shortage of ideas for how to do it.

...But he didn't know how the smugglers were communicating, how they were stationed, what forces they were up against - Colby might be the only mage Zuzanna had seen, but they could have lied about him being the only one - others might be guarding Kirin. There might be proficient physical combatants. Even if they did force things - their families might be hurt in the crosssfire.

“If you’re lying, and you’ve hurt any of them - “

Colby waved Leif’s growled threat aside. “We haven’t hurt anyone, like I said. If we did that sort of thing, wouldn’t we be dealing in bigger crimes than some smuggling? Please, like Master Kubrair said - sit down. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can all go back to our normal lives.”

Leif hated every inch of the movement he made to sit down - but he sat. They must be telling the truth, he insisted to himself. If they knew Leif’s name, they knew at the very least that he had powerful allies he could call on, and they might even know he was an archmage and therefore very capable of making people regret hurting his loved ones. And yet they’d done it anyway. Woo, what kind of people were these, to have gone and done this all anyway!?

“What do you want from us?” Zuzia hissed as she followed Leif’s lead, grudgingly retaking her own seat.

“It’s simple, really,” Merrick said with a casual shrug. “We have a job. A bit of a tricky job. The sort of job that would really benefit from having two archmages working on our side, you know? Help us with the job, and voila, we’ll release Lord Jade’s husband. We’ll call our men off the Panem flat. You two— and Kirin— will have a nice, piping hot drink of greyroot tea. You’ll wake up a few hours later with killer headaches, and a rather foggy recollection of the past few days… but you’ll be none worse for the wear in the long run. And Colby and me, and all of our men? Why, you’ll never see us again. We won’t hassle you. Won’t threaten you. Won’t ask you to ever do anything else for us.” The redhead made the sign of the triple feather.“Woo’s honour.”

Leif sneered. “Somehow I doubt the ‘Woo would find this very honorable. And you expect us to believe you have greyroot? Arguably one of the hardest potions to brew, and that doesn't exactly last long? Please - where would you have gotten it?”

“From me,” Colby said with a smirk. “I brewed it earlier this week, but it still smells quite pungent enough that it should do its job.” His grin widening further, probably at the anger on Leif’s face, Colby said, “I’m a pretty good hand at potions,” with an expression that reminded Leif rather forcefully of Morgaine’s cats when they were especially pleased with themselves and whatever trouble they’d gotten into. “But - we’re not here to talk about me. We’re talking about this little job! Do you two accept that you really don’t have much choice here, so we can get on explaining what it is?”

“I wouldn’t put it like that,” Zuzia growled. She clenched her jaw, fury still a living beast inside of her. “But explains.”

“Of course,” Merrick said, as if he were doing the pair a favour. Crossing his arms, he leaned back in his seat, seeming to relax somewhat now that he felt he had the upper-hand on the situation. “The Keep,” the ginger went on. “I can’t imagine Madam Panem’s ever been, but— you’re no doubt familiar with it, hm, Lord Jade?”

Leif glared at the red-head. “You want to break into the Keep? So you can do what - assassinate the king?”

Colby looked appalled. “Really? What possible good would that do us? The last thing we want is the city flooded with more lawkeepers and the place even more chaotic!”

“Why, then?” Zuzia demanded. “What could possibly be worths breaking into Keep? There are guards there! All the guards!”

“Yes, because they’re guarding precious things,” Merrick said. “The royals, of course, but… also all the royal household’s possessions.” He drummed his fingers against the waxy tabletop, speaking in beat with the tapping as he rattled off: “Paintings. Sculptures. Tapestries. Old books.” A beat. “And jewels. So many jewels.”

“An appalling amount of jewels,” Colby elaborated.

Leif looked between the two men, and if he hadn’t been so enraged, he might have looked incredulous. “All the things you’ve been stealing and shipping haven’t made you enough money?”

Colby asked, “Well, if we have two archmages at our disposal - why not aim to make a quick, high profit?”

“You is going to get us all killed!” Zuzia sputtered. “Breaking into Keep is madness. We will be hanging by mornings!”

“Again with the histrionics.” Merrick sighed, and Colby reached out and lightly patted his boss’ shoulder. “We have this thoroughly planned out, don’t you worry. No one will be hanging. Don’t you trust us?”

“No,” Leif said bluntly. “Not as far as I could throw this house. Or the Keep. We’re archmages, not miracle-workers!”

“It really isn’t that complicated to break into a building,” Colby said. “...Unless it’s warded, but that just requires extra steps, really. Look - we have a route, we know what we want and where it is, and we’ve been doing heists like this for years. ...Well, not heists this large, but, heists. We’ll tell you what to do when - and before you puff up about it, of course we’re not going to hurt anyone.”

“You say that,” Zuzia said, “but when you haves Keep knights pointing swords at your throats, what then?”

“It won’t get to that point,” Merrick said. “Have a little faith, all right? The sooner you stop squabbling with us, the sooner we can get this whole shindig over, and the sooner you’ll never have to see Colby, myself, or any of our men again.”

Colby added, “And the sooner everyone’s families are all safe again.”

Leif glared at him, hating every bit of this idea and every bit of the two men at the head of the table while he was at it. But he didn’t see a way out - not with Kirin and Phyllo and Silvia at risk. At least if he went along, he could make sure nobody got hurt because of these blighted, greedy smugglers. And maybe, if he was careful, he could find a way to leave himself information about the two and what they’d done, so he could report them even after the memory-muddling tea.

Still, if things went sour… “Do you really need both of us? Zuzanna can stay here - you could already have gotten her into a lot of trouble helping with your shipments, if we get caught - “

“Nobody’s going to get caught,” Colby interrupted. “And you’re both coming along. Leaving behind an archmage is stupid, especially one we know casts good magic.”

Zuzia usually would have been flattered by such a compliment. Now, she only glowered. “You is going to get us all killed,” she snapped again.

“Will you please stop with that line?” Merrick asked. Sighing, he stood, gesturing for the others to do so, as well. “Now come. We’re wasting time.”

“You is coming with?” Zuzia asked, not yet electing to stand. “Big boss like you? Why not sends your goons?”

“Oh, stop that,” Colby said, getting to his feet. “They’re employees, and Master Kubrair’s their boss - bosses delegate. But this is important so of course he’s going to be there.” He twirled his wand a little. “After all, how dangerous can it be with a mage and two archmages along?”

Thick as Thieves: Part Three

SPOILER: Click to show

“This is not the way to Keep,” Zuzia grumbled twenty minutes later, her arms crossed and lips pursed as she and Leif trailed the criminal pair through a criss-crossing warren of frigid Medieville streets. It was late now— close to ten o’ clock— and there were few other people out and about. The stragglers they did pass looked even sketchier than Colby and Merrick were. Wouldn’t that be an irony, Zuzia mused grimly— to be mugged whilst they were already practically hostages. She continued tartly, “For having such good plan, I cannot believe you do not even know how to get to Keep!”

“Well we’re hardly going to march to the front door and knock!” Colby whispered back. “I see we would have had to give you some lessons in theft even if you had joined us.”

“Then where are we going?” Leif groused. “This doesn’t seem like it’s leading us to a back door, either.”

“Always with the dramatics,” Colby said with a sigh. “At least you have the excuse of being a noble for your ignorance; when you steal, you just do it with paperwork.”

“Anyway.” Merrick sighed very, very loudly. Impatiently. “We’re meeting an, ah…” He paused for a moment, considering. “Well, let’s call him a contact of ours— a butcher. He provides most of the meat for the Keep’s kitchens. They go through a lot of it, apparently. A whole lot.”

“And he is, what, going to vouch for you?” Zuzia scowled. “Because that is so stupid I do not even—”

“Will you let me finish?” Merrick snapped. Exchanging an exasperated look with Colby, he went on stiffly, “He has a delivery to make. Cuts of meat are heavy. So he doesn’t exactly carry them up the cliff by hand.”

Colby turned on his heel, walking backward for a moment. “We’re using a delivery wagon.” He said the words slowly and with exaggerated syllables.

“They won’t be suspicious of a delivery this late at night?” Leif asked skeptically. But if they were in contact with someone from the Keep...someone inside was giving information to people on the outside. ‘Pit, that was dangerous - for every duo of stupid blackmarket thieves trying to steal material goods, there would be a dozen contenders for information who would want something more dangerous - stolen information, destruction, assassination…

“It’s the Keep,” Merrick said. “They have people coming and going at all times of the day and night. Will they inspect the wagon eventually? Yes. But they know the butcher, and so likely they won’t bother until we’re up the cliff and the guards at top are signing off on the delivery.”

“And then?” Zuzia demanded. “I thought you said you were not going to hurt peoples.”

“We aren’t,” Merrick insisted. “A simple disorientation then knock-out spell have hardly ever hurt anyone, hm? The butcher tells us there’ll be probably a three, maybe four guards at the top of the cliff. And we have three mages. Child’s play, right?”

“A walk in the park!” Colby agreed.

Leif scowled; he was tempted to retort that yes, those spells could hurt someone...but that was children and elders, neither of whom would be guarding the Keep, a point he suspected the two would bring up.

His gut was practically thrashing - with guilt, with anger, with fear for Kirin and the Panems, with stress over the possibility of this plan going wrong…. After a heavy swallow, Leif asked, “What about inside? There aren’t just guards outdoors.”

Colby said, “We know - and we have a path that’ll route us around any of those guards.”

“Oh yes,” Zuzanna huffed. “I am sure jewels will be without any guards.”

“It’s a good thing, then,” Merrick said crisply, “that archmages such as yourselves can confound and knock out more than one guard in a night without getting pulled, hrm?”

The group fell into a terse silence then, merely shivering against the frigid night air— and stewing like lovers scorned— as they walked the last few blocks toward the butcher’s place. His shop was, unsurprisingly, closed for the night, but Merrick only had to rap once against the front door before it swung hurriedly open.

“You’re l-l-late,” stammered the squat, middle-aged man who stood inside. He’d clearly been waiting for quite some time, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and stepped aside to let the criminals and archmages in. “W-w-why are you so late?” His buggy eyes flashed with something akin to panic. “I-is it Aubrianna? She’s still all right, i-isn’t she?”

Leif glared at the two criminals. “Just how many people have you kidnapped tonight?”

“Still only one - we’ve been planning this a few days, after all,” Colby said with a dismissive wave. “Aubri’s doing just fine. Calm down. Try some deep breaths. We’re only late because we were picking up some last-minute help.” He gestured to Leif and Zuzanna. “But now we’ll be able to get the job done nice and quick and you and Aubrianna can go right back to your normal live, just like we said!”

“It’s been three days,” the butcher moaned, hands shaking as he shut the door behind them. “H-how do I know y-y-you haven’t hurt her?”

Three days? Oh, for Woo’s sake! Zuzia had last worked for the syndicate a week ago—had Merrick been planning this entire elaborate scheme ever since? The teenager almost wanted to draw her wand and blast a pain spell at Colby and Merrick, more for this butcher’s sake than her own at this point, but she valiantly restrained herself as Merrick let out a melodramatic sigh.

“Ay, my good man, relax a little, all right? We’re in the final lap of the race! Aubri’s fine, saw her just this morning, in fact— looking as spry and healthy as ever.” Merrick patted the butcher’s shoulder; the butcher flinched. “You’ll have your pretty wife back in a jiffy, Sherman— I promise.”

“Wh-what did I ever do to you to deserve this?” the butcher— Sherman, presumably— lamented. “I don’t even bl-bloody know you, and Aubri’s a g-good woman, I can’t see her having run afoul of you, either, so what did we do to—”

“Wait.” Zuzia gawped. She thought she couldn’t possibly get angrier at the situation, but oh gods, had she just. “You do not— you do not even knows this man? You just… pick him randomly? You just—”

“We needed someone who made regular deliveries to the Keep,” Merrick said with a shrug. “We watched for a few days and noticed Master Sherman here making deliveries daily. Sometimes more than once in a day.”

Colby said, “See, we told you we’d planned this!”

Leif scowled. “Down to the kidnapping - I see it’s a habit of yours. How nice.”

“Actually, we don’t do it very often,” Colby objected mildly. “And technically we haven’t kidnapped her family.” He nodded in Zuzia’s direction.

“Oh, yes, so noble of you!” Zuzia snarled. She wanted to hit him— whether with her fists or a spell she didn’t entirely care. “You bloody monster, you are going to regret this, I am going to gut you once this is done—”

“P-please, young miss,” Sherman interrupting wearily, a hand pressed to his forehead. Despite of the chill outside— and the fact that the shop was hardly any warmer— there was a bead of sweat dappling his brow. “Don’t do anything rash. Th-these monsters have my Aubrianna. My sweet Aubrianna. Let’s not p-push them. L-let’s just get this o-o-over with.”

Leif hesitantly put a hand on Zuzia’s shoulder. “It’ll be all right, Zuzia.” He tried to give her a pointed look, one that hopefully beamed the message Please wait for an opportune moment to use an advantage instead of actively threatening the people holding us hostage with it from his head to hers.

“It is not all right,” Zuzia muttered— but fortunately she didn’t posture further, merely crossing her arms at her chest as Merrick abruptly clapped his hands together, like a tutor excitedly leading his young charges out the door on their way to an exciting field trip.

“Well, if we’re done chit-chatting, shall we get moving?” the redhead asked. He glanced to Sherman. “The wagon’s all loaded, I presume?”

“Y-y-yes, sir,” Sherman replied. Zuzanna was beginning to think the man stuttered out of more than only fear. “I-in the back, sir. All ready for us to g-g-go.”

“Wonderful,” Colby said. Glancing at Merrick, he said, “We’ll have this job done in no time,” before gesturing for Zuzanna to start down the alley. “Ladies first?”

Her lip curled. “No, you go ahead. Wouldn’t want to give you opportunity to stab me in my back.”

Merrick just barely stifled an eye roll. “Fine.” He crooked his fingers at Sherman. “Let’s go, my friend.”

“I-I-I’m not your fr-friend,” Sherman stammered sourly, but he embarked toward the alley nevertheless, his steps quick and jittery as a fleeing mouse’s.

True to the butcher’s promise, the wagon was all loaded and ready to go in the shadowy alley behind the shop, a tarp pulled over the wares inside. There was a pair of mules hitched to the front of it, and they apprised Sherman, the archmages, and the criminals with glazed, uninterested eyes as Merrick pulled back the tarp to inspect the cart’s contents.

“How can one palace go through so much meat?” the redhead mused. He beckoned toward Leif, Zuzia, and Colby. “Come on. In we go. Hope you like getting cosy with ham hocks.”

Leif grumbled, “I’d rather be getting cosy with my husband, but I see that’s not happening.” He went first into the wagon, hoping he’d be able to carve out a spot where he wouldn’t have to touch anyone. The last thing they needed right now were his sensitivity problems acting up.

Following Leif’s lead, Zuzia grudgingly climbed into the cart, Merrick and Colby close on her heels. She resisted the childish urge to kick the latter as he settled on his belly beside her, their shoulders brushing— then, as Sherman rolled the tarp back over them, further deliberated if she could somehow fling a knock-out curse at the two criminals through the blackness. Then she could direct Sherman to take the wagon straight to her flat, and get Silvia and Phyllo out of danger, and then once they’d done that they could focus on getting to the city guard and rescuing Kirin and Aubrianna—

“This is going to be a bumpy ride,” Merrick breathed as Sherman spurred the mules forward, his voice slicing through Zuzanna’s thoughts. “Everyone hunker down tight, eh?”

It was not a very comfortable journey to the Keep. Being cramped and forced to breath the limited air between wrapped meat and the thick tarp was bad enough; to make things worse, every time the cart jolted from catching a dip or sudden rise in the road, at least one person was hit somewhere uncomfortable by some thick piece of meat or another, or hit their head or back on part of the wagon. Going uphill was tense - maybe it was just being in the wagon but Leif felt like they were one second of mule laziness away from the cart snapping free and tumbling all the way back down the cliffside. The sound of bitterly cold wind howling over the sharp cliff-face was not reassuring, either.

And it was too packed for Leif to avoid being touched. It was only Zuzia, at least, but he was uncomfortably aware of her arm against his, and even when he managed a few seconds of distance, something would shake or sway or tilt and he would have to try and adjust to it all over again…

And then the cart levelled out, and after a long sweep to the side that had Leif almost entirely convinced he was going to die crushed under a hundred pounds of meat, his ward, and two maddening blackmarket thugs when the wagon tipped onto its side - they came safely to a stop.

Before Leif could actually be relieved, Colby whispered, “Remember - disorient and knock-out!” Leif neglected to respond on the grounds that it would probably be suspicious if the meat-cart snapped a particularly foul obscenity and an insistence that it knew already!

“G-g-good evening, sirs,” Sherman was saying outside, his voice muffled by the heaviness of the tarp. “Y-you having a n-nice one? St-staying warm, I hope?”

“Aye, it’s all right,” replied a deep voice. “Frigid as Bern, but whatchya gonna do about it, eh?” A beat. “Where’s Aubrianna tonight, Master Pell? Haven’t seen her your last few deliveries— she all right?”

“She has a f-f-flu,” Sherman replied. Footsteps were padding outside, presumably as the knights moved closer to the wagon. “Back s-sick in bed, she is.”

Leif shot a likely-unseen scowl in Colby and Merrick’s direction, but was quickly distracted by the sound of a hand on the tarp. He did not want to do this - every part of him cringed at doing this, using magic on someone completely innocent, especially to do something that he knew was wrong…

I could just...not cast the disorientation spell - we can explain to them what’s going on when there are guards are around to keep Colby and Kubrair from doing anything. We’ll testify under truth spell, even, if that’s what they want!

...But if things went badly, Zuzanna would be dragged down with him. And for all he knew, Kubrair’s men had orders to kill their hostages if their boss and his right-hand lackey were caught -

The tarp flew back, and despite the anger flaring in his chest, Leif cast a disorientation spell on the guard nearest to him. More green lights flashed and Leif had to squint against it to aim his stupefying spell - it gave him a moment to make a decision as he set the strength of his spell. Please, Lord ‘Woo, I’m trying not to sin but I need a wing here!

Colby pushed himself up on one arm and peered down at the three guards as they hit the ground. “There, what did we tell you? Easy.” He clambered down and offered a hand as if to help anyone down who needed it.

“Archmages are great,” Merrick added brightly, as Zuzia hopped out of the cart, pointedly refusing to take the proffered hand. “What I did tell you, Colby— we didn’t even need one mage per guard, Lord Jade took care of all at once.”

“I know, right?” Zuzia snarled. “You should kidnaps archmages more often!”

“Well, we’d prefer not to make a habit of this sort of thing at all,” Colby said as Leif made his way to the ground. “And better safe than sorry, Merrick.”

Leif hmphed, but otherwise said nothing, scowling alternately at the guards and the Keep.

Colby said, “Let’s get these gentlemen,” he gestured to the guards, “loaded up to sleep off the spellwork.”

Merrick nodded, reaching down toward the one of the fallen knights as though to heft the man up— but before he could raise the guard so much as an inch, Zuzia huffed a sigh. “Here, let me helps you,” she snapped, flicking her wand. The limp guard hovered into the air, his body following the drag of Zuzia’s wand as she guided him into the cart. “You are just going to leaves them and the cart here?” she asked as she followed suit with the next knight.“We are going to get caught.”

“No.” Merrick sniffed, somewhat indignantly. “Master Sherman is going to take the wagon near those stables over there.” He nodded into the darkness toward the silhouette of a squat, wood-framed building, so close to the cliff’s edge that it half-seemed as though a wrong gust of wind would knock it clear over. “It’s late. It’s dark. No one will see him. He’ll play warden to the guards while we’re… occupied.”

Colby flicked his wand as well. “Levwoocorpus!” As another guard hovered off the ground, the blackmarketer added, “We should be back well before they’re up, so there won’t even be much Master Sherman has to do. Don’t fret so much - everything’s gone to plan so far, right?”

“I guess.” Zuzia frowned, falling silent for a moment before she cautiously brooked, “What if… one of us mages stay here with Sherman?” She had a plan starting to tangle in her head. Not much of a plan, but still— it was better than she’d had before. “You know. To help Sherman with being guard.”

Merrick matched her frown with one of his own. “Absolutely not.”

“But… why nots?” she needled, batting her clear blue eyes in what she hoped was a perfect portrayal of innocence. “It’d be good helps, it—”

“Because,” Merrick cut in, raising a brow, “if I leave Colby here, that leaves me alone with two bloody archmages! And if I leave either of you here, I don’t trust you not to jostle awake the knights and send for the cavalcade. Which, I should remind you, would be spectacularly dumb, but… then again, given how long it took to talk you into cooperating even after we told you about Lord Jade’s husband…”

“Points for being brave enough to suggest it, I suppose,” Colby said, setting the last knight delicately atop the pile of meat, “but no - we’re not that stupid.”

“Well - “ Leif started to say, but Colby cut him off.

“Whatever you’re about to suggest, Master Jade, no. We’re all in this together.”

“Speak for yourself,” Zuzia said petulantly, taking a step away from the wagon. “Is we good to start, then? I want to gets this over with.”

Merrick looked halfway between irritated and amused. “I think we should be good,” he agreed, watching as Colby flicked his wand one last time to roll the tarp over the guards’ prone forms, covering them. “Sherman, you stay put, all right? If anyone happens to wander by the stables— which they shouldn’t, at this time of night— just say you’re… I don’t know, waiting for a delivery receipt that got mixed up. Or… something.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Sherman squeaked, looking a bit like a fish that had been plucked out of the water and then left to flop about the open shore. “And if th-the g-g-guards wake up…?”

“Act confused?” Colby suggested - but then he winked, and withdrew a small wooden token from his pocket and threw it up to Sherman. “Hold onto that tight - but if the guards start waking up, drop it over the side. We’ll get a little advance notice. Not that we’ll really need any; they should be out of it for several hours. And before you think about doing anything rash - remember, in just a couple hours, you can be at home with your dear wife, or in a cold prison cell for aiding and abetting. We would hate for you to be imprisoned.”

Zuzia wanted to punch the man. Very, very badly. The young archmage, however, wisely refrained, while Sherman only nodded with a wobbly chin and sweaty brow.

“All right then.” Merrick rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get this heist started.”

***

“We are going to gets caught,” Zuzia hissed some twenty-five minutes later, as she, Leif, and the insufferable idiots stood halfway up a curving staircase somewhere deep within the Keep.

Merrick and Colby still confidently claimed to know where they were going, and maybe they did, but Zuzia was starting to think this didn’t even matter: to keep from getting spotted they’d already had to disorient several roving knights, while just barely ducking out of the way of several patrols more, and now their party of four was wedged on some Woo-cursed stairway unable to finish ascending it because there were voices coming from the upper landing. And they were still what seemed like a small kingdom away from the vault that held the crown jewels.

“We won’t get caught,” Merrick whispered harshly, his feet straddled between two different steps. “Now be quiet, we don’t want whoever’s up there to hear us and come investigating.”

Leif, his jaw tight, muttered, “It’s only a matter of time at this rate - how far are we from these blighted things?”

Colby pressed his finger to his lips in a violent jab, and mouthed, “Be - quiet!”

“Your boss already said that,” Zuzia snapped— before stiffening suddenly at the sound of pounding footsteps.

At first— as though out of instinct— her gaze snapped up, toward the landing from which the voices were drifting. But just as quickly, the teenager realised that the noise wasn’t coming from up there at all, but from below. Her heart seized; her stomach flipped. Flattening herself against the wall that hugged the staircase as if this might somehow conceal her, she shot a frantic look toward Leif, her fingers vise-like in their grip over her wand.

Colby hissed a sharp curse and reached into his pocket - he yanked out a small, vibrating wooden token. “We were supposed to get more warning!” He cursed again.

Leif had known to expect this - his weak stunning spell was meant to wear off early - but his veins flooded with painfully-fast moving blood anyway, like he’d poked himself on something sharp. He looked down the stairs, and then up them - they were cornered. A window looked out onto the night, but to use it to escape, they would have to pry off the bars, break the glass, find a way to get out and down without dying...there wouldn’t be nearly enough time.

He edged closer to Zuzia. “It’ll be all right,” he whispered. “We’ll surrender, and tell them what happened, that our families were in danger - they’ll understand.”

Colby wasn’t paying attention to their conversation, but looking up the stairs, his jaw clenched. “If we go that way - I can stun them and - but then there’ll be the bodies and they’ll know which way we’re going -”

“I think it’s our only choice,” Merrick murmured, patent anxiety flickering in his pale eyes. “I mean… what else is there to do? If we want to get to the jewels-- ”

“We could not get to jewels,” Zuzia cut in, something close to a snarl twitching at her lips. “We could surrenders.”

Leif agreed, “We should surrender, it’s - “

“No,” Colby insisted. “We can get there, we just need - “ A door slammed open from somewhere down the stairwell. Tearing his gaze away from that direction, Colby ordered Leif, “You - cast a smoke spell behind us as we go, that’ll confuse them!”

“Why should I?” Leif retorted. “We’re as good as caught; even if you get to the gems, do you really think you’ll have time to grab them and get back out of the Keep?!”

“With enough stunning spells - “

“They’re just jewels, this can’t be worth your lives!”

“It’s not just jewels!” Merrick growled. It seemed the footsteps from the landing below had— for now, at least— swept by the staircase, but if indeed the alarms had been raised, it was only a matter of time before more came. And that didn’t get rid of whoever was standing on the level above, blocking their path to the vault. Merrick went on frenziedly: “Stun them, Colby, stun them and—”

“It will not work!” Zuzia snapped. “Let’s leave before we get dead and—”

“We can’t leave!” Merrick didn’t just look nervous now: he looked outright panicked, his eyes swimming with something akin to terror, his jaw clenched so tight it was a wonder his teeth weren’t cracking. “We need the jewels, we need the jewels—” He spun toward Colby, frantically. “Stun them, Colby, n-now, st-stun them—”

“Right - follow - “ Colby came to a sudden halt, however, as a glowing green shield dropped from the ceiling and blocked his path. The mage whirled around to find Leif, lowering his wand just slightly.

“Take down the shield!” Colby ordered, pointing his wand at Leif. His voice rose with panic on the last words; sweat was dripping down his face, highlighted by the glow of the shield. “Take it down now, you don’t understand - “

The blond archmage pointed his wand right back. “Think, for two seconds! If you charge at them wand drawn, they’ll think we won’t surrender - they’ll kill u - !”

His entire arm and a good portion of his body shaking, Colby blurted, “You don’t understand, they’ll kill her if we don’t - “ Another door slammed open, and the mage jumped, pointing his wand briefly down the stairs before snapping his attention back to the archmages.

“Her?” Zuzia cut in, hardly knowing where to look: there was the new din at the bottom of the stairs, yes, but she also suddenly realised that the voices from the top landing had abruptly disappeared. Gone alarmingly silent. Pit. Had whoever was there overheard the four of them arguing? Had they run off to get help? Had they—

“There’s no time,” Merrick keened, pawing at Leif’s shield like a surly cat at a closed door. “Please, let us through, please--”

Instead of taking that shield down, Leif cast another between them and downstairs. “The guards probably have enchanted weapons to get through shields - but until then, you’re not going anywhere until you explain what in the ‘Pit is going on! Who is her - and who’s they?”

Colby whirled toward the shield, casting a spell that brought the runes up and glowing. His head pulled back at the flood of characters, and he turned back to Leif, anger and panic warring for control of his face. “Our daughter! We’re trying to save our daughter!”

Thick as Thieves: Part Four

SPOILER: Click to show

As Merrick winced, Zuzia and Leif gawped. Stunned. Unblinking. As if the mage had just started speaking to them in tongues.

“Daughter?” Zuzia shook her head. “What does you mean, daughter?”

“What do you think I mean? A daughter - a young female human, does that help?” Colby spat. “I believe you have one, yes?” he went on, pointing sharply at Zuzia. “She’s adopted, if that’s what’s throwing you - but she’s never been involved in this, not any of it, we took her in off the streets so she wouldn’t have to steal anymore - and we need these jewels to get her back or - or… “ He didn’t seem able to complete the thought.

Leif, trying to process this and the approaching knights, stammered, “But - you - you’re saying someone’s kidnapped your daughter?”

“You is… have daughter?” Zuzia added, as if she still hadn’t quite wrapped her mind around this fact. “... Together?”

Merrick’s eyes flicked toward her, smoldering with a potent mix of fury, panic, and disbelief. “Lord Jade’s not the only man with a husband,” he snapped, his voice shaking. Then, to Leif: “P-put down the shield, Lord Jade. Please. Before whoever was upstairs comes back and blocks us in— or whoever’s downstairs comes up and finds us. If w-we don’t get those jewels—” He forced a shaky breath, blinking hard. “We can’t afford her ransom. D-don’t you understand? We’re overdue, and so they w-want all of it right now— all of it, the entire amount of the loan—”

Leif shook his head. “There’s no way we would get to the jewels - and even if we could there’s no possible way we’d get back out with them! We might be ruined on that front already!” He felt like he’d been kicked in the gut - they were going to be caught, and even if he and Zuzia surrendered - there was no telling how long it would take or what would happen in the meantime, and ’Woo above, House Jade’s archmage breaking into the castle - and Zuzanna had only just earned her freedom from Leif’s custody, on his word that she wasn’t going to be committing any crimes - and how long would it take them to find Kirin and Sherman’s wife, and to make sure Phyllo and Silvia were safe?

And then there was this , which Leif was still trying to wrap his head around. “The guards - they can find your daughter,” he said. “They won’t hold her accountable for - “

Colby insisted, “The people who took her would - as soon as they see guards on their way, they’ll - they’ll kill her! You don’t understand, these men don’t answer to laws - they answer to money, and if we don’t pay them back by sundown tomorrow, they will murder her!” The hazel-eyed mage’s voice cracked. “Please - drop the shields!”

“Her name is Vanessa,” Merrick murmured. “Sh-she’s only nine. A little girl. She’s just a little girl.”

The redhead looked like he was about to cry. About to sob. Part of Zuzia had wanted to snarl at him that this all seemed terribly convenient. That how did she and Leif even know the criminals were telling the truth? But looking at Merrick’s face… at Colby’s...

“The shield,” Merrick pleaded. “W-we’ll… we’ll leave without the jewels if we have to, fine, we’ll leave without the jewels i-if it means not getting caught but…” He practically whimpered. “Please, drop the shield. S-so we can at least get upstairs to where it’s clear and… and try to find another way out of here. And… maybe we’ll still have time to f-find another way to get the ransom if we can’t get the jewels, maybe… maybe…” Merrick wiped at his eyes. “Please, Lord Jade. Please!”

Leif glanced over at Zuzia - she looked frustrated, furious, but the suspicion in her expression was waning. He hoped he was reading Zuzanna correctly, and that Zuzia was reading them correctly. “Fine - upstairs, and we find a way out.”

Praying he was doing the right thing, Leif dropped the shield ahead of them. Colby’s shoulders visibly sagged with relief, and he started to creep forward. Leif stuck close behind him, wary that the mage might simply try going for the jewels after all.

Near the top of the stairs, Colby paused and peered around the corner, then motioned for the others to follow. Leif looked around before coming out of the stairwell - sure enough, it was empty, but he suspected only for the moment.

“Jewels are - somewhere down that way, and there’s another flight of stairs,” Colby said, pointing to the longer left hallway.”

“And the other way?” Leif said flatly.

“I - I’m not sure - more stairs, I think? We might be able to get back down through one of them.”

“We… we could still make a go at the jewels,” Merrick warbled. “If we’re fast—”

Leif whispered, “We’re going to be lucky to get out of here without getting caught already - we’re not digging our way even deeper into this hole! You can’t pay anyone off from a jail cell!”

“Okay, o-okay.” Merrick placed up a hand. “Let's f-focus on getting out then.”

“Good idea,” Zuzia growled. “Let's go this way. And hopes there are stairs.”

They were lucky enough to find a flight of stairs behind the second door and started down, moving quietly. Twice they heard steps coming their way, but were able to evade them by ducking into other corridors - luckily the knights never followed them into the halls or they likely wouldn’t have had time to hide.

At last, they found an archway that opened onto a rear hall - after listening at a few doorways, Colby whispered, “Here!” and opened it; a frigid breeze rushed into the hall and they rushed out onto the walkway. Luckily the groundskeepers cleared the snow from the paths, or they would have left a trail of rather distinctive footprints.

They hurried to the darkest section of cobblestone road they could find, daring to move faster and a touch noisier as they got farther from the castle. Leif wondered if the path would lead back to the stable where they’d left Sherman...only to suddenly realize they probably couldn’t go back for him. The guards would certainly have tried to grab the butcher as soon as they came out of their confusion - which was possibly why he’d been delayed in being able to drop his enchanted token and cause Colby’s to vibrate in turn -

Leif’s scattered thoughts were violently interrupted by the sudden thrashing of a tree lining the path as someone bolted out from their hiding spot. Leif dug in his heels and pointed his wand, but Colby didn’t manage to stop in time and collided with the person.

Before Leif even had a chance to adjust his aim, however, Colby seized the newcomer’s arms and wrenched them back - only to immediately release him with a curse. “‘Pit, Sherman! You were about two seconds from a stunning spell to the spine!”

“Th-the guards,” Sherman bleated. “They w-w-woke up—”

“We know,” Merrick snapped. “Why didn't you use the token sooner? Before half the Keep’s guards were running around looking for us!?”

“I-I panicked,” the butcher wailed. “Th-they started stirring and tr-trying to shake off the tarp and I had to run and th-there wasn’t time and—”

“And if we do not keeps running, we will be caught!” Zuzia cut in. “Let's go.”

The group continued along the back path until it rejoined the loop leading down the cliff. The guards were starting attempts to cut off any escapees, but the band of almost-thieves was able to avoid most of them with the help of a muffling spell. When there wasn’t enough room to sneak past, they could disorient and stun their way past the small clusters. Leif wasn’t sure if his gut was twisted more from nerves or guilt by the time they reached the base of the cliff and slipped back into the city.

Merrick and Colby took the lead now, guiding the group back to the large house. Most of the other thieves who had been present before were gone now, though Colby ducked his head into a room and gave a quiet order; Leif couldn’t quite hear the words, but he heard someone reply and start getting up.

They returned to the cushy meeting room, where the Merrick and Colby took heavy seats. Their earlier excitement - probably more giddy hopefulness than anything else, given what was at stake - had evaporated from their postures, leaving them looking not unlike the bare, haggard-looking trees hunched outside in the snow.

“I’ve sent someone to fetch Aubrianna,” Colby said. “By the time he gets back with her, the man I sent to heat the greyroot tea should have it ready.”

“You’re releasing Aubrianna?” Leif scowled. “What about Kirin? And Zuzanna’s family?”

“We’ll release Kirin once we have Vanessa back,” Merrick said, exchanging a reluctant look with Colby, as though he were seeking his husband’s affirmation.

Before Colby could reply, however, Zuzanna clenched her jaw. “No,” she snapped. “I am glad you is letting Aubrianna free”—and from the nearly deliriously grateful look on Sherman’s face, it was clear the butcher was quite glad, too— “but no. We do not help you do anything else until you release Kirin. And call your goons off my flat!”

Leif, who had bristled at Merrick’s declaration, agreed, “I thought the whole blighted point of this was that family members shouldn’t be used as hostages!”

Colby rubbed his eyes. “Yes, yes, we’re aware of the hypocrisy. But how else were we going to convince an archmage who got cold feet about our blackmarket work, and the archmage she went to help her with that little problem, to help us rob the Keep? Hmm?” He sighed. “Merrick was right; we needed leverage.”

“How’s this for leverage?” Leif retorted. “Let Kirin go, and get your men away from Zuzia’s family, or we won’t help you help your daughter!” Guilt pulsed through his gut again - he didn’t like the idea of a young child coming to harm. But he was done playing nicely - if they refused, spells were going to start flying, and Leif and Zuzia could simply go on a blaze of rescues - first Kirin, then Phyllo and Silvia, and then the little girl.

“B-but— Vanessa’s innocent—” Merrick started.

“And so is Kirin, and my husband and daughter!” Zuzia growled. She jerked a rough finger toward Sherman. “Give him his wife. Then give Leif his husband. And assure me you will call goons off my flat. Then we will help. But only then!” Leif nodded sharply in agreement, his hands fisted and shaking.

Colby looked between them, and his shoulders slumped a little further. “How do we know you won’t just abandon us?”

Leif managed to force his jaw open. “Because we don’t want an innocent little girl to die, either - but we’re not doing this as your hostages! We’re getting our families out of this first - you want us to get to Vanessa now, or waste time having to find and rescue them ourselves?”

“And,” Zuzia added tartly, “do not even thinks you are going to drug us after! No greyroot tea.”

“Fine, I suppose.” Merrick pressed a hand to his forehead, resigned— before his eyes drifted back toward Sherman. “The butcher and his wife are still getting tea, though. For their own bloody good.”

“What?” Leif retorted. “That’s not - “

“He’s right,” Colby interrupted, his tone sharp. “It is for their own good. We left the cart up there, remember? You don’t think the guards are going to check the butcher shops in the city for one that happens to be missing its carriage and mules? ‘Pit, if they think of it, they could ask the guards at the bottom of the Keep and get a list of every butcher who came through this evening.” Crossing his arms, the strawberry-blond mage went on, “They’ll find him, trust me. Probably by dawn. But Master Sherman and his wife will tell the guards they were coerced - and what better way to ensure they’re believed than leaving the lovely couple’s heads a little muddled?”

Zuzia wanted to object— badly— but she had to admit that Colby had a point. The knights were going to arrive to the Pells’ butchery thinking Sherman and Aubrianna were complicit in the botched heist— and would therefore need a very good reason to reconsider. Finding the husband and wife drugged out of their terrified minds would probably suit this purpose quite well. And thus likely save the Pells from a rather severe and unpleasant fate.

Zuzanna scowled. “Fine. Greyroot for them. But not us.” She paused, considering for a moment. “Although…” The teenager spared a brief look toward Leif. “Leif said it is complicate to brew, yes? How does we know you have even maked it right?”

“It’s my job,” Colby said. “Well, one of them. I brew potions for people. Complex ones. People pay me a lot to get them right, so - I get them right. What,” he added with a hint of his earlier arrogance, “you never noticed the little shopfront by the cartwright’s place? It does good business when the seasons change and suddenly everyone has a fever.”

“Lovely,” Leif said stiffly. “We’re still not drinking it.”

“All right.” Merrick didn’t look quite happy about it, but he nodded. “We’ll dose Aubrianna and Sherman just as soon as Aubri gets here. It takes about an hour to kick in, so they shouldn’t pass out before they can be escorted back to their place— but they should hopefully still be out of it when the cavalry shows up.”

Colby confirmed, “It should last into the afternoon. They’ll be fine.”

Leif grimaced, but nodded slightly. “I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly to Sherman. “You and your wife - this shouldn’t have happened to you two.” In response Sherman only gave the archmage a wan smile. The archmage turned back to Colby and Merrick and pressed, “And Kirin? Zuzia’s family?”

“Well, as I said before, fine. But…” Merrick steepled his fingers. “You haven’t tipped your husband off, Madam Panem, have you?”

“Tip him off?” Zuzia scowled. “What does that mean?”

“You were suspicious of us before we kidnapped you,” Merrick replied. “Your hackles already raised— enough to fetch Lord Jade here to help you. How do I know you didn’t tell your husband, as well? Caution him that if you didn’t return by a certain time, to go and get the city guard?”

“I did not tell Phyllo,” Zuzia snapped. “He would have just worry. He does not know, and if you want our help— you call men off. Now! And release Kirin, too!”

Colby got to his feet. “All right, all right - I’ll send a runner with a message to stand down from your flat, Madam Panem. And someone for Master Jade’s husband.” He used their titles with clear annoyance, but afterward he dropped the irritation from his tone and turned to Merrick, asking gently, “Is there anything else you need from me?”

Merrick shook his head. “No, everything should be all right,” he murmured. “Or… not all right, but on track, at least. T-to get Nessa back just as soon we can.” He shut his eyes briefly, clearly talking only to his husband as he added: “This will be her last night with those monsters. Tomorrow she’ll sleep right between us. Safe. Home.”

Colby put a hand on Merrick’s shoulder. “Right where she belongs. We’ll get her back safe and sound.” He glanced up at Leif and Zuzanna, a warning in his eyes, before giving Merrick’s shoulder a brief, consoling rub and then heading out of the room.

***

It was approaching twenty minutes of awkward silence by the time Colby returned, shouldering the door open so he could carefully carry a tray with a teapot and two cups and saucers. The teapot’s spout was capped - probably a precaution against grayroot’s rather acrid, bitter, unmistakable smell leaking into the room.

A short, stout woman with graying silver-blonde hair entered, her arm in the firm grip of a man who led her to the seat next to Sherman— whereupon the butcher immediately burst into tears, not skipping a beat before he’d smothered the woman— Aubrianna, presumably— in a crushing hug. Then came another man, escorting -

“Kirin!” Leif took two long strides to cross the room and get to him. The henchman holding Kirin’s arm glowered at Leif, and Leif gave him the most hawkish glare he could back - but Colby cleared his throat and after a glance in his direction, Kirin’s captor released his prisoner’s arm. Leif was quick to draw Kirin away from him, away from any of the goons, and hugged him tightly. Kirin’s fingers pulled tight around the fabric of Leif’s cloak as he returned the embrace.

Leif asked, “Are you all right? They said they didn’t hurt you…” The doubt was evident in his tone.

But Kirin replied, a little shakily, “They didn’t, I’m - I’m all right. All they did was make me sit in a room, and told me that as long as you cooperated with their bosses, everything would be all right. ...They offered me tea.” The bafflement in his voice almost made Leif laugh, but he wasn’t quite there yet - especially considering the ‘tea’ on the table.

“You didn’t accept it, did you?” Leif asked.

“No, of course not.”

“Good.” Leif hugged Kirin a little tighter. “I’m so sorry - I’m so glad you’re okay. They’re letting you go right now.”

A third man, breathing slightly heavily and with a glint of a sweat on his forehead despite the cold weather, entered the room and went to Merrick and Colby, where he muttered something quietly to them. Nodding, Colby looked at Zuzanna and said, “The men have been called off. They’ll move out in small duos and trios to avoid too much attention, but they’ll be gone well within the hour.”

Small duos and trios. Which meant Kubrair had to have set— Woo, Zuzia wasn’t even sure if she wanted to know how many scum of the world had been scouting out her place. For what felt like the millionth time that night, she was overcome with the overwhelming urge to draw her wand and curse the living hells out of Merrick and Colby. A stinging hex, maybe, or a stunner— or heck, she could even drag out from her repertoire some of the more violent incantations she’d learned in her course of training to be the next margrave of a Meltaiman province, the ones Leif had baldly prohibited her from ever using again, but surely in this instance he’d understand—

Leif, seeing the girl’s hand drifting toward her wand, warned, “Zuzanna - don’t. I understand - and maybe they deserve it.” He scowled at the two men responsible for his husband’s kidnapping. “But we need them to help us find Vanessa. ...And if you stun them, they can’t do any of the legwork.”

“What do we even care about Vanessa?” Zuzia snapped, her hand not moving. Nearby, Merrick stiffened, his jaw clenching as Zuzia continued: “They had probably a dozen men standing at my flat waiting to hurt Phyllo and Silvia if we did not cooperate— they would have hurt my husband and baby—”

“As we’ve said repeatedly, we were never going to hurt anyone!” Merrick cut in tersely. “We just needed the threat, the leverage—”

“If it was only threat, why even send the men to scout my place!?” Zuzia growled. “You could have just pretend they were there, if you really would not have hurt Phyllo and Silvia! And you could have just pretend to kidnap Kirin!”

“Yes, pretending would have worked marvellously on someone going to the guards and someone who might have been tipped off,” Colby retorted in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “And look - Master Jade’s husband is fine! We said we weren’t going to hurt him, we didn’t hurt him - we’ve kept our word every step of the way!”

Zuzia glowered. “Yes, but—”

“Zuzanna,” Leif interrupted. “Listen - Vanessa isn’t responsible for their actions.” He tried to meet her eyes and said wryly, “I think we both know some people whose fathers made poor choices, and we don’t blame them for those mistakes.”

“She’s only nine,” Merrick added. “Please, Madam Panem, she’s only nine. Innocent. And she’s been through so much— when Colby and I took her in, she was half-starved to death. Six-years-old, and already begging and picking pockets just to survive another day. Don’t make her pay for our mistakes. Please.”

For a moment longer, Zuzia stayed stiff. Seething. But then, abruptly, the teenager sagged. Her hand fell away from her holstered wand. “Fine,” she said. “But for Vanessa. Not for you two. As far as I am concern, you two can go f—”

“Yes, thank you,” Colby said curtly. “We get the idea.”

***

By the time Sherman and Aubrianna had been drugged— and then duly escorted back to their home— it was dawn, the ink-black sky overhead transformed to a drab, foggy gray. Sometime in the last few hours it had started to snow, fat flakes lazily riding the light breeze as they meandered toward the ground below. Zuzanna watched them through the window of Merrick’s home office as she sat cross-legged on a small but comfortable sofa, Leif and Kirin seated at her side while Merrick slumped behind his oak desk and Colby stood leaning against the far wall. Colby had— somewhat ironically, Zuzia thought— made them all tea to perk their spent energy, and the teenage archmage sipped gingerly at her mug, the potent brew scalding all the way down her throat.

“So.” Merrick rubbed his weary temples, the dark, puffy bags that limned his eyes unmistakable against the pale morning light. “Kirin is free. Aubrianna is free, and Sherman, as well. We’ve called our men off your flat, Madam Panem.” He let out a soft, miserable, strangled laugh. “And if we don’t scramble the ransom in the next ten hours, my and Colby’s daughter is dead.”

“Right,” Leif said. “So...who’s holding this ransom on you? And why? ...And how did they know you had a daughter in the first place, Zuzia didn’t know that - she didn’t even know the two of you were together.”

Colby glanced at Merrick; the ginger didn’t seem to know where to start, and so Colby began the the explanation himself. “Well, for starters - they probably spied on us to figure out about Vanessa. We keep her out of our work to...well, avoid things like this happening. And of course Panem didn’t know about it - that’s how we run things. Or, rather, how Merrick runs things. He’s in charge, and I’m the second-in-command - plain and simple. We both know that, the people who work for us know that - but when we’re doing business, it makes things easier. Implies there’s a bigger chain of command, and one person has control over all of it.”

Leif wasn’t entirely sure how that worked, but then, he had trouble extrapolating details like that from social interactions. He got the general idea, though - it was a way of puffing themselves up to look bigger, in a sense. “That’s why the separate last names? Or I assume yours isn’t ‘Kubrair’,” Leif said to Colby.

“Yes, that’s why. I know, Master Jade,” Colby went on, “it’s shocking that a couple might keep their original surnames. Don’t you agree, Lord Mao?” A beat. “...I mean, we did consider trying to put a new one together, that we could just use privately...but, well, you try combining ‘Kubrair’ and ‘Sanders’ and getting something palatable.”

“...Right,” Leif said, deciding now wasn’t the time to really focus on that. “But you didn’t answer - how did you get in this mess?”

“I didn’t answer because you were interrupting me,” Colby said. He waited a moment, and when Leif was silent - resisting the urge to roll his eyes - the strawberry-blond mage said, “We took out a loan. For quite a lot of money. It would have let us operate business farther north, which is something we can’t do very well from here. Forgive me for not sharing more details than that - besides, you don’t really need to know them.”

“Oh, I see,” Zuzia snapped. “You do not make nearly enoughs money stealing from Medieville, so you have to take out loan so you can steal more in other places. That is perfectly reasonable!”

Merrick huffed a very beleaguered sigh. “We would have been able to pay it back quickly,” he said, as if this made the matter any less unsavoury. “The plan was to get the capital, get our operations set up in the north, and then use that new secondary base of operations to—”

“To pay it back, yes,” Leif said, unable to pretend to care about the fine details of how they’d gotten into this mess. “But you didn’t.”

“Couldn’t,” Colby corrected. “We had a very good shipment that was about to go through, and we were going to make plenty to pay them back. But one of our drivers suddenly botched our protocol at an inspection and got caught. We just barely managed not to go down entirely - but it cost us the entire shipment. Even you,” he tossed at Leif, “would be appalled at how much we lost on it.”

Colby heaved a sigh. “Anyway. We went to the loaners, and asked for more time - we explained what had happened, that we understood there’d be interest, but...they refused. Said it was too much money to delay returning.”

“We didn’t think they’d resort to this, though,” Merrick said miserably. “And we thought we’d have more time. That’s why we tested you, Madam Panem— we’d hoped if we had another mage, an archmage at that, helping us… well, we could increase profits. Get them their money before they did anything… rash. But then you spooked, and… well, it didn’t matter anyway. Two days after we left the theft tags on the shipment, Vanessa vanished. Right from our front yard. And— after that, everything else ceased to matter except for her getting her back. We started scrambling. Tr-trying to figure out a plan, any plan, to get our baby back.” He sniffed. “We couldn’t believe it at first, you know... thought maybe she’d just wandered off, but… then they sent a runner. W-with a ransom request. The full amount of the loan. By… well, by sundown today.” He gulped. “We couldn’t believe it. That they’d be so brutal.”

“I know, it must be shocking, when criminals do crime,” Zuzia returned, though there was a lump suddenly knotting her throat. ‘Pit, did she feel bad for Merrick and Colby? She took another sip of her tea and added, “So. Who is they— these loan men you ripped off?”

“We didn’t rip them off, we were - “

Leif snapped, “Are you trying to get a hex cast on you? The loan men - who are they?”

Colby scowled, but got to the point. “They introduced themselves as John and James Black. Merrick and I figure those are aliases. But they seem to be brothers, and they look enough alike I believe it. They run their own little gamuts around the city - by which I mean, they have their own employees.”

“Lackeys,” Leif corrected.

“...Whichever you like. Some of their workers are mages, which means we have our work cut out for us.”

Leif said, “We’ll handle it. ...So where are they keeping Vanessa, do you know?”

“If we knew, do you think we’d be sitting here?” Merrick snapped. He waved a hand, disgustedly. “No, we don’t know. The employee—”

“Lackey,” Zuzia cut in.

“... Yes, the lackey they sent with the ransom request told us the location we’re to leave the money. But that’s it.” Merrick rubbed his temple again. “Supposedly, once we’ve paid up, they’ll release Nessa at some place in the city and let her find her way home.”

Leif blinked. “Oh. Charming.”

Colby snorted. “Exactly. Miserable cads, letting a nine-year-old wander the streets and hoping she finds her way home… not even really hoping, probably.”

“Do you know any of their locations?” Leif pressed. “We could...we could at least get an idea what sorts of places we might be looking for.”

“Well…” Merrick considered this. “We did the original transaction at a little hole-in-the-wall. On Fleet Street?” He added quickly: “But Colby and I already went there— it was the first place we went after we got the ransom— and it was abandoned. Vanessa’s not there.”

“And hows did you originally contact them?” Zuzia needled. “When you ask for loan?”

“It was sort of a… friend of a friend of a friend of a friend deal?” Merrick replied. “You know, people in our profession know other people who know other people and—” The ginger shrugged, waving a dismissive hand. “We inquired. A few days later, an em—” He cut himself off. “Erm, a lackey arrived to our door. With the time and location of the meeting.”

Leif frowned. “Well...maybe Zuzia and I could contact your friend, and get them to arrange a meeting for us… But they probably wouldn’t risk taking us near wherever they’re keeping her. Not to mention it might take too much time to set something up.” After a moment’s thought, Leif said, “Unless...I suppose I could play as a Courdonian slave-raider? That’d give me an excuse to see her. ...Except, slave-raiders don’t really come this far north. Certainly not to Medieville. And how would I have known she was...in a position where people might be interested in how much money she can get them?” He shook his head. “No. That wouldn’t work at all, would it?”

“It wouldn’t— but it was a good thought,” Zuzia soothed.

“No, it wasn’t,” Merrick groused.

Leif shot back, “Then give us something to work with!”

“What do you think we’re trying to do?!” Colby snapped, straightening from the wall. “Trying to contact them isn’t going to work, they’re not going to take us to Vanessa!”

“Then there must be some way to figure out who they really are,” Leif insisted. “Then we can figure out where they might be likely to keep her.”

“Or, we just find another way to raise the ransom,” Merrick suggested, almost feverishly. It was far from the first time he’d rattled off such an idea, but this time his voice was particularly ardent as he continued, “If we split up, say, and targeted a whole slew of high-value businesses—”

Colby tilted his head. “There are the manors, too - they’d be guarded, but there are lots of things that should be worth close to the amount, at least. And we wouldn’t be the first to break in there, if the stories are correct - “

“We are not robbing anyone,” Leif said tartly. “...Except the loaners. But we are definitely not breaking into our employers’ manors!”

“Well, if they’re your employers,” Colby said slowly, “then you’d know ways in…”

“Absolutely. Not.”

Merrick sighed as though Leif were being very unreasonable. “All right. Fine. No manors. But shops—”

“What part of ‘not robbing’ do you nots understand!?” Zuzia snapped. “If it involves stealing, it is not happen! End of story! Szalone mężczyzn!”

Merrick blinked. “What?”

“Never mind.” Zuzanna waved a hand, huffishly. “But no robbing. Nope.”

“Fine, fine.” Colby pressed a hand to his head. “...There are spells for making currency - “

“Yes, a spell to make one runestone at a time,” Leif said. “You and I and Zuzia would be pulled before we got together half the value of crown jewels. And there are spells for - “

“Detecting forgeries - yes, I know - it’s been something of a long night, Master Jade!” A beat of silence, then Colby suggested, “We could go to the place we met them again - maybe there’s something there this time, maybe they moved Nessa there and she was able to leave us something?”

“Why would they moves her?” Zuzia returned. “Especially to someplace you could find!?”

“Don’t yell at him!” Merrick cut in roughly. “He’s stressed, and I hardly see you spitting out any better ideas—”

“Because we have nothing to work with! The names are fake, your only location is a hole in the ground you’ve already searched - do you remember anything about them? What they looked like, if they had any distinguishing features?”

After a moment, Colby offered, “Brown hair. About the same height. They both had nice rings - the older one had one piece I asked about, learned some interesting things about the sapphire market.”

Despite knowing somewhere deep down that this was about as helpful a description as he himself could have managed, Leif couldn’t help snapping, “Well, that’s wonderful - if nothing else you’ll be able to get a great sapphire run going, I’m sure - “

“You asked!”

“Stop yelling at him!” Merrick whined again, snarling like a kicked dog.


Zuzia opened her lips, as though to reply— but before she could, it was Kirin, of all people, who interrupted the argument. “Can’t you just ask people?”

Merrick blinked, gaze snapping toward the white-haired man. “What do you mean, ask people?”

Leif glowered back at Merrick, a protective hand darting to Kirin’s shoulder, but before the archmage could make a hypocrite of himself and tell Merrick to leave his husband alone, Kirin said, “I mean...ask people. You heard about these loaners from someone else, you said? That means other people know them, and they might know more about them than you do. ...Maybe enough to find a real name, or a job, or a place of business?” He shrugged lightly.

“We can’t just… ask people,” Merrick sputtered. “No one will tell us even if they do know. That’s how you lose your kneecaps.” A beat. “Or end up kidnapped. And murdered. Brutally murdered.”

Zuzia lifted a brow. “I don’t know,” she said. “I have heard it before— honour amongst thieves, yes? I cannot imagines most criminals would approve of these loan-men stealing Vanessa. Some of thems have children, too, no?”

“I...I suppose,” Colby said, looking to Merrick hesitantly. “We never did hear anything second-hand about them kidnapping Vanessa. That we were in some trouble with the loan-men, that got around, but…”

“No one will risk ratting,” Merrick said definitively.

“And does it hurt?” Zuzia countered. “To try? Maybe you will be surprise. When your scum friends is not total heartless monsters after all.”

Colby said, “If they realize we’re planning to break her free, though, and they want some favor or something with the loaners - they might not only refuse to tell us, but go tell the kidnappers themselves.”

Leif raised his eyebrows. “We don’t have very much time - once that time is up, is it really going to matter if they know you were trying to save her?”

Colby’s lips pressed into a thin line. “...I suppose not.”

“And if someone seems squirrely or starts asking too many questions - we follow them right to their bosses. Three mages, two of them archmages, should more than stand a chance against some thugs.“

“And if no one’s cooperative?” Merrick said, a bit shrilly. “What then?”

“I don’t know,” Zuzia admitted. “But— how do you say, let us walk bridge when it is there?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Leif corrected. “But close enough. I think Zuzanna’s right - there’s nothing to lose at this point. And,” he added, “I know I’m willing to be more forceful with people aiding child-thieves than with innocent Keep guards.”

For a moment, neither Merrick nor Colby spoke. Then, the redhaired man gave a small nod. “All right,” he murmured. “We… we can try that.” Blinking hard, he turned toward his husband. “Salome Bonner. Sh-she’s our best bet, don’t you think? The best person to start with.”

“Salome Bonner?” Zuzia asked, her tongue tripping over the syllables. “Who is that?”

“A friend,” Colby said dryly. “She has a shop near First Holy,” the mage continued, referring to the somewhat dilapidated, not-so-somewhat hedonistic, church not far from the city gates, “and she’s got a good ear and a loose tongue.”

“That sounds like as good a start as any,” Leif said. “And if she’s not any help...maybe we can find somebody at the church.” He didn’t sound enthusiastic about this prospect.

“Yes, maybe the devout criminals will be most helpful of all criminals,” Zuzia quipped. Sighing, she took one final swig from her teacup and then stood, setting the mug aside. “Let’s go, then,” she said. “No use wasting times. Although…” She turned to glance down at Kirin. “Do… do you think you could do something for me? A favour?”

Kirin nodded. “What would you like me to do?”

“Could you go to my flat?” Zuzia asked. “Because Phyllo will be waking up soon— if he fell sleeping at all. And he will be worried that I did not come home. And…”

Leif winced. “He might get himself into more trouble trying to find you. Or bring the guard down on us.”

“He’ll definitely be worried,” Kirin agreed. “I can go make sure he knows what’s going on.”

“Maybe not everything?” Colby said tartly. “If there could be one person in the city who doesn’t know about this by the end of it -”

“He is my husband,” Zuzia retorted hotly— before she promptly bit her lip. “Although…” Looking to Leif, she murmured, “He might worry. If… Kirin tell whole truth. Worry bad. And… complicate things.”

Frowning, Colby said, “The four of us is a big enough group as it is, and we’ll probably be starting a lot of talk. If you’re saying he’ll come out and try helping us, that makes us a bigger pack. And what about the baby?”

Leif nodded slightly. “And if Phyllo needs to be cooped up with Silvia...it might be better if he’s not worrying about us going after loaners who are immoral enough to kidnap children and have a mage and a blackmarket ringleader frightened to go after them.” Colby bristled but Leif spoke before could. “Kirin, maybe just...let him know Zuzia’s all right, and that I’m with her? ...And that we’ll explain everything later. Once we deal with this situation.”

Kirin nodded slightly, looking a little dubious. “I can’t really tell him everything even if he asks; there are still things I’m not sure about.”

“We’ll explain everything to you both,” Leif promised. “You two deserve to know, seeing as you were in danger because of it. I’m sorry for that,” he added, putting a hand over Kirin’s, before sighing and turning to Merrick and Colby. “I’ll walk him there. Seeing as last time didn’t exactly go to plan.”

“That's wasting time,” Merrick huffed. “It's not like we’re going to kidnap him again, so I don't see why he needs a babysitter.”

Leif shot back, “Oh, and your predictions of kidnapping have been so accurate thus far. And we might be working together, but that doesn’t mean I trust you. I’d rather not find out on the way to the loan-men’s den that you got desperate for leverage again.”

“Fine,” Merrick said. “We’ll all escort Lord Mao, and then we can head to see Salome after we drop him off. It’ll be a nice happy field trip.”

A growl rose in the back of Zuzia’s throat, low and animal. “No. I do not wants you near my flat—”

“The histrionics!” Merrick moaned. “Always the histrionics with you! We clearly already know where you live. It’s not like we’ll be gaining any new information.” He added hotly, “And as I said, we’re not doing any more kidnapping anyway.”

“They can’t learn anything new,” Leif pointed out to Zuzanna. “And it would give Phyllo a chance to see you.” He wanted to add that she could maybe lay a protection charm down before they left, or give Phyllo some sort of enchanted item, perhaps - but that was exactly the sort of thing he didn’t want Merrick and Colby to know about. He would have to suggest that quietly somehow on the way there, or once they reached the flat.

“Fine,” Zuzanna grumbled. “And… maybe Phyllo will feel betters if I am there to see him in person, anyway. Instead of just Kirin showing ups with wobbly explains.” She glared at Merrick. “Since you so helpfully knows where I live— you can leads the way, Master Kubrair.”

Thick as Thieves: Part Five

SPOILER: Click to show

At the Panem apartment, Zuzia demanded that Merrick and Colby wait outside while she, Leif, and Kirin headed upstairs to see Phyllo. The two criminals were moderately grumpy about being left out in the cold, but didn’t argue too much over it after Zuzanna pointed out that any energy they spent squabbling was time wasted when it came to Vanessa.

Still, even without the twitchy strangers to introduce and explain, Phyllo was— understandably— nearly beside himself with worry over his wife’s failure to come home the night before, and it took no shortage of time to reassure him that everything was all right. Even after Kirin offered to keep the teenager company until Zuzia returned again, Phyllo was clearly reluctant to let his wife go, and only after she swore up and down that the moment she was back she’d share with him the full story did he finally relent.

“It hopefully will not takes long, okay?” she soothed him as she planted a kiss on his cheek by the front door— then a second one on Silvia’s forehead, as the little girl slept peacefully in her father’s arms. “You and Kirin can talk baking— your favourite, right? And I will be homes before you know it.”

Back out in the cold, as the dawn’s snow flurries started to ebb into a heavier downfall, Merrick and Colby looked rather… peeved, to say the least. As the door thumped shut behind Zuzanna and Leif, the ginger man scowled, his pale eyes narrowed into apprising slits.

“That took a long time,” he accused. “Why’d it take so long?”

Leif scowled. “We were saying goodbye to our husbands before going on a jaunt to a dangerous part of town to find information on a pair of even more dangerous criminals. Forgive us for trying to be thorough. Not to mention we had to give some reassurances, considering the company we’ve been stuck keeping the entire bloody night.” Naturally, Leif did not mention the time he and Zuzanna had taken to cast alarm spells on the flat. “But if you’re so impatient - let’s get moving. The sooner we find who has Vanessa, the better.”

“Fine,” Merrick groused. “Salome lives south of here. This time of day, she’s probably still in bed. We’ll have to rouse her.”

“Poor criminal, not get her beauty sleeps.” Zuzia rolled her eyes, taking a moment to adjust the hood of her cloak before she started off in the indicated direction. “So. You steals. Loan-men loan. What is Salome’s crime of favourite?”

“Not everyone we know is a criminal,” Colby huffed.

Leif gave him a sideways glance, while Zuzia looked somewhere between swearing and laughing.

The hazel-eyed mage sighed and admitted, “...Occasionally Salome will pick a pocket, if she can get away with it. And sometimes she pawns off things we can’t sell. But that’s very minor in the scheme of things.”

“Oh, so just a little thief,” Zuzia said dryly. “What a saint, this Salome.”

“Yes, yes, we get it, you’re a pious, wonderful individual who has never, ever broken the law,” Merrick snapped. “Now can we walk in peace, please? Your voice is grating.”

Leif was tempted to argue, but decided finding Vanessa was more important right now. Later, though - there would be words, Leif vowed. Are they honestly surprised that someone would be upset after that parade of hostages and being forced to break into the Keep?

“Let’s stay focused,” he said instead of that. “Vanessa needs us cooperating, not bickering.”

“Quit starting fights, then,” Colby retorted.

Leif counted to ten, but still wanted to cast stinging hexes at the blackmarketing couple’s faces, so he counted to twenty.

By the time Leif made it to the count of two-hundred-and-twenty-six, the group could see the doors to the First Holy Church of Woo between the buildings ahead. The building was as untended and sad-looking as always; overgrown, the wood panels around the door and the dirty windows still half-rotted, roof tiles cracked or entirely missing... but it wasn’t what they were looking for, at least not yet.

Merrick and Colby instead led the two archmages to a small shop; Leif guessed it was maybe a little smaller than Morgaine’s lockshop, though unlike quite a few of the other buildings around, it did have a second story. The wood of the walls and the sign were nice, too.

As Colby rapped sharply on the door, Leif asked, “Does she get a cut of your profits?”

“No, not a cut - but we do have what we call an informant fee in this business.” Colby tried for a smirk, but even Leif could tell his heart wasn’t in it.

“She’s only got half the floor space of this shop, though,” Merrick added. “Sells tallow and candles. She rents out the rest to a nice young man who sells little baubles and figurines. He makes them himself. Vanessa has one— a little miniature duck.”

“And is that shopkeeper criminal, too?” Zuzia asked dryly.

Merrick sighed. Loudly. “As Colby said, not everyone we know is a criminal.” A beat. “I think he might use his business as a front for money laundering. But--” Merrick waved a hand. “He’s probably not here this early.” He rapped again on the door, harder this time. “Come on, Salome, wake up.”

“So, yes,” Leif muttered to Zuzanna, “Everyone they know is - “

The door squeaked open, cutting Leif off. He looked up sharply and saw a woman with dark eyes, a lined face, and hair graying a bit at the roots lean out the partially-open door. She eyed Leif and Zuzanna briefly, but when she actually spoke, she addressed Merrick. “You’re here awful late, Merrick. Somethin’ the matter?”

“Early, actually,” Merrick corrected. “But um. Yes. Something’s the matter.” He swallowed hard, straightening himself so as to pretend he was confident, not an anxious mess. “It's Vanessa. Remember the ah, businessmen you helped put us in touch with a few months back? The loan proprietors? They've… they’ve taken Vanessa.”

“They did what?” The woman drew back slightly in surprise. “But she’s just a little girl - you’re sure it was them?” She looked between Merrick and Colby. “...Don’t tell me you didn’t pay back a loan, Master Kubrair?” Her tone suggested she already had a good guess.

Colby didn’t bother answering the question. “We’re sure who it was. Except...well, they gave you false names - we need their real ones. Their real surname, at least. “

Salome bit her lip. “The names I gave you were the only ones I had. They’re not the kind of people you go pryin’ at - I did tell you these weren’t little fish you were getting yourselves tangled up with!” she added defensively.

“Who told you about them?” Merrick asked simply. “Maybe that person knows more.”

Salome sighed and muttered, “Speaking of playing with big fish… Margerie Oakley told me about them. She got a loan for her shop from ‘em, said they were nothing but pleasant - but you know how she is. The old lady’s lucky tourist season was booming, or I don’t know how she was planning on paying ‘em back. ‘Woo knows how she found ‘em, but…” Salome shrugged.

“Margerie Oakley?” Zuzia echoed. Brow furrowed, she looked to Merrick and Colby, guessing: “Another criminal?”

“No, actually.” Merrick sounded inordinately smug about this fact. “She runs a little shop down the street. Sells sweets. Vanessa loves her toffee.” His voice deflated here. “We buy her a piece whenever we drop by to see Salome.”

Colby said firmly, “We’ll buy her some while we’re there; Vanessa can have some on the way home.”

Salome nodded sympathetically, but her eyes turned hard again as she looked at Leif and Zuzia. “So. These friends of yours? With all this grumblin’ about ‘criminals’...”

Even Leif could tell from her tone that she was dubious, and quickly said, “We’re helping them find Vanessa. Moral disagreements over petty crime aside.” Colby and Merrick either didn’t see or ignored Leif’s pointed look.

“Thanks for your help, Salome,” the ginger said simply. He turned back toward the street. “Let's go visit Margerie. And…” He exchanged a brief look with Colby. “Maybe we shouldn’t mention what this is over, precisely. Since Madam Oakley’s very, very far from a criminal, and I wouldn’t want to give the poor woman a heart attack. I doubt she knows the Black brothers are… unsavoury, shall we say?”

“I think I would have a heart attack if she’s noticed it,” Colby agreed with tired dry humor.

Merrick sighed. “Right. Let’s go.”

The elderly woman’s quaint shop, located just a few hundred paces further down the road, had seemingly just opened for the day; the curtains were swept aside to let through the beams of pale sunlight that sneaked out through the silvery clouds and falling snow, and the hearth by the door was bright and crackling. The air smelled sweet, almost tantalizingly so: a fragrant muddle of sugar, caramel, and vanilla, underscored by a crisp tang of aromatic spices.

“Welcome, welcome,” greeted the elderly, silver-haired woman who stood behind the counter, a pan of fresh, glossy toffee balanced in her arms. “It's been a while, you two,” she added, grinning toward Merrick and Colby. “Where's the little one today? Still snug in bed at home, hm?”

Colby smiled thinly. “That she is - and she was feeling a little under the weather last night, so, we’re running our vital errands now so we can spend the rest of the day herding her back to bed to rest if we need to.”

“Oh, poor dear.” Margerie tutted, setting down the pan. “I shall have to throw in an extra candy for her— she likes cinnamon, doesn't she?” As Merrick nodded, blinking hard as he seemed to struggle to maintain his composure, Margerie’s dark eyes trailed toward Zuzia and Leif, and she trilled on, “I don't think we’ve met before, dears— you're friends of the Masters Kubrair and Sanders here, I take it?”

Zuzia nodded slowly. “Yes. Ah, friends.” She made herself smile. “They tell us you makes very good sweets.”

Margerie blushed, waving a hand. “Oh, flatter me like that and I might have to give you a free extra piece, too.” She grinned toward Merrick and Colby. “So— what shall it be today? The usual suspects?”

“Hmm…” Colby glanced to Merrick, then back to Margerie. “I think this time that should be all right, yes.” the mage went on with a sigh, “I’m sorry to say that we might have to shrink our usual order for a while.”

“Oh?” As Margerie bustled to fill a thin cloth bag with various pieces of toffee and brittle, she creased her brow in concern. “Something wrong, dearie?”

Colby leaned on the counter. “Not wrong wrong, exactly - just...well, we were looking at the finances for the shipments, and, well - I won’t bore you will all the details, but the caravan’s shipments haven’t brought in as much, potion ingredients took a nice hike this year, and we have a lot of upkeep we just put off with the wagons. It stretches our finances pretty thin - the investment should pay off, it’ll just take a while.”

“Oh, that's no good.” Margerie seemed truly distressed on the criminals’ behalf— poor old woman, Zuzia thought; she'd have sold pet mice to a snake. “How long you reckon it's going to take you to get right side up again?”

Merrick shrugged. “We aren't sure,” he said. “But… a while.”

“Hmmm.” As Margerie set the candy bag on the counter, she seemed to consider. “You know… I was having some hard times last year. After my Alfred passed. For a time I thought I might have to close up shop.”

“Oh, yes, I remember,” Colby said. “Poor Alfred; taken to the ‘Woo too soon. And your trouble with the shop - Merrick and I were glad you were able to keep it open, but...I thought that was just a good summer season.” He tilted his head slightly.

“I had an angel, actually,” Margerie said as she tied a wispy ribbon around the top of the cloth bag to cinch it shut. “A pair of brothers, lovely young gentlemen— they helped me when no one else would.”

This poor woman was lucky she hadn't ended up chopped to bits in some greasy alley, Zuzia thought to herself with a wince. The young archmage said, “Oh? They helps you with shop, then?”

“Mmhm,” Margerie confirmed. “Truly nice young lads! I went to see them and they gave me the money I needed right there on the spot— isn't that so lovely? When other people I'd considered my friends for years refused to give me so much as a bootstrap!”

“That’s - that’s wonderful!” Colby said. Leif shot him a look - even the socially-inept archmage thought that was a little much of a reaction. Colby seemed to catch his own mistake, however, and quickly said, “I would have hated for this shop to go under, and you with it. And I know no other sweet shop would ever have come close to replacing this one. ...These brothers, though - they just gave you the money? Are they charity folks of some kind, then?”

“Oh, no,” Margerie said. “I had to pay them back, of course, once profits were better. Plus a little interest. But—” She nodded sagely. “Very well worth it, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Of course,” Zuzia agreed, a sour taste rising in her throat. “And… how did you meets them? These angels.”

“They’re my son’s friends,” the elderly woman said merrily. “He knew of my hard times, and he wanted so badly to help, but he’s not a rich man himself, you know? So he gave me their names— James and John Black, they were— and set up a meeting between us. Wasn’t that sweet of him?” She tapped the counter, turning her eyes toward Merrick and Colby again. “All right— so. Let’s call it two runestones for the bag? I threw in a few extra pieces of cinnamon bark for poor little Vanessa. And—” Her gaze shifted back to Leif and Zuzia as Merrick dutifully dug into his pockets for the money. “What were you two wanting? Anything in particular, just an assortment bag…?”

“Er…” Leif glanced around; the others were watching him expectantly. Was it suspicious not to get anything? Maybe - and if they were only a few runestones a piece...and she was helping them in a non-criminal way. “...An assortment bag, please?” the archmage said. Maybe some sweets would help Kirin feel a little better, too.

“Of course, of course.” Margerie hustled back toward the candy-lined shelves as Merrick set his payment down on the counter. “And for you, young miss?” she called over her shoulder.

“Um, well...” Zuzia gave Leif a sidelong look that she hoped he would properly read as: I don’t have any money but also do not want to offend the nice lady, please help. When he returned the look with an amused nod, she flashed him an awkward smile and continued to Margerie: “Assortment is goods for me, too. Thank you.” A pause, before she added, “Though no cinnamons for me, actually. Anything buts cinnamon.” Phyllo couldn’t stand the taste or scent, and Woo knew, she hardly needed the entire bag of sweets to herself.

“Two assorted bags coming up, one without cinnamon,” the old woman replied brightly. Then, as she nimbly filled the cloth sacks, she mused, “You know, I’m sure my dear Wally wouldn’t mind connecting you with his friends, if you wanted. Not that I’m guaranteeing they’ll be as generous with you as they were with me but— no harm in trying, hmmm? If you’d like.”

“Oh, definitely no harm in trying!” Colby agreed. “...We ah, we hate to rush things, but, well, the sooner we can start getting some money into fixes, the more likely we’ll be able to pay a loan back in time - do you know where we could find Wally right now?”

“Oh, this early?” Margerie laughed. “He’ll still be home, I imagine. Especially what with the snow.” Bags filled, she padded back toward the counter. “He lives in a wee little flat by the lake— a brick building next door to Padford’s Leatherworks? On the top floor. He’s got a nice view of the water, you can’t imagine how pretty it is on a clear day in summer!”

“Padford’s - right, we know where that is,” Colby said, unable to keep the relief from his voice. He backed away from the counter to rejoin his husband as Leif stepped forward to pay for the sweets. “Madam Oakley, if this works out, we are very much in your debt.”

Margerie practically glowed. “Oh, nonsense!” she insisted as she accepted Leif’s runestones in exchange for the candy sachets. “You’re such a nice family, I hate seeing you go through hard times. Let me know how it works out for you, hm?”

“Of course,” Merrick agreed. “You… you have a wonderful day, Madam Oakley.”

“You, as well!” Margerie returned. “And…” She smiled toward Leif and Zuzia. “Come back soon to let me know how you’ve enjoyed the sweets? I do hope you like them! And any friends of Masters Kubrair and Sanders are friends of mine.”

***

Armed with information and candy, the criminals and the archmages headed for Lake Plume and the stores alongside it. Leif hoped they wouldn’t run into Morgaine - as much as he would have appreciated her sense and her snark on this quest, it would take a while to explain the situation. And he could only imagine how badly she, Merrick, and Colby would get along.

They made it to the brick building beside the leatherworks without running into anyone Leif or Zuzanna knew. Merrick and Colby had once or twice exchanged small nods with others on the street, but none of them seemed to have time to talk at the moment. That was probably for the best; the two thieves had worked up to a quick, agitated pace and seemed in no mood for slowdowns.

This pace continued into the building, up the stairs, and right up to Wally’s door. Colby knocked sharply, waited about ten seconds, and then knocked again, harder.

“Easy,” Leif muttered. “You’re going to make him think muggers are at his door.”

“We’re running out of - “ Colby swallowed his retort as the doorknob turned, and the door finally opened.

A young man with scruffy hair and his eyes drawn into a squint poked his head out of the apartment and into the hall. “‘Woo, what is it, it’s barely - “ He looked between Merrick and Colby, and suddenly his eyes were wide-open.

That was okay, though, because Merrick’s eyes had bugged wide open, too. Not because of anything Wally had said— after all, so far Margerie’s son had hardly spoken at all— but rather because the red-haired criminal recognized him. It took Merrick a moment to realise where from, and once he had…

His hands curled into fists at his side. He clenched his teeth so hard it was a wonder none of them cracked. “You!” he growled, shouldering roughly into the apartment so that Wally couldn’t slam the door on them. “You rotten, miserable son of a—”

Colby darted after his husband, wand drawn, as Wally backed away from Merrick. “I - Hold on, I can - “

Leif jolted out of the startlement of Merrick and Colby barreling into the apartment and hurried in after them. “Wait! What the ’Pit is going on? You know him?”

“Didn’t know his name until now,” Colby snarled, his wand pointed unflinchingly at the man’s chest, “but I know the face. He set up our meeting up with the Blacks - or do I have the wrong rat in mind, Merrick?”

“He’s the one who delivered the ransom request, too,” Merrick snapped, looking like he was about to deck the quivering Wally Oakley. “So nice of you, Wally— aiding in the abduction of children. I’m sure your mum would be thrilled if she knew. Poor thing— it’d break her heart.”

Zuzia quietly drew her wand, though she was unsure if she ought to point it at Wally, Merrick, Colby, or all of them. “Calm downs!” she insisted, as her brain struggled to catch up with the scene at hand. “Wally is… is loan man? I do not understands, how is he loan man?”

“Not one of the loan men,” Merrick clarified, no less calm. “Just their lackey. Their miserable, sorry, pathetic excuse for a human being lackey—”

“All right, not a friend, we understand!” Leif interrupted. “But stop for a moment - you’re going to draw attention, and if you hurt him, you might not get your information!”

Glaring at the lackey, Colby seethed, “How about after we make him talk?”

“It-It - it wasn’t my idea!!” Wally stammered. “I - I didn’t even know until after they’d done it! And they said, if you paid, she would be fine! They’ll take care of her in the meantime, and - “

Colby jabbed his wand at the man’s throat. “You shut up!”

Leif edged closer, drawing his own wand. “Put it down,” he snapped at Colby. The other mage glanced at Leif, and lowered his wand about two inches.

Wally gave Leif a grateful look - but it his eyes faded very quickly, not to Leif’s surprise; he doubted he looked especially friendly right now. Wally’s desperate glance at Zuzanna didn’t seem to give him any comfort, either.

“They are your bosses?” the younger archmage said flatly. “The loan mens?” Before Wally could reply, she added, “So very nice of you, to get your sweet elderly mama involved with peoples like that. You are such good son!”

Wally winced. “They wouldn’t have hurt Mama - do you think I’d have sent them to her if I didn’t know that? It was such a small loan, anyway, not anything like what you two made,” he said, looking toward Merrick and Colby and instantly flinching.

“Why wouldn’t they hurt her?” Leif asked. “They kidnapped a nine-year-old-girl and are planning to kill her, are they not?”

“I - I’m sure that’s just - “

Colby’s wand darted forward again. “You call it just anything and we’ll call what I do to you just a nick!“

Leif said flatly, “We don’t care if they’re exaggerating. Names. Real ones - now.”

“And before you think of lying,” Merrick added hotly, “just remember: we know your full name, Wally Oakley. We know where you live.” A beat. “We know where your mother lives.”

“Now - now you’re threatening my mother? How is that - “

“They’re not going to do anything to your mother,” Leif snapped, “or I will step in and personally introduce everyone involved to the angriest raptor I can find in my mews!”

“Oh,” Colby grumbled, “but me pointing my wand at people isn’t okay!”

“Names,” Leif snapped again, because he suspected his reaction to Colby was going to be hypocritical in terms of violence, and then that would probably get Merrick started…

“They’ll - if they find out, they’ll kill me! “

Leif had to take a breath, which gave Colby time to declare with grim cheer, “So it’s inevitable, then - better them later than us now, eh?”

“...No, n-not really!”

“Nobody is killing - or maiming - anyone!” Leif insisted. Except maybe me. “Names, or so help me, I will Verwootaserum them out of you!”

Wally looked between every face in the room again, and was just as unsuccessful in finding a sympathetic one as the first time he’d checked. All but pouting, the man muttered, “Terrell. George and Jaron Terrell.”

Leif looked around to see if anyone recognized the name. Colby’s expression remained entirely unchanged, as did Merrick’s (and, unsurprisingly, Zuzia’s).

“And where,” Merrick said thickly, “might we find the Masters Terrell? Where are they keeping Vanessa?”

Wally bit the inside of his cheek, but relented, “I - I don’t know for sure where they’re keeping her, like I said, I wasn’t involved, wanted nothing to do with - “

Colby said through gritted teeth, “Where are the Terrells, then?”

“Probably at their home. It’s - you know where Marson Manor is?”

Trying to ignore the glances the others shot his way, Leif said, “Yes…”

“Well, if you go east of it - there’s the house with the tall fence, and the rosebushes all around the front, they - they call it Terrell Manor. Or the Terrell House. Capital-letter-House,” he elaborated, as if this were useful information.

Leif frowned. “Wait - is that the house with the birdbath behind it? Two benches on either side, a bit of dirt around it, some hedges…”

“That - ah, that sounds right?” Wally said.

Zuzanna blinked. “How… how does they afford such a house?”

“Probably because they’re brutal, abominable, child-stealing monsters!” Merrick snarled. “A profitable business, I’d bet.”

… He had a point, but Zuzia couldn’t resist heaving a sigh. “Histrionics,” she pointed out, using Merrick and Colby’s all-time favourite buzzword. “Enoughs with the histrionics, hmmm?”

“It’s because they’re jewelsmiths,” Leif interjected. “I’m awful with names, but I remember that house - I went there once with one of the Marsons. He wanted a special engagement ring.” The archmage frowned in thought. “It was a big house; there would be a lot of places to hide criminal activities...and kidnapping victims.”

“Such multi-talented demons,” Merrick huffed. “Jewelsmiths, loan sharks, kidnappers…” He glowered. “They’ll be lucky to end the morning with their skulls in tact!”

“No murdering!” Zuzia rebutted tartly. “Leif and I will helps you get back Vanessa, we will not be partners in murdering!”

“That’s right,” Leif agreed, scowling. “No more hostages, and no murder!”

“They’re child-thieves,” Colby argued. “And if they got their way, they’d be murderers!”

“But they’re not going to get their way, and don’t think Zuzia or I won’t stun you and haul you off to the guards personally if you start trying!” Leif shot back.

Colby snorted. “Waste of effort for wastes of people, if you ask me. But I think we’re going to have to take one more hostage.” He glared at Wally.

The loan-mens’ lackey bristled. “Me? No - no, no, no, I’m not leading you - “

“Oh, yes you are. See, this way, you can’t run off and tell anyone - either your real bosses, if you’re lying to us, or some of your fellow goons,” Colby said. “And you’ll be just as motivated to find Vanessa and get safely out of there as we’ll be!”

Zuzia wasn’t all that thrilled with the concept of taking a hostage of her very own, but… what was the alternative? She supposed she or Leif could stun Wally— and tie him up while he was unconscious, so he couldn’t go running when he came to— or disorient him so he didn’t remember why he should run at all, but those possibilities were hardly any less morally unsavoury. And anyway, they could use Wally; he was bound to know a heck of a lot more about the Terrells’ manor— and how the kidnappers operated in general— than Leif, Zuzia, Colby, or Merrick did. And even if she had no plans of hurting him, if the Terrells cared at all about Margerie Oakley’s twitchy son, they could still make threats as such. A bargaining chip. A scrap of leverage.

“You is coming with,” Zuzia said tentatively. “And you will be cooperate. Or else…” She glared at the quivering man. “You will not likes what happens to you.”

“And Woo help you if you try to— to secretly raise some alarm once we’re at the Terrell place,” Merrick added darkly. “I don’t care what my, ah— colleagues say: I will rearrange your skull!”

Leif wondered if there was any point in arguing with Merrick’s remark - probably there was not. “Fine. If he helps us get Vanessa out without being spotted, the better - less chance for you two,” he eyed Merrick and Colby, “to go rogue.”

“Good, glad we’re settled, then,” Colby said, putting a very, very firm hand on Wally’s shoulder and turning him toward the door. “Why don’t you lead the way, Master Oakley?”

Thick as Thieves: Part Six

SPOILER: Click to show

Wally was not a particular enthusiastic leader, but at least he didn’t try to run as he sullenly led his four kidnappers out the apartment and down the winding steps that curved back down to ground level. Outside, the falling snow was edging toward an outright storm, drifts beginning to accumulate and the cobbled streets slick with ice. It was a not-insignificant walk from the lakeside apartment to the ritzy quarter that housed— among others— Marson Manor and the Terrell brothers’ home, and by the end of it even Meltaiman-reared Zuzia was shivering…not to mention Corvid-bred Leif, who was trying to hide most of his face in the high collar of his cloak.

“So, what’s our plan?” Merrick asked as he warily eyed the imposing stone manor that supposedly belonged to the brothers Terrell. The rosebushes Wally had mentioned were solidly dead for winter, and smothered beneath several compacted feet of snow, while the lofty iron fence sported a practical armoury of menacing-looking icicles. “We can hardly just pound on the front gate, they won’t just let us in… and if we try to climb over the fence, we’ll either up slipping, impaling ourselves, or both.”

Leif studied the fence, considering their options. He poked his head up a little to say, “We could go around back, and I could bend the bars wide enough for us to get through... the icicles might come loose and that could be suspicious, but...maybe they would think a particularly large bird had just landed there?”

Colby asked Zuzia, “Was that fake last name you gave him supposed to be a warning?”

“No.” Zuzia scowled. “Not funny.”

Merrick raised a brow. “Lighten up a little, will you? He was just trying to make conversation.” He studied the fence. “It might be our best option, all things considered. And we should act fast, not dally— we hardly want to be caught if someone strolls outside and recognises us.”

Leif wasn’t so sure it was the best option - but Merrick had a point that they didn’t want to be caught out here. He sighed, raised his wand, and muttered an incantation that sent a pulse of green light toward the bars. Leif gave his wand a small flick, and two bars started to bend away from one another; icicles shuddered and fell into the snow like descending arrows.

“...There,” Leif said, cutting off the magic as the new gap reached a suitable width. “That should do it. One person at a time, obviously.”

“Hostages first,” Merrick growled at Wally. “After you, Master Oakley.”

Wally sighed, but got up and edged in through the gap. With nervous glances at the windows and behind him to make sure the others were coming, Wally crept toward a stout evergreen and crouched, keeping himself hidden from the sight of anyone glancing out into the snowy courtyard.

Colby followed Wally, clearly trying to keep to the man’s footprints. He joined the candymaker’s son in his hiding place, but peeked around the sides, studying the building, and whispered something to Wally.

Leif motioned for the others to go ahead of him. “I’ll clear our tracks when I go through.”

“Don’t waste magic now,” Merrick grumbled as he obediently slipped through fence, Zuzia close on his flank. “We have no idea how many lackeys are in the house. We might end up in a fight that makes the one at the Keep look like a friendly skirmish.”

“I think Leif knows how to manage his magics, thanks,” Zuzia snapped. “You just stay behind us, yes? You is liability in fight.”

As he crouched beside Wally and Colby, Merrick scowled. “I’ve been in the blackmarket business for my entire adult life,” he informed the young archmage. “I may not have magic, but I can hold my own in a fight.” Very, very thickly, he mimicked Zuzia with a tart: “Thanks.”

“If everyone could stop fighting for ten seconds,” Leif grumbled, magic trailing from his wand and vanishing the prints in the snow behind him, “that would be wonderful.” His head was starting to pound and he suspected it wasn’t just from the sleepless night.

“So,” Colby said as the dirty-blond archmage reached them and began bending the fence back into place, “I spy a door, and some windows we could climb in. Wally says they don’t usually keep guards on the other side of that door unless they’re expecting a shipment. Considering they’re expecting money from us, and they have Vanessa somewhere on the lot, I think it’s safe to say the door’s probably not unguarded. I was just getting ready to suggest Wally make us a map of the place so we can get an idea where the best place to break in would be.” Colby reached into the evergreen, rummaged around for a moment, and finally pulled out a decently-thick branch. “The snow’s your pallette.”

“Your art skills could use some improvement,” Merrick mumbled as Wally dutifully scrawled into the snow. Bushy ginger brow furrowed, he studied the warren of wavery lines their hostage was etching and demanded: “Where’s the front door? Where are we?”

Wally gritted his teeth, but circled a spot with the stick. “Here’s where we are. See, this is the tree?”

Colby said, “That is a blob if ever I saw one.”

“The front door is obviously here.” Wally drew a square around a spot on the opposite side of the building from the blob-tree. “So this is the back door, this is the study, this is the dining room - hey!”

Colby had reached over and used his wand to draw little portraits in each of the rooms - a book for the study and a table for the dining room. “Just labeling things; carry on.”

“Hold on,” Leif said. “Would the study be a good place? There shouldn’t be anyone there at this hour, right? They don’t have the money to account yet, and if anyone’s awake, they ought to be eating or getting dressed.”

“Sounds as good a bet as any,” Merrick agreed. Gaze shifting toward Wally, he prodded, “Are there any doors into the study, dear hostage? Or will we have to jimmy a window? And how many of your fellow goons do you suppose are inside at any given time, anyway? And--” He clenched his jaw. “You said earlier you don’t know where Vanessa is for certain, which, frankly, I think was just you trying to worm your way out of this. So... playing a nice game of hypotheticals, if she were being held here— where do you think she’d be?”

Wally struggled to answer all the questions Merrick had just thrown at him. “Uh - well - no doors to the study from out here. We’ll have to go in a window. At this hour, I - I don’t know how many people are there, but there’s usually...around eight to ten by midday or so? They keep a guard here, like I said.“ He pointed to what must have been the back door. “There’s two of them at the front...probably one on the side door here.”

Counting on his fingers, Leif said, “That leaves a few guards extra…”

Shrugging, Wally said, “Well - personal security, you know? Jaron and George usually keep a few guards with them.”

“Well, we’re planning to avoid them anyway, right?” Colby said. “So that leaves these hypotheticals about Vanessa.”

“I swear, I don’t know, they didn’t involve me in that plan!” Wally insisted, but he looked over the map. “Well - if - if they have guards on her, they could keep her anywhere. But if they still take guests, they wouldn’t want anyone seeing they have her, or - or hearing her, or anything. So. Uhm…maybe the cellar?”

Colby glared. “The cellar - they’re keeping a little girl locked in a cellar, and you didn’t think - ”

Leif interrupted scathingly, “I don’t think anyone here actually thought about what they were doing. The cellar makes sense - how do we get to it? Is there an outdoor entrance?”

“No - the door’s inside. There are stairs in the main hall, and the door is behind them. I’ve never been down there, so I can’t tell you more than that,” he added quickly. “I mean, I assumed they just used it for, you know, storing extra food and old furniture and things!”

“Stop making excuses!” Merrick huffed, looking like he might slap their beleaguered hostage. “You helped your bosses kidnap a child, you can’t play innocent—”

“Can we focus on saving this child insteads of arguing?” Zuzia interrupted, massaging her temple (it was beginning to throb. Badly). “Okay, so— from the study…” Her gaze skimmed along Wally’s makeshift map. “It is not long walk to stairs, hm? If we are lucky, we might nots run into anyone at all.”

“Well, we’ve had so much luck so far,” Leif grumbled.

Colby objected, “We haven’t been doing that badly. We found the loan-men, we found Wally here…” Colby gave Wally a pat on the shoulder that might more accurately have been called a slap. “And we have archmages. This might actually work.”

“Yes. Might,” Leif repeated, but looked up at the house. “Master Oakley, why don’t you show us this study window, and we’ll see if it’s vulnerable to an unlocking charm.”

“And if it’s not,” Merrick grumbled, “you can do the pleasure of smashing it for us, Wally. Just make sure not to cut up your hand too badly, all right? I’d hate to see you get hurt.”

The group quickly and quietly - miraculously quiet, considering their current rate of bickering - made it to the study window. Leif quickly checked for wards, but found none, and Alwoohomora made the latch snap around at once. Again, Wally entered first, and declared the coast clear with a sigh of relief. Leif went next, fighting down grumbled complaints - he could climb trees fairly well, but heaving himself through a window was an entirely different sort of task. The others followed, Merrick grunting as he hefted himself up and Colby clearly biting back a curse when his arm roughly scraped along the window’s inside edge, while Zuzanna— young and very fit— slipped through as agilely as a cat.

“Check the hall,” Colby whispered to Wally, casting a quick healing spell on his lightly-bleeding arm. “Make sure the way’s clear before we start barrelling out of here like a bunch of morons.”

“What if someone is there?” Wally protested.

“...Bluff?” Leif suggested. “Tell them...you heard something from upstairs, and sound worried so they think they should investigate.”

“What if they know he’s not supposed to be at the house right now?” Merrick asked, somewhat shrilly. “And they figure out something’s amiss— and… scramble the rest of the men, and send someone to hurt Vanessa, and—”

“Keep it down!” Leif whispered sharply. “Nobody’s going to know if he’s supposed to be here or not!”

“They might not know for sure, but Merrick’s right - they might be suspicious,” Colby said, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll go with Wally - if anyone’s out there, I’ll stun them, and they won’t get a chance to even think about scrambling anyone to do anything.”

Leif didn’t like this plan, but he didn’t see any other way to get a look at who was outside or not without at least opening the door. “Fine - unless anyone else has a better idea…”

“No,” Zuzia said. “But—” She glared at Colby. Hard. “Only stun, yes? No other spells, Mister I-Will-Bash-Skulls.”

“Yes, yes,” Colby said, waving a hand dismissively. “Only stunning. Criminal’s honor.”

He escorted Wally to the door, holding back to hide behind the door. Wally gingerly poked his head out - he looked left, then right, then left again, and pulled his head back into the room. “Huh. Nobody there.”

Colby leaned around the doorway to double check, and then came out from his cover. “He’s right. Nobody. What was that about luck, Master Jade?”

“Shh.” Zuzia stepped slowly out into the hall, wand drawn and at the ready as she surveyed the hallway that sprawled before them. According to Wally’s snowy diagram, the steps to the cellar should be just around the corner to the left… “Will door be locked at top of stairs, Wally?” she whispered. “And if so— magelocked?”

“I think it’s locked, but - just a normal lock, you know? I’ve seen people use keys to get in. ...I don’t think they’re magic keys?”

“If they didn’t magically lock a window to the outside,” Leif said, “Then they probably don’t use magic on the inner locks, either. ...Are the Terrells mages?”

Wally answered, “No - they hire some, but they’re not mages themselves.”

“Well, then, it’s probably mundane,” Leif said. Privately, he thought that they could have commissioned something from Morgaine and Rosalie, but hopefully that wasn’t the case.

They rounded the corner - there was the basement door, and still nobody to obstruct them. This at least made some sense - a nine-year-old wasn’t exactly going to be able to smash her way out. Hopefully their luck would hold long enough to retrieve said nine-year-old and get out of the building again, before this strange absence of guards ran out.

The door had a keyhole under its handle. Leif whispered ahead, “Zuzia, you want to try unlocking it?”

Zuzia shrugged, flicking her wand a few times without uttering so much as a syllable. After a moment an audible click sounded, and with a gentle push of the handle the door yawned dutifully open. A steep, narrow, stock-straight staircase came into view beyond, leading down into a cellar that— from this perspective, anyway— seemed to feature neither windows nor candles to light it. It was so dark that even with squinted eyes, Zuzia couldn’t see down to the bottom landing.

“... Hostage first,” the teenage archmage quipped, stealing a line from Merrick’s playbook.

Wally sighed, and accepted Colby’s very helpful nudge toward the stairs. He started down slowly, making it only a few steps before hissing back, “I can’t see!”

“When we get everyone in, we can light our wands, but we can’t get in until you get down the bloody stairs!” Colby shot back.

“So just go, Wally,” Merrick added as he descended onto the top step. He reached down to prod at the hostage’s back, hard enough to hurt. “Or I’ll make you go.”

Wally flinched, but did as he was told and crept down a few more steps. The others slowly filed down after him; Leif brought up the rear and quietly shut the door, silently casting Woomos at the same time. The light didn’t spread as far as he had expected - the cellar was quite large indeed. Ahead of him, Colby and Zuzia’s wands lit up as well, Colby’s accompanied by a muttered incantation.

“All right,” Wally whispered. “I’m - I’m at the bottom!”

“See anything?” Leif asked. “Anyone?”

“No,” Merrick murmured as he, too, reached the bottom. Squinting his eyes against the dimness, he took several tentative steps forward, surveying the dingy space that stretched before him— a low-ceilinged, moderately sized room with stone floors and walls, smelling strongly of damp earth and must, and with little furniture or adornment save for the massive oak casks that were scattered about in spades, wine undoubtedly aging inside of them. “Look, though,” he breathed as— upon a second, more careful skim of the space— he caught sight of a door along the far wall; it was made of such a dark iron that it nearly blended clear into its surroundings. “Woo, that’s… definitely not ominous.”

“I have a feeling it does not just lead to a storage room for Woomas decorations,” Zuzia muttered dryly. She started cautiously ahead, the arc of light cast by her wand bobbing in sync with her steps, before she abruptly paused just a few feet back from the iron door. “Did… did anyone hears that?” she whispered, tilting her head. “I could swear, I just heard…”

“It’s got to be Nessa!” Colby hurried to the iron door, holding his wand close in a hunt for the lock.

“Colby!” Zuzia hissed, reaching for the man’s arm and jerking him back from the door. “Be careful, you idiot!”

As she spoke, the sound slipped through the door again, undeniable this time as it rose in volume: it was low and off-key and strangely melodious, like a dying songbird’s tune… Zuzia’s heart plunged into her stomach as she recognised it. Crying. Somebody was crying. Or… sobbing, really, from the cadence of it.

Merrick shouldered around Colby and Zuzia to practically body-slam himself against the door. “Vanessa!” he called. “Nessa, honey, it’s okay, Daddy and I are here for you, we’re here—”

Colby looked sharply back at the others. “Someone come here and keep the light on this so I can unlock it!”

Leif stepped forward, resisting the urge to raise his hands as if he were approaching an active threat. “Here, let me unlock it, it’ll be faster.” Especially if it’s magelocked, he thought, but didn’t say. He cast a normal unlocking spell first, just to be thorough - and to his surprise, this door unlocked immediately, with a loud, affirmative click. Not even the prison door was magelocked?

The archmage didn’t have much time to consider this, however, as the door was almost instantly being yanked open by Merrick or Colby or both - Leif couldn’t tell, what with how fast it happened and the way Colby’s wandlight was bouncing all over the place.

The chamber that lay beyond was much smaller than the first room— the size of a broom cupboard, if that— and so after skidding inside, Colby and Merrick quickly ran out of space. As they ground to a halt, their eyes plunged simultaneously toward the floor. A strangled scream emerged from Merrick’s throat.

“Vanessa!” he moaned as he dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around the small, slim girl who sat upon the stone floor. Beneath the wavering light of Colby’s wand, she looked very pale and very fragile: her gem-green eyes underlined with heavy bags; her long, strawberry blonde hair knotted and impossibly frizzy; the smooth skin of her jaw blemished by a mottled bruise, days-old from the looks of it. She was still seemingly clad in the clothes she’d been wearing when the Terrell brothers had abducted her— leather boots, a long wool dress, a mouse-brown winter cloak drawn around her trembling shoulders. “I’ve got you, baby,” Merrick warbled on, his breathing uneven. Almost frantic. “I’ve got you baby, I’ve got you.”

“Papa,” the little girl— Vanessa, it seemed— whimpered, burying her face against Merrick’s chest. She raised a hand to grip the fabric of her father’s tunic, and as she did, the air was punctuated by the sound of rustling metal. Chains. ‘Pit— the girl’s wrists were chained.

Colby, crouched beside his husband and raising an arm to put it around Vanessa, visibly stiffened at the clattering sound. “Hold on, Nessa, we’ll get you out of these - Panem, hold the light still!” He flicked out the glow of his wand and delicately tapped it to the metal cuff around Vanessa’s wrist.

Leif, expecting the click and subsequent clatter...felt almost disoriented when he didn’t hear the noise. It was like missing a step when climbing a staircase, just without the lurch. He stepped forward as Colby gave the metal a careful tug - it didn’t budge.

“Did you miss?” Leif asked uncertainly.

“I don’t see how - but if you’d like to try…” Colby barely even sounded snide now, and quickly switched back to reassuring Vanessa. “We’re getting you out of here, honey, Papa and I are going to get you back home safe and sound…”

Leif stooped awkwardly just behind the fathers and their adoptive daughter, and cast Alwoohomora on the manacle. Still nothing. “So - so the chains are magelocked, what sense does that make?” he muttered.

“It… would explains the door,” Zuzia murmured. “They do not care if people get through the door— the thing that really matters is secure.”

She swallowed hard, gazing dourly at the manacles that bound young Vanessa. They looked impossibly heavy against the little girl’s slight frame, and the chain connected to them was certainly not for show either: iron, and locked to a metal fixture that had been built not just on the floor, but welded into it. To uproot it would mean flinging about spells that probably shouldn’t be flung in such a small space. Not ever.

“Pull the runes on the locks, Leif?” Zuzanna suggested. “See what we is up against. And… we can figure out from there how to free her.”

“You will able to spring her, right?” Merrick asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the two archmages. “I mean, it’s magelocked, but you’re archmages. You’re archmages, you can… can do anything. R-right?”

Leif couldn’t say that all of his anger and festering annoyance with Merrick and Colby vanished upon seeing them with their daughter - but it had eased enough that he could promise, “We’ll get them off.” He cast the spell for revealing enchantments. The green mist-like light that fell from his wand settled over the manacle and into glowing green runes; Leif got to his feet, pulling the runes with him so that he and Zuzia could both see them clearly.

“Hmm...not too complex, though it’s definitely customized,” Leif remarked. “Certainly meant for a chain, there are protections for the links all the way to the wall so we can’t just blow it apart. Not that I’d want to, in a space this small…”

“D-don’t blow anything up,” Vanessa choked out. “Pl-please—”

“No one’s going to blow anything up, my love,” Merrick soothed, caressing his daughter’s gnarled locks. “It’s going to be okay, I promise. Daddy and Papa are here, and everything’s going to be okay.”

“Should we tag team the runes, Leif?” Zuzia murmured, studying the glowing warren of runes. “It might faster if one of us reads them while the other breaks them…”

“Hmm - I think you’re right. Just watch out for this chain here - the usual break would make a clog. You want to read or break?”

“Do you even haves to ask?” Zuzia couldn’t quite manage a smirk, but she came close— and anyway, her deadpan tone was enough to make Merrick glower.

“Now is hardly the time for joking,” the redhead snapped. “Less talking, more spell breaking!”

Leif said, “Let’s start, then. Bal, Roh, Dov...two Kyet-Sar-Tov chains here…” The two archmages worked for several minutes, Leif reading runes and Zuzanna following just behind him, laying a trail of runes that made the original spellwork fade, or burn out, or collapse, or in some cases, seemed to do nothing at all until a piece fell into place later and triggered multiple portions of the counter-runes to set off at once. The air started to take on the distinct smell of wet wood, underscored with just a touch of apple and clay. Wally fidgeted nervously nearby, his eyes darting from the spellwork to the chained girl and the blackmarketers comforting her, to the stairs and the distant door at their opposite end.

Finally, the last pieces of the spell crumbled away, and Zuzanna’s runes neatly whirled in on themselves. The green light disappeared, and this time when Colby pointed his wand at the manacles and snapped, ”Alwoohomora!” there was a loud, satisfying click. Leif breathed a sigh of relief, and lightly pat Zuzia’s shoulder.

Vanessa, meanwhile, dissolved into even heavier sobs. “Th-they’re off,” she choked out, rubbing at her raw wrists. “Th-thank you, thank you.”

“See, told you, baby girl,” Merrick soothed, kissing the crown of her head. “Now, can you stand, love? Let’s go you out of here, let’s—”

The redhead’s voice abruptly died away as a sound cut through the air— nothing overly loud or concerning, at first, just a voice coming from somewhere upstairs. Probably just somebody walking down the hall near the top of the basement steps, nothing to be concerned about, nothing unusual… and heck, Leif, the last one down, had even remembered to the shut the door before he’d descended so as to cover their tracks, so surely no one had noticed anything amiss…

But then, within moments, the faraway voice was joined by several voices more.

And then, far more alarmingly—

“Is that— footsteps?” Zuzia hissed, spinning toward the staircase. The basement was too dark for her to see from this cell all the way across to the steps, but… “’Pit. It is, isn’t it?”

Leif turned sharply, too, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. Wally darted back as far as he could go, which was probably for the best as he was only going to be in the way. “That’s people - maybe they’re not coming this way, but…”

There was a click and a creak, and the voices became abruptly louder. Leif heard the light scuffle of feet on the steps, and he mouthed a curse in their little pocket of darkness.

Behind him, Colby said quietly to Merrick and Vanessa, “Stay back; we’ll give you cover.” The strawberry-blond mage slipped forward to join the archmages. “Plan?” he whispered, so quietly Leif could only barely hear him.

“They’ll probably be shielded from stunners,” Leif murmured. “But they can’t shield from everything, so get creative. Use the room around us. Try not to murder anyone.”

“It sounds like a lot of people,” Vanessa whimpered. “M-more than there are of us.”

“But we’ve got archmages, love,” Merrick assured her, pulling her gently but firmly to her feet and then stepping in front of her, as though he planned to act as a human shield. As the footsteps began to thump heavily against the stairs— ‘Pit, it sounded like it had to be at least half a dozen people, if not more— Merrick added, “Just stay behind Papa, okay? I’ll keep you safe. Promise.”

Zuzia, meanwhile, gritted her teeth. “I could always use my… bad spells,” she suggested to Leif, carefully. “If you lets me. Because it is special circumstance, and so—”

“No,” Leif said sharply. “Strict no-murder and no permanent maiming policy, and we do not need the guard on you for use of illegal magic!”

“I was just asking,” Zuzia muttered, tensing as the footsteps neared the bottom of the staircase.

“Can you stop arguing and get to your plan?” Merrick hissed, pale eyes flashing with something between annoyance and utter terror.

Leif looked around for anything that might be handy - wine casks, the huge door, the chains that had been around Vanessa’s wrists - though those were still attached to the floor. In other words, nothing helpful, unless they could somehow use this plethora of wine to force the guards into drunkenness…

...Hmm - well, we can’t get them drunk, but who says we can’t use it? “The casks - if we make them burst, that should stagger them - and we can get around and get upstairs. We don’t want to fight here, not with our backs to the wall.” Upstairs would be windows, doors, multiple rooms, objects to use as impediments or just to throw…

Colby said, “Then we need to hide - element of surprise and all.”

“Leif, you want to burst them?” Zuzia suggested, as the footsteps rapidly grew closer; whoever was descending had to be very close to the bottom landing (thank the ‘Pit they didn’t seem to be running, but rather clomping down at a careful, steady clip, or else the group would’ve already long run out of time). “If you do rapid fire spells and explodes as many casks as you can the moment you see the first person reach the bottom of stairs… we can startle them. Knock them over, hopefully. And then...”

“We run?” Merrick suggested, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.

“Yes and yes,” Leif said, to Zuzia and Merrick respectively. He raised his wand to one of the farther barrels. They couldn’t be far away now, not with the volume of their steps. Thank the ‘Woo it was dark, though Leif could see a light bobbing against the far wall opposite the stairs. It looked too steady to be candle or torch light, unfortunately, or Leif might have tried to douse it with wine to add to the confusion.

Someone whipped around the corner, a wand raised, others coming behind him - Leif saw a flick of green but was already mutely casting his own spell - the wine cask nearest the stairs burst and the mage jolted back. A spell fired from his wand cracked against the ceiling, fortunately dropping nothing more dangerous than dust. Leif was already exploding another cask, and then another - through the spouts of bursting wine and the dusty barrel remains, Leif could see the men attempting to make it around the corner and into the room. A burst of green shot along the floor, reflecting brightly off the spilled wine, and froze some of the liquid as it sloshed over a guard’s arm. Leif doubted the frozen wine would hold very long, but it was at least another element of confusion.

“Okay,” Zuzia hissed sharply, as she watched one of the lackeys slip on the frozen wine— and fall flat on his rear. “Let’s go— now!”

“W-what if we slip, too?” Vanessa mewled, not budging as the group of Terrell henchman started shouting frantically amongst themselves, and for good measure Leif exploded two more barrels. “What if we—”

“We’ll be fine, honey - we know where not to step,” Colby said, giving Vanessa’s arm a gentle but firm tug. “Come on, the sooner we get out of this basement, the sooner we’re out of this miserable house, right?”

Thick as Thieves: Part Seven

SPOILER: Click to show

As the lackeys continued attempting to orient themselves— and Leif continued bursting wine casks, though he was beginning to run out of barrels— a sudden arc of light came shooting into the cell. Wand thankfully already drawn, Zuzia just barely managed to parry the curse before it went slamming into the beleaguered Wally’s head… at which point the hostage let out a mouse-like squeak and the teenage archmage let out a string of curses in just as many languages (all of which young Vanessa, fortunately, did not know).

“How many mages does your bosses have, Wally?” Zuzanna hissed, adrenaline spiking in her. Based on the fact that there wasn’t an entire battery of spells being lobbed at them, she presumed not everyone amongst the half-dozen or so henchmen who were in the cellar right now was a magician... but that still left a sizable range, and Zuzia didn’t like it one bit. “One? Two? How many?” she pressed, as Wally chose to continue cowering instead of providing a swift answer. “Tell me.”

“There’s - I think there’re three, but - but - “ Wally flinched at the sound of another exploding barrel.

“But what?” Colby snapped, glancing up from Vanessa with a glare.

“I only see one or two at a time!”

“‘Pit!” Merrick yelped as another curse went sizzling into the cell— this one Zuzia didn’t manage to parry, and it went slamming into the stone wall but centimeters from his head. “Let’s get out of here. Run, now, please!?”

“Leif and I lead,” Zuzia said by way of an answer. “Colby, you take up flank. Merrick, hold Vanessa’s hand and make sure she does not lag. Wally—” The archmage winced as she deflected yet another curse; regardless of how many mages were among their enemies, they seemed to have gotten over the surprise of the exploding wine barrels enough to start putting up a serious fight. Which was not good. “Wally, you just— just don’t be deadweight, okay!?”

“But - “ Wally’s protest went quiet as someone’s wildly-fired jinx flew just past his face. “All right, let’s - let’s go!”

The archmages started forward, Leif swapping from barrel explosions to manipulating the wine to try and keep the guards tripped up while Zuzia covered his heel. It took a few well-placed shields, a tumble of wine casks, and a few choice expletives, but the band of rescuers managed to pry the guards away from the stairs enough to slip past.

Colby took just a moment to tell his daughter, “You do exactly what Papa says, all right, Nessa?” before urging the girl and her other adoptive father - and Wally, but that was really only incidental - on as he flanked them, then fell behind, walking backward to shield them from any potential attacks by their likely soon-to-be pursuers.

As their group reached the top of the stairs, it seemed to be nearly everyone’s first instinct to keep on moving— but before they’d made it more than a few steps, Merrick suddenly paused. “Wait,” he said, looking back toward the steps. From the thundering sound of footsteps beating against the stone, the lackeys seemed to have recovered their wits enough from the wine explosions to start giving chase. “Could we— could we trap them? Quick, we’d have to do it quick, but—”

Clearly understanding his husband’s winded blabberings far better than either of the archmages, Colby didn’t waste a moment, pointing his wand at the left wall of the stairway, snapping “Dwoofodio!” and sharply dragging the stone-cutting spell up to the ceiling, across the ceiling, and a little down the right wall. Cracks appeared in the stone, the wooden part of the doorframe buckled, and then part of the wall and ceiling collapsed, quickly filling the opening to the basement with boulders.

Colby sniffed. “There - that’ll keep ‘em off our backs. And no, Panem, I didn’t break your murder rule. Hear them shouting and grousing back there? And if they hadn’t put a shield up to stop the rocks, they’d still be falling. Good idea,” he added to Merrick, patting his arm.

Wally let out a strangled sort of whine and said, “We need to go, before anyone else finds us!”

Colby told him, “Cheer up - we’re almost out of here. The front door’s just on the other side of the staircase, right?”

Wally nodded. Though it wasn’t exactly the most subtle way of leaving the house, Leif thought it sounded infinitely better than staying inside. The Jade archmage motioned for the others to follow as he led the way out from behind the stairs.

But no sooner had they rounded the corner to enter the front room proper did they see this wouldn’t be quite as easy as walking out the door. Four men stood in their way - two with swords, and the two in between them...they appeared unarmed, and instead of leather armor, were clad in finely-tailored and evenly-dyed winter cloaks. The family resemblance in the shapes of their faces, their builds, even their dark brown hair was obvious - not that any of them took much time to consider that when the two siblings and their guards were between them and escape.

Leif pointed his wand at the two men nearest to him and ordered, “Move!”

“I wouldn't suggest that,” the taller of the pair replied silkily, crooking a brow. “Unless, of course,” he purred on, “you want to doom the child you've put so much effort into rescuing.” Taking a deliberate step forward, he tilted his head, steely gray eyes flitting amongst the ragtag group. “Wally,” he tutted. “I'm disappointed. And you two…” He nodded at Leif. “You look vaguely familiar, but— I can’t recall where from, and anyhow… I don't think we've properly met. Nor have we,” he added to Zuzia, and then with a gesture toward himself he said, “Jaron Terrell— and this is my elder brother, George. It's a pleasure.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Leif barked, realizing a little too late that this was going to be interpreted as a response to the introduction rather than what he actually meant. “Dooming the child? I think leaving her here was - “

The shorter brother, George, interrupted, “We’ll get to that, don’t you worry.” He waved a placating hand. Two of his fingers were adorned with rings; one of them bore a large sapphire. “Master Kubrair. If you wanted to talk business, you could have knocked, you know,” the man chided, his brown eyes on Merrick and Colby.

“You stole our daughter!” Merrick snapped, practically quivering with fury, his grip on Vanessa’s hand like iron. “Now let us through, or so help me Woo, I'll have these archmages blast you to the furthest reaches of the ‘Pit—”

“Again,” Jaron cut in, “I'd highly advise against that, Master Kubrair.” He suddenly directed a breezy smile toward the bedraggled, still-snuffling Vanessa. “Aw, cheer up, sweetheart,” the criminal crooned. “We've been treating you real nice, haven't we? Didn't you enjoy your big supper surprise yesterday? Tasty soup instead of just bread? It was such lovely soup— Mum’s recipe. Carrots, marjoram, some nuts.” A beat. “Oh, and pollyleaf. A tweak Georgie and I devised— don't think Mum put in crushed pollyleaf.” He chuckled.

Zuzia’s blood ran cold as ice, while Merrick’s jaw fell open as though on a broken hinge. Colby made a noise somewhere between a choke and a growl.

“Pollyleaf?” he repeated. “That’s - “ With another snarl-caught-in-his-throat sound, Colby cut himself off, anger and sudden fear blazing in his eyes.

Leif rummaged through what he remembered of his healer’s training. Pollyleaf - poison, of course. Slow to strike, but once it hit, it moved quickly and violently and fatally, unless they were given - “There’s an antidote,” he snapped. “You can’t keep us here with that threat!”

George Terrell agreed, “Oh, yes, there’s an antidote. I have it on me right now - or did I give it to you, Jaron? Hmm - well, either way, it really is a very good thing we have some on one of our persons, isn’t it? As rare as pollyleaf is, why, it’d probably take days to get a delivery from some specialized potion-brewery. And did you know, it takes a few days to make in the first place?”

Well, it all sounded very familiar to Leif now that the man said it. Through gritted teeth, he demanded, “Hand it over.”

Laughing, George said, “No, I think that would be a very stupid move on our part. And rare as this antidote is, and in as shatterable glass as it is - I think we’re safe from being, as Master Kubrair eloquently put it, ‘blasted to the furthest reaches of the ‘Pit’.”

“You monsters,” Merrick snarled.

“Oh, hush,” Jaron chided. “Come now, let's not talk in the hall like uncivilized brutes. We can have a nice chat in the parlour, hm? While our men work to fix that terrible mess you caused by the cellar. I do hope you didn't hurt any of my employees too badly. I’d hoped to prevent such a destructive skirmish by sending a whole slew of them down there to detain you after one of our mages alerted us that the locking spells on the little one’s chains had been broken— but apparently my men aren’t quite as good of fighters as I thought they were. A shame.” Glaring at Wally, he added tartly, “It's hard to get good, loyal help these days, you know.”

Wally shrank back; he started to say something, but Leif was already talking, too angry to even pretend to attempt decorum. “Talking in the hall, that’s uncivilized?! What about kidnapping and planning to murder children?”

“It’s only business,” George replied simply. “We hardly wanted to take her, much less take all this risk with the pollyleaf - but, well, our associates implied these two wouldn’t have enough to return our loan. We can’t have people refusing to pay us back, can we?” Without waiting for an answer, George looked to the guard at his side. “Would you mind getting their wands? I think Jaron’s right; the parlor would be a much nicer place for this talk - not to mention giving the poor girl a chance to get off her feet,” he added with a smile at Vanessa that made Colby sidestep so he was between the girl and her captors. “But I’d rather our guests not destroy the furniture there. I hope the wine hasn’t been too disturbed.”

If it hadn’t been such a serious and suddenly potentially-deadly situation, Leif might have smirked. Seeing as it was both of those things, however, he only glared at the guard who approached him. The man’s expression was cautious, but not fearful. Leif’s gut churned - he didn’t want to give up his wand, he couldn’t give up his wand; without it, all he could do magically was change the color of the furniture, and that was not going to win any battles. Every instinct in him screamed to blast the guard with something - or go for one of the brothers and pray Zuzia would summon the antidote at the exact right moment - or at least cast a shield to buy them some more time…

But this was just business to Terrells - Leif was afraid the brothers would have absolutely no qualms about pulling the antidote out of a pocket and shattering it if they felt they weren’t going to get their way. His jaw was clenched tight as an eagle’s claw around a rabbit as the guard reached for the archmage’s wand, but Leif let the man pull it out of his hand. Zuzanna acquiesced no more excitedly, the younger archmage having to restrain herself from spitting in the guard’s face as he deprived her of her wand, too— while Colby, still standing between Vanessa and their enemies, held his hand out stiffly, visibly shaking and looking as if he’d rather use his wand to stab someone’s eye out.

“Wonderful,” George said, beaming, as the guard returned to his side. “The parlor, then. If any of our servants weren’t frightened off by the noise, we’ll have them put tea on.”

“We don’t want tea,” Colby said through gritted teeth.

George didn't reply, while Jaron waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense,” he declared, striding confidently to the left, where a set of double doors opened up into what was presumably the parlour. “And if you're worried about poison, don't be! We hardly can collect money from dead men, you know. And if it soothes your fears any, Georgie and I will even drink from the same teapot.”

No one amongst the ragtag group of home-invaders seemed to want to follow the brothers, but at a rather sharp, insistent look from the lackey who'd confiscated the wands, Zuzanna took a reluctant step forward, and the others tentatively followed suit. Inside the parlour, George and Jaron took seats beside each other on an overstuffed velvet sofa, before Jaron gestured for their ‘guests’ to disperse themselves amongst the remaining seating surfaces that peppered the room (two more velvet sofas, a twin set of wingback armchairs, an ottoman upholstered in a mix of leather and velour).

“Daddy, Papa,” Vanessa whimpered, quailing at the doorway as she watched Wally make a beeline for one of the chairs. “I d-don't wanna sit in here. With them.”

Colby reached down for his daughter’s free hand, the one not locked in a death-grip around Merrick’s. “I know, honey - we don’t want you to be here, either. We’re…” His hazel eyes flicked over the group before he continued, “We’re going to get this done quickly, give you some - some medicine, and then you and me and Papa are going home. I promise.”

Vanessa only sniffled in response, tears sliding down her dirty cheeks as she limply allowed her fathers to tow her toward one of the empty sofas. Upon sitting, Merrick drew the girl onto his lap, wrapping his arms tight around her middle. The redhead seemed as if he would murder anybody who so much as looked at the child wrong. Colby barely perched on his seat, like an anxious guard-dog.

“So.” As Zuzia and Leif took their seats, Jaron clapped his hands together once, rather jovially. “George and I already introduced ourselves, but I don't believe you two returned the courtesy, hm?” He nodded toward Leif and Zuzanna. “So— grumbly blonde mage who looks vaguely familiar, you go first. You are…?”

Arms crossed, perched on the edge of his seat, the irritable mage in question replied tartly, “Lord Leif Jade. House Jade’s archmage.”

George nodded minutely, as if Leif had said nothing more noteable that it might rain the next day. “Ah, so you must have been with the Marson commision. That explains it.” Looking at Zuzia, he prodded, “And you, Miss…?”

“Zuzanna Panem,” the teenager returned flatly.

“Hmm.” Jaron seemed to contemplate for a moment. “You have interesting friends, Masters Kubrair and Sanders. Anyway—” The crime lord shrugged. “Let’s get to the matter at hand here; that being, your loan. Your very, very large loan.”

Merrick gritted his teeth. “If you’d just given us more time,” the ginger insisted. “We had— have—intentions of paying it back. It’s just— it’s coming through less quickly than we thought it would, all right? But we’re still good for it. We are.”

“Are you? Your business doesn’t seem to be doing all that well. You lost, what - three shipments in the fall alone?” George shook his head. “The idea was that the loan would help you do better business - make more money - pay us back.”

“Yes, we know,” Colby said. “We’re working on it - you know this is a risky business, if the authorities get snoopy, there’s only so much we can do. All we needed was a little more time, and - “

George’s voice was suddenly sharp and curt. “Your shipments average a few hundred runestones. Your loan was in the amount of several thousand. It would take months for your shipments to come through with enough money, and that doesn’t count what you’re spending on employees and bribes and your operations to get the goods in the first place. We’d hoped you’d make a big move and surprise us, but…”

Leif almost couldn’t believe he was doing this, but he said, “They did try - and you can’t kidnap someone’s child over a loan they’re a little late in paying!”

“We had hoped it would help them realise the gravity of the situation,” Jaron huffed. “Unfortunately, given this little caper, it seems that we were mistaken.”

“And what?” Zuzia growled. “You thinks they will suddenly be able to choke up money now? That hurting a little girl will fix things?”

“Of course not,” Jaron countered. “George and I would like nothing more than for Vanessa to survive and live a long and happy life!” He smiled toward the girl— which only made her shrink further into Merrick’s arms, and Merrick bristle like an angry cat. “However… actions have consequences. Sometimes lessons need to be learned. The, ah— underground, I suppose you could call it, well… it’s not as big of a place as you’d imagine. People talk. Stories spread. And we can’t have any others who might try to take loans from us in the future think they can fleece us and get away with it. This is about far more than fixing things— it’s about preventing future situations such as this one.” He waved a hand toward Vanessa, adding dismissively, “I don’t understand why you’re all in such a huff about her anyhow. She’s little more than a street kid, no? Hardly your flesh and blood, Master Kubrair, Master Sanders. Far be it from me to keep you from playing at being Daddy if that’s what helps you sleep at night, but it’s not like you can’t take on a new protege to replace her— the streets are full of potential criminal apprentices, are they not?”

Leif’s jaw dropped as he mentally struggled for words - what did he even reply to first - the idea that a child’s death should only bother blood relatives? The suggestion they just replace their daughter? The implication that adoptive family wasn’t as devoted as a biological family? The very basic stupidity that was saying a child they had broken into a very dangerous manor to rescue was clearly just being used to soothe their consciences and follow in their footsteps?

Colby, however, did not seem to be having such difficulties. The man exploded to his feet, hands balled into tight fists. “Vanessa is our daughter just as much as if we’d conceived her, you blithering, arrogant little prat! We adopted her, she’s family!! And think for two seconds - would we have broken into your blighted house and tried to go right under your nose for someone replaceable? The fact you bloody cowards are hoarding the antidote from her is the one reason I’m not over there choking the life out of you, you - “

George coughed loudly, and one of the sword-wielding guards took several long paces closer. “Well, that’s quite enough of that,” he scolded. “Please, sit down, Master Sanders. It would be a shame for Master Kubrair to lose his daughter and his husband on the same day.” The older Terrell brother flashed a smile in Merrick’s direction. “Now, before you interrupted, we were trying to lead into a point. That point being, street-child or not, there is still a way you can save her. ” George’s brown eyes swept over their gaggle of hostages; he was still grinning toothily. “This is a very rare opportunity - Jaron, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Oh, yes,” Jaron said brightly. “Really, maybe it’s a good thing you lot broke into our manor— you’ve presented us with an opportunity far more lucrative than mere ransom money. Why, I don’t even want the ransom money anymore, not even if you offered!” He laughed, then held up one finger. “So… first. You pay for all repairs to the cellar. Including any wine that was damaged.”

Merrick glowered. “After we couldn’t pay the ransom, why the ’Pit do you presume we can afford to replace all your expensive wine, you idiotic—”

“Don’t interrupt me,” Jaron snapped. His grey eyes leapt toward Leif. “And don’t you dare,” he continued, “claim you can’t afford it. Not when you’ve brought a noble friend into my house. A noble friend who could’ve probably afforded the initial ransom and not even broken a sweat! But— I digress, that’s neither here nor there, as I said I don’t even want that silly little ransom anymore.”

Before Leif could protest that actually, no, he probably couldn’t afford to pay a loan so high that the crown jewels became a valid currency - certainly not without breaking a sweat - Colby asked with a glare, “Then what do you want?”

“Well, you’re smugglers!” George said, as if he were paying them a lighthearted compliment. “And you’re a noble, a Jade noble who presumably has access to carriages with the Jade seal. Now, what if we were to send you gentlemen and lady with a few packages to carry out of the city?”

Colby blinked. “Send it - send it out in a Jade carriage?”

Leif stiffened. “What? No - no, that’s - that’s…!” A good way to get past the guards, he thought reluctantly.

“It’s simple!” Jaron finished for him. “All you have to do is fill your nice Jade carriage with some… artifacts. And drive that carriage right through the city gates. Easy, right?”

Zuzia stiffened. “And what would these artifacts be?”

“Oh, nothing to worry about,” Jaron assured her. “In fact, maybe it’s best you don’t know.” He beamed toward Colby and Merrick. “Isn’t that a no-brainer deal? Pay for the cellar repairs and any lost wine, have your friends help to run an easy little shipment, and voila! The antidote is all yours, no ransom paid or anything!”

Leif gritted his teeth - he did not want to do this: it put House Jade in danger; if Zuzanna was caught smuggling, ‘Woo knew what would happen to her, it had taken a whole year for Lord Everett and Lord Guy to be satisfied that she wasn’t a danger to Kyth; Leif didn’t even want to imagine what would happen to him if he were caught using his position to help smugglers -

But there was a little girl’s life at stake if they didn’t, and there was no time to try scheming out of it - not with pollyleaf floating around the girl’s system. She needed the antidote...within hours, at best. “...Fine,” Leif said, closing his eyes. “If you give her the antidote, I’ll - I’ll get you the carriage and help with the shipment.” He didn’t have much hope, but he added, “Just - leave Zuzanna out of this; she’s not nobility, she doesn’t need to be involved. And - and she might attract attention, even,” he added.

“Well.” Jaron mulled. “I suppose if you don’t want her coming with you, she could stay here with us while you’re making the trip—”

“Absolutely not!” Zuzia snapped. ’Pit, did these idiots think she wanted to be their hostage!? … Well, more than she was already, anyway. “Give Vanessa antidote. Then we will do your transport. I will not stay here. Okay?”

“... Hmm, I suppose,” Jaron replied. “Though— you’ve got the order wrong. Of how it’s going to go.” Talking very slowly, as if he were humouring a small and extremely stupid child, he rattled off, “First, you do the transport. Then we give Vanessa the antidote. Right, Georgie?”

“Right, Ronie,” George replied. It was such a stupid thing to pester Leif’s temper, but the way they were throwing around nicknames in a situation as serious as this one made him want to hex them right in their smug faces.

Since he couldn’t exactly do that, however, Leif demanded through gritted teeth, “How is that supposed to work? We have just a few hours before Vanessa needs that antidote - is this delivery going just down the road a ways?” he added with scathing sarcasm.

The elder Terrell brother chuckled. “No, of course not - but don’t worry, we’re keeping our leverage; we’ll give the girl half the antidote first. But only after the delivery does she get the rest. Pollyleaf is such a useful poison - even little doses can be deadly, given enough time.” George smiled at Vanessa, almost warmly. Colby bristled, his shoulders rising, while Vanessa let out a small whimper and turned to bury her face in Merrick’s chest. Acting oblivious to this, George said, “So nobody’s in danger so long as everyone does what they’re told.” His smile was suddenly a little frozen, and it was like the slight offness in a piece of art that was almost but not quite right.

“And if we do cooperate,” Merrick snapped, as he gently rubbed his quivering daughter’s back, “how do we know you’ll give her the rest of the antidote? That you won’t leave her just half-dosed?”

Jaron looked legitimately offended. “As I said, we wish no ill upon the little dear!” he insisted. “Why ever would we do such a cruel thing? If you do as we say, we’ll be happy to give the little sweetheart the rest of the antidote! So…” His expectant gaze surveyed the room. “How’s it sound? Do we have a deal?”

Leif glanced around the room, but what point was there, really? It was his House’s carriage. “...I guess we don’t have a choice,” was still the most agreeable he could bring himself to be. “Give her the half of it now, at least - we’re stuck cooperating with you either way.”

George rose to his feet with a smile. “Of course! Now, see, this didn’t have to be so difficult!”

“Oh, we’re making this difficult?” Colby sneered, though his attention seemed to mostly be on helping comfort his daughter.

George replied, with a note of amused chastisement, “Well, you five did break into our house and destroy part of our basement, and possibly some very expensive wine. Oh, and not to mention our poor employees! It’s going to take an age to dig them out, get them healed, mop up any blood...” Colby stared at him, looking unsure if he was more confused or furious enough to start making threats of violence again - or maybe Leif was just projecting his own feelings onto the other blond mage.

The elder Terrell brother reached into a pocket and withdrew a small glass vial full of a silvery-colored liquid that had little tints of pale-green when tilted slightly. There were teacups on an adjacent end table, and George took one and carefully poured some of the antidote into it. “Now, once dear little Vanessa has taken her first dose of medicine, we can be on our way to pick up the carriage! Ronie, would you like to go along for the trip, or stay here and oversee the preparations?”

“Neither of you is coming with,” Merrick growled before Jaron could get a word in edgewise.

The younger Terrell brother tutted. “Now, now, don’t be rude,” he said. “One of us will be coming with— what else is to stop you from trying to convolute up some trap for Georgie and me? Getting the carriage but also getting the city guard, and having us arrested right after we hand over the antidote, or— or something else awful and tricky like that.”

“Wally, then,” Zuzia suggested, sending a brief glare toward the cowering man, who had not uttered so much as a single syllable since scampering into the parlour. “He can come.”

Jaron rolled his eyes. “Strangely, I rather don’t trust Wally to be on our side, after he helped you break into our house.” The man shook his head, firmly. “Georgie or I will go, while the other of us stays here to prepare the, ah… artifacts. So they’ll be all ready to load up when you get here with the carriage.” He paused, considering. “Say, as a show of goodwill— why don’t you pick which one of us escorts you?” He smiled toward his older brother, as George recapped the phial of antidote and slipped it back into his pocket. “As long as that’s all right with you, anyway, brother.”

“That’s quite all right with me!” George said cheerily.

Leif frowned slightly, watching George as he stood up to take the teacup to Vanessa. Could one of the brothers maybe be overpowered? Should they bring George, who had the antidote they needed? Or Jaron - they wouldn’t need to worry about breaking the vial if they had a chance to attack him…

“Bring Georgie,” Colby said, his lip curling a little. “I want to know right where that antidote is - and that you’re not tampering with it.”

Holding the teacup out to Merrick and Colby, George said, “Now, we wouldn’t do that; a bargain’s a bargain! We haven’t gone back on our word yet, have we?” He smiled, as if at a mildly misbehaving pet. “Such histrionics.”

If Zuzanna ever heard that word again, she might murder someone, Leif’s dictum be cursed to all the hells. Leaning forward and then reaching out sharply, the teenage archmage snatched up the teacup and held it out toward Vanessa, who was still trembling in Merrick’s lap. The redhead man accepted the proffered mug on his daughter’s behalf, his hand firm but gentle as he slowly cupped her chin in his free palm and turned her face out from where it was buried against his chest.

“Drink, love,” he ordered softly as he held the rim of the cup to her lips. “The whole thing, all right? Even if it tastes rotten.”

Vanessa sniffled, balking. “W-what if it’s just more poison?” she whimpered. Though very young, the girl was clearly well old enough to have understood what mattered of her fathers’ conversation with the Terrell brothers. “I don’t w-want to drink it. I…”

George asked with a laugh in his voice, “Why would we give you more poison? Don’t be silly.” He reached for the teacup and swept up a bit that had clung to the side on his finger, ignoring Colby, Merrick, and Vanessa’s immediate and obvious offense at him reaching right into their personal space. He licked the bit of antidote off his finger, and even smacked his lips theatrically. “See?” he said. “Harmless. And not too terrible, really, for medicine.”

“These men are insane,” Colby muttered, but said to Vanessa, “Do as Papa says, honey. They know they need to give you medicine right now, or your dads aren’t going to help them.”

“But—” Vanessa started.

“Sweetheart,” Merrick said. “Be a good girl and do as you’re told. Please? It’s very, very important to Daddy and me, okay?”

The young girl was clearly still unhappy about it, her eyes glossy with a fresh wave of tears, but she didn’t argue any further, merely bracing herself as Merrick tipped the mug back, and she obediently downed its contents. Once she’d finished, and her father drew the cup back away from her lips, the child let out a small shudder.

“It tastes like earwax,” she snuffled.

Jaron chuckled. “Ah yes, not so palatable as the pollyroot, alas— never had it, of course, but… I hear it tastes like honey!” A beat. “Did it taste like honey?”

“Don’t talk to her,” Merrick snapped. “You’re done talking to her!” He glowered at the brothers. “Now— shall we get a move on with this? I’m rather tired of hearing your miserable voices.” Gaze flicking to Leif, he added, “Wally said Marson Manor is close to here, right? So it won’t take us too long to go there and collect the carriage.”

“It should be a quick trip,” Leif said with a sigh, getting to his feet. He was tired of the two brothers as well - as infuriatingly annoying as Merrick and Colby had been, he was at least fairly certain they were mostly sane. “Let’s go. We’ll take you along.” He nodded toward George.

“Very well!” the older brother said. “But hold on a moment; Vanessa will be staying here, so she should get a moment to tell her fathers - “

“Excuse me?” Colby interrupted. “Vanessa is not staying here! Absolutely not!”

“Excuse you? No, excuse me!” Jaron retorted. “Need I remind you, Master Sanders, that you have not yet paid the price for her freedom? She stays here until—”

“She is nots a dog!” Zuzia snapped as she rose to her feet, as well. She really wished she had her wand right now. ’Pit, how she wanted her wand! “She does not haves a price! She is coming withs us.”

Jaron scowled. “While I still haven’t entirely figured out how you fit into this whole debacle, madam—other than to help Masters Kubrair and Sanders destroy my cellar— in any case, your opinion is duly noted and just as duly discarded. Vanessa will stay—”

“She will not!” Merrick growled. Then, after sharing a very reluctant look with Colby, he blurted, “If you need a hostage— leverage, whatever— then keep me, okay? Keep me. But Vanessa goes with Lord Jade and Colby and the rest. She goes. All right? My daughter goes.”

Colby nodded, slowly, his expression rather twisted behind the glare he levied at George and Jaron. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but quickly shut it again. Leif guessed that, while he couldn’t object to his daughter not being a hostage, he couldn’t make himself support his husband taking her place, either.

“Hmm.” George tapped his chin thoughtfully, a gesture so affected that even Leif thought it looked staged. “Well...it’s an interesting idea, isn’t it, Jaron? If she’s more or less an apprentice to them, then a spouse is more valuable leverage than a child... and whether she’s with us or with them, the girl is already under our control, really.”

“That’s true,” Jaron agreed. “She’s still got enough poison running through her blood that if she doesn’t get the rest of the antidote, she’ll wither away like a dying rose! And if we keep Master Kubrair here with me and our men, well… I’ve never been one to turn down additional leverage.” The criminal overlord laughed merrily. “All right! It’s a deal.”

Thick as Thieves: Part Eight

SPOILER: Click to show

“I don’t like Papa st-staying with the bad men,” Vanessa announced some ten minutes later, as the ragtag group comprised of her, Colby, Leif, Zuzanna, and George departed the grounds of the Terrells’ mansion. Glancing behind her shoulder as Jaron Terrell swung the gate shut behind them, then waved a jaunty farewell (George returned it; the others pretended not to see), the little girl added, “They’re mean, Daddy. And scary.” With the hand that Colby didn’t have snared in his, she gingerly tapped her jaw. “When I fought b-back ‘gainst them, when th-they first took me from our yard— they hit me. They hit me hard.”

Colby would have clenched his wand hand if it hadn’t been the one Vanessa was holding. “I’m - I’m so sorry, baby,” he said, not quite managing to hide the upset strain in his tone. “When I get my wand back, I’ll heal anywhere they hurt you. ...And Papa will be okay. He’s not going to fight them, and they just want him there to make sure we all come back with the carriage.”

“I could heal her,” Leif offered tentatively, like he was reaching out a hand to an animal that might just as easily claw him as let him help it. The Jade archmage had been given his wand back, after much insistence that it would be incredibly suspicious for the House’s archmage to have an empty wand holster. Colby wished he had the same excuse, and was more than a little aggravated that he didn’t.

But getting his daughter’s wounds healed…

George, however, interrupted before Colby could quite make up his mind. “No, I don’t think so. She’s not hurt all that badly, aside from the poison, which we already have under control. And I don’t think, Lord Jade, that I’d like to find out if you have a magical cure for poisons the hard way.”

“You can’t cast spells to heal stuff like that— only wounds, not… not sicknesses or poisons,” Vanessa said, a bit prissily, as if this were something anyone ought to know. The young girl glanced up at Colby. “R-right, Daddy? I remember you’ve said that. B-before.”

Colby gave her a small smile. “That’s exactly right, Nessa. So if his lordliness is volunteering - “

“It’s still a slowdown,” George reminded them, “and I thought we were trying not to draw attention - I believe green flickers on snowy days do that, my friends!”

“We’re not your friends,” Leif said coldly. “...I’m sorry, Miss...ah, Miss Vanessa.”

“It’s okay,” Vanessa said, tugging against Colby’s vise-like grip over her hand. At first father held fast, but after a few moments of continued prying he reluctantly yielded, and Vanessa immediately took a few steps forward, so that she was now walking in step with Leif. “You’re nice,” she informed the archmage, tilting her head as she looked up toward him. “I didn’t know Daddy and Papa were friends with a lord.”

Zuzia snorted. “It’s a recent friendship, little one,” she said dryly. Marson Manor was quickly approaching up ahead, its gates closed, a bank of snow drifted against them. Apparently no one who resided inside had gone out yet today (not that Zuzia could blame them: it was still snowing, and still miserably cold). “They will lets us in, yes?” the teenager asked Leif. “And… not asks too many questions, I hope? We all looks like the ‘Pit. And everyone excepts yous and me is stranger.”

Leif pulled his cloak more tightly around his shoulders and sighed, a puff of vaporized breath bursting from his mouth like smoke. “I can tell them it’s an emergency, and they won’t question us much. If at all. You’re not the strangest company that’s ever been in the manor.” He managed a tired grin. “Did Morgaine or I ever tell you about the time Mercury got into a misbrewed potion once when she came to visit me, and then got stuck hovering around the manor?”

Zuzia’s brows shot up to her hairline. “No. She has nots. It sounds like good story.” The archmage sighed. “At least, it sounds much more funs than this.”

“Who’s Morgaine?” Vanessa asked. “Is she another friend? Does she know Daddy and Papa, too?”

As she spoke, the girl threaded between Leif and Zuzia, slowly but steadily working her way toward the front of the group. Before she could make it too far ahead of the others, however, George took a step closer to her and reached out, dropping a hand on her shoulder and drawing her back.

“Don’t get too eager, now, darling,” the man said, that misbehaving-pet tone back in his voice.

Colby swept in, blocking the two’s way so they came to a jolting halt. “Keep your hands off my daughter!”

George lifted his hand and shook his head. “All right, all right - keep your shirt on, Master Sanders! And your eye on your daughter.” His smile took on a stiffness that reminded Colby of a badly-painted doll he’d seen once while shopping for a Woomas present for Vanessa - the thing had given him the creeps, not unlike this excuse for a man. Colby glared at George as he ushered Vanessa back to his side.

“Just stay with us, sweetie,” he said to his daughter, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

Vanessa, however, quickly tugged again. “Can I walk with Lord Jade?” she asked, the group slowing some as they neared the snow-dusted iron gates. “I wanna walk with Lord Jade.”

Colby frowned a little - but the Jade was the only one with a wand here, and as little a fan as Colby was of nobles, he had to admit the mage was sticking his neck out for Vanessa. “All right - just stay close to us.” He released Vanessa’s hand and gave her a brief, one-armed hug around the shoulders. Like he was letting her go play with her friends outside while he and Merrick talked business. It felt so strange.

Leif gave the girl a curious look as she fell into step beside him again. This seemed like an odd time for her to be trying to make friends, if that was what she was doing. He’d have wondered if she was sticking close to him because Leif had a wand, but considering how clingy she’d been to Merrick, a non-mage… Well, he wasn’t ever going to be a star at deducing children’s motivations.

They had reached the gate, and Leif, sighing, rang the bell. It made a deceptively quiet noise, one that Leif knew would be heard in multiple rooms of the manor thanks to a spell he’d helped set up years ago. Sure enough, only a minute or so had passed before a servant opened the main door, and hurried to the gate. “Welcome, Master Leif,” the man said. “And Madam Panem as well. ...Is everything all right?” His eyes darted over Leif’s oddly simple, non-Jade-colored attire, and the strangers accompanying the archmages.

“Yes,” Leif said. “I just - I need to borrow a carriage for a delivery. It’s a long story.”

“I’m sure,” the servant said, not sounding at all sarcastic. He finished unlatching the gate and pulled it open. “Should I fetch some people to help with preparing it?”

“I...I think we know what to do.” Leif hoped so, anyway - he didn’t want to give George any more possible hostages, no matter how unlikely it seemed this would devolve into the - what, fourth? - hostage situation of the day.

As the servant only gave a quick nod in return, turning on his heel to scamper back toward the main house so that the noble and his ragtag group could have their space (and soon disappearing back through the front door), Vanessa swallowed hard. Chin tilted up, for a moment she darted her gem green eyes between George and her father… before she let them drift instead toward Leif, where they settled. For a moment she simply studied him. Skittishly. Almost cagily.

And then, very, very abruptly, moving so fast that she was but a blur against the frigid winter air—

Vanessa lanced her hand out, toward Leif’s hip. Her fingers curled around the exposed tip of his wand. Leif drew his hands back, automatically trying to pull himself away from a potential touch and his brain too slow from stress and lack of sleep to quite catch on to the fact that he should perhaps stop her from taking his wand… and Colby and Merrick’s young daughter immediately capitalized on his shock— and lack of resistance— by yanking his wand out of its holster and closing her fist around it. In her small, delicate hand it looked unwieldy— oversized— but her grip on it was surprisingly confident as she sucked in a sharp, bracing breath, and then whirled on her heel toward George.

“Dwoopulso!!” she snarled, flicking her wrist.

Zuzanna— every bit as confused as Leif was— could only gawp as a green arc of light shot out from the wand, surging straight toward George. The crime lord barely had time to blink, let alone move out of the way, before the curse went slamming into his chest, the force of it sending him sprawling head-over-heels as he plummeted toward the icy ground below. He landed with a resounding crack; the man twitched once, then went unnervingly still.

Colby, eyes wide, tried to speak and gasp at the same time and wound up making a sort of strangled sputter. “The - he - Nessa, he - he had the antidote!” Something seemed to snap, and he started toward George.

“Nessa is— is mage?” Zuzanna burbled, not knowing quite where to look: at George, who was unconscious and very still on the ground; at Vanessa, who still held tight to Leif’s wand like her life depended on it; at Colby, who seemed like he was about to have a mental breakdown; or at Leif, who was hesitantly starting toward Colby even as he kept looking back to Vanessa. Eventually, she settled on Colby, gawking at the near-hysterical man as she shakily demanded, “I don’t… understands, I— why did you not tell us she is mage—”

Colby clearly wasn’t listening; he didn’t answer as he checked George’s pockets - first the one where he’d seen George tuck the antidote, then the other pockets. “It’s not here - “ he said. “It’s - it’s gone…” Heart hammering, he turned to Vanessa, hoping for a miracle…

As Zuzia continued to sputter— seemingly to deaf ears, for Colby still didn’t dignify her with a response— Vanessa gazed up at her father, trembling. For an uncomfortably long moment the little girl said nothing… only stood there, hand iron around Leif’s wand, teeth chattering from either the cold or fear or both.

Then, suddenly, she smiled. “It’s not gone, Daddy,” she said, free hand shaking as she reached into the chest pocket of her tattered dress, and withdrew from it—

’Pit, was that the vial? Zuzanna blinked once, then twice, then a third time as she studied the small, capped bottle in Vanessa’s small hand, the filmy, gray-green liquid inside it shimmering slightly as it reflected against the snow and the sun. She… didn’t understand. By all the gods in the world, she didn’t understand— even less than she’d understood before, and given that she’d already been operating in a state somewhere between ‘befuddlement’ and ‘is this real life’ ever since Vanessa had snatched Leif’s wand...

Leif sputtered, “How - how did -”

Colby seemed far less confused than either of the archmages, darting to Vanessa’s side and crouching in the snow to examine the vial more closely. “Yes, this is it! How did you - you were only by him for a second!” Not waiting for an answer to his question, however, Colby gave Vanessa a massive hug, though he was careful not to put the vial under any pressure.

The girl broke into a smile, her pale, dirty cheeks flushing crimson. “You’re… you’re not mad?” she asked. “Even though I used a lessons-only spell?”

Colby waved a hand dismissively. “It was an emergency - and we agreed you should learn that spell so you could defend yourself, and that’s exactly what you did!”

Vanessa’s smile grew as she glanced down at the phial still clutched gingerly in her hand. “Should I drink it now, Daddy?” she asked. “‘F-fore he wakes up…?”

“Not,” Zuzia said, “that I ams against Vanessa drinking cure, but—” She narrowed her cloud blue eyes at Colby, hands on her hips. “What in the ’Pit just happened here, Master Sanders!? Why you not tell us Vanessa is mage? And where did she possibly get vial, George had vial, not her—”

“One second, Panem,” Colby said. He shifted a hand to take the vial and pull its cork. “Yes, sweetie, I think you should drink this now. All one gulp, remember?” As Vanessa obliged with only a small grimace at the taste, Colby’s hazel eyes flicked back to Zuzia and Leif. “Didn’t I say Nessa used to steal to survive, before we adopted her?”

Leif managed, “But - but when did she - she was never that close!”

“Sure she was. When the son of a - a boar,” he amended, “grabbed her and pulled her back. And please don’t say there wasn’t enough time - obviously there was or she wouldn’t have it right now.”

“I’m real good at picking pockets,” Vanessa said, somewhat sheepishly. “Normally I get in trouble for doing it, though. ‘Cos… Daddy and Papa say I don’t gotta steal anymore. But I thought it’d be okay now, ‘cos… ‘cos… he’s bad.” To Colby, she added, “Right, Daddy? It’s okay?”

“This time, yes - he’s a very bad man, and he was putting you in danger. The rules go when you’re in danger.”

“That does not answers the mage question,” Zuzanna huffed. “Why did you not tell us your daughter was mage!?” And, given the force of the spell that had sent dear George Terrell flying unconscious to the ground at the gates to Marson Manor, an apparently bloody strong one, especially for a nine-year-old.

“It wasn’t important, was it?” Colby shot back. “She didn’t have her wand when she was taken - we don’t let her carry it outside lessons yet. And what, did we need to convince you first? We’re all married to non-mages, I assumed it wouldn’t somehow make the difference between you helping or not!”

Leif shook his head as if to clear it. “I think - I think there are more important things to worry about right now, Zuzia. Jaron still has Merrick, and he’s expecting us to show up with the carriage - I don’t think we have much time.” He frowned, then held out his hand. “And I need my wand back.”

Vanessa, grinning shyly, relinquished the wand with a soft, “Here. S-sorry for taking it from you, Lord Jade. I just… I didn’t think I’d have time to explain things, and… and if George had gotten an idea of what was happening it woulda been bad.” She glanced back toward the very-unconscious crime lord. “Why’s he unconscious, Daddy?” she asked. “All I used was a force spell. Did he… did he hit his head…?”

“Probably,” Colby said, not sounding especially concerned. “It’s his own fault - provoke enough people and you’re going to get hurt.”

Leif snorted. “I suppose that explains how you got in this mess, Master Sanders?” Taking his wand back from Vanessa, he responded, in a much kinder tone, “That’s all right - it was an emergency. And you’re right, he needed to be taken by surprise. ... I suppose I should go check on him.”

Colby sighed, absently adjusting Vanessa’s winter cloak a little so it sat straight. “Fine, but hurry - and we need to get moving - stop Jaron and his cronies, or get Merrick out of there, or both, before they realize what happened.”

“Right.” Zuzia sighed. She looked to Leif. “Maybe we should… I don’t know, ties up George here. Leave him in the Marson cellar. Then…” After mulling for a moment, the teenager laughed softly. “Jaron said he was going to prepare the artifacts, didn’t he? So they was all ready to go. What would he do, you thinks? If we stormed in with say… half the city guard. Couldn’t just talks his way out of that one, could he?”

Colby considered this, and nodded. “It’ll take more than the three of us - and only one of us with a wand - to get Merrick out ourselves. ...And if they’re arrested, well - we don’t have to worry about them coming back for us.”

“He’s definitely concussed,” Leif said, running his wand through the air over George’s body. “And I imagine he’s going to have some nasty bruising on his back by tomorrow. ...Can’t say I’m sorry to hear that. But let’s get him restrained and cozy in a cell downstairs, and then go have a chat with the guard.”

***

Leif called for the servants using the bell again, and this time, actually explained a little of what was happening. There wasn’t time for the full story, but enough that they were willing to help. The four conscious guests were brought inside the Manor while one of the Marsons hovered George Terrell down to one of the cells, with orders to search and restrain him, so that he couldn’t use any magical means to contact his brother. Leif, Zuzanna, Colby, and Vanessa, meanwhile, took seats in the parlor to discuss just how they would be bringing the guard down on Jaron’s not-entirely-healthy head. At Leif’s request, one of the servants brought food and drinks, mostly for Vanessa’s sake. He specified no soup, despite the frigid weather.

They came up with a plan quickly - ready the carriage, go to the guard, and see if they could sneak a wagonful of men back inside. Colby, apparently thinking back to their earlier ride in the Pells’ meat wagon, remarked, “It all comes full circle, eh?” with a small stab at what seemed to be his usual humor.

But the mage did have one objection to the plan. “Vanessa shouldn’t be with us; she’s been through enough and I don’t want her in danger of getting caught in the crossfire.”

“I agree,” Leif said. “She could stay here, if - “

“No offense,” Colby interrupted, his flat tone suggesting he didn’t really care if he was offensive, “but I’d rather lodge her with someone I know well enough to trust. And I’d also rather you not decide you’d make better guardians for her.”

Leif was baffled by this - adoption into Houses wasn’t exactly common, and certainly the Marsons wouldn’t be making those decisions on House Jade’s part - not to mention that adoptions weren’t conducted by stealth and coercion like, say, kidnappings - but he decided it would be faster to just agree than to argue. “Fine. Where should she go, then?”

“I know a friend,” Colby said loftily. “I’ll take her there; you two go get the guards, and we’ll meet back here. Be quick,” he warned. “We can’t let dear Ronie get suspicious.” He and Vanessa left, a few of the servants set to getting the carriage ready, and under hooded winter cloaks borrowed from the servants, Leif and Zuzanna set out to the guardhouse.

When they stepped inside, they were surprised to find the guards already bustling around with clear agitation and worry. It took a few minutes to find the captain, and in that time, the two archmages heard enough to realize what the guards were so worked up about - and in retrospect, it should have been obvious; the break-in at the Keep.

When they finally did find the captain, they had a small stroke of luck in the man recognizing Leif. He seemed frustrated when Leif claimed not to know anything about the Keep break-in, but when the archmage explained there was sort of an active hostage situation going on, he gave them a few minutes to explain. Leif and Zuzia kept the explanation even briefer than that; they were on a very bad time crunch, after all.

The captain did finally sigh and admit that there wasn’t much the men still at the guardpost could do about the Keep situation right now - apparently the Keep knights were very forcefully taking charge of things there. And of course, the hostage situation was rather immediate. ...He seemed less confident in the plan to hide in a carriage, but Leif and Zuzanna insisted Jaron wouldn’t hesitate to hurt his leverage if he thought there was danger coming, until the captain relented. He and his men seemed a little confused, but at least they were going along with the plan.

Colby arrived just as the horses were being hitched, and he - reluctantly - joined the guards in the back of the wagon. Leif and Zuzanna had already decided it would be too risky for Colby to be up in the driver’s box without Vanessa, and this was already dangerous enough thanks to George’s absence. At least Jaron might assume George was in back with their hostage-by-poison.

Leif’s heart was beating hard as he steered the carriage off the main road and toward the Terrells’ manor. This plan was far from risk free— and if something went wrong, there was little doubt Jaron Terrell would grow violent. It all hinged on the guards apprehending the wicked brother— and any of his nearby cronies— before he got wind that something was the matter. So if he grew wise ahead of time… if he panicked the moment he realised George wasn’t helming the carriage…

“I hope they hasn’t stashed Merrick somewhere tricky,” Zuzia murmured as the coach lurched along the icy road. “That he is withs Jaron still. Because if he is in some room Woo-knows-where in the house… all chained up like Vanessa was… with lackeys on him— even if the guards neutralizes Jaron…” Her voice trailed off, the rest left implicit but unsaid.

“Merrick seems to think he’s a smooth-talker,” Leif said. “And he was able to get the Terrells to hold onto him instead of Vanessa; maybe he can convince Jaron that it’s more trouble than it’s worth to keep him chained. ...As insane as the Terrells are, I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out they’re having tea in the parlor. So long as Merrick’s playing nice, he’s...he’s probably fine.”

Leif himself wasn’t entirely convinced, however; for all their polite talk and jovial mannerisms, he could picture either of the Terrells snapping in an instant if pushed the wrong way. They had kidnapped and poisoned a nine-year-old little girl, after all - and if Leif had interpreted Vanessa correctly, at least one of them had not only been there when she was kidnapped, but struck her for resisting. And who knew what, exactly, could set them off?

“...Just in case,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll go in with the guards and try to find him.” Leif sighed and muttered, “And Merrick had better be grateful; I almost can’t believe we’re riding in to rescue this idiot after everything he’s done to us.”

As the carriage approached the gates to the manor— and a sword-wielding lackey scurried to crank them open— Zuzia bit back a shudder of dread. “I hopes no one asks to inspect coach,” she whispered, sparing a frozen smile toward the croney who’d waved them through. “Before we sees Jaron.” A beat. “Where do you think he is, anyway?” Beyond the lackey who’d opened the gates, the snowy front courtyard was otherwise empty of people. It took a lot of self-control to keep from glancing back over her shoulder, where Colby waited with the armed and armoured squadron of city guardsmen. “Couldn’t he have mades this easy by waiting outside…?”

“And freeze in this miserable weather?” Leif replied dryly. “No, that’s for lackeys and hostages.” He looked up at the front door. It remained shut. “...I guess we’re supposed to go to him.” Leif made to leave the driver’s box, handing the reins to Zuzia.

“I can come withs,” Zuzia suggested. “Have Colby get out of the back, he can take the reins while we fetch Jaron and hopefully Merrick—”

Leif shook his head. “No, I think - I think it had better just be me. I doubt George would let two archmages, even if only one of them has a wand, go to the door - and then Colby in the front seat alone is suspicious. Why would George and Vanessa be in the back if Colby isn’t?” Leif hopped down from the box. “If things start looking...thorny, send the cavalry in.”

Gathering his courage - and his cloak around his shoulders - Leif walked up the path to the door and knocked sharply. And if you make me stand out here in the cold waiting on you, Terrell, I might not wait on the guards!

Fortunately, Jaron was very prompt, the door swinging open but moments later to reveal the beaming mug of the younger Terrell brother. “Lord Jade!” he greeted. On the bright side, he wasn’t accompanied by any lackeys. On the not-as-bright side, Merrick wasn’t with him, either. As his grey eyes fell past Leif, to the carriage that waited a few dozen feet beyond, the brown-haired man exclaimed: “Ah, that was fast! Georgie keepin’ warm inside, I take it, with Colby and the little girl? My silly big brother never was much for the cold.”

“Yes, he’s in the carriage,” Leif agreed, glad to be handed an easy excuse. He added the lie he’d thought up on the way to the door - “He didn’t want to risk anyone who knows Colby or Vanessa spotting them with a Jade coach.” He peered around Jaron’s shoulders. “Where’s Merrick?”

“Comfortably inside.” Jaron waved a hand. “You can reunite with him once we’re done loading the carriage, aye?” Peering at the waiting coach again, the man said, “Go on, now, get her steered around back, all right? I’ve had my men prepare the artifacts, they’re waiting by the back door to load up— quick and easy! I’ll meet you there.”

Leif nodded sharply. “Fine.” But that was good news - if everything was ready to load, then, that was all the evidence the guards needed for an arrest right there in the open. His stomach churned even harder as he turned around and tromped back to the carriage, though - this was it, and he was going to have to go in and find Merrick after all, and he doubted even the lackeys would go quietly, so it was likely going to be a dangerous race through the manor…

“We’re bringing the carriage around back,” Leif said as he got back in the driver’s box. “He says everything’s by the door. ...I’m going to have to go in, he wouldn’t tell me where Merrick is.”

“Lovely,” Zuzia grumbled. “This is going so well. Just likes everything else has recently.”

“I think the only thing that hasn’t gone wrong was buying candy from Mrs. Oakley,” Leif agreed, taking the horses’ reins. “And I’m still waiting for that to somehow stab us in the back.”

[Tiger]

Oops we ran out of room, guest-posting =D

Thick as Thieves: Part Nine

SPOILER: Click to show

The horses pulled the wagon around to the back of the house. Someone had shoveled a pathway from the house to about halfway into the yard; Leif stopped the horses so the wagon’s rear was just ahead of the path, so that at least some of the guards would have a straight, snow-free shot toward the house. After a long, slow breath that chilled his throat and chest, Leif got down from the driver’s box.

When Jaron opened the back door of the house, waving jauntily out at Leif and Zuzia, Leif caught sight of a myriad of boxes stacked in the room behind him— the ‘artifacts’, presumably.Good enough for me. He unlatched the door, pulled it back, and stood aside to let the guards pile out.

Their confusion earlier aside, they were quick and efficient now, cutting Jaron off before the man could even comprehend what was going on, let alone call for reinforcements or attempt to make a run for it. He let out a small sputter, a look of something between fury and betrayal marking his expression, as a sour-faced city guardsman shoved him down to his knees and clamped a vise-like hand behind his neck. Another of the guards yanked a pair of handcuffs off his belt and crouched to manacle the crime lord’s wrists, and though for a moment Jaron seemed as if he might struggle against this, when the first guard only tightened his hold at the base of his skull in reply, the brown-haired man wisely reconsidered.

As the guards took control of Jaron, Leif paused for a moment in his dart for the house to demand, “Where’s Merrick?”

Jaron scowled, gray eyes smoldering. “Go to the ‘Pit!” he growled. “You backstabbing prat, that little girl is going to die because of you, she’s—!”

Leif decided he didn’t have time to kick the man in the gut or the face, so he just hurried toward the house, shouldering through the door. He heard the door knock open again behind him and turned sharply to see Colby and Zuzia coming through the door after him. .

...He was not really surprised they’d followed. “You don’t have wands,” he warned, glancing at their emtpy hands.

“I have fists,” Colby said.

“I was raised noble,” Zuzia added. “Duels. Pretty fights.” She dared a small, grim smile. “Coming in use for once, hms?” She glanced toward the vast hall that stretched before them— this was a part of the manor they hadn’t been in before, situated at the opposite side of the house as was the study they’d used to make their incursion, the cellar, and the parlour where they’d had their nice little chat with the brothers Terrell. “We could use Wally right now,” the teenager grumbled, taking an apprehensive step forward. “Tour guide.”

“That’d be nice,” Leif agreed. “But I don’t think we’re going to get a guide now. ...What’s down here, a kitchen, the study, the parl - “

Someone - a lackey of the Terrells, no doubt - darted into the room, froze when he saw the three strangers - and promptly turned on his heel and bolted. Leif raised his wand, snapping, “Stupefy!” even as the man darted back around the corner - the spell missed, striking the wall with a loud smacking sound, though it left no visible damage.

Colby snapped, “We don’t have time to map out the whole place and deduce something - we left them in the parlor, let’s start there. If he’s fine, we’ll miss him while we’re running circles around the manor like idiots!”

“I just hope Jaron hasn’t lefts any lackeys digging away at rocks near cellar,” Zuzanna grumbled. “I do not feel like fighting more idiots today. Or running into obstacles.”

The group continued into the manor; the parlor hadn’t been very far from the front door, but having to work their way around struggles between guards and lackeys - Leif helped with spells where he could, though he had to be cautious as the pull was creeping into his fingertips - made it take longer than any of them would have liked.

“Here!” Colby hissed, just as Leif was starting to recognize the hallway. He sped up, and Leif sped up to keep ahead of him, and Zuzanna sped up to keep up with them both, and they barged into the room so close together they might have gotten stuck on the doorway if they’d been any slower.

They froze almost immediately - they had found Merrick, but he was across the parlor, past an upended table and a broken teapot, and Wally Oakley had a knife to his throat. The young man’s eyes were wide and almost crazed - or maybe the lunatic expression came from his bared teeth and sharp, quick breaths.

“St-stay back!” Wally ordered the three mages. “You’re not taking me in - not after you used me to get here!”

“Let him go, Wally!” Colby ordered, his tone pitching between rage and barely-suppressed fear. “Just - just let him go - or I swear - “

Before Colby could just panic the boy with further threats, Leif said loudly, “This isn’t going to help - there’re guards all around, someone’s going to get you before you can get Merrick.”

“I don’t know,” Merrick said, wincing as the jittery Wally pressed the knife harder against the hollow of his throat, drawing a small prick of blood. “Knives are pretty fast— I wouldn’t count on speed here, really—”

“You is not helping your cause!” Zuzia snapped, wishing very much that she had her godsdamned wand right now. Then, to Wally, she added: “Let us just talks, okay? Nice calm talks. Without Master Kubrair as your hostage, yes?”

“No - no talks!” Wally insisted.

“Yes, yes talks,” Colby shot back. “Look…” The man took a deep breath, and spoke in a calmer voice. “You keep saying you weren’t part of the kidnapping, that you didn’t know about it. So, if that’s true, you were on the minor side of things, right? And there’s so many other cronies around - they’re going to have their hands full with big-time criminals, not bit players.”

Seeing where Colby was going with this, Leif added, “But if you hurt or kill someone trying to avoid arrest…”

“We can even talks to guard on your behalf,” Zuzia suggested. “Tell them how much you help us with saving Vanessa.”

“Right, right,” Colby said, his voice momentarily strained, though he got control of it quickly enough. “It was...a lot easier, with a guide.”

“Why would you care?” Wally demanded of Colby. He glowered at Merrick, too, as he railed on, “Why would either of you care what the guards do to me? You both want me dead, you said so enough times! You don’t suddenly believe now that I didn’t have anything to do with it!”

“Well… we, ah…” Flinching again as Wally readjusted the knife, Merrick stammered, “We were just… emotional— you have to understand, you’re the one who delivered the ransom note about our daughter, our beloved daughter— even if you weren’t involved in actually taking her, we believe you, that you weren’t involved in actually taking her!— but, erm… as I was saying… ah… we were emotional, and seeing you was a shock, and so Colby and I weren’t thinking clearly, we—”

Afraid the man was going to say the wrong thing with a knife pressed to his throat, Leif quickly tried to intercede. “Listen, Wally it - it doesn’t matter, I mean - I’m sure now that they’ve had a chance to talk to Vanessa, they know you weren’t involved; she said it was the Terrells who took her.” She hadn’t said that exactly, but Leif doubted she’d begrudge him the lie at this exact moment.

“And Zuzanna and I, we believed you- we never made death threats, right?”

“Not even one deaths threat!” Zuzanna agreed. “We have been on your side this whole time, Wally— me and Leif. And… it’d means a lot to us. If you didn’t murder Merrick.” She added with a sage nod, “Even if it might seems tempting, it is not worthy.”

Wally’s brow pinched. “Worthy...of wha - “

“She means worth it,” Leif said, and hastily had to rein in some of his own irritation. Really, Wally was going to quibble about specific word choice right now? “It’s - I know, he caused you a lot of grief. Trust us - we understand.” Leif spared a glance at Colby; the hazel-eyed mage’s expression was tensely neutral, his lips pressed together and refusing to make eye contact with anyone. So long as he was keeping quiet, he could feel however he wanted.

Turning his attention fully back to Wally, Leif coaxed, “But Zuzia’s right, it’s not worth it - he’s just a blackmarketer whose daughter was stolen. You’d be a little mad, too, right?”

Wally fidgeted a little, including a little with his knife hand. “It’s - it’s not about getting back at him - not that that wouldn’t be nice,” he added with a low growl to his tone that made Colby automatically reach for his wand holster; upon finding it empty, the mage had to stifle some word behind his clenched teeth.

“But - but I can’t go to jail!” Wally went on. “Or - worse! My mother - she needs me! Father’s dead, my brother and sisters don’t live in the city anymore - she needs me! And I’ll pick her over the ones who got me into this situation in the first place!”

“But we’ll helps you,” Zuzia insisted. “Plus,” she went on quickly, “guards is going to be finish sweeping house sooner than late. If they find you holding knife to Merrick’s throat— what you think will happens then?”

Before Wally could respond, however, Merrick blinked. “The guard?” he echoed. Then: “’Pit, the guard’s here? I thought you were just— just talking generally, you brought the guard here? But Vanessa, she— she’s—!”

Colby said quickly, “She’s fine, Merrick! She got the antidote, and - it’s a long story, but - she’s okay. We just have to get you out of this.”

“As Zuzanna was saying,” Leif interjected loudly. “The guard - they’re on their way. How do you want them to find you?” If the man would just stop moving his knife hand, Leif might be able to magic the weapon away, but he wouldn’t hold still… Frustrated, Leif snapped, “You mother’s not going to be impressed with that, is she?”

He hadn’t expected the remark to really do anything - but Wally bit his lip as if this hadn’t occurred to him. Hoping to ride this wave to safety before Wally crashed them into a bucket of Merrick’s blood, Zuzia forced what she hoped was a soothing smile.

“Come on, now,” she said to Wally, taking a tentative step forward, hands held out in placation. “Lets him go, all right? Think of your mama. How disappoint she will be, if you hurts Merrick.”

“She’s such a nice lady,” Merrick added frantically. “Really, Colby and I love her to bits— and— and she likes us, she’d be so upset if you murdered me, it’d be a double whammy of— of her son being a murderer and one of her favourite customers being murdered, and—”

“Merrick!” Colby interrupted. “I don’t think now’s the time!”

I’m going to smack their heads together, Leif thought in frustration, but he tried to give Zuzia a hand. “Your mother seems to be a very nice woman.”

Wally looked between the four of them, his hands shaking visibly. “She can’t know about this, she’ll be - crushed.”

“She’s going to find out something,” Colby said. “Is she gonna be less crushed if you murder somebody to get yourself a headstart?”

When Wally didn’t see quite sure how to reply to Leif said, “Murder’s a hard line. Once you go over…”

“Go on, Wally,” Zuzia urged. “Lowers the knife. Be the good person your mama would wants you to be.”

Wally swallowed heavily and his eyes darted around the room. Leif saw his fingers tighten on the knife handle - and finally, Wally looked at Zuzanna, winced, and shoved Merrick away, drawing the knife back and into a purely defensive position. Merrick didn’t waste a moment, searing forward so quickly that he quite nearly went tumbling head over heels, only barely managing to right himself before his chin smacked against the floor. Colby hurried forward to meet him, grabbing Merrick’s hand and pulling him back to join Leif near the door.

The archmages remained focused on Wally; he still had the knife and despite his shaky hands, didn’t look entirely unwilling to use it. “Put the knife down,” Leif said in the best soothing tone he could manage, trying to imagine he was talking to a skittish bird. “It’ll go better with the guards if you just surrender peacefully.”

“You can let me go,” Wally blurted, his tone manically hopeful. “Nobody has to know - if I can sneak out of here - “

“Wally, no,” Zuzia said, gently but firmly. “Just put knife down and comes with us, okay? We can walk to guards together. Peaceful. Nice.”

“It’ll look better if you come to them,” Merrick added as he scampered toward his husband, Leif, and Zuzia; as he pressed a hand against his lightly scratched and bleeding throat, the redhead looked very, very relieved to be free of Wally’s grasp. “I mean, we won’t even tell him you caused this ol’ nick here,” the redhead prattled on. “Can say I just— cut myself on… something. No one even has to know about the knife, really! If you put it down.”

“We can stay quiet,” Colby agreed.

Wally’s expression was not precisely friendly as he glanced at Colby and Merrick, but with a grimace, he slowly crouched, set the knife on the ground, and kicked it under one of the plush couches. “There,” he said dully. “Mama’s going to be…” He didn’t seem to be able to think of a word; after a moment, the man just shook his head.

“She’ll forgives you,” Zuzia said, truly believing it. “She loves you, Wally. Loves you a lots.” With a wan smile, she glanced over her shoulder, toward the double doors that led back out into the hall. “Now come on, okays? Let’s go… go talk to guards.”

“And get me a bandage,” Merrick grumbled, hand still clasped to his shallow wound. (Zuzia was fairly sure she’d seen papercuts deeper.)

Leif held back a sigh of frustration. He doubted Merrick would appreciate it being pointed out that a significant portion of this entire situation was his and Colby’s fault, and it was far too soon to start bickering again.

It didn’t take them long to find the guards, who took Wally Oakley’s escorted surrender with some confusion, but no protest. Leif spotted a few guards with injuries as they double-checked that the halls and rooms were clear of Terrell lackeys, and suspected they were more than happy to arrest someone who wasn’t fighting them tooth and nail.

As Wally was shackled and led away, another guard approached, two wands in his hand. “We found these on one of the goons. I’m told some of you are mages?” He held out the wands for them to inspect.

In an instant, Zuzia had snapped her hand out and curled her fingers over one of the wands, drawing it toward her. “Ahh,” she murmured, smiling down at it as though she were gazing at a long lost friend. “I was afraids the lackeys would damage.” The teenager inspected the gem-encrusted rod, carefully. “But no. Seems goods.” A laugh as she slipped it into the holster at her hip. “I missed you, dear.”

Merrick blinked. “Are you… talking to your wand?”

“Everything that’s happened tonight,” Leif said, raising his eyebrows, “and that’s what you pick on?”

“It is a strange thing to do,” Colby remarked, taking the remaining wand and inspecting it for damage as well. Unlike Zuzanna’s wand, Colby’s was quite plain, with only a single small ruby near its base. “Looks like they didn’t have any time to try taking them apart to get the gems. Of course, with your gem-mine of a wand there,” Colby added to Zuzia, even as he turned to Merrick and motioned for him to tilt his head back, “I think mine would have been safe.”

Zuzia pursed her lips. “You is not funny,” she said.

“Oh, lighten up,” Merrick remarked, obligingly exposing his neck to Colby as the guard who’d delivered their wands walked off with a mere roll of his eyes. “You’d think after all we’ve been through tonight together, you could take a simple joke.”

As Colby cast Episkey to heal Merrick’s battle-wound, Leif replied, “It’s been a long, long night and morning, and I wouldn’t call the four of us friends.”

“And only friends make jokes?” Colby said, holstering his wand. “What boring nemeses you two would make.”

“I’d prefer strangers,” Zuzia grumbled.

“Well, you know,” Merrick pointed out prissily (after sparing Colby a kiss on the cheek, as if in compense for his husband’s healing of the neck wound), “you didn’t have to accept the first job from us, Madam Panem. Your involvement with us? Completely of your doing.”

Zuzia would have growled that she’d have never gotten involved with Merrick and Colby’s criminal syndicate if she’d known they were criminals in the first place— and that in any case, this hardly made it her fault what had happened tonight— but then another city guardsman swept past, sparing the foursome a cordial if cool smile, and she bit down on her tongue. Just last night, the teenager would’ve gladly turned the insufferables idiots who were Merrick Kubrair and Colby Sanders over to the law. Smiled to herself as the iron hand of justice was clamped down upon them. But now… after going through so much with them… after risking her life— Leif’s life, Kirin’s life, Silvia and Phyllo’s lives— to help save their daughter...

They weren’t friends.

But it would’ve turned her stomach upside-down, and sent her blood running cold, to see either man flogged or hanging, despite the crimes they’d committed. So she supposed they weren’t enemies, either. And strangers least of all.

Colby smirked. “The ‘Woo works in mysterious ways, eh?”

“Very mysterious, clearly,” Leif agreed, crossing his arms and adding pointedly, “Maybe it was in part to tell you not to expand?”

“Could be,” Colby agreed, to Leif’s surprise - until the mage said, “Maybe it’s a sign we have more business to take care of here before we put everything into that new shop.”

Leif blinked. “I - I meant more of a ‘change your occupation’ message…”

Merrick waved a hand. “Is now,” he asked, with a meaningful glance toward another passing guard, “really the time for this conversation, Lord Jade?”

“...I suppose not,” the archmage grumbled.

“Exactly,” Colby agreed. “Now, don’t you two have family to see? I know we do.” To Merrick, he said, “Nessa’s with Salome; I told her we’d be back soon to pick her up again. I’ll tell you what happened with Georgie on the way - you’re going to be so proud of our little girl!”

Rolling his eyes, Leif muttered to Zuzia, “Let’s get back to Kirin and Phyllo. ...How bad is it that I hope they baked something full of sugar so we have some energy when we tell them...all of this?”

“Not bads at all,” Zuzia assured him. “I thinks I could eat a whole bakery right now.”

***

Leif and Zuzia made it back to the latter’s flat just a a few hours before noon. Leif and Kirin waited outside in the hall while Zuzia fed a very hungry, very fussy Silvia, and even though Leif knew he would have to repeat it again in just a few minutes, he started explaining what had happened to Kirin. He also decided not to wait on offering the candy he’d bought from Mrs. Oakley.

The full explanation to everyone took quite a while to tell, and it was clear by the end that there was still a lot for everyone to absorb. However, it had been an excruciatingly-long night, and candy or not, everyone was in firm agreement that they needed sleep. Leif and Kirin left the Panems to their rest, and returned home. It was a lot later than Leif had intended to get back to cuddling under a blanket with his husband, and neither of them was awake for very long to pick up quite where they had left off, but Leif was happy for it nonetheless.


An official summons from the city guard came to the Panem and Jade-Mao households a few days later. According to the messenger, the guard needed official statements from Leif and Zuzanna, to ensure they had absolutely everything in order in their case against the Terrell brothers.

The archmages decided to walk to the guardhouse together - they would probably be questioned separately, and still needed to decide just how much they were and were not going to share about Merrick and Colby’s involvement - or fault, to be quite honest about it. Leif and Zuzia had just reached a quiet consensus when the guardhouse finally came into sight - and had a nasty shock when they spotted the two criminals they had just been discussing also approaching the building.

“Lord Jade, Madam Panem!” Colby called as he spotted them, before Leif could think to duck out of sight. “Just who we were hoping to run into!”

Part of Zuzia wanted to scream out in frustration, but given their close proximity to the guardhouse, she supposed a shrill shriek might not be the best reaction. Instead, the teenager gritted her teeth. “Is you stalking us?” she demanded.

Merrick blinked, bushy red brows furrowed. “No, of course not.” He tilted his head. “We’re here to give our formal statements to the city guard— just as you are, I imagine. Since, you know, we were all victims of this together.” A beat, as his gaze grew harder. Scrutinizing. He prompted: “Right?”

Leif sighed. “Yes, yes, we were. Although - none of us would have been in that trouble if - “

“We know,” Colby interrupted, rolling his eyes. “You’ve ranted to us about it already. Multiple times. I hope you’re not planning on directing that rant elsewhere?” Colby gave the guardhouse a significant look. “We did agree to...a truce, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” Zuzia said. “We will not tell them… the whole story, shall we says?” A beat. “But… you two cannot expect us to just forget what you put us through. Forget that you put our families in dangers, and caused us all Woo-knows-how much stress and fears! All because you was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

“Yes, we get the point,” Merrick said flatly. “We won’t be taking out massive loans any time soon again, I can assure you of that, Madam Panem. Hand to the Woo.”

“Oh, so no loans,” Leif said, crossing his arms, “but still happy to work with everyone else? What happens when you get on someone else’s bad side trying to run your little side-business? You get more innocent people tangled up in it?”

“Listen,” Colby said, “we’re taking measures so that Vanessa won’t be quite so easy a target for anyone, and - “

“Vanessa wasn’t a hostage at the end, though,” Leif said, looking at Merrick. “That was you. And people could still find ways around your protection.” Seeing argument coming even with his poor ability to read people, Leif quickly said, “It’ll be a lot safer - for us, for you and your daughter, for everyone around you - if you make honest caravaning and potion-brewing your only businesses. ...Actually - it’s not a choice.”

Colby raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Leif spoke in a low voice. “We’ll do you two a favor this once - but only if you stop stealing things. If we’re here again, dealing with some mess you’ve caused - we’ll tell them everything.”

Merrick gawped, stunned speechless for a moment. “Are you… threatening us?”

“No,” Zuzia returned, unable to fully fight back a smirk as Leif’s ultimatum. “Not threatening. Just telling.” She jerked her chin toward the door a few yards up the road, the one that led into the main Medieville guardhouse. “You wants us to tell matching stories with you now? Tell the guard that we is all friends, that you just ask Leif and me for helps after Vanessa got kidnap? Then you promise us: no more crime!”

Colby glared. “This is manipulation!” Leif didn’t know whether to turn around and walk away, or sputter about how hypocritical an accusation that was - he settled for just staring at the man as if he’d spoken in a foreign tongue.

Sighing raggedly, Colby rubbed his temples. “It’s not as easy as just dropping out of the game. We have clients. Regulars. As you pointed out, Panem - every friend’s got their own - what’d you call it - side business. If we suddenly drop ours, they’ll get suspicious. Maybe even angry.”

“If you run into problems trying to get an honest living together,” Leif pointed out, “we’d be much more willing to help.”

“We is expected very soon,” Zuzia added tartly, glancing toward the guardhouse again. “Not exactly much times to broker. So— take it or leave it.”

“And if we leave it…?” Merrick dared query, exchanging a tentative look with Colby.

“Then,” Zuzia said simply, even as her stomach churned at the thought, “we won’t lie to guards.”

Leif nodded in agreement. He didn’t like it; he hated to think that if the two were imprisoned or worse, Vanessa would be losing a second set of parents; for all of Merrick and Colby’s faults, they had made it rather clear they truly did care for the girl. Then again, if they didn’t stop putting themselves in close quarters with these dangerous people, their fellow criminals, Vanessa could wind up in danger again. And so were other innocent people, and their children.

Colby returned Merrick’s uncertain look with a frown. “...They have us backed into a corner,” he grumbled.

“It will be for bests,” Zuzia insisted, smiling somewhat grimly. “Just think of Vanessa.” She paused for a moment before adding, “Where is Vanessa, anyway? Guard did not want talk to her?”

“They brought up the idea,” Colby said, “But even they didn’t think it was especially kind to force a nine-year-old child to relive her kidnapping and poisoning for an account we can give them just as well.” His voice rose a little with anger and he stuffed his hands in his pockets irritably - but his tone cooled as he said, “She’s with a friend.”

“So,” Leif said, “if we all agree Vanessa isn’t profiting much from your life of crime - “

“Yes,” Colby said. “We get it.” He tilted his head at Merrick. “We can...try to work something out?”

Merrick frowned. “We don’t really have a choice here, do we?” he grumbled. “Either we agree, or we’re going to end up in a world of trouble.”

“So.” Zuzia leveled the pair a hard look. “You is cooperate, yes? No more crime— pinky promise?” After a moment’s thought she tacked on, “And I mean that, too. No crime. Any crime. Not just big crime, you understand?”

Heaving a heavy sigh, Colby said, “Yes, we understand. No crimes, big or small, jump on the straight and narrow immediately or we get to meet the hangsman... Am I missing anything, Merrick?”

“Hmm,” Merrick said, tapping his chin. “Ah! We need to remember to say our evening prayers, and eat up our suppers like good boys, and—”

“Telling you to abide by the laws of the country so you don’t wind up making Vanessa an orphan,” Leif interrupted. “How tyrannical of us. You have two perfectly legitimate businesses. Quit whining.”

“All right.” Merrick placed out his hands, palms forward. “Calm down, Lord Jade, we’re agreeing to you terms, okay?” The ginger rolled his eyes— then cast them toward the guardhouse up the road. “Now... can we talk about something that actually matters? Like, you know, what story we’re going to tell the guards? If they separate us— which they probably will— we need to make sure we’re consistent.”

Leif scowled a little, but when no further argument seemed to be coming, he sighed and relented. “Well - I suppose we’ll need to tell them we know each other from somewhere...maybe I could be a client of your potion shop. So...when you found out Vanessa had been kidnapped…”

***

True to their predictions, the group of four was indeed separated as each of them gave their formal statement as to how, exactly, they’d ended up on the wrong side of the nefarious brothers Terrell. Zuzia had half been expecting some resistance, suspicion, wariness; after all, surely the city guard wouldn’t simply accept their spun tale at the surface, without trying to mine into its convoluted core. They’d want to prod, dissect, analyze. Find inconsistencies. Unearth holes.

… Except it quickly became apparent that they... didn’t. Weren’t going to. That they’d already long constructed a narrative of the Terrells’ crimes, and had slotted Zuzia, Leif, Merrick, and Colby into the picture as victims. Innocents. Merrick and Colby were the hardworking businessmen who’d taken out a loan with the wrong sort of people; Leif and Zuzia were their friends who had simply offered to help them out of a terrible situation. Wally barely figured in, other than that he was one of many Terrell goons who’d been arrested at the manor. Kirin, Phyllo, and Silvia were cleaved from the account entirely. Similarly, there was no mention of Merrick and Colby at all being involved with Sherman and Aubrianna Pell.

After all of their statements were lodged, the group was brought back together to be debriefed by the head of the investigation. Some of what the man told them was not at all surprising: given the overwhelming amount of evidence against them, the Terrells were to be hanged; a thorough search of the brothers’ manor had turned up a veritable grab-bag of illicit goods, including an alarming amount of pollyroot; they were known by at least a half dozen aliases; their jeweling business seemed to mostly be a front for a healthy stream of money laundering and other criminal ventures. And speaking of jewels…

“We’ve also linked them to another crime,” the guardsman said, “that occurred the night before their arrest. An attempted heist at the Keep, as well as a rotten kidnapping leading up to it. The victims of the latter were… disoriented, to say the least, and not the most helpful with information, but— they did remember it was two men in charge. And that jewels kept being mentioned.”

“... Oh?” Zuzia said, her voice the perfect measure of neutral surprise.

Colby clicked his tongue against his teeth. “How horrible. They were going after crown jewels, I take it? I wonder what in the world they planned to do with them, considering they’d be so traceable.”

“Yes,” Leif agreed. “Not to mention how they thought they were going to get around all the guards in the first place.” He managed not to sound more than terse about this. Colby acted as if he hadn’t heard him.

“Well, it seems they didn’t,” the guardsman said. “They retreated from the Keep before they were caught. As for what they planned to do…” He shrugged. “That’s anyone’s guess. They denied being behind it when we asked them, but they’ve denied everything else, so we’re hardly taking that as fact. We could have a truth spell cast on them, but with all the pollyroot and illegal items and the statements from their employees...really, even this is a formality.”

“Of course,” said Merrick. “No use doing a truth spell when you’ve already got an ironclad case— and this city’s a bustling place, I’m sure there are better ways for the guard’s mages to spend their time, eh?” He laughed, somewhat too jovially. Forcefully.

Zuzia coughed. “Yes, much better ways,” she said, before hurriedly switching the topic as she brooked, “You said there was other kidnap victims? Is they okay?”

The guard nodded. “As I said, disoriented. And terrified, as can only be expected. But they’re recovering well enough, I do think— took their formal statements just this morning.”

“That’s good to hear,” Leif said, nodding firmly. “Hopefully this will be the only time they have to deal with anything like this.”

Colby said, “I’m sure it will be. Not very much crime this serious in Medieville, right?”

“Fortunately not,” the guard agreed. “And the whole city sleeps safer now, with the likes of George and Jaron Terrell off the streets.”

Thick as Thieves: Epilogue

SPOILER: Click to show

Leif, Kirin, and the Panems saw little of Colby and Merrick over the next month or so. He and Zuzia made occasional trips into their part of town - Leif grumbling about the somehow even more bitter cold the entire way - but they weren’t exactly able to waltz into the Kubrair-Sanders house without explaining to someone what they were doing there, and neither archmage really wanted to insist on an extended meeting with their awkward not-exactly-enemies-but-not-really-friends.

The two hopefully-ex-blackmarketers weren’t the only people they checked up on, however. Though they were careful not to get too close to the Pells, just in case, they did find an excuse to run a few errands nearby, and eventually spotted the couple loading their wagon for a delivery to the Keep. They seemed to be watching the people around them carefully, but at least they were comfortable enough to be getting back to work.

They also paid another visit to Wally’s kindly and painfully naive mother, Margerie, to see if she was holding up all right after the unpleasant mess her son had found himself buried beneath. They weren’t exactly sure what punishment he’d earned himself, but whatever it was, they doubted he’d been able to wholly hide it from Margerie— and Woo, how Zuzia hoped it hadn’t torn his poor mother up too badly.

Fortunately, when the pair of archmages walked into her shop, Margerie was just as cheerful as she’d been the first time they met her. The woman was utterly delighted to see them again, asking how they’d liked the last lot of sweets she’d sold them and more than happy to supply them with another assorted bag (she even remembered no cinnamon pieces for Zuzia). Neither Zuzia nor Leif quite knew how to bring up the matter of her son— or the loan sharks she’d recommended to Colby and Merrick— but fortunately Margerie ended up bringing it up for them, the woman tentatively inquiring if they knew whether or not Merrick and Colby had gone after the loan she’d recommended.

“No, Zuzia said quickly, figuring this was the easiest way to keep from having to spin a very convoluted lie, given the brothers’ arrests only hours after Margerie had made the recommendation. “I don’t thinks they did.”

“Ah, well, that’s probably for the best,” Margerie replied with a tired sigh. “It seems the nice gents got tangled up in something wicked— and Wally, Woo bless him, tried to help them out of it, and… well, he got tangled up, too.”

Zuzia blinked. This was— not at all how things had gone down, but then again, perhaps Wally had given his mother a modified version of the truth… “He is okays, though?” she dared brook. “Wally?”

“Oh, yes,” Margerie assured. “Hasn’t had the most pleasant month, but… he’s all right, my poor boy. A bit light of his pockets— and flesh off his back— but… all right, thank the Woo.”

“Good. I am— glads to hear,” Zuzia said, and part of her genuinely meant it. As much as she had no love for Wally Oakley, Margerie was a legitimately nice woman. She didn’t deserve to go through any heartbreak on Wally’s account.

The archmages headed back to the streets, making their way not toward either the Panems’ flat or Kirin and Leif’s house, but Marson Manor. They had been asked to help with a ward that had recently failed on the jail cell floor. “Polite of it to wait until after George Terrell paid it a visit,” Leif remarked. “I’m surprised, honestly.”

“Ah, yes, I haves heard of the infamous jail of Marson,” Zuzia replied dryly. “Nice of it to cooperates for once, eh? If after all that chaos we’d comes back to find George escape— I might have losed my mind.”

“Me, too,” Leif said. “And I doubt an assassin would have arrived to dispatch him first this time. ….Though I suppose in the long-run, that wouldn’t have changed much…” The Terrells had hung just a few weeks previous; the evidence of their crimes was too vast for them to refute, and there weren’t particularly strong feelings of mercy toward men who had kidnapped and then poisoned a nine-year-old child.

He sighed. “I don’t know that I even want to know what Colby and Merrick are using the money they had started saving for the loan for.”

“Maybe ignorance is bliss,” Zuzanna said, as they neared the tony neighbourhood that Marson Manor was located within. “I am hope they do not do more crime with it, but— in any case, ignorant means I cannot be mad, right?”

“Sure. ...Who knows, maybe they’re funding their genuine businesses.” Leif didn’t sound especially convinced. “Though they’ve been lying pretty low; I doubt we’ll find out for sure until either something happens, or we run into them on accident. I don’t think they exactly see us as best friends.”

“Thank the Woo,” Zuzia muttered. “Friends would means we might have to spend time with them again.”

“Woo forbid,” Leif agreed heartily. “I haven’t come up with new ways to say ‘are you being serious’ yet. At least we’re probably safe around here.” He pointed to the roof of the Terrell’s old, now-abandoned manor, which was rapidly coming into sight as they drew closer. “I doubt they’ll want to see that place again.”

“Cannot be good memories,” Zuzia agreed. “Especially for poor Vanessa. For as much as I do nots ever have interest in seeing her papas again— I hope she is being okay.”

“Me, too. She didn’t deserve any of that. I just hope her fathers realize - “ Leif froze.

At the gate of the Terrell house stood three people - one redheaded man, one strawberry-blond man, and a little girl. Recognizing people by appearance alone after just one meeting was not Leif’s strong suite - but he didn’t need much to recognize these three. Even so, he asked, “Zuzia, that - that isn’t...”

“No,” she replied quickly. “It can’t be.”

Except— it was. Merrick, Colby, and wee little Vanessa, live and in the flesh, standing just outside the gate to the Terrell brothers’ manor, backs to it as though were just departing its grounds. Even more perplexingly, Merrick had a ring of keys in his hand, and as Zuzia and Leif could only watch in utmost bewilderment, he turned briefly to use one of the keys to lock the gate. He had a key to the gate. What in the…

In an instant, millions— endless— possibilities were lancing through Zuzanna’s spinning head like a swarm of angry hornets. Had Merrick and Colby been involved with the Terrells somehow? Had the whole thing been a set-up? Had she and Leif been scammed, had Merrick and Colby been the terrifying big fish all along, what was happening, what was—

“Lord Jade? Madam Panem?” Merrick’s cheery voice cut through Zuzia’s racing thoughts, the ginger grinning broadly as he pocketed the ring of keys. If he was panicking over being caught, the man didn’t show it, looking as carefree as a child at the beach in summertime. “So nice to see you!” the redhead prattled on. “You headed to Marson Manor, I take it?”

Leif gawped rather more like a fish than any sort of bird for a moment before he managed to ask, “How - what - why are - what are you doing here? There?” he clarified, pointed to the Terrells’ estate.

Colby grinned. “I was wondering if we’d get to tell you the news first! Merrick, do you want to tell them? Or should I?”

Merrick chuckled heartily. “Ah, go ahead,” he said, leaning in to plant a kiss on his husband’s cheek (Vanessa promptly cringed in utmost disgust). “It was your idea, after all, wasn’t it, love?”

“One of my better ones, even,” Colby said smugly. “See, nobody else was using this place - the Terrells had no living relatives, so nobody was around to inherit it. None of the nobility was going to want it, not when it’s smaller compared to theirs and not even in the right colors. But it would be such a shame for it to go to waste - so, I thought we should have it! Seeing as its former owners gave us such a hard time.”

“You thought you shoulds— have it?” Zuzia burbled. “You can’t just— it is house, not a— a pretty pebble you find on the road, you-- !”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Merrick soothed. “We’ve got friends in all the right places, you know. It’s not like we just moved in, Madam Panem— we’re not common squatters.”

“And what does thats mean?” Zuzanna snapped.

“That we have the deed!” Colby said brightly. “Notarized and officiated and everything!”

“How - how would - who would approve that?” Leif stammered.

Colby nodded toward Merrick. “Friends, like he said. And we had some money left over from saving up for the loan. Which we now don’t have to repay!”

“... The loan?” Zuzia asked. “You mean— the loan from the Terrells?”

“Who else?” said Merrick. “As we told you when we first met, we had planned on paying it back eventually, we just hadn’t quite saved up enough before the deadline. But that hardly means we hadn’t saved anything at all.”

“We’re not stupid,” Colby added.

Leif considered arguing that point, but something else hit him at the same time. “So - so you’re living here now.”

“That’s what people usually do with houses, live in them,” Colby agreed. “I mean, it would be sort of a waste not to, right?”

“You’re practically next-door to Marson Manor!”

Colby said, “So we are!”

“I like the neighbourhood,” Vanessa chirped, the little girl giving the pair of archmages a sage nod. “It’s nice! All the houses are so pretty.” She prattled on: “At first, I didn’t like livin’ here, ‘cos it made me think of the bad men. But then Papa and Daddy said the best way to make the bad memories go away is to make good memories to take their place.”

“That’s right,” Merrick said, reaching out to take his daughter’s hand in his. “And we’re making lots of good memories, aren’t we, Nessa?”

“Uh-huh!” She grinned. “Daddy and me spent all afternoon yesterday practicin’ spells in the yard. The yard’s so big! We can practice practically anything.” Her pale green eyes drifted toward Zuzia and Leif’s wands. “I bet you know neat spells,” she said. “‘Cos you’re archmages, right? That’s what Papa and Daddy say.”

Leif supposed there was no reason to lie. “Yes, we are. ...We know some interesting spells.”

“Like what?” Colby asked; his tone was innocent but Leif suspected the intent behind the question was anything but.

“...Some advanced healing spells. A special locking spell. Constructs.”

“Oooh, could you show me sometime?” Vanessa breathed. “I’ll be a real good student, I promise!”

“Lord Jade and Madam Panem are busy people, love,” Merrick said. “In fact— they seem to be busy right now, hm? And we hardly want to keep them for longer than we already have…” He took a step forward, drawing Vanessa with him. “Lovely to see you, though,” he added. “We’ll have to catch up further sometime, hm?”

Something that felt like a scream of frustration was building in Leif’s chest, but he managed, “Well - so long as you two are still…” He glanced at Vanessa. “...Still agreeing to do what we talked about.”

“Would we ever break a promise, Master Jade, Madam Panem?” Colby said, his grin widening even further.

Was he serious? Zuzia could have smacked him, and it was only Vanessa’s presence that held back the whole slurry of refutations that was pressing at her lips. Instead, she only glowered, turning away from the family as she mumbled, “I don’t knows. I’d ask the brothers whose house you is living in, but… they is slightly… unavailable, no?”

“Slightly,” agreed Colby. “But I’m not exactly weeping for them. If I were you, I wouldn’t waste time on it, either. Be happy your…” He waved a hand at Leif. “...Whatever he is. Be glad his boss’ cousins have better neighbors now!”

“You guys is unbelievable,” Zuzia huffed.

Colby just smirked. “We’ll see you around,” he said jauntily, as he joined Merrick and Vanessa starting off on their errand. “Don’t be strangers!”

[Avery]

What's this, a solo fic by me? =o Gasp, impossibru! Anyway. 8D Yes, a solo fic. It is so happy, I don't even. 8D 8D 8D

I. The Grey One

SPOILER: Click to show

They called him the old one, the grey one, the sallow one.

Surely he’d once had some name else, but nobody knew it anymore. It was not altogether clear if he was merely keeping it close, or if he himself had long since forgotten it, too.

For many, many years now he'd been a haggard skeleton of a man— tall and stooped and unnervingly gaunt, with limbs slim like willow branches and skin wrinkled as a shriveled grape’s. His wispy hair grew in mottled patches and thatches of dun silver, so sparse it rather looked liked a mangy dog’s thinning coat; his masters kept it closely trimmed, so as to better display the rest of his features: sunken eyes the colour of honey; long, slender ears that curved out to a fine point; pale skin that looked as if it had never seen a droplet of sun.

He was one of the key draws at the expansive menagerie that took up much of the commercial district of the city called Faustus. The menagerie itself was the city’s prime attraction, built on the blood, sweat, and tears of Faustus’s ruling noble family, House Rutten, who helmed a poor, dreary estate in a poor, dreary province— and godsdamned if they didn't know it. The collection of beasts was their most treasured possession, the menagerie their pinnacle achievement. It had stood for over a century now. The old one had been an original exhibit.

It was House Rutten’s sigil— a moth, its patterned wings in full spread— branded on his right arm, all the way down near his wrist. It was the only space they'd had left to mark when they'd bought him nearly a century ago, the rest of the limb already riddled through with brands of yore: seals and stamps no one so much as recognized anymore, belonging to men and families whom history had swallowed whole, their marks on the old one’s soft flesh perhaps the only tangible thing that remained to prove they'd existed at all.

Sometimes, he found this fact comforting. The idea that for all they'd made him suffer, he lived on and they did not. That now, instead of them keeping him, he kept them. That he was the only one who remembered them. Their legacies. Their triumphs. Their stories that he'd never breathe a word about to anybody, that he kept smothered inside of him like caged birds with so very much they could sing, but whose songs he kept forever stifled and silent.

It wasn't much, but it was something.

It was all he had, and it was something.

***

In the summertime Faustus always smelled fetid, and inside the menagerie, the aroma was most potent. It seemed not to matter how hard the slaves who were overseen by about a half-dozen paid beastkeepers toiled and scrambled and sweated; there was always more to do, and exhibits that didn’t get scrubbed, and on the worst days even the animals whose cages surrounded the old one’s seemed thoroughly jaded by it all— indolent as they lay amidst the foul and waste, eyes glazed, facing away from the crowds. Once upon a time, when first House Rutten had bought him and stuck him on display, the old one had hated the beasts. They'd served as stark reminders of how low in life he’d fallen, to be set on exhibit aside creatures of the wild, to be gawked at, laughed at, taunted, dehumanized.

These days, he just felt sorry for them. They hadn't asked for this, either. And in a strange, sad way, the animals he could glimpse from within his exhibit were as close to stable companionship as he had. He knew the puma liked to sun herself just after dawn. That the scraggly wolf with one missing eye was, nevertheless, in charge of the ragtag pack. That the black bear’s favourite treat was passionfruit, and that none of the animals liked children much, because untended little ones screamed loudest and threw the most stinging stones.

Today the menagerie’s sole peacock was the unlucky one attracting negative attention, courtesy of a group of four children—siblings, the old one guessed— whose parents had dropped them off at opening that morning, and who had been running amok through the grounds ever since. The bird’s exhibit was so small that he had nowhere he could hide, only backing himself into the furthest corner he could find as his tormentors flung a number of increasingly large pebbles in his direction. As he watched from within his own cage, the old one bit back a scowl, trying in vain to soothe that fury that was rising in him like a wave cresting in the sea. No matter how long he spent at the menagerie, he would never grow used to such acts of petty cruelty. Would never understand what allure there was to torturing creatures that couldn’t fight back. Would never allow himself to grow complacent to it, because once he lost that he lost everything he once had been, and then what was the point of being at all?

“Enough,” he called out to the children, in a heavily accented rendition of their tongue. Throughout his life he’d spoken many languages, but the world had long gone forgotten most of them, the words and grammars morphing and molding until they'd become but unrecognizable shadows of their former selves. His isolation at the menagerie the past century had only further neutered his speaking abilities, and each syllable took a concentrated effort as he went on: “Leave it alone. It has done nothing to you.”

The children turned from the peacock, matching hazel eyes arrowing in on him. The eldest of them— a russet-haired boy of eleven or twelve— took a step forward, a scowl etching his pudgy face. He and his younger siblings were dressed smartly, in airy linen summer clothes trimmed with gauzy silk, and though he knew they weren't nobles— the old one recognized all the city’s nobles, and gods knew Faustus seldom drew outside visitors— it was clear they came from money.

“Are you talking to us, kreatura?” the boy huffed. Kreatura: creature. This word hadn't changed in centuries, and the old one had heard it many times before. “You're here to be looked at. Not to talk to us.”

This was true, so the old one didn't bother to refute it. If any of the menagerie’s paid keepers found out he'd been lipping off to guests, it'd be an unpleasant evening for him after they closed up for the night. But his insolence had distracted the children from assaulting the peacock, at least, and so it had done its job. Better him suffering than the poor old bird. He could understand what was happening to him. The peacock only knew the pain.

“Leave it alone,” the elf repeated. “It is frightened.”

“You can't tell us what to do.” The only girl amongst the quartet scrunched her face. “Our mama and papa paid for us to be here. We can do what we want!”

“You're a kreatura,” her elder brother added. “And a slave. You're not allowed to order us around.”

“I am not ordering,” said the old one. “Only pleading.”

“We’ll tell on you,” sniffed the girl. “We'll get the beastkeepers and we’ll tell, and then—”

The child's voice abruptly died away, and all of the children's postures stiffened, as they seemed to spy something further up the cobbled footpath that snaked through the menagerie grounds. Almost reflexively the old one whipped his neck around, his gaze trailing after theirs. As it did, his stomach lurched. A cold sweat broke out across his wrinkled brow.

“That's Lord Rutten, isn't it?” the girl hissed to her brothers. “With his knights.”

“Uh-huh,” agreed the youngest of the children— a chocolate-haired boy of only four or five. “We should tell ‘im!” the little one chirped on. “That that kreatura was ord’rin us ‘round!”

“Are you mad?” the oldest boy snapped. He grabbed his brother’s arm, fingers claw-like around the child’s thin wrist. “He's the lord of the whole estate— we can't just go up and complain to him. Especially not when he’s got a knighted escort!”

“We should go,” bleated his sister. “Nobles are scary.”

None of her siblings had any argument against this. The oldest boy whirled and started back the way they’d come, beckoning for the littler ones to follow him, and they fell in line behind him like ducklings trailing after their mother. For a moment the old one was torn between watching them go and watching the newcomers arrive, and after some deliberation he decided on neither, simply crossing his arms and casting his honeyed eyes toward the ground. Even without observing, however, he knew that Lord Rutten would pause to gander at his cage. He always did. Ogling at the old one as if he could hardly fathom it— this manlike creature who had scarcely changed in all these years. Who’d already outlived three enkis of Faustus. Who, despite his withered appearance, by all means seemed as though he might outlive many lords more.

“Enjoying the summer breeze, grey one?” Sure enough, the footsteps halted just outside the bars of the old one’s cage, Lord Rutten’s all-too-familiar voice blithe— jovial— as he went on, “Ah, come on, don’t play coy. Look at me, grey one. Let me see those nice sparkling eyes.”

The old one lifted his chin, slowly, mechanically. He didn’t speak, because the enki hadn’t granted him permission. Scolding bratty children was one thing— it served a purpose. But riling a lord by talking out of turn for no reason? He’d had such blunders beaten out of him centuries and centuries ago.

Rutten smiled. “There we go,” he crooned. “That’s my boy.” The dark-haired lord paused for a moment then, simply studying his prized slave, the knights at his heel standing still and silent as statues. Distantly, the old one could hear children laughing, and he dearly prayed it was not the fled siblings tormenting a new target. Rutten continued: “Don’t look so dour, grey one. It’s a lovely warm day! What could you possibly have to be broody about?”

This was a rhetorical question. Another thing the old one had learned long ago.

“Anyway,” Rutten purred on, “I’ve got news for you. Happy news! Tell me— do you want to hear this happy news, grey one?”

“Yes, enki,” the old one said, his stomach slithering itself into knots.

“I’ve gotten you a gift,” said Rutten. “Isn’t that exciting?”

“A gift, enki?” the elf murmured. He did not like the grin the lord of Faustus wore. It was at once predatory and over-sweet. Honey used in an attempt to mask the bitter bite of poison.

“Indeed,” Rutten agreed. “It'll be here tonight, grey one. After the menagerie closes for the evening. I shall be hand-delivering it myself.”

This lord of Faustus had never once, in all of his twenty-odd year reign, brought the old one gifts. The man’s grandfather had been fond of them— giving his captive baubles and trinkets and treats here and there, whenever the fancy struck— but this enki hadn't ever shared his ancestor’s proclivity. The old one’s mouth felt tacky. Dry. His stomach lurched again. His pulse fluttered.

“I do hope you like it,” prattled on Rutten. “I hand-selected it myself!” He chuckled. “Or I say— them.”

Them? Despite the summer warmth, the old one suddenly felt cold as stone. Them, as the enki had phrased it, was not a name granted to a knick-knack. And the glint in the lord’s dark, beady eyes— the way his syrupy smile had ticked closer to a leer—

“Oh, such a long face,” Rutten chided. “Cheer up, grey one. If I do say so myself, I think you’ll rather enjoy your present. And if you don’t? That’s hardly my concern. You’ll make it work. You have no choice, yes?”

Subconsciously, gingerly, the old one trailed his fingers along the warren of scars that covered his right arm. The brands of the fallen. The remnants of the past. One day, the elf thought to himself, Rutten will be only a memory, too.

He let his head fall back into a bow. “Yes, enki,” he said.

“As I thought,” the lord replied.

And then Rutten turned on his heel and was gone.

***

The menagerie closed for the eve shortly before dusk, the head beastkeeper escorting the last of the straggling guests to the large iron entry gate— the old one could just barely see the tips of its pikes from his cage— and then cranking it shut behind them. The elf one had always liked the sound the gates made when they swung closed— the grind of metal on metal, the creak of the locks as they slid into place— because it usually meant he had the rest of the evening to himself, save for the slaves who would soon drop off his meager dinner.

Tonight, however, the closing din brought with it an impending feeling of dread.

He had a feeling the lord of Faustus would be back soon.

The elf was pacing as madly— back and forth, back and forth, circling the perimeter of his cage like a goldfish in a bowl— as he watched the sun slowly drowse on the horizon, the bright blue sky giving way to a watercolour canvas of orange and hazy pink and gold. When a young slave boy, no more than eleven or twelve, slipped his usual supper rations through the bars, the old one didn’t even glance at him. Nor did he so much as touch the food: his stomach was in knots, a tangled morass of frazzled nerves. Eating would only make it worse.

He wrung his hands, and kept on with his mad pacing.

It was full dark by the time he heard a flurry of footsteps echoing on the cobbled path— too loud to belong to the roving slaves, none of whom were issued shoes, and too many at a time to belong to the after-hours beastkeepers, of which there only two on any given night. Since he hadn’t heard the gates creak again, either, and Lord Rutten and his family were the only ones generally allowed to utilize the private rear entrance to the menagerie grounds—

The old one bit down on his lip so hard that it drew blood.

It was only a minute or so later that lights appeared in the distance, knight-held lanterns bobbing as they escorted their noble charge along the twisting footpath. He had more escorts with him than he had earlier— at least six knights that the old one could count. At first he thought this was an act of overkill, that Rutten was merely demanding guards because he could, but after a moment the elf’s heart froze as he realised it wasn’t the enki most of the men were guarding. Rather, three of the sentinels were positioned in a tight flank around a tall, hooded, shadowed figure whom the elf had initially mistaken for another guard— but the closer the group drew, the more apparent it became that this cursory conclusion was flawed.

The figure wore no armour. Only a hooded cloak that was clasped shut around their shoulders, so long its hem swung closer to their ankles than their hip or knees. More tellingly, after a blink against the darkness, the elf realised they were holding something in their arms— only a bulky blur at first, but as the noble party came within a few dozen feet of his cage, he could begin to make out finer details. Small pudgy arms draped around the hooded figure’s neck. Tiny, bare feet dangling in the summer breeze. Wisps of curly hair.

Long, slender, pointed ears.

“Good evening, grey one,” Rutten greeted, the lord beaming ear to ear as he paused before the elf’s cage. The old one didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Not when his gaze was latched firmly on the child— the elf child—who was clasped in the cloaked figure’s arms. “Ah, seen my gift, have you?” A beat. “You don’t look very excited.”

The old one didn’t say anything; he simply continued to stare. The little one— a ringlet-locked toddler who couldn’t have been more than two— stared back in utter fascination, gnawing on its thumbnail as the cloaked figure drew it tighter against their chest.

Rutten laughed. “Cute, isn’t she?” the enki said lightly. “Louder than I’d like, but then— that’s babies for you. Of any species.” He turned, reaching out toward the child, expectantly.

Rather than hand her over, however, the cloaked figure only let out a small noise of protest. “Please,” they murmured— and the old one’s stomach lurched yet again, as he realised that, in spite of their towering height, the figure was a woman. The child’s mother? But then, that had to mean— “She is scared of you, enki. She will cry.”

Rutten’s hand lashed out so fast that the old one heard, rather than saw, as it cracked against the woman’s cheek. She stumbled, head whipping to the side, hood falling off as she tottered. Tumbling blonde locks caught in the knights’ torchlight, straight as silk, pale as buttercream. They covered all but the very tips of her ears. Pointed tips.

The old one’s heart sunk even further.

“I thought we’d been over this,” Rutten huffed as he plucked the child from the elf woman’s arms. True to her presumable mother’s protests, the girl immediately let out a small cry of protest; but Rutten paid it no heed as he tucked the baby firmly against his hip. “You do not question orders. If I want to hold your halfling, then I will.”

Halfling? It took the old one a moment to realise what the enki meant. But then, as he studied the increasingly agitated toddler another time, it became more obvious. The baby’s ears were long and pointed, yes, at least when compared to a human’s, but not nearly so large as they would’ve been on a full elf child her age. Her eyes, too, were an impossible colour for an elf: a mottled hazel, as striking as it was telling.

“Where did you get them, enki?” the old one choked out. It was an imperious thing to say, and he knew it.

Rutten, however, only raised an ebony brow, giving the baby’s arm a too-firm squeeze as she continued to whimper in protest. “How did my ancestors get you?” he retorted. “Bought them. Expensive as all hells, but I’ll see a certain return on my investment. You’re a draw to the menagerie, yes, but you’re stale, grey one. People have grown accustomed to you. They want a little more oomph. More novelty. And a female with her halfling whelp?” The lord smiled lecherously. “It’ll bring in the gawkers. So many paying gawkers.”

The old one wanted to scream. Every god above-- and below!-- how he wanted to scream. He couldn’t recall feeling this angry, this incredulous in… centuries, at least. Perhaps more. Perhaps not since the very day he’d been taken into slavery so long ago, when the life he’d known and loved and cherished had been so callously ripped away from him.

His throat shook. His hands shook. Every fiber of his being shook, fury searing through him like a wind-driven flame.

Meanwhile, the baby had begun to cry outright; Rutten gave an exasperated sigh and pinched her, hard. “Shush,” he demanded, before he turned to one of his knights. “Unlock the cage,” he ordered. “Let’s put our new residents inside.”

The guard obeyed at once, silent as he withdrew a ring of brass keys from within the leather pouch that was cinched beside the buckle of his sword belt. The old one continued to quake as the knight paced forward and unlocked the barred door, the iron hinges groaning in protest as he pushed the heavy metal open.

“In you go, now,” Rutten said, pressing the belligerent toddler back into the woman’s arms; the little girl stopped crying at once, lips scrunched as she pressed her face into her mother’s chest. “I don’t want to impose too long on your introduction, after all. I imagine it’s been ages since either of you’ve seen another creature of your ilk, aye?”

The woman swallowed hard, looking as if she hated every step as she slowly, obediently, strode into the cage. The old one read the enki’s question as rhetorical, but the female elf chose to answer him, voice tart as she said, “Longer than you’ve been alive, enki.”

Rutten laughed wonderingly as he gestured for the knight to lock the cage back up behind the elf. “It still boggles me so!” he declared. “To think you’re, what did you say— nearly a hundred? Yet you look hardly older than my twenty-year-old son!”

To this the woman did not reply, only gingerly smoothing her daughter’s tawny curls as the knight turned the heavy lock back into place. Her cloak hood was still down, and after a moment’s thought she yanked it back up, once again veiling her buttercream hair. Her back was now to the enki, but the old one stood facing her, and he felt bile rise in his throat as he realised that while her daughter’s cries had quieted, tears were now glossing her mother’s eyes instead. Silent. Stricken.

“The menagerie opens back up in the morning,” the enki said. “And once word gets around of our new addition, I’m sure it’ll be a rollicking crowd. So— I suppose I ought leave you now. So you two have some time to get acquainted before then.” He paused then, deliberately, before he added: “Although— thinking about… you haven’t thanked me yet, grey one.”

“Thanked you, enki?” the old one murmured, gaze slowly trailing from the woman and her baby to the lord of Faustus.

“I’ve gotten you a gift,” Rutten huffed in reply. “A very pricey gift. Two of your own kind!” A smirk ticked at his lips. “Or— one and a half, I suppose. But still. Generosity ought mete gratitude, yes?”

“Of course, enki.” Each word tasted like bitter ash. “Thank you, enki.”

“That’s more like it,” the lord of Faustus said.

II. The Young One

SPOILER: Click to show

Close to midnight, the old one sat in the corner of the cage, legs crossed and back leaned against the cold iron bars. The woman and toddler had settled only a few feet away from him, the baby in her mother’s lap, and although it had been hours now since Lord Rutten’s departure, the woman hadn’t yet spoken to the old one, and he hadn’t spoken to her.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. Not precisely. But as he watched the only other elf he’d seen in centuries soothe and hush her child— stroking the little girl’s hair; singing softly to her; rocking her— he felt as if he would have been intruding. It was true that he and the woman were of the same species, but this did nothing to change the fact that they were strangers in all ways else. Did nothing to alter the feeling that he was intruding, somehow, by even being here. That these were their harrowed moments to share together, not his.

Finally, though, the baby drifted to sleep, and her mother let out a soft, tired, miserable breath, slumping slightly as she adjusted the folds of her cloak so that they neatly ensconced the child. Then, for a moment, she shut her eyes.

When she opened them again, she let them drift toward the old one.

“Bonsoir,” she said to him, quietly.

He blinked. What language was she speaking?

The woman tilted her head. “Je suis Amelia. Et toi?”

“I am sorry,” he said to her, in the slavers’ tongue. “I do not understand.”

Now she was the one to blink, lurching into Courdonian as she returned, “You don’t understand Elvish?”

She might as well have slapped him? Elvish. She was speaking Elvish? But he hadn’t comprehended a word! “Not the Elvish I know,” he said to her simply. Bile was once again rising to sour his throat.

“How old are you?” she said to him.

He shrugged, still shaken. Humans kept meticulous track of their years, which he supposed made sense given how few of them they had. But when he’d been around for more— far more— than half a millennium, each individual ring in the tree no longer seemed quite so important.

“What year is it?” he asked her.

“1312,” she said.

He considered for a moment. “I suppose I am seven-hundred and fifty, then. Give or take.”

She hissed, softly. “Woo. And you’ve been in bondage since…?”

This, at least, he remembered well. Scorchingly. It was the hard line drawn in the sand, after all: his marker of the before and the after, the life he’d had cleaved apart from the life he led now. “I was eighty-eight,” he told her.

“So it’s been…” She let out a small whimper, much as her daughter had earlier. “Oh, ‘Pit. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” The elf swallowed hard, steeling herself. “I… I was saying ‘hello’. And… that my name’s Amelia. I’m… I’m Amelia. And… then I was asking what your name was. S-sir.”

“The enki calls me the grey one,” he replied. “His father? Called me the old one. And to his father before, I was the sallow one.” He looked away. “People call me many names.”

“But none of those are yours,” said Amelia. “The one you were born with. That your mother and father gave you.”

“No,” he agreed. But he said nothing more.

Amelia— already slumped— slouched further, lowering her chin to glance down at the baby slumbering in her arms. “You don’t remember it, do you?” she murmured to the old one.

“It is a relic,” he said simply— a non-answer, but it was as much of a reply as he could force himself to give.

Amelia shut her eyes again. “How long have you been here?” she asked. “In the menagerie?”

“A little more than a century,” he said.

She let out a laugh. A hollow, strangled, miserable laugh. And in that moment, the old one thought it might have been the saddest sound he’d heard in his entire seventy-hundred and fifty years of life.

“You’ve been here longer than I’ve even been alive,” Amelia half-marveled, half-sobbed. She opened her eyes again, and drew a shaking finger along the toddler’s pudgy cheek. “My poor girl,” she moaned, tears flooding to her eyes. “My poor, poor girl. She won’t even remember life outside of this cage. Mon bebe, she won’t remember it at all.”

The old one said nothing, because there was nothing he could truly say. Any words he could have spoken would’ve been mere illusions, farses, like trying to put out a raging fire with only your breath and your prayers.

Two cages over, the wolves started howling.

The old one shut his eyes, and he let his tears flow, too.

***

Lord Rutten was right on his money when he’d predicted large crowds. While the next morning itself was slow, by afternoon word had spread throughout the city of the menagerie’s new addition, and the grounds started to swarm with visitors, all of whom had come specifically to gawp at Amelia and her daughter. The little girl— Leonie, her mother told the old one— was, as could only be expected, utterly terrified, shrinking against Amelia like a turtle trying to recede into its shell, her face buried into Amelia’s breast, her hands grasping like iron to the folds of Amelia’s dress. At first the woman could at least use her oversized cloak to partially shield the child, but once the beastkeepers got wind of this they duly confiscated the item.

The child sobbed.

The old one quivered in barely veiled rage.

The previous night— and that morning— the old one had never managed to settle his stomach enough to eat, but after closing that evening he forced a couple bites down, knowing that starving himself would accomplish nothing. Amelia seemed not to have much of an appetite, either, but she, too, made herself swallow a few mealy bites of bread and gruel— if only to coax Leonie into following suit, the girl snuffling with every mouthful and shaking like a leaf even though the night was not at all cold. At least she nursed more willingly, the act seeming to comfort her; her trembling form finally stilled as she dozed off against her mother’s chest, and Amelia carefully shifted her so that she could rebutton her dress.

“Is it like that every day?” the elf said to the old one then.

“Like what?” he asked, tilting his head.

“People staring. Laughing. Taunting.”

He wanted to say no, but he knew that he couldn’t, not in good faith. “Some days are worse than others,” he said instead. “Normally the crowd is not so big.”

“But just as cruel?” she said.

He said nothing, which was a reply all its own.

Amelia exhaled softly. “There has to be a way out,” she said. “Away from here.”

He furrowed his silver brow. “Escape, you mean?” He shook his head. “That is mad.”

“They must open the door to clean, no?” she retorted. “And I doubt it always opens with a squad of armed knights at its other end, like happened yesterday.”

“They clean,” the old one agreed. “Two times a week. Sometimes three. But if they do not trust you, they will make you walk to the other side of the cage first. Turn around. Place your hands on the bars. And not let you move until they are done.” He added somewhat bitterly, “It is what they did with me. For the first many, many years.”

“And if you refuse?”

He heaved a sigh. “What do you think, Amelia?”

This time, it was she who said nothing in reply.

***

The old one was right— the first time the slaves came to clean, it was with a beastkeeper at their side, the man acidly ordering Amelia to stand at the far end of the enclosure with her back to the door, hands raised and pressed to the bars, feet spread apart, and head dipped down. Leonie, terrified, tried to scramble up her mother’s skirts and into the woman’s arms, but the beastkeeper would not permit Amelia to hold her. The toddler howled, not at all assuaged by the sweet nothings her mother desperately murmured down to her, and while Amelia tried to hold it together at first, within a few minutes, she was crying, too.

“It’s never been this bad before,” she lamented to the old one that night, rocking Leonie in her arms. “Not ever, and it’s not like I’ve had particularly kind masters.”

“You will get used to it,” he said.

“Maybe,” she agreed. “For myself. But for my daughter?” Amelia shook her head, emphatically. “I won’t. I can’t.”

“She means a lot to you,” the old one said.

“Of course,” Amelia replied. “She’s my daughter. My baby. The only— only— thing that’s given me any semblance of joy for almost eighty years.”

Eighty years. And she’d said that first night that she was nearly one-hundred. Which meant… “You were young.” The old one felt sick for what must have been the umpteenth time since the mother and daughter’s arrival. “When you were stolen.”

“Seventeen,” Amelia said by way of reply. “I was seventeen.”

A lump rose in the old one’s throat, and he swallowed it away. “I am sorry,” he said.

“Not your fault.” The woman shrugged, thought her throat was visibly quavering now, her jaw drawn tight. “It was mine, really. I made a mistake. And I paid for it.”

He furrowed his brow. “I do not understand.”

Amelia, though, just waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind,” she said, and then she shifted Leonie as she moved to lay down against the cold stone below, settling on her back with the baby cushioned by her chest. “Bonne nuit, my friend,” she said to the old one.

His stomach seized, and his heart with it. My friend. While people called him many things, this was one he had not heard in a long, long while.

“Sleep well,” he murmured to her. “I hope you sleep well, my friend.”

***

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Amelia said about a week later, sitting cross-legged on the ground shortly after dawn as a drowsy Leonie partook in her share of the watery oats that had been provided for breakfast. The menagerie wasn’t yet open for the day, the humid air breezeless and relatively quiet. “Or… ask you something, really,” the elf went on. “If it’s all right.”

The old one nodded, setting aside his own bowl of flavourless food. “You may ask,” he said.

“Okay.” Amelia gave him a wavering, nervous smile. “It’s just… um. Well.” She hemmed and hawed for another moment, before practically blurting: “I was thinking. About, well— how you don’t know Elvish anymore.”

“This is true,” he agreed, a single brow raised.

“Right. And…” She draped her arms around Leonie, drawing the girl close as though for comfort. “I guess it just seems… wrong to me. That an elf shouldn’t know Elvish. Not,” she added hurriedly, “that it’s your fault. But… it’s still wrong. And I’d like to fix it.”

Up went his other brow. “Why?” he asked.

“Because,” Amelia said, “it’s your right. The only language you know shouldn’t be the one belonging to the people who’ve enslaved you.” Her voice lower, she murmured, “It’s why I speak to Leonie in it. Sometimes.”

“That is dangerous,” the old one said. “And it would be dangerous for you to teach me, too.”

“I know,” Amelia replied. “But I want to do it anyway.”

His instinct was to tell her no— unequivocally, entirely. There was no reason for him to learn her iteration of Elvish, no practical purpose it could serve. At best, he’d have another language in his muddled, largely archaic arsenal. At worst, someone would catch them and they’d both have stripes latticing their backs, if not worse.

But then he saw the look in her gem green eyes. It was not the fraught, weathered glint he’d grown used to, nor the terror that occasionally snaked in, too. It took him a moment to recognise what it was instead, but once he did, his stomach twisted.

Hope.

It was hope.

“Okay,” he relented. “You may teach me.”

***

After so many languages learned and lost, the old one had a knack for picking up new ones— and that Elvish in its current vernacular proved similar in many ways to the dialect he’d once known long ago certainly helped. The words were mostly different, but the grammar was the same, and part of him always felt a twinge of strange pleasure when he came across stray pieces of it that had, through all these years, persisted in nearly the same form as it once had been.

That wasn’t what he liked best about learning, though: the language itself meant nothing compared to the sheer joy teaching him seemed to bring Amelia. During the evenings and mornings she spent tutoring him, as Leonie dozed in her lap, the old one could see snatches of what the woman must have been like once, before the Courdonians had stolen her life away. Vivacious. Smart. Happy.

And she brought out in him things he’d not had any reason to think about— let alone talk about— in years, decades, centuries. She saw him not as merely the old one, the grey one, the sallow one, but her friend. An equal. A mind worth knowing.

“You’ve seen— known— so many things,” she marveled to him one night about two months after her and Leonie’s arrival. Speaking in a pidgin of Courdonian and Elvish, she said, “It’s unbelievable to me that they keep you locked up like this, in a cage. You’re a breathing piece of history. There’s so much wisdom you could share. Could tell. And yet they keep you as they do bears and wolves.” She laughed, rather bitterly. “It’s mad.”

“Are you calling me ancient, Amelia?” he asked with a small smirk. That was another long-hidden thing she’d teased out of him, recently: humour. “I think I should feel insulted.”

She snorted “Perhaps I am,” she agreed.

In her lap, Leonie yawned. “Mama old,” the girl announced. For the first solid month and a half, the toddler had barely spoken a word, but recently she’d dared try again, when the three of them were alone and she was feeling very brave. “Mama a-hunnert!”

“Ninety-seven, my love,” Amelia corrected. “It’s impolite to inflate a lady’s age, you know.”

The child blinked, then dared a small grin. “Le’nie gon’ be tree,” she said.

“Ah, I see,” said Amelia, kissing the top of the girl’s nut-coloured curls. “It’s not just Mama’s age you inflate.” She ruffled Leonie’s hair. “You’ve just turned two, baby girl. Not three. Not yet.”

“Be cage when tree?” the girl returned.

“Hm?” Amelia asked, not seeming to understand— but after a moment’s more thought, it dawned on her, and she paled. “I don’t know,” she whispered, her face falling. “I don’t know if we’ll be in the cage still when you’re three. But I hope not. I really hope not.” She swallowed hard. “Why don’t you go to sleep, Leonie? It’s late.”

The toddler sighed but didn’t protest; seated a few feet away, the old one turned his head. To him, a year was nothing. A blink, if even. But to the little girl? It must have seemed like a lifetime. The thought of still being stuck in the menagerie by the time her third birthday rolled around almost incomprehensible in its horror.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he felt, then. Sadness, surely, but… it was more than that. Different than only that. And whatever it was, it made his pulse flutter, and his face feel heavy, and his heart slow to a hollow, melancholy beat in his chest.

“Of course you will not be here all the way on your third birthday,” he found himself saying, an oily slick churning in his gut as he gave Leonie a benevolent smile. “A two-year-old, all right— but a cage is no place for a big, brave girl of three.”

The child tilted her head and pursed her lips. “We go?” she asked, tentatively.

“Far away,” the old agreed. “We will go far, far away, little Leonie.”

And it was then that the old one realised what he’d felt.

Realised the emotion that had stirred in him after after it had lain dormant and disused for so long, the very one he’d recognised painting Amelia’s face that night several months ago: hope.

III. Desperate Times

SPOILER: Click to show

Neither Amelia nor the old one brought up again the subject of leaving for several nights, and when Amelia finally did brook the topic another time, it was not in an altogether cheerful light.

They’d had a particularly difficult day— Leonie had been cranky since morning, the crowds had been thicker and crueler than usual, and the summer heat was so oppressive that even now, at nearly midnight, the air felt hot and heavy as soup. Mosquitoes buzzed, and Amelia was scowling as she slapped at them, trying her damndest not to rouse her daughter, who’d finally— after much crying and resistance— fallen asleep in her lap.

“You know why she was so upset most of the day?” the woman said to the old one then.

He mulled for a moment, then shook his head; the little girl’s grasp of language— any language— was still tenuous, and even at the best of times Amelia had to sometimes translate for him. Let alone when she was in the midst of a hysterical tantrum.

“It’s because of our conversation the other night,” Amelia went on. “She said she wanted to leave. That we said she would get to leave, and she didn’t want to wait until she was three. She wanted to go now. Why couldn’t we go now?”

A lump rose in the old one’s throat, and he swallowed it sharply away. “I am sorry,” he said. “When I told her that, I… I was not thinking. I was just…”

“I’m not mad at you,” Amelia quickly clarified. “But… I just…” She sighed. “We can’t say things like that to her. Not… not unless we mean them, and we mean them entirely. She’s miserable enough without false hope being planted in her head. The disappointment she’ll feel if we keep telling her things like that… and then they don’t come true…”

“I will not say such things again,” the old one promised. “I am sorry.”

“That’s… that’s not what I meant,” Amelia murmured. “Not what I meant at all.” She met his gaze square on, her green eyes hooking with his amber ones. “I don’t want her in here on her third birthday. I want it to be true what you said. I want us to be gone.”

“Have you ever tried it before?” the old one asked her. “Escaping?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said, before she amended this to, “Once. Just a few months after I was taken. I was caught within the hour and beaten unconscious. I never tried again.”

“But now you want to,” he said. “Because of Leonie.”

“I started thinking about it the moment I found out I was pregnant,” Amelia said, shrugging. “I didn’t want my baby growing up in fetters. But… it’s like I’ve said before. Things weren’t this bad with my old masters. My last one, he was… he was even…” She hesitated here, taking a deep breath. “He was… fond of me. I was like a pet of his. A showpiece. As long as I obeyed him, things were… well, they weren't bad. Not for me or for Leonie. He… was quite endeared by Leonie.”

Fond of her. And Leonie. A bubble of nausea inflated inside of the old one. “He is… he is her father…?”

Unexpectedly, Amelia laughed. “No. No, he’s not. And that’s the problem, really.”

His mouth fell open, for a moment his lips moving but no sounds coming out. “I do not understand.”

Amelia sighed, gingerly rubbing her slumbering daughter’s back. “He thought she was his. When she was born. And for the first year and a half after. But… the older she got…” The woman looked down at the girl— her pale skin, her tawny curls, her pudgy cheeks and wispy brow and button nose. “The enki was raven-haired. Blue eyes. A slim face, a long nose, a strong brow. And Leonie… when she was born, her eyes were mostly green, at least. Like mine. But the older she’s gotten, the browner they’ve gotten. While her hair’s stayed light. And the rest of her features…”

“He realised she was not his child?” the old one guessed.

“He suspected it for a few months first, I think,” Amelia confirmed. “But wouldn’t fully admit it. What sort of fool would touch the enki’s favourite pet, after all? Except then…” She shuddered. “We were careless. Her father and I. He was another slave— just another slave— and… an overseer caught us. Not doing anything… over the top, just a kiss, it was just a kiss, but—” Amelia shrugged. “Galen has dark blonde hair. With just a hint of red. And the loveliest eyes. Brown. They’re… they’re brown.”

“I am sorry, Amelia,” the old one said.

“That little girl is my world,” Amelia replied. “She is all I have. And I won’t have her grow up in a cage. I can’t have her grow up in a cage, okay? I can’t.”

“I understand.” And he did. But— no matter his words to Leonie the other night— this wasn’t the same thing as thinking escape was at all feasible. “It is not so simple, though. Even if we were to get out of the cage, Amelia, we are in a slaving city in a slaving province in a slaving kingdom. You said before you were caught in an hour. Why would this time be any different?”

“My last escape attempt was rash,” Amelia countered. “I was only seventeen. Hasty. Impulsive. This time, I won’t be. I’ll plan.” A beat. “We’ll plan.”

“Amelia…”

“I can’t have her grow up here,” the woman said again.

“You would try to make it home, then?” he asked. She’d told him about her home— Nid’aigle. It wasn’t where he’d been from, long ago, but it had been around then, at least, and he’d heard of it. Which meant that he knew it was nowhere near Faustus. That getting there meant a journey through either perilous wilderness, enemy-filled roads, or a combination of the two. “That is a very long journey, Amelia.”

“And? People have made it before. I know they have.”

“With a baby in tow?” said the old one. “After escaping from a locked cage?”

To this, Amelia said nothing, her entire body shaking so hard it was a wonder Leonie hadn’t stirred. The old one felt a twinge of guilt, but as he watched Amelia dip her head and her white-blond hair fall as a veil in front of her face, he told himself he was only doing what was prudent. For Amelia and Leonie both, for gods knew the little girl would not be invincible to harm should an escape attempt go wrong.

A silence settled over the cage, only punctuated here and there by the sounds of the menagerie’s other captives. The squawk of a bird. The clatter of an ibex’s hooves. The low, keening howl of the one-eyed alpha wolf, the sound so mournful it might have been a funeral song.

“I am sorry, Amelia,” the old one said eventually. “I am so, so sorry.”

“If you’re sorry,” the woman murmured, without looking at him, “then you’ll help us. If not for me, then for her. For a little girl who doesn’t deserve to grow up as an animal in a cage.”

He let out a long, soft exhale, his breath whistling between his teeth. “I wish I could, Amelia. I am so sorry, and I wish I could.”

***

The two or three occasions a week that the cage was cleaned were, without a doubt, Leonie’s least favourite— and most dreaded— times. After the first few cleanings a beastkeeper largely ceased accompanying the pair of slaves tasked with scrubbing it, but on occasion one would accompany them, keeping a silent watch as the men toiled to clear the space of accumulated filth and waste. They never slacked or veered off course— they were far too well trained for that— but the same could not be said for Leonie.

More often than not, the little girl was a wretched, sobbing mess for the entirety of the event. As she grew more comfortable with him, the old one would try his best to soothe her, picking her up and holding her close as Amelia stood obediently with her back to the door and hands raised, but it seemed to improve things very little. Leonie wanted her mama, not the frail, withered elf with whom they’d been set on display like frosted pastries on a shelf at a shop.

She cried. She squirmed. She screamed. She sniveled and sputtered until she was hiccupping for breath, nose running, eyes cherry red. When it was just the slaves present, they did their best to ignore it.

The same could not be said for the beastkeepers.

“Will you shut her up?” one of them— a tall, reedy man with eyes like coal and hair just as dark— snarled on a cool September evening over three months after Amelia and Leonie’s arrival to the menagerie. “I can’t even hear my own thoughts, godsdamn!”

“She’s frightened, sir,” Amelia said, her voice cracking. “If you’d just let me hold her—”

“She should be able to go twenty darn minutes without clinging to you!” the keeper cut in acidly. “And the other kreatura’s got her anyway, it’s hardly like she’s sitting alone on the floor!”

As he fruitlessly bounced the squalling toddler in his arms, the old one swallowed hard. This was bad— had been bad even before Amelia had started talking, and her plea had only seemed to further rile the freeman. The centuries-old elf could only stand and watch as the keeper deliberated with himself for a few moments and then, abruptly, stalked forward, the heels of his boots snapping against the stone below as he stormed into the cage.

“Give her to me,” he spat, cutting between the two slaves who were presently scrubbing the ground. He reached demandingly— expectantly— out toward the old one. “Now.”

The old one knew he should obey— of course he should obey— but instead he quailed, if anything only drawing Leonie in closer against his chest. “Sir?” he murmured, bowing his head.

“You heard me,” huffed the keeper. “Give her to me, now!”

As Leonie continued to sob, and Amelia craned her neck to steal a glance of the altercation, the beastkeeper’s patience ebbed thin. With one rough, fluid movement he seized his arms around Leonie’s middle, yanking the girl out of the old one’s arms and into his. She screeched so shrilly it could have broken glass, thrashing and flailing and twisting as the beastkeeper turned and strode briskly back toward the open door.

“Come,” he ordered as he brushed past the slaves. “We’re done cleaning for tonight.”

The men leapt dutifully to their feet, lifting their buckets and rags as they whirled to scramble after the freeman. In only seconds they— and Leonie— were out the door, and though Amelia hadn’t been told she could turn yet, the woman clearly didn’t care. She let go of the iron bars as if they had burned her, spinning on her heel as she called out: “No! Wait! Where you taking her!?”

Shifting the caterwauling Leonie onto his hip, the beastkeeper slammed shut and locked the metal door. “I am bloody tired,” he growled, “of your halfling whelp acting like this. It’s about time someone take measures to fix the problem.”

The old one’s heart had frozen in his chest, his veins pumping ice, and he felt as if he might vomit as Amelia let out a blood-curdling scream and raced forward. She hooked her fingers through the bars on the door, shaking it, kicking it, as if she had any chance of prying it open— but of course it did not move, and the beastkeeper only quirked an aggravated brow.

“Do I need to teach you a lesson, too?” he threatened.

“Do whatever you want to me!” Amelia choked out. “But please, please, don’t hurt her, she’s just a baby, please—”

“Amelia.” His throat trembling with every syllable, the old one paced forward and set a tentative, ginger hand on the woman’s shoulder. Inside— more than anything— he wanted to scream, too. Wanted to rage, lament, threaten. But he knew this would only bring all of them grief, and so instead he murmured, “Come, let us sit. We will not earn anything by yelling at him.”

“He’s taking her,” Amelia keened, barely coherent between her sobs. “He’s taking her, he’s—”

“He will bring her back,” the older elf said. “Come now. Let us sit.”

He moved his hand from her shoulder to her arm, grasp gentle but firm as he tried to draw her back from where she clung to the barred door. She was stronger than him— he was certain of this— and so could’ve easily shaken him off… but she didn’t, only letting out another wracking cry as her fingers fell away from the door.

“Pl-please,” she gasped to the beastkeeper as she limply allowed the old one to steer her toward the other side of the cage. “Please, be gentle with her. Sh-she’s just a baby, she’s just a baby.”

The beastkeeper, however, didn’t dignify the hysterical slave with a response— he simply adjusted his hold on the shrieking Leonie one last time, and then he turned, and the both of them were gone.

***

It was a little after closing when the beastkeeper took Leonie, and it was nearly midnight by the time he returned her. Some time during her absence, the toddler had stopped crying; she was silent in his arms now, almost ragdoll-like, her tawny curls frizzy and her expression slack. When the beastkeeper deposited her into the cage, the old one expected the child to make an immediate beeline for her mother— who was standing, as ordered, with her arms up and back to the door— but the girl didn’t. Instead, she simply stood there, impassive, like a statue.

The old one’s mouth went dry.

When the beastkeeper slammed shut the door, the strident echo of it rattled the silver-haired elf down to his ancient bones.

Once the freeman was gone, disappearing down the cobbled pathway into the inky night, Amelia whirled sharply and surged forward toward Leonie. “Mon chérie,” she breathed, scooping the toddler up into her arms. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Mama’s so sorry.”

The child’s dull mask cracked, then in another moment shattered, tears flooding her mottled hazel eyes. “Mama,” she whimpered, burying her face into Amelia’s neck. “Mama, it hurt.”

The old one wanted to swear on the name of every god— and demon— in existence. But he knew such a diatribe would only further scare the child. “Did the keeper… punish you, Leonie?” he murmured instead. Already knowing the answer. Hating it with every fiber of his being.

“Uh-huh,” the toddler managed. “Hurt.”

Amelia clenched her jaw— hard— then let it spring open again as she whispered, “I’m so sorry, baby. I wish I could make it better. Take the pain away.” She forced a leveling breath. “Can— can Mama see, please? Just… a quick look, just to see… and then we can go night-night, okay? All cuddled up together.”

Leonie didn’t reply, only let out another hiccup, but the girl didn’t resist as Amelia carried her to the corner of the cage where they usually slept and the lowered the both of them to the ground. The old trailed after them, silent as a wraith, fury a living beast inside of him as he watched Amelia gently pull up the child’s tattered dress, baring her from the waist down.

“Oh, Woo.” The woman had gone pale as milk, her glimmering green eyes glossing with a fresh wave of tears as she studied the backs of her daughter’s chubby legs. Welts criss-crossed her skin, dozens of them, swollen to an angry red that looked particularly grotesque beneath the beams of wan silver moonlight that illuminated the cage. “I’m so sorry, Leonie.” She let the girl’s skirts fall back down. “Mama’s so sorry.”

Leonie sniffled. “Mama sing?”

“Of course,” Amelia croaked. “I’ll sing you all the lullabies I know baby, girl.” She pulled her daughter in tight to her chest. Gripping to her like a falling man to the edge of a cliff, knowing his grasp was all that stood in between him and the hard ground far below. “Close your eyes,” she soothed. “Mama’s got you. Safe and snug.”

With the toddler so worked up, it took awhile for her to fall asleep, but eventually her breathing leveled off, and her small body relaxed. The old one, who’d taken a silent seat a few feet in front of the mother and daughter pair, let out a sigh of something like relief, eyes still lingering on the little girl’s pudgy face. For several minutes, neither he nor Amelia talked.

Then, very quietly, the elf woman sniffled. “He beat her,” she said, in the mingle of Courdonian and Elvish she and the old one talked in most. “He beat her.”

“I know,” he replied. “I am so sorry, Amelia. I… I wish I had been able to keep her— to not hand her over—”

“I don’t blame you,” she said. “If you’d fought him, you would’ve gotten a beating, too. I-I’m lucky I didn’t. For how I screamed.” She exhaled miserably. “She’s two. ’Pit, she’s two. What kind of monsters beat a two-year-old?”

“I do not know,” the old one admitted.

“She was s-so quiet,” Amelia warbled on. “When he put her back in here. She was so quiet. I— I don’t even want to know what he did, t-to m-make her so quiet, I mean, the welts we can see, but— th-there could be other bruises still blooming, and… and…” Her voice fell away. Strangled. Agonized.

“At least she is sleeping now,” the old one replied. “Content. Peaceful.”

“For now,” retorted Amelia. “But— w-what if she still pitches a fit? Next time they clean? What would the keepers even do to her, if they heard? If th-they realised this beating wasn’t enough, that it didn’t make the impact they wanted—”

“Amelia,” he interrupted gently. “You need to breathe, please. In and out. As deep as you can.”

“She’s my baby,” Amelia said, ignoring him. “W-what kind of mother c-can’t protect her baby?”

“You tried,” he told her. “As best as you could.”


“And it wasn’t good enough.”

“Amelia…”

“No. Don’t try to calm me,” she hissed. “Don’t— don’t try to soothe me, I don’t need soothing.”

“What is it that you need, then?” he asked.

Amelia looked him straight on then, their pupils hooking. For a moment, the old one expected her to merely blurt out what she’d told him several times before— escape. She needed to escape.

Instead, the woman said: “I haven’t t-told you, have I? About the day the slave raiders took me. Fr-from Kyth.”

“No,” said the old one. “You have not. Only that you were seventeen, and you felt it was your fault.”

Amelia swallowed. “I was seventeen,” she agreed. “Brash and smarter than everyone around me, as every seventeen-year-old is.” Delicately trailing her fingers through Leonie’s curly hair, the woman continued, “My mother was originally from another elf city— not Nid’aigle. When she was young she had wanderlust. She’d seen so many places of the world before she settled. And… my father’s sister? She was a knight. Always had so many exciting stories. About her adventures. The places she’d been. And Woo, how I was jealous. Of what they’d seen, where they’d been. While all I’d ever known was boring old Nid’aigle.”

“And?” the old one murmured. “Being brash— having pined for adventure— hardly makes being stolen your fault, Amelia.”

“No,” she agreed. “Except…” She had to pause for a moment to compose herself, her nerves threatening to fray. “I got into an argument with my parents. The day I was taken. I had concocted up this mad semblance of a scheme— I would move from Nid’aigle to a human city, live there for a while, see the big, exciting world. I was so excited. So determined.”

“And they said no?” the old guessed.

Amelia laughed, bitterly. “Actually, they didn’t,” she said. “They just told me I had to think carefully first. That I couldn’t rush into any decision— that they wanted to see proof first that I’d be able to support myself, that I understood what I was getting into. You know… as any good parent would.”

“I take it you did not agree with this answer.”

“Of course I didn’t,” Amelia said. “I was furious. I accused them of not trusting me. Of treating me like a child. I told them I didn’t care what they thought— that I was going to move to the city whether they liked it or not. That I was done living under their stupid rules.” She gulped. “My father wasn’t amused. He told me that if I was going to scream at him like a child, then I could go sit and stew in my room, like a child. I was seventeen— of age, by Kythian law— and he sent me to my room. I was livid. So livid.”

“You did not go?” the old one asked.

“No, I did,” Amelia said. “Told them both I hated them, then stormed off and slammed the door. And then…” She shut her eyes, the memory clearing paining her even after all these years. “I packed a bag. A pathetic little bag. With my clothes and all the money I’d saved, and… and…” She let out a small noise that was halfway between a laugh and whimper. “I left them a note. Saying I was leaving. That I was going somewhere I’d be respected. Appreciated.”

A spike of nausea punched through the old one’s gut, at once fiery hot and icy cold. Oh, gods. As all the puzzle pieces clicked into place in his head, horror and pity bowled over him like a crashing wave. So much guilt. Dear gods— how much guilt had Amelia been carrying around all these years?

“You were taken,” he said to her, his voice stricken. “By the Courdonians. Before you could go back home.”

“I realised my blunder in running away after about… oh, three or four hours?” Amelia said. “I turned around. Toward home. But I didn’t make it. I never made it. And for all these years— for eighty years...” She shuddered. “They probably think I just left them. That I hate them. Just like I said.”

“Amelia,” the old one murmured. “I am so sorry—”

“No,” she hissed. “You still don’t understand. I don’t want your apologies. I don’t want pity. But I failed them, don’t you see? My family— who always loved me, always cherished me, nurtured me— has spent nearly a century thinking I hate them. That I ran away from them. And… and…” Her jaw clattered. “Leonie’s father, too, in a way. Galen. Do you think when the enki sold me, he merely let my lover be? And now— and now—” She was speaking very fast. Almost manically. Her words a swirling miasma of self-loathing and desperation. “Now Leonie herself. Now I’m failing her, too.”

“You are not failing her, Amelia—”

“But I am.” At her mother’s increasingly frantic voice, the little girl finally stirred, letting out a small whimper as her eyes fluttered open. Amelia swallowed hard again, forcing her tone back to a far lower pitch as she finished, “She is my baby. My innocent baby. And tonight, a man beat her and I could do nothing about it.”

And here it was. The manic plea veering toward its inevitable conclusion.

“We need to escape,” Amelia said.

This time, as he watched little Leonie shift in her mother’s lap, the old one could not quite bring himself to argue.

IV. Desperate Measures

SPOILER: Click to show

Amelia wanted to run as quickly as she and the old one could manage— could plot it— but the old one urged caution. Prudence. They would only have once chance, after all; they had to make sure they did not leap in brashly and squander it.

“They only ever open the door to clean,” Amelia said on a windy night three days after Leonie’s beating. The girl’s welts were healing, but her disposition remained skittish. Sullen. “So it’ll have to be then.”

“It would be difficult, though,” said the old one. “You are made to stand with your back to the door. If you move before you are told, the slaves have whistles around their necks. They will use them. Summon a beastkeeper.”

“True,” Amelia replied, frowning. “But… even if they don’t trust me, well— they trust you.”

“They do,” he agreed. But this did not mean he fully understood her line of thought. “What are you thinking, Amelia?”

She swallowed hard, bright eyes drifting between Leonie and the old one. Finally she settled them on the other full elf, her voice soft but firm as she said, “They don’t even look at you. When they come in. It’s like you’re… not even a thought to them. If you were the one who made the first aggressive move? They’d never see it coming.”

His mouth suddenly tasted sour. “They could fight me off,” he said. “Then sound the whistles. I am not as strong as I once was, Amelia.”

“It’s not a matter of strength,” Amelia objected. “It’s a matter of surprise. Stealth. If you time it right…”

“And if I do not?”

“We’ll make sure you do.”

The old one sighed. He didn’t like this plan— not at all— but it was hardly as though he could think of a better scheme. And Amelia was right: the door never opened save for when it was time to clean, and given that it was made of a reinforced iron and secured with a heavy-duty lock, the idea of somehow forcing it open was almost laughable.

So instead of arguing further, the old one said simply: “They clean in pairs. Even if I were to surprise one, the other would not be so easy.”

“But he’ll be distracted,” Amelia pointed out. “By your attack. It’ll take him a moment to realise what’s happening— and reach for his whistle. And as he does, he won’t be looking at me.”

“And Leonie?” the old said.

“Once we have the guards down, I’ll grab her. Or you will. Whoever’s nearest.”

“And how would we get out then?” said the old one. “The gates are locked when the menagerie is not open, Amelia.”

“We’ll go for the back entrance,” Amelia replied, trailing a gentle finger along Leonie’s chubby cheek. “I stole a look at it when Rutten first brought me in. You need a key to get in, but only to twist a bolt to get out.” She laughed, somewhat grimly. “I suppose they don't expect that most of their captives should know how to turn a lock.”

“We will not have much of a head start,” the old one pointed out. “The keepers have steady patrols— you know that, Amelia. They will discover us gone within the hour… if the slaves do not come to and alert them even before then.”

“Then I suppose we'll have to say all our prayers,” Amelia returned. “That we outrun them anyway.”

“If they catch us,” the old one said, “they will make you wish you were never born.”

“I know,” said Amelia, her voice shattering like brittle glass beneath a sledgehammer. “But if I stay— if I keep allowing my daughter to be hurt while I sit by doing nothing… then I wouldn't be able to live with myself.”

He said nothing for a long, long while then, his heart clattering like thunder against his ribs, his throat tight, his palms sweating. Amelia didn't speak either, her eyes glossy with barely-restrained tears as she stared— beseechingly— at the old one. Against her chest, Leonie stirred from within the throes of slumber, the little girl letting out a small whimper as if she were suffering through a nightmare. Amelia drew her closer, throat bobbing as she swallowed hard, her anguish potent, raw, unmistakable.

“When when are you thinking?” the old one said eventually.

“We’ll wait until Leonie’s welts are all better,” Amelia replied. “Gives us time to plot more thoroughly, and then she won't be in pain when we run.” A beat, as the woman mulled. “It's getting cooler— cool enough I think I might be able to request a cloak again. If I promise I won't use it to shield Leonie from the onlookers.”

“And?” said the old one.

“We can use it,” Amelia posited. “To start storing— hiding— some of the nonperishables from our meals. The bread, the hardtack, the occasional dried fruit.”

“It won't last us long.”

“No. But we can forage on the road. Once we’re out in the wilds.” She smiled, somewhat crookedly. “I don't know about you, but I’d consider myself a pretty stellar outdoorsman.”

The old one gave a raspy laugh. “Fair,” he conceded. “I suppose our elven blood does come in handy sometimes for things other than making us into long-living menagerie exhibits.”

“We should set a date,” Amelia said. “A deadline. To keep our minds on the goal.”

“If you want,” said the old one.

“Let's say…” Amelia considered for a moment, her pale brow furrowed in consternation. “A fortnight. That'll give us time to start hiding food— but not so long the rations will start going bad. So— a fortnight from now, the next time after that when they clean… we go.”

A fortnight. Gods: a fortnight! It seemed so strange to the old one, that after a century in this cage he might be free of it in only a fortnight. Fourteen days. Fourteen nights. Fourteen more to top off— finish— the previous hundreds, thousands.

“All right,” he said to Amelia. “A fortnight it is.”

***

Upon requesting it the next day Amelia was promptly given a cloak, albeit under the strict threat that if she used it to conceal Leonie, it'd be duly confiscated once again. She promised that she wouldn't, and held true to this assertion, instead utilizing the deep pockets of the heavy cloth as a hiding place for travel rations. She and the old one took only from their own meals; Leonie they gave her full share… and if the girl was confused as to why her mother and the older elf were suddenly hoarding away bread and nuts and fruit like squirrels preparing for winter, she kept such puzzlement to herself. This was a small mercy in and of itself. Gods knew it wouldn't do to have her comment on the stash at an inopportune time and alert the keepers that there was something afoot.

A week passed, and while the old stayed as calm— neutral— as he could, it was clear that Amelia was beginning to grow addled. Anxious. And Leonie— as children are wont to do— seemed to drink in her mother’s nerves like a sponge soaking up water, the little girl even crankier than usual as the date of their planned escape grew nearer.

It was only after a string of nearly a dozen lullabies that the girl finally dozed off one night about a week before the fortnight mark, and as the baby’s breathing finally leveled off, Amelia let out a heavy sigh. She shut her eyes for a moment, shoulders sagging, before she opened them again and let them drift toward the old one.

“It'll be nice,” she said, “when she gets to fall asleep in a warm bed in a cosy bedroom. I imagine she'll rest much better, then.”

“I imagine you will, too,” said the old one. He’d watched Amelia in the throes of sleep before; she tossed and turned often, and never looked completely comfortable. “Knowing she's safe.”

“Aye,” Amelia agreed. “And knowing she's surrounded by people who love her— my family…” A faint smile flickered. “I think you'll like them. My family.”

The old one swallowed hard; the whole concept of it— meeting her family, her free elven family in a free elven city— still sent an electric current surging through his veins. Tingly and dizzying and strange.

“What are they like?” he asked her. Partly because he wanted to know, and partly because he could tell how much it lifted her spirits to talk about her loved ones.

“Hmm.” Amelia chewed on her lip, thoughtfully. “Where to even begin? With whom to even begin?”

“You have mentioned a mother and father,” he replied. “And an aunt. Any others?”

She shook her head. “No. Mum was the last of her family. And Dad’s parents were gone before I was born— he just had his sister.”

“Older or younger?”

“Older. Much.” Amelia laughed. “I think she was more like an aunt to him than anything— a very stern aunt. She's a knight— an officer knight— and it shows. Never could get away with anything under her nose.”

“I am sure she will be excited to see you once again,” said the old one. “And meet Leonie.”

“I'm hoping they're all thrilled,” said Amelia. “Though I can't pretend I'm not a little nervous, too. Because of how I left. And… because Leonie’s… well…”

“Half human?” he guessed.

“They're not anti-human, really,” Amelia said by way of answer. “But that's not the same thing as… as fully embracing humans, either. Wanting human-blooded children as their relatives.”

“Leonie is your daughter, Amelia,” the old one replied. “They will love her.”

For a moment, Amelia said nothing. Then, with a hard swallow, she murmured: “I hope so. She deserves it. Their love.” A wistful pause. “She deserves so, so much that I haven't been able to give her.”

“You have done everything you can for her,” the old one said gently. “And having a mother who loves her so very much means a lot more than you are giving yourself credit for.”

“You are very generous in your assessment of me.”

“Only truthful.”

“They'll definitely like you,” Amelia said. “My parents. My aunt. Although…”

“Although what?”

“I'll need something to introduce you by.” She added somewhat pointedly, “Something that isn't just a crude human invention.”

“I have told you before,” he said, frowning, “my name is a relic.”

“Do you remember it?” she asked him.

“I once thought it would be kinder,” he told her, “to let myself forget.”

“Then we'll pick you out a new one,” Amelia said stubbornly. “For your new life.”

He sighed. “It means a lot to you?”

“Yes. It does.”

“Fine.” He rubbed his wrinkled temple. “All right. But I hardly know what is or is not a proper name these days. So— you pick.”

Amelia blinked. “You want me to pick?”

He shrugged. “You picked a nice name for Leonie.”

Here, the white-blond elf gave a crooked smile. “Better than what the enki first named her,” she said. “Zucre.” Courdonian for sugar— something most would have found too saccharine even for a pet, let alone a child. “I refused to call her by it. I always had to bite my tongue when he went on crooning it at her.”

“Leonie is a much better name for her,” the old one agreed. “Just as good as what you pick for me, I am sure.”

“You need something… regal,” Amelia mused. “Stoic. Classic.”

“High goals,” he returned.

“Aye, but you're worth it.” Her green eyes glimmered.

For a while then, the pair was silent, the only sound in the air the light but steady blow of the cool autumn wind, and the occasional chatter from the animals in the exhibits that surrounded the elves’ cage. Leonie seemed to be dreaming now, the little girl’s lips parted and balled fists occasionally twitching as her eyes fluttered behind her closed lids. Gods, the poor thing never truly seemed to be at full rest— like mother, like daughter. The both of them, thought the old one, deserved a good and long night’s sleep.

Finally, as the old one was beginning to doze off from mere inertia, Amelia suddenly grinned— ear to ear, like a child on her birthday.

“I've got it,” she announced.

“Oh?” He quirked a silver brow.

“Hartwin,” she said. “Or Hart for short, if that's too much of a mouthful.” She laughed quietly. “Though to be honest, you don't seem like much of a nickname sort of guy to me.”

“No,” he agreed. “I am not.” Then, very slowly, his tongue marveling over each syllable: “Hartwin.”

“Do you like it?” Amelia asked.

He nodded. “It is a nice name. Thank you, Amelia.”

“You're welcome, Hartwin,” she said.

***

The evening of their escape dawned clear, still, and cold.

A slim crescent moon illuminated the sky above, wan silver against an inky black backdrop. It had been two weeks and two days since Amelia and the old one— Hartwin— had set their deadline, and when the two of them spied a pair of silent slaves skulking toward their enclosure with cleaning tools in tow, Amelia shot Hartwin an urgent look… and Hartwin’s heart plunged into his stomach, heavy as a stone.

A century he'd spent inside this cage.

A century trapped like a fly in a web.

Being gawked at. Taunted. Maligned and dehumanized. Treated with no more respect than one might afford a rock in their shoe.

A century of anguish, built atop a foundation of anguished centuries before.

And now—

In Amelia’s lap, Leonie stiffened, letting out a small whimper as she realised the slaves were headed toward their cage. Ever since her beating she hadn’t dared throw a tantrum, but it was clear the entire process still rattled her. Frightened her.

“Hush now, mon cherie,” Amelia soothed. If she was as anxious as Hartwin was, her voice didn’t betray the fear, the blonde elf only forcing a deep breath as she nudged Leonie out of her lap and then stood. “Go stand with him, all right?” she suggested to the toddler, nodding toward Hartwin but not daring to use his newfound name within earshot of the slaves. “Be a good girl for Mama. Quiet. Okay?”

Leonie said nothing in reply, only letting out another snuffle as the slaves called out for Amelia to assume her usual position with her hands up and back to the door. The woman obliged, and as she did, Leonie trudged despondently to Hartwin’s side. He set a comforting hand on her shoulder but did not lift her— if their escape plan was to rely on the element of surprise, every second counted, and he didn’t want to fracture the rhythm of things by needing to take a moment to set Leonie down first. This might attract attention. A glance. And the briefest of looks from the slaves— even sidelong— might spell doom. The end of things.

His heart hummed.

He tried to appear as though he weren’t watching too intently as one of the slaves— a raven-haired, bronze-skinned man with rippling muscles and a jagged scar across his jaw— inserted his key into the lock and twisted it. The iron door yawned open, and the slave waited for his partner— just as muscled, though with rusty brown hair instead of black— to enter first before he followed silently inside.

It was just as Amelia said: the pair hardly spared Hartwin a glance as the raven-haired one set down his soapy bucket, and his copper-haired comrade shambled toward the utilitarian, foul-smelling trench near the back of the cage that served as a latrine. The one with lighter hair was going to be more of a threat, Hartwin decided after a moment’s deliberation, since latrine duty meant he had a shovel. It was dull-tipped but heavy, and would be stupidly easy to use in self-defense.

Which meant Hartwin couldn’t afford to give him time for that.

He had to go for the copper-haired one first.

Slowly, deliberately, methodically, the ancient elf edged toward the shovel-wielding slave. If the man— or his partner— noticed, they didn’t comment, seemingly regarding Hartwin with the same sort of caution one might afford a palm-sized kitten with its eyes still shut. At first Leonie trailed alongside him, but after a few minutes she seemed to grow bored with the strange, molasses-paced journey, simply letting out a small sigh as she skulked off toward Amelia instead. She didn’t cry to be picked up— she didn’t dare, not anymore— but instead settled in a cross-legged heap at her mother’s skirts, chin in her palm, hazel eyes half-masted.

The slaves didn’t look at her.

The toddler was no threat to them, either, after all.

After what felt like a lifetime— but, Hartwin knew, had probably only been five minutes, if that— he had finally drifted close enough to the copper-haired slave where he knew he had to act soon if he wanted to maintain the element of surprise. Even still, knowing and doing— translating his and Amelia’s mad, desperate plan from his head to reality— taking that leap— that risk— that final step—

Hartwin clenched his jaw. Forced a deep, lingering breath. Straightened himself.

Attacked.

He barrelled forward faster than he’d moved in decades, maybe centuries, using his arms and chest to bear his full bodyweight into the slave. Perched over the lip of the latrine trench, the slave stumbled, his foot slipping, the shovel clattering from his hands and clanging tinnily as its spade bounced against the stone below. As he let out a small cry of shock, his partner whipped his head around, bewilderment painting his scarred face. He staggered to his feet, attention arrowed in on Hartwin and the copper-haired slave— and this ultimately led to his great disadvantage, as Amelia used his distraction to whirl and sear toward him, coming at him from the side.

He caught her through his peripheral vision before she slammed into him, but not with enough time to mount much of a defense, only managing to flinch and brace himself for the impact as he and Amelia collided. Still sitting near the bars where Amelia had stood only moments before, Leonie let out a small squawk, the terror in her tone potent.

“Mama!” she shrieked.

Amelia, however, didn’t reply— she was far too involved in grappling with the slave, her elbow pressed against his throat as she landed on top of him on the hard stone ground. Meanwhile, the slave whom Hartwin had attacked was trying desperately to regain his footing, arms windmilling as he fought against gravity, one foot in the trench, one foot out of it. This distraction gave Hartwin a moment to reach for the slave’s neck… or, more particularly, the whistle that hung on a leather cord around it. The elf yanked it free with one harsh motion.

Before he could toss it out of reach, however, the slave had steadied himself enough to throw a hand forward, fingers seizing around Hartwin’s wrist. “Are you mad!?” the man snarled, dark eyes flashing with something between incredulity and rage. “You’re going to get yourself killed!”

Hartwin didn’t respond— nor did he attempt to pull away from the slave’s grip. Instead, he moved himself closer to his opponent, took a quick breath, and then slammed his knee forward so that it connected with the slave’s groin. The effect was instantaneous, the man gasping in pain and his grip on Hartwin’s wrist loosening enough where it took only a quick twist for the elf to draw free.

Without blinking, Hartwin capitalized on the man’s distraction to reach for the fallen shovel. He grasped it by the spade end, wielding it more as a bat than a hatchet as he lifted it, praying to every deity that might’ve ever existed that he was only knocking out— not killing— the slave as he swung the wooden handle toward the man’s temple. Realising what was happening a beat too late, and his footing still uneven with one foot in the trench and one outside of it, the copper-haired man had no chance to duck. He could only hold out a feeble, insufficient hand in self-defense as the makeshift weapon came arcing toward him.

“Mama! Mama!”

As the handle slammed into the slave’s head, Leonie’s shrieking grew louder, more frantic, more desperate. Hartwin wanted to coo out reassurances but couldn’t find breath enough to form words; he watched as the slave collapsed into the fetid trench, limp as a sack of flour, and then the elf turned toward Amelia’s screaming daughter, not quite sure what he hated most right now: how terrified the little girl was, or how he’d just had to badly injure a man who had not a scrap of complicity in the elves’ captivity.

In either case, Hartwin knew he had no time to wax and lament, the elf’s gaze leaving Leonie just as soon as it had landed there and snapping instead toward Amelia and the dark-haired slave. He could immediately see that Amelia had managed to wrench away the man’s whistle— it lay with its cord broken a few feet away from the pair— but otherwise she was struggling, the two of them laid up on the stone ground in a heap of flailing limbs as they jockeyed for control. Last time he’d looked Amelia had been on top, arm against the slave’s throat, but now he had turned the tables; Amelia was wedged beneath him as he cinched an iron hand around her long hair, yanking it hard.

Hartwin’s already-racing pulse quickened even further, and with one last glance at the unconscious slave in the latrine, he scrambled forward, arthritic legs moving as fast as he could pump them. When he reached the wrestling pair he didn’t waste a moment, hands firm but trembling as he grabbed onto either one of the man’s shoulders and hefted him up off Amelia. The slave resisted— of course he resisted— but now it was two against one, and as he lost his grip on Amelia’s hair, the woman shimmied out from where she’d been stuck beneath him.

Hartwin slammed the slave back against the stone.

His head bounced against it, like a rubber ball. Lips parting in shock. Throat spasming in pain. Eyes fluttering once, briefly, before they slid shut.

“Mama!” Leonie squalled again.

Amelia, shaking hard, staggered to her feet and took a step toward the girl. Then another, and another, until soon she was nearly sprinting, tears flooding her green eyes as she reached the toddler and scooped her up into her arms. “It’s okay, baby girl,” she choked out. Then, turning to Hartwin, she stammered: “Get the cloak. G-get the cloak. And then we n-need to go— we need to go, she’s been screaming, someone could have heard, we need to go—”

“Deep breaths, Amelia,” Hartwin replied, obediently beelining toward the cloak with its stash of food hidden inside. “We must not panic now, right?”

“R-right,” she sputtered. “Not panicking, I’m not p-panicking.” She smoothed Leonie’s hair, urging: “Quiet, baby. Please, can you be quiet? For Mama?”

“Scary,” Leonie protested. But as if she seemed to somehow understand the gravity of the situation, her cries quieted somewhat, from screeching sobs into throaty hiccups. “M-Mama, scary—”

“I know,” Amelia said. “I know, baby. But I’ve got you. You’re safe, and I’ve got you.”

“G-go now?” Leonie guessed, as her mother and Hartwin started toward the door. “We g-g-go now?”

“That is right,” Hartwin agreed, his voice little more than a haze, a wisp, a dandelion puff. “That is very right, Leonie. It is time for us to go.”

V. Choices

SPOILER: Click to show

They took the whistles with them and locked the cage door as they left, to hopefully make things more difficult for the slaves to alert the keepers if— when, Hartwin insisted to himself— they came to (if Leonie’s screeches hadn’t already done so, anyway). The elves then cut a nimble path toward the back entrance to the menagerie, their pace brisk, their hearts still hammering in their throats. They dared not speak; Leonie whimpered softly. At every rustle in the night they flinched, froze, started— convinced they’d been discovered, that it was all over, that everything was for naught.

Then they reached the back gate.

Then Hartwin gingerly turned the latch.

A shadowy street— somehow plainer than the silver-haired elf had expected— loomed before them, deserted in the late evening hour. It had been a century since Hartwin had seen the city of Faustus outside of the menagerie walls, but as he and Amelia started out into it, the place looked much the same as he remembered it— unpaved streets, rinky-dink buildings, overflowing gutters and skittering vermin. He’d sometimes heard guests joke that the menagerie was the nicest thing in the city beyond House Rutten’s manor, and within a few blocks of careful travel Hartwin found himself agreeing with this sentiment.

It was a dump.

A pit.

Foul-smelling, foul-looking, most of its citizens locked away behind heavy shutters and doors as if they were outright afraid of the post-dusk streets. The few people Amelia and Hartwin did pass didn’t spare the pair so much as a first look, let alone a second. They’d clearly long ago learned the danger to be found in eye contact.

The further they walked, the more Hartwin began to expect the city’s alarms to go off at any moment. To pierce the quiet night air like swords into flesh, as the slaves roused and alerted the keepers, or the keepers found the slaves. But as he and Amelia plodded from the commercial district into the dilapidated neighbourhoods beyond, drawing closer to the city’s edge, the faint evening breeze remained silent. Sluggish. Unbroken.

One of the things Hartwin had always found odd about Faustus was that it didn’t have a fully encircling wall. There was a half-moon of one flanking the southern end, that curved up and worked its way north so that part of the west and east sides were covered, as well, but it didn’t reach all the way to the sparsely populated northern bounds of the city. Although Hartwin was fairly sure the true reason for this was mere laziness— and stinginess— on the part of House Rutten, the official story the nobles spun was that a full wall was unnecessary— the only proper road into the city was to the south, after all, and bounded by a gate, and most of the denizens of Faustus resided closeby to it. To the north, on the other hand, there lay only wilds: a few farms and dusty fields that quickly fed into an overgrown morass of a forest, so densely filled with brambles and thorny bushes and close-packed trees that it was hard to map and harder still to travel. Even bandits stayed mostly clear of it. So why, went the rhetoric, waste money and labour building a wall that wasn’t needed?

Hartwin had always thought such an excuse was pathetic.

Now, though, he— and Amelia— were very, very grateful for it.

“I can’t believe they haven’t sounded the alarms yet.” After several miles of tight-lipped walking, Amelia finally dared breach the silent air with this breathy, wondering comment. “I thought for sure they’d have sounded them by now.”

“They will go off in time,” Hartwin replied, sparing the woman a sidelong look. They’d been walking at a very brisk clip, and he was beginning to feel it in his lungs, but even still he was surprised to realise that Amelia seemed even more winded than he was. Her breathing was heavy, hard, as he added, “You all right? Nerves still plaguing you?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine,” she insisted. Leonie had recently nodded off in her arms, and Amelia shifted her onto the other hip, arms shaking as she did. “Just a long walk, that’s all.”

Hartwin frowned. “We are reaching the city’s fringes,” he said, nodding ahead toward where they could distantly see the first of the fields and farms that led up to the woods. “Perhaps we can rest? If you need.”

“No,” Amelia insisted. “We don’t have time for resting.”

“All right.” His frown grew. “It was only a suggestion.”

They resumed their mutual silence then, although Amelia kept on with her heavy breathing, and despite her insistence that she was fine, as they reached the first farm Hartwin was growing less and less convinced. They were walking quickly, yes, but she was in far better shape than he was, and he wasn’t labouring half as much as her. And shaking. Every time he stole a glance at her, Amelia was still shaking. Which could’ve just been nerves, albeit, but it had been well long enough for adrenaline to ebb— and in any case, he’d never seen her shake before. Not like this. Not so… thoroughly. So persistently.

It was not the quivering of a frightened person.

It was something very, very else.

“I think we need to rest, Amelia,” he said to her finally, near the second farm. In the pale moonlight he could just barely see the first glimpse of woods up ahead— stark silhouettes against the stark night sky. “You are tired. More than tired.”

“We’re not far enough yet,” Amelia insisted between huffs and wheezes. “Not nearly far enough.”

“Amelia—”

“And I’m not tired.”

“You are panting like you have run ten miles,” Hartwin countered, somewhat tartly. “And shaking even worse.”

“I am not,” she told him.

He raised a brow. “You are.” A cold slither snaked through his gut as he paused in his tracks and turned to face her fully. He was blocking her path now, and so she was forced to stop, too, and as he studied her face straight on— “Amelia,” he murmured. “I know we are walking by moonlight, but you look very pale.”

“Hm?” She stroked Leonie’s hair, hand shaking so hard it was a wonder she didn’t wake the girl. “Do I?”

“You do.” He gulped, continuing to examine her. Always white skin paled to nearly ghost-like. A sheen of sweat coating her forehead. Glimmering eyes gone outright glassy, as though someone had drawn a film over them. “Amelia,” he breathed, swallowing back bile. “Amelia, what is wrong?”

“Nothing,” she murmured, jaw clattering. “I’m fine. Let’s keep going. Pl-please, we have to keep going.”

“No.” Gently but firmly, he reached out toward her, plucking the sleeping Leonie from her arms; he was afraid Amelia was going to drop her otherwise, her shaking growing worse by the moment. “Tell me, please. What is wrong?”

“Nothing—”

“Amelia!” His voice cracked. Harrowed. Desperate.

Amelia shut her eyes, then opened them again. “I’m dizzy,” she said simply, raising both of her hands and sliding them behind her pointed ears to cup the back of her skull. “I’ve been dizzy. For a f-few miles.”

“Dizzy?” He shook his head. Not understanding. “Why are you di—”

His voice fell away, like a man plunging over the edge of a cliff, as Amelia drew her hands back away from her head. As his honey-coloured eyes fell onto her palms, and he saw beneath the silver moonlight that they were suddenly slicked with red.

“Amelia,” he croaked. Now Hartwin was shaking, too.

Her glazed eyes followed his, and when her pupils settled on the blood that coated her hands, she let out a small, strangled whimper. “‘Pit,” she managed. “N-no, no, this—”

“Amelia, what happened?” Hartwin didn’t understand. Gods, he didn’t understand!

Amelia sagged now, barely able to stay upright. “M-my head,” she blithered simply. “When the… the slave got on top of me, he….” She shuddered, turned abruptly, and retched into the dirt below. “Sorry,” she moaned. “Sorry, I’m wasting time, I’m—”

“You are not wasting time,” Hartwin cut in frantically. Moving Leonie to one arm, he reached out his other and clasped his fingers around Amelia’s bicep, as though to stop her from outright collapsing. “Your head, Amelia— what happened to your head?”

“Hit,” she said simply, closing her eyes again. “On the stone… I don’t remember, I was— I was out for… I think I was out for a few seconds… and…”

“Amelia,” he pleaded. “Stay with me. Please?”

He didn’t understand. If she’d hit her head, why hadn’t she told him? And— and if she’d only been unconscious for a few seconds, how was it that she was so bad off now, how could it have escalated like this? She couldn’t have lost that much blood, could she have? He’d have noticed if she’d lost that much blood—

“I don’t think I c-c-can keep walking.” Hartwin’s grip over her arm was not enough to keep her standing anymore; the elf slumped, slowly, until she was sitting on the ground and Hartwin was crouching frantically over her. At least Leonie had not woken up. Thank the gods, Leonie had not woken up. “But we c-can’t stop here…”

“No, we can,” Hartwin objected, a bit shrilly. “We will rest here. And keep on once you feel better.”

“No.” Amelia opened her eyes again, and amidst the glass and glaze there was a newfound hint of clarity as she latched her pupils with Hartwin’s. “We c-c-can’t. Alarms will go off soon, we can’t…”

“I am not going to leave you here,” Hartwin said. “Can you walk a little more, Amelia?” he went on. “We can find shelter. A place to hide.”

“Mmm.” She gulped, pressing a hand back to her head again. As she turned slightly, Hartwin wanted to scream as he caught sight of the gore— the hard stone had not been kind to the soft flesh of her scalp. In places he could barely see the white-blonde of her hair against the dark canvas of blood, and it had begun to drip down her neck, as well, seeping into the fabric of her ratty dress. “You keep going,” she told him. “W-with Leonie. Keep going.”

“Not without you,” he hissed.

“I left for L-L-Leonie,” Amelia slurred. “Not for me.” Then, before Hartwin could object once more, she rambled on: “Hasek. M-my last name. When you get to the border, ask for the kn-knights from Nid’aigle and—”

“Amelia!” He was crying now. Leonie had started to stir in his arms.

But Amelia either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. “Anri H-Hasek,” she went on. “My aunt. A-ask for Anri Hasek. And… when you see her— t-tell her the st-story of how I left, so she knows it was me, so she knows the baby’s mine and—”

“Amelia, please,” Hartwin begged. “Stop talking like this. Get up, all right? I will help you walk. We will find someplace to hide.”

“Can’t,” she said simply. “S-s-sorry.” Her unfocused gaze fluttered toward Leonie, who’d blinked awake to near chaos and who was now starting to cry. “I love you, baby girl,” she said.

“Mama,” Leonie snuffled.

Hartwin pressed the girl tighter into his arms. “Amelia… please...”

“Take care of her for me, okay?” Amelia said.

Her eyes slid shut for a third time.

And no matter how Hartwin— the old one, the grey one, the sallow one, the kreatura who’d held so many names but none of them as lovely as the one she’d given him— shook her, they did not open again.

***

He stayed with her.

He could not leave.

Could not just abandon her alone on the road, steal away into the night with her screaming daughter in tow, discard her like she was nothing, no one. She still had a pulse— Hartwin could feel her pulse, faint but there, humming beneath her skin, her warm, pale skin. She was still there.

She was still there.

For a while he considered dragging her. Hauling her to some hiding place— there was a silo he could see not all that far away, maybe a quarter-mile into the moonlit field they were beside, and a barn a bit beyond that— but she weighed more than he did, and his arthritic arms were at their limit merely holding little Leonie, and if he put all his strength into hauling Amelia then he certainly couldn’t hold the girl, too, and he had to hold her— and Amelia was still bleeding, gods, she was still bleeding, and so she’d leave a conspicuous trail, and—

“Mama sleep?” Leonie asked, after what must have been half an hour of the two of them merely sitting beside her mother’s still form. By some small mercy, the girl had stopped crying— Hartwin grimly supposed she was too exhausted for any more tears.

“She is taking a nap,” Hartwin agreed. “She is very tired.”

“We nap, too?”

“You can nap,” Hartwin told her. “I will hold you.” And maybe Amelia will stir soon. Feeling better. And we can keep moving.

“Sing me lullaby?” Leonie said. “Since Mama already sleep.”

“Of course,” Hartwin said. “Close your eyes. I will sing until you sleep.”

***

The alarms sounded not long later.

Amelia still had not stirred.

For a moment, as his heart started and he recognised the sound, Hartwin prayed.

Wake up.

Nothing.

Please, wake up!

Still nothing.

In his arms, the sleeping Leonie twitched, and Hartwin swallowed the frog in his throat. He gave Amelia one last chance— one last look— one last moment to rouse, to animate, to startle awake—

And then he stood.

He turned toward the rustling field. Gazed at the woods that loomed beyond.

… Started again as something else caught his eye. Something that stood so close it was only through his sheer preoccupation with Amelia that he hadn’t noticed it before.

A horse.

In the field, there stood a horse. Its chestnut coat gleamed beneath the moonlight, its black mane blowing in the gentle night breeze. It wore a leather halter— a domestic beast. It must have belonged, Hartwin realised, to the family who owned the farm.

In the distance, another alarm joined the first— and then another, and another, until soon there was a cacophony, riding the night air like a kite. There would be ghosts haunting his trail within minutes, if there weren’t already. Searching for him. For Amelia. For Leonie. Hunting every nook and cranny of the city for them. Sweeping every alley. Following every road.

The horse, seemingly not at all fazed by the far-off blaring, took a curious step toward Hartwin.

He took a step toward the horse.

For a moment then, a new bouquet of possibilities bloomed in Hartwin’s head. Perhaps he could try hefting Amelia onto the horse— it would be difficult, very difficult, but if he put in all of his strength, maybe he could manage it. And then he could somehow jury rig her to its back, tie her down using— well, he wasn’t sure what, but something, surely he could find something—

Yet another alarm joined the screaming, dissonant orchestra.

Every siren in the city had to be wailing now.

And he knew.

He hated it, but he knew.

As the horse took another inquisitive step forward, Hartwin looked over his shoulder toward Amelia’s prone form. Her chest still rose and fell shallowly, but otherwise she was perfectly still, pale as snow beneath the silver moonlight. A puddle of blood had formed around her head, framing it like a macabre halo.

“I will take care of Leonie,” he promised the woman. “I will get her to your family. I will make sure she grows up free, and happy, and loved.”

Amelia, of course, did not respond to him.

But Hartwin could feel it in his ancient bones: she’d heard him.

And she knew.

She’d heard him and she knew.

Hartwin took a deep breath, and then he turned back toward the horse.

VI. Home (with cameo by Shinko)

SPOILER: Click to show

It was an unusually crisp day in late January, and all of the soldiers who helmed the utilitarian Corvid fort called Wingley were bundled up tight. Located only ten scant miles from the always-rumbling Courdonian border, Fort Wingley had been designed for defense, not for comfort, and such a thing was apparent throughout its bounds: high walls, tall keeps, narrow corridors, locks on every door. The floors were mostly limestone, and the walls clay, and none of the rooms were quite decorated so much as filled, with the furniture and adornments just as plain and pragmatic as the rest of the place.

In the days he’d spent inside Fort Wingley’s walls, shivering beneath the January damp and chill, Hartwin had barely said a word to anybody.

His hair had grown long on the road; he’d shrunk down to even skinnier than he’d been before. His clothes were tattered and full of holes, and his arthritic bones ached more than ever.

He still could not entirely believe that he’d made it. That they’d made it— he and the little half-elf child whom he’d promised he would care for, and who’d spent every minute since she and Hartwin had been intercepted by Kythian knights only a mile over the border clinging to his chest like a leech. She didn’t like the humans— Hartwin could tell. These ones— mostly knights clad in a livery of gray-and-peach— were much nicer to her than most humans probably had been before, but the toddler didn’t seem to care. She stiffened whenever they were around. Whimpered. Shook.

Hartwin couldn’t blame her. Not when, if he had to be honest with himself, he wasn’t much more comfortable with the humans than she was. They hadn’t been aggressive at all with him and the baby— far from it, in fact. But centuries upon centuries of mistreatment by their kind could not be undone overnight… matters not at all helped by the fact that the only language he held in common with any of the knights was fractured Courdonian, which had never before meant good things for him when it dripped from a human’s lips.

He’d used it only enough to request Anri Hasek. Amelia’s aunt. Telling the humans that she was a relative of the baby’s, and that Leonie’s mother had wanted the girl returned to her custody. And though the humans promised they’d summon Anri for him, and keep him and Leonie safe until she arrived, part of Hartwin remained dubious. Humans had broken no small dearth of promises to him before.

The small room he and Leonie had been given inside the fort had no windows— most of the garrison’s spaces didn’t—which meant that Hartwin could only hear, rather than see, the rain as it drummed outside on his and Leonie’s sixth morning in Kyth. Hartwin didn’t like the rain, not at all, but the sound of it seemed to soothe Leonie, and for once the little girl was deigning to sleep in as the droplets pattered rhythmically against the roof above. Hartwin reclined beside her, a wool blanket drawn up to cover both of them, the camp cot sagging beneath their combined weight. He knew he should rouse her to get breakfast soon, but for now this was… nice. Peaceful. Calm, in a way things so seldom had been for the both of them in far, far too long of a time.

A knock sounded against the door.

Leonie blinked awake, and Hartwin let out a sigh.

“Probably just a knight checking in,” he assured the girl before she could work herself into agitation. He spoke in Elvish to her— at least, what Amelia had taught him of Elvish; he was sure it would’ve sounded wretched to a native speaker’s ears. “No need to be scared, okay?”

Leonie nodded, stifling a yawn. “‘Kay,” she agreed, blanket still pulled up to her chin as Hartwin stood and paced toward the door.

Pulling it open, he fully expected to see one of the gray-and-peach clad knights standing on the other side— and so he was more than a little surprised when instead he found himself gazing at an exceptionally tall figure in navy-blue. The person on the other side of the door wore a knight’s badge, but instead of the phoenixes of he’d grown used to seeing, it was emblazoned with the sigil of a tree with a bird of prey roosting in the branches.

The person was also a woman. An elf woman.

Hartwin blinked— and perched on the cot a few feet behind him, Leonie straightened, her hazel eyes going wide as full moons as she glimpsed around Hartwin to study their guest. In turn, the woman flicked her gaze towards the child. The stranger’s bright crimson eyes flickered with some emotion that she seemed to push away before Hartwin could fully guess what it was, before she refocused her attention on the elderly elf. Brushing a lock of golden-blonde hair away from her face, she cleared her throat and spoke to him- in Elvish.

“My name is Anri Hasek- commander of the Nid’aigle company. I received word that you wanted to speak with me? That… you have custody of a child who is related to me?”

Hartwin nodded, dumbfounded. Of course this was what he’d wanted— what he’d asked for— but part of him hadn’t expected it to happen at all, let alone like this— so quickly, suddenly— “Yes,” he managed, sparing a quick glance toward Leonie, who had tilted her head as she continued to examine the strange elf. “Thank for you coming. I— she—” He stepped aside to give the elf knight a better view of Leonie. “She is two and a half. Her mama… gave me your name. S-said that you are her aunt.”

Anri’s eyebrows snapped upwards, her jaw tightening. “Amelia? So… so she was taken. We found evidence of raiders in the area after she vanished, but we never knew for sure...”

“She…” Hartwin swallowed hard, his mouth tacky and dry. “She told me to tell you the story of— how she disappeared. So you would know that I kn-knew her.” He crossed his arms, looking uncomfortable. Anguished. “She got in a fight with her mother and father. She wanted to move to a human city, but they did not immediately agree to the idea. And so she… ran away. Wrote a note and ran away.” He added hurriedly, as if to just make it clear to Anri that Amelia hadn’t meant to go forever: “She was trying to come back, madam. When she was taken. She… regretted running, and she was trying to come back.”

The commander closed her eyes, pain evident in her expression. “We always wondered. But we didn’t think we’d ever find out for sure. Not after all this time.” She gestured towards Leonie. “So this is her daughter. May I?”

“Of course,” Hartwin agreed, turning to give Leonie a soft, reassuring smile. “This is your auntie, sweetheart,” he said to the toddler. “Want to say hello?”

Leonie bit her lip, hazel eyes still narrowed in scrutiny as she sat unmoving on the cot. “Elf,” she said— half a statement, half a question.

Hartwin laughed quietly. “Yes,” he agreed. “An elf. Very good, mon chérie.”

The woman knelt before the cot, offering a hand out to the child. “My name is Anri, little lady. You can call me Aunt Anri if you want to- your mama’s papa is my little brother. What’s your name?”

Leonie didn’t reply— only drew her shoulders in and shrunk down, apprehensively. Hartwin sighed, taking a step toward her, a soothing smile still lingering between his pale, chapped lips.

“She is called Leonie,” he said to Anri. Then, to the toddler: “It is okay, sweetheart. She is a friend. Nothing to be afraid of, all right?”

Leonie sniffled, for several moments her gaze trailing back and forth between Hartwin and the stranger. Finally, though, she settled it back on her supposed aunt, tears pricking as she murmured, “Know Mama?”

“Mm-hm,” Anri agreed, smiling gently. “I knew your Mama since she was a baby. I’ve missed her a whole lot since she went away.”

The toddler’s chin wobbled. “Miss Mama too,” she said miserably.

Hartwin’s stomach pinched, the man letting out a soft sigh as Anri reached out and put a very gentle hand on Leonie’s shoulder. To Hartwin she murmured, “What happened?”

“She hit her head,” Hartwin said, his voice cracking. Choosing his words carefully since Leonie could overhear, he went on shakily, “During our escape, she hit her head. And… she had to go to sleep. Leonie and I stayed with her for a while, but…” He blinked back tears. “Eventually, we had to go.”

Anri looked down, her eyes narrowed with anguish. “I see.” She gave Leonie a sad, tired looking smile. “Poor Leonie. You’ve been a very sad little girl, haven’t you? Can I sit with you?”

Leonie deliberated for a moment, then nodded timidly. “‘Kay,” she agreed. Scooting aside to give the towering elf room, the little girl reached a stubby, trembling hand toward Anri. “Hold?” she inquired hesitantly.

“Sure, baby,” Anri agreed, sitting down next to Leonie and gently pulling the small girl up into her lap.

A lump rose in Hartwin’s throat, and he didn’t bother to swallow it away as he watched Leonie fidget for a few moments before settling with her cheek pressed against her aunt’s chest. This… this was what Amelia had wanted so badly. Had dreamed about— pined for— so desperately that she’d been willing to sacrifice anything and everything in order to achieve it.

Including herself.

“Amelia’s parents,” he murmured. “Are they still around…?”

“Aye,” Anri agreed. “Josse and Noella. I didn’t tell them about this- I didn’t want to get their hopes up- but they’re alive and well, and I’m certain they’ll be happy to take custody of their granddaughter.”

Hartwin nodded, a sad, small smile curving between his lips. “She would be happy about that,” he managed. “Amelia. She loved them so much. Loved… loved you so much. The t-times I saw her happiest were always when she spoke of her family. And the idea of Leonie getting to know them.”

“I only wish we hadn’t failed her so badly,” Anri murmured. “I wish she’d never had to experience the horrors of Courdon in the first place.” The commander shook her head. “Forgive me, I’ve been very rude, haven’t I? I never even got your name.”

“I… I am Hartwin,” he said, finally forcing back the lump in his throat. “It… was not my original name. Long ago. But Amelia, she…” He blinked. “She picked it for me. S-said I deserved better than what the Courdonians called me.” He let out a shuddering breath. “I am so sorry I could not save her, madam. If it could have been me instead of her… I would have volunteered in a moment.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Anri replied gently, stroking Leonie’s head as she spoke. “I know you did what you had to do, Master Hartwin. And I owe you a tremendous debt for bringing my grandniece home to us.” She bowed her head respectfully to the old elf, and he froze in something between surprise and confusion— if anyone had ever shown him such deference before, he’d forgotten it long ago.

“What will you do now?” she asked as she straightened again. “I presume you are from one of the elf cities long lost to time- would you like to return with us to Nid’aigle? Or remain among the humans in one of their cities?”

“I… have not thought about it overmuch,” Hartwin admitted. “My focus has been on Leonie, not myself.” He mulled for a moment. “But… I am not much one for human cities. I think I have lived in far more than my fair share of them throughout the years.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Anri replied sympathetically. “I think you will like Nid’aigle. It’s peaceful there. Quiet. The city is in a forest north and east of here, on the banks of the Silver River. My family could arrange for a small cottage to be given to you to live in.” A smile quirked at her lips, and she kissed the top of Leonie’s head, adding, “Leonie can visit Grandpa Hartwin there, if she and he want.”

“Gampa?” the girl asked quizzically, tilting her chin up so that her eyes hooked with Anri’s.

“Grandpa is a word for your mama or papa’s papa,” Anri clarified. “But you can also say it for an older person that you love very much, someone who is like a grandpa.”

“Oooh.” Leonie dared a smile, her teeth glimmering like tiny pearls. “Gampa!”

Hartwin managed a watery laugh. “You are a very kind, little Leonie,” he said. “Just like your mother. And…” He exhaled softly. “I see where Amelia got it from. Y-you are very kind, as well, Madam Anri. T-to an old relic like me.”

“Old, perhaps,” Anri conceded, “But a relic you are not. You are a man, Master Hartwin. One who has known great suffering, but despite that still carried the compassion in his heart to risk his life bringing a little girl home to her family. Your suffering is done, my friend.” She ruffled Leonie’s hair, adding, “All of us are going home.”

[Avery]

A collaboration with Shinko , taking place in the Way, Way Past, in the staunchly theocratic western kingdom of Valzaim.

A Question of Souls

Prologue

"Once Upon a Time"

SPOILER: Click to show

^{Medieville, Kyth
1306}

The young girl sat cross-legged on her bed, lips scrunched, brow knitted in concentration. A scroll of parchment sat rumpled in her lap, blank save for her name etched at the top margin with its ink long since set and dried. She’d penned it almost two days ago.

She hadn’t managed to come up with another word since.

A pile of books lay helter-skelter around her, some opened, some closed, strewn in what seemed to be no particular order. The girl had pulled them all from the library over the past forty-eight hours, much to the miserly librarian’s chagrin— he didn’t appear to like greasy-handed twelve-year-olds making off with his prized charges. But he also knew better than to deny her, and the girl had rather hoped that with enough literature she’d manage to cobble up a proper essay despite herself. So far, however, paging through the volumes had only given her headaches— and confusion— and sent her mind wandering to strange and wonderful places that had nothing to do with the task at hand, and perhaps she ought to get more books, better books, that would help, maybe that would help, and—

Click.

As someone pushed down the handle of the door that led into her bedchamber, the girl sat bolt upright, her heart leapfrogging into her throat. ’Pit. They hadn’t knocked. And only a very, very small number of people in the palace would enter her room without knocking. And since her father was out of the city on business…

“Grandmother Maia.” Relief oozed through the girl as a slight-framed older woman sauntered through the door. “Hello.”

“Destiney,” replied the woman, smiling softly. As her blue eyes fell on the warren of books atop her granddaughter’s bed, she quirked a silver brow. “What’s this— Hope’s bookworm sickness has rubbed off on you at last? I never thought I’d see the day!”

Destiney wanted to laugh, but instead her cheeks burned, and she ducked her head. Her grandmother, seeming to realise her error, set out a placating hand. As she paced to the girl’s side, and sat down at the edge of the bed, the woman soothed, “I was just teasing, love.” She touched Destiney’s cheek, gently. “What’s wrong? What’s all this?”

“My theology tutor’s been lecturing about Wooism,” Destiney replied, swallowing back the lump in her throat.

Her grandmother raised a brow. “Yes— theology tutors often do.”

“In the west,” Destiney clarified. “Wooism in the west. Macarinth, Valzaim…” She shrugged. “It’s a bit different there, I guess. How they do things.”

“I imagine it is,” Maia agreed. “But that doesn’t explain the pile of books.”

“The tutor wants me to write an essay,” said Destiney. “A whole scroll.”

“On?”

“A saint. Only— not one of the ones well-known in Kyth. He wants it to be a Valzick saint. Or a Macarinthian one.”

“I see.” Maia looked contemplative. “And it’s giving you trouble?”

“I don’t know where to begin,” Destiney lamented. “I pulled all the books from the library that have anything to do with western Wooism. And I’ve found names of saints, but— not enough information for a paragraph, let alone a whole scroll, and…”

“Destiney.” Maia squeezed her granddaughter’s arm. “Calm down, all right? You’ll work this out.” A beat. “We’ll work this out.”

Decisively then— authoritatively— the girl’s grandmother reached for one of the open books, perching it on her lap. She thumbed through it for several moments before discarding it back to the side, whereupon she drew into her hands another tome and gave it, too, a quick skim. Destiney simply watched her, lip bit and hands wrung as the room fell into a silence that was only eclipsed here and there by the rustling of pages and Maia’s fingers drumming rhythmically against the hardbound covers.

Then, finally, as she leafed through book number five the queen regent declared: “Aha! Here we go.”

Destiney tilted her head, black hair falling like a veil to half-conceal her face. “You found something, Grandmother?”

“I think I did.” Maia carefully passed the book to her granddaughter. It was opened to a page about halfway through, and the older woman tapped a section that began near the bottom of the yellowed page. “See? A saint!”

Destiney squashed her brow. “St… Thais,” she said. The girl brightened. “That sounds Valzick!”

Her grandmother laughed. “It does. Read it to me? My old eyes didn’t get much past the ‘saint’ part, to be honest.”

Destiney’s cheeks warmed. “All right.” She cleared her throat. “St. Thais is one of Valzaim’s most pro— pro—”

Maia peered over her shoulder. “Prodigious.”

“... Prodigious. Right.” Destiney swallowed hard. “St. Thais is one of Valzaim’s most prodigious saints. Living around the turn of the mil— millennium, St. Thais is one of—” The girl’s voice broke off as she suddenly laughed.

“What is it?” Maia asked with a chuckle of her own.

“It’s two saints, Grandmother!” Destiney exclaimed. She read on: “St. Thais is one of two saints to rise from Valzaim during this span of time. Although remarkable in her own right, in contemporary theology and public memory she is often overshadowed by another saint, Angelo, about whom a lot more is known and whose life and miracles are far more thoroughly documented. This imbalance of information is unfortunate, but easily explained given the fact that Angelo is— ooh!”

“You’re killing me, Destiney.” Maia laughed again. “What is it?”

“Patience, Grandmother,” the girl teased. Thumbing through the pages that followed the one she was presently reading, she batted her eyelashes at the silver-haired woman. “And maybe you should settle in. St. Angelo seems like a very interesting person, and I think this might be a long read…”

Part One
"Through Brimstone"

Chapter One

SPOILER: Click to show

^{Northern Valzaim
~1000}

One of the first things people usually noticed about Angelo was that he cut a very striking figure. He had skin the exact color of warm milk chocolate, eyes like shards of jet, and ebony hair shaved close to his scalp. With a thin, almost pointed jaw, sharp cheekbones, and a well muscled frame, the young man drew no few stares from both women and some men.

He was fully aware of it, too. Though not exactly a peacock, the young man certainly wasn’t afraid to play the cards that the Woo had dealt him. Gifted of both good looks and charisma, he got his way far more often than not.

Or at least he had prior to his assignment to Fort Drýinos.

Life as a soldier certainly was not one that was inclined to let a person get away with charming their way through life at the best of times. Life in the Special Forces, defending the border between Valzaim and Meltaim, was even less so.

Life under Arch-Sergeant Major Galanis… well suffice it to say Angelo had well and truly met his match.

“I thought I was fit,” he griped dismally in the mess hall over lunch. “I’ve been exercising regularly since I was nine years old. But fifty push-ups before roll call? Over a mussed bedspread?”

The weedy boy who sat beside Angelo— and who shared his rank of Arch-Specialist— grinned crookedly. “S’what ya get for oversleeping,” he teased. Rubbing at his sore arms, he added somewhat less brightly, “I just wish the ol’ miser hadn't punished the rest of us, too. The whole squad! Just ‘cos ya can't be bothered to open those pretty eyes.”

Angelo ribbed the boy with his elbow, smirking. “Next time maybe you louts will actually get me up instead of sniggering while I snore, Adonis.” Turning to another member of the squad- noticeably older than the rest of the group, looking to be in his thirties rather than his mid- to late teens- he added, “I thought we were supposed to be on the same side. Brothers in arms.”

The older man ignored Angelo with but a bemused smile; Adonis, on the other hand, snorted loudly. “It was entertaining,” he insisted. “The reveille horn was blaring and ya were sleeping like a babe. Shoulda painted a portrait of ya.”

Angelo lifted his nose in the air. “A portrait could never capture my magnificence. Even drooling into my pillow, I am a picture of perfection you could never equal in any reproduction.”

“Ooh, those are fighting words,” Adonis said gravely. “That a gauntlet, squadmate?”

“Why I never!” Angelo winked. “I am a gentleman I’ll have you know.”

“Lies!” Adonis chortled, a sly grin ticking at his lips. “Would a gentleman have gotten his whole squad forced to do push ups before the sun is even up? Hmmm?”

Angelo gave his squadmate a gentle, playful shove, to which Adonis didn't skip a beat. With a mad cackle the slimmer boy turned in his seat, arm lashing out and hand clamping somewhat roughly over Angelo’s closely cropped hair. It was clear from his body language that the boy’s gesture was in jest— in play— and for a moment Angelo seemed to be thoroughly enjoying it, a mischievous twinkle glinting in his steely eyes. His lips parted, as if to utter a half-hearted protest, but before he could manage so much as a syllable—

The older man amongst the adolescents, who'd been sitting on Angelo’s other side, vaulted to his feet. Quick as a striking snake he sidestepped behind Angelo toward Adonis, grasp not gentle in the slightest as he took a hold of Adonis’s bony shoulders and hauled the boy bodily to his feet. Adonis let out a soft squeak of surprise, his own hands falling from where they'd clutched Angelo, and could only blink in confusion as the older man shoved him roughly to his knees. They hit the hard ground beneath with a tremendous smack that almost hurt just to hear.

“Be still, Arch-Specialist Karahalios,” snapped the man, squeezing hard. “Keep your hands in my sight.”

“I'm sorry—” Adonis started. “Please—”

“Hey!” Angelo yelped, rocketing up. “Stand down! Stand down right now, he wasn’t doing anything wrong!”

The older man’s hands held fell slack, as though he'd been burned; as Adonis continued to blink in bewilderment on the floor, not daring to move an inch, his attacker’s head fell into a sharp bow. All other eyes in the mess hall were suddenly glued in the trio’s direction— before some of them seemed to realize what they were watching, or more accurately whom, whereupon they averted their gazes just as abruptly as they'd pasted them.

“Sire.” The older man’s voice was very soft. “He laid hands on you. I was duty-bound to react.”

“Woo’s sake, Sir Rosi, you don’t butt in when the Sergeant Major smacks me for diffidence, you don’t have to break Don’s knees because we were play-fighting,” Angelo retorted, his eyes narrowing- and the white-gold circlet that rested on his brow winking in the light of the lanterns on the walls. “I chose not to accept my father’s commendations for a position of rank in this army so I could be as one with my people, as the Woo ordained. I don’t need you to protect me from my friends.”

The man— the holy knight, although he was dressed down into the typical taupe uniform of the Special Forces so as not to attract undue attention— swallowed hard, cowed. “My apologies, sire.”

“Can… can I get up now?” Adonis dared, eyes flitting nervously between the knight and his charge. To Angelo he added: “If it… it is all right with ya. My prince.”

Prince Angelo winced. Although his rank wasn’t exactly a secret in the army, his position as heir to the throne of Valzaim also wasn’t something he generally preferred to advertise so blatantly. Nor was he thrilled to have the previous mood so thoroughly decimated. “Don, please- just call me Angelo. And of course you can get up. I’m not angry with you, I promise I’m not.”

Gulping, Adonis gave a small nod, then staggered to his feet with a wince. Beside him, the knight— Sir Rosi— hesitated for a moment before returning to his seat, eyes still downcast, posture stiff. He did not look happy; neither did Adonis. The boy trembled like a scolded child as he sat back down beside Angelo. He drew in his arms so that their shoulders didn't touch.

“I was… just kidding around,” he said, as if to lodge it for the record.

“I know you were,” Angelo replied, pillowing his forehead in his hands. “I’m sorry. About… all that. I really wasn’t upset. I don’t have any siblings, so it’s nice to be able to hang out with people my own age for a change. People just… tend to be overprotective of me. What with the lack of siblings.”

“Right.” Adonis managed a watery laugh. “King Iosef’s only heir— we… can't be too careful, my prince.” He waffled. “...Um. Angelo.”

“I do not like it,” Sir Rosi said simply, not yet lifting his eyes from where they lingered on the whorled surface of the pine table below. His dark fingers hovered over the wand holster at his hip, almost longingly, as if he wished to use it to teach Adonis a lesson. Like all of the actual members of the Special Forces, Angelo’s plainclothes knights— of whom there were four in total, working in rotating shifts to shadow him— were unilaterally mages; with Meltaim their enemy at this border, it hardly would've made sense to appoint anybody else. The knight continued sourly: “It is unnecessary, all this roughness. There are certain things that are too precious to be… joked with, shall we say?”

“So flattered to be considered a precious thing,” the prince shot back. “But the Woo guided my hand and brought me the revelation that I was needed in this army. I highly doubt He would have sent someone so fragile that a knuckle scuffed against his head would break him beyond repair.”

“I would rather act and be told off for it,” the knight said simply, “than stay impassive and see you harmed.”

Adonis twitched, his wits recovered enough for the boy to now look somewhat insulted. “Angelo is my squad mate and my prince,” he said frostily. “I would never hurt him. We've known each other since boot camp, ya know.”

“Oh, ignore him,” Angelo said, rolling his eyes. “Father made certain only to send the most humorless, overprotective, trigger happy hounds he could as my bodyguards. It was his condition for letting me come to the front in the first place.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I say you can grab me in a headlock if you want- and if you can.” Here the young prince winked, a smirk playing at his lips.

“Sire,” the knight chided.

Adonis, however, only laughed and raised a dark brow. Hazel eyes gleaming, he ribbed, “Is that a challenge?”

“I think it is,” dared pipe in another pimply-faced member of their unit. “And my money's on the one with the bodyguards, frankly. Unfair advantage if you ask me, but I guess that's royalty for you. Isn't that right, sleepy princey?”

“Well that’s one challenge I dare say I have already won,” the prince joked. “None of you can come close to claiming you are as hardcore of sleepers as I am!”

***

After breakfast the sergeant majorl had Adonis and Angelo’s squad running circles around the fort the entire rest of the day— there was armour to be polished, then laps to be jogged after said armour was not polished quite to the officer’s standards… and then more armour polishing, which the sergeant major declared to be adequate— but out of which the only reward to be found was… hauling rations from the storehouse to the kitchens, followed by another hearty round of armour polishing.

By suppertime the entire unit was aching in places they hadn’t even known existed, and all of them were eager to hit their pillows. Unfortunately for Angelo, Sir Rosi seemed to have other plans. Though his shift was ending— meaning he was free to head back to the tent he and the other knights kept outside the prince’s barracks, while one of his comrades sat night watch over their peacefully dozing charge— the man seemed in no hurry to part from Angelo’s company. He lingered even after his relief had arrived, something clearly hanging on the tip of his tongue, but of course— just to be as bothersome as was humanly possibly— he only decided to speak it after the prince had stripped down to his nightclothes and sat down on his bunk.

“Sire,” he said then, voice the perfect measure of neutrality. “If I may have a moment of your time before I head back to my tent?” He added quickly, “Privately, if it suits your princeship.”

The young royal turned soldier frowned. “Alright, but only so long as it doesn't get me in trouble for being out after curfew.” He stood, tilting his head to indicate that the knight should lead the way. Though he’d taken off his circlet for sleep, he did still have a piece of ornamentation on him- a silver chain around his neck, the bottom of which was tucked into his nightclothes. It winked in the light of the moon from outside, and Angelo worried it between his fingers idly as he followed the knight outside.

Ever the sort to rip out a splinter shard by shard by shard rather than in one long piece, once they’d headed out into the balmy summer evening Sir Rosi waited several long moments before he turned to face his charge— and several moments more after that to speak. “You are becoming too familiar with the other soldiers,” he said then, dispatching with any preamble. “Your father would not be pleased, sire. You know how reluctant he was to let you come here already.”

Angelo bristled. “What, am I meant to keep up a haughty high-and-mighty air of indifference with men upon whom I might end up depending for my life? That doesn't seem very polite nor very smart.”

“No one says you must look down upon them,” Rosi chided. “But there’s a difference between being cordial and being…” The knight waved a hand, somewhat disgustedly. “In any case,” he went on, “you are their prince. Their future king, sire! They will fight to defend you because that is their duty, when it comes down to it. You hardly need to be wrestling with them for that duty to exist.”

Angelo looked unimpressed. “I rather think having an intimate personal understanding of how peasants think and live will make me a better king in the long run. The Woo sent me a sign that it was my destiny to be a soldier- to fight alongside my people. Alongside. Not in a bubble apart from them.” Mulishly he added, “I am not playing the aloof proper princling. Period.”

“You know I’ve been sending monthly reports down to your father,” said Rosi, switching tacks. “I shall have to include this… attitude of yours in my next message, sire.” His tone was quite casual, but it was impossible to miss the layer of threat that was latticed throughout it, like a vine of choking ivy.

Angelo glowered. “Yes. Do that. And when Father drags me home for being too familiar with my subjects I can tell him you've been abusing soldiers of Valzaim just for being friendly.”

Rosi sputtered. “Abusing them?” He clenched his jaw. “It is my sworn duty to protect you from harm. I did not abuse anyone— I’m sure Arch-Specialist Karahalios has gotten bigger bruises tripping over his own feet than he did from my actions today.” The knight sighed loudly, as if he were dressing down a petulant child. “Look— your father worries, Prince Angelo, and so I worry. You know he only sent you north with heavy reservations. After he lost your mother— and then his sister…” Rosi shook his head. “You are not just this kingdom’s future, sire: you are your father’s heart and soul. And it’s my job to protect you. Even if it makes you sullen.”

Angelo looked away, his hand closing over the chain around his neck. “It’s for my aunt I have to do this. She died protecting our people from the heathen Meltaimans. A woman priest had to do a man’s work whilst I hid away safe in Valla. The Woo sent me here to claim justice for her sacrifice, and to defend His people from our enemies. I won't back down from that, no matter what Father says. I can't.”

“I’m not asking you to back down from it,” Rosi said, cringing. Angelo’s aunt— the king’s elder sister— had been killed in an ambush nearly two years ago, slain in the northern church to which she'd devoted her life since her teen years, and the topic was still as raw as though it has happened yesterday. “I merely beseech you to use more prudence. More… restraint.”

The prince looked toward his bodyguard bleakly. “I just want to have friends. Friends who like me for me and not because I can get them a political advantage. Is that such a bad thing?”

“I know,” Rosi said simply. “But being a prince isn't about doing what you want, sire. It's about doing what is best for the greater good.”

“Those buzzwords again,” Angelo muttered. “I hear them a lot. In situations where they make no sense. How is it in defiance of the ‘greater good’ for me to have friends? For me to be approachable, to seem human? As far as I can tell, the only reason not to be friendly with subjects is the idea that I’m better than them in some way. But I’m not. We’re all children under the Woo, and I refuse to do a complete turnaround and stop talking to people who’ve been kind and supportive to me since basic.”

“If that is your will,” said Rosi, “then it is not my place to countermand you. But—” Here his voice grew very firm. “I will continue acting as I see best suited to protect your interest and safety, whether or not you agree with my methods. My duty is to you, sire, but above that to your father— and that is his will. I will not waver from that.”

“Very well,” Angelo said thickly, turning away from the knight and starting back towards the barrack building. “If it is his majesty’s will that I not be permitted any real friends, who am I to defy him? Go ahead and scare away all the people who I get close to, if that really makes you feel like you’ve done a good job.”

Rosi gritted his teeth, but he seemed to know better than to take the bait. “I should head back to my tent,” the knight said. “And I imagine you'd like to get some sleep as well, sire.”

“That is probably a good idea,” Angelo agreed. “Get some rest, Sir Rosi. We have patrols to ride in the morning and we wouldn’t want you dozing during them.”

Chapter Two

SPOILER: Click to show

Angelo had of course known his squad would be riding out on patrol today. Arch-Sergeant Major Galanis had informed them of it two days prior. They rode simple, easy patrols like this all the time, seldom going out into the field proper but scouting around the base to discourage invasion. Not that invasion was likely this far into the Valzick interior with the frontlines of the conflict with Meltaim still a ways off.

That said, Angelo really hadn’t been expecting Arch-Brigadier Petrou to accompany them for such a routine patrol.

“Look alive, soldiers!” the fort commander snapped. “I’m not paying you to doze, I’m paying you to keep an eye out for Meltaimans!”

Saddled atop a large roan stallion, Adonis let out a sigh and shared a sidelong glance with Angelo, who rode beside him. “Why did he come along again?” the boy murmured as their squad— plus two knights shadowing Angelo, including Rosi— cantered down a wide dirt trail that was fringed on either side by towering pine trees.”I was actually looking forward to this patrol, ya know.”

“Supposedly to see how we’re coming along in our acclimation to the area,” Angelo muttered back. Unfortunately the hushed voices did not go unheard, and Petrou turned on him with a glower.

“What was that, Arch-Specialists?”

“Sir, nothing sir!” Angelo called, his back stiffening. Diffident though he could be with his father’s knights, he never gave his military superiors anything but the utmost respect. After all, this was what he’d wanted. To fight in the army, alongside his countrymen. Being the king’s son was just something he’d been born into.

He was not, for that reason, wearing the diadem of his rank today. That and it would’ve been awkward under his helmet. He was determined to just be another soldier among the throng— and the arch-brigadier seemed determined to run said throng ragged.

“Is Petrou picking up the pace again?” Adonis murmured not long later, as their steady trot turned into something closer than a gallop. “Why?”

“Because he can,” muttered Rosi, rolling his eyes. “Ask me? He's bored. Antsy. Wanted some fresh air— all that nonsense about ‘acclimation’ is hollow as bone.”

“Heh,” Angelo smirked a little. “I know that feeling.” Fiddling with the chain around his neck the prince added, “all the bases he could’ve been given command of and he gets this nowhere puddle well past the battle lines. Nothing whatsoever to do. Poor man must be stir-crazy.”

“Babysitting fresh-faced grads,” Adonis agreed with a smirk. “Though with all the stories I've heard about the Glass Empress—” the nickname for Meltaim’s feared monarch— “I guess it could become interesting one day. If these scraps at the border continue. My pa said ‘fore I enlisted that Meltaim’s on a building streak. Trying to buffer their control of the mountains. The Glass Empress wants ‘em all. The whole range.”

Another of the soldiers, a rangy boy with a small mole under one eye, glanced around at them and snorted. “She can try. We’ve built up the special forces over the past century to be the answer to everything Meltaim has to offer.”

“And we have the Woo on our side,” Angelo put in, smiling.

The rangy boy raised an eyebrow, glancing between Angelo and Rosi. “So… he really got some sort of vision or something?”

“So he says,” Rosi replied by way of agreement. “After the raid on Dodona that saw Princess Thais slain.”

“It’s said that the line of Valzick kings are descended from rulers anointed with a feather from the holy wings of the Lord Woo himself,” Angelo noted. “So it stands to reason some of that would carry on through the generations. I heard His voice, surely enough. Not in words exactly, but I knew it for what it was beyond a doubt anyway.”

“Oh?” the rangy boy said eagerly. “And what-”

“Hush!”

All of the soldiers immediately snapped to attention as Arch-Brigadier Petrou pulled back hard on his horse’s reins. His jaw was tight, and he was looking down at the ground. The Arch-Sergeant Magjor Galanis followed his gaze, frowning.

“Horse prints. Ours?”

“No,” the Arch-Brigadier replied. “These ones aren’t shod. Mountain steeds. Shouldn’t be any of ours like this so far south.”

On their horses flanking Angelo, Rosi and his comrade stiffened. “Meltaimans,” the former hissed to the other. “Has to be.”

Adonis, overhearing this, paled. “You think…”

“Quiet,” Rosi’s colleague snapped. “We weren't speaking to you.”

Angelo’s hands tightened on his horse’s reins. Meltaimans, this far south? But how?

“Must be a scouting group,” the Petrou muttered. “We need to warn the fort. I-”

Before another word could emerge from the Arch-Brigadier’s mouth, there was a flash of light and the rangy soldier who had been asking about Angelo’s vision screeched, falling from his horse as the telltale blood spatter of a ribboning spell shot from his body in all directions. One of the other squad members— in spite of his training— screamed, Petro snarling out for him to be silent and then ordering for the unit to draw their wands. The men’s fingers, however, barely had time to reach their holsters before a thundering off hoofbeats ricocheted through the air, as a unit of Meltaiman soldiers— over two dozen strong— tore out from amongst where they'd been seemingly lying in wait in the trees.

As another blood-hued curse vaulted out from one of the Meltaimans’ wands, just barely missing Galanis, the arch-sergeant major jerked his chin toward Angelo, who was riding near the back of the group. The prince’s knights had already positioned themselves in a close defensive flank around their charge, but Galanis seemed to realize that if something— anything— happened to the prince, it would be very, very bad. Looking as if he wanted to curse the fact that the royal’s other two guards had stayed behind at the fort so that they'd be rested up for evening duty— after all, this was supposed to have been a short and easy patrol— the arch-sergeant major hissed toward the soldiers at the rear of the unit:

“Cover the ghosts.” This was what some of the boys had taken to calling Angelo’s stone-faced, usually silent guards. “Now!”

Angelo seemed to know better than to object, for once, allowing the soldiers to form a defensive rank around him as the Meltaimans continued forwards. One of the knights quickly deflected a curse that had been aimed at his head, as the soldier who seemed to be in charge of the Meltaimans barked an order that split the charging group in two- forming a flank on either side of the Valzicks.

They were outnumbered— and badly, with their squad numbering only ten including the knights, and eleven counting Petrou. If this had merely been a Meltaiman scouting unit as Petrou had postulated, it would have been half their own size, if that. Instead it was more than double. A grim looked crossed both officers’ faces as they seemed to realize this.

“What is this,” Adonis gasped as he covered Angelo’s rear. Shooting a frantic stunning curse toward the nearest Meltaiman, the teenager added a bit shrilly: “We’re miles and miles deep! How'd they get by our northern patrols!?”

“Patrols can’t cover every single stretch of territory along the border, Don,” Angelo pointed out, sending a slicing spell zinging towards a Meltaiman soldier and managing to nip his right arm with it so that he dropped his wand. “They must’ve slipped through a gap somehow.”

There was a sudden loud, hoarse shout, and Angelo jerked his head around to see Arch-Brigadier Petrou leaning over his horse’s neck, one hand to his face as blood poured out between his fingers. The knights swore, and though Galanis wore an impassive mask, there was still no missing the panic that was pulsing through his veins. This was bad. This was very bad.

“Angelo— keep your head down,” Rosi growled. To his fellow knight he added, “I have no clue what this is but they're not aiming to kill. Only disable. Watch how they're pointing their wands.”

Angelo gulped, obeying as he watched where the Meltaimans were pointing their weapons- low. Petrou was slumped down on his horse now, seemingly verging toward unconsciousness, and the Meltaimans had knocked another two of the Valzicks clear off their horses; now they were bleeding and bewildered in the dirt below. One of them seemed more shocked than truly hurt, but the other’s arm was hanging at a preternatural angle, limp as a wet noodle. His face was spattered with a heavy slick of blood. His wounds weren’t mortal, but Woo, they had to hurt.

Swallowing hard, Angelo whispered: “They only killed a few to scare us. Now they’re trying to cripple us so we surrender.”

“If they overpower us,” Galanis hissed as he weaved between his men and the clashing Meltaimans to draw to a halt in front of the flank covering Angelo, “which they're about to, we stay silent. On him. Understand me?”

Angelo was shivering now, his eyes gone wide and his pupils pinpricks. The soldiers all looked terrified as their leader effectively admitted they were about to be defeated by their sworn enemy, but nonetheless they nodded. They knew they couldn’t give the Meltaimans more advantage than they already had. Another curse lobbed toward them, this one grazing Galanis’s armour, and the arch-sergeant major drew as deep of a breath as he could muster.

They'd only had eleven men, and four— including the arch-brigadier— were already down. They'd managed through their desperate counter-spells to incapacitate a few enemy combatants, but it was like bailing water from a sinking boat using only a teaspoon. They were outmatched. Overwhelmed. Surrounded. So if they pushed things much longer…

“If he's hurt,” Rosi hissed, “it's all of our heads.”

“And it’ll be all of our heads anyway once they’re done with whatever they need from us,” Angelo hissed. “You know that! They don’t give back prisoners, they kill them! All of them!”

“Quiet, soldier,” Galanis growled. “What we need now is to buy time. To think. To plot.” He winced as a ribboning spell sliced a chunk off his leather chest guard. “All of you,” he warned his remaining men, “follow my lead. And stay silent. Prisoners or not, you remain under my command.”

And with that, the arch-sergeant major turned his horse back toward their attackers— and then flung down his wand, palms raising toward the sky as he called out to the enemies: “Stand down! We surrender!”

The Meltaiman in charge called out an order none of the Valzicks understood. All of the enemy soldiers froze instantly, wands still trained on their enemies but no spells being fired.

“Drop your weapons,” called an authoritative female voice from the leader’s helm in heavily, heavily accented Valzick. “All of you. Wands, swords, everything. Then dismount your beasts and lie flat on the ground.”

“‘Pit,” Adonis moaned as the squad began to obey. He pitched down his wand, then his longsword after it. “I feel sick.”

“Do as they say,” Galanis murmured, hands shaking as he rid himself of his own sword. “And as I said— silent. All of you.”

Angelo didn’t say a word as he obeyed, dropping his own weapons into the grass. But silently his mind was buzzing with frantic, desperate prayers. The Woo had sent him to the battlefront. The Woo had sent him here. The benevolent feathered lord would not have sent Angelo to be captured and die before he’d done anything but run a few routine patrols!

Once all of the men had dismounted, the Meltaimans closed ranks, a few of them hissing spells that caused ropes to materialize around the chest and arms of the Valzicks. Their commander nudged Galanis’ chin with one foot, her expression impassive as she moved his face so that it was aimed roughly towards hers.

“We hadn’t thought you would surrender so quickly,” she mused. “This is almost more men than we can safely transport.” Looking around, she gestured to her men, making a dismissive remark in her own language. He pointed his wand at one of the Valzick soldiers- the corporal who’d been knocked off his horse and whose arm was dangling limp and broken after the scuffle- and hit him point-blank with a lightning spell, causing the man to cry out before going terrifyingly limp and silent.

Galanis flinched, anger flashing across his face. “We surrendered!” he snarled, watching as one of the other Meltaimans worked with a comrade to heft the now unconscious Petrou off his horse. “We surrendered, you wretches!”

“And for that we thank you,” she replied, unmoved. “You made our task easier, blood traitor. But if we must transport a wounded, unconscious officer on top of all of the rest of you, the last thing we need is more deadweight. The man was injured. He would have slowed us.”

Angelo felt like he was going to be sick. He glanced in Rosi’s direction, fear and outrage warring in his eyes. The knight’s expression, however, was inscrutable. Like stone. When he saw Angelo looking, he only shook his head; when Angelo glanced next to Rosi’s comrade, that knight, too, remained impassive.

“He was a boy,” Galanis was growling, fury a living beast inside of him as he watched another of the Meltaimans stalk toward the other boy who’d been knocked to the ground. The one who was stunned, not hurt— but the enemy seemed to care little about this, and Galanis was practically squeaking as he begged: “And he is, too! Please, he’s but sixteen-years-old—”

“And so he is useless to us,” she retorted. “He will know nothing important. But he is useful to you in whatever plans I’m sure you intended to concoct for escaping.”

“I make no such plans,” Galanis insisted. A lie, and he clearly knew it, but it was all he had. “Spare the boy, please. Killing him serves no purpose!”

“Sparing him serves no purpose,” the commander remained impassive. Uncaring. Angelo bristled, his eyes stinging as he realized- based on where his squadmate had fallen— that he’d likely been hit when he’d been attempting to position himself in front of the prince. In front of him. Angelo opened his mouth, but Rosi— something furtive briefly flaring in his eyes— shook his head.

“Don’t,” the knight mouthed. “Please.”

Angelo’s jaw trembled, and though he closed his mouth, he couldn’t stop the guilt burning in his gut as he watched their callous captors go about their grisly work. The prince of Valzaim pressed his face into the grass, trying to stifle his tears.

***

Their squad had numbered eleven, but only eight survived to be taken prisoner: Angelo and his two knights; Adonis Karahalios; the arch-sergeant major and unconscious arch-brigadier; and then two arch-privates who’d been part of the shield around the prince. All of the survivors were still bound when they were hefted upon the Meltaimans’ horses, and once they were secured to the saddles they had hoods pulled over their eyes, too. And then their captors rode off into the breezy morning with them, hoofbeats working up a clamor as the silver-clad unit and their prisoners thundered— presumably— north.

They didn’t stop again for hours, when the Meltaimans paused to water their horses (and captives), and it proved to be only a short reprieve from the road; within the hour they were galloping north again, and as his head pounded beneath the musty cloth hood, Angelo had to fight hard not to quiver with fear. Their patrol was due back at noon. There would be a little leeway granted for them to get back late- an hour, maybe two- before pursuit was sent after them. That was a long time. A huge head start.

Pit.

By nightfall there was still no sign of any pursuers, and the Meltaimans had ridden their horses hard— they couldn’t have been at the border quite yet, but the squad of captured magicians also knew they were likely dozens of miles away from where they’d been abducted by Fort Drýinos. They all stayed silent as they were hauled off the horses; once they’d dismounted the Meltaimans mercifully relieved them of their hoods, then set about daisy-chaining the group to a tree. The arch-brigadier had begun to rouse here and there hours ago, but he was still very disoriented, and the Meltaimans almost seemed amused as he swore at them and made a show at resisting their efforts to affix him to one of the arch-privates.

“Aww, no sulk,” crooned a pale-haired male, his Valzick underscored by an accent even heavier than his presumable commander’s. “Be good boy. Go back night-night.” To the rest of the soldiers he added brightly: “Tomorrow we ride more. Then is question time! Excite, yes?”

Angelo gritted his teeth as the Meltaiman continued to torment Petrou. Under his breath he hissed to Rosi, “Cronus Vlahos.” This was one of the privates who’d been killed earlier in the day. “That’s who I’m going to tell them I am. When they ask. Make sure everyone knows to say the same.”

Rosi only nodded in turn, the knight’s face still stony as ever as he watched the Meltaimans finish binding the rest of the squad. The male soldier kept taunting as he went, but at least once he was done he and his fellows left their prisoners in peace, stalking back off toward where some of his comrades had gotten a dinner going. There seemed to be plenty of food to go around— but of course they didn’t share. Not that most of their captives were feeling very hungry anyway.

The eight of them slept fitfully that night, and Angelo barely at all. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the terrified faces of the boys who had died that day. Died to protect him. He sent up a prayer of apology to Private Cronus for borrowing his name. It did little to ease the prince’s conscience.

In the morning, the group was unhitched from the daisy-chain and set back on the horses, and hoods were pulled back over their eyes. Once again they rode hard, stopping only for water and to rest the horses, and once more their captors didn’t offer them so much as a scrap to eat.

“I’m starving,” Adonis moaned late that afternoon, as the horses grazed and he and the others sat chained on the ground. They were all wearing their hoods, so none of them could see one another, but least they were familiar enough to recognise each other’s voices. Adonis added sourly: “I’d eat a dandelion right now.”

“No whining,” groused Arch-Brigadier Petrou, who’d finally come out of his concussed fugue state to resemble something close to his usual gruff self. “We’re getting close to our destination, I’d reckon, hard as they’ve been pushing the horses. And if I’m right— I do think this whole deprivation deal might be deliberate.”

“Hm?” Rosi asked. “And why’s that?”

“Because take a batch of terrified ravenous teenagers,” the arch-brigadier huffed, “and promise them food in exchange for nicely, easily parting with their information…”

Angelo gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the pangs in his own stomach. “We’ll have to sh-show them it isn't going to be that easy. That the Special Forces of Valzaim won’t break just because of hunger.” He felt his face heat up as, as if I protest, his stomach gave an audible growl.

“Yeah, I bet you’ve never missed a meal in your life, hm?” grumbled one of the young privates.

“Quiet,” growled Galanis. “I won’t have you talking like that to your fellow soldiers, Leva.” A beat, before his voice lowered to something near to a whisper. “And remember what we discussed last night. About ah, Cronus here. You all best remember that. Understood?”

The chastised private flinched, and all of the soldiers grumbled indistinctly. Angelo felt his face heat up even more and his gaze dropped to his shoes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

“This is hardly your fault,” said the arch-brigadier.

“We just have to stay strong,” Rosi murmured. “And…” His voice plunged to a hazy breath. “If any of us see an opportunity to run— we take it. Take it and run like the wind. Head south. Get help. Such a thing might be our only chance.”

Chapter Three

SPOILER: Click to show

They arrived to what could have only been a Meltaiman fort early the next afternoon, whereupon they were divided up into four groups of two and placed in a bank of musty, windowless cells. They were relieved, at last, of their bindings and hoods, but were given no water (and of course no food; the arch-brigadier’s prediction was looking more and more correct). Their shoes were taken, too, leaving them cold and barefoot, and if that wasn’t enough the Meltaimans also stripped them down from their full uniforms into their raggedy underclothes (though to Angelo’s immense relief, they didn’t bother to take his necklace). Interrogations were no doubt to come later, but for now the Meltaimans seemed content to merely let their captives stew.

And stew Adonis Karahalios did.

He’d been placed in a cell with Angelo, and while the prince sat cross-legged on the damp stone floor, Adonis paced like a caged beast— back and forth, back and forth, his bare heels thudding hollowly against the ground beneath. He’d always been weedy, looking more like a boy than a man, but stripped of his livery and weapons and courage he seemed impossibly young. Too young for this. To be here. To be facing the fate that he and Angelo were facing.

“How the ’Pit am I gonna stop them from hurtin’ ya?” the skinny boy lamented as he paused in his stalking to briefly press his head against the stone wall. Without any windows or candles it was hard to gauge the passage of time; maybe it had been two hours since they’d been placed in the cell— or maybe it had been two days. ‘Pit knew. “I have to— I have to!— but ‘Pit, how, how…”

“Don, they’re going to hurt me no matter what the ghosts, Petrou, or Galanis say,” Angelo pointed out tiredly, his back pressed against the opposite wall as he slipped in and out of a doze. “But I can take it. Petrou got his face slashed so his own mum wouldn’t recognize him- I can handle whatever they decide to do now. I have to.”

“No,” Adonis insisted. “I can't let ya get hurt. I can't! It's— it's up to me now and I can't, I—”

“Arch-Specialist Karahalios, sit down,” the prince snapped, his voice gone stern. “You’re giving them exactly what they want; you’re panicking. You think I’m not terrified? I bloody well am! But it’s like Petrou said, we have to keep our focus here. Don’t let their mind games work.” He let a wobbly smile through. “I’m reciting scripture in my head. To keep my mind off it. It’s not helping much but… it’s helping.”

Adonis blinked, lip wobbling as he reluctantly obeyed the prince’s order to sit. Drawing his knees together, he murmured, “They're going to torture us. Then cut off our heads.”

“I know,” the prince replied, thumbing his necklace. He wanted to refute the statement, but he knew it was pointless to do so. After a moment he reached out a hand to clasp the young soldier’s shoulder. “Don… I never had any siblings. My mother died when I was just seven.” Lowering his voice to barely a whisper he added, “And I never had any real friends growing up because I knew any of the bishop’s kids who talked to me were usually only interested in what I could get their dads. You’ve been the best friend I could ask for these past few years. So whatever happens… thank you.”

“I won't let it happen,” Adonis warbled. “I'll find a way. To save ya. I will.”

***

Both Adonis and Angelo had fallen into fitful slumbers by the time the Meltaimans came round for them. The trio of soldiers who fetched them barged in so quickly that neither boy had time to even fully blink awake, let alone put up a resistance, before they were shackled, hooded, and led into the musty hall. Both teenagers were filled with sheer dread as they were steered through a series of switch-backing corridors and narrow staircases; the cells were already deep into the Meltaiman fort, but wherever they were being taken now…

It was someplace nobody— nobody—would ever hear you scream.

Inside what could have only been the interrogation chamber, they were each sat down in a metal chair, shackled to it, and then had their hoods pulled off. When they blinked to adjust their eyes to light of the room— which was surprisingly well-illuminated, with a candelabra flickering overhead— they found themselves staring over an iron table at a pair of soldiers clad in imperial silver. One male, the other female. The medal and laurels that decorated their overcoats announced them as high-ranking members of the Empress’s Army. Very high-ranking.

“Hello there,” said the male, his grip on Valzick better than that of any of the other Meltaimans whom they’d heard speak so far. This probably meant he was high-born. Educated. Dangerous, even more-so than the others had been. And he was young, too; almost too young given his apparent rank. Either he’d been a prodigy or he’d had a leg up in the race; he shared a glance with his companion and then went on, “Hmm, I think I’m thirsty, Colonel Glodek— how about you? Shall we have us a drink?”

“How cute,” Angelo muttered, trying to ignore the way his own parched, dry lips cracked as he spoke. “You won’t get any information out of us if we starve or dehydrate, you know.”

The male furrowed his dark blond brow. “I’ve seen hungry men who’d have sold their soul for a bite of gruel,” he replied— before abruptly sighing and shaking his head. “Sorry,” he said thickly. “I’ve been terribly rude— haven’t even introduced myself! My name is Major General Matvey Kott. And this here is my colleague— Colonel Ela Glodek. And you two are…?”

“Arch-Specialist Cronus Vlahos,” Angelo replied. Fortunately the Meltaimans didn’t appear to have bothered with a truth spell. Likely they assumed that with teenagers fear would serve well enough to force out the truth. “Of his Hallowed Majesty’s Special Forces.”

As Adonis squeaked out his own name, Kott drummed his fingers against the metal table, almost as though he were bored. As the heretofore silent colonel took notes beside him, her quill scritching against a piece of smooth parchment, the major general tilted his head— then asked the boys for the names and ranks of the other surviving members of their squad. Once they’d given him them, he nodded, seeming satisfied.

“Cross-checks,” he noted dully to Glodek. Then, with a small laugh: “I still can’t believe we snagged a brigadier. Not even in my wildest dreams did I come up with that one!”

“He’ll be noticed missing,” Angelo snarled, trying to keep his own fear of what was inevitably to come at bay by being defiant. “He was in charge of that entire fort. The army will come for us. For him. You will regret this.”

“Oh, hush now,” Kott chided. “I think you’re grouchy, little specialist— maybe the hunger?” He smiled without a hint of warmth. “Could I interest you in a snack, perhaps? Some bread? Or pudding, perhaps?”

As Adonis’s stomach audibly growled— though the boy remained silent— Angelo squared his jaw. “I’m not playing your games, heathen scum. The Lord Woo will protect me!”

Kott outright guffawed. “Oh, you want to do it this way, do you? All right.” He waved his hand again. “We needn't bother with any more attempts at making nice then— we’ll get down to business instead. Since you've been so chatty, it can be your turn to talk first.” He glanced to his comrade. “Colonel,” he ordered, “the usual battery, please?”

“Of course, sir,” she replied. Drawing her wand level with Angelo, she hissed, “Cierpienie!”

All at once, the prince’s body seemed to come alive, every nerve and synapse firing simultaneously with agony. Angelo screamed, thrashing futilely against his bonds, blind and deaf and able to do nothing but feel. Beside him, Adonis screamed, too— not in pain but in terror, the boy struggling in his chair as he tried to find a way out of his bindings. It was clear that he wanted to help the prince— stop the Meltaimans somehow— but his chains were iron, and they didn’t budge. He didn’t budge, and so he could only watch, nausea and horror competing beasts within him as Angelo continued to shriek in agony.

Glodek kept the spell up for several agonizing minutes before cutting it off with a sharp flick of her wrist. Angelo slumped in his chair, panting and quivering, and beside him Adonis let out a miserable moan.

“I’m sorry,” he warbled. “I wanted to help, I—”

Kott scowled. “Quiet,” he ordered. Then, to Glodek: “Thank you for that, colonel. Now… cast the battery on the skinny one, hm?” He looked to Angelo, adding cloyingly, “That was just your sample. Of what your friend is going to be receiving without pause until you answer all my questions.”

“You’re a monster!” Angelo gasped, wrenching his head up towards the Meltaimans. His eyes would have been streaming had he had enough moisture for it- as it was his throat felt raw and his eyes burned with his anguish. “I’m just a recruit, I don’t know anything worth your time! I just graduated from basic last year!”

“You may know more than you think.” Kott watched on impassively as Glodek uttered several incantations under her breath— and Adonis immediately began to screech like an animal being slaughtered. “You're based out of Fort Drýinos,” he said. This wasn't a question. “How many men are stationed there?”

Angelo didn’t know the exact answer to that- only a rough estimate- but it was obvious as anything why the Meltaimans would want to know; they planned to attack to fort. Take it. Claim the lands between it and the border.

If it had only been his own pain, he might’ve spat defiance at the enemy soldiers. But with Adonis’ cries of pain echoing in his ears, all Angelo wanted was to leap to his friend’s defense. Not trusting his own voice, he clamped his jaw, clenched his eyes shut, and looked determinedly down at his bare feet.

“Add the second wave,” Kott ordered Glodek. As she obliged, and Adonis’s screams grew even more intense, Kott stared flatly at Angelo. “Let me ask you again: how many men are stationed at the fort?”

Angelo still refused to look up at his captors. “Our feathered lord in the heavens above looks down upon our suffering. He sees the plight of man, and is filled with great sorrow. In times of trial he will send down his holy wings to shelter us, his talons to strike down our enemies, his-”

“Third wave,” Kott commanded Glodek.

Adonis thrashed, his body jerking and twitching randomly, and though Angelo couldn’t see it with his eyes closed he could not shut his ears to his friend’s screams. He choked on the Book of Woo verse he’d been quoting, unable to remember the rest. “I’m sorry, Don, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Kott puffed a dramatic sigh, like a child who'd been denied his cookie after supper. After stewing for a moment he waved his hand, ordering Glodek to cut the spell. She did, though the Adonis’s screams continued for several moments more, until they slowly tapered off in a wash of tears and moans and ugly wet hiccups.

“All right.” Kott drew his own wand. “Let’s allow the lad here to regain his breath for a minute, hm? And then it's his turn to talk.”

Angelo trembled at his friend’s obvious distress. Woo, when he’d thought to join the military he hadn’t expected anything like this! “Don, you’re okay, you’re going to be okay, I promise, I-”

His voice was abruptly cut off as Kott murmured beneath his breath and flicked his wand. Light seared forward, and as it bowled into Angelo, it was Glodek who spoke, her voice deceivingly soft as she asked Adonis the same question her superior had posed to Angelo. Against the prince’s ear splitting screams, Adonis squeezed his eyes shut, entire body trembling as Kott kicked in the second wave of spells, and Angelo wished devoutly he could pass out and escape the agony. Let him pass out please.

Of course, he did not pass out. Though the Valzick royal lost track of time for a while, he never slipped out of awareness entirely, and in due time the Meltaimans ended the torture spell on him as well- having gotten nothing from Adonis but broken sobs.

“I'm sorry,” the boy gasped to Angelo as the prince’s screams began to ebb, the pain receding just as quickly as the Meltaiman major general had inflicted it. “I-I c-couldn't stop them, I—”

“Enough,” Kott huffed. “You two are giving me a headache.”

Angelo moaned. “Oh… I… feel so… awful for you,” he coughed, forcing his head up on a neck that now felt like jelly to glower at his captors. “G-go to the ‘Pit.”

“He’s stubborn for a young thing,” the colonel remarked dryly.

“Mm.” Kott frowned. “And hardly worth the effort. The brigadier and the sergeant major— they're worth interrogating till they haven't got any screams left in their throats. But the rest of these brats?” He shrugged, raking a hand through his sand coloured hair. “We've been interrogating your buddies all afternoon, boys,” said the major general. “It's been like pulling rotten teeth. I hardly wish to go through a second round when I fear it'll mete me nothing. It's not worth the energy or the time.”

Angelo would have spat in Kott’s face had he a scrap of moisture in his mouth. “You see what you get trying to break the back of Valzaim. We will never submit to sadistic low-life scum such as you.”

“Not worth the resources,” Kott said again. “We can focus our energies on the officers instead— they might actually know information worth our while. And the two older ones”-- this had to mean Rosi and his fellow knight— “may know more, too, merely because I imagine they’ve had more time to learn things.” He stood, then gestured toward Glodek. “But for these ones… take them to the west training grounds. Bring some of Captain Marsi’s new recruits with you— they need to practice their lancing spells, I hear they were miserable in drills yesterday.” He was still talking to Glodek, but his eyes slid back toward Angelo and Adonis as he finished: “Make sure the recruits don't mar their faces too much. I want them pretty for their king.”

Angelo bristled, his eyes widening. Just like that? Just like that? Barely an effort to get them to crack, barely a day in the enemy fort, and the Meltaimans were already talking about killing them and sending their heads back to Valla?

“Our… our comrades… the ones you already interrogated, d-did you-?”

“You didn't answer my question,” Kott told Angelo. “Forgive me for not answering yours.” He pursed his lips. “This is your last chance. Both of you.”

Adonis shook like a leaf. “No,” he stammered. “No. You can't! You can't, you—”

Angelo heard the desperation in his friend’s voice and he tensed. “Go to the ‘Pit. I’d sooner die than that betray my homeland.”

“All right,” said Kott. “If that's what you want.”

He turned toward the door, and Glodek stood. In his chair, Adonis let out a pitiful moan. Sweat slicked his dark brow, and his throat was bobbling. His clenched hands trembled in tight fists. His eyes were flitting rapidly, back and forth between Angelo and the Meltaimans.

“Wait,” the boy croaked. “Kill me— do whatever you want to me— but him— ya c-can't kill him, ya—”

“Shut up!” Angelo hissed, terror spiking in his mind. “Arch-Specialist Adonis Karahalios, shut the ‘Pit up right now!”

“Oh, no,” the Meltaiman colonel almost purred. “Don’t shut up, little boy. You have something to say to us?”

“I'm sorry,” Adonis warbled. “I'm s-sorry but I can't let them kill ya, I can't, I can't, and this is the only way I can th-think of—”

“Stop your prattling,” Kott snapped. “What is it you want to say? What do you think will change my mind?”

If he outs me I am worse than dead, Angelo thought frantically, shaking his head and looking at his friend pleadingly. Desperately. But it seemed that his comrade had already made up his mind. Tears were glossing Adonis’s hazel eyes as Kott cocked his head, looking interested.

“Spill it,” the major general ordered.

“You can't kill him,” Adonis snuffled. “He's—”

“DON, SHUT UP RIGHT-!” Angelo screeched, but to no avail, as the colonel shot a silencing spell that cut him off before he could get the sentence fully out.

“I can't let ya die!” Adonis wailed. “I can't!”

“Out with it, by gods!” Kott growled.

“He's not Cronus Vlahos,” Adonis bleated. “Cronus died in the field. His name is Angelo. Prince A-Angelo. The king’s son. The heir to Valzaim.”

The room fell so quiet one could have heard a moth’s wings beat. The colonel, her concentration shot, let the silencing spell drop, but Angelo was only able to voice a breathy whimper.

“H-he’s lying,” the teenager said. “He’s lying. H-he’s my best friend and he’s just trying to save my life, he’s lying.”

“A curious lie,” Kott commented. “And it would explain certain curious things.” He glanced to the colonel. “Didn't the field commander say they stood an unusual formation in the skirmish? Almost like a shield. And that they surrendered far more easily than she'd thought they would.”

“Aye, she did,” the colonel agreed, looking Angelo over appraisingly. “And you know, this little one speaks rather authoritatively for his age. He’s awfully educated sounding as well, now that I think about it.”

“And the two older men,” mused Kott. “Not the officers. They wore uniforms of specialists but have you ever met a thirty-year-old specialist in that army? Running amok with teenagers?”

“Th-the raids are getting more and more b-brutal,” Angelo stammered. “Adults are getting re-conscripted. I’m not a prince, th-that’s absurd, what would a prince be doing in some nowhere fort in the foothills of the Galfras?”

“What would he be doing?” the colonel asked, directing the question at Adonis. As she spoke, she hissed an incantation that made a halo of gold light surround the young specialist- a truth spell.

“He wants to fight with his people,” Adonis babbled. “He's Woo-touched. He had a vision.”

Kott outright laughed— but the ethereal truth shield, which rippled when one told a falsehood, didn't waver. “And the others in your unit?” he wheedled. “Do they know?”

“Yes,” said Adonis.

Kott nodded, a terrifyingly thoughtful look crossing his face. He said to Glodek: “The brigadier and sergeant major— and the possible knights— will be trained to resist truth spells, no doubt. The other boys? They won't be, at least not well. Let's deposit this pair back in their cell and haul out the other two. If it's true…”

Angelo wanted to object, to protest, to say again that it was all lies- but he knew there was no point now. He sagged, limp as his bonds would allow, a hollow sob wrenching itself from his throat.

“What have you done, Don?” he whimpered. “What have you done?”

“I've saved you,” Adonis sniffled. “I'm sorry, my prince. But I’ve saved you.”

Chapter Four

SPOILER: Click to show

Angelo and Adonis were returned to their cell, where they waited in tense silence for the ax to fall. Adonis seemed to want to say something to his friend, but lost his nerve every time before getting so much as a word out. For his part, Angelo was too fraught with terror for conversation, worrying his necklace like a child would worry a favorite doll. What was going to happen to him now?

It seemed that the Meltaimans hadn’t taken very long to get their answers. It was another two hours, maybe three, before clipped bootheels sounded in the corridor, and the door opened on Major General Kott again. This time he was trailed not by the colonel, but by a pair of corporals holding trays that were giving off mouthwatering aromas.

“Cinnamon bread,” he announced as he corporals set a tray each in front of Adonis and Angelo. “And juice, and some beans. We're still waiting for some, ah— direction from above, shall we say? But for now…” He laughed. “Don't want our prince and our blabbermouth starving. Eat up, boys.”

In spite of the nausea of terror, both of the young soldiers did indeed eat as much of the food as they could hold, and they continued to receive regular meals thereafter. Though they waited for the ax to fall, it seemed to be inching downwards with deliberately taunting slowness. Days turned into weeks at the Meltaiman encampment, and they heard no word of what was going on beyond the walls of their cell beyond the colonel dropping by to cheerily inform them that the Valzicks were amassing an army at the border.

In short, Angelo’s father had more or less confirmed that at the very least there was someone of particular worth in the group of captives. Far more important than a mere brigadier.

At long last, however, Kott once again came down to see the boys. There was a pair of lower-ranked officers beside him, wielding the same chains and hoods that had been used to transport them to interrogation the last time.

“We're going to go have a nice chat,” Kott announced. “Cooperate for your binding, yes? I don't want to have to pull out my wand.” He sounded like a father scolding his children. But the light voice did nothing to shadow the lethal glint in his dark eyes.

Angelo glanced towards Adonis, his brow pinched, but then he nodded. “Not like we have much choice, is it?”

“Good boys,” Kott said. He watched on as they were bound, then started back out the door, leading his veiled prisoners on another dizzying tromp through the bowels of the leviathan fort.

Unlike the last time, however, this time they found themselves in a room above ground. Golden light— brilliant, beautiful light— floated in through a window set high on the stone wall. Rather than mold and damp, the air smelled clean and vaguely medicinal, like eucalyptus or pine.

As Adonis and Angelo were steered to a set of wooden chairs, and their hoods pulled off, Kott sat across from them and steepled his fingers. With a curt nod, he dismissed the soldiers who'd served as escort.

Then, he said: “King Iosef is quite angry, Prince Angelo. His little boy lost in the woods.” He laughed. “I think it might be a switching for you when you get home, eh?”

“Home?” Angelo repeated, quirking his eyebrow dubiously. “You’re sending me home?”

“No. I was speaking metaphorically.” Kott laughed again. “But-” His gaze slid to Adonis. “Good news: your prince isn’t having his little head chopped off. And you’re not, either.”

Adonis blinked. “I… I don’t understand, I…”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Kott soothed. “A boy like you— raised a peasant in a heathen nation, likely by blanks. Here— be silent. Let us peers talk, hm? Prince Angelo and me.”

Angelo snorted. “Unless you’re about to tell me the Glass Empress is your long lost sister, you’re no peer of mine.”

“Ah, there’s the haughty princeling I knew rested within you,” Kott say dryly. “And glad to see you’re not denying it anymore.” He uncrossed his fingers and drummed them against his lap. “To answer the insult— no, I’m not Her Imperial Majesty’s long lost brother. Which is probably fortunate, because if I were I’d be married off to some boring lady of the court, not manning this very exciting fort on the border.” He leaned forward in his seat; with each syllable he enunciated, it became clearer and clearer just how well somebody had tutored him in Valzick. He was far from a native speaker, but his words came out smoothly, naturally. He was comfortable with it. Almost relaxed. “Not her sibling,” he rattled on, “but the empress and my mother… were. Siblings. Which is why the Glass Empress trusts me. Why I’ve been leading the communication between the Imperial City and this fort since your capture. And why, most importantly, she’s deigned me in charge of what’s to come for you, Prince Angelo.”

Angelo looked highly skeptical. “That’s a bit of a happenstance isn’t it? What’s the Empress’ nephew doing on a border fort running routine interrogations?”

Kott simply quirked a brow. “You’re the heir to Valzaim,” he said somewhat prissily. “I imagine you’ve been trained in warfare. Strategy.” The silver-clad man cocked his head. “If you were the empress, who would you want leading a critical mission to glean information about the permeability of your enemy’s largest fort within the conflict zone? A random stranger, or someone you know intimately? Someone whom you trust?”

“So you were snooping at the fort,” Angelo mused. “We figured, but weren’t really sure. I’m still confused why an inexperienced twenty-something is in charge and not an experienced warrior, but I guess nepotism has always been something the Glass Empress was renowned for.”

“I’d say it’s gone pretty well for her,” Kott countered. “I’ve only snatched one patrol and have already got myself a brigadier, a sergeant-major, and a prince. She was not wrong to put her faith in me.”

The prince scowled. “Fine then; what’s her grand and wise scheme for me? I’m sure you’re just dying to tell me what horrors you’re planning to unleash upon my heathen soul.”

“No horrors at all!” Kott assured him. “You’re but a lost boy, Prince Angelo— your soul misplaced, then raised by heathen blanks…” The major general shook his head. “It can only be expected that you’d be set astray. But you are young yet, hm? Just seventeen, I’ve been told? And I hear you are a very impressive magician. Powerful. Well-trained.”

Angelo had no idea what Kott was getting at with this prattling, but the sugary tone in his voice was making the prince’s skin crawl. “And? What has my age or training to do with my value to you as a hostage? A prince is a prince.”

“You’re a prince,” agreed Kott. “A magician prince. And that… well…” He tilted his head. “Let’s just say that quite ah, interested my aunt. When I told her we had you in our custody.”

Angelo bristled. “I am a magician prince, yes. But that’s never stayed your hand before, people being magicians.”

“This is an unusual circumstance,” said Kott. “The empress is intrigued.”

“About what?” growled Adonis.

“Quiet,” the major general ordered. “You may speak when you’re addressed, boy.”

“You know what?” Angelo said, his expression now bored. “I’m not playing this game with you. Either you can talk to me like a normal person and tell me what’s going on, or you can get the silent treatment in answer to your cat and mouse game. I’m not going to let you get any more amusement from stringing me along.”

And with that, the prince closed his eyes and let his chin hang on his chest.

Kott sighed loudly. “All right, all right,” he said. “No sulking, princeling.” A beat. “The empress wishes to attempt to show you the way of the gods. The true gods. Reform you, so to speak. She is a kind woman. She is eager to bring you into her graces and do her best to reveal to you your true place in this world. Amongst equals, not… chattel and blood traitors.”

Adonis and Angelo gawped in utter disbelief. The Glass Empress and kind did not belong together in the same sentence. Not ever. Not nearly. This was the woman whose reign had brought with it out and out terror for Valzaim. Where her predecessors had been content to burrow in their isolated domain to the north, the Glass Empress’s rise had brought with it plans: of expansion, of growth, of an empire. ‘Pit, this was even where she’d gotten her title of empress; her forbearers had merely styled themselves as queens and kings. But the Glass Empress? Upon taking the silver throne she’d shucked this honorific and adopted a new one. A better one. A fitting one, for the conquests she saw herself leading, and the future she envisioned for her nation.

The raid and conquests in the northern Valzick villages had started slowly. Like a trickle of water leaking from a broken pump. But in due time, they’d… grown. To be more frequent. More damaging. More violent. Like a drowning flood.

“Ya gonna bring him to the empress?” Adonis hissed, disbelief unfurling across his ebony face.

“I am,” Kott confirmed. “I’ll be escorting him to Taika myself. We leave on the morrow, Prince Angelo. It’s a long journey, but I hope it’ll be pleasant enough. We’ll take a coach—”

“By all the feathers on the Woo’s holy wings, do you hear yourself talking?” Angelo demanded, his face twisted with utter fury. “You’re going to reform me? Show me your ‘true gods’? I’ve been graced by my god! I will never turn my face from Him for the gods of murderous, abusive, blood hungry heathens!”

“You can snarl at me all you want,” Kott replied. “It won’t change the situation, Prince Angelo. And,” he added, “I’m sure that given time enough to see the true light, you’ll—”

The words Angelo said then were befitting neither a prince nor a self-proclaimed god-touched man. He said a number of words he’d learned among the soldiers, and suggested the Glass Empress perform several acts that were probably anatomically impossible. Adonis quirked a bemused brow, and Kott heaved a sigh.

“If you’d like to keep snarling at me,” the major general said, “then by all means, go ahead.” A beat. “Although it’s awfully immature, if you ask me. That you’re so busy throwing a temper tantrum that you haven’t even thought to ask about what’s going to happen to your friend here.”

That got the prince’s attention, and he broke off his tirade sharply. He wanted to lean towards Adonis, an impulsive gesture of protectiveness, but tied down as he was the most Angelo could manage was to turn his head in his friend’s direction. His voice thick with fear, he hissed, “And what are you planning for him?”

Kott pursed his lips. “If much more time passes without you surfacing, Prince Angelo, they're going to think you dead,” he said. “Your father and his army. And that's… unfortunate. They might decide to do something with all those trussed up troops they've got squatting on our border. My empress would be quite displeased by this.”

“Assuming he doesn’t attack anyway to rescue me,” Angelo pointed out. “But that doesn’t answer the question.”

“He won't attack,” Kott said flatly. “Not if we send this lad”-- he jerked a thumb at Adonis— “free into the woods. And let him scuttle home to those nice troops on the border, with a lovely message pinned to his belt.”

Adonis blinked. “You're… gonna free me…?”

“Again,” Kott snapped, “your betters are talking. Quiet, boy.”

“He’s freeing you so you can tell my father what the empress plans to do with me,” Angelo murmured, shivering now. “That they want to corrupt and convert me. He’s making you their sacrificial lamb.”

“He will tell your father that any aggression against us costs your life,” said Kott. “And to show we really have you— that you haven't been dead this whole time…” Kott mulled. “You're going to write the note, Prince Angelo. In your own hand.”

Angelo clenched his jaw. “And if I refuse?”

“Then your friend no longer has much of a purpose.”

The implication there couldn’t possibly be missed, and Angelo squeezed his eyes shut, a soft sob emerging from his throat. “Fine. Just don’t hurt him.”

“You write the note tonight,” Kott replied, “and he goes free tomorrow— the same time that you and I head north to Taika.”

Angelo nodded, casting his friend a desperate, despairing glance. Adonis swallowed hard, then shut his eyes, trembling. His dark complexion had gone ashen. His throat was bobbing with each breath.

“Is there anything ya want me to tell him?” Adonis murmured, voice featherlight. “To ya father?”

“...That I love him,” Angelo murmured. “And that I won’t give up. So he’d better not give up either.” The prince slumped in defeat. “And Don, please be safe, okay? Don’t do anything reckless on the way south.”

“I won't,” Adonis promised, reluctantly opening his eyes again. “And I'm s-sorry. That I… c-caused this. I'm sorry.”

If Angelo’s hands had not been bound, he would’ve reached up to brush the chain around his neck for comfort. As it was, he only gave a wobbly smile. “I know the Woo is with me. He wouldn't have sent me to become a soldier only to die a Meltaiman hostage.”

Kott rolled his eyes. “If you're done with the schmaltz,” he said, “I'll have my men take the lad back to his cell for the evening. But you, Prince Angelo…” He smiled wanly. “We're going to get you all groomed up. It's not all that long a journey to Taika and the empress will be expecting a prince, not a scruffy little boy.”

Loath though he was to admit it, Angelo had to admit the idea of getting clean was immensely appealing. He hadn’t been allowed to shave his head or his face at all since being captured, and his whole body was tacky with dirt and sweat. “I hope at least you’ve cleaned my uniform before you dress me back in it.”

Kott laughed. “You're not getting your uniform back. I'm not bringing you to my empress dressed in Valzick military garb.”

Angelo scowled slightly. “So you’re trussing me up like a doll in Meltaiman dress, is that it?”

“You'll be dressed in clothes appropriate to your station,” Kott said stiffly. “And I rather hope you won't be this surly the whole route north. The empress has ordered you brought to her unharmed so that she can make her own assessments about you and your… redeemability, shall we say? But she didn't say you had to make said journey conscious. So don't test your luck with me, Prince Angelo. My patience has already run thin and we're not even on the road yet.”

Angelo snorted. “I’ll cooperate. I make no promises to play nice.”

“Say your goodbyes, princeling,” Kott said. “You'll spend the night apart from your friend— we hardly want you plotting something stupid if we were to leave you alone together. So if you've any parting words for him…”

The prince hissed softly. Then he sighed, turning back to his friend. “Don, I… I’m sorry. Whatever happens from here, I’m so, so sorry. Thank you for being my friend, even if who I was must’ve intimidated you at first, and my knights broke your kneecaps for it.”

“St-stay strong, my prince,” Adonis murmured simply. “The Woo will be with ya. He will. Always.”

Part Two
"Throne of Glass"

Chapter Five

SPOILER: Click to show

^{Taika, Marjan
Meltaim}

The late summer air was positively sweltering, but under the shade of a thick-leaved oak tree a middle-aged woman barely paid the heat any mind as she sipped contentedly from a steaming cup of tea. With hair that peculiar shade of brown that was almost black framing a face only just starting to crease with age, she had the look of a woman who in younger days had been strikingly pretty. Though she’d aged out of that somewhat, you couldn’t have told it in the calm, self-assured way she carried herself.

Blowing on her tea to cool it, the woman took another sip before setting the cup down. Almost absentmindedly she began to hum a merry tune, tilting her head back to better catch the waft of a breeze as it blew by her garden table.

“What song is that, Mother?” asked the tall, lanky teenage girl who sat beside her, nursing a teacup of her own. Where the older woman’s drink glistened a clear amber, the tea unmarred by any additions, the girl’s was almost white from the copious amounts of cream and sugar she’d dumped into it. “It sounds familiar,” she added, stirring. “A church song?”

The older woman chuckled. “You have me pegged, Tovah dear. It’s been stuck in my head for days, but I don’t mind entirely. You can never show your gratitude for good fortune too much.”

“Mm.” The girl, Tovah, stifled a yawn— it was nearly noon, but like any proper teenager, she looked like she’d have rather been still curled up in bed. Her jet black locks catching in the sunlight that snaked in through the latticing branches of the tree, Tovah took a ginger sip of her tea. “Gods, it’s hot,” she said dourly. Tapping her hip, where the tip of a long, slim wand was just barely visible from within a sturdy leather holster, she added, “I don’t see why you won’t let me chill it, Mother. Iced tea would be so lovely right now. And then I wouldn’t have had to dump in so much cream.”

“Because proper ladies drink their tea hot,” the woman chided gently. “Just because we’re at leisure doesn't mean we should forget our manners. This isn’t liquor we’re sipping.” She gave the girl a wide, devilish grin. “And I seem to recall the last time you tried that trick you froze the entire cup’s worth of tea and cracked the china because the ice expanded so fast.”

Tovah snorted. “I was what, then?” she asked. “Eleven?” The black-haired girl was now fifteen. “But all right. If proper ladies burn their tongues whilst already sweltering in the summer heat— then I suppose I must, hm?”

Before the woman could reply, both mother and daughter straightened in their seats as footsteps suddenly sounded in the distance, clacking against the tree-lined, flagstone pathway that led to the shaded tea area. Moments later, a burly man with hair like sand and eyes dark as coal appeared through the foliage that straddled the path, resplendent in a uniform of unadulterated silver. Spying Tovah and her mother, he paused and dipped his head into a bow.

“Matvey,” said Tovah. “You’re late.”

“Says the one who had to be dragged out of her comforters this morning,” the girl’s mother said with a chuckle, before turning to Matvey. “Please, sit down- no sense letting the tea go cold standing on ceremony.”

“Of course not,” said the man, as he carefully stepped forward and seated himself in between Tovah and her mother. Nearly immediately as he did, a slim boy who’d been hovering nearby— half-hidden by the drooping branches of the tree— scuttled forward to pluck a steaming tea kettle off a rolling cart that sat adjacent to the table. “You are looking quite lovely today, Tovah,” Matvey said as the boy nimbly maneuvered to pour him a cup. “And you as well, Auntie. Is that a new ring you’re wearing?”

“It was a gift of fealty from Lord Zawisza,” she said with a serene smile. “I finally got him to stop squabbling with his near neighbors and contribute militiamen to the Imperial Army. That was the last of them to pacify; I think it makes for a lovely trophy.”

“Oh, Mother,” teased Tovah as the boy finished pouring Matvey’s tea and immediately scampered back to the shadows. “Don’t bring up anything about the army with Matvey— we’ll never get him to shut back up.” She laughed and took another sip of her tea. “Isn’t that right, Matvey? Er— sorry.” She placed her hand to her head in a mock salute. “Major General Kott.”

Matvey— Kott- rolled his eyes. “Very funny, little cousin,” he said placidly. “And to think you’re to be empress one day and not a comic! The world weeps over its loss.” He glanced back to Tovah’s mother. His aunt. The Glass Empress. “She’s gotten awfully squirrely since my last visit north, Auntie,” Kott commented. “Gods, did I spend two years in the south or two decades?”

“Well mentally there is a very great deal of difference between thirteen and fifteen,” the Glass Empress pointed out. “She’s come a long way, our dear Tovah. A princess the realm can be proud of- even if she enjoys sniping her eventual lord of war.”

“Ah, you flatter me.” Kott dipped his head again, briefly. “It’s a pity my visit shall likely soon come to an end, no?” He laughed. “I still can’t believe I’ve left Fort Chełm to Colonel Glodek’s babysitting for going on three weeks now. Gods! It’s like letting your babe sleep in his own cradle for the first night, rather than snug against your wife’s chest.” He added hastily, “Not, of course, that I haven’t enjoyed the visit, Auntie. It’s nice seeing everyone at court. Catching up.”

“Mm.” She stirred her tea, expression pensive. “I’ve been thinking about that, actually. The frontlines are about to get… rather hot, shall we say? I don’t entirely trust a blank heathen not to make a foolish decision and attack despite our having his son. You know blanks- all aggression and no brains.” She glanced towards the slim boy, her lips drawn on a thin line as her eyes listed to a small object hanging off his left ear; a silver tag about two inches in diameter. “The untamed ones anyway.”

She waved a hand. “My point is, when the outpost was merely a detention center for captives being held for interrogation, it made sense to leave you in command there to better your pool of experience. But it has become more dangerous than it is worth, the base being just one more along a soon to be war torn border. However, I think that there is a far more important task that I need you for here.”

She paused, to let this sink in, and Kott furrowed his blonde brow, looking puzzled.

“Majesty?” he prompted, his voice uneven, seeming to understand that he was no longer speaking to merely his aunt— his late mother’s sister— but to his regent. “What sort of task…?”

“I’ve been watching our… young Valzick guest,” she said, using her tea spoon to indicate vaguely towards the palace. “I wasn’t really sure what his temperament would be, coming off of a lifetime of corruption by blanks. If he was their sort of foaming, fanatical monster of a blood traitor, I might have had to reconsider my plans for the child. But in just two weeks he’s already come around a bit. He doesn’t attack us every time we walk into the room with him just because he’s unbound anymore, and the surliness has dialed back a good deal.”

“Ah yes,” Tovah said dryly. “He’s docile as a lamb, Mum. You’ve made sure of that.” She hadn’t actually met their ‘guest’ yet, but she’d heard her mother talking. Brooding. Plotting, as the Glass Empress was so often wont to do.

Kott’s expression grew only more puzzled. “Forgive me, majesty,” he said, “but I still don’t follow. The task…?”

She took a sip of her tea. “Matvey, how old are you?”

He blinked. Surely she already knew the answer to this. “Twenty-four, my empress.”

“And our guest is seventeen. Not exactly the same age, but certainly a closer match than my forty-three. Less threatening, more relatable.” She tapped her spoon against the teacup, making it chime. “I want you to go in with me when I speak to Prince Angelo. As my personal guard. And you will further be in charge of those assigned to watch him. Pick their brains to see how he’s coming along, and ensure they don’t get too… ham-handed with him out of frustration. I don’t really trust most of the meatheads that we call knights, but I know you are intelligent and subtle enough to be equal to this task.”

“Your personal guard?” Kott echoed. Then, as it seemed to sink in quite what the empress meant, he said again: “Your… personal guard. You want me to stay here at court as your personal guard. Against Prince Angelo.”

If Kott was befuddled, at least Tovah seemed equally as confused; clearly the girl hadn’t been privy in advance to her mother’s plan. “You’re keeping him then, Mother?” she asked. “The prince? I thought you weren’t sure. That you were afraid he’d prove more trouble than he was worth. That’s why you haven’t let me meet him, isn’t it?”

“I wasn’t sure, but I am now,” she replied simply. “He’s stubborn, oh my yes, and this isn’t going to be easy nor quick. He has seventeen years of brainwashing to peel away. But he’s not beyond hope. The fact that he’s already gotten it through his head that attacking us won’t work shows he can be taught. He can be saved. And if their own prince becomes the consort to our future empress… think how demoralizing that would be to the blanks.”

Tovah, midway through another sip of her tea, promptly choked. “Consort?” she sputtered. “Mother… did you just say…”

“I believe she did,” Kott said, though he looked no less startled. “I— yes— she did.” He blinked, and as Tovah continued to cough out the wrong swallow of tea, the empress’s nephew went on unsteadily, “So… you mean to keep me here, then? And… groom the boy? For— for Tovah…?”

“I do,” she replied firmly. Then, more softly she added, “I know this isn’t what you want, Matvey. That you’ve dreamed for years of fighting for the glory of the empire on the front lines. And your time will come, but I believe this is more important for you to do just now.”

Kott swallowed hard and dipped his head, knowing better than to argue with the Glass Empress. “Yes, majesty. If that is your will.”

She looked him over, her eyes narrowing sadly. Placing a hand over his, she added, “I truly am sorry, Motya. If you like, I can send for your family- have your wife and little ones brought up. Your son is six now, isn’t he? And Yetta, she was barely six months old when I saw her last; she just turned three right?”

Kott nodded. “I haven’t seen much of them lately,” he admitted. “Not since you put me in charge of the intelligence missions at Fort Chełm, majesty.” He exhaled softly. “I… I do suppose it will be nice to see them once again.”

Tovah, meanwhile, finally finished with choking on her tea, gawped at her mother as if the Glass Empress had suddenly grown three heads. “Mother,” she said, somewhat shrilly. … A lot shrilly. “Keeping Motya here is all fine and well, and if you’ve decided the prince is salvageable that’s fine too, but— I think you’re both rather glossing over the other part of what you said, the madder part—”

“And why is it mad, Tovah?” the empress demanded, turning towards her daughter. “He is a prince. You are a princess.”

“He is a heathen foreigner,” Tovah replied. “And last I checked, you’d already told me I was marrying Lord Sierzant’s son. That you wanted to show the northerners that in our struggles with Valzaim you have not forgotten them, and that a good way to do this was to reward the dynasty that was most loyal to our throne back during the Winter Clashes—”

“I said I was considering it,” she retorted. “And so I was- but when an opportunity like this falls into our lap, we would be remiss not to take full advantage. Think about it Tovah; we intend to claim Valzaim for our own. Would the heathens not be demoralized, and quicker to accept our rule, if one of their own was contributing his bloodline to our royal lineage?”

“He’s a heathen foreigner,” Tovah said again, as if her mother could have missed such a fact the first time around, “who is presently being kept in a suite of windowless rooms behind locked doors and armed guards.”

“Yes, but… in a few short weeks he’s already stopped attempting to attack your mother, myself, and the other guards,” Kott put in halfheartedly. “He’s made progress—”

“— because you knocked him unconscious and then shackled a current cuff around his wrist, and I imagine you’ve a triggerstone to flare it every time he so much as blinks wrong!” Tovah huffed. When this meted no immediate response from either her cousin or her mother, the girl scowled. “Well?” she said to the empress. “That’s not untrue, is it?”

“Gentling a wild stallion isn’t the same as raising one from the time it’s a foal, my dear,” the empress replied tartly. “You have to break it of the wild aggression, so that you can actually get close without being kicked. But once that aggression is broken, you can make it start to see that you aren’t as bad as it thought you were.”

“Oh, my gods.” Tovah, her tea all but forgotten, buried her face in her hands. “You’re serious, Mother, aren’t you? You want me to marry him. The heathen. The foreigner. The blank-lover.”

“No,” her mother retorted. “I want you to marry the well-adjusted man of Meltaim he will become given a few months time. And I want you to stop acting like a petulant child about it.”

“He’s not a horse, Mother.” Tovah swallowed hard. “He’s a soldier. Raised to be the king of the heathen blanks. He won’t be so easy to… mould. To change.” The girl lifted her head from her hands, ice blue eyes teeming with something between dread and contemplation. “And I haven’t even met him yet,” she went on shakily. “He’ll probably hate me.”

“Not if you approach him as a friend, Tovah,” the empress pointed out. “He’s a soldier and a prince yes, but he’s also a seventeen year old boy. You’re about his age, smart, and pretty. And I’ve raised you to be able to wrap arrogant nobility just like him around your fingers. You can do this, Tovah. We can do this. I know you’ll make me proud.”

For a very long moment, Tovah said nothing. Then, hesitantly, she nodded. “All right,” the girl said. “Fine. For the record, I think it’s mad, but— if you’re truly convinced, Mother… then fine. I’ll… I’ll give it a try.”

Kott smiled thinly at his younger cousin. “Aw, cheer up, Tov,” he told her. “I think you’ll like him, really— the prince.” He winked, dark eyes glimmering mischievously. “He’s pretty, if I do say so myself. And haven’t you always liked playing a good game of mental chess? Just like your mama.”

Tovah managed a watery laugh. She touched the handle of her teacup but didn’t pick it up again— without a doubt the drink would now go cold. “It… would be a challenge, I suppose,” she conceded. “I’ve never met a Valzick noble before, let alone a prince. And… I guess it could be a good time to practise my Valzick language skills. See if that old tutor’s just spouting nonsense or if she’s actually taught me right.”

The empress smiled. “I think just as a precaution, the first time I introduce you to him I’ll have some sedatives sent up in his food. Not enough to put him out but just to slow him a little. The Valzicks have crass ideas about women and we don’t want him thinking you’re the weak link just because you’re young and female. But after that, you’ll get your chess game, my dear. And gods know, you never lose at chess.”

***

The apartment that the Meltaiman empress had assigned Angelo to- for it was indeed an apartment, not a mere cell- was three rooms and very well appointed. There was the mainspace, which had a sofa, table, multiple squashy armchairs, and shelves of artwork around the perimeter. Off to one side there was some sort of device that seemed to be like a flameless fireplace, which gave off heat to fill the room when it was touched, and on the far wall there loomed a pine bookcase that was filled with no shortage of baubles and trinkets: hardbound books with delicate pages (all written in Meltaiman, which he couldn’t read); coloured maps and atlases, impeccably inked, showing the full expanse of Meltaiman cities; wooden boxes filled with games he didn’t know how to play and decks of cards he didn’t recognise… although this did not stop him from playing against himself and making up his own rules, for Woo knew, he had a whole lot of time to make up his own rules now.

To the rear of the living space jutted a smaller room that functioned as a sleeping quarters, with a lavish four poster bed in imperial silver and wardrobes full of clothing in Meltaiman styles. There were clothes for all seasons, and even a few small cases of jewelry, and the linens were lush and the artwork that studded the walls gorgeous. To its side lay the suite’s smallest room, which had only space enough for a large tub for bathing, a basin for washing his face and hands, and a chamber pot. There was a pull-chord in it that Angelo could use to summon one of the palace’s blank slaves to fill the tub for bathing or clear the pot of refuse. The slaves always came accompanied by guards. None of them spoke to him. Soon he didn’t bother to even try.

As a whole the suite wasn’t anywhere near as grandiloquent as his room back home in Valla, but it was still an exquisite living quarter. In its taste and finishings no noble in existence would have thought to be snub it, or deem it inadequate to their station.

However, the apartment was marred by two main facts.

First, there were no windows.

And second, he had not been permitted beyond the front door to the apartment once since entering it over two weeks ago.

Magelights illuminated the space, but since they gave off a constant steady glow unless shut off, Angelo had no way to judge the passage of time save for when he was brought meals. It was… eerie in a way that was hard to explain. Like he was completely cut off from reality in this tiny apartment.

This particular day the young prince was feeling even more detached than usual, slumped sideways listlessly in one of the chairs in the main living space and gazing dully at the bricks of the wall. He wasn’t sleepy, precisely, but he didn’t really have the energy nor desire to do much of anything or think very coherently. Was he getting sick? How much time, exactly, passed? Had Adonis ever made it back to safety, or was he still wandering about the woods? What was his father, the king, doing? Was the rest of his squad all dead?

Angelo could have brooded— and as of late often did— for hours on end about such unknowns, but as his topsy-turvy mind continued further down the rabbithole, he was abruptly diverted from his broodings by the sound of somebody turning the knob of the front door that. Before he could even straighten himself and turn to look, the hinges were groaning open, and footsteps were padding against the gleaming oak floor. Light footsteps— not Kott with his heavy boots, nor any of the other imperial guards.Which had to mean…

The Glass Empress, he thought, a jolt of terror clearing his mind of the worst of the fugue that had fallen over him. He impulsively reached a hand out to his right arm, where was clamped a tight silver bracelet decked with runes. A current cuff, the Meltaimans called it, and on so many occasions he’d lost count the empress had used it to send a jolt of electricity through Angelo so intense that it— without fail— nearly knocked him unconscious. It was how they controlled him without need for shackles or iron bars, and the empress seemed keen to use it for even the most inane of slights, to the point where Angelo was half-afraid to breathe in her general direction lest she take offense to it.

… Except today it wasn’t the empress there.

Today he found himself staring at a girl.

She was tall. Thin. Her hair was inky black and her eyes were pale like ice, her skin as creamy white as his was ebony dark. She was clad in silver, just as the empress usually wore, but where the pale hue washed the monarch out and lent her complexion a vaguely sallow tint, on the girl there was no such pallor. She looked very, very young— the subtle curves of her body were those of a woman, but her face was still soft. Doughy. A girl’s.

“Hello,” she said lightly to Angelo. “Please don’t make me shock you.”

Angelo moaned softly, rubbing his forehead as he tried to pull his wayward thoughts together. “That’s some greeting. You Meltaimans say hi to everybody like that?”

“Only our favourite friends,” she replied. She nudged the front door shut behind her, then padded the rest of the way into the living room. Without waiting for an invitation she sat down in an armchair opposite him, then said, “You feel like hell, don’t you, Prince Angelo? Poor thing. You look green.”

“Hell?” he repeated, not recognizing the word. It was probably not complimentary given the context of the sentence, but he couldn’t think clearly enough to puzzle it out, and after a few seconds he shrugged limply. “Maybe the fish they gave me last night was bad. What do you care?”

“I don’t care,” the girl said. A smile— not friendly— curved at the corners of her lips. “And it wasn’t the fish. Don’t insult our cooks.” A beat. “Do you want to know how I know that, Prince Angelo?”

He snorted softly- at least this girl wasn’t pretending to be his friend like the empress. “Alright, I’ll bite; how do you know that?”

“Because the empress drugged you,” she said. “Or— Major General Kott did, I suppose, if we want to be technical. Because they wanted me to come to meet you, and I insisted it be alone with no guards, and they wanted an extra… edge, I suppose. Of precaution. It was in your oats this morning? I’m surprised you didn’t taste it. I told them that you might.”

The prince scowled. “I don’t know how your country’s food is supposed to taste. It’s all bland and overcooked. Why bother? This thing,” he waved his right hand in the air so that the current cuff glinted in the illumination from the magelights, “was doing them just fine.”

“They just wanted to be cautious,” she said. “Since it’s my first time meeting you.” She raised a black brow. “Speaking of— you haven’t even asked who I am. Aren’t you curious, Prince Angelo? I’d be curious. If I were you. After all, beyond the empress and Kott and his guards, the only company you’ve had these past few weeks has been, what— the slaves who come to muck your chamber pot?”

He slumped in the armchair, moaning. “I’m too tired for curiosity. Sorry if I’m ruining your script.”

“I don’t have a script,” she told him. Then: “My full name is Imperial Princess Tovah Srebro. The only surviving child of the Empress Urszula Srebro, better known as the Glass Empress, and her late husband Jaromir. Future of Meltaim. Heir to the imperial throne.” Tovah cocked her head. “Gods, you really wolfed down the full dose of those drugs, didn’t you? Matvey— sorry, Major General Kott— went a bit overboard, I think. In case you didn’t eat your full breakfast. But… I’m starting to think you well ate your full breakfast.”

“I think I’ll be more cautious about that from now on,” Angelo groused. “But after three or four days of starvation torture on the way to that prison camp I didn’t want to chance snubbing a meal when I don’t know for sure the next will be coming.” He rubbed his face. “So you’re the Glass Empress’ heir? I’d heard girls can inherit here.”

“We can,” Tovah agreed. “We value what matters here— magic. I never have understood how simply being born first and male could possibly automatically make one the most suitable heir. It’s preposterous. But then again—” She waved a hand. “Blanks often are.”

Angelo shoved himself upright, ignoring a wave of nausea that crashed over him as he did. “And I’ve never understood how you can abuse over half your populace just because they aren’t gifted with certain powers. Don’t lecture me about what matters when the humans here are treated worse than livestock. What do you want with me?”

“Nothing, really.” Tovah shrugged. “It’s more what my mother wants.”

Angelo tried to rise to his feet, but the nausea morphed into blinding vertigo and he lost his balance, collapsing back into the chair again. He reached up a hand to his neck, but where once there had been familiar cool metal now his fingers met only skin, and he whimpered. She raised a brow, and he clenched his jaw.

“I don’t care what your mother wants. I am a child of Valzaim and a loyal servant of the Woo. And if you’re just here to make fun of me while I flop like a dying fish…”

“I’m not here to make fun of you,” Tovah said. “And I think you should care.” She paused, deliberately, her expression taut. “Know why, Prince Angelo?”

“You’re going to tell me no matter what I say.”

“True,” she conceded. Tovah stared him straight on, her pale eyes hooking with his dark ones. “Can you keep a secret? One my mother would be very cross with me about if she knew I’d already told you?”

He considered telling her to stuff her secrets- he didn’t like this girl nor did he want to play her stupid games. But secrets were all he had that truly belonged to him anymore. He’d lost everything else in his life save his faith and his memories. So after a long moment, he nodded.

“All right,” Tovah said. She leaned forward in her chair, elbows propped on her knees. “My mother wants you to marry me, Prince Angelo. She’s very excited about this plan. She thinks that I can win you over. Woo you. Charm you. And even better? That you won’t see right through me as I do.”

Angelo’s mouth thinned, and his brow squashed with confusion and skepticism. “She seems not to think very highly of my intelligence or loyalty in general, but that’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard.”

Here, Tovah laughed merrily. “I know,” she said. “Isn’t it, Prince Angelo?” Her blue eyes sparkled. “Or— would it be all right if I called you simply ‘Angelo’? You are my future husband, after all. My beloved. The title is so cumbersome. And—” She held out a hand. “Don’t worry, dearest. You can call me simply ‘Tovah’. No honourific needed.”

“I don’t know if the desire to throw up is because of the way you’re talking to me or the drugs,” he muttered, pulling a cushion from under his arm and burrowing his face into it. “I’m not going to marry you.”

“Angelo, Angelo,” Tovah tutted. “That’s hardly a romantic proposal at all.” Eyes still gleaming, the girl stood and brushed off her skirts. “I need to go now,” she said. “I’ve got lessons soon. But I can come back afterward, all right? With some tonic to soothe your stomach. Would you prefer it plain or flavoured with ginger?”

“Should I be afraid of being drugged with a love potion next?” he growled miserably, not bothering to respond to her cheeky offer.

“Hardly!” Tovah sounded insulted. “Gods, then you’d be slobbering over me like Mother’s hounds. I’d retch.” She crossed her arms. “So: plain or ginger?”

“Ginger,” he replied. “Like I said, your Meltaiman food is too plain. I’ll take flavor where I can get it.”

“My beloved likes ginger!” Tovah crooned. “Great to know. I’ll add it to our wedding menu.” She turned and started toward the door, silver skirts swishing as she moved. “I’ll be back in an hour or two, Angelo,” she said. “Don’t miss me too much, okay?”

Angelo rolled his eyes, scowling. “Tell your mother I like being able to feel my arms and legs from not being shocked, so she doesn’t need to drug me again if you come to serenade me with love songs. Next time I’m just going to sleep it off and you can flirt with my bedroom door.”

“Aww, is this our first fight?” Tovah’s hand grazed the doorknob. “Exciting. I’ll lodge it in our memory book.” She opened the door. “I’ll be back in a bit, Angelo.”

And then the Glass Empress’s daughter was gone, the door thumping back shut behind her. Angelo moaned, flopping down fully onto the floor and clutching the pillow to his chest as he tried to push back his nausea. First they abduct me, then they lock me up and preach at me every day, now they’re making insulting efforts to seduce me. I have to get out of here. Somehow I have to get out of here.

Chapter Six

SPOILER: Click to show

Tovah did indeed bring the posset to settle Angelo’s stomach. In spite of himself he was grateful for the respite, but that didn’t negate the fact that it was at least tangentially her fault he’d been drugged to the point of nausea in the first place. He managed to sleep off the worst of the lethargy, and by the time his breakfast came in the following morning he was feeling markedly better. However he kept his promise of the previous day, eating his breakfast much more timidly. When halfway through the morning he again heard footfalls outside his room, he had only nibbled through about half of each dish in front of him, and his appetite for the rest fell away sharply as he recognized the unmistakable click of bootheels- Kott.

And the silver-clad soldier was not alone.

His aunt, the Glass Empress, strode in behind him, her smile serene as she gave Angelo a look that made him feel rather like a rabbit waiting for the viper to bite.

“Young Prince Angelo,” she crooned. “How delightful to see you, today. You haven’t eaten very much, are you not feeling well?”

“I think I ate something bad yesterday,” he muttered, opting not to tell her that he knew he’d been drugged if she wasn’t aware of this fact- the less she thought he knew, the better. “I was sick all day.”

“Really?” Kott asked, his tone the perfect measure of shock. He waited for the empress to select her seat, then sat on the chair beside hers, his posture straight, his dark eyes apprising. “You should’ve told me, your princeship. I’d have brought you something to quell it.”

“Ah, yes of course, next time I’ll just go find you and let you know,” Angelo growled sarcastically.

The queen tutted. “Really my dear boy, we gave you a means to summon slaves if you need something- they don’t just have to prepare your baths and clean your latrine.”

“I will not make misery for my fellow man more than I absolutely have to,” the prince retorted. “If I’m to suffer, I will keep it on my own head.”

“You could’ve told Princess Tovah, at least. I know you met her yesterday, aye?” Kott said, barely restrained frustration simmering in his eyes.

The man’s hand twitched— and Angelo flinched, pupils latching with the small, oblong stone that was clutched in Kott’s broad palm. It was obsidian black and plain save for the circle of runes scratched into its top surface; if one hadn’t been looking for it, it would’ve been incredibly easy to miss. But Angelo couldn’t miss it. Not when he knew what it could wreak for him. Not when the mere sight of it sent his gut seizing into iron knots, and phantom shocks of remembered pain curling up his arm.

Noticing him looking, Kott heaved a sigh. “I won’t trigger it,” he promised the Glass Empress’s captive. “Not unless you’re aggressive toward myself or my aunt. You know that, aye? We don’t wish to hurt you, Prince Angelo.”

The teenager felt his shoulders tremble, and he looked away. “You could have fooled me.”

“Shhhh, don’t worry, young one,” Urszula hushed hm. “As long as you are a good boy, you needn’t worry. We don’t want you to be afraid. We want you to be free. To shuck the shackles of your cursed destiny as a king of blanks.”

Angelo did not respond to this, and she smoothed her dress. “So… what did you think of her?”

“How coy. And not a very subtle question,” Angelo retorted.

“A question nevertheless,” Kott pointed out. His hand twitched over the stone again— this time deliberately. “Answer your empress, Prince Angelo.”

He wanted to snap that Urszula was not his empress, but the words died unuttered in his throat as he watched Kott fiddle with the triggerstone. “She’s not very much like you two.”

The empress quirked a brow. “Oh? In what way?”

“Well she doesn’t threaten to shock me for not being deliriously happy to be a hostage for one thing.”

“If you were respectful, there would be no threat,” Kott said simply. “You are a prince, Angelo. You ought know better than to take lip with your betters.”

“I don’t see how you torturing me every time I disagree with you is supposed to make me see some sort of light,” he retorted. “You don’t want to save me, you want to break me. Make me submit. And as a prince I refuse.”

“Manners,” the empress said warningly. “There is a difference between submission, my dear boy, and the respect due to one’s sovereign. I am empress and I expect to be treated as such.”

The resentment and defiance smoldering in Angelo’s eyes couldn’t have been missed. Kott clenched his jaw, as if he took personal offence to the boy’s diffidence. He delicately stroked the triggerstone, like one might caress their lover’s cheek.

“I will not warn you again,” he chided Angelo. “Any more of this grumpiness, your princeship, and I do think you’ll regret it.”

Angelo closed his eyes, visibly wrestling with his anger before he finally slumped into his seat. “I only talked to the princess for about ten minutes. I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m sorry.”

The Glass Empress huffed softly. Standing up she said, “Come on Major General; if he is going to be sullen he may enjoy his own company.”

Kott scrambled to his feet. “Yes, majesty,” he said. “After you.”

Urszula swept towards the door, pausing just long enough at the entrance to the room to glance over her shoulder. “You can be happy here, my prince. If you let go your stubborn defiance. I know you can be truly happy. Think on that, all right? I’ll see you again soon.”

And then she and Kott were gone, leaving Angelo to glare obstinately at the closed door.

***

No one at all came to visit Angelo in the few days that followed— only the slaves to muck his chamber pot and draw him a bath, and they didn’t speak to him, and he didn’t speak to them. When finally an imperial graced him with their presence again, it was not the Glass Empress— thank the Woo— but Tovah, the girl clad in a pale cream dress with voluminous skirts that swished as she strode from the front door into the living area proper.

… Whereupon she promptly froze, black brow furrowing, as she attempted to take in the sight before her.

Angelo sat at the small, round dining table, elbows hiked up onto it, eyes squinted in furious concentration. The guards never left him dinnerware or utensils when it wasn’t mealtime, probably because such things could be squirreled away and then used as easy weapons, and this seemed to be a good thing, because the surface of the table was rather cluttered even without surplus spoons and plates.

“Is… that a pegs set?” Tovah asked after a moment, as she stared at the wooden game box that lay at the head of the table, and its contents that were strewn about helter-skelter before it. From the looks of it, Angelo was very deep— very, very deep— into some sort of match against himself, although for the life of her Tovah couldn’t glean in what way, because gods knew the spread he’d arranged of the game-board and its pieces was like no pegs match she’d ever seen before. As Angelo’s gaze snapped up toward her, and the boy didn’t deny her question, her brow squashed further. “For the love of the gods,” she went on, “what are you doing with it? That’s the maddest game of pegs I’ve ever seen!”

“Pegs?” he repeated, tilting his head. “Is that what it’s called? I found this stuff in a box on the shelf-” he gestured towards the bookshelf on the far end of the room- “but we don’t have anything like it in Valzaim. There weren’t even any instructions, in Meltaiman or otherwise, so I’ve been improvising.” Dryly he added, “I have a lot of time on my hands.”

“That isn’t nearly how you play it,” Tovah replied simply, striding toward the table and taking a seat opposite him. She nudged her chin toward the set of thirteen rounders— small, wooden, painted disks, six of them white, six of them black, and a solitary one of them silver— and asked, “What are you doing with them? Why’ve you sorted them like that?”

“The silver piece is how you win,” he replied with a shrug. Pointing to the game board he explained, “I put it in the middle here, see? And in order to win you have to surround it with pieces. But if I put two of one color on either side of one of the opposite color, that piece is ‘captured’ and has to go back to the start. I originally made it so that piece was removed from play, but there weren’t really enough total game pieces for that to work well. I’ve been toying with a new rule to make it more challenging that if one side manages to line up three pieces parallel to the silver piece they can slide it two spaces to the left or right, for strategy in getting it easier to surround or out of an enemy formation.”

“That’s…” Tovah blinked. “Creative.” She chewed on her lip, assessing his jumbled board. “So I take it that black is winning, then?”

“Mm,” he agreed. “Really the hardest part is making the game a challenge when I’m only playing against myself. I can spend ten minutes or more on a single move trying to think of what is the best strategically and hardest to counter… and then swap sides and try to counter the very move I was trying to make impossible to counter. This one’s been going since just after breakfast.” It was presently two hours before midday, although Angelo of course was not completely aware of how much time had passed beyond “a lot.”

He seemed to come back to himself, the single-minded concentration in his eyes replaced by wariness. “So- you back to woo me some more then? I suppose you’re probably not interested in my gross destruction of your country’s board game.”

“I’m quite curious, actually,” Tovah admitted. “I’ve never liked pegs. But this version actually looks halfway interesting.” She smiled broadly. “Mind if I take over white? I like a challenge.”

Angelo blinked, caught off guard, but after a moment he reluctantly nodded. “All right. Would be interesting to see if I’m as good against another human as I am against myself. It’s white’s turn anyway.” He looked down at the game board, rubbing his neck with a dismal expression. “I used to play games like this with my mother when I was small, but…”

“But she died,” Tovah said— so naturally, so conversationally, that she could have been talking about the weather. “I know. My mother told me. I’m sorry.” She bit her lip, studying the board as she calculated her move. “I know how hard it is. My father died, too. When I was little. He was— nothing like my mother. Nothing at all. Warm and funny and kind, and gods, how I loved him. And... my brother died, as well. Kuba— we were twins.”

Angelo bristled up a bit when Tovah talked about his mother’s death as though it weren’t important. As though it were some fact in a dry history text. He was only partially assuaged by her admission of the loss of her own relatives, which to him rang more as an attempt to backtrack and cover up an insensitive slip of the tongue than legitimate sympathy.

“I’m surprised your mother is letting her sole heir alone with me. My father only let me into the army with a small squad of knights as backup and even then it took a revelation from the Woo to get him to agree.”

“She knows I can hold my own against you,” Tovah said. Sliding one of the white pieces forward, she patted the pocket of her gossamer dress. “I have a triggerstone. And my wand. And…” Her eyes floated toward the door. “I’m pretty sure if I screamed, your babysitters would be in here in a blink.” She added hurriedly— and somewhat haughtily: “Not that I’d need to scream. Even if you weren’t stripped of your wand and wearing a current cuff, I think I could take you on, Angie.”

Angelo gave the princess a look that practically screamed “are you kidding me?” without words. “Angie is a nickname for a girl in Valzaim, for the record. The only people who’ve ever called me anything but my full name were my mom and my aunt.”

He stared at the board, deliberating, as Tovah laughed. “I hardly know proper Valzick nicknames,” she said. “And I like ‘Angie’. It’s sweet.”

“Funny,” he said with a growl as he moved one of his black pieces into place by the silver piece. “You seem to speak the language pretty well. Come to think of it, almost everyone I’ve met here does, except the foot soldiers.”

“We didn’t used to,” said Tovah. “Not before my mother’s reign. She’s forward thinking. It’s hard to govern a people if you can’t hear what they’re saying behind your back.”

Angelo stiffened, his eyes flashing dangerously. “I see,” he replied thickly.

“You asked.” Tovah moved her next piece. “I simply answered. I don’t want to lie to you— it’s hardly nice to lie to your fiance.”

“I’d retort, but experience has taught me I’ll get shocked for that,” he growled.

“I’m not going to shock you,” Tovah said. “Not unless you try to, I don’t know— strangle me. Which,” she added somewhat tersely, “you won’t, right? I’d be very offended, Angie. If you did.”


“I’m not stupid,” he said by way of answer. “Contrary to what your mother and cousin seem to think. It’s going to take a lot more than electrocuting me to make me believe that your people are somehow the good guys when you’ve attacked my people and would see my father killed or enslaved.”

He set one of his pieces forward to cut off the piece Tovah had just moved. She scowled.

“Predictable move,” she replied. Then, to his sniping: “For the record, I told her she was mad as a drunken poet. But you’ve met my mother. Do you think she’s the sort to listen to her fifteen-year-old daughter? She still henpecks me to sit straight, Tovah and comb your hair, Tovah and aren’t you cold, Tovah, where’s your cloak, you’re going to freeze!”

At this, Angelo actually smirked a little. “As skinny as you are, it’s a wonder you don’t freeze solid in winter. Using magic for everything apparently has its downsides. Do you summon your teacups with a spell?”

Tovah nodded earnestly. “Oh yes,” she agreed. She made a very great show of her bicep trembling as she picked up her next rounder. “My, this is so heavy!” she lamented as she placed it forward. “Please, save me, strong prince! My arm might give out!”

“I could make a low-brow joke about my duty as your under-duress future husband meaning I’ll keep you warm, but fortunately I’m far too princely for that,” he said. He scowled a bit as he saw that she’d surrounded one of his pieces, and moved it back to the start. “I’d show off my own physic but sadly weeks of no exercise on my part have diminished me a great deal. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“I’m sure you can show off one day,” Tovah soothed. “Like a proper peacock.” As Angelo deliberated over his next move, her ice blue eyes slid toward the bookshelf across the room. “Have you tried any of the other games?” she asked. “You’ve got a sizable collection, it seems. I’d be curious to see the creative liberties you’ve taken with their rules.”

“I’ve messed around with all of them at some point. Some are still works in progress, though.” He nudged one of his pieces against the silver one- he now had two against it. “Although fair warning, I may have gotten bored and dyed all the glass marbles in the game set with that weird spiral ramp rainbow colors.”

Tovah laughed. “Oh, you didn’t!” she chided, mock grave. “We shall have to dye them back. How could you pervert every Meltaiman child’s favourite game by ruining all the prettily coloured marbles?” She wagged a finger at him. “Although I suppose,” she went on, “that you could hardly play that one right even if you’d wanted to. You need a wand.”

Angelo raised a brow at this. “How early do you give kids their wands here? I was so naughty with mine I wasn’t allowed to have it outside of lessons until I was twelve. Accidentally made my father’s sandals attract slugs for a week when I was nine.”

“I have no idea how the commonfolk do it,” Tovah said, as she continued to mull over her next move. Angelo was about to win— was there any way to stop him? “But with the aristocracy? We get our wands just as soon as we show our magic. Though we’re taught very soon— and strictly— that misusing your magic is very, very naughty. You think the Glass Empress is mad when she has Kott shock you? Then you should’ve seen her when I poured water in her shoes and then froze it solid.”

Somehow Angelo seriously doubted that Tovah ever got a punishment near as harsh as he was getting. “You often make light of the suffering of your heathen enemies?”

“I’ve been told I have a wry sense of humour,” Tovah replied. She couldn’t find a move to prevent his victory. “And I don’t think you’re my enemy, Angelo.”

“Your mother is holding me prisoner and her army is beating down my country’s door; how do you figure that one?”

“Because I’m not my mother,” Tovah said. She finally moved her piece— she knew that in response he’d surround it, and pitch her back to the start, and within another five moves he’d have the silver rounder surrounded. “And neither of us has any control over what our countries do.” She stood, straightening her skirts, then pointed in rapid succession at the tiles on the board as she rattled: “You’ll move that forward, I’ll move mine to the right, you’ll move this one to the right, I’ll backtrack a space, you’ll move him forward, I’ll move mine left— and there you go. Checkmate. Congratulations, Angelo. You’ve beaten me.”

He tilted his head, impressed in spite of himself. “Leaving just because you lost, princess?”

“No. I’ve got a lesson with my war magic tutor that starts in, oh…” She smiled bashfully. “Five minutes ago. He’ll thump me if I’m much later than I already am.” Turning toward the door, she added over her shoulder, “Next time I’ll teach you how pegs is really played, okay? Though don’t say I didn’t warn you that it’s horrifically frustrating. It’s all about chance— not a stroke of strategy to it. I think it’s the source of half the tavern fights in Meltaim. Very exciting to play drunk!”

“Be sure to bring some good wine then,” he replied, thumping back against the couch cushion. “All I keep getting in here is water and milk. In Valzaim wine is had at practically every meal and I miss it.”

“Wine.” She nodded. “All right. I’ll go digging through the buttery. And filch us something good.” She reached the door, and paused. “I had fun, Angelo,” she told the prince. “I’ll see you soon— good-bye.”

Angelo sighed, rubbing his face. He’d be lying if he’d said on some level he hadn’t had fun too. It was infinitely more satisfying to beat someone else than it was to beat himself, and having someone who he could speak to openly without fear of being hurt for it was… very refreshing in what was otherwise turning into a decidedly lonely existence.

But he still didn’t like the princess. She was haughty and clearly didn’t think much of Valzaim or him. And yet…

He growled, swiping the game board and its pieces off the table with a single backhanded stroke, so that they clattered to the floor.

Woo grant me strength and see me through this trial… I just want to go home. If I have to play nice with the Meltaiman princess so be it, as long as I get to go home…

Chapter Seven

SPOILER: Click to show

One of the things the Glass Empress did that drove Angelo positively crazy was tea.


The woman loved her tea. And the longer he stayed her prisoner in his luxurious prison cell, the more she seemed to enjoy taking said tea with him.


She usually came in the afternoon— at least, what Angelo supposed to be the afternoon. He could tell it was her and not Tovah or Kott alone because even before the door creaked open he’d hear the wheels of the tea cart squeaking against the floor outside. Moments later, the scent of spices and hot food would float into his nostrils. His stomach would growl, involuntarily. The door would swing open.


And in would stroll the Glass Empress, accompanied by Kott, a blank slave or two trailing behind the empress and her nephew and pushing the brimming tea cart. Urszula never seemed to spare grandiloquence, and tea was no exception. The cart always glistened with at least three or four bone-china tea kettles, and saucers full of sugar and cream, and usually there were succulent snacks, too: fresh fruit, flaky pastry puffs, crystalline jams and tender breads with herbs or spices swirled through.


Tovah didn’t ever come to tea.


Not once did Tovah ever come to tea.


Perhaps that was for the best. He strongly suspected the impudent banter that he exchanged with the Meltaiman princess would likely have gotten her mother or cousin incensed enough to shock him, which he was so far on a record for avoiding. Still she was one of the few reasonably pleasant things left in his life, and he couldn’t help but wish for something to make the Empress’ visits more tolerable.


“I thought we’d try something a little different today,” the empress sang cheerily as the slaves hurried to set the table with various cups, platters, and saucers. “Caramel- I just acquired some, and it tastes lovely in hot drinks. Do try some Prince Angelo, I think you’ll like it.”


Angelo looked dubiously down at the small saucer of a thick, sticky brown substance. It was too opaque to be honey or syrup, but he’d never seen anything else like it.


“Ah, may I ask where you acquired it from exactly? I understand you don’t do much outside trading.”


“It’s merely sugar,” said Kott. “Very, very heated up sugar.”


Angelo was still not convinced, but by now he knew better than to argue further. He reached for a dollop of the sticky whatever-it-was and started to pick up his teacup to drop some in. As he was bringing the cup up for a sip, however, one of the blank servants bustling around the table stumbled- Angelo saw a marble go flying and realized he must have dropped it on the floor after his last game with the set he’d dyed. The slave flailed out his arm to catch himself, slapping the hand Angelo was using to hold his teacup and sending the hot beverage splashing across the table, carpet, couch, and the prince’s lap. Angelo yelped in pain, and Kott rocketed to his feet, one hand lashing to his wand as the other reached out toward the fallen slave.


“Clumsy oaf!” he growled, fingers locking around the slave’s bicep as he hauled the man back upright. “Look what you’ve done!”


The blank’s eyes plunged down to his feet and he stammered a frantic apology. Wincing, Angelo stumbled to his feet as well, dropping his teacup in his haste.


“N-no, it was my fault, I left the marble on the floor,” the prince said. Smiling tremulously he added, “It’s not that bad, you can clear most of the mess with a quick vanishing spell anyway, right?”


“It is the principle,” Urszula said primly, bringing up her own tea for a sip before adding, “We expect absolute flawless service from our blanks. When they fail to provide, well.”


“He’s better trained than this,” Kott agreed acidly. “We only let the best of the wretches be our personal servants. They know better than this.” His viselike grip tightened over the man as he drew his wand. “You’re getting thrashed,” he informed the blank. “And that’s only after I’m personally done with you.”


Terror spiked in Angelo, and he yelped, “No, stop!” The prince pitched himself towards Kott, shoving his own body between the major general and the blank. “Please, don’t hurt him, I-”


“Prince Angelo,” Urszula snarled, now rocketing to her feet as well. “Compose yourself!”


“Step back,” Kott growled. His hand was still seized around the slave, but he couldn’t get any closer to the man with Angelo blocking him. But the fact that he had one hand on the slave and the other gripped around his wand also meant he couldn’t reach into his pocket for Angelo’s triggerstone to shock him. Not without dropping something else first.


Fortunately, when it became clear Angelo had no intention of moving, the empress took the issue into her own hands. Drawing her wand, she hissed a spell that made every muscle in Angelo’s body go rigid at once, and the young prince tumbled sideways in a heap, unable to move anything save for his fearfully darting eyes.


“I’m disappointed in you, Angelo,” Urszula hissed. “You had been making such good progress. But if you are going to conduct yourself like a blank, you may be punished as one.” Spinning on her heel, she added, “Give the clumsy wretch to the overseer, Major General. I trust you can handle giving the young arch-specialist here what comes to a soldier that disobeys orders?”


Kott blinked— he hadn’t seemed to be expecting this. As the blank trembled in his furious grasp, he glanced toward his aunt, questioningly. “Are you… sure, majesty?” he asked.


“I am,” she replied curtly. “If he wants to see himself the equal to blanks, so be it. He can win his way back into our good graces when he stops trying to consort with livestock and acts like a proper prince.”


Without another word, she strode out of the room, leaving Kott alone with the still paralyzed Angelo and the terrified blank. Kott sighed, grip on the blank sagging. He seemed to know the slave was too terrified to attempt to run.


“I have to deliver this one to an overseer,” he told Angelo. He flicked his wand to dissolve the empress’s paralyzing spell, and feeling flooded back into Angelo’s petrified form. “But then I’ll be back. Please don’t fight me, Prince Angelo. It’ll only make what’s to come worse.”

***

That night, Angelo lay in his oversized four-poster bed, belly down, torso bare. He’d kicked all the plush covers down to the foot of the mattress in a rumpled bundle because for them to touch his naked skin hurt too much. No one had brought him anything for supper, and it felt like it had been aeons since last he’d eaten, but the prince wasn’t hungry anyway. The maze of whip-marks that crisscrossed his back— glistening from the clear, jelly-like salve Kott had forcibly applied to them after the flogging— had made well sure of that.


“Angelo.”


A female voice made him jump. He’d been so involved with his suffering that he hadn’t even heard her enter. He didn’t have the stamina to make himself sit, but he didn’t need to in order to recognize the person who now stood at the open doorway to the bedroom.


Tovah.


He heard her feet lightly strike the ground as she padded further in, harsh light suddenly flooding the room as she did; she must’ve flicked her wand to activate the magelights that swung from the ceiling. But she immediately seemed to regret this move, for the light brought his wounds into full view. A hiss escaped between her teeth.


“Matvey did that?” she asked him, voice filled with dread.


“I dropped a marble on the floor during one of my games,” he said flatly, duly, too exhausted to play cat and mouse. “One of your mother’s slaves tripped on it and bumped me while I had a cup of tea. Major General Kott didn’t respond well, and I tried to step in because it was my fault. I’m a dirty, pathetic blank lover and this is my rightful punishment. No?” He laughed tiredly, bitterly. “Don’t pretend you don’t think so.”


“Short of committing some horrendous crime, I don’t think a noble— let alone a royal— should ever be whipped,” was Tovah’s only reply. She sat on the edge of the bed, gingerly, her pale eyes raking up and down the warren of wounds that stippled Angelo’s back. “Sympathizing with a blank is crass. But it’s not a crime. He shouldn’t have whipped you.” She gulped. “Not that— not that I imagine it was Motya’s choice…?”


“No,” Angelo replied, clenching his hands into fists and then gasping as the tightening of his muscles made several of the marks start bleeding again. He whimpered involuntarily. “The Glass Empress. She ordered it.”


“A lapse of temper,” Tovah mused. “Must have been. She’s usually more… controlled than that.” The girl sighed. “My mother didn’t want me coming in here alone tonight,” she went on. “She was stalking around our rooms all in a huff. She’s like a whirlpool when she gets sullen. If you’re not careful she’ll drag you in and suffocate you along with her.”


“You seem to take pleasure in doing the exact opposite of what she tells you to do,” Angelo noted. “But why come here now? I get the rest of it. You don’t condescend to me so I won’t hate you on impulse. But why this?”


“Because when I asked my mother why she didn’t want me coming, she said it was because you’d been impudent,” Tovah said. “And I knew she must have had you punished.” She shrugged. “I know you hate me, but I’m not a monster, Angelo. I know what happens to people who upset my mother. I was worried for you.”


The young man was silent for a time, his gaze turned inwards. Finally, he whispered, “I deserve this. This pain. Not just because it’s my fault that the blank tripped, but because of… everything. My squad is probably all dead except for the one man they sent back as a messenger. My people are embroiled in a war to save me. All because I was too bloody cocky to listen when people told me to keep myself safe.” He burrowed his face into his pillow. “How many people are going to die because of me?”


“It’s not a war, if it’s any consolation,” Tovah said softly. “Not officially. A lot of posturing on both sides, but…” She shook her head. “You shouldn’t blame yourself, Angelo. It’s not your fault what other people do.”


“But it is my responsibility to protect my people!” he cried, pushing himself upon his elbows and setting much of his back pulsing with agony. He felt blood trickling in rivulets down his back as he added, “A king’s Woo-given task is to be the guardian and shepherd for his country! Not to throw himself into the lion’s den like… like an idiot!”


He lost his battle with the ache in his back and flopped back down flat on the bed, whimpering as the lacerated muscles twitched involuntarily. A lump twisted in Tovah’s throat, and she defiantly swallowed it away.


“You need a distraction,” she told him. “Or you’re going to wallow and drown in your own misery.” She hesitated for a moment, then reached out and smoothed a hand against his short, woolen hair. “Your wounds are too bad for you to sit. So we can’t play any games.” A beat. “Unless…”


He opened one dark eye blearily, eyebrow raised. “Unless what?”


Tovah didn’t speak then— only drew her wand, and carefully leveled its tip toward the thicket of lashmarks. “Reperować,” she murmured, and light bulbed from the wand, translucent as it snaked toward the injury closest to it. At once the skin began to pull back toward each other; Tovah said: “Oczyścić.” And the blood began to evaporate, like water on pavement on a hot summer’s day.


As the girl continued whispering incantations, Angelo gaped. “You… you’re… Princess, your mother would murder you if she knew what you were doing!”


“She’ll find out,” Tovah said between spells. She was working her way slowly up his back, her spells precise— expert— as she methodically cleaned and knit shut the seemingly endless maze. “She’ll be furious. I’ll probably get smacked.”


“I… I…” As the pain continued to melt away from his back, Angelo swallowed back a lump that had formed in his throat. “You don’t have to do this. You… you don’t have to get into trouble for my sake. Jokes about your mother’s plans to marry us aside, you don’t owe me anything.”


“I know.” But Tovah didn’t stop her careful progress. “What game do you want to play?” she said, as though the issue of her healing him was closed. “You still haven’t taught me your version of grey man’s bluff.” This was a dice game whose proper version had more rules than a church. “I’d like to learn. I’m sure it’s fun. Shall I fetch us the set after I’m done with this?”


The Valzick prince blinked hard, but nodded. “S-sure. We can do that. In here, so the guards don’t hear it. A-and… thank you.”


“You’re welcome,” Tovah said. A familiar wry grin tugged at her lips, and she winked at him. “And hey— no matter how furious she is with me, at least Mother can’t claim I’m not doing my best to endear you, right, Angie?”


Angelo gave a moan, but it was more than half chuckle. “You’re incorrigible.”


“Guilty as charged,” she agreed. “Now— let me finish up with this ol’ healing thing and fetch us that dice set…”

Chapter Eight

SPOILER: Click to show

Though Urszula was indeed incensed when she found out what her daughter had done, she couldn’t precisely deny the fact that it would endear the princess to their erstwhile charge. Still, Tovah did indeed get smacked, and was forbidden access to Angelo for a period ‘to be determined’ (when he pressed for more information as to how long this might be, the empress only laughed, and Kott claimed not to know).


Already left spending the majority of his time bored and alone, now being denied the one positive outlet for his stress had a marked effect on the young prince. He lost interest in his games, bored of playing them against himself over and over and over. He lost interest in flipping pages in books he couldn’t read and staring at pictures he’d long ago memorized every charcoal scratch and smudge of.


Looking for something to do- anything to do- he started counting. The floral imprints on his bedspread. The books on his shelf. The loose threads on the cushions on the sofa. The bricks in the wall. When he ran out of things to count, he started over again. Just to make it easier to keep track, he started to use magic to color every other brick he counted pink. Using magic with no wand- let alone on something as thick and heavy as a brick- wore him out quickly, but at least if he was asleep from spelling sickness he wasn’t bored.


Then he grew tired of counting, and started to tear at the curtains on his bed. Working through the weave with his nails, he managed to tear tiny holes in them that he could pry his fingers through. Then using those holes, he would tear off strips of the cloth, using his forearm as a measure to try and get them all roughly the same length.


He then used the strips to practice tying knots. Every sort of knot he’d learned in the army, and then a few he made up on the fly. He left these strips strewn about his apartment, moving them periodically to “change the scenery”- which gave him the idea to start pushing around his furniture as well. The empress and Kott were unamused by this redecorating, but since it didn’t really do any harm they didn’t do much besides comment on it whenever it happened.


And when he wasn’t doing any of these things, Angelo was usually pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, like a caged lion. Eventually the carpet in his living area started to wear down in a circular pattern where he walked on it, the colorful design going faded and the fabric frayed. In response, the empress took it away.


Angelo paced on the bare floor instead.


This was what he was doing— pacing— when the door yawned open early one morning. Or perhaps it was night. He didn’t know; he didn’t care. He’d stopped keeping track of the order of his meals when he’d started peeling apart the curtains.


These days, he had a very small cast of visitors: the empress, who still showed up here and there for tea; Kott, who was humourless as ever with him; and then, of course, the slaves, who’d begun to regard him as one might a feral, potentially rabid dog. It wasn’t altogether clear if Kott had warned them about his recent moods— as the empress too-glibly called them— or if his decline was simply so obvious that they could sense it all on their own, but in any case, they were now giving him a very wide berth. Before they’d occasionally spared him glances. Wary smiles, if Kott and the empress weren’t looking and he smiled first. Now, they didn’t dare draw near him. Flinched when he moved as though he were a wild beast who might charge them at moment’s notice, and without any provocation.


With such miserable company, Angelo had started ignoring the door. He didn’t care who came in, nor did he bother to greet his unwanted visitors. So when the doorknob turned this time around— he didn’t even bother to glance at the threshold. Maybe it was Kott. Maybe it was the empress. Maybe it was a slave.


He didn’t care.


… Then a voice he’d thought he might never hear again slithered into his ears.


“Angelo.” Tovah sounded very, very nervous. “Dear gods. It seems you’ve… done some. Um. Redecorating?”


He blinked, caught supremely off guard, and whirled like a spooked cat. “P-Princess Tovah? You… Woo, I… Your mother finally let you off?” He laughed, but there was nothing of humor in the noise. “I was starting to wonder about you, h-how long has it even been?”


“A month,” Tovah replied, not moving closer to him. Slowly, uneasily, she surveyed the room, as if to take in how it had changed since their last meeting. The rug was gone, of course, but that wasn’t all— he’d slid the furniture around into all different places and rather than a gameboard, the table was piled high with… “Are those— knots?” she asked. “Why do you have the table piled with hundreds of knots?”


He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “I don’t know. It was something to do. Your cousin was going to take the strips away but sometimes I can unknot them and tie them up again, and I couldn’t if they were gone so I asked him not to.” He rubbed his face. “It’s something to do with my hands. I… I just need something to do with my hands. They were telling me off for spelling myself unconscious coloring the walls so that was what I came up with.”


“... All right. If— that’s been making you happy, then I suppose it’s… all right.” Tovah did not sound like she was all right with this at all. Her blue eyes drifted toward the bookshelf, and the collection of games that sat untouched on it, gathering dust. “No more rounders?” she asked him. “Or grey man’s bluff? Or… any of those?”


“I won all of them over a hundred times,” he answered, shaking his head. “You sort of stop getting much satisfaction out of winning games against yourself. I’ve… I’ve been bored. I’ve been so bored.” His voice cracked a little. “I’ve been so bored.”


“I’m sorry,” Tovah said. Finally she dared move from the doorway, pacing toward one of the armchairs and sitting down on it. “I would have come sooner,” she told him. “If… that would’ve helped. But Mother wouldn’t let me. I’ve been grounded.”


“She told me,” Angelo replied, seeming to deliberate with himself before he too sat. “I asked when you’d be back. She wouldn’t say. It’s not your fault Tovah- er, Princess Tovah, I mean, sorry.”


“Hey, if I can call you Angie,” she teased gently, “then you can call me Tovah. It’s fine. Really.” She let out a soft, almost mournful exhale. “What can I do?” she asked. “To help? Not that I don’t approve of redecorating from time to time, but this—” She waved a hand toward the bare wood floor, and the table with its mountain of knots. “It’s not… good. It’s really not good, Angie. And I don’t just mean aesthetically.”


“I don’t know,” he replied, sadness flickering in his eyes. “I… I want out. Out of this ‘Pit-spawned room. Out of the same walls and the same ceiling and the same design on the same comforters and the flames of the ‘Pit take them all-” he broke off, seeming to realize what he was doing and slumped cupping his face in his hands. More softly he concluded, “But I can’t.”


“I’m sorry, Angelo,” she said. Then: “My mother was going to ground me for even longer. As you can imagine, she… isn’t all that used to people defying her? She was furious with me. Furious.” Tovah gulped. “She relented only because she realised if she keeps us apart, her imagined romance between us will never bloom. And because she wants something from me.”


“O-oh?” he asked, looking up again. “And what is that?”


“She’s growing tired of speaking with you in Valzick,” Tovah said. “She… she wants me to teach you Meltaiman. Me, personally. Because— as she put it— such a thing could be a lovely bonding experience between us. A ‘productive’ experience, no less.” The girl smiled grimly. “My mother is a very pragmatic romantic.”


Angelo made an indistinct noise of exasperation. “Of course. Not enough she’s got me eating biscuits out of her hand like a good dog, she has to take away my language too.” He sighed. “I… I…” He was silent for a moment, then he whimpered. “I need something. To do. So okay. Fine.”


She blinked. She’d clearly been expecting more resistance. “You’re not going to lecture me?” she said. “Lament to me about how you won’t speak a heathen’s language and submit to us like a scared dog?”


The Valzick prince gave a limp shrug. “Your cousin and mother already took everything I care about. My life, my home, my freedom.” He rubbed his neck. “Even the last memento I had of my mother. I still have my faith. My love for the Lord Woo. As long as I have that I… I can give up other things.” He bit his lip. “I don’t even know what season it is anymore. You could tell me anything and I’d believe you. S-so what does it matter?”


“It’s November,” Tovah murmured. As she gnawed her lip, seeming to take in the rest of what he’d said, she clearly found that she could not deny most of it. So instead she latched to the one thing she didn’t understand: “The last memento of your mother…? What do you mean by that?”


“My mother had this ring,” he explained. “It was platinum. With a big sapphire and a bunch of little diamonds. It wasn’t important to her particularly, she just got it for Woomas one year from Father and thought it was pretty. So she wore it all the time. Every day. I never saw her without it. After she died I… I asked Father if I could have it. It doesn’t fit my finger, but I wore it on a silver chain. Always. Everywhere. It gave me comfort to feel like… like she was still with me somehow.”


He scowled. “Kott took it. On the carriage ride north. Just to one-up me for being lippy. I think he still has it, he flaunts it in my face from time to time when he comes in without the empress. Just to be a jerk.”


“That’s… cruel.” Tovah squashed her nose in disapproval. “I’ve never thought Matvey the type to be cruel. Not… gratuitously.”


Angelo quirked an eyebrow. “Before he found out I was crown prince, his plan when I refused to talk was to have me executed by lancing spell firing squad. A firing squad of cadets who by his own admission were lousy shots and ‘needed practice.’”


Tovah froze. “You’re kidding.”


“I’m not,” he replied. “When my squad surrendered, the day we were taken captive, the officer in charge ordered three of my squadmates killed on site. For no particular reason other than spite that one of her soldiers had injured and knocked out the arch-brigadier who was with us and he was ‘dead weight.’ Sixteen year old mage arch-privates, terrified, unarmed, surrendered. And they were executed in cold blood. That sort of thing seems to be common practice in the Meltaiman army.”


“The… Valzick Special Forces is full of blood traitors,” Tovah said, but there was no missing the reluctance that suddenly underscored her tone. “It’s unfortunate when mages have to die, but… in warfare…”


“Can you really call it warfare?” he demanded. “We were days within our border, at a fort explicitly for acclimatizing newly graduated trainees to their duties. We were out on a routine patrol, not expecting to find anything more exciting than a few deer.”


Tovah quailed. “The whole Special Forces is… is… just in its existence--”


“The Special Forces was founded for defense,” Angelo said, his jaw clenching. “Defense against the aggressions of Meltaim. How many times have we chased you across your border before now?”


Tovah turned abruptly, her jaw clenched. “This isn’t a productive conversation,” she said.


Angelo blinked, for a moment his expression one of a confused dog whose owner had just slammed the door in his face. Then he scowled, pulling his knees up to his chest. “Have it your way, Princess. But running away from uncomfortable truths doesn’t negate them.”


For a moment, Tovah said nothing.


Then, almost abruptly, she asked: “Do you want me to see if I can’t get you permission to go outside?”


Angelo looked up, his face riddled with confusion. After her angry outburst he’d expected her to storm off, not… offer something like that.


“I… I’d like that a lot,” he said softly, almost tentatively. “Just to see blue sky and natural sunlight again. I… y-yes, if you… if you wouldn’t mind.”


“I can’t promise you anything,” Tovah said. “But I can at least ask. Frame it as— I don’t know. Fresh air being helpful for your lessons. Fears that you won’t be able to learn Meltaiman if you’re in the same old cooped environment that’s already sent you acting so crazy.”


“Acting… crazy?” his voice held a tremor of genuine fear now. As if this descriptor of his behavior had simply not occurred to him until Tovah offered it.


Tovah frowned. “Yes. Generally when one has a table with a hundred knots on top of it— made out of curtains they shredded one by one…”


“I… I’ve j-just been bored, I…” His earlier righteous fury fell away, and he swallowed hard. “R-right. If… if you can get me even… even ten minutes out of this room…”


“I don’t blame you,” Tovah said, her voice softening. “I don’t. I’d be going mad, too. But…” Sighing, she stood. “I’ll see what I can do, Angie. No promises but— I’ll see what I can do.”


He nodded, biting his lip. “M-maybe you… you should have someone take the curtains. Away. Like Kott wanted.”


“Maybe,” she agreed. “And I can… try to get you something else, if you want? To do with your hands. Something more productive. Clay or… paints or— charcoal?”


He gave a wobbly smile. “I like drawing. With charcoal. I used to do it all the time at home. Not so much after I joined the army but… I’d like that. If it were possible.”


“I’m sure I can arrange something,” Tovah said. She met his smile with one of her own. “Especially if I spin it as ‘isn’t this more productive that him cutting up your lovely draperies, Mother’.”


He laughed- a much less hysterical sounding laugh than the one he’d voiced earlier. “Hopefully she is a patron of the arts. Thank you, Tovah.”


“Of course, Angie,” Tovah said. “I’ll come back to see you soon, all right?”


He nodded, giving her a small wave. He watched her go until the door had fully closed in her wake; only then did he give in to tears.

Chapter Nine

SPOILER: Click to show

A blank was called within a few hours to clear away the shredded, knotted remains of the curtain. Badly rattled, Angelo spent the next several days laboriously trying to push his furniture more or less back to where it had been before his spastic redecorating. At least he thought it was a few days. He still couldn’t really keep track. He pulled out his old games again, trying to focus on them instead of the more neurotic and destructive habits he’d taken up in the past several weeks.

Finally, after he’d started to wonder if his requests had gotten Tovah in trouble and banned from his room again, the girl reappeared, flouncing in with a smile on her face and bundle of leather-bound books in her arms.

“Good morning, Angie,” she said to him. He was sitting at the table, deep into a game of his bastardized version of pegs; it looked like white was winning this time. “I have news.”

He looked up, blinking in surprise. “It’s morning? I guess I’ve been awake all night then.” He shook this off, then coughed, his face heating up. “So, ah… news? What kind of news?”

“About your requests,” she said. “For the charcoal— and going outside.”

“Oh!” he smiled. “You seem happy so… is it good news?”

“It’s not all good,” Tovah said. “But— pretty good.” She flounced to his side and sat opposite him at the table, books still in her arms, watching on as he slid one of the rounders forward. “My mother doesn’t want you going outside. And she doesn’t want you to have charcoal yet—”

“So if it’s a no on both counts, how is that ‘pretty good?’” Angelo asked, visibly deflating. He hadn’t really ever had much hope to leave the room but he’d at least figured charcoal wouldn’t be a big deal…

“Interrupting is rude,” Tovah chided. “Maybe let me finish before you get all dejected.” She cleared her throat. “My mother doesn’t want you going outside, but she’s agreed that we can hold your Meltaiman language lessons outside your rooms. Specifically— in a nice library in the north keep. It’s high up and it’s got huge windows. They crack open to let in the breeze. And,” she went on, “if you’re a ‘good student’, as Mother put it, you’ll earn charcoal. One brick per successful lesson, and some parchment to go along with it.” She quirked a brow. “So, I’ll say it again— pretty good.”

Angelo gawped- then he grinned. A bright, beaming smile, perhaps the most sincerely happy expression he’d worn around Tovah, untainted with sarcasm or sadness. “Th-that’s… that’s great, Tovah, th-thank you, thank you so much!”

She laughed. “No problem,” she said. “It’s… nice seeing you happy. And…” She surveyed the room. “Nice to see that you seem to be over your, ah, decorating streak.”

He rubbed his face. “I’m trying. It takes… a scary amount of effort. When I’m alone for hours and hours at a time.”

“Hopefully the charcoal will help,” she said. She nodded toward the books in her arms. “These are for our first lesson,” she said. “They’re… honestly? I think they’re the exact same books the palace tutors are using for Kott’s son. His… six-year-old son. But…” Tovah smiled. “We all have to start somewhere, right? And I imagine it’ll all seem much more exciting when you’re sitting being caressed by the cool autumn breeze.”

“When can we start?” he asked, naked longing in his face and voice. “Wh-when can we… go to the library?”

Tovah guffawed. “What, do you think I just lug around lesson books for fun?” she teased. “We can go now, Angie.” Somewhat gravely, she added, “Although of course I understand if you want to finish your exciting game of fake-pegs first. Far be it for me to distract you from that.”

“It can wait until we’re done,” he said, practically bouncing onto his feet. “I’m patient enough, it can wait for me to come back to finish later.”

“All right.” She stood, adding before he could bound all the way to the door: “And— one other thing. That you’re… probably not going to like all that much.”

He frowned, some of the lightness going out of his steps. “What’s that?”

“Well, first— Mother wants you hooded,” Tovah said. “Before you leave the flat. And…” She took a deep breath. “We’re having ourselves an escort. To and from the library. He won’t be inside with us— I promise— but he’ll be just outside the door, and—”

He groaned softly, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Don’t tell me; our dear friend Major General Kott, right? He’s always the one holding my choke chain.” The boy tapped his current cuff. “...Speaking of I’m told it’s set to go off if I leave this room so something’ll have to be done about that.”

“He’s going to take care of it,” Tovah said, taking a step toward the door. He was closer to it than she was, having pranced halfway there in his initial excitement, and she said softly, “Can you please head back to the table, Angelo? And I can go get Major General Kott. He… won’t be happy if I fling the door open and you’re already there, hovering. I don’t want him to think you’re trying to do something rash.”

Angelo rolled his eyes, but obediently retreated to his armchair by the table, whereupon he drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair. Tovah cast him a thin smile, then walked the rest of the way to the door and swung it open.

“He’s ready, Motya,” she said.

“You’ve told him the terms?” Kott replied without preamble, striding quickly inside. There was a cloth hood clutched in his hand, identical to the one Angelo had worn just after his abduction what seemed like a lifetime ago. “The hood and—”

“Yes, I’ve told him,” Tovah cut in. “He’ll cooperate. You don’t have to worry.”

“Mm.” Kott’s dark eyes slid toward Angelo. “Is that right?” he asked the empress’s prisoner. “You’re going to cooperate with me, Prince Angelo?”

“If it gets me out of this room for a while I will do whatever you want,” he replied tiredly. “Tearing up the drapery isn’t something I enjoy either, just… I have exhausted my supply of things to do in this tiny space.”

“I’m going to hold you to that promise,” Kott said. Starting forward, he drew his wand. “Let me see your wrist,” he instructed. “I need to toggle with the runes on your current cuff.”

The young man obediently held out his arm, and within a few moments Kott had finished relaxing the runes so that the boy could leave the room without setting off a shock. He then tied the boy’s wrists, slipped the hood over his head so he couldn’t see, and directed him to stand. Led by the rope around his wrists like it was a leash, Angelo stumbled blindly after his captors, his heart thudding hard in his chest.

What am I doing? he thought sadly. Agreeing to Meltaiman lessons… they’re getting exactly what they want out of me aren’t they? Woo, am I really losing myself so easily?

Such ruminations were interrupted when he heard a gruff voice mutter, “If you need anything, Tovah, I’ll be just outside the door, all right?”

“I know,” Tovah said. “But I’ll be fine. You can go.”

“Want me to unbind him first?” said Kott.

“I can do it,” Tovah assured. Then, a bit more firmly, she added, “You’re dismissed, Matvey. I’ll fetch you when I’d like to go.”

Kott said nothing in reply, and moments later Angelo heard a door swing shut— and a lock click into place. As it did, he felt Tovah’s warm hands settle on his wrists, nimble as she expertly untied the rope binding. Once the tie had fallen free, she reached up to his hood and pulled it off.

“Welcome,” she said, as he blinked hard in response to the natural light he hadn’t seen for months now, “to the library. Posh, isn’t it?”

Angelo couldn’t offer an opinion on the poshness at first, because he was too busy shielding his face against the glaring light of the early morning sun. Then, slowly, his eyes adjusted, and the room came into focus. As promised, the far wall was dominated by huge, clear glass windows that allowed sunlight to filter inside. The nearer wall was taken up by shelves with rows and rows of books, and there were more bookshelves lined up all along the floor. The ceiling was vaulted, with criss-crossing beams supporting it visible in a way that added a sense of architectural marvel to the room.

The Valzick prince gawped, drinking in the unfamiliar setting like a parched desert dune would drink in rain. As if in a trance he slowly walked towards the nearest window, and found himself looking out over a garden that was blanketed in thick, fluffy white snow. A clear, pure blue sky soared over the palace walls when he looked up.

The young man didn’t even seem to realize he was crying until Tovah, standing beside him, reached out to set a ginger hand on his shoulder. “You all right, Angelo?” she asked.

“It…” he swallowed hard. “It’s just been so long…”

“Do you want me to crack open one?” she asked softly. “It’ll freezing out, but.. if you want the fresh air…”

“Th-that’d be great,” he said, smiling. “B-but why’s it so snowy out? I thought you said it was only November…”

“It is.” Tovah drew her wand and tapped it against the iron lock on one of the windows. “Usually it starts flurrying near the end of October. If not before. Then the steadier snows start in November.” She unlatched the clasp that held the window shut. “We’ve gotten a series of storms over the past week or so. I know it’s hard to gauge how deep it is from all the way up here but— it’s quite a lot. When Kott’s son was playing outside yesterday, the drifts were nearly as high as his chest.”

“Wow,” Angelo lifted his brows. “In the southern Galfras where I was stationed it didn’t start snowing until mid-December. In Valla it’s so warm it never snows at all.”

“At least in November it’s not so cold that your face freezes the second you step outside.” Moving back from the window, Tovah paced to one of the heavy leather sofas that studded the room and plopped down onto it. She’d already set the books down on a coffee table in front of the couch— probably when he’d still been hooded and bound— and with a yawn, she picked one of the tomes back up. “By my birthday,” she said as she cracked open its spine, “it’s miserable. Your nose hairs sting. Breathing hurts.”

Angelo chuckled, joining her at the sofa and looking down into the gibberish in the book. “A winter baby, are you? I was born in May myself. May first- Beltane. Although the more conservative think that’s a pagan holiday not worth acknowledging.”

“May,” Tovah said dreamily. “Warmth. It seems so far away.” She began to leaf through the pages of the book. “My birthday always gets overshadowed,” she told him. “It’s so close to New Year’s Eve and the winter solstice. Mother’s always in a tizzy planning her great banquets and balls and feasts.”

He bit his lip. “I’m sorry. That must be frustrating. You’re… turning sixteen right?”

“Mmhm,” she said. “Though it’s all right— to be honest, I… don’t much like celebrating my birthday, anyway. When I was little I loved it, but…” She shrugged. “I told you I had a twin brother who died. Jakub, though we called him Kuba. Our birthday was always something we had. The two of us. Together. So after he died, it just became… an ugly reminder, I suppose. That I was turning ten, or thirteen, or now sixteen, and Kuba’s not. Kuba will always stay six.”

The Valzick glanced away briefly, then he looked directly into her icy blue eyes. “I’m sorry. I know how it feels. To always be reminded of a loss. Something you loved dearly and can’t ever have back.” He put a hand to his neck again, his expression sad. “Mother never got to see me learn to swordfight. Or be coronated Father’s official heir when I turned ten. Or celebrate my coming of-age. And I… I always think of her at milestones like that. How much she would’ve loved to be there. And I wonder, would she have been proud of me? Of the man I’d become?”

“It’s hard to lose people,” Tovah said simply. She looked down at the open book, fingers tracing over the intricately inked letters as she finally settled on a page. “And it never gets easier. My father hurt just as much as my brother. I didn’t think it was possible, but it was.”

The prince gently reached out, putting a hand on Tovah’s shoulder. He didn’t speak, but the look on his face was one of empathy that said more than words possibly could.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “Hardly meant to make your first Meltaiman lesson a pity party on my own behalf.” She straightened in her seat and tapped the book. “This is the alphabet,” she said. “The Meltaiman alphabet. It’s different than yours.”

He withdrew his hand and looked down at the paper, curious in spite of himself. “I see. Looks like a bunch of random squiggles to me.” He gave her a sideways smirk. “You could literally show me snake tracks and say it was your alphabet and I’d have to believe you.”

“Yes,” Tovah agreed, swallowing hard as if to force away the lingering emotions, “but then when my mother demands you show off your new skills like a trained pony, she’ll realise what I’ve done and she will murder me dead.”

“I suppose that’s true,” he agreed. “Alright then- may was well start at the beginning.” Pointing to the first character on the page, he asked, “What’s this letter?”

With a wan smile Tovah indulged his request, and so began Angelo’s first lesson in all things Meltaiman. It was a lot to take in— more than a lot— but Tovah was a calm and patient tutor, and she actually seemed to enjoy the challenge of introducing her mother tongue to a boy who knew nothing of it. For now they were just going over basics— letters, common words, foundational grammatical rules— and so it was hardly titillating material, but much to his surprise, Angelo found himself soaking it up with tremendous enthusiasm. Perhaps it was simply that he’d gone weeks with almost no mental stimulation. Perhaps his overall mood was so improved by being out of his cell of an apartment that it made him enjoy the lesson vicariously. Or perhaps it was the heaping helping of sarcastic commentary that Tovah provided throughout making the dry material more palatable.

Whatever the case, he was sincerely disappointed when his lesson was declared complete for the day, and Kott hooded and rebound him before steering him back to his rooms. Dread expanded in the Valzick prince like an inflating balloon as he was marched back through the palace’s winding halls and staircases, and when their walking finally came to an end— presumably they’d reached the apartment— Angelo had to bite back an outright sob as he was shoved forwards, his hand catching on an armchair so familiar he knew every crease and stitch of it by now. His whole body was trembling as he felt Kott begin to undo his bindings. Woo above, how he did not want to be stuck in his cell again now that he’d finally gotten out.

But as the hood came away from his face, he indeed found himself staring at the familiar, dark room. His face must have fallen a mile, because Tovah winced, reaching out a gentle hand and setting it on his shoulder.

“It’s all right,” she soothed. “We’ll have another lesson soon, okay? And I’ll tell Mother you were an eager student. Tell her to have charcoal and parchment brought to you.”

He swallowed hard and nodded, sparing the girl a wavering smile. Kott, still fussing to respool the rope, blinked— gods knew, he probably hadn’t personally seen the boy smile earnestly once.

“Thank you,” Angelo said softly. After a moment’s hesitation, he amended, “Dziękuję.”

Tovah’s cheeks warmed, and she smirked at the boy. Curtseying, she replied, “Moja przyjemność.” Knowing they hadn’t gotten nearly this far in their lesson, she translated quickly to Valzick, “My pleasure.”

He smirked in reply, watching as Tovah and her cousin made their way out of the room. Once they were gone, he flopped down into his chair, looking down at his abandoned game of pegs.

He still hated it here. And if he got the chance he’d run away as far and fast as he could. But if he was to be trapped anyway, it was good to have a friend.

* * *

Sure enough, while Angelo was bathing later that day, someone- probably a blank- slipped into his room to leave behind several sheafs of paper and a small, palm sized brick of charcoal. The abducted prince picked up the charcoal, feeling the familiar sensation of it turning his palm black, as he stroked the papyrus almost reverently.

When Tovah next came by to visit- not for a lesson, just a visit- she found that he had coated one of the sheets entirely front and back with sketches. Mostly of animals- horses, rabbits, cats, dogs, birds, and other things he could pull from memory. Though certainly not a master artist, he was surprisingly good, giving the drawings a fluidity that made the subjects almost seem about to come to life and leap off the page. Tovah seemed impressed by his array of sketchings— “You’re good,” she told him. “I bet you’re killer at drawing runes in lessons, eh?”

He smirked. “Maybe. Or maybe I was a somewhat irresponsible student and drew pretty girls in the margins of my notes instead of the runes.”

Over the next several weeks, the paper and charcoal helped his mood a lot- as did his trips to the library for fresh air and a change of scenery. But it seemed to be a stalling action rather than a cure. His mental deterioration slowed, but it did not stop. Though usually sweet and witty, Angelo remained prone to erratic spells of frenetic pacing and destruction of random objects in his apartment, spent more and more of his time sleeping, and complained frequently of headaches, nausea, and general exhaustion.

This worried Tovah— he knew so because she told him. Constantly. The empress voiced such concerns, too, of course, but where Urszula’s declarations were sickly sweet, and shallow as a foot basin, Tovah actually seemed to mean it. She also seemed intent to do anything she could to further stave off his decline: she negotiated to get him more charcoal, and filched all of the Valzick-language books from the palace collection and smuggled them to him one by one (so he’d have something he could actually read), and brought him to the airy library as much as Kott and her mother permitted her to. Whenever she found he’d destroyed another bit of the apartment she had the wreckage quietly removed— her mother and Kott were prone to letting the ruins sit, like monuments to his decline— and though she had to know his maladies weren’t all physical, she was relentless in bringing him cures: ginger and bubbly cider for his nausea, hot tea to perk his energy, cool compresses to place upon his throbbing head.

Though Angelo knew that Tovah’s initial openness and friendly overtures in the first few weeks had merely been a plot to get into his good graces, he also knew that her efforts to help him now could be nothing but genuine. And he appreciated it. By Woo he appreciated it. Even if he knew that at the end of the day Tovah was still the heir of Valzaim’s mortal enemy, still believed all the awful rhetoric about blanks being subhuman, and that she was a consensual party in helping keep him captive…

It didn’t negate the relief he felt at the mere sense that someone was in some small way on his side.

Wanting to do something for her- anything- the prince recalled that Tovah had mentioned her birthday was near the solstice and the new year. So when the Empress started making idle chatter at their tea parties about preparing for the solstice celebration, the prince started making plans. It took him a while- anything this elaborate always did- and he had to hide the evidence of his work under his bed whenever Tovah came around. But finally, after what was probably over a week of preparing, Angelo was ready.

When she came the next time— to continue their Melatiman lessons in the library— he hid his gift beneath the loose folds of his coat and tunic, then waited for the right moment to present it to her. He didn’t want to give it in the dreary confines of the apartment, after all, and he didn’t want her getting cross if he awkwardly tried to give it to her as she studiously went over verb tenses with him. So he waited patiently— well, as patiently as possible— as the lesson proceeded, chilly air wafting in through the window she’d cracked open, then as she seemed to be concluding for the day, closing up the language books and corking the ink bottles, he gave a small cough.

“Tovah you… you’ve been doing a lot for me. And I can’t tell you enough how much I appreciate it. So I…” He felt his face heating up despite the chilly air wafting in through the window. Forcing a smirk onto his face, he said, “As practice for not forgetting our future under-duress anniversaries, I figure I should show off my memory skills. As best I can without being able to really say what the date is.”

He reached under his cloak, pulling out a rolled up sheet of papyrus. “So… happy maybe-late, maybe-on-time, maybe-early birthday.”

Tovah tilted her head, looking at once befuddled and delighted. “A gift?” she asked, carefully accepting the scroll. “You’ve… made me a gift?”

“I tried,” he replied with a crooked smile. “I hope gift-giving isn’t just a thing Valzicks do for birthdays.”

She shook her head, hands ginger as she began to unroll the parchment. “No, we give gifts,” she said. Then, as the carefully crafted surface of the scroll came into view, she gave a small gasp. “Oooh! You drew this?”

The illustration on the page was one of Tovah herself- chin propped on the heel of her hand, elbow propped on the table, and a look of furious concentration on her face as she loomed over a grey man’s bluff set. Literally loomed- for the perspective was set rather dramatically as if seen from a mouse sitting in front of the game board. Underneath the image, in sloppy Meltaiman characters, were the words “Gra twarzy.” Game face.

“It took a while to finish,” Angelo replied with a chuckle. “But yes- do you like it?”

“You didn’t get my nose right,” she told him. Then, abruptly, she grinned. “I love it. Such a sweet fiance, drawing a portrait of his betrothed.” She continued to study the drawing for a moment, then looked up at him. “You’re not late, either, you know,” she said. “It’s only December 18th. My birthday’s not ‘til the 25th.”

Angelo gawped at Tovah, his mouth falling open in surprise. “December 25th? Your… your birthday is the 25th?”

“Uh-huh,” Tovah said, looking back down toward the portrait. “Right at midnight. Mother says I was in a rush to greet the world- Kuba took his sweet time, but me? She says her water had barely broken before I made my entrance.”

Angelo chuckled. “Ah- sorry it’s just… funny. December 25th is a holiday in Valzaim. One of our most important and popular ones. It’s called Woomas- a twelve day celebration ending on the 25th that’s designed to help promote a sense of community and brace against the long darkness of winter.”

“Oh.” Tovah smiled. “That must be mad, huh? A holiday couched in with the solstice, and then the New Year coming right on its heels.” She began to roll the scroll back up, careful not to smudge the charcoal. “It sounds fun, though. Nonstop celebration.”

“We don’t really celebrate the solstice specifically,” he explained. “So yeah, it’s just the twelve days of Woomas and then the New Year. It is fun though. The 18th is the Day of Feathers- adults will hide painted feathers around and let little kids go hunting for them. Then you bring the feathers with you to mass and-” he cut himself off, wincing. “Sorry, nevermind.”

“Hey,” she said softly. “It’s all right. I’m not mad at you for talking about your memories, okay?” She gave him a gentle smile. “It’s nice hearing you reminisce in a positive way for once, honestly. Maybe the topic isn’t something that would be Glass Empress approved, but— she’s not here, right? And I won’t tell her. Promise.”

He smiled, the expression sad but sincere all the same. “Thanks. You know… the 19th was always one of my favorite days. As a kid. From day one through day five everyone fasts from anything sweet or sugary. Then on day six- the nineteenth- everyone breaks the sugar fast, and breakfast is this huge meal of cakes and sweet rolls, candied fruits, honey glazed meats…” He chuckled. “When you’re a little kid, being able to eat all that as a regular meal- and usually graze on leftovers from it all day long- is like paradise on earth.”

“That sounds pretty stellar,” Tovah agreed. “I’d eat sweets all day if Mother let me. Can’t stand things that are too spicy— or sour— or salty— but sweet? I could eat a vat of straight sugar and declare it not nearly sweet enough.”

Angelo chuckled, grinning impishly. “You have a sweet tooth, my princess? Nay! You must only like bitter things, for I am convinced your mother’s blood runs with pure unsweetened black tea.”

“Oh, gods— her tea.” Tovah laughed. “I think it takes every scrap of self-control she possesses not to bat my teacup over and yell ‘Blasphemy!’ at me whenever she sees me piling in the sugar and cream. One day she thought she was being awfully clever and asked me, did I want any tea with my sugar and cream? Thinking she’d caught me in some excellent trap.” The girl’s blue eyes twinkled mischievously. “I don’t think she expected my response to be something along the lines of ‘You mean I can have the sugar and cream without the tea? Why didn’t you tell me before, Mother?’.”

Angelo snorted, his own dark eyes glimmering. “Maybe we’ll both get a break from her tea parties while she’s preparing for the holidays, at least.”

“Oh, gods, don’t even bring that up,” Tovah lamented gravely. “She’s been incorrigible with her preparations. Like a tornado of menus and decorations and—” The girl waved a hand, sagging in her seat. “The entire court is invited to both the feast on solstice and the New Year’s Eve ball. And Mother is… let’s just say she is very, very insistent that everything goes perfectly at both.”

“I know that feeling,” Angelo said. “Papa was much the same. Everything in court is such a production- and of course I had to be there at his right hand, the perfect little showpiece heir for the nice governors and bishops.”

“I like a good party, don’t get me wrong,” Tovah said. “But at Mother’s events… it’s never fun so much as a pageant. All her little chess pieces arranged carefully on the board. And this year it’s even more…” She bit her lip, mulling for a moment before she settled on: “Well, desperate, I suppose? The court has heard about you. They know your father’s still pitching a fit on the border. People worry. They fret and chitter about if her expansion plans are overly ambitious, if they aren’t going to bite us in the back some day. Especially when our own lords are eternally squabbling— especially in the north. So she wants to show that all is well. That Meltaim is strong as ever. Stronger, even.” She exhaled slowly. “It’s not just a party. It’s a game. A big, terrifying game.”

The Valzick winced. There again, that reminder that no matter how small his world seemed right now, his father was still out there. Still trying to get him back- and here he was having amicable conversations with the Meltaiman princess about birthdays and Woomas while she taught him to speak her tongue. His voice soft, he said, “I wondered. Sorry- I hope it’s not too onerous for you at least.”

“I’ll live.” Tovah shrugged. “I just need to practise, I guess. For my big moment at the New Year’s Eve ball.” She rubbed her temple. “Mother’s making me give the speech. The prayer.”

Angelo frowned a little. “A prayer? That doesn’t seem so bad.”

“I have to script it,” Tovah said. “And give it in front of the entire court as a priest struts about behind me. It’s… nerve-wracking. All the eyes being on me. Watching me. As if they’re just waiting for me to slip up.”

The Valzick winced. “That does sound tense. Why does a priest need to even be there if you’re giving the prayer?”

“Because I’m not trained in how to perform the rites,” Tovah said. “I can rattle off a prayer, but if I were to do the bleeding… I’d probably end up just angering the gods.” She gave a soft, grim laugh.

Angelo stiffened, his expression going absolutely blank. “Bleeding? What do you mean… ‘the bleeding’?”

“Um.” Tovah gnawed on her lip, as though she were mulling over how best to explain it. “We give… tributes, I guess you could say. To honour the gods. Blood tributes? Blood— it… helps amplify magic, and well…” She shrugged. “At big events, there’ll usually be a bleeding. To show the gods we’re thankful. That’s what I’m doing the prayer over. The bleeding. While a priest performs the actual rites.”

The prince was trembling now, horror written in every line of his face. Horror- and fear.

“You… you kill people? T-to appease your gods?” he stammered, looking at Tovah as if she’d just grown horns.

“It’s not usually fatal,” Tovah said quickly. She blinked— she hadn’t seemed to have expected such a visceral reaction from him. “And it’s just blanks, anyway,” she hurried on. “They’re specifically consecrated for it, Angelo. It’s their purpose. They’re trained for it from the time they’re small.”

His hands clenched into fists, and he gritted his teeth. “Blanks like my mother you mean. Like my father. A-and even if we go along with the idea that they’re not human, they can still feel fear, Tovah! They can still watch a knife coming at them, know it’s going to hurt, and want to sob and plead and-”

“They’re trained for it,” Tovah interrupted, as if he’d missed this— and as though it made a difference. “It’s not like we pluck a random serving blank and start bleeding them with impunity, Angelo. It’s controlled, it’s careful, it’s specialized. The blank who’ll bleed at the New Year’s Eve ball— he or she’s probably been bled dozens, hundreds, of times. I don’t think there’ll be any sobbing or pleading.”

“And what about us?” Angelo demanded. “We’ve been raised from birth to be the rulers of our respective kingdoms. We don’t tremble or stammer in front of the courtiers when we have to make a speech- does that mean we aren’t nervous? Scared as the ‘Pit of messing up and humiliating ourselves?”

“They’re blanks,” Tovah reminded. Her cheeks were starting to flush. There was a bead of sweat forming on her brow. “They’re empty shells put on this world to be used for whatever purpose best benefits the gods’ true children. Are they a little afraid inside? Maybe. Who knows. But that’s their gods-ordained place, Angelo— they’re serving their purpose so that the gods’ people can—”

“They’re human beings!” Angelo bellowed, his dark eyes bright with unshed tears. “They are not empty shells, they are people just like you or me, and I don’t understand how someone as good and kind as you are can condone something like-”

Tovah opened her mouth again, as if to cut him off and snipe back at him, but before she could, he was interrupted by something else: the door to the library being abruptly shoved open, pushed so hard that the wood slammed back against the wall behind it. One hand on his wand and the other clutching the all-too-familiar triggerstone, Kott stormed in like a hawk swooping in on its hapless meal, boot-heels clicking loudly against the stone floor below as he beelined straight toward Angelo.

“Stand up!” he ordered. “And place your hands out where I can see them. Right now, or I will shock you to kingdom come!”

Angelo jerked, frozen like a startled deer, and hesitated just a fraction of a second too long in his surprise. With a practised motion, Kott activated the triggerstone; Tovah could only gawp on in wide-eyed shock and half-understanding as Angelo howled in pain, the current cuff sparking and the prince’s body jerking so hard he fell out of the seat and onto the floor. He thrashed in pain there, his eyes wide and bulging, until Tovah— finally seeming to realise what was happening— screamed out for Kott to stop.

“Now!” she snarled, leaping to her feet. “That’s an order!”

Jaw still clenched, Kott cut off the current and shoved the triggerstone back into his coat pocket— then with a claw-like hand reached out and clamped down onto the collar of Angelo’s tunic, hauling the boy bodily to his feet. “Why were you shouting at her?” he demanded of the captive prince. “What in the hells was going on?”

Stunned, barely able to keep a hold on his consciousness by mental teeth and fingernails, Angelo muttered, “A… arguing…”

“Let go of him,” Tovah huffed to her cousin, switching to Meltaiman. “He wasn’t hurting me, Matvey. You didn’t need to shock him.”

“I could hear him through the solid oak door,” Kott retorted. His hand held fast to Angelo’s tunic. “I half-thought he’d snapped and hurt you.”

“He didn’t,” Tovah said. “And thanks for the vote of confidence, Motya, but even if he had I think I can rather hold my own!” She ordered again: “Let go. He’s not going to do anything!”

Kott did not seem happy about obeying— not at all— but with a soft hiss he nevertheless relented. As his hand fell away from Angelo, the prince collapsed back into his seat, breathing heavily, his heartbeat fluttering like a bird against his ribcage. His wrist was burned where the cuff met his skin, and he was whimpering incoherently in pain.

Then, tears pooling out of his eyes, he put a hand slowly to his neck and whispered, “Mom… y-you’re not… y-you’re not empty… I’m s-sorry… I’m sorry, I c-can’t f-fight them...”

Nearly quivering with something between frustration and fury, Tovah whipped around to face Angelo. “What are you mumbling about?” she asked him. Then: “Are you… are you okay?”

“Tovah,” Kott warned. “Take a step back from him, please? I don’t want you so close.”

“Shut up, Matvey,” Tovah snapped. Not sparing him so much as a glance— let alone moving away from Angelo— she said again to the prince, “Are you all right?”

His jaw trembling, he dug his nails into his bare neck. “I w-want to go home.”

Tovah outwardly grimaced. “Let’s get you back to your rooms,” she said. “I can have a tonic made up for you, perhaps? Something to put you to sleep. So you can have a nice, good sleep.”

Angelo didn’t say anything, only slowly nodding. He allowed Tovah to help him up from the couch and then steer him back to his room. And once they’d arrived— after dutifully downing the drowsing tonic Tovah ordered brought to him— he lay down on his oversized bed, and was glad when the tears finally ran dry and he could lose himself to the black void of sleep.

Chapter Ten

SPOILER: Click to show

It was some hours later when Angelo’s unwilling mind finally emerged from the blissfully black well of unconsciousness into his bleak reality. He still felt foggy, exhausted, and weirdly floaty- probably from whatever tonic he’d been given for his pain and stress. The prince opened his eyes, the room coming into focus around him, but he was in no hurry to rise from his bed. Maybe he could just roll over and go back to sleep. Maybe-

“Hi there, sleepyhead.”

… Well, that was a voice he hadn’t expected to hear. Blinking against the darkness, Angelo turned and was startled to find no other than Tovah sitting at his bedside, in a heavy wooden chair that she must’ve dragged in from the living room. Her chin was nested in her palm, as if she’d been staving off sleep herself, and through the dimness he could make out black bags starting to puff beneath her eyes. It must’ve been very late. How long had he been asleep?

“Don’t sit up,” she instructed him. “You might get dizzy. It’s been aeons since you’ve eaten.” She reached for a squat crystal cup on his bedside table, and held it out toward him. “Water,” she said. “Want some?”

He brought a hand up to his face, moaning softly. “S-sure. But wh-what… what about you? Have you eaten?”

“I sent for a bit of bread and soup a few hours ago,” she replied, tipping the water glass toward his lips. “Don’t worry about me. Drink.”

Obediently, Angelo allowed Tovah to pour the water into his lips, only realizing as he drank just how thick and sticky his tongue felt. Once she pulled it away, he coughed a little, then muttered a soft thanks.

“You… waited here?” he asked, blinking drowsily as he propped himself partially up on his pillows. “You could’ve just had a blank tend me when I woke.”

“I know,” she said. “But I wanted to stay.” She set the glass back down. “Do you want me to have supper brought for you? It’s late, but I’m sure I could get some bread or cheese, at least. Maybe some jerky. Or fruit leather.”

“S-sure,” he agreed, wincing a bit as his stomach growled. “That’d be good.” The prince rubbed his eyes. “It always feels like getting kicked in the chest by a horse. When they shock me.”

“I’m sorry. It definitely didn’t look pleasant.” Tovah stood and turned toward the door. “Here— I’ll go request food for you; back in a minute.” She smiled softly. “Don’t fall asleep on me while I’m gone, all right? Or I might have to eat it all up myself.”

Fortunately Angelo managed to stay awake while she was placing his food order— and hadn’t yet nodded off again, either, when a blank arrived about ten minutes later with a brimming tray of cheese, fruit leather, and sourdough bread. Placing it down on the bed before Angelo before scuttling right back out of the flat, Tovah stifled a yawn as she watched the prince pick over the assorted foodstuffs.

“I can’t wait for spring,” she commented absently. “I miss fresh fruit.”

Angelo tore off a chunk of the bread, eating it quickly before nodding. “It’ll be nice. Not having to eat dry, preserved food all the time anymore.” He ate a cube of cheese, his eyelids sliding downwards until he jerked his head to jar himself back awake. “Woo above, what was in that tonic? I feel like I’ve got some sort of fever.”

“A mix of herbs.” Tovah shrugged. “It’s pretty potent— Dreamless Sleep. That’s what the healers call it. Even a small dose will knock you out for hours.” She shifted in the stiff wooden chair. “It’s kind of like having a hangover once you wake up from it. But it should ebb by morning.”

Angelo digested this in silence, continuing to eat chunks of bread until the loaf was fully devoured. Then he tore off a strip of the fruit leather, twirling it idly like a small child might. “So... why did you want to stay? Wasn’t your mother upset?”

“I don’t know if she’s upset,” Tovah said. “I didn’t exactly ask her permission.” She shrugged. “I felt bad. That Matvey shocked you. He shouldn’t have done that. He was really rash in doing that.”

The prince tilted his head, blinking owlishly. “You weren’t angry? That I yelled at you? I’m surprised he even bothered with a warning before shocking me.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t angry,” Tovah replied. “Only that he shouldn’t have shocked you. Yelling isn’t the same thing as attacking. There was no need for him to blitz you like that.” She sighed. “It’s not an excuse, but… he’s been stressed lately. I imagine that’s why he did it. Taking out his aggravation in little ways. Flexing power where he has some.”

Angelo frowned, not really able to find it in him to feel much sympathy for one of his foremost tormentors, but not wanting to start an argument again. He finally ate the strip of fruit leather, then polished off the rest of his meal quietly. Tovah didn’t speak while he ate, the two of them maintaining a thick but not entirely uncomfortable silence until Angelo finally sighed, set aside his food, and turned back to her.

“So…” he slumped back against his pillow, his eyelids heavy and his belly now pleasantly full. “Did you want to talk about something?”’

She shrugged. “I don’t know— nothing in particular.” A beat. “Did… you?”

He bit his lip. “I don’t know. Sometimes it’s… easier to not. Talk. Think.”

“Aw,” she teased gently, “but where’s the fun in that?” After hesitating for a moment, Tovah stood from her chair, then padded around to the other— empty— side of his bed. “Mind if I…?” she started. “Not that I don’t like the chair— it’s just… a tad uncomfortable after six hours.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Alright- if you want.” He looked up at the top box of the bed- bare of curtains since they’d been taken out a month or so ago- and closed his eyes. “I… I am sorry for yelling. At least. I shouldn’t have. It just… it’s…”

“It’s all right,” Tovah said. “As much as my mother would like them to, I can’t just expect for all the ideas you were raised with to evaporate overnight.” Edging herself down onto the bed, and propping up one of the fluffy down pillows to use as a backrest, she added, “I talked to Matvey. Told him that if he ever shocks you like that again without very good reason, he’ll be meeting the wrong side of my wand.”

A small smile quirked at the corner of Angelo’s mouth. “Thanks. You’d think the fact that both of us were still sitting would’ve been a clue I wasn’t attacking you.”

“He’s stressed,” Tovah said again. “Frustrated. He’s been having some… personal issues.”

The prince opened his eyes again, looking confused but not pressing it. “As long as he doesn’t take it out on me again.” Angelo bit his lip. “Though I do know that being upset can make you lash out. I may have slapped my father after my aunt died two years ago in a heated moment.”

Tovah raised a brow. “You slapped your father? The king?”

“I was angry,” he said softly. “See… Aunt Thais was a priest. Father’s sister, but she didn’t want a political marriage so she joined the clergy at fifteen and ended up a priest in a city just south of the Galfras. She still visited us often, every Woomas if she could, and I used to love hearing her tell stories and parables from the Books of the Woo.”

Angelo shook his head. “Then, about two years ago… There was an attack. On the city. A Meltaiman war party. They sacked the city, captured the government officials, and killed anybody that fought back. A lot of people tried to take refuge from the slaughter in the church, but the Meltaimans weren’t stupid. They came to attack the church, meaning to burn it to the ground. But Aunt Thais, she was a mage, just like me. She put up a shield spell, a huge one, around the entire church grounds. The Meltaimans attacked the shield, trying to get inside. Over and over and over they hit her shield, draining her as she fought to keep it up against their onslaught. Eventually, they finally pierced through, Aunt Thais too spellsick to keep casting- but at that exact moment, the Special Forces finally arrived, and chased the Meltaimans off. Not one person in that church died that day. Except Aunt Thais. She was hit with a ribboning spell as the barrier came down.”

Angelo bit his lip. “Father… he was doing what a king should have been doing. Spinning it. Pointing out how the Lord Woo protected his people through Aunt Thais, giving her the strength to hold on until the very end, and sparing every life that she took into her church. But I didn’t care, at the time. All I cared about was that my aunt was dead. So after the speech was over, and we were alone, yes. Like an idiot, I hit him.”

“That’s the worst,” Tovah murmured softly. She quailed for a moment, then reached across the bed to set a gentle hand on his arm. “People trying to… to make a purpose over what doesn’t have any. Like with my brother. Kuba. My mother— all she did was prattle about how the gods must want him for a higher purpose. How we must not mourn him, for the gods knew best.” She shook her head. “I didn’t care what the gods wanted. I cared what I wanted. And I wanted my brother.”

Angelo swallowed hard, putting a shaking hand over Tovah’s and squeezing. “In Valzaim we have a saying. That when men weep, the Lord Woo sees their sorrow and weeps with them. That he wishes he could take away our pain, but he cannot, because adversity and hardship are what teach us to appreciate the things that are good.” He took a jagged breath. “Father wasn’t angry with me. Instead he hugged me. Apologized for what he had to do. Because even though he couldn’t show the court, he was hurting too. And he, smarter than me, knew that we needed to be there for each other, not take our grief out on one another.”

The prince gave Tovah a shaky smile, letting go of her hand to reach towards her and squeeze her shoulder. “You… you’re like my father that way. Even though everything is dark, you help me to feel happy. At least a little. Like in the parables. Even when you have no reason to stay.”

“I’m glad I can help you, Angie,” Tovah said with a wan smile. “Even if just… in small ways.”

Angelo withdrew his hand, letting his head fall back into the pillows. “Well you know. The Book of Wisdom says that even the tiniest mustard seed sown into fertile ground grows into a tree that produces herbs to eat and branches for the birds to nest in.” He waved a hand indistinctly, his eyelids fluttering. “You can’t underestimate the small things.”

“Mmhm,” Tovah agreed, quirking a bemused brow. It was clear the prince was fighting— and losing— a battle against the drowsing after-effects of the tonic. “Small things are good. They’re what make the big things more tolerable, sometimes.”

“Yes,” Angelo agreed. “Do not despair, oh children of the Woo, for my wings are wide and their shelter plentiful.” He yawned, slouching over slightly. “I will be with you to comfort in times of trial, and… and w-watch with pride-,” he yawned again. “As you triumph.”

Her other brow shot up. “That a verse?” she asked him.

“Mm-hm,” he agreed. “The Book of Heart. Chapter Five. Verse twenty-seven.” His eyes slid shut, and this time he made no effort to pull them back open. “The Book of Heart is… is about the Woo’s love. Forgiveness a-and,” he yawned a third time, sliding sideways on his pillow. “And how to live by his mercy.”

He seemed to have lost any capacity to keep himself marginally upright, as the prince slid down so that his cheek was resting against Tovah’s arm. She laughed— softly, wonderingly— and adjusted herself so that her arm was slung around him, his head nestled against her collarbone and woolen curls tickling at her chin.

A small smile played at Angelo’s lips, and he drowsily whispered, “You’re… warm.”

“Yep,” she agreed. “Humans generally are.”

“Hmm.” It wasn’t clear if the noise was one of agreement, or just the inarticulate murmur of a man fast falling asleep. Then, “Humans. They… they’re humans too.”

“Hrmm?” she murmured, running a gentle, stroking hand down his back. “What’s that, sleepyhead?”

“The… blanks,” he whispered. “They’re warm… human… scared. Please don’t do the bleeding. They’re… scared.”

Angelo then finally lost the battle with slumber, going completely limp against Tovah’s side as his breathing levelled off. She did not dare to move him— not for a very long while, when her arm grew numb from supporting him, and his eyelids were fluttering from deep within the throes of slumber. Even then, Tovah was careful as she slid him back to his side of the bed, and was mindful of her every footfall as she stood and padded back to the door.

It was a low guard on door duty— not Kott— and the woman didn’t say a word to Tovah as she slipped past, and Tovah didn’t say a word to her. Back in the imperial flat, she’d expected to find the place cast in shadows, quiet at this midnight hour. Instead, she hadn’t made it two steps through the door before a spill of magelights caught the corner of her eye. Flowing out from within…

Her stomach flipped. Her mother’s study.

“And what little mouse do I hear pitter pattering through the corridors after midnight,” sang a voice from within the room. There was a creak from a chair, then Urszula pushed the door open the rest of the way. “Ah! Tovah dear! I was starting to wonder if you’d be joining us at all tonight!”

“I was waiting to make sure he was okay, Mother,” Tovah replied, freezing at the threshold of the study door. She didn’t want to step inside. That might make Urszula think she wanted to talk, when in truth that was the last thing the girl desired right now. “He’s fine,” she added, swallowing hard. “Motya shocked him hard, but… he’s fine.”

“I should hope so, considering the current cuff is not spelled to give lethal shocks,” the empress retorted. “A fact which you well know. You needn’t have worried.”

“One can never be too careful, Mother.” Tovah shrugged. She wanted to clench her jaw but didn’t dare— the Glass Empress would notice and call her out for being ‘surly’. “I’m tired now, though,” she continued. “I should sleep.”

“Just a moment of your time,” the empress insisted, crooking her finger. “Gods know I wouldn't want to keep you from your bed too long.”

Tovah took a step inside the study— only one. She wasn’t going to sit, not unless her mother ordered her to. “Yes, Mother?” she asked.

Urszula took a backwards step, lips pursed at her daughter’s impudence. “I’d like you to consider for a moment,” she said crisply, “the fact that the full court is present in the palace for the holidays. Consider also the… whispers that might spread were one of our visiting nobles to get wind of the fact that you spent the entire afternoon, evening, and well into the night in a young man’s rooms.”

“I thought you wanted me to seduce him, Mother,” Tovah said flatly. “I thought he was my fiance. He fell asleep literally in my arms tonight. Even after Matvey shocked the hells out of him. I think I should be getting laurels. Not lectures.”

The empress was clearly caught off guard by this. After a moment she muttered, “Just be more conscientious of your honor, dear. That’s all I’m asking.” A beat. “Did he really?”

“I think the Dreamless Sleep might’ve had a bit to do with it,” Tovah said. “But yes. Really. Like a babe. He let me hold him and stroke his back.”

The empress smirked. “Well. And you thought at the beginning that you couldn't do it. I knew you were more than a match for a blank-raised child. He can't help being not nearly as smart and cunning as you are.”

Tovah squashed her brow. “It has nothing to do with cunning, Mother,” she said. “He’s a person. I talk to him. Instead of treating him like a novelty and then electrocuting him when he makes me cross.”

Here Urszula scowled a bit. “Different approaches for different objectives. Can you honestly say he has not come a very long way since we brought him here? He does almost anything we ask of him now, with little resistance.”

“Because you’ve trained him like a terrified blank,” Tovah said. “If he doesn’t do what you ask, you shock him. If he really upsets you, then you flog him bloody.” She shook her head, black curls catching in the artificial light of the mage-lamps that illuminated her mother’s study. “I wouldn’t resist you, either, if you were treating me like that. No one would. No one. It’s instinct, Mother. Survival. But…” She turned away from Urszula, to face the hall. “That doesn’t mean he’s coming around to our side. It only means we’ve broken him. And you seem to think he’ll be— I don’t know. A plate dropped onto the floor and cleaved into only a few tidy pieces. Easy to mend back together how you want it. But honestly, Mother? I don’t think so. I think he’s more like ceramic that’s exploded in the kiln. All you’ve got left now is dust and shards. There’s no way you’re going to piece it— him— back into what you’re envisioning. You’re just not.”

Urszula folded her arms, looking distinctly unamused. “And I should let him attack us, screech like a banshee when he’s cross, and consign his soul to eternal torment?” She snorted. “Very well, you’re the one who is making the most strides in winning his trust. What do you propose?”

“Treat him like a person, Mother,” Tovah said with an exaggerated, exasperated shrug. “Like you actually intend for him to be your son-in-law one day, not a prisoner you'll shock to kingdom come at the drop of a hat.” She ranted on, voice growing unintentionally pitchy: “Give him a different suite of rooms. With windows so he can see outside. Ward them if you must if you're afraid he'll try escaping or jumping— hells, I’ll ward them myself!-- but let him see the sunlight for more than an hour at a time during our lessons. And,” she added, “take off that godsdamned current cuff. Don't even give Matvey the chance to shock him stupid over nothing. Not ever again.”

The queen shook her head. “I’ll stop treating him as my enemy when he stops acting it. Randomly destroying things and screaming at my daughter are not the way to win my trust.”

“Then I think you'll find yourself at a stalemate, Mother.” Tovah took a step back into the hall. This was a risky move— the Glass Empress had hardly dismissed her— but she was willing to dare it. “He acts your enemy because you treat him as such.”

The empress ground her teeth. “Stay where you are, Tovah. I don’t like that tone, nor do I like you siding with that boy over me.” Drawing herself up, Urszula said coolly, “When he starts to address us in Meltaiman instead of defaulting to Valzick outside of all his lessons, I might consider removing his current cuff. When he agrees to convert, I will give him a new, more expansive suite. Not before. Will that do to satisfy you?”

Tovah froze where she stood, stiffening. She did not look back at her mother. “You dangle rewards on the roof without giving him a ladder to reach even the second floor,” Tovah said. “You can't be surprised when he falls, Mother. When he fails.”

“You will not,” the Glass Empress snapped, “talk to me like that, Tovah. Prince Angelo will not fail. You will not let him. He has already let himself get emotionally invested in you. He will do anything you ask him to, given enough time. But don’t take that success to mean you know better than me. I won’t tolerate such diffidence.”

“Yes, my empress.” Each word tasted bitter, and Tovah bit down— hard— on her tongue. “As always, you know best.”

Urszula seemed to want to say more, but instead she only waved a hand in dismissal. “Get some sleep. You still have a prayer to draft.”

Chapter Twelve

SPOILER: Click to show

Angelo didn’t see Tovah much for the next two weeks- she was busy with her duties as princess and heir during the holiday festivities. This meant that Angelo was left to brood quite a bit. And brood he did.

Because he knew exactly what Tovah would be doing at those holiday events.

In a desperate attempt to distract himself, he drew several large, detailed illustrations of the interiors of the palace in Valla as they looked when decorated for Woomas. But that just made him more melancholy, and after a while he set his charcoal aside with a sigh. Somewhere in this castle, someone was going to be sliced open and bled for the sake of the Meltaimans’ party. It was hard to focus on happy childhood memories of cakes and presents knowing that.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, he lost himself to several fits of anger while isolated with nothing but the helpless knowledge of what was to come. A portrait yanked off the wall and smashed against the floor. One of the armchairs clawed until he managed to tear most of the stuffing out of the cushion. The table flipped so that a large crack was left across its top side.

When he caught himself at this, Angelo was terrified, and tried to stop. But it got harder and harder all the time.

Kott— who, true to Tovah’s assessment, indeed seemed to be more stressed and irritable than usual— began to react rather… negatively to these fits of destruction, to say the least. When he found another object in the apartment mutilated he confiscated it. No warning. No negotiation. Soon the windowless rooms were down not only the curtains and rug Angelo had already lost but half the artwork and furniture, too.

By the time Tovah finally surfaced again, a few days after the New Year, the apartment looked as though it had been the scene of a war.

“Dear gods,” she breathed as she stood at the threshold of the living room, icy eyes sweeping its suddenly barren decor. “Where's your table? And the red armchair? And the golden mirror?”

Angelo, who was lying on the sofa with his back to the door, moaned. “I can’t stop it. I can’t stop it. I get so frustrated with staring at the same few things over and over and it just boils out and-” he inhaled jerkily. “Kott takes them. The things I break. H-he says if I can’t appreciate luxury I don’t get it.”

“Angelo.” She edged gingerly forward. “You're frightening me just a bit. … All right, just a lot.” She tilted her head, studying his slumped form. “Sit up, please?” she half-asked, half-commanded. “And look at me. Please.”

He flinched, not turning. “Get me out. I need out. I-I-I need out of this room, you’re right, I’m going crazy cooped up in here a-and I need out.”

“Angelo,” she said. Her voice was harder. “Sit up. Face me. Please.”

He slowly pushed himself up, turning his head towards Tovah’s face. “Why. Why are you nice to me? No one else is. I’m j-just a heathen, aren’t I? One who screams over the idea of a blank being bled and-”

“Hey.” She strode to his side and sat beside him, hand gentle but firm as she placed it over his knee. “Don't talk about yourself like that.”

“And why not?” he demanded sharply, digging his nails into his arms. “It’s what they all think, isn’t it? Even you said it- I can’t help the culture I was born to. You think that way even if you don’t say so, a-and you don’t really care about it, about how I feel, y-you just want to get me over it and-”

“Now that's just mean.” Tovah knitted her brow, a frown ticking at her lips. “You know I care about you. And that means I care about how you feel— even if I don't agree with it. I've never once asked you to ‘just get over it’.” She drew her hand back from his knee. “I'm trying for you, Angelo. I am. To be your advocate, to make things better for you. But you have to put effort in, too. I can't help you if you're… you're…” She gestured brusquely toward the half-emptied room they sat in. “If you're acting like this.”

“Do you think this doesn’t terrify me?” Angelo demanded, rocketing to his feet and pacing agitatedly. “I’m not like this! I’ve never been like this! But the longer I spend here the less I feel like… like me.” He squeezed his eyes shut, shivering hard. “I’m a prisoner, going mad in a tiny coffin of a room, while my father does what precisely? Makes angry peacock noises at the border without actually launching any concrete attempts to come to my rescue? It’s been months! And now the empress is pressuring me to convert, she says she wants me to convert, but I won’t, I won’t do it I-”

“Angelo,” she cut in. Exhaling slowly, she patted the couch cushion beside her, where he'd been sitting before. “Take a deep breath,” she said, “and sit. Please?” When he didn't immediately oblige she prompted again: “Come on. Pretty please?”

His teeth chattering, Angelo reluctantly gave a long, slow inhale, then collapsed back onto the sofa. A small whimper escaped him.

“What is h-happening to me?”

“Shhh,” she soothed, reaching out to clasp his wrist. Pressing her pointer finger against its hollow, where his pulse drummed fast as a hummingbird’s wings, Tovah said, “Your heart is racing. You need to calm down, Angie.” She paused. Considered. “I know,” she murmured after a moment. “Why don't you tell me a story? One of your stories. Those always seem to make you happy— like your one about the day where people only eat sweets.”

He swallowed hard, looking like he was about to cry. But after a moment, he gave a reluctant nod. “A-alright. Okay. I…” he seemed to ponder, then murmured, “I could tell you the reason we celebrate Woomas. The story of it, in the Book of Heart.”

Tovah smiled softly. Encouragingly. “That's the holiday that ends on my birthday, right?” She scooted closer to him, so that their shoulders brushed, and then leaned her head against him. “If so— perfect. I'll just rest my eyes here, and you can storytell to your heart’s content.”

Angelo felt his face heat up, but in spite of himself he gave a small, tremulous smile. “Well the story goes that a long, long time ago, in the kingdom known as Kyth, there was a very strange autumn. No worse than any other autumn, hard but not excessively so. But what made it strange was the people. They were afflicted with a bizarre, lingering frustration and depression that they just couldn’t shake, which sapped them of their will to work or play…”

Angelo continued to tell the story, of how concerned for his people the Lord Woo descended from the heavens to try and ferret out the source of their supernatural unhappiness. How He discovered a demon that feasted on misery preying on his people. How He encouraged the afflicted to find hope in their despair both in their faith for Him, and in their love and compassion for one another. Coming together to sing songs of hope, using the sugar fast and its breaking to bolster the energy of not only the people but the mages- who were horribly spellsick from the power keeping them miserable. A day just for coming together to share happy memories with loved ones, and to tell one another how much they appreciated each other.

And the final day, after the misery had been banished, the day that fell on Tovah’s birthday. The day of celebration, where people exchanged gifts with one another, held parties, and made merry. The day that the Woo watched his people, content in their joy, and returned to the realms of the gods with the instruction that they needed to keep their guards up against the dark misery of winter, lest the events of the story repeat.

As Angelo talked, Tovah leaned against him with her eyes shut and arm draped over his lap. She said nothing to interrupt him, but from her occasional nods and smiles it was clear she was listening, and once he was done her eyelids fluttered open. She looked up at him, their eyes hooking.

“That was a nice story,” she declared. “Happy. Gentle.”

“I used to love making Aunt Thais tell it when I was a kid,” Angelo mused. “It’s one of the few times in the holy Books that the Woo interferes directly, but it also shows you what kind of god He is. That He responded to the problem by… reminding people of what was really important, and that they should draw their strength from that. Love. Family. Community. The simple pleasure of a sugary treat or a song shared with friends.”

“It's a good message,” Tovah said. She gnawed on her lip, contemplating. “You… really believe all of it, don't you?” she asked. “It's not just a story to you. It's real.”

“I do,” he said softly. “The Lord Woo is real. He truly did all the things that happened in the Books.” His jaw trembled. “And I won’t forsake Him for gods that aren’t happy unless people are being bled for them. I know you’re trying to help me, and I’m sorry, but I won’t. I can’t.”

For a very long moment, Tovah didn't speak. Then, somewhat hesitantly, she reached out, took his hand, and squeezed it against hers. “Do you think you could… could pretend, at least? To sate my mother. So she lets you out of these rooms.”

“No,” he said, softly but firmly. “I can’t be fake like that. I c-can’t watch innocent people get sliced open and act like I don’t care. I c-can’t watch you do that and not care. It…” his voice fell to barely more than a whisper. “It would break me, Tovah. It’s hard enough knowing you do these things. Seeing it? You’re the only thing left in my life that makes me feel happy. It would destroy me.”

Tovah looked away from him. “I'm sorry,” she said, voice almost too level. As though she were fighting with everything inside of her to keep it that way. “I wish I didn't have to do… things like that. If it'd make you happy. But I…” She shrugged. “I haven't exactly got a choice.”

Angelo shook his head. “That’s another thing Wooism teaches- there is always a choice. The right choice isn’t always easy. Usually it’s very hard. But that doesn’t make it less right.” He looked down at his hands. “There are a lot of things I could do. But I don’t, because I have to hang on to some semblance of myself.”

“You can say that,” Tovah replied, still not looking at him, “but you've met my mother, haven't you? She's not the sort to… promote free choice, shall we say? What do you think would even happen, Angelo— if I were to just… do what you want and refuse her orders?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But honestly? I’d choose death over becoming what she wants me to be. I’m not asking you to do anything- but that’s how I feel.”

“You worry me.” Tovah finally turned back toward him, her throat bobbing. “When you talk like that.” She bit her lip. Hard. “I don't know what we were, originally,” the girl went on. “I talked to you because Mother said I must and you talked to me because— well, I guess you didn't have a choice. But now…” She let out a hiss of frustration. “I shouldn't care about you. I should be like my mother and— and not care about anyone except myself. It'd be easier that way. But I do care. I— I've started to realize that despite myself, I care a whole lot. And I'm afraid, Angelo. Of what's going to happen to you if you don't roll over like my mother wants. She's patient, but she's going to grow bored with this eventually. I know her. She will. And I worry. Gods, I worry.”

“What do you suggest, Tovah?” he asked softly. “That I surrender? Become tame like one of you bleeder blanks who don’t fear being put under a knife?”

Tovah winced as if she'd been slapped, and scooted a cushion further away from him. “I think I should hate you,” she whimpered. Her breath hitched. “I want to hate you. You're… you're making everything so complicated. Things that were never complicated.”

Angelo frowned, looking towards her and tilting his head. “What do you mean, ‘complicated’? What am I making complicated exactly?”

“Everything!” she snapped. Her voice had grown louder, though she didn't seem angry. Only…harrowed. Conflicted. Calming herself— she didn't want Kott or one of his lackeys storming in— she added at a lower tone: “Everything, Angelo.” She clenched her jaw. “Things have always been simple for me. Written in stone. Excel at my lessons, please Mother, charm the court. Grow up and marry some northerner’s son and bear an heir and— and— take over for my mother and continue marching down the path she laid and—” She cut herself off. She was growing winded. “And then you showed up,” she whimpered. “And I was supposed to seduce you. Deceive you. Use you. And instead… we play games. We read and talk. You tell me stories.” A beat. “I-I like your stories. And not only because they calm you.”

Angelo blinked, caught off guard by the tirade. Then, hesitantly, he reached a hand out towards the Meltaiman princess. She flinched, but after another moment scooted back toward him to accept it, gingerly.

And her voice was hollow— fragile— as an old honeycomb then as she told him: “She was scared, Angelo. You were right. She was scared.”

“She…” Understanding dawned in Angelo’s expression, and he winced. “You mean… the blank? The one at the holiday party?”

“Who else?” Tovah laughed, and it was not a joyful sound. “But yes. Her. I never look into their eyes, Angelo, but this time I did. Just a peek. But I did. And she was…”

The prince acted on impulse- he couldn’t have said why he was driven to do it, but he was, and he didn’t fight the instinct. He put both arms around Tovah, and pulled her to his chest in a hug. At first she stiffened, clearly caught off guard, before with a shaky breath she slumped against him like a flour sack drained of all its filling.

“You’re ruining everything,” she whispered, pressing her face against the soft fabric of his tunic. “Gods, you’re ruining everything, Angie. W-why are you ruining everything?”

“I’m not trying to,” he murmured. After a moment of quiet, he asked, “Was it bad?”

“I don’t know.” She shuddered. “I d-didn’t even mean to— to look. I just… as the rites went on, it was droning, and I was bored, and my mind started to wander, and of course it wandered to you. Because… it always does, these days. And soon all I could think about was what you’d said before Matvey shocked you, and I got… angry, I guess. I w-wanted to… to…” She laughed again, just as humorlessly as the last time. “Does it sound awful if I say I wanted to prove you wrong? That I wanted to glance at the woman and find nothing? A blank slate. A soulless void fulfilling its purpose.” Tovah blinked hard. “Then I peeked, and it was… she was— she was in her twenties, probably. Late tw-twenties. And since bleeders are usually trained from the time they’re small, that means it was hardly her f-first bleed. She should’ve been used to it. She should’ve been perfect. And in some ways, she was. She didn’t cry, she didn’t struggle, she didn’t flinch, she didn’t even frown. But in her eyes, Angelo? She was terrified. In pain and utterly terrified.”

The prince bit his lip, gently tightening his grip over Tovah. “I don’t think you’re a bad person, Tovah. Not at all. I don’t think you’d want to cause unnecessary pain and suffering. So… I don’t blame you. That you wanted me to be wrong. I’m only sorry I wasn’t. I’m so, so sorry.”

“My whole life,” Tovah whispered, “Valzaim has just been… the Enemy. Blanks have been blanks. My mother— I’ve always known she could do bad things, but… she was my mother. And surely if she was doing bad things, then they couldn’t be so bad, after all.” She shut her eyes, tears burning. Tovah didn’t want to cry, but she wasn’t sure if she could help it. “Then you showed up. And even b-before that stupid holiday party— it’s… I don’t know. You’re Valzick, a heathen, a blood traitor. Yet you’re also clever and funny and sweet. And my mother shocks you to the hells for blinking wrong. She has you whipped raw. She talks about you like you’re some confused, lost soul who merely needs our rescuing. And— at the start of this, even if I thought her plan was mad because no Valzick prince would crumble and join our side… now I think I’m starting to realise it’s mad in an entirely different way. That the problem isn’t that you can’t be rescued. It’s that we’re not the rescuers my mother thinks we are. I don’t think w-we’re rescuers at all.”

Angelo swallowed hard. “It scared me, you know. How you were getting to me. More than the empress did in some ways. I felt like I was losing. Like a Meltaiman princess shouldn't get me to like them at all, let alone as much as I care about you. But… You’re not just different because you don't treat me like a dangerous animal that needs to be tamed. You care about me. You really care. And I can't think of you as my enemy. I can't treat you as my enemy.” He laughed, a raw wet laugh. “As much as it would be easier for both of us if I could. If we could go on thinking of each other as faceless heathen monsters.”

“It would be easier,” she agreed. “So much easier.” She snuffled. “You want to know something pathetic, Angelo? Something I don’t think I’ve ever admitted to anyone, so occupied as I’ve been being Mother’s perfect heir— just as sharp as her, just as haughty, just as glass-like?”

The prince rubbed her upper arm. “What’s that?”

“You always talk about the p-people you’ve had in your life,” Tovah said. “Your father, your aunt, your mother— e-even the friends you made in the military. All these people you’ve loved. Who’ve loved you, unconditionally. And then— then I start to think about myself. And all the people in my life. And know what I realise?” She fought back a nauseated shiver. “I’ve had barely anyone like that. Not my mother, certainly not her hound dogs like Matvey and— and—” She shook her head. “There’s no one, Angelo. Not except for my father, perhaps, and he died when I was eight. And then, what? My brother, I suppose. Kuba. And he died when we were six. When we were six. A cursed decade ago.”

Angelo swallowed hard, a sharp jab of sympathy stabbing him in the gut. “That… that sounds awful. Unbearably lonely. Even here at least I have you…” The prince laughed then, softly, wonderingly. “Though… I guess that's something at least? You have me. That’s another thing the Woo teaches. To share your love around equally.”

“My mother would say not to l-let my guard down,” Tovah murmured. “Around you. That you might just be saying what I want to hear. So you can… I don’t know.” She sniffled again. “Wait until I’m not paying attention and then— grab my wand, or the triggerstone from my pocket, or…” Her voice trailed off. “In the past I’ve always listened to her. Tried to look at the world with the same cynicism that she does. But I don’t think I c-can anymore. At least, not when it comes to you. Because if all of this just an e-elaborate trick on your end, then… then...”

“Then I’ll be dead before I get off the palace grounds,” Angelo replied teasingly. “Even assuming I could get your wand off of you. You are much smarter and more formidable than I am, I think. Also in much better shape.” He gave the Meltaiman princess another squeeze. “And I think I like you much better as a friend than an enemy.”

She managed a very watery laugh, but quickly sobered again as she told him, “Pl-please don’t get yourself hurt, Angelo. I know this is… is your living nightmare come hither, but— please. If you won’t budge on anything t-to do with religion, then… with something, please, let’s find something we can use to show my mother that you are adapting, that you are coming around, that you’re not going to just keep— destroying her furniture and artwork and sliding into madness.” She swallowed hard. “It’ll be like— a game. Our game. Us against her. Our mind games a-against hers.”

The prince’s face fell, but after a moment he nodded slowly. “You’re right. If I’m going to be stuck here, I may as well do what I can to make the situation more… Livable.” He deflated, an odd light of defeat in his eyes. “After all, I think at this point it's pretty obvious no one is coming to my rescue. Four months of posturing to no purpose. Father’s probably given in to pressure from the court to remarry and sire a new heir by now.”

“He hasn’t, if that’s any consolation,” Tovah said. “A-as far as our intel goes… the only reason h-he hasn’t tried something to rescue you is because you’re impossibly f-far north inside our borders, and my mother’s told him if he sends so much as a troop into Meltaim, we’ll know. And then she’ll kill you. But…” She looked at him straight on. “He’s still hovering on th-that border, Angelo. He hasn’t given up. I promise— he hasn’t given up.”

Angelo blinked hard. Then, softly, he said, “Would. Would it help you think if I… if I started asking your mother questions during her infernal tea time? About Meltaim. History, politics.”

“Yes,” Tovah said. “And try to talk t-to her in Meltaiman, too. As much as you can— using as much as you know.”

“I’ve been studying it for a month, so that’s ‘not much,’” he pointed out dryly. “But I’ll… do my best.” He choked on a sob, but in spite of his trembling shoulders he didn’t crumple.

Still pressed against him, Tovah let out a fluttering breath. “Thank you, Angelo,” the girl said simply.