~Medieval Stories by Avery~

[Shinko]

Continued...

A Question of Souls

Chapter Thirteen

SPOILER: Click to show

“Tooooovah!” The Glass Empress sang as she entered the royal’s private sitting room, Kott trailing at her heels. “Tovah darling, are you here?”

Tovah, seated on a velvet-embroidered settee with a book in her lap, looked up and quirked her brow. Her mother sounded… happy— which was always jarring, because the empress’s joy never came across quite right. It was always missing something. Like a veneer. Painted and lacquered with nothing of value beneath it.

“Mother,” the teenager said, shutting the book. “You need something?” The empress always needed something. She never talked merely for the sake of it.

“Motya and I were just having tea with Prince Angelo, and well,” she smiled towards her nephew, who was trailing her into the room; her expression looked positively predatory. “He gave us quite the surprise, wouldn’t you say?”

“Mm,” Kott said by way of agreement. There were bags beneath his eyes— heavy ones. He looked as if he had an infinite number of places he'd have rather been than skulking after his aunt like an obedient hound. “It was quite surprising, yes.”

“Oh?” said Tovah.

“Meltaiman,” the Empress purred. “He spoke to us only in Meltaiman. His accent is awful of course and his communication as basic as a toddler but… he didn’t try to default to Valzick once, even when he didn’t know a word.”

Tovah only barely bit back a small smirk. She and Angelo had been slowly been working up to this, ever since their teary confessional conversation over a month ago. They'd known they needed to take baby steps, that Urszula would grow suspicious if his turnaround was too quick, and it had been a great effort in patience not to rush matters.

It delighted Tovah to no end to see that it had started working.

That finally, finally, it had started working.

Her voice the perfect measure of neutral surprise, she said to her mother: “Oh? Is that so? How lovely— that must've been the nicest surprise.”

Urszula smiled widely. “The gods work their miracles for us, purging the evil that the blanks have instilled in Angelo’s heart.” She tilted her head. “And I do believe I made a promise to reward him if he started to speak in Meltaiman properly, didn’t I my love?”

“You did,” agreed Tovah, not daring to let herself sound too eager. Nor did she wish to push her luck, voice casual as she suggested, “Perhaps a flat with windows, Mother? Like we spoke about before?”

“As I said, he can have a flat with windows once he converts,” Urszula said, quirking an eyebrow as her lips curled slightly in a frown. “But- I will keep my promise to have off his current cuff. I think at this point he is trustworthy enough not to need it- and I daresay if he abuses that trust, we can handle it.” She quirked an eyebrow towards Kott, who only heaved a sigh.

“If that is your will, majesty,” her nephew said. He hesitated for a moment. “Although… if you believe he is more trustworthy… shall you still require my service as his guard? As you might understand, I— ah…” He shifted on his heel. “I might prefer to spend my energies elsewhere. These days.”

“Patience, Motya,” she soothed, putting a hand on her nephew’s shoulder. “There is time yet- have a little faith, hm?”

Kott clenched his jaw, and Tovah frowned. “Have you scheduled the tests yet?” she asked.

“No.” Kott looked away, a rare flash of emotion that wasn't merely derision or anger crossing his pale face. “Your mother wishes to wait until springtime.” A beat. “Until… closer to his birthday.”

“I keep telling you it’ll be fine,” Urszula said firmly. “And we’re celebrating right now, remember? Why, I think this calls for a nice family dinner.” She smirked towards Tovah. “Just you, me, Motya’s brood, and your groom-to-be.”

As Kott scowled, seemingly put off by his aunt’s cool dismissal, Tovah blinked. “Dinner?” she asked. “With— all of us?”

“You wanted me to start treating Angelo like a man who will one day be my son-in-law, did you not?” Urszula asked, lifting a brow. “Have you changed your mind?”

“No,” Tovah said quickly. “Of course not.” She made herself sit a bit straighter. “Shall we being having the meal in the banquet hall, or…”

“Oh, no need for such formality,” the girl’s mother replied. “We’re introducing Angelo to his future family, so we’ll keep it low-key. A nice dinner in our private dining room. And at the conclusion we can surprise him by taking his current cuff.”

“Tonight?” Tovah dearly hoped she wasn't seeming overeager.

“Hmm,” Urszula clearly hadn’t intended for something on such short notice, but after a moment she shrugged. “All right. Show him quickly that progress metes rewards. Though if I didn’t know any better I’d almost think you’ve grown fond of our little heathen houseguest.”

“Well.” Tovah schooled her face to an expression of cool indifference. “He is to be my husband, nay? I've always been under the impression that being fond of your spouse is acceptable.” She wagged her brow. “Even helpful, in certain avenues.”

Urszula chuckled, gently swatting her daughter on the arm. A few hours later, sure enough, as the family was gathered and the last of the preparations for dinner being undertaken in the kitchen, Kott escorted an extremely bewildered- and for once not hooded- Angelo into the imperial family’s private dining room. Tovah, already seated in one of the cushioned chairs at the polished oak dining table, smiled immediately toward Angelo, giving him what she rather hoped was a look of reassurance… but before she could manage proper verbal greeting, the small, wild-haired boy who sat beside her— Kott’s son— beat her to it.

“You’re the prince!” he trilled in singsong Meltaiman; at six, he was too small yet to have begun his foreign language lessons, and so he spoke not a lick of Valzick. “Papa says you’re a heathen, is it true you’re a heathen—”

“Eitan!” Kott looked horrified. “That’s terribly rude— hardly a way to greet a guest!”

The boy grinned bashfully. “Sorry, Papa.”

Angelo had only caught a faint smattering of the rapid exchange between father and son, but he at least recognized the cheery tone of the little boy’s words and smiled kindly towards him. “Good evening, small prince. I’m Angelo. It’s nice to meet you.”

All simple phrases he’d learned by rote, thank Woo, but still he glanced towards Tovah as if to check he’d spoken correctly. She nodded in encouragement— and the little boy, Eitan, beamed like a summer sun at high noon.

“I’m not a prince,” he chirped, giggling. “I’m a lord.”

Tovah just barely stifled a laugh. “That’s right,” she said, reaching out to pat her cousin’s shoulder. “Such a smart little boy, aren’t you, Eitan?”

“Uh-huh!” he agreed. A beat. “But— is it true? That he’s a heathen like Papa said?”

Seated on the other side of her son, with her and Matvey’s toddler daughter perched on her knee, Kott’s wife gently tugged the small boy's ear. "Eitan, we don't gossip about people, remember? It's impolite." She cast Angelo a wan, guarded smile. "Hello, Prince Angelo. I am Iwona Kott. Major-General Matvey is my husband. It's good to finally meet you."

Angelo bowed his head, swallowing hard as he followed Kott's direction to a seat across from Tovah and Eitan. "Good to meet you," he parroted. "Thank you... ah... thank you... food, with me."

“Hopefully you shall enjoy the meal, hm?” Kott said as he took his own seat. “I am sure Her Imperial Majesty has requested a delicious menu.”

Urszula, seated on Tovah’s other side, smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of doing less, dear nephew. It shall be resplendent.” To Eitan she added with a wink, “I’ve asked the cooks to prepare that pie you love so much for desert, so mind your Mama and Papa, okay?”

The boy grinned like a cat. “Okay!” he promised. “I'll be real good.”

Kott, rather than looking endeared by his son’s enthusiasm, only heaved a weary sigh. “I'm sure you will be,” he said, forcing a wan smile. He snapped his fingers at a serving blank who hovered nearby. “Wine.”

The blank immediately scuttled over to fill Matvey’s pitcher, and Angelo was hard pressed not to wince. He couldn’t break character, but it was so hard not to look away from the slave who reacted with the trained promptness of a well-broken hound. He forced himself to smile at Kott-

Then his eyes hooked on a small chain of silver peeking out from under the man’s shirt, and his eye twitched. He flashed a look towards Tovah, feeling his throat catch. His mother’s ring.

As she followed his gaze, Tovah furrowed a brow. For a moment, the girl seemed merely confused— he'd only mentioned the heirloom necklace to her once, months ago. But then, after a few moments of racking her brain, it seemed to click in Tovah’s mind. She frowned. Crass— gods, it was crass, for her cousin to don the jewelry he'd pilfered at a meal he'd known Angelo was to attend.

“Something the matter, dears?” Urszula asked, a shade too cheerfully. Angelo winced.

“Is… good,” he said, forcing a smile. As the blanks began to emerge with what must have been a soup course he added to Eitan, “So, um… you… you battle-mage? Like Papa?”

Kott’s jaw snapped shut, as if he'd been punched— but Eitan, oblivious, nodded earnestly. “I will be!” he declared. “Once I'm older. An’ I get my wand.”

Tovah swallowed hard. “That's right,” she said— but her voice was somehow hollow. Like the empress’s eyes when she smiled. “You'll be a great soldier, I bet.”

Angelo frowned, caught off guard by Tovah and Kott’s reactions. A bowl of reddish soup was set in front of him, and he glanced down at it with furrowed brow. Iwona put an arm on her son’s shoulder, smiling thinly. “You will be a fine warmage, Eitan. I know it. Mama’s intuition.”

“Well.” Kott cleared his throat, exchanging an unknowable look with his wife, to which she scowled. “Shall we eat?”

“Yes, eat,” Tovah said, almost hurriedly. “You’ll like the soup, Angelo,” she told the Valzick prince. “It’s got a nice spice to it— you always complain our food’s too bland, right?”

“Spice is good,” Angelo agreed, wondering what on earth he was missing. He took a sip of the soup, tilting his head as the unfamiliar flavor slid over his tongue. “Good,” he repeated with a smile. Impishly he added, “but need salt.”

“Valzaim must have interesting cooking practices,” Urszula noted dryly. “But you are Meltaiman now, yes? So I’m sure you will learn to enjoy our food.”

“He already knows about my sweet tooth,” Tovah joked. “So he can buy me all the candy in the city. Isn’t that right, Angelo?”

The Valzick prince laughed softly. “Much money to buy candy, yes.” He mimed rubbing two coins together, and Kott’s toddler daughter giggled.

“He talks funny,” she announced.

“Yetta,” Kott warned, brow raised.

“What?” she tilted her head. “What’s-a matter, Papa?”

“It’s not polite to say people talk funny, love,” Yetta’s mother explained, patting the girl’s head. “Prince Angelo can’t help it, he’s from far away. He’s still learning Meltaiman.”

“I… not mad,” Angelo put in. He winked at the little girl. “Make good funny?”

“Uh-huh,” the child chirped, beaming. To her brother she added, “Angelo play?”

“Oooh.” Eitan seemed very excited about this day. “I bet he knows games - like Tovah! Do you know games, Prince Ang’lo? Do ya?”

He chuckled. “I know some. Make some too, hm?” he winked at Tovah.

“He's very creative,” Tovah agreed. “But I betchya you could beat him, hm? Clever as you are.”

Kott massaged his temple, teeth still gritted. As he moved his arm his stolen necklace swayed, tinkling on its chain, and Angelo clenched his teeth, eyes smoldering with bitter anger. Why would Kott wear his mother’s necklace tonight of all nights? Was he trying to goad the Valzick into something? Or was it just a petty move to toy with someone who couldn’t fight back?

“Pretty bracelet!” Yetta gasped as Angelo lifted his arm to take another sip of soup. The Valzick, already stiff from anger over the necklace, froze entirely, clenching his eyes shut.

“It's actually,” Tovah said softly, eyes hooking— halfway in a challenge— with her mother’s, “a very uncomfortable bracelet. But the good thing is… Mother is going to let Angelo take it off tonight. Isn't that right, Mother?”

Caught off guard, Angelo’s head jerked up, his eyes riveting towards Urszula. She took a very casual sip of her soup- finishing it off- before she tapped her spoon against the bottom of the bowl with a clink. “Well, I don’t think he needs it anymore, hm? So he can take it off just as soon as dinner is over.”

“I… I can?” Angelo asked, disbelief evident in his voice. “Cuff… off?”

“The fiancé to the heir of Meltaim hardly needs a cuff like that,” Tovah agreed.

“It's pretty,” declared Eitan. “If he don't want it no more, can I have it?”

“No,” Kott snapped. “You may not. Eat your soup, Eitan.”

Angelo frowned deeply at Kott, and Iwona bristled like an irate cat. Putting a hand on Eitan’s shoulder she said, “How about Mama takes you to the market tomorrow, honey? We can get an even better bracelet.”

“Okay!” Eitan, seemingly unfazed by his father’s curt words, nodded enthusiastically. “Can— can Tovah come?” he prattled on. “And Angelo, too!”

“Angelo isn’t ready for a trip out into the city just yet, I don’t think,” Urszula put in, before Angelo had time to get his hopes up. “But Tovah can go with you if she wants to. Maybe you can help her pick out a nice gift for her fiance, hm Eitan?” She grinned at the little boy, waving a casual hand to the blank server to take away her soup bowl.

“I'm good at gifts,” Eitan said. “I'll pick out something real nice.”

The meal proceeded normally from here— or at least, as normally as it could given the company. Though low-key by royal standards, all of the courses were filling and flavorful, and by the time dessert arrived the table was positively stuffed full (not that this stopped Eitan— and Tovah, with her insatiable sweet tooth— from requesting seconds).

Afterward, as Iwona excused herself to set the children down for the night, Urszula followed through with her promise to relieve her prisoner of his current cuff. The empress was smiling like a chuffed house cat as the cuff expanded in size enough that Angelo could slip it off. He almost immediately did so, swatting it from his wrist so that it clattered down onto the floor, as if afraid if he didn’t act quickly the empress would change her mind. His skin was dark and leathery in a perfect ring around where the cuff had rested- a burn scar, one which had small, tree-like forks branching up his forearm from it.

Angelo rubbed the marks, his jaw trembling. Slowly, he bowed his head to the empress. “Th-thank you.”

“Thank you, my dear prince,” Urszula said with a broad grin. “You have come a long way, and this is your rightful reward.”

As Kott— who hadn't left with his wife— studied the latticing scars, he let out a small whistle, seeming impressed. “And a nice reminder, no?” he said. “Of what'll happen if you… backslide.”

Tovah glowered, and it took every scrap of restraint within her to keep from swearing at her cousin. Urszula, seeming to read her daughter’s anger, put a hand on Tovah’s shoulder. “I doubt it will be a problem. Tovah perhaps you can escort Angelo back to his rooms? You can stop by the healer’s office on the way to get some lotion for the scars.”

Gods knew Tovah was not going to miss an opportunity to escape her mother’s company; in a moment she was on her feet, and Angelo trailed quickly at her heels. Kott followed them to the healer’s office, then back to Angelo’s windowless apartment before finally leaving them in the care of the boy’s door guards. Once they were alone, Angelo sighed explosively, slumping down onto his sofa.

“Woo, that was… I don’t know,” he said, slipping back into Valzick. Looking at his wrist he smiled tremulously. “It’s… really gone, isn’t it?”

“No more shocks,” agreed Tovah. “It's not quite a flat with windows but— it's good. It's really good, isn't it?”

“Not having to worry I’m going to be electrocuted for breathing in the wrong direction is a distinct improvement,” Angelo agreed, smiling at her warmly. “And being invited out of my rooms from time to time at least is better than being here at all times we aren’t studying.” He tilted his head. “Though is Kott always like that with his kids? They seem really sweet- Eitan especially.”

Tovah hesitated. “I think I've told you before that Kott’s been… stressed, right?”

“You’ve mentioned it yes,” Angelo agreed, tilting his head. “I imagine that’s why he decided to flaunt my mother’s jewelry at me tonight, to blow off steam.”

“Probably.” Tovah, sitting down gingerly on one of the cushy sofas, exhaled loudly. “Eitan,” she said. “He's… the reason for that stress.”

“What?” Angelo looked utterly baffled. “That sweet kid? Why? Is he sick?”

“No.” Tovah shook her head. “Eitan is six. He'll be seven in July. And… did you notice, Angelo? What he didn’t have?”

The Valzick prince’s expression must have advertised that this hinting struck no chord with him, because after a moment of waiting for it to click, when it still didn't she heaved another sigh.

“He has no wand,” she said. “He's almost seven, and he has no wand— because he hasn't shown any magic yet. Not a scrap.”

“O-oh, I…” he bit his lip. “That’s right. He mentioned that at dinner when I asked about being a war-mage. That he had no wand. I forgot you said kids here get them as soon as they show magic.” He gnawed his lip. “So what… what happens if he doesn’t end up being a mage then?”

“I… I don't know,” Tovah admitted. “Commoner kids… they get taken away from their parents. Sold. But… I don't know what happens in— in the nobility. The imperiality. Because it's so rare. Aristocratic bloodlines are so laden with magic that it's vanishingly rare. It hasn't happened in my lifetime.”

“S-sold?” Angelo bleated, his face going ashen under his Valzick complexion. “They just… sell their own seven-year-old kids into slavery?”

Tovah’s cheeks went red. “It's… it's…” She couldn't seem to find any words that would sate him, and her voice trailed off.

He buried his face in his hands, whimpering. “I’m sorry. I… I know it’s not your fault. B-but still that’s… that’s awful. In Valzaim children are seen as the closest of all people to the Woo- they are innocent, unknowing of evil, and so they are without sin. To intentionally hurt a child or turn away from one in pain…”

“My mother is going to have Eitan tested,” Tovah said, very quietly. “If he doesn't show his magic soon. Matvey is… is…” She gulped. “I don't think terrified is strong enough of a word.”

Angelo was trembling now. He looked up at Tovah, his dark eyes bleak. “He… he’s so young… such a sweet kid… I can’t imagine him as one of the blanks that flit around the palace, too cowed to look us in the eye.” Horror dawned in his eyes, and he whispered, “O-or… or one of the ones trained to b-bleed.”

“He… still has a little time,” Tovah said. “To show his magic. Before things get too drastic.”

“Y… yeah. I guess.” This answer clearly didn’t entirely sate Angelo, but he seemed to know better than to argue. For a long moment, he sat in silence, his face set in an expression of despair. Then, very softly, “Your mother does know neither of my parents are mages… right?”

“She has to.” Tovah shrugged. “... Why?”

“Tovah,” he said urgently. “She wants us to marry. Presumably to sire heirs for the Meltaiman imperiality. Have children.”

Tovah quickly shook her head. “It doesn't happen,” she said again. “Blanks in the imperial line. Not ever— like I said before, not in my lifetime, probably not even in Mother’s lifetime. I mean— even Eitan, he still has time. He's probably just a late bloomer. And one day we'll all laugh about how much of a fright he gave us.”

Angelo’s frown deepened, but he seemed to know better than to press it. After a moment he shook his head, looking down at his wrist again. “At least it seems our plan is working so far. Question is, where to from here? I’ll keep trying to improve my Meltaiman of course, but that’s only going to go so far.”

“I don't know,” Tovah admitted. “I think… maybe we should just take it one day at a time. One scheme at a time. For now.” She shut her eyes, briefly, then opened them again. “I'm sorry about Matvey wearing your mother’s ring, by the way,” she said. “That was prattish of him, even if he is stressed to all the hells about Eitan.”

He sighed softly. “It’s not your fault. I know you’d have told him off for it if your mother wasn’t watching.” An impish grin flitted across the prince’s face, and he added, “At least I can comfort myself that he’s wearing a trophy that is a momento of a blank. He didn’t even ask me why it was important to me, just figured out it was and swiped it.”

Tovah managed a very fragile laugh. “There's that,” she conceded. Then she brought a hand to her brow, rubbing it. “It's late,” she said. “I should probably go. I don't want to go, but…” She shrugged.

Angelo’s smile gentled. “I understand what you mean. It’s nice, just being able to talk like this. Even if our conversations aren’t always over the most pleasant topics, it’s good to get these things off your chest.”

“It is,” Tovah agreed. She stood. “Good night, Angelo. I'll try to come by to see you tomorrow? After I've gone shopping with Iwona and Eitan. Gods know that should be a madhouse- I'll tell you all about it, okay?”

“Sure,” Angelo agreed. “I’ll look forward to it.”

* * *

The weeks passed, and slowly Angelo’s grasp of Meltaiman improved. He was invited out of his room to take dinner with the family at least a few times a week, and the empress started having him escorted to the gardens for tea time instead of taking it in his apartment. The young man learned more about Meltaim’s culture, its people, and against his wishes, its religion.

The longer he was in the palace playing along with Urszula’s schemes, the easier it got to simply… submit. Go along. Do what she asked him to do. Though he still loathed that windowless apartment with an unbridled passion, at least now he was no longer trapped in it alone almost all of the time. He didn’t precisely enjoy the dinner parties and tea times, with Urszula breathing down his neck, but at least he wasn’t bored.

And yet.

With every inch he gave, he felt his spirits fall a mile. Every concession was a piece of his identity surrendered to the Glass Empress. His demeanor started to resemble that of the palace blanks, beaten down and quietly submissive. His eyes became ever more dull and glassy. When he smiled it was a tired, weak, and profoundly sad expression.

Kott— increasingly stressed— barely seemed to notice the moods, and the empress was either too self-absorbed or too callous to care; the same, however, could not be said for Tovah.

“Angelo,” she said one morning, as they sat in the library with great shafts of light streaming in through the window. There was a book open in her lap— Meltaiman tense shifts, exciting as always— but rather than taking notes, Angelo’s quill had seemingly frozen against the sheaf of parchment she'd given him. Speaking in Valzick, she accused, “You're not even listening, are you? I'm talking to myself.”

He blinked, seeming to come back to himself, then gave her a tremulous smile. “S-sorry,” he replied, using Meltaiman. “Was… bad morning. Won’t do again.”

“Bad morning?” She tilted her head. “Why? What happened?”

Angelo bit his lip, looking down at the quill in his hand. “Took… a bath. The blanks, called for water. Water…” he mimed splashing. “On me. I…”

His voice faltered, and Angelo slipped into Valzick, barely daring to speak over a whisper. “The blank tripped and splashed me. The water was hot, a-and I cried out. The guards that always supervise, one of them s-slapped the blank. And… and I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even look away. I just watched.” He clenched his fist around the quill, snapping it between his fingers. “I-I just w-watched.”

“Oh.” Tovah’s own face fell. “I’m sorry, Angelo. But…” She turned to face him straight on, her light eyes meeting his dark ones. “That’s not your fault, all right? You couldn’t have stopped it. Not even if you’d tried. And trying… trying would’ve gotten you hurt on top of the blank’s pain.”

“But I didn’t used to care about that,” he murmured, averting his gaze as if he couldn’t bear to look straight into Tovah’s eyes. “I was a prince. A soldier. I was willing to lay down my life for my people. Be tortured without telling my country’s secrets. Now? I just watched. B-because I was too afraid for myself to intervene.”

“There’s no shame,” Tovah said, “in doing what you need to in order to survive. You don’t need to be a martyr, Angelo. Your suffering— it’s… it’s not as though if you’d suffered, too, that blank would’ve been okay. He’d have gotten hit anyway.”

“You don’t get it!” the prince snapped, though this time he did not dare raise his voice. In a harsh whisper he went on, “I’m not Prince Angelo of Valzaim anymore. That man wasn’t a coward. He didn’t kowtow to the empress of Meltaim and do her bidding just so he wouldn’t get hurt. Prince Angelo had pride, and honor, and compassion for those weaker than him.” His jaw trembling, his voice frail, Angelo whimpered, “The man I used to be is dead. As surely as if he’d faced the lancing spells of those trainee soldiers. Now? I’m nothing. J-just an empty vessel for the Glass Empress to pour her perfect prince-consort into.”

“That’s not true,” Tovah said. She snapped shut the book in her lap. “You’re not a vessel, Angelo. That bad things happen outside of your control doesn’t mean that you’re good as dead. The world cursed world would be good as dead if that were true.”

“But I have no control,” he hissed. “None. I can either submit, or die. Once I said I’d rather have died than submit. But… but…”

A sob escaped him. Not on loud wailing sob, or one of anger or frustration. A small, broken sound, aching with despair. As though she’d been punched, Tovah flinched. Her face was wrought with an expression nearly as agonised as his was.

“Angelo.” She scooted closer to him, gingerly, as one might approach a terrified puppy. “Look at me. Please?”

He hesitated for a long minute, then slowly he obeyed. “I don't know who I am anymore, Tovah. My own father wouldn't know me.”

“You’re kind,” said Tovah, reaching out a hand and twining her fingers firmly through his. “You’re clever. You’re thoughtful. You… you…” She cracked a small, tentative smile. “You’re good at making up games. You know how to tell a stellar story. You laugh at my dumb jokes and you don’t punch me for calling you ‘Angie’, even though it’s a girl’s name.” Tovah bit her lip. “You’re my friend. My only real friend.”

The Valzick blinked hard, offering a very small smile of his own. “I’m g-glad, Tovah. To be your friend. I still don't know why the Woo sent me to this fate, but whatever the reason, I am glad it let me meet you. You’re smart, and thoughtful, and you don't dismiss the Valzick parts of me just because they’re Valzick, and… a-and…”

He swallowed hard, hesitating for a long minute. Then, gathering what little was left of his courage and nerve, he leaned towards Tovah, pressing his lips to hers.

She froze.

For a long moment, she froze.

Clearly she hadn’t been expecting this. Hadn’t been expecting this at all. Her eyes widened, and her palms curled. Her breath skipped several beats.

And then, gingerly, tenderly, she returned the gesture. Their noses butted, and she managed a small, shaky laugh. “I’m not any good at this,” she breathed to him. “I don’t know how to turn my face.”

He laughed shakily in reply, his face feeling like a forge fire. “I’m not exactly experienced at it either. Father would've killed me if I was caught kissing anybody before my inevitable political wedding.” He rested his forehead against hers. “But maybe we can figure it out together? I-if you want.”

“O-okay.” Exhaling unevenly, Tovah brushed her lips back against his, lingering longer this time. “It’s… nice,” she murmured. “This.”

“It is,” he agreed in in a hushed whisper. “I feel… safe with you. Safer than I’ve felt with anybody.” He put a tentative, gentle arm around her shoulders, and she turned and shifted herself so that she was nested with her back against his chest.

“Everything w-will be okay, Angelo,” she whispered to him. “It will be. I know it. You’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. Together.”


Even though he knew this was exactly what the Glass Empress wanted, he found himself nodding. “The empress can take my body and my mind. But my soul will always belong to the Woo, and my heart…” He nuzzled his head against Tovah’s. “My heart is yours. Always.”

She shut her eyes. “Sometimes I’m still just… surprised you don’t hate me,” she told him, voice hitching. “If I were you… I’d hate me. I’d hate me so, so much.”

“At first I did,” Angelo admitted. “But you are very devious, you know? You did the one thing I couldn’t resist; you cared. You really, sincerely cared. Not just about my wellbeing, but about me as a person. Who I was, the things I enjoy, my past.”

“I wasn’t… meaning to,” Tovah admitted. “It never crossed my mind. I j-just… talked to you because it’s what my mother wanted. And then… in a blink…” She swallowed hard, her breathing fall in rhythm with his. “You aren’t dead inside, Angelo. T-to make a person like me truly care about someone they’ve grown up deriding? To feel guilt watching a bleeder cut when it’s something I’ve seen hundreds— thousands— of times? That’s…”

“That’s the foremost thing that Wooism teaches,” he murmured. “Forgiveness. Redemption. The idea that no person is irredeemable, and our place is not to judge but to inform. To reach out. To be open in heart and mind. A-and I try. Woo, I try.”

“You do a good job,” Tovah said. “I bet you’d make him proud. Your Woo.” She laughed— a very tremulous, watery laugh. “I think my mother would have my g-guts for supper if she ever heard me say that.”


“I won’t tell a soul,” Angelo promised with a crooked smile. He hesitated a beat, then added, “You’re… you’re beautiful, you know. I’d been thinking it for a while, but… I was too embarrassed to say it.”

“Oh,” Tovah said, her laugh growing less tenuous. “Now you’re j-just trying to flatter me, princeling. I think I shall have to report you. Or sc-scream for my guards.”

“Aw, but if you did that, I might have to hush you somehow.” He held his face close to hers, their lips just barely brushing. “Somehow.”

“Dastardly,” she murmured somberly. “You wouldn't.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t, maybe I would,” he replied. “Want to risk it?”

“Hmm.” She opened her mouth, as though to feign that she was about to start to scream; but there was no missing the mischievous glint in her eyes, and Angelo pressed his lips back against hers. This time he was successful in turning his head so their noses didn’t bump into each other, and Tovah couldn't help but laugh, murmuring to him: “You're getting pretty good at this, huh?”

“I’m a quick learner,” he agreed. “Helps that you’re a patient teacher.”

“You should pass those praises on to my mother,” Tovah teased. “She'll think you're talking about the Meltaiman lessons.”

He laughed. “Probably. But I think I got a touch distracted from those.” He winked. “Don’t rat me out, teach.”

“My lips are sealed,” she promised. Then— very, very delicately, as if she half-expected him to blanch away in horror— she whispered, “I th-think I might love you, Angelo.”

The prince swallowed hard, his entire face burning. “I think I love you too.” Wrapping both arms around Tovah, he whispered again, “I think I love you too.”

Chapter Fourteen

SPOILER: Click to show

Though Angelo remained depressed and withdrawn, he did have one bright spot left in his life; Tovah. With every day that passed he fell harder and harder for her, until it felt completely natural to sit with her back against his chest, their heads pressed together, their fingers twined. When he kissed her, his conviction grew more and more until he no longer had any doubt.

He loved her. More than anything.

And Tovah, it seemed, fully returned the sentiment. Already she’d been coming to his rooms as much as she could with her busy schedule as the empress’s heir— but as the weeks ticked on, with winter very slowly thawing out into a chilly spring, she began to rearrange said schedule to maximize the amount of time she could spend with him. She spent nearly as much of her day in his stuffy flat as she did in her and the empress’s own; and though she told him that he was free to tell her if she was ever overstaying her welcome, that she wouldn’t be offended, Angelo on the contrary found himself wishing she never had to leave.

Urszula noticed her daughter’s sudden preoccupation with spending time with the foreign prince, but when she commented on it Tovah brushed her off, saying as little as she could get away with. She wasn’t entirely sure why— not at first; gods knew Urszula would hardly object to the fact that Angelo had grown to care about her, just as the Glass Empress had first schemed all those months ago. But then, gradually, Tovah began to realise it: it wasn’t that Angelo loved her that she was keeping hidden. It was that she loved him back, and the fact that this love made a prick of guilt lance through her— like a thorn— at the notion of sharing the details of their relationship with Urszula.

Still, it seemed Urszula went about her daily routine these days in a haze of near face-punch-worthy bliss. Everything, so she sang, was going to plan. Angelo was becoming more and more proficient in Meltaiman all the time. They could let him out of his rooms in their presence and no more fear him than they might a gnat. He could parrot all manner of obscure facts about Meltaiman politics, history, and law.

There was just one wrinkle in her plans.

“My dear prince,” she cooed one morning as he- as usual- strode into his chambers without so much as a knock. He looked up from a drawing he’d been making; a silhouette of a raven, with bright eyes and feathers that seemed to leave wisplike trails behind as it flew. Ignoring his artwork, the empress went on, “I have a surprise for you today.”

“A surprise, imperial majesty?” he repeated, tilting his head. “What kind surprise?”

“If I just told you it wouldn’t be a surprise, now, would it?” she asked impishly. “Though I will give you a hint; you’ll need your coat. And to brush your hair.”

Confused, but compliant, Angelo quickly retreated to his room to put on a warm cloak and run a thick-toothed comb through his woolen hair; much longer now than he preferred to wear it, but Urszula said that only bleeders shaved so close to their scalps and wouldn’t let him wear it as he wanted.

Once he was ready, Urszula led him on a winding trip through the halls of the palace, chattering away about various inanities while he made occasional noises of agreement or interest in the right places. He had learned that more often than not she didn’t talk with people, but at them, and so he agreeably let her without engaging too much when he didn’t have to. It kept her happy, which was ultimately all he cared about in their interactions.

They soon neared a door that, to Angelo’s surprise, led out into the gardens. But not the part of the gardens where Urszula usually brought him for tea. On the contrary, this was a part of the palace he’d never been to before, and he drank in the sights and sounds of the slow thaw while he continued to trail after Urszula.

After a few minutes of winding across a series of tightly coiled footpaths, a building anterior to the main palace complex finally came into view, stark white against a pale spring sky. It was largely unadorned save for the windows, of which there were many, and the set of heavy maple doors that led inside and which were carved with an intricate pattern of interlacing emblems. From a distance it was hard to glean what, exactly, the emblems represented, but as Urszula and Angelo strode closer, the markings came into clearer view: a water droplet, a raging flame, a gnarled tree, a—

Oh Woo, no-

Angelo abruptly froze, his blood turning to ice. He recognized these symbols now. They had shown up over and over again in various books that the empress had left in his room, that he’d only discovered the significance of after he’d started to learn to read Meltaiman.

A droplet for blood. A flame for fire. A tree for earth. And four more such symbols, representing the seven holy elements, including that which stood in the center- an ignited wand for the element of magic.

The most sacred symbol of the Meltaiman religion.

“No, no-” he sputtered, rapidly backing up. The empress glanced around, lifting an eyebrow.

“It is time and past for you to surmount this final hurdle, Prince Angelo,” she said firmly. “I have been patient, but if you are to one day marry my daughter you must give up this heathen god of yours.” She smiled serenely. “This is non-negotiable, my dear. You can come, or… well.”

She didn’t finish the threat, but she didn’t have to. Angelo whimpered, his heart constricting painfully in his chest and a cold sweat stippling his brow. He was trembling hard, fighting to tell her no, to refuse, to turn and run. But his traitor body instead took a step forward, back towards her, and he bowed his head.

“Y-yes your imperial majesty,” he whispered, fighting tears of rage and anguish. “A-as you wish.”

“I knew you’d see reason,” she said cheerfully, turning back towards the huge doors. “Now let’s go- we don’t want to be late.”

If anything, however, it seemed the empress and her captive were early— aside from the priest who was puttering around on the pulpit, humming to himself as he prepared for the sermon, the only other people who’d arrived and were seated in the glossy wood pews were…

“Majesty.” Kott leapt to his feet, and gestured sharply for his wife and Eitan— who’d been sitting on either side of him— to follow his lead. “You look lovely today.”

The empress beamed… and Tovah, who’d been sitting alone near the end of the pew beside an empty seat that was presumably reserved for her mother, went pale as milk. As Kott, Iwona, and their son dipped their heads into respectful bows, Tovah didn’t move from her seat, her jaw falling open and hands curling into tense fists at her side.

“Mother,” she said shortly, blue eyes leaping between Urszula and her ashen-faced guest. “What are— what are you doing?”

“I’m attending service,” Urszula replied with a raised brow, though her smirk advertised she knew exactly what Tovah was actually asking. Clapping Angelo on the shoulder- he flinched from her touch- she added, “Why don’t you sit with your fiance, my dear. She looks lonely.”

Angelo felt nauseous, his entire body trembling as he moved to obey. His teeth were chattering audibly as he practically collapsed into the pews beside Tovah, and his eyes were so dilated they looked like black pools with a faintly dark brown ring around the rim. Tovah wanted to reach out and clasp his hand, squeeze it, reassure him— but she hesitated, because she hated showing physical affection toward him when Urszula was near and watching. It always felt… wrong, somehow. Like siphoning poison into something sweet. A vat of honey gone impossibly bitter.

Instead, she smiled encouragingly at him. “You’re going to be okay,” she whispered. “It won’t be that bad, I promise.”

“This all I have left,” he whispered back, his eyes hooking on hers with a look of desperation and despair. “This all I have left.”

“I know,” Tovah murmured, a lump in her throat as she watched Kott rearranged how his family was sitting so that now, rather than couched between his wife and son, he sat next to the empress on one side— and Angelo on the other. Great. “It’s only a short service,” she told her fiance. “Just an hour. Less, maybe. You’ll be okay. Promise.”

Angelo swallowed hard, nodding. As he did so, Eitan grinned broadly, leaning across the empress— whom he was now seated beside, with Iwona on his other flank— to announce: “Whispering in church is rude. Right, Papa?”

On the empress’s opposite side, Kott gave his son a strained smile. “Yes,” he agreed. “But so is draping yourself over Aunt Urszula like a tablecloth, Eitan.”

Urszula chuckled, patting the child on the head as one might a puppy. “We mustn’t blame Angelo if he doesn’t know the rules of church. He is after all new to this.”

“I know all the rules of church,” Eitan replied, puffing out his cheeks— and still not extricating himself from his grand-aunt’s lap. “I’m a big boy, you know. Not like Yetta— she’s too little to even come to church!”

“Eitan is very good at church,” Tovah agreed with a quirked brow. “Never, ever starts chattering during the service when he gets bored, right?”

“Mummy doesn’t let me have a story before bed if I talk during church,” Eitan replied mournfully. “I hafta go to bed without hearing nothing!”

Angelo managed a wavering smile towards the child. “Tragic small one. And no dessert, hm?”

“Nope,” Iwona agreed, gently reaching for the back of his shirt and yanking Eiwan back down. “No dessert.”

“But I bet he’ll be really good during church today,” Tovah said, “so no need for confiscating anything, right?”

“Uh-huh!” he agreed earnestly— before his smile, already dazzling, grew again as the doors leading into the chapel swung open, and the first of the service’s other attendees— non-blank palace staff members, from the looks of their livery— strolled inside. “Oooh! Is church startin’ soon?”

“Mm-hm,” Iwona agreed. “Which means we need to sit quietly, alright honey?”

Angelo’s hands clenched on the fabric of his pants as he watched the Meltaimans file into the church. Here it came. Woo, here it came. He felt sweat rolling down his face, and it was everything in him not to press himself against Tovah’s side in his distress.

“Deep breaths,” Tovah whispered. “You’ll be fine, Angelo— I promise.”

As she spoke, the priest made an imperious gesture and another emerged into the now crowded cathedral- but this one not from the entrance. This newcomer emerged from behind the altar, wearing a sleeveless version of the priest’s black and silver tunic. Her head was shaved bald, and there was a tag dangling from one of her ears.

Angelo’s shoulders hitched up, a squeak akin to a terror-stricken lapdog emerging from his throat. The palace staff members who’d quietly seated themselves in the pews behind the one occupied by the imperial family glanced towards him quizzically, and Urszula glowered. Tovah— prudence be cursed— reached out and squeezed his hand.

“It’s only a small part of the service,” she assured him— softly, so that none of the gawping courtiers could hear… and in Valzick, so that he could understand her fully. “Just a small piece at the start, and another at the end. The rest is just a sermon. Only a sermon, okay?”

“I-I can’t,” he hissed back, his entire body racked with violent shudders now. “I can’t do this, I can’t, it’s wrong, I-”

“Prince Angelo,” Urszula murmured, her voice cutting.

“Take a deep breath,” Tovah urged, as the priest turned to face the bleeder and gestured for her to present him with her arm. “It’s a fast bleed, okay? It’ll be over in just a few minutes. And she’ll be okay— they don’t take that much blood, not for a little weekly service like this.”

Angelo shook his head, but he forced himself to face forward as the priest drew a small silver dagger. Slowly, like he was drawing a line across her arm in red paint, the man drew the dagger across the girl’s forearm near her elbow. Angelo brought a hand up to his mouth, as if to fight back the urge to throw up as he watched the blood drip into a small basin on the altar. Seeming to notice the prince’s distress, little Eitan once more leaned across the empress’s lap, dark eyes wide with sympathy.

“It’s okay,” he stage whispered to Angelo as the priest began rattling off a prayer. “I don’ like the bleeding neither, y’know—”

He was cut off as Urszula, her expression far less indulgent than it had been the last time her nephew had clambered across her, cuffed him behind the ear. “Sit down,” she hissed. “And no chattering- we just discussed this!”

The little boy yelped and straightened back into his seat. “Sorry,” he whimpered.

“Hush, Eitan.” Kott heaved a miserable sigh. “Pay attention to the prayers.”

Angelo felt sorry for the child, and cast him a fleeting, grateful smile. For the most part the prince tuned out the proceedings of the service, keeping his gaze trained forwards but letting his mind wander. Something of his inattention must have shown in his face, as Urszula kept casting glares in his direction; Tovah, meanwhile, kept steady hold of his hand. She knew this was likely little comfort in face of what was happening in front of them, but it was all that she could think of with her mother watching. And even if it was very small, she hoped it was better than doing nothing. Even if only by a scrap.

Soon enough, true to her promise, the first bleeding was over and the priest hastily healed the bleeder’s wounds before waving her back to the wings. The girl scuttled off with her head bowed and arm blood-encrusted, and as she did, the priest turned to face the congregation, a smile playing between his lips— as though he was having a very merry day, and certainly hadn’t just mutilated a living human’s flesh.

“Now that we’ve consecrated this service to the gods,” he said, “we can begin our sermon. Today’s topic is an important one— so pay careful attention, hmm? No nodding off today, ladies and gentlemen! Even if— as one of you rascals put it last week— my voice is as boring as watching soup come to a boil.”

As the congregation chuckled blithely in response, Angelo forced his muscles to loosen, adjusting his grip on Tovah’s hand so that their fingers were twined together. His eyes flitted towards her, a wan, shaky smile on his lips.

“You’re doing great,” she whispered to him. “I’m proud of you, Angelo.”

If Angelo had a reply to offer, however, it would have to remain unvoiced. The priest picked up his thread, waxing eloquently on obscure points of Meltaiman religious dogma as the congregation alternatively made noises of agreement or- once or twice- raised their wands skywards in what appeared to be a gesture of prayer. Angelo, who had not had a wand in eight months now, just watched while this happened, unsure of what precisely to do. Eitan, at least, soon proved to be a willing and eager tutor— he once more leaned over Urszula’s lap to catch the prince’s attention, and then once he had it the boy set two fingers against his ribcage, right over his beating heart.

“Where the magic lives,” he breathed to Angelo.

Kott, his own wand raised, exhaled shakily. “Sit straight, Eitan,” he murmured.

Angelo shot the little boy a smile to show his gratitude- but the implication of the fact that a child nearing his seventh birthday had no wand to pray with couldn’t be missed, nor could the distress in his father’s voice. Still, he echoed Eitan’s gesture, sending a silent prayer of apology up to the Woo as he did so and hoping the god would understand that he was only going through the motions.

Eventually, finally, it seemed the priest was nearly finished. He made a gesture to summon the bleeder out again, and said, “Now, all rise to sing a devotional to the gods as we give unto them the blood of those unblessed.”

The congregation rose obediently to its feet. This included Tovah, who held fast to Angelo’s hand as she did, coaxing him silently upward. He swallowed hard, allowing her to draw him upright. He was trembling again, his eyes riveted forwards. As before, the priest, drew a slow, single line across the bleeder’s arm. She didn’t flinch. She barely blinked. The priest raised his knife over the altar, and began to sing a low song in Meltaiman that the rest of the congregation quickly took up the thread of. Angelo- not knowing the lyrics- stayed silent, his mouth paper dry as he watched the blood flowing down the bleeder’s arm and into the basin. He almost seemed to be hypnotised by the trails of crimson, his breathing jagged as he continued to stare.

“Above all, do not harm the innocent, for all life is sacred,” he whispered, almost to himself.

The sound of the congregation singing nearly drowned out the prince’s words— except to Tovah, who was standing nearly cheek-to-cheek with him. Her own voice fell away mid-note, and she looked at him, brow knit with concern. There was no missing the sheen of sweat that suddenly stippled his forehead. Nor the way his ebony complexion had gone gray, like dust.

“Almost done,” she mouthed to him. “We’re almost done. You’re doing great.”

“A-a-and turn not your eyes from the suffering,” he blathered on, seeming not to hear her. “The greatest offering to Me is compassion, and the greatest shame is indifference. Reach out your hand and… and…”

He jerked, shoving his way around Tovah and out into the side of the aisle. She stumbled, and Kott blinked, the soldier losing his wits for only a fraction of a second before recovering them— and launching out a hand to take a rough hold of Angelo’s arms and stop him dead in his tracks. The priest was still singing, but at the sudden movement from the imperial’s row many amidst the congregation had stopped, or at least gone very off-key; the chapel was filled with a suddenly discordant melody as Angelo thrashed against Kott’s grip, his eyes gone wild and terrified.

“Let me go, let me go!” he cried. “I won’t, I won’t watch this, I can’t watch this, I-”

“Enough,” Urszula snarled, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists and her eyes positively murderous.

At the sound of the empress’s voice, the priest’s own abruptly died away— as if he wasn’t sure whether or not he still had permission to be singing, lest he accidentally drown out something his monarch wanted to say. The part of the congregation that hadn’t gotten diverted from their hymn already suddenly found themselves without a leader, and in another moment their voices, too, began to die away. Tovah winced, eyes darting frantically amid her mother, Kott, and Angelo— she wanted to say something, but she wasn’t entirely sure what… or, perhaps more importantly, to whom.

Urszula broke the silence, her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Major-General; Tovah. Take our guest back to his rooms. He will remain there for the next week. You would do well to spend that time acclimating him to the idea of conversion, because these histrionics do not amuse me.”

“Never!” Angelo wailed, still flailing in futility as he tried to get loose- though wisely he did not actually attempt to strike his captor. “I will never-”

Kott grit his teeth, seemingly acutely aware of all the watching eyes. “Quiet,” he hissed into Angelo’s ear, as he twisted the boy’s arm behind his back. “Or you’ll have your cuff back on by noontime. Do you understand me?”

The boy’s teeth clacked together, and he clenched his eyes shut with a final whimper of protest. His arm was shaking hard in the grip of Kott’s fist. Urszula, unmoved, curled her lip.

“Get him out of my sight,” she snarled.

“We’re going, Mother,” Tovah said softly. She wanted to cry out in frustration, but with all of the palace staff members watching, she didn’t dare. Instead, she schooled an impassive look to her face, and murmured to Angelo, “Don’t fight him. Please? Let’s go.”

He flinched from the look on Tovah’s face, his eyes plunging down to his boots. “Right,” he murmured. “I sorry, imperial highness.”

* * *

Angelo expected to either be punished promptly by Kott upon returning to his cell of an apartment, or for both Kott and Tovah to leave him to his own devices as soon as the door had slammed shut behind him. But while Kott might have been considering exacting some sort of discipline, any ideas he had were quickly nipped in the bud by his cousin.

“You can go, Matvey,” she told him just inside the front door to Angelo’s flat. Voice like iron, she added, “I’ll stay with him for now. Make sure he’s all right.”

Matvey quirked an incredulous brow; he was still holding tight to Angelo’s arm. “Excuse me?”

“I said,” Tovah repeated, “that you can go. I’ve got this, okay?”

“With all due respect—”

“That was an order.” Tovah glowered at him. “Let go of him, Matvey. And leave.” When still he hesitated, she snapped: “I am your future empress, and I’m giving you an order. Leave. Now.”

Kott looked far from happy about it, but after a final moment of hesitation, he nevertheless obeyed. His hand dropped away from Angelo’s bicep, and in another moment he’d turned back toward the door, boot-heels clicking against the wood as he sauntered out into the hall. He didn’t shut the door in his wake— petty, thought Tovah— but this was all right, because it was easy for her to promptly swing it shut behind him. Once she had, the girl exhaled softly.

“My mother is going to be furious, Angelo,” she said.

He slumped, rubbing his temples as if they ached. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry. B-but I… I couldn’t. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t hand over that last piece of myself. My faith is all I have left.” He looked down at his abandoned drawing- the one of the raven- and swiped it off the chair where he’d left it, sending countless papers flurrying to the floor. “Even if it seems sometimes my god has abandoned me.”

“I’m sure your god hasn’t abandoned you,” Tovah told him. Swallowing hard, she crouched, hands steady as she swept up the papers. “You’re going to ruin your drawings,” she said. “Please, don’t ruin your drawings. I like them, Angelo.”

He swallowed hard, looking away. “S-sorry. I’m just… worked up I guess. I needed to hit something.”

“The suffering artist?” she teased, straightening as a fragile, tentative smile bloomed between her lips. Bundling the drawings into a tidy pile in her arms, she glanced at the piece on top of the stack: a sketching of a dagger. “A sword?” she guessed. Then: “Your sword, maybe? From back home?”

He glanced at the drawing, then oddly his expression became one of embarrassment. “Uh… n-no, not exactly. It’s… complicated and you probably wouldn’t be interested.”

If anything, this only seemed to pique Tovah’s interest. Sashaying toward one of the nearby couches, and plopping down onto it with the drawings still in her arms, she challenged: “Try me.”

A tired smile pricked at his lips, and he sighed, sitting down beside her. “Well… I told you that I joined the army because I had a vision from the Woo, right?”

“Yes,” Tovah said. This had come up fairly early on in their discussions— mostly because Tovah had been dyingly curious to know how in the hells Angelo had ended up in a position to be captured by Meltaim in the first place. She added: “He told you that you were needed. To be a champion for your people. Right?”

“Not directly,” the young man admitted. “Actually… he sent me a more abstract sort of vision.”

The prince gently plucked the drawings out of Tovah’s hands, spreading them out across the coffee table in front of the couch— he’d recently gotten a new one- to reveal that most of them featured drawings of silhouetted shadows of wolves or ravens. They were frightening creatures, seeming somehow not entirely solid, with wispy trails flowing out behind them. Their poses were menacing, claws and fangs poised in attacking postures.

“It happened not long after Aunt Thais died. I wanted to do something… anything… to help my people as she had. But I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t the king- I had no authority. Then… then one day, while I was sitting under a tree in the garden of the palace church, I had a vision. It started out like this- black shadow beasts that looked like monstrous wolves and birds surrounded me, snarling and screeching, pecking at my eyes and tearing at my flesh.”

“That sounds terrifying.” Tovah studied the pictures. “What did you do? How'd you even react?” She laughed a bit grimly. “You must've terrified any nearby knights, huh?”

“As they explained it, I sort of… zoned out for the duration,” Angelo admitted. “I jerked my head up, and went rigid, and wouldn’t respond when they tried to talk to me.”

“Did they drag you to a healer?” asked Tovah. It was what her mother’s knights would've done.

“I wasn’t out long enough,” he replied. “They did shout for help, but by the time anybody had come I was alert again, albeit very confused… because it didn’t just end with the monsters. They were all over me, and I was in pain, and I thought for sure I was going to die… then I saw something through the shadows.”

He pulled out another one of the drawings. This one was more blurry and indistinct, as if someone had frozen a fast-moving object- but what was obvious, past the head of yet another black wolf, was a wing. A bright feathered wing.

“The symbol of the Woo, right?” Tovah hedged.

“Not exactly,” Angelo answered. “Though the Woo is represented as a great white bird. His symbol is the Woocifix.” The prince flipped over the page and drew the triple-feathered emblem. “But still- a white bird is highly indicative of the presence of Lord Woo’s divinity. When I saw the wing, I impulsively reached out to grab it. I missed, but my hand did catch something- something that glowed with a white light so bright it dispelled all the shadow beasts around me. I was blinded for a minute, but when the light cleared, I saw it… what I had in my hand-” he pointed to the drawing Tovah had found earlier, “was a sword.”

“And you took that as a sign?” Tovah asked.

“I did,” Angelo agreed. “When I came to, I was holding something in my hand- a white feather. I… I was sure it was a sign from the Woo. A sign that if I wanted to keep Valzaim safe from the encroaching darkness, I had to take up the sword in my own hand. Become a soldier.”

“That's…” Tovah considered for several moments— before reaching out and draping her fingers over his scarred wrist. “That's brave, Angelo.”

“Yeah well, fat lot of good it’s done,” he said, clenching his hands into fists. “I’m sure just as soon as she finally, finally breaks me, the Glass Empress will send her armies down to squash Valzaim.” He went limp, pressing his face into Tovah’s shoulder. “I failed. The Woo chose me to save his people and I failed.”

“No.” Tovah moved her hand down, fingers grazing his. “You haven't failed. You've tried your best, Angelo, and that my mother’s tormented you has nothing to do with—”

“But I can’t protect anybody!” he insisted. “I can’t protect Valzaim, I couldn’t protect my squad, I can’t protect the blanks here when they’re right in front of me- I can’t even protect myself!”

“Angelo.” She winced, looking as if she could physically feel his agony coursing through her own veins. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” She inched even closer to him, pulse humming. “I love you,” she murmured. “I'm not sure if that counts for anything but… I do love you. O-okay?”

He shivered, putting his arms around her shoulders. “I-I know. I love you too. And I’m sorry I messed up today. B-but… but this is all I have left. Of myself. If I give your mother this, it will break me, Tovah.”

“I know,” she said simply. She nestled her face against his shoulder. “I know, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Angelo.”

For a long moment, the two of them sat in silence. Then, finally, Angelo murmured, “What are you going to do? She wants you to… to force-feed your religion down my throat.”

“I don't know.” Tovah burrowed deeper against him, the fabric of his tunic muffling her words. “I honestly don't know.”

“You don’t want to do it,” he said, more a statement than a question.

“I love you,” Tovah whispered. “You… you don't do that to people you love.”

He smiled, but it was a wobbly expression. “W-we’ll figure something out. We will. I know it.”

“Sometimes,” she breathed, “I still think this would be easier if you hated me. But…” She swallowed hard. “I'm glad you don't.”

He kissed the top of her head. “What can I say? You did a very good job seducing me.”

“Or maybe,” she managed, still buried against him, “you seduced me, princeling.”

“Oh I would never do that,” he insisted. “I’m a noble, honorable man of the Woo. I wouldn’t take advantage of a pure, innocent young maiden.”

She laughed, tremulously. “So innocent,” she agreed, “that I agreed to help my mother brainwash you.”

“Oh so we’re admitting that’s what it is now?” he mused. “She still insists she’s saving me.”

“Synonyms, you know,” she murmured dryly. “Saving, brainwashing - practically the same thing, right?”

“Oh of course,” he agreed. He glanced down at his drawings again and sighed. “Do you think I’m crazy, Tovah? To have put myself in harm’s way chasing what to you must sound like a hallucination?”

“No,” she said. “It's good to have your convictions. To believe in something greater than yourself.”

He sighed softly, letting his chin rest against the top of her head. “Thank you. For understanding. We’ll… we’ll figure something out. We have to.”

“We will,” she assented. “I love you, Angelo. I l-love you so much.”

“I love you too, Tovah. Always.”

Chapter Fifteen

SPOILER: Click to show

After his spectacular meltdown Urszula was wise enough to refrain from imminently attempting to bring Angelo to another church service, and several weeks passed in relative calmness, without any interruptions to what had become the captive prince’s usual schedule these days: playing games and drawing to keep himself sane when he was alone; talking and cuddling with Tovah whenever she came by; regular tea with the empress in the now-thawed gardens, and even more regular Meltaiman lessons in the high-up library keep.

One afternoon in late April, Tovah was recounting for Angelo a set of Meltaiman fairy tales, and intrigued, he asked if he could see more such stories to keep himself entertained in his solitude. The princess agreed to take him up to the library so they could look for a book to that effect for him to borrow- he was now proficient enough in reading Meltaiman he could manage- but when the prince poked his head out of the room, his guard was unamused.

“The library?” Turning to face his cousin and his prisoner, Kott had both dusty blond brows raised. “Weren't you just there this morning?”

They had been, for Meltaiman lessons, but Tovah didn't see why this mattered. “We want to go again,” she said. “Hardly any rules saying Angelo’s to be limited to one library visit per day.”

Kott scowled. “It's a long walk.”

“Maybe, but no so boring as stand still,” Angelo pointed out in his stilted Meltaiman. “Soldiers walk far for battle.”

“You know you and I have a tea date with your mother in less than an hour, Tovah, right?” Kott said, changing tacks. “We’ll be late.”

“I think we’ll manage.” Tovah frowned. “Especially if you stop dithering.” She stepped forward. “Now come on, please?”

Kott acquiesced, but not without an immensely sour expression puckering his face— and once they'd reached the library he declared he'd post some other guard outside of it to escort Angelo back to his chambers afterward.

“I'll hardly be late to tea with the empress,” Matvey huffed as Angelo and Tovah stepped inside to the library. “And I should hope you keep track of time so that you won't be, either, Tovah.”

And with that the silver-clad imperial nephew was gone, swinging the door shut behind him. As his footsteps echoed off down the hall, Angelo frowned, glancing at Tovah with a befuddled expression.

“The ‘Pit did I do now?”

“Nothing.” She sighed and flopped down onto one of the cushy armchairs. Angelo sat beside her as she went on, “It's not you. It's Eitan.” A beat. “My mother let Matvey know that Eitan’s test is scheduled. For next week. Monday. To… see if he's a mage.”

The prince sucked in a breath sharply. “She… she let him know? So she didn’t even consult him about it? Isn’t this his son?”

“Yes. But as far as my mother’s concerned, the test has to happen sooner or later, and since still Eitan hasn't shown magic… and his birthday’s only a few months away now…” Tovah shrugged. “Matvey is afraid. Very, very afraid.”

Angelo bit his lip. “He’s such a sweet kid… So energetic and bright. How can anybody assume he doesn’t have a soul?”

“Matvey is stressed to hell,” Tovah said by way of answer. “And his wife is… is…”

“She’s in denial,” Angelo replied, having noticed exactly that. “She keeps talking to Eitan like nothing’s wrong. About how excited she is to get him his own wand soon.”

“Iwona won't even entertain the idea,” Tovah confirmed. “Which has been driving Matvey even madder, I think. He feels like he's the only one shouldering the weight of the burden— she won't even talk about it. The chance that Eitan might… might…” Tovah shook her head. “That he might fail.”

The prince folded his arms, looking decidedly unhappy. “Woo, everyone in this country must be so stressed until their children show magic. I can’t imagine how terrifying it would be to just have a child who is a late bloomer, but not really know.”

“Watching Matvey fret makes my stomach pinch,” Tovah agreed. “And Eitan isn't even mine.” She gulped. “And especially with Iwona so willfully in denial— talking up to Eitan how fun it will be to finally get his wand, and then watching how excited the kid gets…” She nursed a sad, wan smile. “It reminds me of me and Kuba. When we were Eitan’s age. We were both late bloomers, you know. And we were so looking forward to the day we'd finally get our wands.” She laughed shakily. “He was so jealous of me when I finally got mine. He'd filch it to play with it whenever I wasn't looking.”

Angelo chuckled. “Knowing you, I bet when he finally did get his you hid it from him to get him back.”

“Mm.” Here, Tovah’s smile faltered. “I wish. But he never got his. He got sick first. The flu that killed him…” She bit her lip; even all these years later, it was clear this was a painful topic for her. “He caught it right before the fall equinox. And it worked— fast, gods did it work fast. One day he was fine. The next he was shaking like a palsied old man and he couldn't keep anything down— not even water. And a few days after that…” Her voice cracked. “Well, he was gone.”

Angelo paled, looking away. “I’m… I’m sorry, Tovah. I’m so sorry. That must’ve been-”

He froze. Eyes wide with something between confusion and a sort of horrified understanding.

“Tovah,” he said softly, “You said… you said it was just before the equinox, right? And… and last winter. Your birthday in late December. The one you share with him. You said he was six. He’d always be six.”

“Mm,” Tovah said. “That's right. He died a few months before our seventh birthday.”

Angelo was shaking now. “Oh. Oh my Woo. Tovah- a few months before his seventh birthday. And it is a few months now before Eitan’s seventh birthday.”

“And?” Tovah blinked— before abruptly freezing as the implications of Angelo’s words bowled into her. “No,” she said then, starkly. “Nope. No way.”

“But it makes sense, doesn't it?” Angelo murmured, trembling hard. “There’s never any blanks in the imperial line- you said so yourself. I was raised to politics on my father’s knee. I know how reputations like that work. Imagine how much people would whisper if the Glass Empress, the great conqueror, had a son who was a blank. Whose soul was misplaced.”

“No,” Tovah repeated, lifting her head and sharply scooting away from the prince. “Kuba wasn’t a blank, Angelo. He wasn’t. He— got sick, okay? He got sick. It had nothing to do with— with that.” Somewhat shrilly, she tacked on: “He wasn’t even tested. Like Eitan’s going to be. He hadn’t been tested. He would’ve had to have been tested if that were true. And— he wasn’t tested.” A beat. “I… don’t think he was tested.”

“No?” Angelo asked, wanting her words to be true- but somehow feeling in his gut they were not. “If your mother was worried about it, would she have told anybody? She doesn’t tell people anything. She just smiles and acts like she’s in control. Always. And you were six- six-year-olds are awful secret keepers.”

Tovah clenched her jaw. “It can’t be,” she said— which was hardly a denial. She wanted to say that her mother wouldn’t have— couldn’t have— that even for the Glass Empress, what he was suggesting was a far and awful leap into moral repugnancy. But Tovah couldn’t force the words, and so instead she murmured: “My… f-father wouldn’t have let her. Hurt him or— anything. My father— I’ve told you before, he wasn’t like my mother is, he… he…”

“Maybe he didn’t know?” Angelo suggested, his voice soft. Then he sighed. “Look, you know what? Nevermind, forget I said anything.”

“Forget?” Tovah laughed humourlessly. “You can’t— you can’t say something like that and then just— demand that I forget!” Her teeth had started chattering. She tried to stop them, but she couldn’t, and so she shut her eyes instead. “It was a flu, Angelo,” the girl insisted. “A bad flu. I— I saw, you know. Before he died. Mother l-let me see him— and he was pale, he was so pale, and… shaking and… she was sad, Mother was sad, if she’d— done that to him, why would she have been sad?”

Angelo bit his lip. “If it was a flu, why did she let you see him at all? You could’ve gotten sick too, Tovah. And if it had been a flu, he’d have been coughing. Feverish. But you said his only symptoms were nausea and tremors.”

Tovah kept her eyes shut, letting out an ugly whimper in spite of herself. “Maybe— m-maybe she figured that… I’d have caught it already. If I were going to catch it at all.”

It was a shallow retort, and the empress’s heir seemed to know it, for she let out another agonized moan. Her stomach pitched like a buoy volleyed about by the sea. Her palms were sweating. She could feel tears pricking at the backs of her closed eyelids. Angelo seemed to want to comfort her, but he also seemed almost afraid to touch her- after all he was the one who’d suggested to her the very thing that was upsetting her so much.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“It can’t be true,” she snuffled, slowly opening her eyes again. They were tear-glossed now, and turning rapidly bloodshot. “It can’t be true, Angelo.”

The prince sighed, tentatively putting his arms around Tovah as if afraid she’d jerk away. She didn’t, but the girl did shudder, and it seemed as if she was only keeping herself halfway composed through every ounce of sheer grit and will inside of her.

“We sh-should get you that book,” she said after a few moments. “The fairytales. That you w-wanted to read.”

“S-sure,” he agreed, pulling away reluctantly. “And… you need to get ready for tea, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she croaked, standing. “M-Mother will be cross if I’m late.” She turned to the maze of bookshelves that filled the library. “L-let’s find the book. And then go. So I can… get ready. F-for tea.”

They did indeed find the book, and soon enough Angelo had been returned to his dark apartment- saying little and feeling distinctly awful and guilty. Usually when Tovah left, the two of them parted with a kiss, but today she only spared him a wan smile. Angelo swallowed hard, giving her a trembling return smile and wondering if he’d just ruined the one relationship that made his life bearable in this Wooforsaken country with his theorizing.

***

She’d left with plenty of time to get ready, but Tovah was still late for tea.

She knew she was late not because she’d kept watch of the palace clocks, but rather by the way Urszula stared— or rather, glared— at her as she shuffled down the path that led to the shaded tea area out in the gardens. The empress was already sipping on a cup, and seated across from her, so was Matvey.

“Mother,” Tovah said, pausing to offer a shallow curtsey.

She’d waited to come until all her tears were dried, and had taken diligent care to make sure her eyes were no longer red and puffy, but she was afraid that the tears might come back at a moment’s notice. Or that even if they didn’t, the empress would nevertheless realize that something was wrong— for as bad as she was with expressing her own emotions, Urszula was very adept at figuring out when something was wrong with others. Sure enough, as Tovah waited for permission to take her seat, Urszula’s brow furrowed, and she tilted her head. “Tovah dear, you’re late. And you look… off-balance. Did something happen?”

“No, Mother,” Tovah said. “Just lost track of time.” She glanced at Kott, half-daring him to challenge her, but Matvey seemed far too engrossed in his own stresses to call her out, or tell Urszula where she’d been— and with whom. A small mercy. Stepping forward, Tovah added, “May I sit?”

Urszula didn’t seem convinced, arching a brow but nodding all the same. “Punctuality is the mark of good form, dear. Do try to be on time next time, hm?” She took a sip of her tea, adding, “And buck up- you look positively green.”

Pulling out the chair in between Matvey and her mother, Tovah gave the empress a fragile smile. “Must’ve had something bad to eat at breakfast,” she lied. “Or lunch. I… think I’ll fast tonight. Reset my stomach, you know?”

“You, skip dinner?” the empress demanded. “When we’re having pastila for dessert?” Urszula knew that the squares of pressed fruit paste where one of her daughter’s favorite treats.

“I’m not hungry, Mother,” Tovah said again. “I should hardly wish to make myself sick.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” Kott agreed absently, stirring his tea. As Tovah’s gaze skipped toward her cousin, she noticed that Matvey hardly seemed to have an appetite, either— his mug of tea was full, not missing so much as a single sip.

“Perhaps you should see the healer then,” Urszula suggested, casting Kott an annoyed glance before refocusing on her daughter. “You’re my only heir, love- I don’t want anything bad happening to you.”

My only heir.

Not: my daughter.

Not: I love you and I’m worried.

My only heir. As though that was the only thing that mattered. The only reason Tovah mattered.

“I’m fine, Mother,” the black-haired girl said through gritted teeth. “I’m not seeing a healer. It’d be a waste of time.”

The empress’ shoulders hitched upwards. “What is the matter with you? Stop dancing, I birthed you, I can tell when something is bothering you.” A beat. “Did you and Prince Angelo have a fight again?”

“No,” Tovah said quickly. “We didn’t. And as I said— I’m fine, Mother.” She should’ve stopped there— Tovah knew she should’ve stopped there— but the girl couldn’t help herself; her next words were dripping from her tongue before they’d even fully registered in her brain, her voice tart as she growled, “You don’t need to know everything all the time. I’m allowed to be in a rotten mood without your cursed permission, Majesty.”

“Tovah Srebro, I am not just your empress, I am your mother,” Urszula snapped. “And I will not be talked to that way just for expressing concern!”

“Don’t pretend you’re concerned.” Tovah was rigid as a board in her seat. “You’re nosy. There’s a difference.”

Beside her, Matvey winced. “Princess, is that really the proper way to speak to your mother—”

“Stay out of this, Matvey,” Tovah huffed. “It has nothing to do with you.” Then, once again before she even wholly knew what she was saying, the girl snapped, “It’s between the empress and her only heir. Right, Mother?”

Urszula’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What is this about, Tovah?”

Tovah shook her head. “Nothing, Mother,” she hissed. “It’s about absolutely nothing!” After a moment’s frenzied consideration, the girl stood, bumping the table with her knees as she did. “You know,” she said, “I think I’ll head back to my rooms. You and Matvey can finish up tea.” She waved a shaking hand at her thoroughly bewildered cousin. “I’m sure you have much to talk about, anyway, right? What with Eitan’s test coming up.”

“What in the gods’ names is that supposed to mean?” Urszula hissed. “Sit down. Right now. And explain yourself!”

She didn’t want to speak the words. Gods, how she didn’t want to speak them. But as her conversation with Angelo played over and over again in her head— spinning like a vortex, a suffocating wind— she couldn’t stop herself, she couldn’t— not when Urszula was glaring up at her like the slighted party, so straight in her seat, her nose wrinkled, her brow squashed. Carrying on as if this was all a great mystery. As if she’d never done a single sour thing in her life.

“What’s going to happen?” Tovah said simply, her voice little more than a raspy, harrowed croak. “To Eitan? If he fails his tests?”

“He won’t,” Urszula said cooly. “The imperial line never sires blanks. The test is just to put dear Motya’s mind at ease.”

Matvey nodded hurriedly at this— he clearly, so clearly, wanted it to be true— but Tovah didn’t buy it. Not for a moment. “You’re lying,” she spat. “You wouldn’t have ordered the test to soothe Motya. You ordered it because Eitan is your grand-nephew and the whole court knows he’s almost seven. And you know how they’ll titter if he reaches that birthday without showing any magic. And you want to stay in control. You want to know first. If he’s a blank. So you can handle it.” She clenched her hands into fists at her side. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

The Glass Empress frowned. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“Answer my question, Mother,” Tovah snapped. “What will happen to Eitan if he fails!?”

The empress gave a long, slow sight. “I don’t know. That has never happened before. It is… unprecedented.”

“But surely it has happened,” Tovah needled. “If not in the imperial line, then surely in our nobles? Yet I haven’t heard of any lord or lady giving their child away to slavery. Not once.”

“Do you really think a noble would publicize such a thing?” Urszula demanded. “It would be a great shame and a tremendous personal tragedy. Of course they would want to handle the matter… quietly.”

“You never answer questions!” Tovah rasped. “Not ever - you always talk your way around them!”

“Tovah.” Matvey’s voice cracked, his dark eyes flitting rapidly between his cousin and aunt. “Perhaps you should sit down—”

“Shut up, Matvey!” Tovah leaned forward, looming over the table like a fox over an anthill. “Eitan will be seven in July. Three months from now. Three months.”

The empress looked back at her daughter, expression and voice flat as she retorted, “And? Are you going somewhere with this?”

“Yes,” Tovah squawked. “Yes, I am.” She forced a deep breath— or, as deep as she could manage in her present frenzied state, anyhow. “Eitan is seven in three months. And… J-Jakub…” Her voice cracked like fragile china as she forced out her twin brother’s full name. “Jakub d-died in October. When we were six. Two months before our seventh birthday. T-two months.” Tovah’s teeth were chattering again, just like in the library earlier. “And he was your son. N-not just your grand-nephew. Had you… had you had him tested, Mother?”

“No,” Urszula replied, far too quickly, far too smoothly. “I knew I needed only to wait a bit, and that with time he would show his hidden talent. But…” She sighed, looking down at her teacup. “The gods didn’t give him that time.”

“You’re lying,” Tovah spat. For a fraction of a second she wasn’t quite sure how she knew this— only that she did, and viscerally. But then the realisation washed over her, like a drowning, crushing wave: the empress had answered her question far too evenly, without even pausing first for thought. As though her reply was rehearsed. Scripted. Something she’d practised before many, many times.

In his seat, Matvey was looking increasingly uncomfortable. “Tovah,” he said. “Is this… truly the best conversation to be having right now? Given… well…” He didn’t finish his thought, but he didn’t have to in order for Tovah to know what he’d meant: given Eitan, and his own looming test, and the unknown fate that lay before Matvey’s little boy. Terrifying and perilous and looming just around the corner.

“I want to know,” Tovah said shrilly. “Tell me, Mother. Tell me the truth. Now! Did you have Kuba tested?”

Urszula said nothing, her eyes narrowed. Then, very quietly, she said, “I didn’t want you to find out. He was your twin. You loved him; attached at the hip. I knew it would’ve destroyed you to know the truth. That he was but a shell, his soul misplaced by the gods. It was for your own good, I never told you. To spare you the pain.”

For a long, long moment, Tovah said nothing. Did nothing— not a blink, not a twitch, not a breath.

Then, breathlessly, she laughed. “You killed him,” she burbled, straightening herself so that she stood very tall. “You killed him. Your own son! And you’ll kill Eitan, too, won’t you? If he fails.”

“It was for the greater good, Tovah,” the Glass Empress said quietly, not meeting her daughter’s eyes. “That the gods would misplace the soul of an imperial? It must never happen. We would lose the support of the people. The gods’ empire would fall to ash and ruin if word spread. I loved the son I thought I had, but in the end he… he wasn’t my son. Not really. Just a blank. Empty. My true son’s soul ended up somewhere else.”

“He was your baby,” Tovah retorted. “He trusted you. He loved you! And you— you what, Mother? P-poisoned him, I suppose? A droplet into his soup o-or tea, that was all it would’ve taken, he was so small, he was so small—”

“Tovah!” Urszula cut in. “Do you think I was happy about it? But what else could I have done? What else could I possibly have done?”

“I b-bet it destroyed Father,” Tovah warbled. She was crying now, and she didn’t bother to blink away the tears. “Because h-he had to know what you were going to do to Kuba, after K-Kuba failed the tests. He had to know and it had to destroy him, it—”

“Tovah.” Kott’s composure was growing more agitated— uncomfortable— by the moment. “Could you— could you calm down. Pl-please?”

She’d never heard Matvey stutter before.

Not once. Not ever.

“Motya,” Urszula said quietly. “I’m sorry. That you have to hear this. But sometimes these things happen. It’s awful, but what can we do?” She squared her jaw, looking straight into Tovah’s eyes. “Your father realized it too, after I talked to him. He was upset, of course, but he knew what had to be done. You don’t remember, do you? We had custard pie that last night before he fell ill. Kuba’s favorite dessert. He would even lick his plate when we had it. Your father suggested it- said it would make sure he got the full dose.”

“No,” Tovah hissed. “No. Father wouldn’t have— he wouldn’t have!” Her chest felt very tight; every breath was becoming a labour. “You’re lying. You’re a liar, a bloody liar!”

But she did remember.

Hate it as she might, she remembered that meal well— it had, after all, lingered in her mind as one of her last memories of Kuba. They’d had supper alone in the imperial family’s private dining room, just the four of them: mother and father and daughter and son. Urszula had claimed a migraine and used it as an excuse to dismiss all the serving blanks after all the dishes had been set on the table, so it had been not a slave, but Tovah and Kuba’s father, who’d sliced up the pie that had been baked for dessert. Carefully cutting. Hands steady.

… At least, they were steady initially, as he offered the first slice to Kuba. “Since it’s your favourite,” he’d said, smiling.

Kuba had laughed— a high, merry laugh— before the sound abruptly died in his throat when his father moved to transfer a second piece of pie to a plate… and his hand slipped. The slice tumbled toward the table below, and Jakub and Tovah could only watch as their father darted out his other hand, as if to catch it before it landed. But he failed at this, too, having aimed several inches too far to the left; the slice landed on the tablecloth below in a mushy mass of bleeding custard— and even worse, as it did, the man’s arm nipped the side of the pie platter, thoroughly upending it.

“Oh no!” Kuba had breathed. “The pie!”

In her seat beside her brother, Tovah had scowled. “It’s ruined. I wanted a piece!” Her ice blue eyes had flicked toward Jakub. “Share?” she’d needled.

Urszula, however, had snorted, gently swatting her daughter across the head. “We’ll have the cooks send up a fresh one later. My head hurts and I don’t want to listen to you two squabble.”

Even at six Tovah had known better than to row with the empress, and so with a sullen sigh, she’d gone silent.

Kuba had eaten his slice of pie.

He alone had eaten the pie.

Over ten years later, sitting in the empress’s tea garden, her only living child let out a pathetic moan. In response Matvey winced, and Urszula shook her head. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you. Some things in this world we are are better left not knowing. I know it’s hard love, but… you know as well as I do. It’s in all the holy scripture. One born without the seventh element is one without a soul. A nothing. A mere echo trying to pass as human. Perhaps it was a test from the gods; a way to gauge our conviction, to ensure we would do anything to keep the imperial line pure and strong.”

“What, so the gods sent Kuba to us only to make sure you’d kill him?” Tovah laughed in disbelief. “That’s madness, Mother! Disgusting!”

“They sent us a shell,” Urszula replied, shaking her head. “As I said- an echo that only thought it was human. It is easy to kill random bleeders, but perhaps they had to know if our conviction would hold when the blanks were of our own blood.”

“He was my twin,” Tovah bleated. “Your son. He loved you, he trusted you, it’s vile to say he was put on this earth only so that the gods could make sure you’d murder him! He was… he was— sweet and smart and… and…” She shuddered, bile rising in her throat; the girl only just barely managed to swallow it back down. “He wasn’t an echo— I don’t care what the gods-cursed scriptures say, he wasn’t an echo!”

At this, Urszula’s eyes flashed warningly. “Don’t speak blasphemously, Tovah; you know as well as I do that much though we may wish otherwise, a child born a blank can never be fully human.”

“He was fully human!” Tovah snarled. She was no longer blubbering so much as shouting. “More human than you are, I’d daresay! You wretched, brutish—”

“Tovah!” Urszula snapped, lurching to her feet. “How dare you talk like that? These are truths you’ve known your whole life. Unpleasant truths, but still truths. You… You…”

The empress broke off, an odd expression coming across her face. A dawning sort of realization that made her expression go completely flat.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” she said softly. “Angelo. He’s the one who made you realize all of this after a decade of never questioning it.”

“Don’t turn this around on him, Mother,” Tovah growled. “This has nothing to do with him. Only the child you and Father murdered. Your child! And… and…” Her gaze whipped to Kott again. “His child, too, I imagine. I-if Eitan fails that test. Your kin! Your own flesh and cursed blood, Mother!”

“Now you’re the one who’s evading questions,” Urszula hissed. “I told you what you wanted to know- now answer me. Was this Angelo’s idea? Has he been filling your head with his heathen lies?”

“This has nothing to do with him!” Tovah repeated through gritted teeth. “And perhaps,” she rattled on, even as every ounce of logic within her begged for her to shut up already, “he’s not the liar! Perhaps the liar is the one who had her son murdered and now plans to do the same exact thing with her grand-nephew— and finds nothing wrong with that!”

For a long, long moment, Urszula was chillingly silent. Then, her voice very soft, she hissed, “I see. So- like father like son. He may be a mage, but he inherited the blank’s inborn need to pervert and corrupt the true children of the gods. It was a mistake to let him have so much close, unrestricted, unsupervised access to you.”

Tovah laughed incredulously. “That’s your conclusion from this? That something’s wrong with Angelo? Not you, the person who had Kuba murdered, but with Angelo? You’re mad! Absolutely mad!”

In his chair, Kott had started sweating, his complexion gone positively ashen; he looked as though he wished he could tuck his tail and flee from the conversation outright, but he didn’t dare interrupt the empress and princess’s argument to ask permission to do so. Urszula, meanwhile, closed her eyes, heaving a heavy sigh.

“It’s a pity,” she said softly. “I never thought you’d let yourself fall so far. But I suppose the holy scripture warns us to guard ourselves from blanks and blood traitors for a reason.” She looked up to her nephew. “Motya. Escort Tovah to her rooms please. I will speak to her later- first I need to deal with Prince Angelo.”

Matvey hesitated, looking somewhere between confused and concerned, while Tovah let out another hiss of fury. “Deal with Prince Angelo?” she demanded. “What in the hells does that mean, Mother?”

“It means I’m doing what I should have done nine months ago,” she said calmly, sitting back down at the tea table. “Before I let him corrupt you. At noon tomorrow, Prince Angelo will be executed in the city square, and his head will be sent to his father with the letter of our declaration of war.”

Tovah’s entire body went to ice. “No.” She was no longer shouting. She didn’t have the breath to make herself shout— could barely even make herself stammer. “No. No, no, no, no, you can’t, you can’t—”

“We will help you recover, Tovah,” Urszula said gently. “You have strayed, but I know you can find your way back, my precious daughter.” She gestured to Kott again, more imperiously. “Take her to her rooms. It’s better if she does not see.”

Swallowing hard— as if to chase away his reservations and emotions— Kott nodded and stood. “Y-yes, Majesty,” he said, bowing his head.

Kott reached toward Tovah, but she jerked quickly away. “Don’t touch me,” she warned. “That’s an order, Matvey!”

Urszula said nothing, but the look she gave her nephew made it clear she expected him to follow through on taking Tovah away. Matvey, catching the look, gulped again, hand quicker this time as he lanced it back toward Tovah’s arm. Once more she tried to pull away, but Matvey was a trained soldier with years of combat experience— and for good measure he outsized her by half a head and at least a hundred pounds. She could only let out a small gasp of pain and indignance as his fingers curled around her forearm, and he roughly yanked her arm behind her back.

“Please don’t fight me?” he murmured into her ear as, with the hand that wasn’t holding to her arm, he firmly cupped her skull, his thumb digging into the base where it met her neck. “I really, really would appreciate it if you didn’t fight me, Tovah.”

“She’s going to murder your child!” Tovah snarled in reply. “If he fails, she’s going to murder him, Motya, she’s going to—”

“I know, Tovah,” Matvey said. “I know.” Her gave her already-wrenched arm a calculated twist, and as she let out a squawk of pain, he told her: “I have physical control over you right now. Whether you like it or not. And I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t make this any harder than it already is, okay? A nice, calm walk to your room. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Someday you will understand, my love,” Urszula said sadly. “Now- go, Motya. She’s had enough stress for one day, and I suspect so have you.”

Matvey nodded, and Tovah screeched, digging her heels into the ground below. “I’m not going!” she squawked. “I’m not, I’m not!”

But her pleas fell on deaf ears, and within a few moments it became clear that even if she didn’t want to go, she had no choice in the matter: at first Matvey tried to coax her into walking, nudging her legs with each leaden step forward that he took, but when this meted nothing, he turned to dragging her instead. She thrashed, and he clamped down harder against her skull. Pain blossomed, and she screamed again.

“Let go!” she begged him.

“I’m sorry, Tovah,” he said simply. “I’m very, very sorry.”

Even with Tovah thrashing at every opportunity, she and Matvey were making quick headway through the gardens. Within a minute Urszula was already gone from sight, and in another few they’d be back inside the palace. From there it was only a quick jaunt to her and her mother’s rooms— a few staircases, a couple of winding halls. And once she was locked inside— and she had no doubt that Kott would be locking her inside, no way would he leave her with an opportunity to escape back out— then… then…

Then what?

Then it was over. Then she was trapped, and Angelo was doomed. A cow just waiting in the slaughterhouse. His death already written in stone.

“Let go of me,” she gasped again, tears burning in her eyes. “Matvey, please—!”

“Hush, Tovah,” he told her simply.

“We’ll run into a knight sooner than later,” she blathered on. She was surprised they hadn’t already— gods knew, sentries weren’t scarce in the imperial palace. “I’ll tell them you’re hurting me!”

“And I’ll tell them that I’m acting under your mother’s orders. They won’t interfere.”

“Matvey!” she pleaded.

“I’m sorry, Tovah. I’m sorry.”

True to Tovah’s prediction, they ran into knights not longer later… but true to Matvey’s prediction, the men didn’t interfere after he told them— in his steeliest soldier’s voice— that he was acting under Urszula’s command, and that any efforts to stop him would see their backs falling under the wrong side of a lash. Tovah tried to counter this— tried to tell them no, that her cousin was lying, that he was abducting her, that if they didn’t rescue her it would be their heads rolling, not a mere whipping, but she was so hysterical that her words were barely understandable, and in any case, Matvey had her dragged away and out of the knights’ earshot before she’d managed to wheeze more than a few fractured syllables.

A few minutes later, they crossed inside.

Tovah wanted to throw up. Or pass out. Or maybe both. She had to think— gods, she had to think! Screaming was meting her nothing. Physically struggling had only earned her pain. But she couldn’t just give in! To give in would mean Angelo’s death, signed and sealed, and she couldn’t let that happen— she’d sooner die than let that happen!

… And then an idea occurred to her. A bare bones idea, more of a wavery flicker than anything, but as Matvey began to drag her down the marble-floored hall, Tovah realised that it might be all she had. Her only chance. It was like playing grey man’s bluff— the real version, not Angelo’s bastardized invention. After you threw the dice, you only had so long to make your move before your turn expired. And a move— any move— was better than forfeiting your go. No one ever would— could!—win from forfeiting their go.

“Matvey,” she whimpered to her cousin. “Matvey, okay. Okay. I’m done fighting. I’m done.”

He let out a sigh of what might have been relief, but kept right on walking. Dragging. “Mmm,” he said. “All right. Glad to hear.”

“Matvey.” She shuddered. “Please, I mean it— can you stop lugging me like I’m some errant blank? I’m d-done fighting, I’m done. Just let me walk, all right?”

“You might run,” he said.

“Where to?” she asked, a bit shrilly. “Because wherever it is, I’m pretty darned sure you could catch me.”

Matvey sighed again… and for a long, miserable moment, Tovah thought he might just keep on dragging on her. But then, abruptly, he paused in his tracks. His hand fell away from her neck and his other loosened over her arm. He allowed his cousin to straighten.

“Don’t do anything stupid, please?” he asked her.

“I won’t,” she promised him. “Just give me a second to catch my breath, okay?”

“Fine,” Matvey agreed reluctantly.

“Thank you.” Tovah swallowed hard.

Sucked in long, tremulous inhale.

And then, lightning-quick, her hand dance toward Matvey’s hip. His wand.

She didn’t manage to extricate it— he was too fast, his dominant hand dropping from where it had been holding onto her arm. He seized her wrist, and Tovah yelped in pain.

But beneath the squeak, there lay a small laugh— a smile— because this was exactly what she’d wanted.

Because— as Matvey focused on stopping her from snatching his wand— Tovah used her other hand to reach for her own.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Motya,” she said as she expertly unholstered it and pointed the rod toward his chest. “But I will. If I have to.”

Fingers still laced around her wrist, Matvey blinked. She half-expected him to try something immediate and aggressive— to jerk her forward, or spin her around, or otherwise do something to throw her off balance and then quickly confiscate her wand. It was what she would’ve done, if she were him. And gods knew, he’d already proven he could well outmatch her physically.

But he didn’t.

Matvey didn’t.

Instead, for a long moment, he merely stared at her. Then, after turning his chin to briefly survey the derelict hall they stood in, as if to check for any watching eyes or listening ears, the silver-clad guard dropped his cousin’s wrist.

“What are you doing, Tovah?” he asked her gently.

“Sh-shut up,” she whimpered, taking a step back from him, wand still outstretched. “Shut up, Matvey.”

“Tovah.” He matched her step with one of his own. “Answer me, please. What are you doing? Because… if it’s what I half-think you are…” Matvey swallowed very, very hard. “I want to make sure you think it through. The implications. Before you go any further.”

“W-what’s that supposed to mean?” she squeaked. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Treason,” Matvey said simply. “If you’re trying to do what I think you are… that’s treason, Tovah. You know that, right?”

“I suppose,” she agreed. Fresh tears were pooling in her eyes, and she blinked them stubbornly away. “But I don’t care. I don’t care, Matvey! My mother killed K-Kuba. And now she’s going to kill Angelo. And I— I can’t, all right? I can’t let her kill him, I can’t, I can’t—”

“Shhh.” Matvey pressed a finger to his lips. “Not so loud, Tovah. You’re going to attract attention.”

Now she was the one to blink in surprise. “W-what would you care if I attract attention?” she sniveled. “That’ll just help you, won’t it? Reinforcements. To d-d-disarm me.”

Matvey, however, didn’t respond to this accusation. On the contrary, he shook his head, voice soft but urgent as he told his cousin: “This isn’t something you can go back from, Tovah. It’s a very permanent choice. Choosing a heathen prince over your mother. Your crown. Your kingdom.”

“I d-don’t care,” Tovah stammered. Her hand was cramping, but she didn’t dare lower her wand. “I can’t play her games anymore, Motya,” she croaked. “I can’t just… be another piece on her gameboard.”

“You’d have to go very far away, Tovah,” said Matvey. “Out of Meltaim entirely.”

“Then I’ll go out of Meltaim. A-Angelo doesn’t want to b-be in Meltaim, anyhow.”

“He wants to be in Valzaim,” Matvey corrected. “Our sworn enemy. Tovah— gods, how do you know they wouldn’t merely slaughter you there?”

“They wouldn’t,” she insisted shrilly. “A-Angelo’s told me about them. Their religion, their b-beliefs, their philosophies. They don’t just— just kill to kill, if I pr-proved to them that I’m genuine they wouldn’t kill me. They wouldn’t. M-maybe they’d be suspicious of me for a bit— until I showed them I’m n-not their enemy, but… then I’d be okay. I’d be okay.”

“But even if that’s true… is he really worth this, Tovah?” her cousin asked delicately. “Throwing away your entire life? Your birthright? Your legacy?”

“What’s it to you?” she returned. “W-why do you even care?” Then, heavy knots lacing her throat, she added: “Why haven’t you tr-tried to disarm me already, Motya?” He’d had ample time to figure out an approach, and so if he’d wanted to, he surely could have.

Matvey, however, only shrugged. “Answer my question, Tovah,” he told her. “If he’s worth this. If you’re truly serious about doing this.”

“I-I am serious,” she said. “And he is worth it.”

“All right,” Matvey replied. “If you’re sure.” Then— unexpectedly— he shut his eyes for a brief moment. Let out a long, trembling breath. “I’m not going to stop you, Tovah,” he said. “I’ll let you go. I’ll even help you. I—”

Tovah gawped. “What?” she cut in. “You’re… g-going to help me? Why in the hells would you help me? As you pointed out, it’s treason, Motya.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Matvey said. He stared his cousin straight on, their pupils hooking. “I will help you. On one condition.”

“C-condition?” she asked. “And… what’s that?”

“Eitan,” her cousin said simply. “You and the prince take Eitan.”

Chapter Sixteen

SPOILER: Click to show

Angelo hadn’t so much as cracked the book of Meltaiman fairy tales. On the contrary, he’d spent most of his time since returning to his room curled up on his bed with his paper and charcoal, drawing. Or scratching the black lump across the paper. He was mostly making various swirled, intersecting lines rather than drawing anything in particular. He couldn’t really focus well enough to draw something in particular from memory.

He heard the door to the main living space open, and picked up his head curiously— before his heart plunged into his stomach at the sound of footsteps thundering across the living room floor. Too many footsteps to belong only to one person, and whoever it was, they were frantic, sounding as if they were moving at something close to a jog.

Woo, what now?! he thought desperately, lurching off of the bed and to his feet- still rumpled and half-covered with the comforter- just as the door leading into his room was a flung open, and a very agitated-looking Matvey Kott shouldered inside, Tovah hot at his heels. If this weren’t perplexing enough, after another fraction of a second, Angelo realised that Matvey and Kott weren’t alone: a third person trailed after them, several paces behind, his feet shuffling where theirs were practically flying, his posture timid where theirs was frantic, his chin dipped apprehensively where theirs were jutted.

Eitan.

Angelo openly gaped. Kott’s wife and children had never come into his apartment before. It was only ever Urszula, Kott, Tovah, the guards, and the blanks. What was Eitan doing here?

“Tovah, what you d-” he started in his fractured Meltaiman, but Tovah waved a hand to cut him off.

“We need to go,” she said in Valzick. “You and me. Now.”

“This is your lucky day, princeling,” Matvey added in the same tongue. He turned, revealing a leather satchel slung over his shoulder, which he promptly removed and offered out toward Angelo. “Take this. It has some supplies.” He nodded toward Tovah, whom Angelo quickly noticed had a matching bag worn over her own back. “It’s not much. But enough to keep you alive for a while.”

“Papa.” Edging anxiously into the bedroom, Eitan let out a long snuffle. “Papa, what’re you saying? Why’re you t-t-talking the funny language?”

“Shhh,” Kott said. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Papa just— needs to talk to Prince Angelo really quickly. In the language he understands best.” He switched back to Valzick. “I’ve already knocked out the door guard on duty— he’ll come to fogged to the hells and with little recollection of the last day, let alone the past few minutes. And—”

“W-wait, hold on, you what?” Angelo stammered, struck dumb. He mechanically reached forwards to take the satchel from Kott’s hands, conditioned to obeying the man by now, but his mind was still swirling with confusion. To Tovah he added, “What do you mean, we need to go? I-I don’t understand, what’s going on?”

“We have to leave,” Tovah said, jaw shaking. “I— I… confronted my mother, Angelo. About Kuba. Your— your theory. About Kuba.” She squeezed her eyes shut, warding off tears, before flinging them back open. “You were right. You’re right. And… Eitan— his testing, it’s— it’s— going to be the same thing, and—”

“And,” Kott finished for his cousin, the man far more composed than she was, “the empress, meanwhile, has decided you’re a corrupting influence on Tovah. She’s ordered your execution, Prince Angelo. Tomorrow. At high noon.”

Angelo’s face went pale as ash, his eyes wide as full moons. “Oh… oh Woo...” he swallowed hard, eyes flitting between Tovah and Kott. “S-so… you want me to escape? ..No, you said we, Tovah, didn’t you, you said we.”

“Of course I said we!” Tovah’s voice lurched. “I’m going with you. I’m not going to just— just leave you.” She shuddered. “That’s n-not what people do. To other people th-they love.”

Angelo swallowed hard, reaching out towards Tovah and yanking her into a hug. “Y-you’ll never be able to come back, you know. If you do this. You’ll be exiled from Meltaim forever.”

“I know.” Tovah returned his hug, burying her face against his shoulder. “M-Matvey’s already lectured me well and good, Angie.” But here, her breath hitched a bit, and her voice was feather light as she asked him: “Th-they… w-wouldn’t hurt me, right? In V-Valzaim? Because I… I i-imagine we’d have to go to Valzaim, and I’m… I’m me, and…”

“No,” Angelo said immediately, viscerally. “I won’t lie and say they wouldn’t be suspicious at first. Nervous. B-but they wouldn’t hurt you, Tovah. As long as you aren’t a threat to them children of the Woo won’t hurt you.”

“Pr-promise?” she asked, nuzzled tight against him. “B-because I love you— gods, I love you, but if they’re j-j-just going to t-torture me, or slaughter me l-like my mother’s planning to do to you…”

“They won’t,” he said again, pressing his his face into her dark hair. “I promise they won’t. Valzicks aren’t like that. They’re not.”

“O-okay.” Tovah gulped. “Okay, then. I tr-trust you, Angelo. I trust you.”

“Papa.” Eitan whimpered again. “W-what’s happening?”

Kott, bracing himself, turned to face his son. “You know,” he said to the boy, “how you’re always so excited to hear stories, buddy? About Papa’s secret military missions?”

“Uh-huh,” Eitan agreed, lip wobbling. “I g-guess.”

“Well,” Kott said, “you and Tovah and Prince Angelo— you’re going to get to go on your own mission. The three of you.” He forced a small, flickering smile. “You got picked specifically for it, buddy. Because you’re so brave. And so grown up for your age. Angelo and Tovah— they’d hear no other names but yours. Because no other little boy is nearly so good.”

Angelo’s eyes narrowed in confusion, but after a moment understanding clicked, and he looked back towards Tovah, whispering in her ear.

“H-he wants us to save his son. Even though he’s probably a blank. Th-that’s why he’s helping us, isn’t it? He wants us to take Eitan to Valzaim.”

“I think it… pushed him over the edge,” Tovah murmured back to the Valzick prince. “Hearing my m-mother talk about what she did to Kuba so… so casually. Knowing that— that the same fate might await Eitan just a few weeks from now.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Eitan was in the nursery with Iwona and Yetta. M-Motya cast a confusion spell on his wife, and then p-put her and Yetta to sleep. She won’t know what happened when she wakes up. Who happened.”

Angelo swallowed hard. Escaping Meltaim would be nigh on impossible enough for himself and Tovah- adding a six-year-old child would make it the next thing up from a disaster. But… he looked at Eitan, the sweet, bright, effusively happy boy, the boy who might very well be dead in a few weeks… and knew he couldn’t even try to refuse.

“Is long way,” he found himself saying in Meltaiman, giving the boy what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “So be sure give Papa big hugs first, okay Eitan? Big, big hugs.”

Eitan blinked, tears pricking in his brown-black eyes. “P-papa isn’t gonna come?” he asked. “On the mission?”

“Papa has to stay at the palace, honey,” Kott said, his voice cracking. “But—” He reached out and draped his arms around the boy, pulling him close. “I love you. So, so much. And I know you’ll be a brave boy for Tovah and Angelo. The best boy.”

“It’ll be so much fun, sweetheart,” Tovah added, finally drawing back from Angelo’s hug. “We’ll get to go see so many fun new places. And we’ll get to camp under the stars. In the nice spring air. The three of us all snuggled up tight.” She patched her satchel. “Your papa made sure to give us very cosy blankets, remember? Your favourite blanket— from your bed. In case you get homesick.” Tovah winked at him. “Though of course you won’t, because you’re so brave, right?”

Eitan sniffled again, wrapping himself in his father’s embrace. “I-I… can try,” he said unevenly. “T-to be brave. But…”

“You do good job,” Angelo insisted. “Best job. I know.” He hesitated, then looked up to Kott, switching back to Valzick. “But what about you? If the Glass Empress realizes you helped us…”

“The door guard is blitzed,” Matvey said simply. “Iwona was confounded and put to sleep. If they find me elsewhere in the palace, beat up and confused out of my mind? It won’t seem out of place.”

“Especially,” Tovah tacked on, “because I repeatedly mentioned Eitan during my fight with Mother. She’ll think we took him, yes— but that doesn’t mean she’ll conclude Matvey helped.”

Angelo bit his lip, but slowly nodded. “Right. Okay.” He gave a tremulous smile to Matvey. “I don’t suppose you actually didn’t snap my wand before throwing me in that cell nine months ago, did you?”

Easing the snuffling Eitan back from him, Matvey sighed. “No. That’s long gone. But…” After pausing to smooth his son’s rumpled blond hair, he reached to his wand holster. “You can take mine. It’d make sense that you would have filched it if you’d attacked me and knocked me unconscious.”

Though Eitan didn’t understand a single word, the meaning of the gesture was still highly apparent as Matvey proceeded to hold his wand out toward Angelo. The little boy gasped. “Papa,” he whimpered. “You’re givin’ him your wand?”

“He’s just borrowing it,” Matvey assured the child. “For the mission. Don’t worry, all right, love?”

Angelo swallowed hard, gingerly accepting Matvey’s wand- it felt strange to hold one again after so long. “It’s only a matter of time before a blank or knight finds out of the people you’ve knocked out. We have a very small window and it’s closing fast- if we’re going to go, we need to do this now.”

“I can help you through the palace innards,” Matvey replied. “Fortunately, being intimately involved with the imperial guard means I know every passageway, short-cut, and abandoned route in this place. I can’t guarantee we won’t run foul of anyone, but…” He shook his head. “If we do, we’ll take care of it.” Here, however, the man hesitated, looking down at Eitan again. “I think,” he said, “that we should perhaps put the little man to sleep, though. For the worst of this. I can carry him until we part, and then…”

Angelo nodded. “Right- good idea. I can handle any non-combatant spellcasting, since I’m using a wand not attuned to me and I’m… rather thoroughly out of fighting trim.” He took a deep breath, then met the eyes of the man who had been his tormentor for close to a year squarely. “And I promise, when we get to Valzaim, I’ll take good care of him. Protect him. Make sure he is happy and loved. You have my word, upon my honor as a soldier and a prince.”

Matvey exhaled slowly. “Thank you,” he murmured, running a hand through Eitan’s hair. Then, after hesitating for a moment, he reached gingerly toward his tunic, pushing aside its collar to reveal what lay beneath, hanging on a delicate chain around his neck. “Tovah’s… right, for what it’s worth,” he said as he gingerly unclasped the necklace that held Angelo’s mother’s ring. “You are a good person, Prince Angelo. A much better person than I am. Because if I were you…” He shrugged, sweeping off the piece of jewelry and holding it out toward the Valzick. “I don’t know if I would take Eitan. Not after all his father had put me through.”

The prince blinked sharply, his eyes misting as he accepted the necklace with hands that shook. He’d long since resigned himself to the fact that he was probably never getting it back… and now it was returned, freely. He bowed his head, murmuring, “Th-thank you. So much. This belonged to my mother- I… thank you.”

“It’s yours,” Matvey said simply. “It’s always been yours. No need to thank the thief who took it.” Gulping, he looked back down at Eitan, reaching out a hand to give the boy’s blond locks one last tussle before he quietly scooped the child into his arms. “I love you,” he murmured then. “I love you so much, Eitan. Don’t ever, ever forget that, okay?”

“I love you, too, Papa,” Eitan replied, nestling his cheek against his father’s shoulders. “Lots and lots.”

“I know you do.” Matvey let out a shuddering breath, then nodded toward Tovah. “Go ahead,” he said to her, in Valzick. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Tovah nodded, silently drawing her wand. As she pointed it out toward her cousin’s son, she gave Matvey a reassuring smile. He didn’t have the composure left to return it, only drawing his cheeks in and planting one last tender kiss atop the boy’s curly locks.

“I love you, Eitan,” he said again.

Tovah flicked her wand and whispered an incantation. Light pulsed out, arcing toward Eitan, and as it hit him the boy sagged abruptly, sleep seizing hold of him like a vise. As the child lolled off into unconscious, his father shuddered. Having to know that this was it. All he had left. The last moments he would ever get to hold— to see— his only son.

Angelo felt a vice of sympathy squeeze his gut, and he tentatively put a hand on Matvey’s arm. “When he’s older, I promise I’ll tell him the truth. What you’ve done for him. What you’ve gone against for his sake. He’ll know his Papa loved him more than anything.”

“Thank you.” Kott blinked hard. “Th-thank you, Prince Angelo. That’s… more than I deserve. So much more than I deserve.” The empress’s nephew swallowed hard then, steeling himself. He had to know gods-cursed well that he could not afford to have his composure crumble now. “Are you ready?” he asked his cousin and the prince. “If so…” He turned toward the door. “After you.”

Angelo slid his mother’s ring over his neck, tightened his grip on Matvey’s wand, and spared Tovah a single, fleeting peck on the lips- then, together with the three Meltaimans, walked out of the room that had been his prison cell for nine months for the last time.

Part Three
"From Hollow to Hallowed"

Chapter Seventeen

SPOILER: Click to show

It was a warm, breezeless afternoon in early June, and tucked within a thicket of towering pine trees deep in the heart of the sprawling Galfras Mountain range, the young blond boy was very cross.

“I don’t want to walk again,” he said somewhat shrilly, lips scrunched and brow furrowed as he loomed over the small, bubbling stream that he and his travel companions had paused at to refill their canteens. Swiping a hand through the cool water, he added, “My feet hurt. And I’m tired, Tovah.”

“Eitan,” replied the tall, black-haired teenage girl who crouched beside him, the tattered skirts of her once-luxurious dress dragging in the water and mud. The dress had formerly been silver, but now it was tarnished to a mousy brown-gray. Tovah went on tartly, “I know you don’t want to walk. We’ve been over this.” Hundreds of times. “But we have to. For our important mission, remember?”

“I don’t wanna be on a mission anymore!” Eitan replied waspishly. “I wanna take a nap!”

The boy was always tired these days. Not that Tovah could fully blame him. It had been a full six weeks since she, Eitan, and the abducted Valzick prince had made their dusk flight from Meltaim’s imperial city, and life since then had become a seemingly endless parade of untamed mountain passes, mosquito-bitten nights, and blisters oozing on their heels. It wouldn’t have been an easy journey for anyone to make, let alone a small child, but they weren’t exactly swimming in alternative options, and Eitan’s constant complaining wasn’t helping matters any.

“We can sit for a few more minutes,” she said to him, as patiently as she could manage. “But then we’re moving again. All right?”

“And I sorry, but not carry you again,” Angelo added tiredly. Though the muscles in his legs and arms had strengthened from the exercise of their near constant travel, as exhausted as he was they were not up to the weight of a six year old for very long. Switching to his native tongue, the prince added, “Practice Valzick? To get your mind off your feet.”

“I don’t wanna,” Eitan said petulantly. Dunking his hand into the water again, this time somewhat more violently, he let out a pathetic whimper. “I hate this mission,” he declared. “It’s dumb.”

Tovah sigh, frustration rising in her like a swelling tide. Before the past six weeks, her child-minding experience had been… limited, to say the least, and sometimes— all right, most of the time— she now felt as if she was attempting to solve a very complex arithmetic equation without ever having been taught how to count. The Eitan she’d known back in Meltaim had been bright, effusive, bubbly. The little road-worn, mosquito-bitten moppet she’d found herself facing lately? He was sour. And angry. And gods, how he whined.

“Two minutes,” she said to him. “Then, we’re walking. Sorry, buddy.”

He blinked hard. “You can’t make me.”

Angelo fished around in his pockets, coming up with a small fistful of blue-black lumps. “Tell you what, Eitan; for every hour that we walk nicely, you can have two of these. They’re the last I’ve got, but they can all be for you.”

Eitan eyed the proffered bribe warily. “Those are the berries?” he asked. “That we gotted last week?”

“Mmhm,” Tovah confirmed. “They were so juicy, weren’t they?”

He considered. “I want them now. And… then I’ll be good. If I can have them.”

“I’ll give you three now,” Angelo haggled. “Then the rest are for later, if you’re good.”

“Seems like a good deal to me, hm?” Tovah encouraged. “I’d take it if I were you, bud.”

Eitan pouted his lips. “Fine,” he said. Turning away from the bubbling stream, he held his palm out toward Angelo. “Please?”

Angelo counted out three of the berries into Eitan’s palm, smiling encouragingly at the child. “There you go. I hope they’re nice and yummy, I’m pretty jealous.”

Eitan popped the first into his mouth, savouring it. “Can… can I still have the two more minutes?”

Tovah sighed. “All right,” she said. “But then, we’re walking.”

Eitan was clearly not enthused when Tovah announced that time was up a very liberal two minutes later, but at least he didn’t complain— he’d enjoyed his blueberries and clearly wanted more. As the three of them headed away from the stream— Tovah first casting a quick directional spell to make sure they were still heading south— the little boy hummed mindlessly to himself, arms crossed and feet shuffling. Beside him, Angelo tilted his head.

“Is party song, no?” he asked in Meltaiman. “Hear through walls some, in palace.”

“I’unno.” The boy shrugged. “I like the tune. It’s happy.” He yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth as he did. “Tonight,” he started, “can we go to bed early?”

Tovah sighed. “We’ll see.”

“Can Angelo tell me another one of his stories?” Eitan prattled on. “The neat stories. ‘Bout the birdy.”

“The Birdy” was of course the Lord Woo- knowing they were going to be bringing the child to Valzaim, Angelo had been telling both Tovah and Eitan stories from the Books, to get them used to the ideas and principles of Wooism. He smiled gently at Eitan’s question, ruffling the boy’s blonde hair.

“Sure,” he agreed. “But only if you use your Valzick for the rest of the day. You won’t get better if you don’t practice.”

Eitan scowled, but nodded. “Okay,” he said, in very shaky Valzick. Young as he was, he was picking the tongue up fast— but six weeks was nevertheless far too short of a time to see him as anything more than lurchingly conversational. “Birdy’s language,” he added. “Right?”

Tovah laughed. “Mmhm, I suppose you could say that,” she agreed. “I don’t think the Lord Woo would be much of a fan of Meltaiman.”

“I imagine not,” Angelo mused. “Though the Woo loves all his children, so I think we can be forgiven.” He pondered, then smiled. “Eitan, how about I tell you the story of the time when a great troupe of the Woo’s children were travelling through a desert, with no food, and the Woo made crumbs of bread appear all over the rocks every morning?”

Eitan’s eyes widened. It had been far too long for his liking since he’d last had any bread. “Okay,” he agreed. “That sounds like— like good story.”

“Mmhm, I bet it’s great.” Tovah smiled down at her cousin’s son. “But— remember: only if you keep up talking in Valzick. And,” she added, “you don’t complain.”

“I thought the berries was for not complain,” Eitan protested.

“Berries and a story.” Tovah waved a hand. “Deal?”

The boy reluctantly nodded, and the trio fell into a silence then, the only sound that punctured the air that of bracken snapping underfoot as they wended through the seemingly endless pine forest that rose around them. Their pace was far from brisk— Eitan’s little legs made sure of that— but it was steady, at least, and they were making good progress as the sizzling afternoon started giving way into a still, breezeless evening.

Just before dusk Angelo had paused for just long enough to take a drink from his waterskin- refilled many times over since Kott had put it in the his travel satchel initially- when he tensed suddenly, his head whipping around and his eyes narrowed. Meandering a few paces behind him, Tovah paused, brow knitting.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him, motioning for Eitan to stop walking, as well (the boy enthusiastically obliged).

After a moment, he shook his head. “I thought I heard something in the brush. Maybe it was just a rabbit, though.” He laughed softly. “I really wish-”

Angelo’s voice fell away as another sound abruptly pierced the air: a blood-curdling scream, courtesy of Eitan, who’d fallen to a halt a few steps behind Angelo and Tovah both. The teenagers both whirled, just in time to see the young boy get yanked bodily off his feet, into the arms of a dark-skinned individual clad in a uniform of dusty taupe. And the boy’s assailant was not alone: in a blink there were at least half a dozen others surging out from amid the trees.

Soldiers.

“Let go of me!” Eitan wailed— in Meltaiman— as he thrashed against his captor. “Let go, let go, let go—”

“Eitan!” Tovah’s voice cracked, as her hand danced toward her holstered wand. Drawing it, she spun on her heel again, as if looking for a route of escape, and her heart slammed into her throat as she realised that there was none: they were utterly surrounded. She screamed again, louder: “Eitan!”

“Tovah, drop your wand,” Angelo bleated, throwing his arms in the air. “Drop it, now, these are Special Forces, don’t fight them!” To the men he added, “Please, don’t hurt the child! We surrender!”

As if her brain hadn’t quite caught up with her adrenaline, Tovah did not immediately drop her wand. “Let go of him!” she shrieked to the soldier who held Eitan. She spoke in Valzick, but in her terror, her accent was strong. Almost overbearing. “Let go of him, please!”

“Wand down!” growled one of the soldiers in return— not the one who held Eitan, but a short, muscled man whose uniform was littered with nearly a dozen pins and badges. An officer. Pointing his own wand at Tovah, he snapped, “Now! Or I stun you!”

Desperately, Angelo lurched towards Tovah, grasping her wrist and yanking it down so that her wand was no longer pointing at the soldiers. “Please, listen the them, you have to trust me,” he hissed. “Just trust me, they won’t hurt us if we surrender!”

“They have Eitan!” she hissed— but his grip on her was solid, and she couldn’t relift her wand.

Instead, Tovah merely stood there, jaw clenched, as the throng of soldiers stepped slowly toward her and Angelo. In his captor’s arms Eitan was still screaming, and the sound was like murder to Tovah’s ears. She wanted to help him— save him— anything—

“Set the wand down into the dirt,” said the officer thickly. “And,” he added, eyes falling to the wand at Angelo’s hip, “you too. Very, very slowly.”

Angelo nodded quickly, using his free hand to jerk his wand from its holster and dropping it in the leaves and grass of the forest floor. “Please, Tovah,” he begged the Meltaiman princess. “Please trust me. They won’t hurt Eitan. I told you before, remember? Valzicks don’t hurt children. Please.”

She obeyed, though it was not without great hesitation, and her entire body had startled to tremble as she echoed Angelo’s movement to set her wand down into the bed of pine needles below. As she did, the reaction from the soldiers was instantaneous— a quartet of them descended on her and Angelo, a pair of them seizing hold of either one of Angelo’s arms and forcing him to his knees while a second pair did the same to her. As she hit the ground below, Eitan let out another miserable cry, and her stomach flipped violently.

“Identify yourselves,” the officer said, watching on as his men uttered a quick incantation to summon ropes that twisted into bindings around their captives’ wrists. “Names, first off— and then, what in the bloody ’Pit you’re doing a hundred miles deep into the Galfras.”

Angelo took a deep, shaking breath. “I am Crown Prince Angelo Thaikos- I was taken captive from Fort Drýinos nine months ago, and I have been a hostage in the Meltaiman capital ever since- these two have helped me to make my escape, and I am t-trying to get back home to my father.”

This sent an immediate wave of murmurs rippling throughout the unit— which their commander quickly brought to a halt with a sharply waved hand. Taking another sharp step toward Angelo and Tovah, he demanded: “What was the number of your unit? And the name of your commander? And—” He narrowed his hazel eyes. “The name of the sole known survivour?”

“Unit Four-Twenty,” Angelo prattled instantly. “The commander was Arch-Sergeant Major Galanis, though that day we were also with Arch-Brigadier Petrou. The only survivor was… was…” He swallowed hard. “Arch-Specialist Adonis Karahalios. The Meltaimans sent him back with a letter detailing their plans for me.”

“If you speak the truth,” said the officer, “then forgive me for this treatment of you, my prince. But…” He took a deep breath. “We must be prudent. Cautious. You understand this, yes?”

“I understand,” he murmured. “Please, just don’t hurt my companions? The boy barely knows Valzick, and I can’t promise he’ll be cooperative; he’s six years old and scared.”

“At worst, we’ll put the child to sleep for a little,” the officer promised. “As for the woman…” He looked to Tovah, who had gone rigid as stone, her jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder she hadn’t cracked any teeth. “You cooperate with us, and no harm will come to you while we move you back to camp. Understand?”

She forced a small nod, staying silent, and Angelo heaved a sigh of relief. “H-how far are we…” He squinted at the man’s laurels, adding, “Arch-Lieutenant? From your base camp?”

“Not an easy hike,” the man admitted. “We’ve been tracking you for nearly two days now— the path you’ve been cutting hasn’t been exactly… subtle, shall we say?” He motioned for his men to help Tovah and Angelo to their feet. “We’ll make camp tonight in the forest and should be back to base by tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps evening.”

Angelo nodded slowly. “Right. We’ll cooperate, sir.” To Tovah he added, “It’s okay. I promise. It’ll be okay.”

She couldn’t fully fight back a whimper— especially as one of the soldiers pulled a cloth hood out of his shoulder bag and brought it toward her. “Don’t let them separate us,” she told him, in Meltaiman. “Please. And— even if they do— Eitan. Don’t let them hurt him. No matter what— don’t let them hurt him. Promise?”

“They won’t hurt him,” Angelo insisted, tensing involuntarily as the hood was brought towards his face. Almost despite himself he flinched from the soldier who brought it up, his shoulders trembling hard now.

“Relax, sire,” the arch-lieutenant said. “It’s only a precaution— we’ll take it off just as soon as we’ve made camp, okay?” He turned to the soldier who held Eitan; the little boy was still sobbing up a storm. “Spell him to sleep,” he ordered. “You can carry him, Dellis.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Dellis; the last thing Tovah saw before the hood was cinched over her head was the man shifting Eitan into one arm to draw his wand.

She let out another whimper. “Y-you trust them?” she asked Angelo, as if just to hear his reassurances one more time.

“I do,” he said, though his voice was shaking as his face was consumed by darkness for what felt like the hundredth time. “Woo preserve me and grant that after tomorrow I n-never have to wear one of these cursed things ever ag-gain.” He let the soldiers gently nudge him forward, and slowly began to trail after them.

* * *

The cicadas were crying their late afternoon song when finally the familiar sounds of civilization reached Angelo and Tovah’s ears through their hoods the next day. Angelo had to fight hard not to shiver with instinctive fear as he heard soldiers barking orders at one another, with no particular sign they were in a hurry to remove his bindings.

The arch-lieutenant, at least, seemed to pick up on Angelo’s unease, quickly clarifying: “We’ll have you unbound and unhooded in a bit, sire. We just need to get some couriers sent out first. And I need to speak with the camp’s commander.”

“R-right,” he whimpered. “Of course.” He hunched his shoulders trying to steady his breathing- he’d been hyperventilating off and on since the hood and been put up, if he wasn’t able to distract himself. “I… I don’t mean to… make a fuss.”

“You needn’t apologise,” the officer said. “My apologies will be owed to you, sire, just as soon as we’ve confirmed your identity.”

Soon enough Angelo was towed to what must have been some sort of command tent- without Tovah, over both of their frantic protests- whereupon the hood over his face was finally removed. His bindings, however, were left intact, again with arch-lieutenant’s apologies. This frustration, however, was at least quickly overshadowed by something good: as Angelo’s eyes flitted toward the entrance to the tent, he saw something that made his heart flutter. Eitan, the little boy sluggish in one of the other’s soldiers arms, as the last of the series of sleeping spells they’d cast on him over the past day began to ebb.

“Eitan,” he murmured, relief flooding him at the sight of the child- woozy but unharmed. “Eitan, buddy, are you awake? Can you hear me?”

“Mmm.” The boy shifted in the soldier’s arms. Speaking in very sluggish Meltaiman, he peered toward Angelo and asked: “W-where is we? Where’s T—”

“Valzick, honey,” Angelo prompted gently. “And we’re in my country. Where I was born. These nice men brought us here- you wanted to sleep inside, right? With cushions? And have some real food?”

“Uh-huh,” Eitan agreed, as the arch-lieutenant gestured for his subordinate to gently set the little boy down. As the man obliged, Eitan wobbled a bit on his feet, the boy stifling a very big yawn as he added to Angelo in fractured Valzick: “Can I sit you?”

“You sure can, little man,” Angelo agreed with a gentle smile. He nodded to the space beside himself- he couldn’t move his arms which were still bound behind his back- and added, “You can sit right here and lean on me while I talk to the nice men.”

Eitan nodded, lurching a little as he padded over to Angelo’s side. As he did, the arch-lieutenant let out a small sigh, watching on while the little boy plopped down and then nuzzled his cheek against Angelo’s arm.

“I’m going to go speak with the base commander now,” he said. “I’ll leave two of my men outside the tent if you need anything, sire. I can’t guarantee when you’ll be unbound but— it will be soon, hopefully, all right?”

“That’s fine,” he murmured. Hesitantly he added, “Could… we have some water, perhaps?”

“Of course. I’ll have some bread brought for you, too.” The arch-lieutenant turned toward the exit to the tent— and Eitan smiled.

“Bread!” he breathed. “Ang’lo, he said bread!”

The prince laughed, kissing his young charge on top of his head. “He sure did. No more wild nuts and roots for supper, hm? See, I told you if you were a good boy you’d get good things.”

“Like in the stories!” Eitan chirped as the arch-lieutenant strode toward the door. “Your stories, Ang'lo.”

“Mm-hm,” Angelo agreed with a wink. “The Woo rewards his children when they’re good. And you’ve been a very good boy.”

Soon enough, the soldiers did indeed return with some bread and water for Angelo and Eitan. The small boy was given the novel experience of getting to feed the prince from his own hands, since Angelo was still bound— which he took in with gleeful abandon. His sleepiness seemingly gone, a wide smile bloomed between his lips as he helped Angelo with the water and bread.

“It’s like Mama!” he chirped. “With Yetta!”

The prince chuckled. “I bet it is. But I don’t make as much of a mess as Yetta does, I hope.”

Fortunately, the prince did not make nearly as much of a mess, getting through his meal with only a few crumbs and dribbles of water. Even better, just after he and Eitan had finished eating, the arch-lieutenant arrived back to the tent. As he strode in, he dipped his head into a bow, looking at his shoes as he greeted: “Sire. May I ask you a question, please?”

“Yes, of course,” Angelo replied. “You have my full cooperation.”

“I’ve spoken with my base commander,” said the arch-lieutenant. “And it seems that he and the other higher-ranking officers at the border outposts have been given… well, lists, I suppose. Of questions to ask anyone claiming to be the prince.” The man dared glance up from his shoes, his eyes hooking with Angelo’s. “Questions the real Prince Angelo would know the answers to, but a poseur would not.”

The prince nodded, having figured this would be the case. “Alright. What do you want to know?”

“Well, first...” The arch-lieutenant cleared his throat, pulling a small scroll of parchment from the pocket of his overcoat and unrolling it. Reading from the ink delicately scritched on its surface, he went on, “Ah… your— favourite hunting hound, it’s asking. What’s the name of your favourite hound?”

Angelo lifted a bemused eyebrow as Eitan settled against his arm again. “A fox-hound called Dolly. She was born on my birthday and I got to help the kennelmaster clean up her and her siblings.”

The arch-lieutenant nodded— Angelo had passed the first question. “All right,” he went on, studying the second question. “And… your bedsuite at the palace. What colour are the walls in its sleeping chamber and sitting room, respectively?”

“The sleeping chamber is in beach colors, grey-blue and sand,” he answered immediately. “Because it overlooks the beach through the window. The sitting room is white and navy.”

“Right. And third…”

The arch-lieutenant continued on like this, through a series of increasingly inane and random questions— all of which Angelo answered with ease. Finally, once he’d exhausted the list of nearly two dozen items long, the officer rolled the scroll of parchment back up and tucked it into his pocket again.

He bowed his head. “Sire,” he breathed. “My apologies again. For the unpleasant treatment.” Chin still lowered, he reached for his wand and flicked it once, murmuring beneath his breath as he did; immediately, the magically-borne ropes that bound Angelo started to dissolve, like snow on hot pavement. Angelo gave a sigh of immense relief, reaching his hands up to rub his wrists. He then put one arm around Eitan’s shoulder, looking up at the arch-lieutenant.

“What about the girl?” he asked urgently.

“She’s being held for further questioning,” replied the soldier. “And,” he added quickly, “we’ve already dispatched a messenger, sire. To reach King Iosef as quick as is humanly possible. He’s down in Valla, so I imagine it will take him a while to get here, but—”

“How long are you planning to hold her?” the prince interrupted, annoyed at the blase way in which the man had dismissed his concerns about Tovah. “She is the only reason I was able to escape at all. I wouldn’t just still be a prisoner without her, I would be dead.”

“She… she is Meltaiman, sire,” the officer replied apologetically. “She needs to be questioned.” The man tilted his head, hazel eyes apprising. “Do you have for us her name, at least, sire? So far, she’s refused to speak even that to us.”

“Probably because she’s frightened,” he replied. Swallowing hard, he said, “Tovah. Her name is Tovah.”

“... Tovah?” This did not seem to be the answer that the arch-lieutenant had expected— nor wanted to hear. He gawped for a moment, before he seemed to realise this was impudent, whereupon he turned to shaking his head rather rapidly. “Sire. Please, tell me you don’t mean…?”

“I wondered if you would recognize the name,” he said with a tired sigh. “Yes. I do mean that Tovah. Tovah Srebro. The Glass Empress’ daughter. However,” he added sharply, squeezing Eitan close to his chest. “She is not our enemy. She has been learning of Wooism from me, and she chose to defect to our cause when she learned that the empress murdered her twin brother. She helped me escape the palace a month ago and we’ve been on the run since.”

The officer didn’t quite look convinced, but in any case, he also seemed to know better than to argue. Turning his gaze to Eitan, he murmured, “If she is a member of the imperial family… then… who is he, sire? The boy?”

“Eitan Kott,” Angelo replied. “His father was the empress’ nephew. He… he hasn’t shown any magic. None at all, and he’s seven in just a month. The empress murdered her own son for being a blank, and his father didn’t want him to die, so he helped us escape in exchange for our bringing his son to safety in Valzaim.”

“I see.” The arch-lieutenant let out a long sigh. “And… I take it based on the way you’re holding to him so desperately, that you would be, ah, not all that amenable to being parted from his company until your father arrives…?”

“He’s six and he isn’t a mage,” Angelo retorted, raising a brow. “He’s no threat to you- why pull him aside?”

“He is Meltaiman,” the man replied simply. “An imperial, sire. His family’s been the one imprisoning you for going on a year now.”

“And the child had no involvement in that,” Angelo said. Nudging the boy, he added, “Eitan, can you do me a favor?”

Eitan shifted, lip bit— it was obvious that the clipped conversation, even if he couldn’t understand most of it, was unsettling him. “‘Kay,” he agreed. “What… what kind favour…”

“You remember the bird story I told you?” he asked the little boy. “About the Woo gathering up his children into a nest of his feathers? Can you remind me what the Woo says when the little girl cries and tells him she can’t come because she’s been bad?”

“He… he forgive her,” said Eitan, thinking back to the story Angelo had told him one night weeks ago, beneath a blanket of stars. “He say he still love her. Because… we all Woo’s child.”

“Very good!” Angelo said, pulling the boy up into his lap and hugging him.

The arch-lieutenant quirked a brow. “Your point is made, sire.” He sighed. “The boy may stay with you. Although—” He gestured to the plain interior of the holding tent. “This is hardly a suitable accommodation for you, my prince. The base commander agreed— in the case that you passed the test, as you have— that he would vacate his own quarters and bequeath them to you until we receive further orders from Valla. It’s… hardly a palace, but…”

The prince shook his head. “Arch-Lieutenant, I have spent almost the entire past nine months in a single, windowless apartment, with no company save my own, books written in a language I couldn’t read, and games I had no idea how to play. Anything is a step up from that.”

“You will be an honoured guest of our camp,” the officer replied. “Anything you need— do not hesitate to ask. We will do our best to fulfill your wishes, my prince.”

“I have no intentions of abusing your hospitality. Right now, I just want to rest,” Angelo said with a tired smile. “And to be reunited with my friend as quickly as I may be.”

The arch-lieutenant provided no verbal reply to this— only a small, shallow smile… and to Angelo, this served as a miserable answer all its own.

Chapter Eighteen

SPOILER: Click to show

It was early the following morning when Angelo was blinked awake by a sound he’d not heard in a long, long time- military drums, and the bellowing of an officer calling for the soldiers in their barracks to “Turn out!”

At first his heart leapt into his throat, the prince not quite remembering where he was as he stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling. Then he felt something small and warm shift against his ribcage, and looked down to see Eitan snuggled against him. Memories slowly trickled back, and Angelo relaxed. He was at a military base in the Galfras, controlled by Valzick soldiers. He was in Valzaim.

It hit him then, like a brick wall.

He was in Valzaim. He was home.

His breath caught. His eyes misted. A sob tore itself from his throat, and he curled more tightly around Eitan as he tried to stifle the noise. He was home. He was free.

“Why’re crying?” Eitan’s voice— in Meltaiman— was feather light, the little boy still drowsy from his interrupted sleep. “Ang’lo, why’re you crying?”

“I’m happy, Eitan,” he whispered, using Valzick, giving the boy a wobbly smile. “I’m crying because I’m happy.”

“Oh.” Eitan squirmed and flopped over onto his other side, so that he could peer up into Angelo’s iron-coloured eyes. Outside, the drums were still beating, and the little boy tilted his head, quizzically. “What’s those for?” he asked, still using Meltaiman.

“Valzick, please, Eitan,” Angelo prompted. “They’re drums.” He mimed the action of drumming. “They’re to tell the soldiers it's time to wake up.”

Eitan yawned, obediently shifting to Valzick. “We have to wake?” he asked. “Sleepy.” He nestled his forehead against Angelo’s chest. “You warm.”

Angelo laughed, hugging the little boy close. “It is nice to sleep in a real bed again, isn't it buddy? I don't know about you but I slept like a rock.”

“Uh-huh,” the boy agreed. “But…” He gnawed on his lip. “I miss Tovah. Why couldn’t she be with us…?”

The prince felt his heart plummet, and he swallowed hard. “Tovah… she had to sleep somewhere else because she’s a girl. Girls and boys can't sleep in one room if they’re not married or siblings, you know.”

“We sleep each other in woods,” Eitan pointed out, as if Angelo had missed something very, very obvious.

“I know,” he murmured softly. “I know.” He sighed, slowly sitting up. “You hungry at all?”

At this, Eitan brightened. “More bread?” he asked greedily.

“We’ll have to see what’s available,” Angelo answered with a smile. “Hopefully they don't mean to keep me by myself in just this room for ‘security.’ That would be very boring.” And far too bad deja vu.

Eitan sat, and opened his lips as though to reply, but before he could, a loudly cleared throat outside the heavy canvas flap door to the tent snapped his and Angelo’s attention. “My prince?” called a gruff male voice. “My name is Arch-Brigadier Ariston Sotir— I’m the commander of this base. May I come in?”

Angelo started a bit, but relaxed a moment later and smiled thinly. Woo, how long had it been since someone asked him permission to enter his space?

“Yes, come in,” he called, the invitation a bit shaky on his lips, as if he didn't quite remember how to speak with authority.

Without further preamble the cloth flap was pushed open, and into the tent strode a short but well-built man. He was much older than Angelo— perhaps in his forties— with a pale brown complexion and eyes the colour of burnt honey. The uniform he wore was a muddy taupe, as was standard for the Special Forces, but his coat was decorated to the point of near gaudiness, his pins and medals jangling a bit as he stepped inside.

“Sire,” the arch-brigadier said, pausing at the maw of the tent to bow his head. “I have some matters to discuss with you, if I may have permission.”

Angelo sighed, rubbing his face. “I… suppose you want to quiz me on what the ‘Pit has been happening over the past year?”

“If Your Highness is willing,” Sotir said by way of answer. “We’d also like to give you the opportunity to, ah— clean yourself up? If you’d like.” Daring to peek up from his bow, he gestured broadly at Angelo. “Wash from the road. Put on clothes more… suitable, to your station.” As though it were an afterthought, he added hastily, “The boy, as well.”

The prince blinked, then nodded fervently. “That would be… Woo that would be amazing. Just to be clean and in Valzick clothes again.” He glowered down at his torn, filthy Meltaiman clothing. “This is far too keen a reminder of what the empress tried to force me to be.”

“Of course, sire,” said Sotir. “I can have the officers’ privy closed for your privacy. So that you can wash.”

“Wash?” Yawning again, Eitan sat up, propped by his elbows. “Ang’lo— what is wash?”

“It is kąpiel,” Angelo explained, using the Meltaiman word for bath. To the arch-brigadier he added, “That would be wonderful. If… if you had a razor as well…” He indicated his somewhat overgrown poof of hair, “I’d be in your debt.”

“Certainly— I can have one brought to you with your fresh clothes.” With another brief bow, he turned back toward the exit of the tent. “Do you wish to follow me now, sire? Or do you wish to get some more rest first?”

“The sun is awake, so I may as well be too,” he mused. “I can always catnap later if the road catches up to me again.” Easing himself out of the bed- and beckoning for Eitan to follow- he said, “Lead the way, Arch-Brigadier.”

Eitan didn’t seem particularly enthused to be roused from the cosy cot to take a trek through the innards of the camp, but at least he didn’t complain, clinging hard to Angelo’s hand as the arch-brigadier led them to the officers’ privy. There was a captain inside, finishing up with the wash basin, and Sotir promptly booted him; the man scowled for a moment, then seemed to realise for whom he was being displaced and scuttled out with an ashen complexion and a frenzied salute.

“I’ll have the clothes brought in shortly, if that’s all right, sire?” Sotir said then. “The water pump is over there”— he gestured to the corner— “and… well— there’s a bucket we usually use to transport the water to the basin, and… I could have someone requisitioned into helping you with that. If you’d like?”

Angelo chuckled, shaking his head. “You forget, sir, I was a Arch-Specialist at the time of my abduction; I spent two years tending mostly to my own needs in camps not dissimilar to this one. I’ll be alright, I assure you, you don’t need to feel obligated to wait on me hand and foot.”

“Yes, sire. If you wish.” The arch-brigadier chanced a fragile smile. “Do you wish for me to take my leave now, then…?”

“I’m sure you have quite a bit more on your plate that babysitting me,” Angelo said, not unkindly. “And… to be completely honest it will be a positive change, not to have observation and shadows constantly. At least until I am inevitably assigned bodyguards by my father.”

It felt so strange, Angelo reflected as the arch-brigadier was leaving. To be in a position of authority again. To be permitted to make decisions. He turned to the pump, grinning down at Eitan. “I’ll fill the basin up in a jiffy, and then we can get the stink off us finally.”

“I do not like bath,” Eitan said grimly, lips pursed as he watched the arch-brigadier go. “I do not need.”

“Ooooh, yes you do,” Angelo retorted, quirking an eyebrow. “Your hair is brown, little man.”

“Like brown,” Eitan retorted with a prim nod. “No one here has yellows.”

“I think the yellow is nice,” Angelo said, already pumping water into a bucket. “And you’re getting it back, like it or not. You don’t get to sleep in my bed if you’re dirty.”

“Hmm.” Eitan wandered toward the row of metal wash basins, and leaned to peer inside the largest of them. “Is not your bed, really,” he informed Angelo. “Is soldiers’ bed!”

“Well!” Angelo said, as he dumped his bucket of water into the largest basin and proceeded back to the pump. “All the more reason not to let a messy boy sleep in it! I’m borrowing it, it wouldn’t be nice at all to get it smelly.”

“Why don't you just make bath?” Eitan suggested. “I fine.”

“No, Eitan, you aren’t.” Angelo set the bucket down and turned towards the young boy, hands on his hips and a scowl on his face. “You’re getting a bath. Period. Even if I have to hold you in the water.”

“The Woo no like be mean,” Eitan said, mock somber— but there was no missing the faint smirk he wore, nor the mischievous glint in his dark eyes. “You don't want Woo mad!”

For response, Angelo scooped the boy up and plopped him into the partially filled basin, pouring more water from his bucket in beside him so that Eitan was splashed. He yelped in surprise, filthy clothes going soggy— then glanced up at Angelo with a tiny giggle.

“I get you next!” he declared, splashing the prince back. “It is fight!”

The duo engaged in an enthusiastic game in the wash basin, Angelo marvelling at how wonderful it felt to just… play. Have fun, unabashed and untainted by the shadow of the Glass Empress and her ambitions for him.

They did eventually get clean, though it took a second filling of the wash basin as both he and Eitan were coated in layers of grime that quickly fouled the water of their first soak. As they dried off afterward, a terrified-looking private scurried in with a bundle of clothing in his arms— an unadorned but clean uniform for Angelo, and a tunic and breeches that had been magically shrunk down to fit Eitan. The nervous soldier also offered Angelo a fresh razor, which the prince received with a grateful smile and warm thanks.

It was the first time Eitan got to see Angelo with his head shaved instead of adorned by the ethnic Valzick trademark of wooly black hair, and the first time the child saw his friend in a military uniform instead of clothing for Meltaiman nobility. Watching on from where he sat on the ledge of the wash basin, the boy nodded approvingly as he watched the locks fall away (his own hair was once more yellow, rather than grimy gray-brown).

“I like,” he declared. “Look soldier. Like Papa.”

Angelo cast Eitan a sad sort of smile. “I’m glad. I used to be a soldier, you know. Before your papa brought me to the Empress. It feels good to have a uniform on again. Does yours fit okay?”

“Uh-huh.” The child fidgeted with the sleeves, which hadn't been trimmed quite to size. “It soft. I do not like how look, though. Plain.”

The prince chuckled. “Soldiers clothes have to be plain, silly. If they’re decorated fancy they’ll get stuck on things. Or make noises so enemies know where you are.”

“Papa’s uniform pretty,” he countered, sticking out his tongue as Angelo moved from trimming his hair to taming his scraggly beard. “Nice colour.”

“Yes, but I bet you can see it a mile away in thick plants,” Angelo retorted. “It’s just for a while, Eitan- imagine it’s nightclothes, hm? Those aren’t as fancy as your papa’s uniform.”

“Okay.” The boy heaved a gusty sigh. “Belly empty,” he announced then. “Breakfast?”

“Soon, I’m sure,” Angelo soothed the boy, gently pulling the razor across his chin. “Just let me finish up with this, alright?”

Once the prince had restored his head to its smooth, hairless state, he took Eitan by the hand and emerged from the officer’s washroom. As he’d half-anticipated might be the case, the private who'd delivered the clothes was now standing by as a guard, the man’s head dipping into a hasty bow as he spied Angelo.

“Sire,” he said.

“Private,” Angelo replied, inclining his head politely. “Were any instructions left for us? If not I’d appreciate if my friend and I could be directed to the mess tent.” He smiled, inviting the younger man to share the joke as he added, “By this time of morning I imagine it’s only leftovers, but cold porridge is still a marked improvement over wild burdock roots, neh?”

“Of… of course, sire,” the private burbled, not daring to lift his gaze from the tops of his shoes. “You can follow me— I'll lead the way.”

“Ang’lo.” Eitan tugged on the prince’s hand. “Is Tovah be at breakfast?”

“P… probably not,” Angelo murmured. “But I’ll talk to someone about her just as soon as we’ve eaten, alright?”

The meal- which was indeed cold leftovers, but Angelo certainly wasn’t complaining about that- passed quickly, both boys far too hungry to talk much between bites. But at length they had finished their meal, and it seemed their young soldier shadow did indeed have instructions for them after this, as they were promptly escorted to what seemed to be some sort of command tent.

Inside, Arch-Brigadier Sotir seemed to have been waiting for them; when the private announced them the man rose from where he'd been sitting behind a polished pine desk, his head snapping into a bow.

“Prince Angelo,” he greeted. “I hope you enjoyed the privy facilities?”

“I feel significantly more human now that I have a month of road and Galfras washed off of my skin,” Angelo agreed, saluting almost on impulse now that he had a military uniform on again. “I… hope that wherever she is being kept, my companion was also permitted to bathe, at least?”

Sotir lifted his head to return the salute. “You needn't worry about the girl,” he said. “She's being taken care of adequately, sire.” Hesitation sketched his face as he glanced down at Eitan, who had shrunk again the prince’s side like a turtle attempting to retreat into its shell. “Might the boy be more comfortable elsewhere while we speak, your highness?”

Angelo bristled. “I doubt it, since you seem to think dismissing my concerns about the woman who saved my life with ‘don’t worry, she’s being taken care of adequately’ is reassuring and not setting off blatant alarm bells.”

The officer’s face wobbled, but he quickly caught himself. “No offense was intended, sire,” he assured. “These are merely… grown-up topics, shall we say? And the boy is so very small—”

“And he’s Meltaiman,” Angelo retorted. “Will the men of this camp treat him as a small boy who is alone and frightened, or as a Meltaiman?”

“No send away,” Eitan whimpered, burying his face against Angelo’s ribs. “Please?”

Angelo knelt down, hugging the little boy in an effort to soothe him. “Alright- if you can be a big boy and wait patiently for me and the Arch-Brigadier to finish talking, you can stay. Okay?”

“I be good,” Eitan promised feverishly. “Promise. No send away.”

The prince stood, inclining his head towards the arch-brigadier. “It seems he’s insistent.”

The arch-brigadier sighed. “If that is your wish, my prince.” He gestured to the chair that had been arranged on the opposite side of his desk— no doubt for this very occasion. “If you’d like to sit? This talk might take a while, and I don’t wish for you to be uncomfortable.”

Angelo nodded, taking the proffered seat- and lifting his hands out of the way when Eitan promptly tried to scramble up into his lap. “I am at your service, sir.”

The arch-brigadier watched Eitan settle in the prince’s lap before he took his own seat, a nervous smile flitting between his lips as he did. “First,” he began, “I wanted to assure you that we’ve already dispatched a message to your father about your safe recovery— it’s hurtling toward him as quickly as is humanly possible, my prince.”

Angelo swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling oddly dry. “R-right. I presume he’s in Valla then? Not...not anywhere along the border?”

“He came to the border after you were first taken, sire,” Sotir replied. “But business in Valla could not wait forever. He returned south shortly before the first snows last winter.” He added quickly, “I’m sure, however, that once he hears the joyous news, he’ll be heading back this way. So that you may be reunited.”

Angelo glanced away. “Of c-course. Politics has to come first.” He forced a smile. “So what are your plans in the meantime? I presume you have plans.”

“We are waiting for orders from King Iosef before we do much of anything,” said Sotir. “As I’m sure he’ll like a personal hand in, well— what happens. From here. Now that Meltaim doesn’t have you to hold over our heads as a threat...” The arch-brigadier shrugged. “I can’t speak for the king, of course, but I imagine things might, ah… escalate. Beyond our current little border skirmishes.”

Angelo snorted. “I’d be surprised if that wasn't the case. Once you- or father- debrief me on what her imperial majesty was subjecting me to for the past several months. She’d finally decided to have me executed outright before Tovah took me and fled.”

The arch-brigadier physically winced— then stiffened in his chair like he’d been slapped. “I… cannot imagine His Majesty will take news of that very well,” he agreed after a moment. “I’d hedge retaliation will be swift and severe, as soon as His Majesty is debriefed.”

The prince absentmindedly rubbed Eitan’s arm to soothe the boy as he spoke. “Were you planning to talk to me here, or wait for my father?”

“Whatever you would be most comfortable with, Highness,” said Sotir. “I know you've been through a lot, and your comfort is paramount as we wait for King Iosef’s response to our messenger.”

He shifted, biting his lip. “I honestly won’t be comfortable in any event until I know what’s happening to Tovah.”

Here, the officer tilted his head, something scrutinizing seeping into his dark eyes. “You care for the girl,” he said simply. This was not quite a statement and not quite a question. “A fair bit.”

“You say that like caring for the girl who abandoned her throne, country, and family to save my life is a strange thing,” the prince retorted, bristling a bit. “I just spent nine months as a prisoner in a foreign land, Arch-Brigadier. Is it so wrong that I don’t want her to suffer as I’ve suffered? You have no idea the ‘Pit I’ve been through.”

“I mean no ill judgment toward you, sire,” Sotir said; in Angelo's lap Eitan had begun to squirm, clearly picking up on the prince’s tense tone even if he hardly understood his words. “We merely must be prudent, as I'm sure you can understand. She is the heiress to the imperial throne— I understand you may be fond of her, but we must exercise caution—”

“How long will it take my father to get up here from Valla?” the prince cut in. “Where even is here?”

“Fort Corcyra,” Sotir said. “You don't recognize the name, I imagine?”

“No,” he replied. “It looks pretty makeshift with all the tents, I assume it’s new?”

“Along with about half a dozen others,” Sotir confirmed. “Set up in the months after your abduction to fortify our presence on the border.” He added after a moment, “I'm sure King Iosef would approve of you moving somewhere more comfortable soon, sire. After we've heard back from him. A larger fort, perhaps—”

“I didn’t ask how long it would take for Father to get here for my own health, with all due respect sir.” Angelo scowled. “And I would appreciate it if you stopped evading my questions and trying to deflect me. I’m not an idiot, I see exactly what you’re doing. How long.”

Sotir waffled, cowed. “Weeks,” he said. “Perhaps a month. I imagine he'll take a ship, but late spring is rife with storms. Only the Woo knows what the seas and winds will be like during transit.”

“So let’s unpack this,” Angelo said, hugging the trembling child in his arms. “You wish to be prudent and exercise caution with the Meltaiman princess. That is understandable. But the implication here is you will keep her isolated and a prisoner until my father instructs otherwise- which I know he will not do until he speaks to her himself. A month or more from now. And if she is on our side (and she bloody well is) being a prisoner, alone and afraid, for that long, is going to alienate her. Make an enemy out of an incalculably valuable ally.”

“She is a lit match,” Sotir replied. This was hardly a denial. “And to make a decision regarding her trustworthiness— and future—without waiting for King Iosef’s command would be impudent. Perhaps it's not ideal to wait, but—”

Angelo stood abruptly, holding Eitan to his chest. “I don’t accept that answer. I have waited for my blighted father for nine months, Arch-Brigadier Sotir. Nine months of torture and loneliness. Nine months in which they came perilously close to breaking me, and you know why? Not because of the beatings and the shocks they subjected me to. Not because of the near-insanity of isolation when they kept me locked in a room with no windows by myself for months. No. It was time. Time rots everything, sir. Even hope. I have given my father enough time.”

Sotir looked legitimately frightened, his dark complexion going ashen as he gazed up at the prince, who was now looming solidly over him. Meanwhile, in Angelo’s arms, Eitan let out a whimper of surprise, tears pricking in his eyes as he buried his face against the clean fabric of Angelo's uniform.

“Mad?” the child sniffled. “Why yell? Why mad?”

Angelo blinked, seeming to come back to himself, and closed his eyes, hugging the child and rocking him. “I’m sorry, Eitan. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s okay, it’s okay, no more yelling I promise.”

The arch-brigadier swallowed hard, looking too anxious to speak without being addressed again. After a moment, Angelo took a deep breath and sat back down. “Please. Where is Tovah? And have you hurt her?”

“She's being held in a secure tent,” Sotir replied. “She hasn't been harmed. She hasn't even been questioned yet— not until we receive orders from the king.”

“Can I see her?” the prince asked. “You can supervise if you wish, but I want to see her. I-” his voice cracked. “I don’t want her to be alone. Not like I was.”

“I'm not sure if— if that would be wise, sire.” Sotir braced himself, obviously expecting a belligerent response; he added, “With all due respect, she is a highly dangerous person merely by her associations, and—”

“And I’ve been alone with her save for Eitan for a month now, you realize?” Angelo pointed out dryly. “What is she going to do, take me hostage? They already had me hostage. Kill me? They could’ve done that without delivering me into the arms of protectors. What danger are you worried about exactly?”

“She could be a spy, my prince,” Sotir said simply. “The Glass Empress is renowned for her manipulative nature— and you must know as well as I do that she has her sights set on our holy kingdom. It would be entirely within her character to have sent her daughter as an agent to—”

“I have been stuck in the Glass Empress’ palace in close proximity to her, having biweekly tea parties with her while she chattered at me like I was an honored guest and electrocuted me into unconsciousness if I didn’t play along,” Angelo interrupted, his teeth gritted. “Don’t lecture me about Empress Urszula’s nature please, I think at this point I know her far better than you or anybody else in this kingdom.”

Sotir quailed. “I'd like to wait,” he murmured simply. “For King Iosef’s word. Before anyone goes to see her.”

“Sir, do you have any idea what being alone does to a person?” Now Angelo was not angry or belligerent. On the contrary, now his voice had acquired a tremor that was impossible to miss.

If anything, this made the arch-brigadier look even more uncomfortable. With another gulp, he gave the prince a reluctant nod. “I… understand it can be difficult, sire. Yes.”

“I’ll give it until we hear back from my father,” Angelo said. “But I am not leaving her alone until he gets here. Period. That loneliness, boredom, and terror is something I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy, let alone the woman who gave up everything to save my life, my sanity, and my soul.”

“If the king orders she be let alone, sire…” The rest of the officer’s thought was left unsaid— but implicit.

In Angelo’s lap, Eitan snuffled. He didn't understand everything that was being said, but he could glean enough— not to mention the men’s very strained tones, which left little room for any delusions that this was anything but a wrought and chilly discussion.

“Don't like it here,” he declared to Angelo. He was crying steadily now, fat tears running down his ruddy cheeks. “Want Mama.”

“Oh, Eitan…” Angelo hugged the boy close to his chest, stroking his hair and now feeling guilty he hadn’t sent him away for this conversation- but where to send him? Clearly the soldiers were in no way sympathetic, and he didn’t entirely trust that if he let Eitan out of his sight he’d ever see the boy again. “I’m sorry honey, I’m almost done, I promise.”

He looked up at the brigadier, his voice falsely high and cheery but his eyes hard. “Let me be frank- Tovah is my friend, she is this child’s cousin, and I don’t care what my father says, we’re not leaving her to rot for a month. So there are two choices here. You can let me see her, or you can at least agree to carry messages to her for me or have someone else do so.”

For a long moment, Sotir said nothing. Then, reluctantly, he shook his head no. “I'm sorry, sire. But this is my fort, and I just can't in good conscious permit what you're asking.”

“Apparently I was not being clear,” Angelo said, lifting a brow. “I am Prince Angelo Thaikos, heir to the throne of Valzaim. One day I will be your king. Perhaps once upon a time I was a low ranked soldier, but given I highly doubt my father will let me re-enlist, I default to being a prince once more. You don’t have the authority to tell me no.”

As an arch-brigadier, Sotir was but one step on the ladder shy of being general-ranking, and it had likely been years— if not decades— since he'd been spoken to with quite this derision. He froze for several seconds, jaw slack and eyes wide, before he seemed to recover his wits, whereupon he bowed his head and let out a long, shaky exhale.

“Is… is that an order then, sire?” he managed.

“Yes,” Angelo replied, that single syllable seeming to be all he felt he needed to say.

Sotir looked very, very, very unhappy. For a long moment, he said nothing, before finally he eked out: “This is my fort. So I shall have to insist on a few precautions, at least. Or else the king will surely have my hide, if not my neck.”

“I understand,” Angelo replied, nodding and kissing the top of Eitan’s head in an effort to soothe the still sobbing child. “And make no mistake, I don’t intend to make a nuisance of myself or undermine your authority here; this is just an issue upon which I will not bend.” He sighed. “What did you have in mind?”

“She stays restrained,” Sotir said. “And either myself or another officer— commissioned, no roping in little corporals— stays with you throughout any contact. For your safety.”

He sighed. “Fine. But… please don’t keep her tied up all the time when I’m not there? Please? I don’t want her to get scars on her arms from rope burns thanks to an excess of caution.”

Sotir nodded hesitantly. “She needs an ankle cuff, at least,” he said. “But we can see about losing the arm bindings, my prince. If she proves docile over the next few days.”

“That’s fair,” Angelo agreed. He smiled down to Eitan. “You wanna see Tovah, buddy?”

“Uh-huh,” the boy warbled. “I miss Tovah.”

Sotir let out another gusty sigh. “You’ll be bringing the boy with you then, I gather?”

“She’s his cousin,” Angelo replied simply. “He’ll become upset if he’s not allowed to see someone familiar.” The prince sighed. “And his name is Eitan.”

“Eitan,” the officer echoed. “Right. My apologies, sire.”

“It’s alright,” he replied with a wan smile. “Perhaps, if you have anyone free to accompany me, I could check on Tovah? I imagine she’s probably frightened.”

* * *

If— washed up from the road and clad in clean clothing— Angelo now looked the part of prince again, Tovah rather resembled a scrappy, miserable beggar woman.

She sat on the bare ground in a sparsely finished prison tent, which was dark as a tomb and featured no adornments save for a thin cloth mat for sleeping and a wooden bucket for waste. Her ankle was chained to an iron stake, and her wrists were bound in front of her with intricately knotted rope. The soldiers had relieved her of her hood at least, but otherwise she looked little changed from the road: she was dirty and wore the same tattered dress she'd had on for months. Her hair was tangled. Dark bags underscored her eyes.

“Angelo,” she croaked when she saw him. Then, as she spied Sotir quick on his heel, she shrunk back, voice very fragile as she murmured: “H-hello.”

The prince scowled, glaring towards Sotir. “Adequate. I think that was the word you used?”

“She's been given some food,” Sotir protested, eyes averted from the glowering royal. “And water with it.”

“Why… why's she got chains?” Eitan whimpered in Meltaiman. “Angelo—!”

“Hush, love,” Tovah replied, using Valzick. Her voice was still raspy, and it cracked as she added to Angelo, “You look… sharp.”

The prince swallowed hard, kneeling down beside Tovah and putting a hand on her cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Tovah. This isn’t what I wanted at all.” He glanced towards Sotir. “When we go, can she at least be permitted a bath and clean clothes?” Angelo demanded of the soldier, exasperated. “I understand if you don’t have any dresses on hand, but even trousers would be better than what she has now.”

“I can have a basin of water brought to her,” Sotir agreed warily. “And I'll see what I can do about clothing, sire.”

“Why has she got chains?” Eitan shrilly repeated.

Angelo sighed, rubbing his face. “It’s just… until my father gets here, Eitan. I promise. I’ll talk to my father and make him get rid of the chains.” He put a hand on Tovah’s shoulder, adding, “I promise.”

“I know,” Tovah said. “I trust you.” She peered up toward Sotir, mulling with herself for a moment, before she apprehensively whispered to Angelo— in Meltaiman: “He doesn't speak any Meltaiman, I’d wager. What do you think?”

Angelo felt a smile tick at his lips. “No. I think he not speak. None does.”

From the scowl that was quickly unfurling across the arch-brigadier’s face, it seemed that Tovah and Angelo had guessed right.

“Excellent,” Tovah said. “I've missed you— how long has it been? A day yet? It feels like a day. At least.”

“It midmorning,” Angelo confirmed. “I sorry not come already.”

“It's all right,” Tovah said. “I've been sleeping, mostly.” She managed a soft laugh. “It feels kind of strange, doesn't it? Not spending your whole day slogging through miserable wilderness.”

“We taked a bath,” Eitan informed his cousin. “Now my hair’s yellow again.”

“Only after much whining,” Angelo said, poking Eitan on the side of the head. “But yes. All clean. Good food.” He hesitated, adding, “They… not bad food to you, did they?”

“Porridge.” She shrugged. “Some water. It was… fine. Better than the burdocks and roots we've been eating.”

He nodded. “Soldier rations. Same as most here. We get too.” He smiled to Eitan and winked. “Eitan show his bird stories to soldiers. So they let with me.”

“We got to sleep on a cot!” Eitan announced. “With a wool blanket.”

“That sounds very nice, sweetheart,” Tovah replied with a fragile smile. “And I see you got some snazzy new clothes, too, hm?”

Angelo winced, looking down at his boots. “I’m sorry, Tovah. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Sorry…?” She tilted her head. “Why are you sorry? You haven't done anything wrong.”

“That… that I welcome as prince,” he said dismally. “You prisoner. You save me. Should treat better. But no one listen.” He clenched his jaw. “No one listen. Had to bully just to come.”

“I'm my mother's daughter.” Tovah shrugged again. “I… didn't exactly expect a welcome mat.”

“I dead without you,” Angelo said simply. “They owe you better.”

“Maybe,” Tovah said. “But… I'm all right for now, okay? Once they question me… they'll start to see I'm not lying. And— you said once that happened, they wouldn't dare hurt me, right? That it would serve no cause. And the Woo doesn't like violence.”

“Right,” he agreed. “They not hurt you. But… must do as told, okay? Soldier say you not talk to them. I know scared, but look bad if not talk.” He cupped a hand on her cheek. “Trust, okay?”

Sotir looked supremely uncomfortable with this tender move, but wisely refrained from comment. Tovah swallowed hard.

“They haven't tried to interrogate me,” she said. “Just… stupid small talk. I didn't see the need to indulge them.”

“I understand not want small talk with them when treat you prisoner,” Angelo agreed dourly. “I not either. But how else to show you are of trust?”

“I don't know.” Tovah bit her lip. “I guess I'm just not… used to it. This.” She cracked another wobbly smile. “At least I haven't got a current cuff slapped on me, right?”

“I talk to them,” Angelo said, sitting down at Tovah’s side. “They take ropes too, if you not seem danger. Keep chain, for safe, but… as I say, I talk to Father. When he come.”

“Your father,” Tovah breathed, as if she still couldn’t entirely wrap her head around the concept. “He’s… going to come, then? Here?”

“Most probably,” Angelo replied. “Soldiers send message to him. Will want to see me himself before go to Valla. For to make sure.”

“Right. Of course,” Tovah said. “That… makes sense. Perfect sense.” A beat. “Do you… know when they’re going to question me…?”

He hissed. “Waiting on orders from Father. So… no, my sorry.”

“It’s okay, Angelo,” she assured him. “You spent nine months in that flat— I can wait for your father’s orders.” She looked to Eitan for a moment, then back to the prince. “Just… take care of him, all right?”

“Of course,” Angelo agreed. “And come see you. Often as they let me.”

“Okay,” Tovah said. “I… I love you.”

“I love you too,” he said, his voice gentle. “And thank you, Tovah. Thank you for bringing me home.”

Chapter Nineteen

SPOILER: Click to show

A few days later, the ramshackle fort received word back from King Iosef. True to everyone’s predictions, the monarch informed them that he would be making his way north “as quickly as the Woo” would carry him, and he ordered “the Glass Empress’s girl” held until his arrival so that he could question her himself. While none of this was in the least bit surprising, Angelo still couldn’t help a thrill of excitement at the idea of seeing his beloved father again… but also anxiety, in no small part because of how the soldiers continued to treat Tovah and because he didn’t really know what to expect from Iosef’s arrival. It had been nine months the Valzick king’s army had squatted on the border doing nothing to help him… and Angelo also knew he wasn’t in any way the same man he’d been when last he saw his father.

One week passed, then another. Though Sotir kept true to his word to at least unbind Tovah’s wrists, the girl was otherwise kept in stasis— she was allowed no visitors save for Angelo, she wasn't interrogated, and under no circumstances was she let outside the prison tent. It was as though the fort’s commanders were merely holding their collective breaths until King Iosef arrived to take the helm. Afraid that anything they did might not be exactly what he wanted, and so instead they deigned to do nothing at all.

Angelo was, suffice it to say, not happy about this. He spent as much time as he could with the woman, keeping her company as she had once done for him. At his insistence she was allowed to wash up with a small basin, though not a proper bath, and loaned a spare uniform to wear.

Eitan always accompanied him when he visited Tovah. Eitan went with Angelo everywhere, clinging to the familiar boy like a tick— this was partly through his own persistent insistence and partly through Angelo’s, as the prince still didn’t trust that the soldiers with Eitan’s care given how poorly they were treating Tovah.

Eventually, word reached the small encampment that King Iosef’s ship had come to port along the Galfras coastline- he was at the halfway mark. He still had to traverse the mountain country between the ocean and the camp, but he would, so he claimed, be arriving soon.

Angelo carried this news to Tovah, who initially reacted with a wavering smile… before, after a moment’s mulling, said smile vanished like smoke into a black night.

“Halfway,” she echoed, as one the camp’s arch-lieutenants stood sentry at the door, and Eitan and Angelo settled across from her on the ground. “He's… only halfway?” A beat. “How— how long has it been, anyway? Since we've been here?”

That question was an all too familiar one, and Angelo swallowed hard. “A little under two weeks.” Ignoring the guard’s deep frown, the prince put an arm around Tovah’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know, trust me.”

“It's okay,” she said, gulping. “It just…” She gave him a tired shrug. “Am I going to be… kept like this? Until he's here? Chained and…”

“I…” Angelo shot a hard, withering glare in the current babysitting officer's direction. “I’d like to say no, but I don’t want to lie Tovah. I don’t know. But I suspect yes.” Gritting his teeth he added, in a raised voice, “Apparently even after a year in the lion’s den, they think I can tell a roar from a purr.”

The guard looked away, somewhat awkwardly, and Tovah shut her eyes. “It’s not your fault, Angelo,” she told him. Then, in Meltaiman: “No more than what my mother did to you was mine.”

He sighed softly, switching to the same language. “That doesn’t make me feel less awful about it. I hate seeing you this miserable. I wouldn’t wish my fate upon anybody, let alone the girl I love.”

“I know.” Tovah managed another wavering smile, and cast it toward Eitan. “At least,” she said, “someone seems to be enjoying his stay here, hmm? Your cheeks are getting awfully pudgy, little man.”

Eitan blushed. “Nuh-uh,” he said. “Ang’lo says I’m just puttin’ back on the weight I losed on the road. Right, Ang’lo?’

The prince gave a wan chuckle. “That right. Look like young lord again, instead blonde mop.” He mimed the thin shape of a stick in the air while ruffling Eitan’s curls.

The boy giggled. “I like the bread here,” he announced. “Even if we’ve gotta pray before we eat it in the dinin’ hall. Every time, Tovah! ‘Fore every meal!”

“People here love Woo lots,” Angelo said sagely. “So always for to thank him. Is polite!”

Tovah smiled for a moment, bemused. Then— very deliberately, it seemed, from the way she first glanced at the arch-lieutenant at the doorway— she segued back into Valzick. “I’ve been trying it a bit, you know,” she told Angelo. “Praying.”

Angelo seemed surprised, but not displeased. “You have? I… I know you said in the woods you didn’t want to follow the Meltaiman gods after…”

“Them, I'm done with,” Tovah confirmed, as the arch-lieutenant— not even bothering to hide his eavesdropping— raised a wary brow. “I don't know about the Woo. Not for sure. But…” She bit her lip. “I'm in a kingdom of his people now, right? And— he seemed to see us back to safety pretty well. Despite the odds.”

“He did,” Angelo agreed with an encouraging smile. “And as for not knowing, well… I could teach you? I’m not a priest or anything but technically the king of Valzaim isn’t just the political ruler, he is also the highest religious authority in the kingdom. So my father has been training me to that task.”

“He been tell me lots stories,” Eitan supplied. “With Woo. Before bed at night.” The boy fought back a yawn, as if the very idea of sleep had gotten him tired (even though it wasn't even yet suppertime). “New story every night! He know so much.”

“The Books of Woo are big,” Angelo replied with an indulgent smile at the boy. “I haven’t even told you half the stories in them. But maybe you can help me teach Tovah. Since you know so many already.”

“I could not tell as good, though,” Eitan replied. “You better.”

“Oh, hon, you're going to give him a big head,” Tovah teased. “I bet you'd be a great storyteller.”

“We can tell her together,” Angelo said with a smile, drawing the boy into his lap. “After all, Wooism has so many good stories, I can’t pick just one. So you can help.”

“Okay,” Eitan said. He hesitated. “Could… could Tovah come to stories ‘fore bed…?” he dared murmur. “In tent. With… with no chain.”

Angelo winced, shooting a pointed glower towards his babysitting soldier. The man coughed, then fell silent as his gaze plunged to his shoes.

Tovah sighed. “Soon, honey,” she told her little cousin. “For now, you just gotta remember the stories real good so you can help Angelo tell me them the next day, okay?”

“‘Kay,” Eitan replied dourly.

Angelo hugged the boy. “Don’t worry, we’ll make the stories twice as amazing the second time, I promise. How about you start with the one I told you about how the Woo breathed magic into the world, and why he gifted it to some of his children.” He gave Tovah a cheeky grin. “Should make for an interesting starting point of comparison.”

“You must help,” Eitan insisted. “You start. To get mood right.”

“Alright, if you insist,” the prince said. “It started not long after the world was born- everything in it was beautiful, but vulnerable. The dark creatures of the ‘Pit were always looking for an easy meal. So the Woo realized he would need to devise a way to protect his children, or give them a means to protect themselves…”

***

King Iosef looked as though he had not slept in weeks.

Even still, the hallowed king of all of Valzaim was unmistakable in his presence when he and his retinue finally drew near to the fort one wind-whipped afternoon about a month after Angelo’s miraculous return to Valzaim. A scout caught the group a few hours out, and from there the camp was plunged into a flurry of tittering and tattering and distracted whisper— which Sotir promptly attempted to put an end to by announcing that it was business as usual, for the Woo’s sake, and they were still soldiers in a fort in an active conflict zone, and the next person he caught gossipping was getting latrine duty for the rest of their cursed tour.

Even still, over a lunch of stew and bread, the mess tent was aflutter with far more chatter than usual… and as he sat beside Angelo at their usual private table in the corner, young Eitan looked rather displeased, to say the least.

“It so loud,” he whined as he slurped down a bite of his stew. “Hurt ears.”

Angelo shot his young friend a wobbly smile. “People are excited is all, honey. My father is close, they say. My father the king.”

Eitan puckered his lips— the boy still was homesick for his own father, something that he waxed to Angelo about not infrequently. “Your papa going make me leave?” he asked. “Because I am…” He shrugged. Looked down. “I hear,” he added after a moment. “What some people say. They not like me. Or Tovah.”

Angelo felt his heart sink, and he shook his head. “He won't make you leave, Eitan. I won't let him. I will leave first.” He pulled the child into a hug. “I love you, okay? And I promise I’ll be on your side no matter what.”

The boy’s pursed lip wobbled. “And— and Tovah?”

“Tovah too. I've been patient and waited for my father. But if they keep being mean to her after they talk to her, I will not be patient anymore. I promise.”

“Promise promise?” Eitan pushed, sniffling. “On— on Woo?”

“I promise on the Woo,” Angelo agreed. “I'll make sure that Tovah’s chain comes off. That she can eat with us, and take a nice bath. Listen to stories about the Woo with us. I promise.”

“Okay.” Eitan gulped. “Tha—”

The boy’s voice abruptly fell away— as did nearly every other scrap of noise in the dining tent— as Arch-Brigadier Sotir briskly strode into the tent with a look of something between reverence and panic etching his ebony face. Behind him trailed a retinue of nearly a half-dozen men— five of them in matching livery and armed to the teeth, and the sixth…

Angelo felt like he’d been punched in the gut. For all his mental preparation, when he saw the face of the man at the center of the group, his throat went dry and his voice fell away. In a strangled noise that was halfway between a sob and a squeak, he warbled, “P-Papa?”

It were as if the rest of the men in the room had ceased to exist; at his son’s voice, Iosef’s gaze snapped toward Angelo, and then in another moment the king was hurtling forward, the knights at his flank having to scramble to keep up with him. Sotir paled, and the rest of the dining soldiers— variably froze, cranked their heads into bows, or slapped their hands to their foreheads in startled salutes.

Iosef ignored them all.

“Angelo.” As he arrived to the table where his son sat, Iosef leaned down to wrap the teenager in a crushing hug. Burying his face in the top of Angelo’s short, woolen hair, the king breathed, “Oh, Woo. It is you. It’s really you. My boy— my boy!”

Angelo returned his father’s embrace, the prince shaking with sobs as he clenched his fingers into the fabric of Iosef’s tunic. “Papa, Papa, oh Woo, I th-though I’d never see you again, I thought I’d never see Valzaim again, I can't believe you’re here-”

“Shh,” Iosef murmured, before pausing for a moment to glance at the knights at his flank. “Get everyone else out,” he ordered. “Now. I want privacy.”

The result was almost instantaneous— with a quick “yes, Hallowed Majesty”, the knights turned and commanded that all the flummoxed soldiers leave the room. Most of them readily obeyed, but a few— still seemingly dumbstruck— hesitated, whereupon Sotir repeated the order and tacked on a threat of punishment for good measure if the tent wasn’t vacated in “the next five times I blink”. This warning proved rather effective, and in another few moments, the space was empty save for Angelo, Iosef, Eitan, Sotir, and the king’s knights.

Iosef coughed, leveling a hard stare at the arch-brigadier. “You, too,” he said flatly. “Out.”

“... Y-yes, Your Hallowed Majesty,” Sotir squeaked. “My apologies.”

Angelo took in a ragged breath, lifting his head to look his father in the eye. “P-please don’t evict the child, Father? He won’t interrupt, h-he’s a good boy, but the soldiers are unkind to him and he’s afraid to be parted from me.”

Iosef’s slate gray eyes darted toward Eitan, who had shrunk down in his seat beside Angelo, and the frown that promptly ticked at the king’s lips made it seem as if this was the first time he'd noticed the boy at all.

“He is Meltaiman,” the king said— half a statement and half a question.

“He is not a mage,” Angelo replied, in an undertone so Eitan couldn’t hear. “They were going to kill him. The Glass Empress is his aunt and she was going to kill him.”

Iosef’s frown grew. “You traveled with a boy this small all the way from Meltaim? The messages I received mentioned a child, but I'd thought…” The monarch’s voice trailed off for a moment. “How old is he, anyhow?”

“He’ll turn seven in a week and a half,” Angelo answered, stiffening and starting to pull away from his father’s grasp. “He’s not a threat to Valzaim, Father. I’ve been teaching him Wooism. Please- I just finally got back to you, can you at least trust me far enough not to ruin the moment?”

Iosef quailed for a few moments. Then, with a long exhale, he relented. “All right. I'm— sorry, son. I love you. And I've been worried. Beyond worried. I'm so glad to see you safe and sound.”

Angelo’s jaw trembled. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. Wh-when I was still in Meltaim by the new year. It was… i-it was…”

The prince looked down at his mutilated right wrist, almost impulsively. As Iosef’s eyes followed his son’s, the king abruptly stiffened. Rage— raw and potent— flickered in his steely eyes.

“They did that to you?” he demanded. “The Meltaimans?”

“They called it a prąd mankiet,” he said by way of confirmation. “A current cuff- it electrocuted me when they triggered it, which they did whenever I defied them or refused to play along with their games.”

“Those heathenous monsters,” Iosef spat. “And with all the threats they kept levying at me—” He clenched his jaw, fuming… before in another blink a small smirk started to flicker on his face. “Except now the Woo has helped us turn the tables, no? We have something precious to her. That wretch. We have what's most precious—”

“No,” Angelo replied, immediately jerking fully out of his father’s hold. “Absolutely not, don’t even entertain the idea. Tovah saved my life. She saved my sanity while I was trapped there, over and over again. She is our guest, not our hostage.”

The smirk was gone immediately. “I should think,” said Iosef, “that I'll need to determine as such for myself, Angelo. When I question her.” He paused. Mulled. “She is still being held as I commanded, I pray?”

“If you commanded her to be shackled and starved of sunlight and not allowed a proper bath, then yes,” Angelo replied darkly. “She’s being held. Just like I was. After she saved my life.” A beat. “Or didn’t the soldiers pass that little fact along? The empress had decided to kill me. I was to be executed the day after I ran.”

Iosef let a low, animal growl escape from his throat. “Why?” he hissed. “Why keep you for nine months if her plan all along was just to kill you? That evil b—”

“Father,” Angelo cut in. “I… I’ll explain okay? But you have to promise to listen to me. To trust me. And not to overreact to anything until I’m finished. Do you promise?”

Iosef quailed again, jaw clenched. “All right,” he managed finally.

Still hunched on the bench seat beside Angelo, Eitan whimpered. “He m-mad,” the boy sniveled to Angelo.

“Shhh,” Angelo gently pulled Eitan up into his lap. “He’s mad, but not at you. You haven’t done anything wrong, buddy.” He kissed the boy on the top of the head- to which Eitan snuffled again, and Iosef raised a brow.

“You are fond of this boy,” the king noted.

“When he isn’t terrified, he’s a very sweet kid,” Angelo replied. “It isn’t his fault where he was born, Father. But since I’ve begun teaching him the way of the Woo, he’s soaked it up like a parched tree soaks up water after a drought.”

“I l-like Woo stories,” Eitan supplied shakily. “A-Ang’lo tell me them every night.”

“Does he, now?” Iosef’s brow was still raised, but at least his voice had softened by a notch. To Angelo, he added: “It is a great blessing, son. To bring heathens into the Woo’s embrace.”

He smiled. “I know. It makes me happy, helping him like this. Tovah too- I’ve been telling her the Woo’s word. Teaching her the prayers for meals and before sleep.”

“The Glass Empress’s daughter?” Iosef didn't quite seem to believe it. “I am surprised she doesn't clap her hands over her ears and start spewing heathenous curses whenever the Woo is mentioned.”

“I’ll explain, Father,” he said softly. “Then I think you’ll understand.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath. “When they first brought me to the Shadowed Palace, the Glass Empress was very… taken with the idea that they’d managed to capture not only a prince, but a mage prince. She decided that she wanted to ‘fix’ me- make me like the Meltaimans. The ultimate end being that I would become her daughter’s consort and a crushing blow to the morale of Valzaim.”

“Those rats,” Iosef snarled. “To think they could warp a Woo-touched royal of Valzaim!”

“They got frighteningly close,” Angelo admitted softly, tightening his hug on Eitan as his shoulders trembled hard. “They locked me in a two-room apartment by myself. No windows. No outside walls. Full of books in Meltaiman I didn’t know how to read and Meltaiman games I didn’t know how to play. I was trapped in that room almost entirely by myself for… months. From August until December I never once left it. Staring at those same walls and drapes and furnishings. Never knowing if it was day or night. How much time was passing.” His voice was shaking as hard as his shoulders now. “I started to go mad in there. Really, sincerely, clawing at the upholstery and pacing holes in the carpet mad.”

“‘Pit.” Iosef had his fists clenched tightly at his side now. “I’ll have our armies decimating her kingdom by the morrow, I will!”

Angelo inhaled shudderingly. “I was only allowed to see the empress, her nephew- Eitan’s father- and Tovah. Tovah only saw me at first to play along with her mother’s schemes. She never thought they were going to work, but she did as she was told. Then… then she started to change. As she spent more time with me, Tovah started to pity my situation. She came to respect me. Then to like me. She argued with her mother on my behalf. Getting me time outside of that infernal room, striking a deal to have the current cuff removed if I learned to speak Meltaiman, consoling me when I lost myself in fits of boredom or despair…”

Iosef took several long moments to digest this. Then, very delicately, he murmured, “That… all sounds very nice, Angelo. But…” The king tilted his head, black brow furrowed. “How do you know, Angelo, that it all wasn't merely part of the empress’s scheme? The idea of Meltaiman imperial heir effectively defecting to our side, it’s…”

“Urszula killed her twin brother.”

“...What?” Iosef blinked in bewilderment; Eitan let out another whimper.

“He was a blank, Father,” Angelo whispered. “He was six. Nearly seven. And he hadn’t shown any signs of magic. I realized because she’d mentioned to me that he was six when he died, and we’d been talking about how Eitan was getting tested soon and we weren’t sure what was going to happen to him if he failed. Tovah was livid at first when I suggested it. Insisted her brother had been sick. But she couldn’t get it out of her head, and so she confronted the empress about it. Urszula poisoned him. Her own son, and the Glass Empress poisoned him, so no one would find out he had been a blank.”

“She's a snake,” Iosef snarled. “Venomous even to her own kin. What kind of monster would…” He forced himself to pause and take a deep breath. “I still wish to speak with the girl personally, Angelo,” he said eventually. “Do my due diligence and draw my own conclusions. But I promise you, I’ll do my best not to draw any hasty conclusions, son. To give her a chance.”

Angelo nodded slowly. “Don’t hurt her when you question her,” he murmured softly. “Please. I’ve been trying to tell her how we’re better than Meltaim. Don’t prove me wrong.”

“I'll be patient,” Iosef said. It wasn't wholly a promise, but it was better than nothing— especially given how furious the king had been toward the Glass Empress, and by extension her daughter, just moments ago. “I want to get a good night’s rest before questioning her,” he went on. “I… have been told you're presently occupying the largest sleeping tent on the base, no?”

“Yes,” he agreed, somewhat frustrated that his father was putting this off- but reflecting that perhaps it was for the best he not talk to Tovah while tired and angry. “The arch-brigadier vacated it for me and Eitan.”

“I see.” The king hesitated, before slowly bringing his gaze to meet his son’s directly. And he was not speaking then with the firm command of a king, but the tender aching of a father who’d thought for nearly a year that his son was forever gone, as he murmured: “Would you… mind terribly if I were to, ah… share your lodgings?”

Angelo gave his father a wobbly smile. “No, Papa. I wouldn’t mind. Not at all.” He blinked hard, tears pooling out over his eyes. “I missed you. I… I felt so alone, but...” He pulled at the chain tucked under his shirt. “I lost everything else in Meltaim. B-but I managed to save this. Eitan’s father kept it, and g-gave it back to me as thanks for saving his son. I like to think Mum was w-watching over me. For you.”

“Of course she was,” Iosef agreed. “Keeping her little boy safe.” The king reached out to smooth a gentle hand through his son’s hair. “I love you, Angelo.”

“I love you too,” he whispered. The prince leaned his forehead into his father’s stomach, his arms still wrapped around Eitan.

The boy let out a soft, nervous sigh. “I— I still get stay with you…?” he whispered to Angelo.

“Mm-hm,” Angelo murmured. “You can still stay, little man. I promise.”

The king’s hand fell away from Angelo’s scalp, and he pursed his lips, contemplative. “No matter what happens with the girl,” he said after a moment, “this little one is…” He shook his head, as if he wasn't quite sure how to articulate his thoughts. Finally, he continued: “He's small. Too small to be a threat. And what a lovely insult it would be to the Glass Empress. Not just to send my armies pillaging her wretched lands, but to take a piece of her own flesh and blood and… and…” He swallowed hard; his tone was at once reluctant and strangely furtive. “To raise him up scarcely even remembering his vile roots. To commit his soul to the Woo. To scrub their wicked ideas from his head and make him… ours. Like they foolishly attempted to try with you.”

Angelo winced. “I wish you wouldn’t put it quite like that, but… yes. We can do it, Father. Keep Eitan safe here, in the arms of the Woo.” He smiled at the boy. “You like the Woo, right?”

“Uh-huh,” Eitan whispered. “All the stories.”

“He'll come back to Valla with us,” Iosef said. “Once we depart this… quaint fort. Although...”

“Although?” Angelo repeated, his voice wary.

“I don't sleep with heathen children in my tent,” the king said simply. He tilted his head again, studying the sniffling boy in his son’s lap. “There any bodies of water on the grounds of this godforsaken encampment?”

Angelo gave a soft laugh. “There’s a creek about five minutes off, but it isn’t deep enough. Follow it downstream about a mile though, and it empties out into a nice sized pond. If you feel up to a short ride.”

“It'll be like old times, hm?” the king said with a crooked, wavering smile. “We can wait a few hours— until it's a bit cooler out. Our horses are beat from the road, but I'm sure the charming arch-brigadier could be persuaded to loan his monarch a few warhorses for an hour or two.”

“Would you mind terribly if I did the dunking instead of the base chaplain?” Angelo asked. “Just… well the people here aren’t exactly subtle about not trusting Eitan, and he’s picked up on that. Getting dunked is going to be traumatic enough without it being at the hand of an unfriendly stranger.”

“Dun?” Eitan’s tongue lingered on the unfamiliar word. “What is…?”

Angelo smiled. “It means my papa and I are going to take you swimming, Eitan. A very special swim that will wash your sins away so everyone can see that you’re one of the Woo’s children.”

“A swim?” Eitan seemed truly puzzled.

Iosef let out a soft chuckle. “So you become a proper Wooist, son.” He glanced back toward Angelo. “He'll need a proper name, though,” the king said. “If he's to grow up Wooist and Valzick, a ward of the crown, then he hardly ought be walking around being called by what the heathens up north bestowed on him.”

“I’ve actually thought about that a bit,” Angelo replied, his mouth ticking up in a small smile. “A little blonde waif like this needs all the advantages he can get assimilating into the Valzick court. And… Aithan sounds similar enough to Eitan that it shouldn’t be too big an adjustment.”

“Aithan.” The king nodded. “All right. Aithan it is. Now…” He smiled, gaze falling toward Eitan— Aithan— and Angelo’s half-eaten meals. “It seems I interrupted your meal, neh? … Not to mention those of the rest of poor lads stuck serving at this camp.”

Angelo chuckled. “True. They might be just a bit miffed to miss out on the rest of their ah-” he scooped a spoonful of the broth. “Mystery meat and boiled potato stew.”

“Mm,” the king accorded. “I think that I'll head to our tent for now, Angelo. Rest up a bit before the baptism.” He shot a quick glance at the doorway. “I do imagine the arch-brigadier is still feverishly hovering outside, so I can tell him to let the grunts back in. And then show me to the tent.” A beat. “Do you want to… to bring the rest of your lunches to the tent? Eat them there…?”

Angelo smiled, slowly nodding. “I’d like that, Papa.” He nudged Eitan. “What do you say, buddy? Wanna go eat on our nice comfy cot? You can show my papa how much you’ve learned about the Woo.”

“Okay,” the boy agreed hesitantly. “And… take nap? Is hot. My eyes sleepy.”

“We can all take a nap,” Iosef confirmed. “Like cats in the sun, hm?” His smile was larger now. Less reluctant. “I still can't entirely believe it,” he told Angelo. “That I've got you back. Safe and sound.”

“I’d given up hope,” Angelo murmured. “Part of me still doesn’t… doesn’t quite feel like this is real. W-wonders if I finally did go crazy in that dark, windowless room in Meltaim.”

“You’re not crazy, son,” Iosef said firmly. “You’re perfectly sane. And you’re home.”

Chapter Twenty

SPOILER: Click to show

Angelo absently plucked at the sleeve of his heathered grey soldier uniform. “You know, while the heir to the throne is always consecrated when he come of age, I never imagined I’d actually baptize anyone.”

As he dismounted his loaned warhorse at the side of a modest lily pad strewn pond, King Iosef chuckled heartily. Turning so that the early evening sun was beating into his back and not his eyes, he said to his son, “It’s fitting, really, I think. Dedicating someone’s soul to the Woo after the Woo has helped to lead you home. This is a nice tribute. A thanks.”

“Perhaps,” Angelo agreed. He looked down at his young charge with a smile as he waded out into the shallows, the newly rechristened “Aithan” holding tight to his hand. “Are you ready, little man? I’ll tell you what’s going to happen so you’re ready for it, okay?”

“Why is we swim in clothes?” Aithan replied simply. He shot a wary glance over his shoulder at the shore, where King Iosef stood flanked by a contingent of knights as well as the fort’s priest, the latter of whom looked rather… confused by the turn of events, to say the least. The boy added: “Is not good swim pond. Plants.”

“We’ll only be in the water for a little,” Angelo soothed the boy. “I’m going to say a prayer, and then splash you under the water for a second or two, then we’re done.”

“Under the water?” Aithan asked, his blonde brow furrowed. “But water is— is—” With his free hand he gestured sharply at the tangle of algae and silt and lily pads that lay before them; few in their right minds would have called this brackish body of water suitable for immersive swimming.

“Back in the city where I live, we usually do this in the ocean. Salt water is especially good for cleaning away the evil things.” The prince gave the little boy a wink. “But we have to make do here. It has to be wild water too, not a bathtub, because the tub isn’t big enough.” He glanced towards the priest. “You’ll bless the pond then, Father?”

“Of course, my prince,” the priest replied, his dark complexion gone slightly ashen. Atop his bewilderment lay an unmistakable layer of anxiety, curling around him like a vine of creeping ivy. “Just as— as soon as you’re in position. Sire.”

Angelo hoisted Aithan up onto his hip, and strode confidently out into the pond. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you. It’ll only take a few minutes, I promise.”

The boy didn’t look at all convinced, but at least he didn’t struggle, silently allowing for Angelo to carry him out to the deepest point of the pond. Even here, the water only reached Angelo’s waist— but if the prince were to have set Aithan down, it would have swirled clear up to his neck. As he realised this, the little boy stiffened.

“You not putting me down, right?” he asked, somewhat shrilly.

“I’ll hold you,” he assured the boy. “Just a quick dunk under the water, okay? I’ll even hold your nose for you.”

Aithan whimpered, still looking far from assuaged, but as the priest began reciting a long, lyrical prayer at the pond’s shore, Angelo gently took the boy into his arms, kneeling so that he was up to his chest in the water, and the waves lapped around Aithan’s chest in kind.

“Just listen to the prayer honey, focus on it,” he whispered to his young charge. “Don’t be scared, I’ve got you.”

“‘K-kay,” Aithan snuffled.

Next to the priest, Iosef’s arms were crossed expectantly, the king’s gaze like iron as he watched Angelo slowly raise up one hand towards the sky. Once the priest finished his prayer to bless the water of the pond, Angelo took up the thread.

“Woo who arte in heaven, spread thy wings in welcome to this young soul newly welcomed to your flock. Though he is born in sin, and no man born in sin may enter in the paradise of your making, I beseech you to shine down your mercy upon him. I shall anoint his brow with the water that has been made pure by your holy feathers-” here Angelo took one wet thumb and rubbed it across Aithan’s forehead, “And wash him clean in your radiant light.”

He put a hand over Aithan’s nose, and whispered, “Hold your breath, just for a few seconds.”

Aithan nodded warily, clamping his lips shut, but it was impossible to miss the tears pricking in his dark eyes as Angelo clamped his fingers over the child’s nose and ducked his head into the pond.

“In the name of the Lord Woo, may he shine ever radiant, Amen,” Angelo said, speaking quickly to spare the boy too much trauma, before hoisting Aithan back up out of the water.

He’d only been under for five seconds— ten at most— but as he came up over the surface, the boy sputtered as if he’d been half-drowned. A clump of algae clung to his cheek, and his nose was running like a faucet.

“I wanna get out,” he gasped, in Meltaiman. “Ang’lo— I want out!”

“What’s wrong with him?” King Iosef called from the shore. A hand clapped to his forehead as a visor against the sun, the monarch added, “What’s he saying? Why’s he crying?”

“He’s just scared, Father,” Angelo assured the king, wading towards the shore. “Any kid his age would be, getting dunked and held underwater.” The prince plucked the algae away, adding, “I’m sorry Aithan, I know that was scary, but we’re all done, I promise. You were a good, brave boy.”

“We’re getting out?” the boy asked again, eyes going red as tears flowed steadily from them.

Before Angelo could answer, however, the priest let out a sharp, loud gasp that bordered on a yell. As if subconsciously, the knights’ hands leapt toward their holstered swords; Iosef, meanwhile, only creased his brow.

“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded.

“His— his tunic, my king!” the priest stammered, gesturing wildly toward Angelo and Aithan. “Look at it— his tunic!”

Iosef looked like he half-thought the cleric had gone crazy, but nonetheless he obediently turned his gaze back toward his son and the child… and as he did, an expression of bewildered wonderment flooded every facet of his being. He blinked once, then again, as though what he was seeing was only an illusion. When it remained just as he’d seen it the first time, the king let out a small gasp of his own.

“What?” Angelo said, confused. As he looked down at the borrowed uniform, however his eyes flew wide with shock. Little Aithan’s hand was clutching hard at his sleeve- the child had grabbed on just as Angelo dunked him in the water- and where once the child’s fist had been clamped over heather grey fabric, now every thread and seam of Angelo’s uniform was pure, unblemished white.

“He changed it,” the king marveled aloud. “He— the boy— he changed it.”

“I did no mean to!” Aithan choked out, switching back into frenzied Valzick. “I sorry, I sorry—”

“Shhhh, Aithan it’s okay,” Angelo assured the boy hurriedly, pulling him close into a hug. “You’re okay, it’s okay it…” He swallowed hard. “It’s… it’s only a week and a half until his seventh birthday. I’ve heard of late bloomers not showing until they’re six but this… this sort of thing is unheard of. H-how?”

As his son and Aithan reached the shore, Iosef continued to gawp. “I— I thought you said he wasn’t a mage. That they were going to kill him because he wasn’t a mage, Angelo.”

Angelo looked his father squarely in the eye. “We didn’t think he was. He hasn’t shown any signs before now. Not a spark, not a glimmer, nothing.” He bit his lip, then suddenly his eyes widened. “Take up the sword and bring light out of the darkness… that was my vision, wasn’t it? All that time ago.”

“It’s— it’s a miracle,” the priest declared, almost feverishly.

Iosef scowled. “Aye, easy there, Father,” he ordered. Then, looking back to the soaked, algae-covered child who was quivering in his son’s arms, Iosef coaxed gently: “Can you do it again for me, little one? Change the colour of something?” He offered out his own sleeve— lightweight linen dyed to a buttery yellow. “Here,” he suggested. “Any colour you’d like.”

Aithan shrunk in further against Angelo, tucking his head against the prince’s chest. “I-I cannot,” he insisted tearfully. “Never have done before. Never. I cannot!”

“Hey, honey, it’s okay,” Angelo reassured the child, stroking his sopping blonde locks. “I bet you could. I bet you could really do it. If you just focus really hard on my Papa’s sleeve and imagine it a different color. Your favorite color- it’s purple right? Your favorite color is bright purple. You told me when we saw those violets in the woods.”

“I cannot,” Aithan repeated, hiccupping.

“Just try?” Iosef asked softly, using the sort of tone he might’ve once employed with his own hysterical child long ago. “Please? Close your eyes and just— try. Real quick. Then you can dry off, and we can go back to camp, and we can have a nice, quiet dinner in the tent, okay?”

“You’ve been so brave,” Angelo added. “Can you be brave one more time? Please? Think about how exciting it’ll be when we tell Tovah that you finally got magic.”

At the mention of Tovah, the little boy clenched his quavering jaw and nodded. “O-okay,” he squeaked. “B-but… if I no can do— you— you no be mad, right? You…”

“Not mad at all,” Iosef confirmed. Delicately, he reached with his free hand and clasped it over Aithan’s, coaxing the boy’s fingers toward his offered sleeve. “You can even close your eyes,” the king suggested. “Just close your eyes and think about how pretty the sleeve would look if it were purple, hmm?”

Aithan hiccupped again, then nodded, his eyelids slowly fluttering shut as Iosef steered his fingers the rest of the way onto the sleeve. He squashed his brow in concentration, and let out a raspy breath, and…

For several moments nothing happened.

The sleeve stayed yellow.

The boy’s hand shook.

Then— like a flash of lightning against an otherwise black horizon—

The cuff of Iosef’s sleeve changed, darkening so rapidly that one blink it was yellow and the next it was the hue of a violet in full bloom. And the change did not stop there: as the men all watched on in wonderment, the colour began to seep upward, like a snake slithering around a thick trunk to scale a tree.

“It’s a miracle,” the priest murmured again, breathlessly.

“Amazing,” Angelo whispered. He nuzzled his nose against Aithan’s cheek. “That’s amazing, Aithan! You did it! You’re a mage, the Lord Woo finally gave you your magic!”

Aithan’s eyes flew open, and his jaw fell open as he studied his handiwork. “I… I do that?” he asked, like he couldn’t believe it.

“You did,” Iosef confirmed. “It seems you’re a magician after all, little one. Your magic was merely… hiding. Waiting.”

A bittersweet lump formed in Angelo’s throat as he smiled at the child. He was a mage- he was a mage after all. He would have passed the test in Meltaim, and he could have stayed with his father.

But that his power had stayed hidden for so long, making Angelo realize the truth about Tovah’s brother and moving Matvey to turn on his Empress, had saved the prince’s life. And now his power was manifesting almost impossibly late, after his formal conversion as a Wooist.

“We’ll have to get you a wand, hm?” Angelo said with a smile. “When we get back to Valla. I need to get a new one too so I can stop using the borrowed one, it doesn’t work very well for me. We can get them at the same time.”

“A wand?” Aithan breathed. “For me?” Through his tears, he managed a wobbly smile. “I c-can finally get wand!”

“Mm-hm,” Angelo replied, kissing the boy on the forehead. “Just as soon as we get to Valla and get settled I’ll call the wandmaker myself.” He glanced at the priest, who was still gawping, and pinched his brow. “Father? Is something the matter?”

“No, no,” the priest said quickly. “Not at all, sire.” He made the sign of the triple feather and held it against his heart. “It’s simply humbling, that’s all. To see the Woo at work like this. Before my own eyes.”

“He certainly seems to have spoken his approval of little Aithan, hasn’t He?” Angelo murmured, glancing toward the king.

“So he has,” Iosef agreed. “What a blessed day, indeed.”

***

Having been raised so far in a culture that valued magic over all else, once the shock of the baptism wore away little Aithan proved positively delighted over the fact that now he could perform magic of his very own. For the rest of the evening he showed off his new trick at every possible opportunity— at supper he made his bread purple, and his water orange; back in the tent afterward, he decided his tunic looked better red and the drab gray blankets were really much better turned to aqua. The king mostly found this all amusing, but Angelo eventually warned by the boy that if he didn’t let up soon, he’d make himself spellsick.

“I will not!” Aithan insisted in reply, grinning like a cat. “Promise!”

He continued playing around with the colours… and that night, he slept heavily as a boulder, barely even twitching under the newly-brightened covers as the calamitous events of the day caught up with him at last.

He was still dead to the world when Iosef quietly awakened the next morning, before the reveille trumpets had even blared. Angelo, however, was not nearly so deeply slumbering, the prince startling awake as his father padded across the canvas floor to rummage about his leather trunk of belongings.

“You’re up early,” he murmured softly, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Something the matter?”

The king froze for a moment, then smiled gently as he turned to face his son. “Good morning,” he said. “Sorry— I was trying not to wake you.” He inclined his chin toward Aithan, who was curled up against Angelo’s side and clinging to the boy like a baby monkey to its mother’s back. “At least I don’t see to have any chance of accidentally awakening him, eh? I’m glad I had Sotir scrounge me up my own cot— that doesn’t look all too comfortable, if I do say so myself.”

Angelo smiled crookedly in reply. “I’ve gotten used to it. I don’t blame him for being insecure, really. I’m the only one he has right now that is familiar.”

“Mm,” the king agreed. He turned back toward the trunk and riffled through it for another moment before he seemed to find what he was after: a pair of leather gloves, nearly as heavy as a falconer’s. “Well— as I said, Angelo, I really didn’t meant to wake you up. You can go back to sleep if you’d like, all right?”

“Alright, but where are you off to so early?” the boy queried. “None of the soldiers will be up yet except for the night sentries.”

“I… didn’t sleep all that well,” Iosef admitted as he tugged on the gloves. “I’m a bit antsy. Restless. So…” He shrugged. “I figured I might as well get going with it. Questioning the girl. Since that’s my first step, so to speak— toward what comes next. Between us and Meltaim.”

Angelo tensed, biting his lip. “R-right. Yeah.” He looked down. “Don’t hurt her. Please don’t hurt her.”

King Iosef sighed as he moved to face his son again. “I’m just going to talk with her, Angelo,” he said. “That’s all.”

The boy nodded slowly, pressing his face back down against the soft cot. “Sorry. It’s just… I’ve gotten so used to it. Seeing people hurt.”

“I’m sorry.” The king moved toward the tent door, his throat bobbing as he forced a hard swallow. “I am so sorry, Angelo. But— you know me, right? Am I the sort to hurt people just because I can?”

“I… I know,” he murmured. “I know you wouldn’t, Father.” He glanced towards the older man before letting his eyes slip back shut. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Iosef said. “And I’ll see you at… how about we take lunch together, son? I can have our meals brought here, to the tent. It’ll be nice and quiet. Just you and me and the little monkey clinging to your back.”

Angelo nodded. “Sure. I’d like that.” He gave a soft sigh. “See you later.”

Though Angelo did slip back into a doze, it was a light one, his mind overwhelmed with fretful thoughts. What was going on in Tovah’s tent? Was she alright? Was she saying the right things?

As promised, a little while later a trembling private brought breakfast to the tent for the prince and Aithan. After their morning bath Angelo took the boy on a walk around the encampment, whereupon he noticed that he was suddenly drawing even more sideways looks and whispers than he had been before— and he’d been attracting no dearth of them already. Puzzled at first, eventually the reason for this increased attention struck Angelo when— after they seemed to think he was out of earshot— he overheard a pair of arch-specialists whispering to each other about “the Woo’s miracle,” and “magic to a non-mage.”

“Huh,” he murmured softly. “Seems people are impressed by your little trick, Aithan.”

“My trick?” Aithan, his fingers knit around Angelo’s, tilted his head. “You mean— my colours?”

“Mm-hm,” Angelo agreed. “They’re saying it’s a gift from the Woo when you got baptised. Isn’t that something?”

The little boy grinned. “I like my trick!” he informed Angelo. “My magic!” He flexed the fingers on his free hand. “I want do more.”

The prince chuckled. “Let’s take a break from magic for a bit, hm? You don’t want to get spellsick honey.” He glanced around, then added, “C’mon, it’s lunch time soon- let’s go see what they’re bringing us. Maybe my Papa will be back.”

Aithan immediately protested that he wasn’t going to get spellsick— “I did not last night eithers!”— but at least the idea of a meal was enough to quash any further protests, the boy humming lightly to himself as he and Angelo threaded back toward their tent. While Iosef was not in fact back yet, somebody had already dropped off and arranged lunch atop the large tent’s modest dining table— a robust spread of fruits, crusty breads, and fragrant cheeses, no doubt far superior to whatever the rest of the fort’s men were dining on today.

“Blueberries!” Aithan breathed gleefully, wriggling his hand out of Angelo’s grip so that he could prance up to the table. “And— and— look, is raspberry, too! Like we eat in woods!”

“You’re right,” Angelo agreed with an indulgent smile. “They’re spoiling us today, hm? I guess they want to be extra nice now that they know for sure I’m who I say I am.”

“I can eat?” the boy asked eagerly, plopping into one of the chairs.

“Not yet, Aithan,” Angelo chided with a laugh. “First we need to wait for my Papa to come back- and we have to do our prayers.”

“But then eat?” Aithan wheedled, eyeing the delectable array of food as a dehydrated man might a desert oasis.

“Yes, then we can eat,” Angelo agreed patiently.

The king did not come swiftly, however. In fact the impatient child almost snagged several bites of the tantalizing food in the wait, until Angelo distracted him with a game of I Spy. In the back of his head, the prince was worried. What was taking the king so long? What was going on with Tovah?

It was nearly forty-five minutes before the sound of bootsteps and jangling armour outside— the latter courtesy of the king’s perpetual Holy Knight shadows— marked Iosef’s arrival. Moments later, the canvas flap at the tent’s maw was brushed aside, and with a look of weary exhaustion marking his face, Iosef strode inside. His escorts moved to follow him in, but before they could set so much as a boot past the doorway, the king waved a curt hand.

“Outside,” he ordered. “I want to have my meal alone.” As the knights wordlessly obeyed, the king sighed and glanced to the table. “Am I late?” he asked, letting the canvas flap fall closed again. “I feel as if I must be late.”

“It’s been nearly an hour,” Angelo said dryly. “Aithan was about to eat his own toes.”

“I’m sorry.” With a sigh, Iosef yanked off his gloves and started toward the table. Taking the seat beside Aithan and across from Angelo, he added, “Time got away from me, I guess. I didn’t mean to take so long.”

“We eat now?” Aithan wheedled, staring longingly at the goblet of blueberries in particular.

“First we say grace,” Angelo reminded the boy. “How about you show my papa how well you know your prayers?”

“‘Kay,” Aithan agreed. Primly clasping his hands before him, he lowered his hand and took a deep breath. “Bless us Woo, and… and…” He racked his mind for the proper words, a bit of excitement seeping into his tone as he remembered and continued hurriedly: “— and these gift you has give us. We give thank for all good bounty and— and—” More racking. “And eats it under holy wing. Amen!”

“Amen,” Angelo echoed, winking towards his father. “He’s come a long way.”

“Very good,” Iosef agreed, smiling benevolently at the child. As he reached to allot himself some of the glistening raspberries, the king chuckled. “Help yourself, little one. You’re a skinny little thing, aren’t you? Woo knows you could use some meat on your bones.”

Aithan beamed, wasting no time as he leaned forward to slide the goblet of blueberries toward him. Meanwhile, Angelo cleared his throat, picking up a piece of the cheese delicately. “So… h-how did it go?”

Iosef considered this for several long moments as he gnawed on a handful of berries. “I’m not sure,” he said finally. “It’s hard to tell.”

Nausea rolled in the prince’s stomach, and he squeaked, “Wh-what do you mean?”

Iosef raised a brow. “No need to be so frantic,” he chided gently. He downed another few berries. “I mean only that— well…” He shrugged. “She was polite enough. Cooperative enough. What she told me corresponded very well with what you’ve told me. But… she could also just be a very adept liar. Woo knows with the Glass Empress as her mother, it’s a skill she might’ve developed early on in life. And has been cultivating ever since.”

Angelo frowned, finally eating his piece of cheese before replying. “And I imagine she’s probably been trained to circumvent the truth spell. So what do you want to do? What will convince you?”

“I didn’t even bother having anyone cast a truth spell,” Iosef confirmed; though the king wasn’t a mage himself, being at Special Forces camp meant he was all but drowning in a sea of them. “She could probably cut through it like a hot knife into a pat of butter.” Through with the berries, he reached for a pitcher of wine and began to pour himself a glass. “I suppose for my first encounter with her, I just… wanted to set a baseline of a sort. So that I could see what she’d say under no duress and have it set as a foundation for, ah… later on.”

That got Angelo’s shoulders up. “What do you mean duress? Father, you said-”

“Angelo,” the king warned, watching as Aithan’s eyes widened in fear at the prince’s suddenly pitchy tone. “I want to have this talk with you. And I’m hardly unaware that you have concerns. But— please, this is not going to get anywhere productive if you start to panic at every turn. All right?”

The prince closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a deep, jagged breath. “All right. All right. I’m sorry. I just…” His muscles slumped. “She never said exactly what she meant. It was always implications. Dancing. S-so I had to get really good at it. Reading between the lines. So I wasn’t caught off guard.”

“She,” the king echoed. “The Glass Empress, you mean?”

“Yes,” he whispered. Shuddering hard, he repeated, “Yes.”

“I’m not going to talk you in circles, son,” Iosef said, firmly but gently. “I want to be honest with you— you’re my heir, my son, my future. And what happens in this kingdom going forward… it’s as much your right to have a hand in it as it is mine. Okay?” He paused for a moment, then added, “But... if I’m going to be honest with you, then you need to be fully honest with me. And there are certain things that I need to know, Angelo. Before I can even begin to think about making decisions.”

The prince swallowed hard, fretting at his sleeves. But after a moment he nodded. “What do you need to know, Father?”

“The way you talk about her,” the king said simply. “And the way she talked about you today.” He shook his head, pausing from his wine to rake a hand through his short, woolen hair. “She’s not just a friend who decided to save you. Is she, Angelo?”

Angelo gulped, but after a moment he shook his head. “No. She’s not. She cared about me as a person, not just an object or an animal to be tamed. She asked me to tell her stories about the Woo because she knew it comforted me, even if her mother didn’t approve. She went out of her way to spend time with me when she had no obligation to do that, and got in trouble more than once for my sake. I… I love her.”

Iosef exhaled softly. “Right,” he said. “And… you and her— the two of you have… have you, ah… well…” He glanced sidelong at Aithan, clearly trying to think of a child-appropriate way to pose the question that was pressing at the tip of his tongue.

Angelo, fortunately, proved not to need such clarification— his face heating up like a furnace he shook his head emphatically, sputtering, “No! We… we’ve kissed. That’s it. I swear that’s it. I’m an heir and she’s an heir and neither of us was stupid enough to do anything, um. Anything compromising.”

“Good. I’m, ah— glad to… hear that.” Iosef coughed and took another long sip of his wine. “So,” he said after a moment, “this is… personal for you, then. Very personal. The girl, and what happens to her.”

“Yes,” Angelo admitted. “I… I know who I am, Father. What the obligations of my position are. But I still care about her. I don’t want her to suffer. Not like I did.”

“I know,” said Iosef. “Because you’re a good person, Angelo. I… I raised you to be a good person. Kind. Empathetic.” He dared a small smile, but it was quickly gone as he continued, “I’m going to lay things straight with you, son. The morning of our departure back to Valla, no matter what happens with that girl, I’m sending an order to Fort Crotone.” This was the Valzicks’ largest border outpost, and served as a kind of headquarters for the Special Forces. “And the morning after our departure, our troops— Special Forces and regular King’s Army— are going to be marching on Meltaim.”

The prince nodded slowly. “I figured as much. What they’ve done can’t go unanswered- and Urszula admitted to me up front that she intends to conquer Valzaim if we don’t move first. It’s why she and Tovah both have been educated in Valzick.”

“I was wondering,” Iosef replied. “Her Valzick is impeccable. Fluent.”

“Tovah good at Valzicks.” Aithan— dutifully silent so far, clearly having deigned this conversation as Adults Only— couldn’t help but pipe in as he munched on a wedge of cheese. “She and Ang’lo teach me in woods.”

“That we did,” Angelo agreed, smiling towards the boy. “And you’ve gotten very good at it too, Aithan. I bet soon you’ll be even better than Tovah.”

Aithan blushed, and Iosef managed a quiet, half-hearted chuckle. “I’m sure,” he agreed. Then: “I have no idea what to make of the girl, Angelo. Honestly, none. She seemed docile enough this morning— cooperative, polite— but I can’t get over the fact that she’s the literal heir to Meltaim. Empress Urszula’s flesh and blood.” He moved to refill his wine pitcher. “However... what I am sure about without a shadow of a doubt is that you care about her, son. You care about her deeply. And… Woo knows you’ve already had so much wrenched out of your control this past year. I can’t even imagine how much time you’ve spent fretting. Terrified. The unknowns lingering over you like a thunderhead.”

The boy bit his lip. “Half the time I wasn’t even sure what season it was,” he admitted. “A-and… when you… when you still hadn’t come for me, when the empress was still gloating about the army huddled at the border that didn’t dare cross I… I wondered if you’d given up. If your courtiers had convinced you to r-remarry.”

“Never,” Iosef said firmly. “I didn’t cross the border because I was terrified she’d kill you if I did. But I never gave up, Angelo. Not ever.” He reached across the table, over the maze of food, and squeezed his son’s hand. “I have to question the girl further, Angelo. I just— I have to. For our safety. For Valzaim’s. For the greater good. And… since I can’t just rely on a basic truth spell…”

Anguish washed over the prince’s face. “N-no…”

“I’m not going to go in there and just— have Sotir unleash a torrent of torture spells,” Iosef said quickly. “I won’t. I promise. I’ll… talk to her first. Let her know what’s happening, and why. And if she is as earnest as you say, Angelo… if she’s truly hiding nothing…” The king looked his son straight in the eye. “She’ll understand. Why it has to happen. She’ll understand, and it’ll go very quickly, and afterward… we’ll know with more certainty. Where she stands.”

“I w-want to be there,” Angelo said, his voice ardent. “I promised her she wouldn’t be hurt here. Before we ran. I w-want to be there. When you question her.”

“Then you can be there,” Iosef agreed. “You could,” he added after a moment’s hesitation, “even be the one to cast the necessary spells. If you’d like. But…” Here, his voice took on a commanding edge. “Only if you promise to do what I order you to, Angelo. Cast the spells I say, when I say. Maintain them as I say. Trust and obey me, as both your father and your king.”

Angelo quailed, his face going ashen. His teeth were chattering, and his eyes flicked towards the grotesque warren of scars on his wrist.

“W-what wrong?” Aithan asked, worry creasing his pale face. “Ang’lo, what wrong?”

“Nothing, honey,” Angelo said softly. “Nothing.” He took a deep breath, then nodded. “I will. As long as you promise it won’t be anything… excessive.”

“Only what’s needed,” Iosef promised. “I don’t want to gratuitously torment the girl, Angelo— only put her under enough duress where her mind is too addled and occupied to circumvent the truth spell. We’ll test her first— under a truth spell with no duress. Order her to tell a known lie while working around the spell so as not to trigger it, as I well suspect she can do. Then, we’ll slowly increase the duress. Until her ability to lie without alerting as such… fades, then vanishes outright. And once it has, we won’t go a step beyond that minimum needed level. I promise.”

The prince nodded, clearly unhappy but complying all the same. “Okay. If y-you’re sure.” He glanced towards Aithan. “But… he shouldn’t be there. It would stress him out. Scare him.”

“Of course,” Iosef said. “It’d be no place for a child.” The king mulled for a moment. “We can go tonight,” he suggested. “After the little one’s tucked in. The Holy Knights can babysit in case he wakes up and needs anything.”

Angelo nodded, finally seeming to perk up enough to apply himself to the food on the table. But there was still anxiety written on his face, and it was clear he was not happy about what he had to do.

[Shinko]

Continued...

A Question of Souls

Chapter Twenty-One

SPOILER: Click to show

Angelo was sweating, a sheen reflecting the moonlight off of his dark skin, as he, his father, and Sotir approached the tent where Tovah was being held. He held a death grip on Kott’s wand- the prince had yet to get one of his own yet- and the inside of his palm was slicked with sweat where it rubbed against the wood.

“T-Tovah?” he called softly, his voice shaking like a leaf.

“Mmm?” From the drowsiness that filled her voice, it seemed as if Tovah had either been asleep or close to it. “... Angelo? Is that… is that you?”

“It’s me,” he agreed, gently pushing the flap of the tent open and slipping inside to kneel beside her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Father just...” Pain flitted across the prince’s face.

“It’s all right,” Tovah murmured, stifling a yawn— and then promptly stiffening as she watched Iosef and Arch-Brigadier Sotir stride into the tent behind Angelo. “... W-what’s happening?” she asked then, shifting so that her ankle chain clinked slightly. “Why are a-all three of you here…?”

“The king wishes to ask you more questions,” Sotir replied, hand already hovering over the wand at his hip. Iosef had dragged him along tonight to cast and maintain the truth spell itself so that Angelo would not make himself spellsick as he juggled the other necessary— and unpleasant— curses, and the arch-brigadier seemed somewhere between honoured and terrified at being chosen for the task.

… More on the terrified side, however, as Iosef said briskly, “You needn’t speak, Arch-Brigadier. You are here to monitor the truth spell, nothing more. My son and I will be asking the questions.”

“Questions?” Tovah echoed. “But you… you already asked me questions, y-your majesty. C-couldn’t you have… have used a truth spell before…?”

“He…” Angelo swallowed hard. “He wants to be sure, he says. Th-that you’re speaking honestly, since he knows you p-probably could act well and defy truth spell.” Hurriedly he added, “F-father swears he won’t hurt you, not m-much, not m-more than he needs, but, but he says… he says….” The prince buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, Tovah. He says he wants to. Stress you. To be sure you’re telling the truth. But n-not more than he absolutely needs to. I made him promise it wouldn’t be more than he needs to.”

“... O-oh.” Tovah let out a long, shaky exhale. “I… I see. I…” She shut her eyes, seemingly trying to steel herself. “I understand.”

Iosef lifted a brow, studying the girl who shook before his son on the hard ground below. “You do not object then, Princess Tovah?” he nudged.

She opened her eyes. Forced herself to glance up at him. “I d-don’t like it,” she admitted. “Of course I don’t like. I hardly want to… to…” Her voice trailed off, and she fidgeted with her tangled black hair for a moment before restarting with a soft, “But I understand. Why y-you’d… want to do things like that. I mean… if I were you, I’d probably w-want to do things like that, too.”

Angelo swallowed hard, forcing himself to look up and meet Tovah’s eyes. “I’m going to cast the spells. The h-hard ones. So you know they won’t got further than they have to. You know you can trust me. R-right?”

She nodded. “Yes,” she murmured. “Of course. I-I trust you with my life.” Her jaw trembled. “Could you… t-tell me, at least? What that spells are going to be? Just so I’m not… not surprised, and…”

“No,” Iosef said before Angelo could reply. “I’m sorry, Princess Tovah, but no. Anticipating them might increase your ability to prepare against them. It’s best if they’re a surprise.”

Angelo leaned forwards, pressing his forehead against Tovah’s. “I’m sorry. But I promise, I won’t hurt you more than I have to. Okay? I don’t want to do this at all, but at least if I’m doing it you know I won’t go beyond what I need to.”

“O-okay,” she managed, her voice growing more fragile by the second. She shut her eyes again. “Okay. G-go ahead then. With… with… wh-whatever it is you’re going to do.”

Impulsively, Angelo leaned towards Tovah and pecked her on the cheek. “I love you. I’m sorry.”

Tovah blinked, bewildered. “Your… your father’s here,” she breathed.

“He is,” Angelo agreed. “And he already knows. He read it on me like a book. I guess that’s what comes of being the man who raised me from the time I was a squalling infant.”

“He… knows?” Tovah echoed.

Iosef managed a small, bemused smile. “I do,” he told the foreign princess. “Angelo’s never been the best at hiding his emotions.”

Tovah gulped. “And you’re… you’re not— f-furious, you’re not… disgusted? You’re…”

“I think he’s reserving judgment,” Angelo said with a wan smile. “Until he’s more sure about you one way or the other.”

“You could say that,” Iosef agreed. Then, shortly but definitively, he gestured toward Sotir’s holstered wand. “You’ll go first,” he said to the arch-brigadier. “As we discussed.”

“Yes, my liege,” Sotir agreed. “When— whenever you are ready, my liege.”

The king nodded and glanced back to Angelo, who was still crouched on the hard earth in front of Tovah. “Angelo,” he said, and there was no mistaking the fact that he was now speaking to the boy as his king, not his father. “Stand. Take out your wand.”

The prince closed his eyes, nodding, and rose to his feet. He slowly pulled the wand he’d borrowed from Matvey Kott out of his holster and leveled it towards Tovah. A few paces behind him, Sotir pulled out his own wand, the arch-brigadier taking a deep, steadying breath as he too pointed it forward.

“Angelo,” Iosef said. “Look at me for a moment.”

The prince turned towards his father, lips drawn thin. “Yes, hallowed majesty?”

The king’s face was inscrutable, his eyes like iron. “I want one more assurance,” he replied, “that you will obey me. Cast as I tell you to, even if you don’t like it or agree with it.”

Angelo nodded, his face set in an expression of distinct unhappiness but no hesitation in his voice as he replied, “I will, sire.”

“In that case…” Iosef gestured for Angelo to turn back toward Tovah. “Take your position. I will tell you when to first cast. Understood?”

Angelo stepped backwards, feeling ready to throw up as he took up a position at his father’s side. He watched as Sotir cast the truth spell, enveloping Tovah in a veil of yellow light, and waited for King Iosef to give him his cue.

***

“Are you all right, son?” King Iosef asked a little more than an hour later, as the two of them— plus Sotir— stood beneath the inky night sky… and Angelo heaved up every morsel he’d eaten at supper that night into a thicket of blackbriar below. “Take a deep breath, okay?” He placed a ginger, steadying hand on the teenager’s back. “In and out. Slowly.”

As Sotir awkwardly twiddled his thumbs, trying to pretend he wasn’t a massive third wheel to this exchange, Angelo tried to obey his father’s orders, but his entire body was shaking hard and his face was pale as ash. “I k-kept seeing faces,” he whispered. “So many faces. R-Rosi. Galanis. Petrou. Adonis.” He whimpered, heaving again, though this time his stomach had nothing to force up.

“I know,” Iosef soothed. “I’m sorry, son. But you did great, you know. You did great.” He moved his hand to the teenager’s shoulder and gently helped ease him straight. “And we got what we needed. We won’t have to do that to her again— not ever again. I promise.”

“So,” the prince swallowed hard, leaning heavily on his father’s shoulder. “So… you believe her? That she helped me and sh-she’s on our side?”

“As far as I could observe, she had no wherewithal left to get around the truth spell,” Iosef said. “Not by the end of things.” The king stroked a tender hand through his son’s short hair. “If she is a spy, she’s had training like nothing I’ve ever seen. Not that it’s outside the realm of possibility, given Meltaim and the depths of mother’s depravity, but…”

“B-but she’s a royal” Angelo pointed out. “Would they subject a royal to something like that?”

“I have no idea,” Iosef admitted. “I can’t pretend to understand their way of thinking, Angelo. The lengths they’d go to in order to achieve some ghoulish larger goal. But,” he added before his son could object, “I… think that after tonight I am more comfortable. Giving her… a wider range of privileges. Freedoms. She’ll need to be watched very carefully, but…” The king shrugged. “We’ll hardly ever learn the reach of her trustworthiness if we leave her chained in a dark tent. A slavering wolf would be near harmless in that position.”

Sotir, still hovering nearby, gawped openly at this declaration; he clearly wasn’t enthused about it… but he also was intelligent enough to refrain from comment, merely furrowing his brow as Angelo gave vent to a long, heavily relieved sigh. “Wh-what do you have in mind then?” he asked. A smile wobbling onto his face he added, “Will you finally let her take a proper bath?”

Iosef let a smile tick at the corner of his lips. “That could be arranged,” he agreed. “And proper clothes— I’m sure with enough spells we could hack a tunic into a semblance of a dress, since we hardly want her walking around in a uniform shirt and trousers.” He considered further. “We can… get her a tent set up. Close to ours. Guarded at night. But… a respectable tent nonetheless— bedroll, blankets, a lantern.”

Angelo’s smile widened. “That would be wonderful. Somewhere sh-she can be comfortable finally.” He laughed softly. “Aithan might sleep with her some nights, even.”

“It might be the first peaceful night’s sleep you’ve had since you got here, hm?” the king teased. He sobered again. “Although… we still need to take… precautions, Angelo. I’m not comfortable letting her out of that tent— that chain— without… certain precautions being set into place first.”

Angelo bit his lip, straightening. “Precautions like what, exactly?”

“If she’s a spy,” the king said simply, “she might get cold feet, Angelo. Might have been getting cold feet— and once she has some freedom of movement, well…” He sighed. “She could try to run. Flee. Back to Meltaim.”

Angelo rubbed his face. “How long. How long until you trust her? What does she have to do?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Iosef said. “It’ll just… it’ll take time, Angelo. Time to watch her. Know her. And in the meantime… as I said, we need to take precautions.” A beat, before he glanced toward Sotir. “Who’s your best enchanter on this base, Arch-Brigadier?”

The man seemed to ponder for a moment, they replied, “I would recommend Arch-Major Sarkis, if it please your Hallowed Majesty. He is very talented, and very quick at what he does.”

“Rouse him,” the king said. “And have him make a cuff— metal and lockable, I’m sure a shackle from a set could be adapted as such. And then—”

“No,” Angelo shouted, his reaction immediate and visceral. “Absolutely not, no way, I will fight every soul in this camp with my fingernails before I let you-”

“Angelo.” Iosef’s voice was sharp. “Let me finish. Please, let me finish before you start snarling at me?”

The prince’s teeth were chattering, and he clenched his head as if it ached. “I don’t want to do this anymore, I d-don’t want to be like this anymore. P-prisoners, and shackles and cuffs and chains a-and-”

The boy was digging his nails into his scalp, and Iosef reached sharply toward his wrists. “Stop,” he ordered, strong-arming his son’s hands away from his head. “Angelo, stop. Take a deep breath and stop, right now. You’re hurting yourself!”

Angelo froze immediately when the king grabbed his wrists, every muscle in his body going stock stiff. His head immediately ducked against his chin as he warbled, “Przepraszam, przepraszam, proszę przepraszam-”

“Angelo!” Iosef said again. Any anger he’d felt being quickly eclipsed by outright fear, the king pleaded: “Angelo, stop. You’re okay, honey, you’re okay.” He let go of one of Angelo’s arms to reach instead for his chin, tilting it forward, forcing their eyes to meet. “Look at me, son— it’s Papa, and you’re okay, you don’t need to panic, you’re okay.”

As Sotir gawked on in under bewilderment, Angelo stared into his father’s eyes, trembling hard, before he finally went limp with a soft sob, all of the tension going out of him as tears began to flow from his eyes. “I’m s-sorry,” he warbled. “I’m sorry. Th-they shocked me. Wh-whipped me. Manhandled me l-like a bad puppy. Trained me like a bad puppy.”

“I’m sorry, son.” His own voice trembling, the king pulled the boy into a firm, almost protective hug. “I’m so sorry, Angelo. But you’re safe now. I’ve got you, and you’re safe. No one will ever hurt you like that again.”

“B-but,” he whimpered, “Tovah-”

“I’m not going to slap a shocking cuff onto her wrist, Angelo,” the king murmured, not letting go of the boy. “Nothing that will hurt her. All I want is something that’ll alert us if she breaks the camp boundary— that’s all. That’s it. No pain to it, I promise. Just a shrill alarm to help track her and a notification sent to us.”

Slowly the quivering in the prince’s body eased. Slowly he relaxed, until he was all but limp against his father’s chest. “Okay. O-okay. I’ll trust you. I’ll s-stop panicking.” He buried his face in the soft fabric of the king’s tunic. “I’ll try to, anyway. S-so much about my head is… messed up. I r-really did go almost crazy between the pain and the loneliness back there. Tovah was scared.” In a voice barely more than a whisper, he added, “S-so was I.”

For nearly a minute, the king said nothing, only stroking his son’s back as the teenager’s tears slowly trickled to a stop. “I’m going to have Sotir rouse the arch-major he spoke of just as soon as we’re done here,” he finally murmured into Angelo’s ear, “to get the cuff done as quickly as is humanly possible. So the girl doesn’t have to stay chained in the tent for a moment longer than is necessary, son. Okay?”

Angelo nodded. “Okay. Th-thank you.” He took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “I’m glad you’re here, Papa. I’ve… I’ve b-been so scared. Trying to hold it together by myself for Aithan.”

“You’ve been so strong,” Iosef said. “The picture of what it means, son, to be a prince. A warrior.” Gently, he eased the boy out of his arms. “And… if she turns out to be legitimate, Angelo… if that girl turns out to be legitimate, well. What you’ve managed to do... bringing over to our side the heathen heir to the kingdom populated by our most mortal enemies… showing her to the Woo’s light, to the righteous path…” He gave Angelo a wavering smile. “It’s a miracle. No other way of putting it, my son.”

Angelo smiled. “The soldiers have been saying that about Aithan too. Th-that his magic manifesting so late, right when he was baptised, was a sign from the Woo. You’re all gonna give me a big head, y’know?”

“We’ll have to be very careful then,” Iosef said, reaching out to smooth his son’s hair one last time. Turning to Sotir then, he ordered: “Rouse that arch-major. Have the cuff made. I want it done by morning— the earlier the better.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Sotir squeaked, bowing his head. “As you wish.”

The arch-brigadier— seeming impossibly glad to have finally been dismissed from the awkward situation that was far, far outside his standing— spun and scuttled away, soon disappearing into the haze of the cool black night. Alone with his son, Iosef pondered for a moment or two, his dark brow creased, his steely eyes glistening.

“You must be tired,” he said to Angelo at last. “After… that.”

“Mm-hm,” Angelo agreed. “I… I know I’m a grown man, but would you m-mind if… if I s-stayed with you tonight…?”

“I… was thinking, actually…” Iosef paused again to survey their surroundings— dark and deserted at this time of night, with most of the soldiers’ curfews long since passed. “I… know it’s not all that… traditional. And it might send some titters rippling if the men at the fort knew. But…” The king gave a small shrug. “I see no men milling about. And in any case, I trust your judgment and chivalry, Angelo. I…” He shifted on his heel and let out a long exhale, as if he had to work himself up to what he wanted to say next. “You said it to me earlier, and you said it straight to her, as well: you love her. The princess. Is that correct?”

Angelo blinked, tilting his head in confusion. “Yes. I do. With all my heart.”

“Right,” said the king. “And… she just went through a… a very unpleasant experience. A painful one. A frightening one.” He swallowed hard. “It’ll still take time for her to earn my full trust, Angelo. But.. when that time comes, I don’t want her afraid of us. Thinking we’re— we’re just as cruel and heartless as her mother is.” He set a hand on Angelo’s shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. “Go to her. Comfort her. Stay with her until the morning, if you’d like. So she’s not falling asleep terrified and hurting and alone.”

Whatever response Angelo had been expecting, clearly it wasn’t this. He stared up at his father, jaw hanging open. Finally, he stammered, “R-really? You’re sure?”

“I may have gone mad,” Iosef replied, “but… yes. I’m sure. I think that even if— against my present judgment— she is a spy, she’ll still far be too shaken after tonight to try anything against you. And… even if she did, she’s chained to the ground, and there’s an armed guard posted outside. And if she’s not a spy, well…” He shook his head. “It’s like I said. She doesn’t deserve to fall asleep terrified, hurting, and alone.”

“No,” Angelo agreed, a slow, relieved smile spreading across his face. “She doesn’t.” He slowly backed up, towards the tent where Tovah was being held. “Th-thank you. Thank you, Father.”

“Of course, son,” Iosef replied. “Although,” he added with a very faint chuckle, “if I wake up to Aithan clinging to my back like a little monkey, I blame you, all right?”

Angelo chuckled. “Alright- at least the kid is warm, eh?” He started to turn towards Tovah’s tent, adding, “Good night.”

***

When Angelo entered the prison tent a few minutes later— after being let inside by a very confused-looking night guard— he was in comparably high spirits compared to earlier that night… but such joy immediately disappeared as he reconciled the scene before him: Tovah curled up in the tent’s backmost corner, the girl having crawled as far as her chain would reach, her knees to her chest and back to the door as shaking, hiccupping sobs escaped her chest.

Guilt writhed in Angelo’s gut like a live serpent, and he immediately went to his knees beside the Meltaiman princess. “T-Tovah? Tovah, are you okay? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Tovah flinched as if she’d been struck, flopping sharply over to face him. “Angelo?” she whimpered. Then, bringing a hand to her soggy cheek, she stammered: “Oh, gods. I m-m-must look pathetic right now, I m-must— I didn’t think a-anyone was coming back tonight, I look pathetic, I—”

“Tovah, no,” he said softly, reaching out a hand towards the girl and threading his fingers through hers. “I was just sobbing hysterically into my father’s chest myself, remembering when I was in your same position. You’re not pathetic at all. You’re not. It’s okay if you need to cry.”

“I d-don’t even know why I am crying,” she sniffled, squeezing her eyes shut to stem the flow of tears. “I w-wasn’t. After you left. I c-calmed myself and I— I wasn’t crying, but then it was like… this knot in my chest, and m-my heart start beating so fast, and I-I…”

“It hits you hardest once you think you’re safe,” he murmured, gently pulling her up so that her head was leaning against his shoulder. “You brave face it until it’s over, then all the stress and the fear… it’s like a ton of bricks.” He kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I had to hurt you like that.”

“I’m n-not mad,” Tovah told him, shuddering as she buried her face against the starched fabric of his uniform tunic. “Y-you did w-what… w-what your father ordered, and I… understand why he ordered it, I’m not mad, I’m…” Her teeth chattered. She hiccupped again. “It’s j-just been a long month,” she said after a moment. “S-since we got here. It feels like a y-year. A lifetime. N-not just a measly month.”

“I know. I know exactly what you mean,” the prince murmured, stroking the tangled locks of her ebony hair. “But I do have some good news for you. If you’d like to hear it.”

“O-okay. S-sure. Of course.”

“He’s going to let you out of this tent first thing in the morning,” Angelo announced. “With an alarm cuff to make sure you don’t try to flee the camp, but… you’ll have freedom to wander. He’s arranging for you to have a tent of your own, a clean one with a bedroll and a lantern. A real bath and clean clothes.”

“He… he is?” Another hiccup. “So h-he— believes me then? Th-that I’m not j-just some… some miserable p-pawn of my mother’s?”

“He’s still a little wary,” Angelo admitted. “But he’s coming around. He told me I could stay here tonight. With you. Suggested it even, because he knew you would be hurt and scared and if you were innocent you shouldn't have to be alone.”

“Th-the whole night…?” Tovah forced her eyes open again, and unburied her face from Angelo’s shoulder so that she could look him in the eye. “I-isn’t that going to be… going to be…” She abruptly laughed. A watery, wondering laugh. “Scandalous?”

He sniggered. “Let the soldiers gossip. They’ve already started tittering about my being a miracle worker. Oh! Has anyone told you yet? About what happened with Eitan?”

“No,” Tovah breathed. “Y-your… your father— I asked him th-this morning if Eitan was okay. B-because… gods knew how either of them would r-react to each other, and…” She paused to steady her breathing. “The king said E-Eitan was fine. Sl-sleeping like… like… a little monkey. Th-that’s what he said.”

Angelo chuckled. “He was clinging to me- that’s why Father said that. Well… I’ve told you about how we baptise Wooists as babies. If someone converts later in life, they get baptised too. Father said that if we were going to keep Eitan, we needed to give him a Valzick name- Aithan- and baptise him. So we took him down to a pond near the camp and…” The prince laughed softly, plucking at the hem of his grey sleeve. “When I went into the water, I was wearing a uniform not unlike this one. When I came back out? Aithan had turned my uniform white.”

“He… what?” Tovah sputtered. “He—” As the meaning of this seemed to bowl into her, her ice blue eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. “He’s a mage. E-Eitan is a mage?”

“He’s seven next week, and he just finally revealed himself as a mage,” Angelo agreed. “The camp priest and the soldiers are calling it a miracle from the Woo.”

“I… gods, I can’t believe it.” Tovah laughed tremulously. “H-he must be… s-so excited. Is he excited?”

“Knocked himself out recoloring things all night last night. And he’s giddy as all be for when he finally gets a wand.” Angelo chuckled. “Woo, are we in trouble when that happens.”

“It… i-it is a miracle,” Tovah declared, shuddering again. “F-for a child— especially a-an imperial child— not to show his magic until s-so late… it’s…”

“The Woo seems to be offering us a lot of miracles as of late,” Angelo mused. “I guess He is trying to say that we’ve suffered enough.”

“So y-your father,” said Tovah. “He’s… a-accepted Eitan, then? He’s— not trying to send him away, or…?” She gulped. “I’ve been sc-scared. That once he arrived, h-he’d… find Eitan just a p-pest, or…”

“He accepted him,” Angelo agreed. “He was wary at first, but I think Eitan won him over by just… being himself. Happy and effusive and sweet.”

“And now h-he’s… he’s been baptised, you said?” Tovah asked. As he tears finally began to slow, she shifted so that she was facing away from Angelo, her back leaned against his chest— just like all the hours they’d spent in his rooms back in Meltaim. “W-was he excited? Getting to be b-baptised?”

“Ha! He was terrified of getting dunked,” Angelo replied. “And none too thrilled right after. But when he realized what he could do, suddenly that pond became the best place ever.”

“I’m s-surprised you don’t have pink hair and a p-puke green tunic already, Angie,” Tovah teased as she settled into his familiar arms. “Little m-monster can’t have any sense about what looks good, can he? Or self-control.”

Angelo hugged Tovah close to his chest, settling his chin on her shoulder. “Give it time. I’m sure I’ll be subject to his decorating sense. He’s already gone after half of Arch-Brigadier Sotir’s tent and its contents.” As the prince let his eyes slide shut he murmured, “You know, Father will probably ask you to convert as well.”

“Y-you think?” Tovah mused, shutting her eyes again. “He d-doesn't think I’m… too far gone? If he knew some of the th-things I’ve done, Angelo…”

“The Woo forgives all sins, Tovah,” Angelo said insistently. “If you truly feel remorse, if you really want to change, there is no darkness so deep that the Woo’s light can’t reach. Father knows that.”

“Y-you know,” Tovah said, “since… y-you didn’t visit with Eitan today or yesterday, I-I haven’t gotten my stories, Angelo. From your Book.”

“No,” Angelo mused, cracking one eye just long enough to kiss her on the cheek. “I guess you haven’t. I can always remedy that now. If you want.”

“O-okay,” she agreed. “Since, well… you said we have all night.” She yawned, her cheeks still damp but her tears finally vanished. “W-we should… lay down, though. So it’s more comfortable. N-not that the ground is comfortable, but… better than trying to fall asleep sitting up.”

“Mm.” Gently the prince eased Tovah down, until both of them were lying on their sides, Tovah’s back pressed against Angelo’s chest. His voice low and soothing, the prince began to recite yet another tale from the Books of the Woo.

Chapter Twenty-Two

SPOILER: Click to show

Tovah and Angelo slept entwined in each other’s arms, and the next morning, Tovah was fitted with her boundary cuff and— at long last— allowed outside of the prison tent. After a thorough bath and change of clothes, she looked and felt a girl entirely anew… and Angelo couldn’t have been happier to see her out and about. He gave her a tour of the campsite, familiarizing her with where everything was, and reunited her with Aithan- finally sans the chain that had distressed him so much. The boy was, unsurprisingly, delighted to see his cousin all freshened up— and promptly helped make her look even ‘prettier’ by turning the oversized uniform tunic that had been magically tailored into a dress for her to a shocking ice blue.

“Like your eyes!” the boy declared.

Over the next few days, life at the fort was relatively quiet. Though Tovah was attracting no dearth of wary stares from the enlisted men wherever she went, she seemed to take this gaping in stride; even when Angelo bristled, the girl only shrugged, telling him that they could stare if they wanted, they could titter if they wanted, they could grumble if they wanted: in the end, what mattered was what Iosef thought, not his lowly soldiers.

The prince seemed to see the justice of this, though he couldn’t help being aggravated all the same. Though he never crossed the line of what was improper for two unmarried nobles to behave with one another in public, he made no secret his affection for her. The soldiers could not have missed the tender way he would take her hand, or squeeze her shoulder, or brush her hair from her eyes. The gentleness with which he spoke to her. The way he pulled her and Aithan into silly, childish games for the sheer joy of it that left them all winded and giggling like little kids.

And it was clear that Iosef was not missing this, either— he watched them, silently but thoroughly, drinking in their interactions like parched earth soaking in the season’s first rains. The three of them, plus Aithan, were around each other almost constantly, and as the first few days of Tovah’s freedom turned into a week, then a week and a half, if the king had been fostering any fragile doubts about how deeply the teenagers cared about one another, such reservations were quickly starting to seem more and more improbable. The chance of Tovah being only a conman more and more unlikely, unless she was the world’s best actress. After all, it was one thing to declare love, or plant kisses, or laugh airily at each other’s awful jokes. But the way the two of them looked at each other… the manifestation of their body language in ways almost too minute to be anything but subconscious and genuine...

“I don’t want to stay here much longer, Angelo,” the king said finally, as the two of them prepared for bed ten nights after Tovah’s release from the prison tent. Aithan— thoroughly tuckered from his birthday celebrations the night before, which had seen him staying up late wired on no shortage of sugar— was spending the evening with his cousin, and so it was just the two of them, father and son alone in the spacious tent they’d long ago commandeered from Arch-Brigadier Sotir. “It’s already July. The stormy season makes the seas too capricious for me to trust them, and so we’ll have to travel by land. And I want to be back in Valla by the time autumn arrives.”

Angelo tilted his head, glancing towards his father. “I wondered. Your work in the capital can’t wait forever, and we’re very exposed out here; the longer we linger, the more likely the Glass Empress has to figure I made it home safely and prepare for a blitz against Valzaim.”

“Aithan comes back with us for certain,” said the king. “Our ward, now and until he comes of age. But Tovah…” Sitting on the edge of his cot so that he could unlace his boots, the king tilted his head, thinking. “She’s done nothing to show that she’s anything but earnest. However… I need to see a few more steps from her, I think. Before I feel comfortable taking her a month south to the heart of Valzaim. The seat of our power. The innards of our court.”

Angelo slowly nodded, his lips thinning. “Steps like what, Father? Converting, I presume?”

“Naturally,” the king agreed. “And she needs to take a Valzick name on top of it— as Aithan has. Show us that she’s willing to wholly shed her Meltaiman identity. Give herself to the Woo, and Valzaim, with every piece of her being.”

The prince bit his lip, but nodded. This made sense, though it did still unsettle him a bit. After all it’s what the Glass Empress had tried to do to him. “I can… talk to her about it. If you like. Or would you rather…?”

“You can talk to her,” said Iosef. “But if she agrees— I want to be the one to do it, Angelo. The baptism itself.” He kicked off his boots. “Any spy would no doubt panic, if the thought of being baptised to another religion didn’t already spark cold feet. The idea of her mortal enemy being the one to take her to the middle of a pond and well—” He smiled grimly. “Hold her under. It’s a rather large cession of control.”

The prince rubbed his face. “And you haven’t exactly inspired all the warm fuzzies even if you’ve been… courteous. All right, I’ll tell her.”

Iosef nodded. “All right. I’d like to do it sooner than later— tomorrow evening, perhaps. So…” As he lay down on his cot, the king mulled for a few moments. “I’ll bring Aithan to breakfast at the mess tent tomorrow?” he said finally. “And have trays sent to the girl’s tent for the two of you. If you’d like to talk to her about it then.”

Angelo nodded. “All right. That works. Thank you father.”

Sure enough, the following morning Angelo surprised Tovah by sweeping into her tent not long after reveille with a tray of biscuits and sausage for the two of them to share. Aithan immediately let out a whoop of joy— to which Iosef, who was hovering at the doorway, chuckled and beckoned the boy forward.

“Let them enjoy their meal in peace,” he told the child. “We’re going to go eat at the dining tent, all right?”

“Is biscuit there?” he asked, lips pursed.

“I don’t know,” the king admitted. “But we shall have to go and see, hm?” He crooked his fingers again. “Come on. The earlier we get there, the more food you can pilfer, right?”

This was enough to earn the boy’s cooperation, fortunately, and in another few moments he and the king were gone. Alone with Tovah, Angelo smiled and set down the tray between them.

“He’s adjusting well,” the young man noted. “Getting to be more like his old self. Papa seems to like him.”

“I’m glad,” said Tovah. “I was so worried that he, well… wouldn’t. And him not liking me, I can handle that. But Eitan— sorry, Aithan— is innocent. He hasn’t done anything to warrant being disliked, other than being born in Meltaim.”

“Father is warming to you,” Angelo insisted, plucking up one of the biscuits and taking a bite out of it. “But he says he wants to ah… put you to one more test. Before he’s really sure you’re genuine. Nothing bad, I promise.”

“A test?” Tovah speared a sausage. “What sort of test?”

“He wants you to take a Valzick name, like Aithan has,” Angelo replied. “And convert. Fully, with a baptism.” The prince coughed, looking sheepish. “And, ah, Father wants to do the baptism himself.”

“... Oh.” Tovah blinked. “I… guess I can’t say I’m surprised by the baptism. The Valzick name, a bit— and him being the one to do the baptism a lot, but…” She laughed softly. “Promise he won’t drown me, Angie? It’s very rude to drown people, you know.”

“He won’t drown you,” Angelo said firmly. “Apart from the fact that he knows I would never forgive him for it, and the fact that he wouldn’t do something like that unwarranted in the first place, it would be a horrible blasphemy to profane a holy ritual that way. The bishops would all turn on him.”

“Oh, but think of the juicy stories,” Tovah teased, pilfering another wedge of sausage. “He could be a folk hero, Angie. ‘Stoic king single-handedly slays wretched Glass Empress’s whelp’. It’s like a hero myth in the making!”

Angelo kissed her on the cheek. “But it would be so much more impressive to say that he converted the wretched Glass Empress’ whelp. Made a Wooist out of her.” He hesitated, then added more softly, “If… if you want to, that is.”

She smiled at him. “Of course I want to,” she said. “Even if I mostly started asking you for stories because I could tell they comforted you…” She turned toward him and brushed her lips against his. “I like them now, too, Angelo. Your Woo. Hearing about Him… it relaxes me. Makes me feel safe. Okay for a little while, even when I’m not okay, not by a long shot.”

The prince was startled but then he smiled, pressing his lips against hers. “I’m glad. The Woo has always been a comforting presence for me. I’m happy I could share his comfort with the one I love.”

“You’ll have to get me a very jeweled-up Woocifix,” Tovah joked, nuzzling her nose against his. “To match my jeweled-up wand I was never given back.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” he said. “I’m sure something in platinum would look wonderful with your eyes. Silver too but,” here the prince smirked. “I imagine you are quite done wearing silver.”

“I’ll not and say I didn’t,” Tovah agreed. Pulling back from him, she reached toward the tray of biscuits. “The name,” she said, “is going to be hard, though. I’ve never named anything, Angelo. Not even a pet— the Glass Empress never had ‘time’ for pets.”

“I have a pet peacock that lives in the garden right outside my balcony at home,” Angelo said. “Maybe you could meet him. He’s a bit skittish with strangers, but I’ve had him since the egg so he’s very tame.” The prince shrugged. “I could rattle off some women’s names, though I’m not sure how many I could list off the top of my head.”

“I… suppose we could go with whatever’s closest to ‘Tovah’ in Valzick,” she mused reluctantly. “Like I’m presuming you did with Aithan.”

Angelo bit his lip. “The only thing that really comes to mind is ‘Tosia.’ At least right off.”

“Hm.” Tovah began to pick apart the biscuit’s flaky crust. “I suppose that could be all right. Although…” She tilted her head, thinking. “Maybe we should pick something… more meaningful. Not just a random, half-baked transliteration, but… something with purpose. That makes a statement. That shows I’m taking this seriously: becoming Valzick. Wooist.”

The prince quirked an eyebrow. “I suppose you could name yourself something from one of the parables in the writ. Or after a hero from Valzick history.”

“I… don’t want to seem too presumptuous,” Tovah said. “By taking the name of some storied religious figure or… anything like that.” She gnawed on her lip, mind whirling as she considered further. “I… I know,” she murmured after a moment. “I have an idea. A nice idea. If… it’s okay with you. And your father.”

“Oh? What idea?” Angelo asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Your… your aunt,” Tovah said. “Thais. The one who inspired you to join the military. Who sacrificed her life so that others could live.” She added quickly, “Not that I’d be trying to… to say I’m like her, a hero like her, but— she’s the kind of person who deserve to be honoured. Who others should try to emulate. Look up to. And she’s personal. Your father’s sister, right?”

“Y… yes,” Angelo agreed, clearly caught very much off guard. Then, softly, he laughed. “Thais. I think she would be tickled. That a convert to the Woo’s flock should take her name.” He reached towards the princess, squeezing her shoulder. “I approve.”

Tovah smiled, leaning against him. “My mother would be absolutely appalled, wouldn’t she? Her little princess taking on a heathenous Valzick princess’s name. And willingly getting herself baptised into the Valzicks’ faith. By the Valzick king.”

The prince grinned broadly. “She would spit nails. It’s only a shame we can’t see her reaction- though frankly I would be glad to never have to see her ever again.”

“We won’t have to,” Tovah said, shutting her eyes as she settled with her head against his arm. “Not ever again.” She let out a long wistful sigh. “So. When’s your father want to do the baptism?”

“This evening,” Angelo replied. “I imagine he’ll have to disable the boundary cuff to take you out to the pond.” The prince winked. “Your big chance to escape the land of the heathens.”

“Oooh.” Tovah laughed, threading her fingers through his. “It’ll be so exciting. I can flee back to my mother’s loving, tender arms. She won’t be mad about all the treason I committed, right?”

“I’m sure she’ll forgive you,” Angelo replied cheerily. “What’s a little defection, release of a valuable political hostage, and conversion between a loving mother and her dearest daughter?”

“Not to mention the kidnapping,” Tovah said. “And the baptising of said kidnapped child. And letting him snuggle at night with the stolen political hostage and the Valzick king.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. Oh and kissing the stolen political hostage.” Angelo promptly punctuated this by pressing his lips against Tovah’s.

“Mm.” Tovah returned the kiss. “Just trifles, really. Mother won’t mind at all.”

The prince sighed softly, leaning against Tovah. “Even if being in Meltaim was torture, I’m glad I was captured. I’m glad I got to meet you. And that after tonight, Woo willing, you’ll be a free citizen of Valzaim.”

“I love you,” Tovah said simply. “So, so much. And I’m so glad, Angelo. That… that we ran. That I trusted you.” A beat. “That— even if it might’ve been crazy— I let myself fall for you. And make my own choices for once, instead of only being a mouthpiece for my mother.”

Angelo smiled. “I love you too. And I’m glad I let you in, even if it terrified me. Even if I was half-convinced it was some elaborate ploy. I’m glad you were my friend. Then my love.” He hugged her. “The Woo brought us together, Tovah. Of that, I’m completely sure.”

***

Angelo watched anxiously from the shore of the pond as the priest prayed once again to bless the murky waters. This time it was not the young prince, but his father the king who stood amidst the reeds, Tovah positioned directly in front of him. The girl held herself stiffly, chin up, wearing an impassive mask as she listened to the fort priest begin his prayers.

Unlike during Aithan’s baptism, where only a few people had been present, to this event Iosef had invited nearly two dozen guests— officers of the base, mostly, plus the requisite holy knights (and the cleric and Aithan, of course). Most of the attending soldiers seemed somewhere between terrified and incredulous, like they were witnessing something they perhaps weren't rich-blooded enough to see; Tovah knew that whispers and gossip would flow like a raging river from this, and she dared not give them any additional fodder by showing fear, or anything that could be misconstrued for hesitation.

She wanted this.

She wanted this.

As the priest continued rattling his prayers, and Iosef set a hand on Tovah’s shoulder to prepare for the immersion, Angelo swallowed hard, sending up his own prayer to the Woo. Praying for him to give Tovah strength, so she could show the Valzicks she was not their enemy. So she could put the suspicions to bed, once and for all.

The baptism went off as well as he could have hoped. Tovah was ducked under the water, then pulled back out again, soaked through but otherwise in no obvious discomfort. On the contrary, as she emerged from the water, Iosef trailing at her heels, the girl was smiling— a bit delicately, but a smile nonetheless, genuine if tentative.

“Congratulations, m’lady,” the cleric breathed as Sotir— in attendance with his officers— offered to cast a drying spell on Iosef. The king refused— (“This is part of the ceremony, no?”)-- and as he did the cleric continued, “You are now a true child of the Woo.”

“Yes,” Tovah agreed as she wrung the water from her dripping black hair, “I… I suppose I am.”

Angelo was quivering with excitement. “Congratulations,” he said, grinning hugely. “You’re… You…”

The prince couldn’t help himself. He reached for Tovah, scooping her up in his arms and spinning her around. “You did it, you did it, I can’t believe it!”

As Tovah let out a small gasp of surprise, the officers nearby gawped as if they were watching the sky turn from blue to red. Aithan, meanwhile, let out a giggle, and the sopping wet Iosef couldn't help but spare a small chuckle of his own.

“Easy, Angelo,” he chided lightly. “Don't wanna drop her— she's slippery as an eel right now.”

The prince laughed, gently setting Tovah down on the ground again and pressing his nose to hers. “Of course, Father. Wouldn’t want that, would we?” He brushed a sopping wet lock of dark hair out of her face, adding, “Really though- well done. Would you have ever imagined this is where we’d end up, a year ago?”

“Not even slightly,” Tovah said. Swallowing hard, she reached out to take his hand in hers. “I just hope I prove worthy,” she went on. “Of your Woo’s forgiveness and blessings.”

“Everyone is worthy,” Angelo said firmly. “They need only reach out to Him. That’s enough.” Glancing towards the assemblage, who were still gawking at the obvious affection between the prince and Tovah, he added, “Am I wrong?”

“Not in the slightest, sire,” said the priest, bowing his head.

Iosef, seeming to come out of his drenched distraction enough to notice the watching eyes, scowled roundly. “The Woo loves all who turn to Him,” he agreed in a thick tone. “And the ‘Pit curses those who judge.”

Angelo nodded firmly. “And don’t ever doubt yourself, Tov- Thais,” he corrected himself. “You deserve this too.”

“Since Tovah is Woo now,” Aithan chirped cheerily, “she can start sleep in our tent, too?”

Angelo felt his face heat up, and he coughed, trying to hide his flustered embarrassment. “Ah, Aithan, honey, usually men and women don’t sleep together if they aren't married. It’s ah… um…” he looked to Thais for help.

“Special,” Tovah— Thais— said with a knowing nod. Her smile was now edging on a smirk. “A special thing.”

“I am boy,” the child pointed out.

Iosef was the one to guffaw next. “Boy,” he agreed. “Not man.” A beat. “A growing boy, at that. I bet you’re real hungry, hm?”

Aithan grinned. “Dinner?” he asked.

“Sure,” Angelo agreed with a laugh. “Dinner. We can have a nice dinner party. To celebrate Thais being baptized.” He twined his fingers through the young woman’s his gaze lingering on the perimeter cuff fixed to her wrist before he shot his father a questioning glance.

Iosef, though, only sighed, his smile dissipating. “Later,” he told Angelo, shortly. Then, he turned back toward the warhorses that had taken the king and his retinue from the camp (the soldiers had walked). “We should head back,” he said. “Change. We can have a nice supper in the tent, hm?”

Angelo said nothing, but the frown that pulled at his lips could not have been missed. Almost defiantly, he moved so that he was so close to Thais their arms were brushing as they walked back to their horses. Aithan immediately scampered after the pair, and with another soft sight, Iosef trailed them, too.

Chapter Twenty-Three

SPOILER: Click to show

Dinner was a quiet if cheerful affair; Aithan, very excited over his cousin’s baptism, chattered up a storm, and when the king requested that Thais lead the grace over their meal, the girl seemed surprised but readily accepted. She also accepted Aithan’s request to have a sleepover with her again, much to the boy’s exuberated squealing.

“You have to sleep, though,” she told him after their plates were cleared, and she stood to depart Iosef and Angelo’s tent for her own. “No babbling into the night like an addled songbird.”

“I won’t.” Aithan puffed out his cheeks as he leapt to his feet. “I sleep so good.”

“You sleep good, but Thais might not if you cling to her,” Angelo teased with a wink. “Watch out for that one, he’s a chronic snuggler. One night he’ll strangle us all in our sleep. With snuggles.”

“That is be sin,” Aithan said primly.

Thais snorted, reaching for the boy’s hand. “Come on, now,” she said. “If you get all tucked in without too much fidgeting, I’ll even tell you a story, okay?”

“Woo story?” the boy asked.

“Alas, I don’t know many of those yet. But…” She smirked. “I could tell you a story about fairies and trolls.”

“Oooh, that sounds interesting,” Angelo put in. “Better be a good boy, Aithan!”

As the two former Meltaimans vanished into the darkness, however, the smile slid off of Angelo’s face. His expression darkened, and he leaned back with a heavy sigh. “How long, Father?”

Iosef blinked. “How long for what?”

“How long does she have to keep being suspect?” he clarified, looking up into his father’s eyes. “Thais. She’s done everything you’ve asked of her. Jumped through all your hoops. But it feels like it will ever really be enough. That you’ll always be skeptical.”

The king frowned, iron eyes narrowing. “Who said I was skeptical?” he challenged. “I don’t think I’ve told you anything of the sort— not today, certainly. I’m quite pleased with the girl today, really.”

This caught Angelo off guard. “You… you are? Then why did you look so reluctant when I indicated the cuff earlier?”

“Because I wasn’t precisely going to wrench it off at the pond in front of two dozen men,” the king retorted. “While the both of us were drenching wet, for good measure.” He drummed his fingers against the table, methodically. “And I wanted to speak with you first. Privately.”

“Oh,” Angelo tilted his head. “What about, exactly?”

“Where we go from here,” Iosef replied. “The future.” He shrugged. “As I told you before, Angelo, I don’t want to stay here for very much longer. It’s growing… tiresome. And Woo knows, I’m needed back in Valla.”

“Right,” Angelo agreed. He bit his lip. “I… had wondered. About after. You’ve accepted Aithan as a ward, and I can’t imagine you’ll just turn a Meltaiman princess- former or no- out to fend for herself in Valzaim. But… I didn’t know what plans you might have for her.” He swallowed hard. “It’s part of why I’ve been so… demonstrative. Enjoying what we have, while we have it.”

“Angelo.” Iosef sighed, studying his son’s downtrodden face. “I’ve told you many times since I got here, but…” He leaned forward. “I love you. Very, very much. And you know that I… I want you to be happy, yes? Not just as my heir, but… as my son. My only son.”

Angelo tilted his head, nodding. “Y… yes. Yes, I know you do. But you also have obligations. As king.” He blinked hard. “It’s why you returned to Valla while I was in Meltaim.”

“It is,” Iosef agreed. “But that hardly means it’s what I wanted to do, Angelo. Nor that I don’t feel awful about what misery you were going through as I was merely… lazing around court in Valla.” The king briefly shut his eyes, then took a shaky breath and opened them again. “I’ve always planned for you to marry politically. But… I also don’t want you to be miserable, son. And, really, if you look at it a certain way… that girl… she’s… she’s the ultimate political marriage. The ultimate political statement. Particularly as we sit on the horizon of a war.”

Angelo blinked, dumbfounded. He stared at his father, mouth hanging agape, as if he were certain he had not heard correctly. Then slowly, hesitantly, he said, “M-marriage? You’d… let me marry her? Thais? R-really?”

“If that’s what you want,” the king replied. “But…” He straightened in his chair, gaze still scrutinizing. Apprising. “I have certain… terms. If that’s the path you wish to take, son.”

“Wh-what terms?” Angelo asked, though his heart was soaring already. Eagerly he added, “Whatever you want, Father, anything, I’ll do anything!”

“If she is to be your wife,” Iosef said, “then that means you take responsibility for her and her actions, Angelo. Under the law. Under my household. I think at this juncture, it’s very unlikely that she’s a spy— but she was still raised in Meltaim, son. To be their empress, no less. In court, she’ll be a liability at first— especially with the war that will soon be raging between her kingdom and ours. I need to feel confident that she’ll be kept… on a prudent leash, shall we say? Around the courtiers, and about the palace in general.”

“She… will need some time to acclimate,” Angelo acknowledged. “I’ll help her as best I can. To understand our culture and her place within it. I promise, Father.”

Iosef nodded, but from the look he wore it was clear he was still mulling. Carefully deliberating. “I want her to know what’s expected of her,” he said. “As the future queen consort. The wife of the next king. The mother of the king after him.”

“...What do you mean?” Angelo asked, confusion rife in his expression. “I mean teaching her the position is obvious, but I feel like there is more you aren’t saying.”

“Wooism,” Iosef said simply. “Her conversion… it needs to be more than merely a baptism, Angelo. Once we’re back at court, she’d need to be…” He shook his head. “Educated. Very thoroughly educated. And I don’t want it to be a battle. Not ever. If she’s to be your wife, then she’s to embrace the most integral part of the royal identity. And kept on the straight and blessed path, with thorough oversight and her husband’s firm, guiding hand.”

“Ah,” the prince nodded. “I don’t think that will be a problem. She is truly disillusioned with the faith of Meltaim, and takes comfort in the tenants of Wooism. I’m confident her conversion is true, Father- she’s told me herself she wanted it.”

“I am glad to hear.” Iosef pursed his lips, pausing for a long moment. “Then… I suppose I just have one last condition, Angelo. A fail safe, so to speak.”

The prince felt a prickle of unease trace up his spine. “Oh?”

Here, the king let out a soft chuckle. “No need to look so afraid,” he chastised gently. “It’s… not a bad thing, really. Just a precaution.” He gave his son a wan smile. “As I’ve said, I don’t believe the girl is a spy,” he said, “but that still doesn’t mean I feel fully comfortable toting a Meltaiman princess back to Valla without certain… reassurances. I hardly wish, after all, to take her to court and then have her put up a laundry list of excuses as to why she’s not ready for marriage yet— why she wants to wait— why it’s not the right time, and all the while she’s snooping around or… doing Woo-knows-what. Delaying things. Causing titters and rumours and gossip, even more than there will be already.”

Angelo nodded reluctantly. He could see some justice in this. Thais had been brought up in a culture where women were treated differently on a very fundamental level than they were in Valzaim. She was easily someone who could seem threatening to the courtiers just by being herself. “So what do you want us to do, then?”

“I don’t take her back to Valla as Imperial Princess Tovah Srebreo, daughter of the empress Urszula, heir to the Meltaiman throne,” said Iosef. “She comes back to Valla— leaves this very fort, in fact— as Hallowed Princess Thais Thaikos, consort to the crown prince Angelo, future king of Valzaim.”

Angelo gaped. “You… you want us to marry here? I-in the camp?”

“I do,” Iosef confirmed. “A few days before we depart, preferably. So the marriage can be all, ah… sealed before then.”

“Ah… r-right,” Angelo felt like it had suddenly gotten several degrees hotter. He laughed awkwardly. “S-so. So I guess this is probably the most low-key wedding a Valzick heir will have had in generations, eh?”

“We’ll make the fort priest earn his salary, at least,” Iosef said by way of answer. “But otherwise— without a doubt.” His smile grew somewhat lopsided. “At least Aithan can be so excited that you and Thais are having a sleepover, hm?”

Angelo snorted. “You can be the one to explain to him why he can’t join in. I don’t even want to go there.”

“I’ll keep the little tyke occupied,” Iosef promised with a wink. The king straightened again. “In any case… I’d like to be out of this fort by next week, Angelo. Ten days, maximum. And so I’d… rather like you to present the girl with the idea sooner than later. See how she reacts. Give her one last test, so to speak, to see if she’ll panic and try to flee. Since even a spy who’d accept a baptism, well— marriage might prove, ah…”

“She’s not a spy,” Angelo replied ardently. “And she won’t run, father. I can promise you that. I love her, and she loves me. She’ll probably be surprised but… she won’t run.”

“I hope that you’re right, son,” Iosef said. “And if you are…” He let through another small smile. “You can take her cuff off as a wedding gift, all right? After everything’s ah, squared away.”

“Father? You’re terrible.”

Iosef laughed. “I love you, too, Angelo. And congratulations on your impending marriage.”

* * *

The following morning, after breakfast, Angelo borrowed some horses for himself, Thais, and the pair of holy knights his father insisted come along for protection. All he initially told Thais was that he wanted to get some fresh air, and spend some alone time with her- he didn’t want to spoil the surprise of what his father had announced straight away.

It was a pleasant summer morning. The mountain air was balmy, birds were singing, sunlight filtered through gaps in the forest canopy. Seated on the saddle behind Angelo— they'd hardly wanted to pilfer more warhorses than were strictly necessary— Thais was smiling slightly as they threaded through the trees, her pale skin flushed and dark hair blowing in the breeze.

“You're sure you disabled the boundary cuff again, right?” she teased as they drew toward the fort’s outer bounds; said cuff had been quickly re-enabled last night after the baptism. “I hardly want to set it off and ruin our fun if it starts wailing.”

“I’m fairly sure,”Angelo replied with a slight smirk. His expression softening he added, “It’s nice. To spend time together in the fresh air like this, without having to worry about patrols or where our next meal will be or keeping Aithan cooperative.”

“I bet he's moping up a storm that he didn't get to come on the horsie ride,” Thais quipped. “And making your father tear his hair out in the process.”

Angelo laughed. “I’d like some time alone with you. When he’s older I’m sure he’ll understand the sentiment.” The duo crossed the boundary of the camp, and Angelo added brightly, “See? All’s well. What do you say we speed up a little? I could go for a nice gallop.”

“You think you can handle this big boy at a gallop?” Thais goaded, patting the massive stallion’s flank. “Don't get us bucked, princey.”

For answer, Angelo nudged the warhorse with his knees, and its paced picked up first to a canter, then a gallop. The knights escorting them sped up as well, looking rather unamused but seeming to know better than to comment. The prince laughed aloud as the wind whipped in his face, and Thais— with a suddenly white knuckle grip on Angelo’s waist— let out a breathless gasp.

“My,” she said as they blazed through the towering trees, Angelo threading the horse nimbly around the trunks, “it's like you grew up riding or something. How strange.”

“You mean you didn't?” he asked curiously, though he kept his gaze focused forwards considering the speed of the horse. “Meltaiman nobles don’t ride?”

She laughed. “I'm teasing, Angie,” she said.

Not long later, the royals and the knights broke through the heavy trees to reach a flower-strewn clearing, and with some deliberation Angelo brought his mount to a gliding halt. The knights— with a look of relief— came to a stop, as well. Their armor reflected like polished jewels beneath the gleaming summer sun. It looked much hotter than was probably comfortable.

“Ooh, you've brought me to pick daisies?” Thais chirped as she surveyed the fragrant meadow. “Such a sensitive little princey!”

Angelo laughed. “I do my best. I don’t have the resources for a fancy gift out here in the woods, so this will have to do.” He dismounted from the horse’s back, tying the reins to a nearby tree before offering a hand to help Thais climb down after.

Thais smirked, nimbly hopping off the saddle without accepting his proffered hand. “What a gentleman,” she crooned as she landed. The girl winked. “Remember— I grew up riding too, dearest.”

“Spoil my fun, why don’t you?” he quipped. As if in revenge, he leaned towards Thais, just barely brushing his lips against hers before skipping away, laughing as he danced further into the meadow.

The knights looked someplace between bemused and annoyed as— still mounted— one of them lazily nudged his horse to shadow Angelo’s trail. Thais, at least, seemed far more entertained, eyes glimmering as she grinned and called out after Angelo:

“Ooh, get back over here, little prince! You'd make your lady chase you? How indecorous of you!”

“You are a very competent lady,” he called back towards her with a smirk. “I’m sure you can manage!”

“Oh, I shan't condescend myself to such horrors!” Thais sang. She plunked down onto the ground right where she stood, landing atop a spray of dandelions. “I think I shall stay here— it's very comfortable, and if my charming prince wishes to curry my favor, then he'll have to scuttle his snarky mouth back over here. Very quickly, too, or I might decide I'm not in the mood for his favorite activity.”

Angelo sighed, shaking his head. “We come all this way out and you’d rather sit on your bottom like we were back in the tent in camp. No sense of adventure.”

“Oh, I had a sense of adventure once,” Thais returned brightly. “Then I spent weeks on end in the mountains, half-starved, with only a whiny child and sarcastic prince for company.” She patted the empty space beside her. “It was just ghastly, I wish you'd been there. Come sit and I'll tell you all about it!”

Angelo made an expression quite like a sulk and headed back over to her. “Fiiine. We’ll be boring then.” He plopped down beside her. “But you owe me you know.”

“Oh?” she asked, batting her eyelashes. “Do I? Why ever so, my dearest darling?”

He brushed his hands through her hair. “Because I had glorious plans and you are spoiling them, that’s why. You are most irksome sometimes, my love. Why, it’s like you have a mind of your own.”

“Me? Spoil plans?” Thais gasped in mock offense. “Never! I've certainly never stopped a wicked empress from her most stellar public execution plans, you know.”

Angelo made a soft huffing noise. “Yes well, you didn’t ruin all of her plans.” He allowed his face to hover close to hers again. “You didn’t stop me from falling in love with you.”

“I don't think I was supposed to fall in love with you, though.” Thais nuzzled against him, planting a tender kiss on his lips. “Not that I'm sorry. Being in love with you is kind of fun, sometimes. All the snogging.”

“It is fun,” Angelo agreed. “I could do this forever. Being with you.” A beat, followed by a far more tentative, “Would... you want to? Stay with me. B-be… be my wife. My queen.”

Here, she drew away from him, her brow knitting and expression sobering. “I think you know the answer to that,” she said, her voice going very quiet. Fragile. “But… I think you also know that it's… not exactly our choice, Angelo.”

“I know it isn’t,” he agreed. “But… please. I… I want to know your answer. Would you do it? Would you marry me, if you could?”

Thais frowned, icy blue eyes drifting between Angelo and the knights, both of whom were still keeping a mounted watch on their charges from a few paces away. “Of course I would,” she said softly, so that the prince could hear her but his babysitters couldn't. “Even if you and Aithan weren't all I had in the world these days… I love you, Angelo. Simple as that.”

Angelo closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, his smile very gentle. “My father spoke with me last night. About the future. And… and he told me that he wants me to be happy. And that he can tell you make me happy.”

Thais had clearly not been expecting this. “He… what?” She blinked. “Does that mean, then, that he… he didn't completely dismiss the idea? Not out of hand?”

“On the contrary,” Angelo replied, his smile growing. “He wants you to marry me. He says we’re leaving this encampment in ten days, and he wants things… secured before then. As a ‘final test’ so he put it.”

Thais blinked again, jaw falling slightly open. “A test?” she echoed. “Meaning…” Abruptly, the girl laughed. “You're joking. You have to be joking.” A beat. “... Right?”

“I’m not,” Angelo replied, shaking his head. He swallowed hard. “Father says he wants us to marry. A week from now. A-and… I want it too. If you do.”

“He…” Her voice trailed off, and it took her a few moments to recover. “He really said that? But… why? He… doesn't even trust me enough to take off my boundary cuff, he...”

“He said I can take it off of you after the wedding,” Angelo replied. “And well… he knows the last year of my life has been a ‘Pit on earth. And he knows how happy you make me, how happy you’ve made me. And he thinks he can spin it, with the court. Talk about how it’s a sign from the Woo that I brought you out of Meltaim and guided you to Wooism, and our love has clearly been blessed by Him. Especially with the war that is no doubt about to start between Valzaim and Meltaim.” Sardonically Angelo added, “The soldiers already think so. They keep talking about how you and Aithan are miracles, and how that combined with my vision is proof the Woo has chosen me for some higher calling.”

“I’d… get to come with you, then?” Thais asked. “To Valla?”

“Mm-hm,” Angelo agreed. “As my wife. Future queen of Valzaim.” Teasingly he added, “Mother to my heir.”

Daring crack a small smile, she swatted his arm. “Shush,” she chided. “Your babysitters are listening.” She swallowed hard, turning to face him directly. “What about Aithan? What's your father going to do with him?”

“Father’s decided to adopt him as a ward of the royal family,” Angelo replied. “So… he really will be a prince now. I wonder how he’ll react to that news.”

“He'll demand a crown, no doubt,” Thais said with another wavering laugh. “Gods, though. I… this—” She forced a deep breath. “When… when does he want it to happen, exactly? Th-the marriage..?”

“He wants to leave in ten days,” Angelo replied. “So he wants us to marry in a week. And head home to Valla as quickly as we may. Overland- not by ship as he came. He wants us to travel through Valzaim’s interior as an added security measure, since he’s planning to declare war as soon as we’re clear of the conflict zone.”

“War?” Thais gawped, brow rising to her hairline. “He's… declaring war? Formally?”

“He is,” Angelo agreed. “He fully expects that the Glass Empress will do so once she has confirmation you and I are in his hands- he wants to beat her to the punch. And well…” the prince looked at the scars on his wrist from the current cuff. “He’s angry.”

“She… must be panicking,” Thais mused shakily. “My mother. Rumors have got to be filtering over the border by now. About us being found. Your… your safe return to Valzaim.”

“Mm,” Angelo noddded. “I imagine that’s another reason Father doesn’t want to linger. To put things off.” He bit his lip. “Do… you regret it? Coming to Valzaim with me? Accepting Wooism?”

“No,” Thais said. “I don't. I won't pretend it's been particularly pleasant so far. But… I love you, Angelo. And Aithan, too. And I don't know if it's true what they're saying— if… his being a mage is… a miracle of the Woo or— just him being a late bloomer but…” She shrugged, a bit limply. “The fact remains that if he hadn't shown that magic— and if we'd stayed— then my mother would've killed him. She'd have murdered him without batting an eye. And… every imperial child in the future just like him. And she'd have expected me to carry that tradition on one day, too.”

Angelo put a hand on Thais’ shoulder. “But we won’t do that. Not ever. Mage or not, our little ones will always, always grow up happy. Loved. I promise.”

“Ours will,” Tovah agreed, a knot lacing her throat. “But… it's still hard to think about sometimes. What c-could've happened to Aithan. What did happen to Kuba. What… what...” She shuddered in spite of the summer heat. “What could happen to Matvey’s little Yetta one day. Or whatever child my mother inevitably attempts to have to replace me.”

The prince threaded his fingers through Tovah’s. “I know,” he admitted. “There’s a lot of darkness in the world- not just in Meltaim either, but all over. Places that don’t know the Woo’s light and mercy. That never will.”

“I wouldn't have,” Thais said, squeezing his hand. “Not without you.”

Angelo smiled sadly. “I don’t know if I can win over the hearts and minds of every other country that borders us. Miracle or no miracle. But… who can say. I’m still not completely certain what the meaning was behind my vision- if you and Aithan were the light I was supposed to bring out of the darkness, or if there is still a higher purpose I have yet to find.”

“Perhaps we’re the first ray,” Thais said, gnawing on her lip. “Like… that first beam of light at dawn. But it only gets brighter from there. As the day goes on.”

“Maybe,” Angelo agreed. He leaned towards Thais, kissing her. “But I wouldn't have made it this far without you. If the Woo has such a destiny in mind for me, I want you to be by my side for it. Can… can I count on you, Thais? To be my friend and partner?”

“Of course,” Thais said. “Always.”

[Avery]

A collab with Shinko ! Touching one of the few entirely unexplored corners left of Avani: Synedon, the little slip of a harsh, mountainous nation in the interior of the continent--

SPOILER: Click to show

(Map by Lizica. <3)

We'll leave a lot of the development to unfurl naturally in fics, as this is the first fic of hopefully quite a few, but by way of super broad background: Synedon is very unlike the rest of the continent. Instead of feudalism or a variant as such, it's inhabited by hundreds of tribes of varying sizes. They culturally overlap a lot with one another, but there is also a lot of variance in customs, actions, and even dialects. Naturally, this leads to turmoil. And that's about all I'll say.

The Standings Stones: Part One

SPOILER: Click to show

The village of Robynette was usually a quiet place.

Located dozens of miles off any established road, with loamy marshland surrounding it on three-and-a-half sides, the village had more goats in residence than humans, and fewer than a dozen family names shared amongst its scrappy residents. The most exciting event to to have transpired there in recent memory — or really, in any memory — was the time a Lyellian caravan had overnighted in Dell Hubberd’s pasture six years ago, waylaid by a storm. The foreign traders had been gone along with the next morn’s sunrise, departed nearly as soon they’d arrived, but the waxing whispers of their brief tenure had nevertheless lasted for ages to come. After all, foreign traders simply didn’t come to Robynette; no one came to Robynette, save for the lord marshal’s taxman, and even that was only once every few years.

… Needless to say, when the flock of king’s army hippogriffs landed unannounced one morning in the village square, bringing with it an entire battle-ready unit of blue-and-gold armoured soldiers, it was immediately the most exciting thing to have ever happened in Robynette.

The beady-eyed lieutenant colonel who helmed the squadron, however, seemed significantly less excited. “The major was right— we can’t use horses,” he sniffed to his second as he dismounted his ‘griff, and his boots immediately sank into the spongy ground beneath. “It’s like walking on jelly. I’m glad we didn’t try to ride here, even if we’d had the time.”

“Which we don’t,” commented his second, seemingly taking no notice of the villagers who were already gathering nearby to ogle their group. The squadron had been on the ground for no more than a minute or two, but it seemed that word of their arrival was spreading rapidly. Straightening the lapels and pins which studded his breast, and which announced him as a captain, the soldier added: “It already took us nearly a half-day to get out here from the fort. Woo knows what’s developed since our last scout’s report. And we’re still a good five or six miles out from their last known location, at least. Even if they’ve been on the move since our last report—”

“I’d rather they hadn’t been because that would mean they’re even closer to a Woo-blessed Macarinthian village,” the higher officer cut in. “Come on, let’s get the rubberneckers indoors and set up a defensive position for the men we’re leaving here, then get a move on.”

“Mm. Right.” The captain pinched the bridge of his nose and gazed out toward the still-assembling villagers, who were keeping a careful-but-most-certainly-eavesdropping distance from the squad. “At least we won’t have any issues rounding them all up,” he noted. “Although I imagine they’re going to have… questions, to say the least.” A beat. “Although really, I don’t know what they expect. Digging in roots but a few miles from the Synedonese border… it’s...”

“Synedon?” piped the voice of a boy who couldn’t have been more than eight, leaning on the boards of a rickety looking wooden fence. “Synedon’s coming here?”

The lieutenant colonel groaned, covering his eyes with one hand as an excited tittering went up amongst the townspeople, though the child’s mother hurriedly grabbed him off the fence and slapped a hand over his mouth. “You just had to say it.”

“They would’ve learned soon enough, anyway,” the captain noted. Nevertheless, he heaved a sigh. “Right, then. Let’s get going. Get the villagers all shut away safe with some designated watchmen, and then… for the rest of us…” A grim, determined smile unfurled between his lips, and he turned to survey his unit behind him. “Well, the rest of us have some rogue, rowing warlords to herd back into their own cursed lands.”

* * *

Six hours later, as a balmy afternoon crept toward a windy evening, the captain let out a small sigh of relief as the airborne Macarinthian unit finally laid eyes on the rogue, rowing warlords in question — the warlords whom had sent this squadron from their cushy postings at Fort Timalean to the marshly outlands of Robynette, because Woo knew it wasn’t enough for the Synedonese savages to scrap and skirmish only within their own lands. No, instead aerial Macarinthian scouts had watched over the past week or so as some kind of conflict of Woo-knew-what origin had kindled amongst — or perhaps between? — a group of several-dozen borderland tribespeople. Although such skirmishes were far from uncommon, and usually they died organically just as quickly as they’d arisen, that hadn’t been the case here. No, instead of tapering off, this squabble had stretched on and then grown mobile — one side of tribesmen chasing the other like foxes after hares, the fighters listing further and further north until suddenly the border was underfoot. Even still, if it had only been wilds nearby, then perhaps the Macarinthians wouldn’t have felt the need to interfere.

Except, of course, it wasn’t just wilds.

Except, of course, there was Robynette.

As the hippogriffs swooped lower to get a better view of the landscape below, the captain silently cursed Robynette.

… And then, just as quickly, he cursed himself for having dared feel any sense of relief a few moments ago. Because while true, the unit had finally found its targets, as he took in the scene from above, he realized— “Oh, ’Pit!” the captain shouted, his voice half-smothered by the steadily blowing wind. His gaze wrenched to the lieutenant colonel, whose mount was abreast with his. “Sir, I think they’re done with their game of cat-and-mouse!”

“I can see,” the lieutenant colonel snapped back, cursing internally himself. The boggy ground had given way to a true marsh, no doubt much deeper than it looked, and with it cutting off their obvious escape route, the pursued Synodonese had been brought to bay. Blood had already turned much of the swamp water murky, and there was only one direction the conflict could be pushed- towards the Macarinthian village.

“We’re ending this,” the lieutenant colonel called grimly. “Sweeping strikes- swoop and graze, see if we can’t get them to disengage without having to get our scimitars wet.”

“Sir!” The captain was trying to count the casualties on the ground, which was difficult from this vantage point. What was easier to tell was that the din of the approaching hippogriffs had not gone unnoticed: All Synedonese eyes were now pointed upward, latched on the approaching foreign unit. “They’re heavily armed, sir,” the captain noted, somewhat breathlessly. He’d expected to interrupt a protracted game of chase— not a gory, active battle. “Spears, and bows and arrows. We need to be careful.”

“Didn’t think I’d regret leaving the bonded commandants home,” his superior noted ruefully. “Sweep but not too low. Archers, give them a volley with some blunts.” These were arrows with special heads designed to make a loud whistling sound; not useful in combat but great for messages or intimidation. “On my mark- now!”

Heavily armed or not, the Synedonese were at a decided disadvantage by sheer virtue of their positioning: At the first volley, some of their archers tried to fire back, but the hippogriffs were heavily armoured at their bellies and breasts. Even the few arrows that landed scarcely made a scratch, and in another blink, the lieutenant colonel had shouted out to his men to send another wave of whistling blunts flying.

The men obeyed.

As the arrows fell, the captain craned his neck to get a better look at the scene beneath. “Most are dodging, but look— some are starting to scatter!” His grip white-knuckled over his ‘griff’s reins, he suggested, “Another volley, sir? One or two more, and we should have enough of the savages chased off to land.” A short pause. “We… do mean to land, yes?”

“Aye,” the lieutenant colonel agreed. “If any of those bodies down there are still alive, somehow, we’ll need to collect them. They can be our nice messengers to their fleeing friends that next time we catch them this side of the border, the arrows will be a lot sharper and they won’t get the benefit of seeing us before we fire.”

“Mm,” the captain grunted by way of assent. “They’ve made it much too close to that blasted village to just let them flee without repercussion or warning. We need to send a message. A very clear message.” As the lieutenant colonel gave the command for another wave, the captain forced a deep, steadying breath. “There we go,” he said. Most of the Synedonese weren’t merely doging now: they were running. Fleeing for their lives. “Everyone able-bodied is scattering. Let’s land before the injured stragglers try to flee, too.” Studying the dotted casualties, he tentatively suggested: “I count more than a dozen down, but most of those are still. The ones who are still moving are concentrated, ah—” He jerked a thumb toward a patch of seemingly dry ground surrounded on all sides by marsh and reeds. “There. Circle ‘em?”

“Yes, but take care with the ‘griffs in the bog. Heavy as they are they’ll sink in the mud up to the withers,” the higher officer agreed. He kneed his on hippogriff in the side, and as it made its circling descent he swore. “One of ‘em’s still standing. Brandishing his spear at us. Scrawny little fool thinks he’s going to scare us off whatever body he’s trying to protect.”

“I’ll grab the idiot,” the captain returned, eyes quickly settling on the tribesman in question— who was indeed brandishing his spear as he stood sentry over an unmoving, blood-spattered body. He was a small thing, skinny as a rail and probably ninety-pounds soaking wet. The captain sighed and gestured sharply at the private helming a ‘griff to his left— which sent a flurry of hand signals down the line as the unit fanned out into its landing formation. “Don’t want any of these little baby-faced sixteen-year-olds to get a spear through their kidneys.”

“That’d ruin their days for sure, and not even make for a thrilling tale at the barracks later.” As they came in for a landing, the lone warrior still standing screamed what was probably intended as a threat or a warning in his language. The lieutenant colonel recoiled from the shout, but not for the reason the skinny Synedonese spearman probably intended.

“Captain, that voice-”

“Female,” the captain said. As his hippogriff’s talons skimmed the ground, and the tribeswoman let out another animal keen, a knot twisted in the Macarinthian’s gut. “Savages. Sending girlchildren into a battle!”

The higher officer ground his teeth. In a very broken, heavily accented, almost parodyish attempt at her language, he called, “Young thing. Drop weapon. We no hurt, you no hurt.”

She snarled back, her speech too quick for any of the Macarinthians to make out. She didn’t drop the weapon, and the lieutenant colonel gave an exasperated sigh. “Captain, I hate to get rough with a young girl, but…”

“Better than getting stabbed.” The captain deftly swung his legs up over the ‘griff’s saddle, dismounting with the grace of a man who’d done so hundreds — thousands — of times. He didn’t show any fear, although his heart was humming. “She’s shaking,” he noted to the lieutenant colonel as he started advancing carefully on the girl. She held her ground, using her body as a shield between the foreigners and her fallen comrade behind her. “And ‘Pit, she’s covered in blood. Not hers, I hope.”

“If it is, we can’t dally here,” the lieutenant colonel shot back. “Our healers are in Robynette.” His eyes narrowed, and he tried addressing the girl again. “Friend hurt. We fix. Drop weapon.”

“Liars!” the girl spat, though she visibly faltered at this offer.

The captain took several more deliberate, almost theatrical steps toward her. “Drop weapon,” he said, in an even worse rendition of her tongue than the lieutenant colonel’s hackneyed attempt. “We help.” Patting the scimitar holstered at his hip, he added sharply: “Last chance.”

Nearby, the rest of the Macarinthians were making quick captives of the remaining Synedonese warriors— all of whom, true to the captain’s aerial observations, were injured to some extent. The girl was clearly trying to keep her focus only on the captain as he continued his methodical approach, but as one of her fellow countrymen shouted out from a few yards away as a pair of Macarinthian privates roughly grabbed him and then bound his bleeding wrists behind his back, her pale eyes briefly danced toward him. The captain didn’t hesitate, capitalizing on her temporary distraction to surge forward and close the the distance between them. Before she even seemed to fully realize he was there, he’d reached out a hand and closed it around the haft of her spear.

“Let go,” he warned her. He spoke in his tongue now, not hers, but his tone alone made the implication clear.

Her teeth chattering, eyes narrowed with bitter frustration, she finally obeyed. The spear was yanked away as soon as her fingers eased from the wood. One of the Macarinthian soldiers darted forwards with a length of rope, yanking her arms behind her back so that she squawked in pain and indignation.

“Oy, gently,” the lieutenant colonel barked. “We’re not savages like these lot, she’s just a girlchild. Tie her up but don’t manhandle.”

The captain sighed and dropped her confiscated spear, then kicked it out of reach. “Poor thing,” he commented, almost absently. “She can’t be more than fifteen.” As the soldier continued to bind the girl— albeit, more gently than before— the captain took a step toward the fallen body she’d been guarding. This tribesperson was definitely male, and probably a decade older than the girl. Her brother, perhaps? Whatever the case, he’d gotten it bad in the battle: he lay completely still, a deep wound at his temple having bled so hard that every inch of his face was coated with blood. His platinum blond hair had gone red-black with gore. “I think he’s gone. But let’s get a pulse.”

Another of the underlings trotted up to the man, gently lifting his hand and putting two fingers to the wrist. After a moment’s hesitation, he put another hand over the mouth. Then he shook his head. “Alive, Captain. Barely breathing, but alive.”

“Fix him!” the girl spat, her voice trying to sound commanding despite an edge of hysteria. She was speaking so rapidly that the Macarinthians were only able to catch every few words as she went on: “You… fix him, you… drop weapon you fix-”

“Easy,” said the captain. ‘Pit, this was a mess. Why, oh why, couldn’t they have interrupted a game of cat-and-mouse instead of, well— whatever this was? “How many walking wounded do we have?” he called out. They needed to figure out if they had room for this half-dead man even if they wanted to try to save him.

“By my count,” the lieutenant colonel said, eyeing the field, “only three. Plus the girl. I think the two with the blue egg-spot tattoos on their foreheads are from the chasing group. That fellow with the broken arm doesn’t have it, so he’s probably with the girl and her brother.”

“Mm. An inter-tribal conflict, then,” the captain noted— as if it even mattered at this point. Intra-tribal skirmishing was nearly just as common, and could be every bit as bloody. “... Technically, we should triage. Figure out who amongst the more grievously wounded has a better chance of surviving.” He gnawed on his lip, contemplating. “Then again, if we have walking wounded from both sides in any case— people we can release to convey our messages back to their tribes no matter what happens with the worse casualties— then saving anyone else is an act of charity in and of itself. And ‘Pit…” He shrugged. “I feel bad for the girl.”

“She’s suffered enough today,” the lieutenant colonel agreed. “We’ll take the fellow. If he lives, he lives; if not, well we can’t argue with the Woo’s will. But let’s not dally any longer, I wager every minute we waste could be the difference for him.”

There was a chorus of “Sir!” from the Macarinthian soldiers, and they hurriedly ushered their charges, bound and gagged, onto the ‘griffs. The girl followed the captain with chin held high, face set with stubborn pride despite her obvious trembling. The captain’s gut twisted again, and he paused to face her briefly, bringing his eyes to meet hers. Like most Synedonese, her irises were pale, almost clear— an icy glaze over hard steel. He could tell that she was at once terrified and furious. Like a kicked dog trying to gather the courage to bite.

“We help,” he said to her, in his broken iteration of her language. “Try help. Be good girl, yes?”

“N-not girl,” she hissed, followed by a word in her tongue which he didn’t understand.

Then again, he didn’t quite care to understand. “Come.” He clamped a hand over her shoulder. “Fast fly, fast fix.” He nodded to her unconscious presumed-brother, who was being loaded, deadweight, onto another of the ‘griffs. “Understand?”

She was clearly seething, but through gritted teeth she growled, “Yes. Understand.”

“If we’ve got her cooperation, we should get a move on,” the lieutenant colonel remarked, hoisting himself up on his own ‘griff. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can let her scurry back to her barbarian warlord like she so clearly wants to.”

He gave a signal, and with a tremendous flurry of flapping wings, the hippogriffs took to the air for the return trip to Robynette.

* * *

When the group had set off from base, they hadn’t been expecting to deal with much in the way of casualties beyond a sprained ankle. So while they had brought some healers along to Robynette to tend to their potential captives, those healers were the two youngest girls at the fort- barely out of training and absolutely not expecting to have a half-dead man to be more or less dumped on their operating table.

Unfortunately for the purposes of her cooperation, the young Synedonese girl wasn’t permitted to stay with her presumed brother- the Macarinthians mutually agreed that she shouldn’t see the ghastly wounds any longer than she had to. Instead she was brought into a cottage in the village that had been requisitioned for the purpose of holding the Macarinthians’ captives. The girl struggled like a wildcat, making imperious demands in her own tongue that none of the officers understood nor particularly cared about. Instead they turned her over to the custody of the broken-armed man who was presumed to be part of her same tribe. He looked a good bit older than both the girl and her maybe-brother, at least in his mid forties, and thus it was ruled that he was likely to be able to calm the girl down more successfully than any of the soldiers.

They left him to it for an hour or so while the healers tended to their patient and reports were written to send back to the fort.

When they judged that long enough had passed so that it was likely they’d now be able to speak to the foreigners without the girl giving them further histrionics, they finally sent in the man who was in charge of the next phase of the Macarinthians’ plan: the unit’s designated translator— and the only individual amongst their ranks who spoke more than rudimentary half-sentences of their captives’ tongue. A tall, thin man with silvering hair and tan, wrinkling skin, he was at least a decade or so older than the rest of the soldiers in the squad, including the officers-in-charge. He hadn’t seen combat in longer than most of the men had even been alive, and for good reason: A good translator was worth far more in reserve than out in the field, and it would’ve been outright foolish to risk wasting his skills should he be felled in a run-of-the-mill battle. For this reason, today he’d been left behind in Robynette with the non-combatants ahead of the unfortunate clash with the Synedonese, and only now— with their prisoners secured— was it his turn to shine.

As he entered the room holding the girl and the broken-armed man, the captain at his flank, the translator’s expression was inscrutable save for a small glint of excitement in his eyes. The captain rather thought this was a strange thing to be excited about, but then again, encounters like this were the translator’s bread and butter, and the captain supposed it wasn’t every day that the old bloke got to question Synedonese warriors practically fresh off the battlefield. This was probably the most interesting situation he’d encountered in months, if not years.

“You’ve got memorized what you need to convey to them, yes?” the captain needled the translator, as their duo of captives silently raked the stranger up and down, impertinent. “We must make sure our message is relayed very clearly.”

“Yes, yes, I’m quite certain, Captain,” the man said with dry amusement. “It isn’t as if I haven’t conveyed similarly menacing messages before, and if I can memorize how to conjugate a hundred or so Synedonese verbs I can memorize a simple warning.”

The captain let out a long-suffering sigh. “Alright, alright.” He waved a hand and nodded toward the captives. “Let’s get to it then.”

The translator nodded, smoothing his salt-and-pepper mustache as he turned to address the Synedonese man. “Well sir, you and your friends gotten yourself into quite a mess, haven’t you? I take it by now I don’t have to tell you where you are?”

The Synedonese prisoner frowned. “You speak our tongue,” he said. It was nearly an accusation.

“I do,” he agreed airily. “Very useful trick, considering my superiors have some terms they need you to carry back to your people when you leave.”

The captive’s frown did not dissipate. “Terms?”

“Oh yes,” the translator replied. “See, you didn’t answer me before, so maybe you aren’t aware; you’re in Macarinth. Were in fact, in Macarinth when we found you fighting your countrymen. You were trespassing, and as such are all, in a sense, war captives.”

“We did not cross intentionally,” said the man. Then, he shifted uncomfortably where he sat, his icy grey eyes drifting toward the girl beside him. As something unspoken passed between them, he added tersely to the translator: “And if you have a message to convey, then you should speak to Ritu. Not to me.”

“I think not,” the man replied, his light tone now carrying just a hint of sharpness to it. “You may see fit to drag teenaged girlchildren into battle, but we are not so base.”

“I’m right here,” the girl- Ritu- said acidically. “And I’m older than I look.”

“The point stands,” the translator replied. “I am not putting a young girl through having to deliver a diplomatically charged message to her leaders when there is an experienced older man who can do so.”

Before the Synedonese prisoners could respond again, the captain shifted impatiently on the balls of his feet. “Your tones are pointed,” he said. “Why are the prisoners upset?”

The translator raised a brow. “Typical barbarian nonsense,” he said in Macarinthian. “The man says if we have a message to convey to their tribe, it must be conveyed through the girl.”

The captain snorted, as if he couldn’t believe the sheer ridiculousness of the translator’s statement, before he gestured to indicate the interrogation should continue; the translator turned back toward the prisoners and cajoled: “The girl looks of age to be your daughter, sir; would you really put your daughter in the position of having to deliver unpleasant words to your tribal leader? Khan, I think that’s the word you use?”

Ritu’s face gave a small twitch, but she didn’t comment. Her comrade, however, outright scowled. He looked like he wanted to smack the translator, and as if he might’ve dared try it had he not been aware of the conspicuous scimitars holstered at both of the Macarinthian men’s hips.

“Khan, yes,” he confirmed tartly. “And yes. I would certainly have Ritu deliver your message.”

“Well fortunately for her, that decision is not in your hands,” the translator replied, his face a mask of profound disapproval. “You are in Macarinth, a Macarinthian prisoner, and you will play by our rules if any of you actually want to make it back to deliver that message.”

Ritu tensed. “A bluff.”

“You want to bet on that?” the man asked, his face impassive.

“I will not speak with you any longer,” said the Synedonese man by way of response. “If you wish to speak, then speak to Ritu. Otherwise...”

The translator gave an exasperated huff. “I will speak to you. But frankly? What happens once we let you go is your decision. So. The girl can hear as well as you can. I am still talking to you but she can speak if she is truly such a martyr.” He walked up close to the Synedonese man, his eyes narrowed. “Here is the message- we do not care if your intrusion was an accident. It will not happen again. Will. Not. You may slay as many of your own people with your pointless internal conflicts as you like, but if you bring your violence onto Macarinthian soil again, you will find the arrows that fly from our bows are far more silent and far more lethal.”

True to his earlier assertion, the Synedonese man said nothing, his only reaction to the translator’s acerbic threat a small, nearly imperceptible glower. Ritu, on the other hand, rose shakily to her feet.

“Your message is understood, outlander,” she said crisply. “We will remember and carry it back to our people. Now leave us.”

The translator raised his brows. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, little one; this sort of thing seldom goes well for the messenger.” He turned back to the officers. “We’re finished here, I think.”

The captain nodded, and both men began toward the door— but before they’d made it through the threshold, Ritu seemed to recall something and called out, “Before you go- the man who was wounded, how is he? Has he been healed?”

The translator passed the question along, but the captain only sneered. “No,” he told the translator. “They were playing games with us, weren’t they?” When the translator nodded, the officer continued: “Then we don’t owe them answers. Come on, now. Let’s go.”

The Standing Stones: Part Two

SPOILER: Click to show

The wounded man was not quite healed— the severity of his injuries plus the healers’ inexperience had made sure of that that— but he was alive, at least, and after a day or so in Robynette, he slowly began to come to. Aside from the gnarly wound on his forehead, which the healers had spelled shut but not at all cleanly, he was also clearly concussed: his movements were slow and lurching, his pupils were unfocused, and he cringed back at any direct light. The healers were adamant that he was in no state to be released yet— that if they dropped him back into the wilds, he might downslide quickly and die— but they also conceded he was probably out of immediate danger and no longer needed to be under constant supervision, so they didn’t argue when the lieutenant colonel ordered him moved to the cottage-turned-prison with the others.

The Synedonese man didn’t argue, either, nor did he question where his pair of underling escorts were taking him as they steered him— wobbly on his feet— from the makeshift medical ward to his new accomodations. His head pounded with each step that he took, and he had to fight back bile as it rose in his throat. It wasn’t a long walk— the hut where they’d been treating him was only a few dozen feet away from the prison cottage— but the sunlight hurt his eyes, and his forehead stung like he’d been assaulted by a hive of angry hornets.

… Even so, when they reached the cottage and he was steered in through the door, he couldn’t help but let a shaky smile furl between his lips as he spotted who was inside. “Ritu,” he breathed, ignoring the Macarinthians as they wordlessly departed, shutting and locking the door behind them. “You’re okay.”

She was on her feet in an instant, striding over to him and beckoning him to sit down. “Aram,” she said, relief that was nearly hysterical palpable in her voice. “Thanks be to the Spring Robin, I didn’t think you’d make it!”

“What happened?” he murmured, stomach turning as he sat. “All I remember is… is… we— left the non-warriors at the start of the pass, we knew we were reaching the boglands and that the chase might end soon— I remember that, we left them and then… the bog, and...” His gaze drifted, unfocused, toward the broken-armed man. “A club. You— took a club to your elbow, Roshan, and then…” He made himself focus back on Ritu. “I don’t remember anything. Gods, I don’t remember anything.”

“One of the Silver Hawks got you in the temple with a scythe,” she said softly. “I tried to cover you when you lost consciousness. But everything was a mess, and there was so much fighting and… the bog was running red…” She swallowed hard, trembling. “Ilker got a spear right through the chest. Emine…” her voice was shaking now. “The same clubsman who hit Roshan’s arm got Emine in the h-head.”

The man— Aram— froze like he’d been slapped. “No,” he said. “That can’t be.”

“I saw, Aram,” Ritu said, her voice emerging wet and raw from her throat. “I watched them both go down in the muck. I watched skirmishing warriors trample over them. There’s no mistake.” She looked around to Roshan. “I’m sure you saw too.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “I did.” He slumped, meeting neither Ritu nor Aram’s gazes. “They were gone.”

Aram clenched his jaw. “They are the khan and khatun,” he said. As if Ritu and Roshan weren’t aware of this fact. As if they didn’t know their own tribe’s leaders— Ilker, in his early forties, having led for nearly a decade now, while the thirty-something Emine had assumed her position as the khan’s female counterpart only five years ago, proving in her time to be a refined, competent co-chief. The khan and khatun were both strong, healthy, and flourishing, and in the inarguable primes of their lives— a fact that that weighed in Aram’s mind like iron as he hissed: “They can’t just be dead. Not at the hands of the cursed Silver Hawks, those wretched, cowardly—”

“But they are,” Ritu said stridently, tears stinging at the corners of her eyes that she refused to shed. “They’re dead. The khan and khatun are dead. And we have spent over a day trapped here, in the custody of Macarinthian barbarians.”

“The Macarinthians,” Aram echoed, as it occurred to him for the first time that while he’d been unconscious, their captors hadn’t necessary been idle. “What have they done to you? And… how did they even get involved in this… this…” He let out a frustrated hiss, before finishing: “This disaster.”

“They came from the sky,” Roshan offered. “Not long after you took the scythe to your temple.”

“We crossed into their territory at some point while the Silvers were chasing us,” Ritu said softly. “They took offense. Chased most of both tribes off and took those too wounded to run captive. But they haven’t hurt me, just been condescending little-”

“-- Hells,” Aram swore, speaking over her. “How long was I even out…?”

“A day,” said Roshan. “Give or take.”

“And have the savages said what they want of us…?”

Ritu sneered. “They want Roshan to take a message to our leaders scolding us for being bad children and playing in their tent. Because I’m too fair and dainty to deliver the message, being a woman.”

Aram scowled. “Have you told them…?” A beat. “Or… no. I suppose you wouldn’t have, it wouldn’t be smart to make it known.” He shuddered, only in part because of the concussion. “At least it sounds like they mean to let us go, then. Probably once I’m less… half-dead.”

“Mm. I just hope the shamans can keep everyone together and calm.”

“Let’s just hope they release us sooner than later,” said Aram. He sighed, gingerly bringing a hand to his shoddily healed head wound. “I feel like I’ve been… well. Whacked with a scythe, really. But— I can press through it, if it means getting home.” He swallowed back bile, again. “Gods, we need to get home. If the skirmish went as badly as it sounds like it did… we… we need to get home.”

“We will,” Ritu said stridently. “Just as soon as you can walk without throwing up, we will. The Macarinthians want us gone, and I can’t wait to shake the dust of this place from my heels.”

* * *

The next day, the set of healer of girls arrived to reexamine their heavily concussed patient and almost immediately declared that he was still in too precarious of a state to release back into the wilds. Aram didn’t argue, but when the day after that brought yet another similar declaration, he was not so content to simply let it slide again. After all, he’d meant what he’d said to Ritu: They had to get home, and soon. If the battle with the Silver Hawks had gone as poorly as Ritu and Roshan had recounted, there was bound to be chaos back where they’d left the non-fighting tribe members at the fringe of the boglands ahead of the battle. No one would quite know who was dead and who was alive, and while those who’d fled the fight at the Macarinthians’ arrival would no doubt filter back in broken clumps and groups, at a certain point it would be assumed that those who hadn’t yet returned were not going to return. Not ever.

Aram knew they could not let that happen.

And so, as the healer girls and their escort, the lieutenant colonel, turned to leave after the girls’ second exam, Aram wavered to his feet and called after them: “Wait.”

The lieutenant colonel paused, glancing over his shoulder with pinched brows. “What you want?” he asked in his broken rendition of Synadonese- the translator not having come along with them.

Ritu’s eyes narrowed, and softly she murmured, “Aram…”

“It’s been too long already,” he said to her. Then, to the lieutenant colonel: “You’re not going to let us go yet, are you?” He nodded to the healers. “Because of their exam.” Considering for a moment, he then simplified this to, with matching hand gestures: “They— not let go. Yes?”

“No,” the lieutenant colonel agreed. “Not well. If go-” He mimed swooning and closed his eyes, then opened them and stood straight again. “You die. Probably.”

Aram did his best to stand straight. Strong. “No,” he insisted. “I am good. And we”— he gestured to his comrades— “need to go home.”

The Macarinthian girls didn’t understand what Aram was saying, but they seemed to catch the general gist of his tone, because they tittered what could only have been frantic objections. Ritu scowled a bit, rubbing her face. “He’s right. We’ve been here too long.”

The lieutenant colonel looked all three of them over, his face inscrutable. “If you go, and there trouble, we not help again. Not. On your own.”

“Understood,” said Aram, nodding for good measure— and then adding for extra good measure: “And the sooner we deliver your message, the better, right? No use wasting your time and resources babysitting us here, I’m sure you have better things to do.”

The Macarinthian officer blinked, only having caught maybe a third of the words Aram said. Ritu huffed frustratedly. “You gave us a warning. We take the warning. Right? Now, not later.”

“Yes,” the officer said, nodding. “All right. I get hippogriffs. Drop you on border. You go.”

The healers babbled objection, but the officer shot them a withering look that silenced them. Aram, fighting back a ripple of dizziness, exhaled softly. “Now?” he dared prompt.

“Need ready,” the lieutenant colonel cautioned. “An hour.”

It was far better than another day, if not more. “All right. An hour,” Aram echoed.

The three Synedonese captives stood and watched silently as the lieutenant colonel and the healers turned and left.

* * *

There was a steep learning curve to riding a hippogriff even at the best of times, and motion sickness had felled many a greenhorn Macarinthian recruit. Add in Aram’s recent concussion and general weakness, and well— in any better circumstance he would’ve protested at the fact that this foreign escort insisted on belting him down to the saddle, deigning such a measure insulting; in his present state, he had to admit he probably would’ve gone tumbling right back down to earth within ten seconds of take-off had the soldier not had the foresight to ratchet him down.

The Synedonese captives had largely expected the Macarinthians to dump them off right at the border, but soon into the flight it became clear that this was not the plan. When Ritu in turn demanded to know where they were being taken, her escort explained in very broken Synedonese that the Macarinthians didn’t want to risk their Very Important Message dying en route should they dump the prisoners far away from their tribe and said prisoners then, well— died en route. Therefore, they’d elected to journey deeper into Synedonese turf, hoping to spot the prisoners’ tribe from the air and then drop the trio nearby.

While this hypocritical logic left a very sour taste in Ritu’s mouth— after all, wasn’t the whole reason behind the Synedonese capture the fact that the tribes had crossed into Macarinthian lands?— she had to admit it was probably for the best in this case. All of them were beaten down and weak at best, and Aram was… was…

Conscious, mostly, but throughout their aerial journey there were several times he briefly slumped on the saddle and Ritu knew that blackness had taken him. Even when he was awake, he swayed like a ragdoll, like it was taking all of his energy just to sit upright at all. He vomited several times, and kept his eyes mostly closed. Like most of his Synedonese brethren, he was always pale, but now he looked almost preternaturally so.

By the time the Macarinthians spotted a dozens-strong group of Synedonese below, and Ritu confirmed with a short nod that it appeared to be their people, she wanted nothing more than to usher him immediately into the care of their tribe’s shamans. He needed rest badly; for all that the shrill, tittering Macarinthian healer girls had annoyed her, Ritu could now see why they hadn’t been ready to release Aram just yet.

“We’re letting them off a mile out from their people,” the lieutenant colonel called to his men shortly. “Land, get them dismounted, then we’re off before the ones who have doubtless seen us from the ground can mount any sort of attack.”

The Synedonese captives couldn’t understand his order, but they did at least register the meaning of the chorus of “yessir!” that followed. Aram fought back another wave of nausea as the hippogriffs pitched into their landing angle, headed toward a copse of craggy juniper trees. His memory of the day they’d left the tribe was foggy, at best, but he didn’t think this was quite where the warriors had left behind the non-combatants. Which meant the tribe had been on the move, which meant… Gods, they’d probably already given up on those who hadn’t returned from the fray as dead.

On the ground, the Macarinthians practically dumped their prisoners off the ‘griffs before taking right back off again. Aram had thought it would be impossible to feel any wobblier than he already did, but suddenly on solid ground again after hours in the tumultuous air, his knees felt like jelly and his head lurched like a storm-battered sea. As the Macarinthian unit disappeared above the treeline, he braced himself against the trunk of the closest juniper, his back pressed tight against the bark. Ritu put a tentative hand against his shoulder.

“You can lean on me, if it helps. I think Roshan is too off balance with his arm in a sling but I’ll help support you until we get back. Or until they find us, whichever happens first. The Macarinthian soldiers almost definitely got their attention.”

“They weren’t trying to be stealthy, that’s for sure,” Aram replied with a dry swallow. “They practically crashed through the trees.”

“They’re barbarians,” Roshan grumbled. “Hypocritical barbarians, at that.”

“Mm.” Aram shut his eyes, trying to fight back a rush of dizziness. “At least the ‘griffs are fast. By foot, that journey would’ve taken days.”

“And who knows how far from here the Standing Stones would have wandered,” Ritu agreed grimly, invoking the name of the tribe the three of them shared. She huffed softly. “Close your eyes if it hurts too much. I’ll keep you going.”

“Thanks,” Aram murmured, shifting his weight so that he was leaning on her rather than on the juniper tree. “At least they dropped us closeby. And we’re in flatlands. I don’t think I could handle hills right now.” As they started walking— very, very slowly— he added: “They’re on the move, though, no? We’re miles from where we left them.”

“Seems so,” Ritu agreed. “At a guess I’d assume the shamans wanted to get them away from the Silvers. I wouldn’t put it past the bottom-feeders to go after what’s left of us while we’re all still reeling from the Macarinthian fly-by and scattered.”

She guided Aram around a fox hole, adding softly, “As mad as I still am at the Macarinthians for bringing all this down on us… they saved us, didn’t they? By breaking up the fight. It was the Silvers that killed Ilker and Emine. That almost killed you.”

“Maybe… the gods used them to help us,” Roshan dared brook. “Maybe—”

“No.” Aram’s voice was hard— or, at least, as hard as he could make it in his present state. “The gods have nothing to do with the actions of foreigners, Roshan. They don’t compel heathens.”

Ritu hissed. “No. But the Silvers do answer to the gods. Yet they would have seen us all dead, those that refused to submit to their khan and khatun. If word gets out about Ilker and Emine they might yet try it. Claim something-something favor of the gods, something-something destroyed our false apostate leaders.”

“All because of a cursed pond,” Aram hissed. This was, after all, the root of their initial conflict with the Silver Hawks: A pond, a stupid little pond, which both tribes insisted was a part of their turf. By the time the blood had spilled, it had, of course, escalated to be about far more than that. Power and respect, godliness and might. But still. If Aram traced it, connected the dots in his mind, one after the other— “Maybe they got beaten down just as badly as we did,” he said. “There was fatalities beyond just Ilker and Emine, no? From our side and theirs. And the Macarinthians captured some from their number, too, no?”

“Two men, yes,” Ritu agreed. “They were let go the same day you returned to us cognizant. We-”

She abruptly froze as a nearby bush rustled, and a pale, flaxen haired woman with thickly chorded muscles shot to her feet, a strung bow in hand and arrow nocked. Six more archers came as swiftly into view, and Ritu swore.

“Down! Weapons down!” Ritu snapped.

Either the assailants didn’t hear her, or they’d already committed to their plan, because in in an instant a band of another half-dozen warriors had surged out from the trees behind Ritu, Aram, and Roshan. These ones were armed with spears, and while their compatriots held the trio of former Macarinthian captives in place at arrow-point, the spearman rushed to grab them from the flank. Aram staggered as a pair of heavy hands wrenched his arms behind him, pinning them, and Ritu snarled a curse as she was torn away from him.

“You idiots, it’s us! Ritu and Aram, remember? Roshan? We survived the Silvers, don’t finish their work for them!”

The spearman holding onto Aram dropped him as though he’d been burned, while one of the archers practically bleated: “The men on the birds, where did the men on the birds go, we saw—”

“Gone,” Ritu snapped, wrenching free of the now-slackened grip of her own captor and moving to steady Aram as he visibly swooned from the rough treatment. “They held us until now for trespassing on their land, then dropped us off to scamper home like good children. They’re long gone. Curse it, Aram please don’t pass out on me, please-”

As if on cue, he staggered, Ritu barely catching him before he went crumpling to the ground. “Sorry,” he murmured as he fought to stay upright. Now concerned rather than aggressive, the spearman who’d initially grabbed him hooked him under the armpit to help Ritu keep him erect. “Just a little woozy, that’s all.”

“Gods,” said the spearman. “What happened…?”

“He got hit on the head- you see that?” She pointed to the thick, gnarled scab from Aram’s temple to the middle of his forehead. “He’ll live, but he needs to see the shamans. He’s dizzy and in pain.”

“Was it the foreigners?” one of the archers asked, bristling visibly.

Ritu gave a bitter laugh. “Oh no- they healed him.”

“It was the Silver Hawks,” Aram mumbled before the tribesmen could lob further questions. “Who hurt me. And who… who…” He shuddered, blinked. “... We should get back to camp,” he said after a moment, haltingly. “It’s not far, right?”

“A little more than half a mile, sir,” the archer said. “We’ll take you back immediately. Everyone has been frantic.”

“I can imagine,” Ritu said. “Let’s go reassure them then.”

The Standing Stones: Part Three

SPOILER: Click to show

At first the assorted warriors nodded and voiced no further questions, but then, as they wended back toward camp— slowly, on account of Aram— a growing ripple of unease began to thread through the group. Finally, when they’d made it perhaps halfway, one of the archers dared to break the silence, not a hint of confidence to the woman’s voice as she murmured, “Are we to expect any more people back…?”

Aram blinked. “Pardon?”

“From… the Macarinthians,” the woman clarified. “I mean, they’ve delivered you three, but…”

The unsaid words were left implicit. Clear as day. Ilker and Emine. The khan and khatun. Surely others had seen them felled in the battle, but in the chaos, it had probably been unclear exactly who’d survived and who hadn’t, the survivors bringing back them with conflicting accounts.

Ritu pursed her lips. “We- I, Aram needs tending- will answer everyone’s questions at once. You’ll hear what happened and what to expect soon enough.”

This answer didn’t seem to sate much of anyone, but no one pressed further, at least, the group continuing its snail-like plod back to camp. True to one of the archer’s assertions, it was scarcely half a mile, but it took them nearly thirty minutes to make it back— and once they had, the tension in the air was immediately palpable. Though the Standing Stones numbered over fifty members, even taking into account the battle-felled, there were less than a dozen people outside… and those who were out were armed and armoured, as if they were preparing for an imminent skirmish. The camp dogs were all barking and straining at their tethers, and it seemed like a practical chorus of children was crying in the nearby tents where they were presumably holed up with their mothers.

“Godsdamn,” swore Aram. “This is not good.”

“You were right not to let the Macarinthians keep stalling us,” Ritu agreed grimly. “It wouldn’t take much to panic everyone, things like this.”

“We’ve had no solid information in days,” one of the spearmen remarked. “Nothing to go on but rumors and half-mad recollections from the ones who limped back from the battle.”

As though on cue, one of the men who’d been left behind to defend the camp came jogging up, hands white-knuckle over the hilt of a short blade. “They coming?” he asked desperately. “How much time do we—”

“There’s no attack, Suman,” one of the archers said, holding up a placating hand. “The foreigners have given us a gift, in fact.” She stood aside so he could see Ritu, Aram, and Roshan. “Look who’s back from the dead.”

Ritu frowned at that phrasing- so they had been assumed dead, at least by the warriors. It wasn’t unexpected, not really, but it had to have made the situation at camp over the past few days even more fraught. It was no wonder the tribe had moved locations already, and it was no wonder half its members were currently barricaded in tents whilst the rest clutched to weapons like falling men clinging to the edge of a cliff. This had to seem like end times, the worst of prophecies or omens: First the clash with the Silvers, and so many lost to the afterworld during it, and then the beasts appearing overhead in the afternoon sky…

“Assemble everyone,” Aram said, struggling not to slur his words. He meant it as a cutting command, but it came out as more of a heady murmur. “Men, women, children. At once.”

Ritu didn’t say anything at first, watching as the warriors moved off to obey. Once they were more-or-less alone, however, she turned to Aram. “I’ll address them- you’re about to fall over, and it will do morale no good if you collapse now. You need rest, and a posset for your head.”

“They think we’re dead, Ritu,” Aram countered. “They need to see I’m not.”

“So you can be here,” Ritu agreed. “But don’t strain yourself. Let me do the talking. Then as soon as we’re done, you will let the shamans see to you.”

Part of Aram wanted to argue, but the warriors were already beginning to return with the rest of the tribe’s members, and so he knew this was neither the time nor the place. He forced a deep, steadying breath as he watched the gathering men, women, and children notice him and Ritu; as they did, nearly everyone seemed to have the same reaction: Awe and a little bit of shock, as if they were looking at ghosts long since written off as dead. And there was no missing the way some of their compatriot’s eyes almost immediately trailed beyond them, as though they were expecting— hoping— for even more living ghosts to materialize beyond.

Ritu took a long, steadying breath, forcing her swift-beating heart to slow and clenching her sweaty hands. Once everyone was gathered, she took a slow, measured step forward.

“My friends!” she called. “I’m sorry that it took us so long to return to you, and I’m sorry for the uncertainty our absence caused. As I’m sure you’ve heard by now, the battle with the Silver Hawks was disrupted by a band of Macarinthian soldiers when we accidentally crossed their border. They took Aram, Roshan and I captive, preventing us from making our way back until now, when they finally released us.” She gestured to Aram, adding, “They wanted to hold us longer, but in spite of injuries sustained in the fighting, Aram demanded to be returned because he knew that you would need us. He does credit to his training, and it is likely thanks to his courage and devotion that we were able to return before you had left the area entirely.”

“There is no threat,” Aram added as firmly as he could manage. Ritu had told him not to talk, but he couldn’t quite restrain himself. “The Macarinthians have already left. They’re not going to hurt anyone; there is no need to be afraid.”

There was some murmuring among the Standing Stones, but when Ritu raised a hand for quiet, silence once again reigned. “There is some bad news we have to give, however. During the battle with the Silvers, Ilker Khan and Emine Khatun were…” She inhaled sharply before going on. “Killed.”

A second wave of murmurs, this one louder than the last, went up. A few wailed outright. The warriors who had escorted Aram and Ritu back looked aggrieved, but not surprised- no doubt they’d figured the duo wouldn’t have been so cagey if they’d had any good news.

Then, one of the archers went to his knees in front of Aram and Ritu, putting a closed fist over the left side of his chest. A second followed, then one of the spearmen. Soon, the gesture had spread not just amongst the warriors, but the rest of the tribe as well— from the oldest men to the youngest children, until everyone save for Ritu and Aram alone was kneeling.

Aram’s head felt light. And this time not just because of his concussion. He knew why they were doing this— what it meant— and even still, he was fighting back the urge to tell them to stop, that it was too much, too soon, that they shouldn’t, they couldn’t… “We will bring light to their legacies,” he forced himself to stay instead. “And avenge their deaths, by the grace of the gods.”

“We have been dealt a blow,” Ritu added. “But we will be as strong and enduring as the stones for which we are named. We will recover, and become strong once again!”

“Hail!” one of the men of the tribe called. “Hail Aram Khan! Hail Ritu Khatun!”

The shot was taken up by the rest of the tribe, and Ritu had to force herself not to tremble. After all, she had been chosen by Emine to be groomed as the khatun’s successor, just as Aram had been to Ilker. They had both long known this day would eventually come. But they had always figured “eventually” would be much, much later along. Not when Ritu was but seventeen, and Aram scarcely a decade older— and definitely not at the same time as one another, their mentors downed in one fell swoop. Usually when a khan or khatun died, their successor would at least have an older foil to coach them along in the transition as one-half of the tribe’s leadership. It helped ease the learning curve and provided a steadying moral support as one segued to a position of such power. For both to die at once, and their heirs to take over together… It hadn’t happened in the tribe’s living memory. Not for generations, if not more. Let alone like this.

“Tonight,” Aram said, as another wave of dizziness hit him and he struggled not to swoon, “let us feast to the memories of those lost in the clash. Let us drink and be merry, as they would want us to be. Let us celebrate, not mourn.”

Ritu cast a glance in Aram’s direction as a cheer went up among the tribe. This too, was custom, but she knew full well that a loud, raucous party was the last thing he needed. As the gathering started to break up, the tribespeople talking amongst themselves, it was clear she was not the only one who felt that way.

“Aram,” remarked a stern, age-wizened male voice. An elderly man with skin as wrinkled as a blanket left crumpled in the corner approached. He was more heavily tattooed than anyone else in view, and in his right hand he held a gnarled, intricately decorated staff. “You are pale. And though you hid it well, I know your voice was slurred. You were hurt?”

“A little,” Aram replied, not daring to meet the gaze of the male half of the tribe’s current reigning shaman pair. Shamil’s grandkids were older than Aram, and even though Aram had technically outranked Shamil since he was first chosen as Ilker’s successor at age thirteen, that had done nothing to change the fact that Shamil intimidated the living hells out of him. “Just a bump on the head,” he added now, for good measure, running an absentminded finger along the massive dark-hued tattoo on his forearm. It was the shape of a hawk rampant— the god of the mountain peaks, and one of the tribe’s most revered deities. “I should be alright with a good night’s rest.”

“Aram, don’t even try it,” Ritu said tartly, turning towards him and planting her hands on her hips. “It isn’t just a bump on the head, and you will let the shamans have a look at you.”

“That mark on your face is going to scar prominently,” Shamil noted bluntly. “It certainly doesn’t speak to a minor injury. And if nothing else, you know as well as I that the tribe can ill afford to lose a second khan right now to pride.”

“... Alright, alright.” Aram swallowed back bile as it rose in his throat. “Do what you will, Shamil. I’ll be your most pleasant, cooperative patient.”

“I’ll tell Esmail where you’ve gone,” Ritu promised, naming Aram’s husband. “I didn’t catch sight of him in the crowd, but I don’t doubt he’s around here somewhere, and very certainly eager to find you.”

“Thank you,” Aram said. “And… do me a favour, please? Don’t tell him quite how close I got. To… going to the afterworld with Ilker and Emine.”

“I won’t,” Ritu promised. With the first real smile she’d worn since the battle, she added, “Though knowing him he’ll find a way to worm it out of somebody.”

“Oh, I have no doubt he’ll try,” said Aram. He hesitated, then added: “You’ll be alright on your own, Ritu? While I’m under Shamil’s lock and key? I know this is all… a lot. Even to handle between the two of us. So you alone…”

“At least tonight shouldn’t be too much of an ordeal. ‘Celebrate the lives of the lost, and give them gladness in the afterlife to know you are still strong,’ isn’t that how it goes? Nobody will expect much beyond drunken revelling from me… though I will probably go easy on the drink.”

“Come see me after?” Aram asked. “I’m sure I’ll be bored out of my skull.”

“Sure,” she agreed. “I’ll save some of those little cakes Beyha makes that you like so much.”

* * *

Ritu kept her word, coming to visit Aram in the shamans’ tent once the party started winding down, and helping Esmail keep him company until her mother arrived and insistently dragged her off for a more private conversation. The next day she came to see him again, though more briefly, as the tribe needed her guidance in deciding how they would proceed from this disaster and where they should go until the situation with the Silvers was more stable.

It was stressful- she was, at the end of the day, only seventeen, chosen as Emine’s successor and started training for the position only three short years ago. With Aram still recovering and on strict bedrest per the orders of the shamans, all of these important decisions fell to her. And she could tell that the fact of her youth was not missed by the rest of the tribe; though they respected her as a gods-blessed khatun, they also looked on her warily as an inexperienced teenager upon whom all of their lives hung. That mixture of hope and unease in their eyes made Ritu’s stomach flip.

At least— back home and under the shamans’ tender, watchful care— Aram was starting to improve rapidly now. With each successive visit Ritu found his eyes slightly less unfocused, and he was able to sit upright for more than a few minutes at a time without swaying. Colour was beginning to return to his cheeks, and although true to Shamil’s prediction it seemed certain that the man’s deep laceration would scar, it no longer looked quite so… grotesque.

Of course, his improved constitution let him an antsy patient, and by the time Ritu visited him on their fifth day back from captivity, Aram was practically bucking at his cot sheets. “How long do you mean to keep me here?” he was grousing to Shamil when Ritu ducked into the cool, dark tent shortly after dawn. “Am I a patient or a prisoner?”

“You’re the future of the tribe, and it needs you fully recovered- not relapsed because you insisted on being up and about while still recovering,” the shaman retorted tartly. “Get up and start walking around, and in an hour or two we’ll see how spritely you’re still feeling.”

Ritu hid a small, tired smile behind a hand as Aram glowered like a scolded child. “If you keep me convalescing much longer, the tribe will think I’m weak. And how will that bear on our future?” Noticing Ritu through the corner of his eye, Aram let out a gusty sigh. “Good morning,” he greeted. “As you can see, Shamil and I are having a little bit of a… conversation.”

“So I noticed,” she said, grinning impishly. “It’s great to see the khan getting along so well with his shaman; an inspiring display of unity in crisis.”

“Sass all you like,” the old man grumbled. “But my decision is final.”

“I am your khan,” Aram huffed. “You can’t keep me here against my will, Shamil.”

“Maybe not,” Shamil agreed. “But remember that shaman has veto power over the khan in issues of great import to the tribe and its standing in the eyes of the gods. You don’t want to start off your reign lording over one of the few checks on your authority.”

Aram looked outright affronted. “You wouldn’t.”

“Not if it wasn’t important,” Shamil replied. “But I’m only going to be alive for so long, and not all the shamans who serve under you will have my age and far sight. Remember this, Aram; you may have the gods behind you, but you need the tribe behind you as well. Sometimes you will be told things you don’t want to hear. And you will have to listen even if you don’t agree, lest you lurch about camp with a half-healed concussion and fall flat on your face.”

He turned without another word, heading outside as Ritu stood aside for him. Once he was gone, Aram scowled, slumping on his cot and pressing a ginger hand against his half-healed forehead wound.

“He’s a churlish old bat sometimes, isn’t he?” the man grumbled.

“My gran told me once he never wanted to be shaman,” Ritu noted. “He was raised on a diet of ‘you’re gifted by the gods, suck it up’ and turns that attitude back on everyone he talks to.” She tilted her head. “How are you feeling, really?”

“A lot better,” Aram said, his scowl deepening for a moment as he added: “I’m not just pretending so that Shamil releases me. I’m still getting dizzy waves here and there, but nothing like before.” He dared a brief, crooked smile. “Esmail brought our little one to see me last night. Terror as she is, I’ve missed the little bugger.”

The girl chuckled. “I understand- normally Mother’s hovering makes me want to scream, but I don’t mind her support just now. She knows she can’t be too demonstrative in public, but… it’s a lot to adjust to.”

“I’m sorry,” Aram said. “I wish I weren’t locked up here so I could help you, Ritu. It must be a lot to bear on your own.” He sighed. “With any luck, Shamil will release me soon. Maybe not today, but…”

“Whatever happens where your injuries are concerned, we need to move from here soon,” Ritu said, her mouth tightening. “The Silvers were scattered by the Macarinthians, but our scouts report that there’s activity where their territory meets ours. We think they might been looking to send spies. And if they find out that a green-as-grass pair is now khan and khatun of the Standing Stones…”

“They might capitalize on the opportunity,” Aram finished for her. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe order everyone to start packing up. So that once Shamil is done holding me hostage, we can move at once. Head east, maybe. Toward the cavelands.”

She sighed softly. “A defensible area. But it’s rocky. We won’t find much forage, it’ll be on the hunters to provide for the tribe. At least the goats can make do anywhere, but still…” She raked a hand through her buttercream hair. “You’d think our mutual humiliation at the hands of the Macarinthians would mean something to them.”

“They’re aggressive,” Aram said simply. “They always have been, Ritu. And what better way to recover from humiliation than by accomplishing their original goal?” He propped himself up on his elbows. “It’ll be less tempting for them if we’re in the cavelands, I think. It’s difficult terrain and they know it.”

“They’ll still get what they want; the land we leave untended.” She sighed frustratedly. “But it’s probably the best we can do for now. Otherwise they might take it into their heads to try and push us over the border again, on purpose this time. I don’t doubt they got the same dire warning as we did.”

“Once we’ve more… recovered from this, we’ll need to seriously consider what to do longterm about them,” Aram noted glumly. “They’ve been getting more and more aggressive in recent years. Their current khan and khatun, they’re…” He shook his head, the rest of his bitter assessment left unsaid. “Sometimes I feel like our territory shrinks by the season. Like no matter where we go, we find enemies. Fellow children of the gods who’d rather see us both chastised by foreigners than to… to share a cursed pond. A pond. Not a lake, not a sea: a pond.”

“And yet those foreigners killed no one,” Ritu noted bitterly, sitting on a nearby cot. “They saved you. And they returned us home, when they could have just turned us out into the wilds to die. It served their purposes, but… all the same.”

“I’ve thought about it every night since we’ve been back,” Aram admitted. “Turning all that happened over in my head. I’d be dead if not for the foreigners. Dead at the hands of the gods’ fellow devotees. Men who wear their same emblems in ink. Who worship as we do. Live as we do. They wanted me dead, and only by the grace of savage foreigners were their plans thwarted.” He bit down on his lip, hard. “It leaves a very bitter taste in my mouth. So bitter I can hardly stand it.”

Ritu looked away. “They call us ‘warlords’ in the north. Their translator talked of slaying ‘our own people’ as if we were one. But we aren’t, not like they are in Macarinth.”

“Warlord. That’s a vile term,” said Aram. Then: “No, we’re not the same, are we? We look the same to the foreigners, with our hair and ink, but… we’re not one. Not at all.” He bit his lip again, this time drawing blood. “It’s why they can cow us so easily, you know? All the heathens beyond our borders. Because they are one, and they act as it. And we’re just… just…” He searched for the right word. “Fractured. We’re fractured.”

“If they really wanted, they could probably squash us,” Ritu agreed. “We wouldn’t put up any sort of coordinated defense. Like as not the only reason no one bothers is because they don’t want our mountains. This land is our fortress, but it’s also our curse, seeing as fighting over what few resources it has to offer is all anyone seems to care about. So much death… Ilker and Emine gone in their prime, and for what? A few ells of territory around a duck pond.”

“And even with the Silvers’ own losses… They’d do it again in a heartbeat, wouldn’t they?” Aram frowned. “Will do it again, if given the chance and the motivation.”

Ritu said nothing for a time, her gaze distant. Finally, her voice soft, she said, “Can this really be what the gods want from us? This constant warfare? Their people as starving wolves on a carcass already picked over by buzzards?”

“I don’t know,” Aram said. “But… I meant what I said to Roshan back at the junipers. The gods had nothing to do with Macarinth interfering in that battle, Ritu. For whatever reason, they were content to sit by and watch their children slaughter each other.” A beat. “Perhaps Shamil would have some justification for it. If we asked him. But to me, it’s… it’s…” He let out a frustrated hiss. “It’s a sign. Some kind of sign. It has to be.”

“A sign?” She asked. “What do you mean? If you don’t think they were involved in the Macarinthians… unless you mean their not speaking against the fighting?”

“Perhaps the gods are waiting for us to wake up, Ritu,” said Aram. “Perhaps they let the Silver Hawks slay our khan and khatun because they knew nothing less would make an impact. Not when we’ve become hardened to battles. Used to them, like the changing of the seasons. As if they’re just a usual part of life.” Stridently, he went on: “But they should not be usual. Not like they are, and especially not over such trivial things. We’re like I said: fractured. But why? Look all around us. Foreign heathens who live in luxury. United. Strong. While we ration the rations and scrap over silty duck ponds.”

Ritu blinked in surprise, looking taken aback. She bit her lip for a moment, then said slowly, “I… can see that. It makes sense. Far too much sense. But I can’t pretend to know what the gods hope for us to do about it. If we broached these thoughts with the Silvers, they would think it was a desperate attempt by weak neighbors to barter for peace.”

“I can’t pretend to quite know, either,” Aram admitted. “But… there has to be something. Some way to… to…” He paused, deep in thought. “Maybe we shouldn’t think so singularly. It’s hardly like the Silver Hawks are the only enemy out there.” He met her eyes. “And we’re not their only enemy, you know.”

“So what, you’re thinking we should seek other tribes that the Silvers have annoyed in their power trip?” Ritu asked. It wouldn’t have been the first time the Standing Stones had formed an alliance with one of their neighbors against a common threat, though such alliances were fleeting and seldom lasted much past the achieving of that unified goal.

“Yes,” said Aram, “but… not only that.” Speaking a little hurriedly now, like his tongue couldn’t keep up with his brain, he went on, “If we ally to fight the Silver Hawks, then break up again, we’re no better at the end of the day than when we started, are we? We don’t need fleeting partnerships, Ritu. We don’t need unity only when it’s desperate times. Or else we face the same old cycle. Time and time again. Generation after generation.”

Ritu tensed, her grey-blue eyes widening. “You mean… combine tribes? Permanently? It would make us stronger, strong enough to dissuade another attack, but… young as we are, if we tried no doubt we would be forced to step down by our allies. A tribe may only have one khan and khatun, that is the law of the gods.” She gulped. “Unless I’m still thinking too small. I suspect I might be.”

“At first, it would probably mean some level of combination,” Aram agreed. “But long-term…” He steepled his fingers, deep in thought. “The world is always changing, Ritu. So must we. If we wish not to just survive, but thrive. Surely that’s what the gods want most of their children, after all, isn’t it?”

She didn’t reply immediately, her eyes flitting to and fro, the young woman clearly thinking hard. Then, she clenched her fists and took a long, deep breath before meeting Aram’s eyes again. “If you’re serious… this isn’t going to be something we can do now. Or probably even this year. We’re young, inexperienced, and the Standing Stones are shattered. If we’re going to get anyone to take us seriously, we need to prove we’re worth listening to first.”

“I know,” said Aram. “It would have to be a long process. Calculated and careful.” He drew in his cheeks, contemplative. “And no doubt we’ll face resistance— starting from within. People don't like change. Even with a slow start, there will be… pushback, at best.”

“Violence, at worst,” Ritu pointed out bluntly. “And if we’re going to try this, we have to be ready for that. Especially from groups like the Storm Winds that run Sindri.”

“I know,” Aram said simply. He reached up and rubbed his temple; it was beginning to vaguely throb again. “Like you said, it wouldn't be for a while. And we’d be careful. We wouldn't go close to touching someplace like Sindri for a long, long time.”

“Assuming they don’t notice what we’re up to and decide to teach the upstarts getting big enough to threaten them a lesson,” Ritu mused ruefully. “This will take a lot of careful planning. Diplomacy and intimidation in equal measure.” She shook her head. “But… you’re right. This constant warfare, this violence that heathens have to step in to stop… it can’t be what the gods want.”

“This mess was their message to us,” Aram said. “Looking back… they’ve been sending so many messages. Waiting for someone to heed their call.”

Ritu closed her eyes. “For now, we’ll do like you suggested. We’ll retreat to the cavelands. Collect ourselves, rebuild what’s left of the Standing Stones. Then, we can start… thinking seriously about how to prevent this tragedy from repeating itself infinitely.”