by Alex Faure
Fionn spoke with cold precision. “The king says that you are not going anywhere,” Kealan said. “Not today, not tomorrow. You will remain at Glenvaneach.”
“All right,” Darius said slowly. “And when will he return?”
Fionn spoke again. “The king says you do not understand,” Kealan translated. “You are not going back to Agricola. The king has sent word that he has no interest in negotiating for your release.”
Darius’s breath froze. “When?”
“This morning. A Roman ship is moored in one of our harbours on the western sea. It is with that ship that we have been negotiating. Agricola has offered a princely sum in gold, as well as weapons—though of those, we have enough stockpiled from the forts to survive several wars. The king says he has decided that his lanachai is worth more to him than money.”
Darius stared at Fionn. Fionn gazed back at him, a challenge in his cold gaze. Darius could see nothing sympathetic there. He wasn’t dealing with the man who had placed a finger against his lips in the darkness, then buried his face in his neck, but with the ruthless king of the Volundi, the same man who had been responsible for the slaughter of dozens of women and children of a tribe to which he’d been allied. The man who’d put nightfire in the well at Sylvanum.
Darius felt it all fall into place. He said hoarsely, “You never intended to ransom me, did you?”
Fionn said something in a dismissive voice. Kealan said, “The king had no use for you before. But now that you are the lanachai, our tribe needs you. There will be panic if you leave us. The people will think it a bad omen on the eve of war.”
“That’s not—” That’s not true, Darius wanted to say. It was because of Fionn that Darius was even considered the lanachai—of course Fionn had never intended for Darius to leave. He had probably only begun negotiations with Agricola for appearances’ sake. How had Darius not seen it before?
“Did you ever intend to give me a choice in the matter?” In Darius’s distress, he didn’t realize that the words came out in the forest language. He expected Kealan to recoil, or to be astonished, but the man only furrowed his brow.
“What?” he said in Latin, as if Darius simply hadn’t spoken loudly enough.
Darius shook his head. He felt adrift, as if he’d cast his body aside. He would never see his home again. His groves. Fionn would keep him here, a prisoner in a strange and hostile land. No, Fionn had never intended to give Darius a choice. He had kept his intentions private in the hopes that Darius would agree to remain of his own free will. But failing that, he would keep him regardless.
Because Fionn got what he wanted. And he wanted Darius.
How could you? Darius wanted to say. His gaze searched Fionn’s, equal parts horrified and enraged. Fionn’s expression didn’t change, but it took on an opaque quality that suggested something lay beneath it.
“You said that you wouldn’t hold me against my will,” he murmured. He took a step forward. “Fionn—”
Whatever he had sensed in Fionn’s gaze, it vanished in an instant. “And what declarations have you made to me, Darius?” Fionn spat in the forest tongue. “What pretty words have you spoken? Yet you would leave me so easily, as if I—” He broke off, bitterly. His eyes held a fearsome light Darius had never seen before. “I am the king of Araiah. You belong to me, and with me you will remain.”
Darius’s nails cut into his palms. “Then you have me,” he answered in the same language, no longer trying to hide the tremor in his voice. “You have this body. But that is all I will ever give you.”
He turned to go, but paused. He was pleased to see Fionn flinch from the look in his eyes. “They say the lanachai has the power to safeguard the king’s life. Isn’t that so? Well, I hope the Robogdi king cuts your throat.”
And he left Fionn there with Kealan, whose mouth had fallen open in confusion. No one tried to stop him.
Chapter Eleven
Darius spent the rest of the day by the lake away from the village, leaning against a tree. He didn’t watch Fionn and his warriors leave. He didn’t feel hunger—only an all-consuming ache.
His guard had returned. They were not the same men who had chaperoned him before, but stern-faced strangers, perhaps from another village where Darius’s fame had not yet spread. They stood within sight—and arrow-range—of him, speaking together in low voices.
Fionn must have known that Darius would seize on the idea of escaping to the western coast now that he knew a Roman ship was there, despite the fact that he had no notion of where on the coast such a ship may be. And indeed, Darius had every intention of attempting escape. He didn’t care if he got devoured by wolves along the way, or starved to death.
He had no notion of what his feelings for Fionn were anymore. When he thought of him now, he felt only a blinding fury. That he could ever have given his heart to such a man made him ill. Fionn didn’t know what love meant—he thought he could hoard it as a miser would coins, that owning Darius’s life was the same as owning his heart. Whether Fionn still had his heart, he didn’t know, but if he did, then Darius would happily watch it die.
He roused himself only as the sky began to darken. He retraced his steps, skirting the village. After some stumbling around on the mountainside with the stars glaring down above him, he found his way onto the mountain track and back to the palace.
A servant opened the door for him and escorted him to his room. Another brought him food and hot tea. Darius had intended to stay awake, to see if his guard was relaxed at night, but after consuming his meal without tasting a single bite, he fell onto his bed, already half-asleep. Someone had changed the bedding, and it no longer smelled like Fionn.
He awoke the following morning with the same fury in his heart, but overnight it had cooled and hardened into something that could fuel him. He made a mental inventory of the things he would need on a long hike to the coast. A map would be ideal, as well as a store of food and a blanket to ward off the night chill. Darius had no difficulty obtaining food—the servants brought him whatever he requested. Blankets he had, as well as warm clothing.
He found Kealan and attempted to question him—while professing concern about a potential Roman attack—about the distance between Glenvaneach and the Roman ship. But Kealan would not answer any questions Darius posed, responding to even the most innocuous query with a grim, “I cannot say.”
That was Darius’s first clue that Fionn guessed the seriousness of his intention of escaping, and meant to make it as difficult as possible. His second was when, in hopes of finding a map, he attempted to enter Fionn’s room that night through the door that connected their chambers, and found it barred.
Two days after Fionn left, Darius found himself no closer to escaping. He was shadowed by day as well as by night, when a rotation of armed guards camped outside his room. His only option would be to try to force his way past them—not an appealing prospect. Darius, an indifferent fighter even when armed, didn’t like his chances of wrestling two hulking Celts into submission.
He assessed his odds of escape during the day at zero. Not only was he guarded at all times, but somehow Sedd—who had remained at Glenvaneach to organize the warriors arriving from neighbouring villages—had gotten wind of Darius’s experience with horses. He’d asked Darius to help tend and train the beasts that arrived with the soldiers. Many of them were in a shabby state, Celts lacking the proper respect for the noble animals, and some were only half-broken things that would rear and kick at the first opportunity. Darius, not knowing how to refuse without raising suspicion, had agreed, and consequently spent his daylight hours surrounded by Volundi warriors.
So, on the fourth night, he turned his attention to Fionn’s room.
There had to be a reason why Fionn had barred it. Darius guessed it contained a stockpile of weaponry, and though his odds of escape would remain poor if he was armed, they would at least be improved.
Darius was beginning to grow desperate. He felt consumed by an urge to not jus
t be gone as soon as possible, but before Fionn returned. He never wanted to look at Fionn again, never wanted to feel the tumult of contradictory emotion that overwhelmed him whenever he thought of him. He wanted to put as much distance between the two of them as he could, so that, starved for food, the part of him that belonged to Fionn and Fionn alone would wither and die.
Darius had determined that Celts locked their doors by means of a simple wooden bar. Such a thing could be cut through, with difficulty, from the opposite side, for Celtic doors were of a primitive construction. Darius had managed to come by a small woodcutting saw during his labours in the stables, which he had smuggled out under his cloak. Fortunately, his guards hadn’t been ordered to the extreme of searching him each night. Darius wondered if this had been an oversight on Fionn’s part, or if he’d simply trusted to Darius’s general lack of fighting prowess. He’d also stolen several nails, the closest things he’d found to weapons, though he hoped never to have to use them.
It took Darius half the night to saw through the bar on one side of the door. Every time the saw scraped through the wood, he gave silent thanks for the thickness of the palace walls. Unless the guards were allowing him to destroy their king’s door for a reason, they clearly couldn’t hear what he was doing. A small voice in Darius’s mind noted that this meant that other noises emanating from Fionn or Darius’s rooms wouldn’t be heard, either.
Why had that thought occurred? Darius shook his head, trying to dispel the memories, the sensations ghosting over his skin like echoes.
Finally he heard the bar thunk to the ground. He pushed, wincing as the cut wood scraped against the tiled floor. It was still attached on the other side. When he had the door open wide enough, he took up his lantern and slipped through.
Fionn’s room was large and immaculately clean—unsurprising, given that he had a fleet of servants to clean it. The bed was heavy with furs, while the walls and floors were adorned with woven tapestries. A monstrous wolfskin, an echo of the one Fionn wore, splayed across the centre of the floor. The fireplace was enormous and decorated with wrought iron in strange designs—faces with vines spilling from their mouths and noses. Darius had seen the design before, and had meant to ask Fionn about it. Mythic figures stalked across the tapestries—men with antlers; naked women with wings and mouths like beaks. Were these Hibernian gods?
Darius realized, not for the first time, how little he knew about these people. Fionn had never volunteered information about his culture, either not knowing how or not caring to explain things to Darius.
Darius forced these thoughts away. He was not Julius Caesar, attempting to catalogue the ways of these people. Some other Roman would do so, perhaps, one day. One day when Rome returned to Hibernia and absorbed the Volundi into its civilizing embrace.
Darius found he could take no pleasure in this prospect. He hated Fionn, it was true. But he couldn’t summon such feelings for his people—not for easygoing Sedd, nor for Brigit, equal parts charming and infuriating, nor for the villagers he’d worked with during his time at Glenvaneach, the peasant farmers and horse masters. Yes, Rome would bring greater prosperity to these people—Darius had seen it happen before. Eventually. But what would be lost in the process?
Darius forced his attention to the table by the window. There was indeed a map upon it, weighted with a jewelled box and another lantern. To Darius’s astonishment, the map was of Roman design. It was rough—Rome hadn’t properly mapped Hibernia, having only sailed round its perimeter a handful of times.
Darius drew in his breath. He’d kept a copy of this map in his quarters at Sylvanum. This wasn’t the same one, but it was undoubtedly from one of the other forts.
Darius rolled the map with trembling hands. It wasn’t much help, as Glenvaneach wasn’t on it, but the map at least showed the rough lay of the coastline to the west. Perhaps Darius could situate himself once he reached it, and follow the sea to the nearest likely harbour.
Beneath that map were several others—mariners’ maps, and one of the Italian coastline. Darius’s heart thrummed. He reached out, tracing Sicily’s outline. Why did Fionn have these things? They were of no use to him. His people were not seafarers.
I would see everything, Fionn had said. I would see your empire.
Darius felt a shiver of melancholy. He had promised to tell Fionn about his world—the world that lay beyond Hibernia’s shores. He would never do so now, and while the blame for that, in his view, lay squarely with Fionn, he couldn’t erase the sadness it brought him.
Beneath the maps was a small painting, facedown. Darius recognized the backing. His fingers trembling, he turned it over.
His own face stared back at him. His own face, but aged—the hair grey; the lines beside the mouth deep. It was a portrait of his father. Darius had kept it in his quarters at Sylvanum. It was one of only a few possessions he’d carried with him on campaigns. He’d assumed was lost. Somehow Fionn had recovered it, and kept it.
Darius slipped the portrait into his pocket. He glanced at the window, trying to assess the passage of time by the movement of the stars. He froze.
The window was twice the size of his own, easily large enough for a man to slip through. Not only that, but unlike Darius’s window, which was sealed into the wall, Fionn’s window had a latch, and a proper frame.
It could be opened.
Darius stood there for a moment, his thoughts racing. Then he stole back into his room and gathered up the food he’d accumulated—a loaf of hard bread, cheese, and some dried berries—as well as a blanket and a flask of water. He could refill the flask as he travelled, streams being plentiful in Hibernia. He bundled everything into a tunic he’d knotted together to form a primitive satchel. Then he extinguished the lantern, hoping the light hadn’t been noticed in Fionn’s window.
It took him a few moments to work out how the window opened. Outward, he discovered after untying the cord that held it shut. Darius tossed the satchel out first, heard it land on the sloping turf beyond. The ground was steep, and he’d have to be careful not to stumble in the darkness.
The moon was intermittently obscured by cloud, and Darius waited for the shadows to deepen again before following the satchel. He did so as quietly as he could, mindful of the slumbering roundhouses below, which he could barely make out in the murky darkness. He swung a leg over the sill, then the other leg, then slid the rest of the way on his belly. He landed with a soft rustle in the grass.
He didn’t bother closing the window—he didn’t want to risk it slamming. He collected the satchel and took his first steps down the mountainside and towards freedom. Then came a single word.
“Brythn.”
It was Hibernian for stop.
A shadow detached itself from the palace wall. It was followed by another stationed several yards away. Darius, realizing his predicament, turned to flee. Unfortunately, his foot caught on a patch of gorse, and he went sprawling. He landed against a stone that knocked the wind out of him.
One of the guards spoke to the other in a voice that was calm and unhurried. He knelt at Darius’s side and helped him to his feet. Three other guards surrounded him, standing with daggers drawn but casually lowered. Darius guessed they must have been stationed at intervals along the palace exterior.
The guard that had helped him to his feet took him by the shoulder in what could almost be mistaken for a friendly gesture. He collected Darius’s pack and handed it to him politely. Then they escorted Darius back inside.
Chapter Twelve
Darius ignored the knocking on his door the following morning. He’d sent away the servants when they tried to bring him breakfast—he knew he wouldn’t be able to touch anything. He paced around his room, forcing himself to run through his options one after the other. Each was more dismal than the last. Finally, he threw himself back onto his bed. On the other side of the wall, the servants seemed to have finished repairing the bar that Darius had so painstakingly sawed off Fionn’s door. His saw was gone,
as were the nails. The guards had confiscated them last night after a thorough search of Darius’s room.
Darius wasn’t accustomed to despair. Apart from the horror of that village square in Gaul, he’d never found himself in a situation from which there was no reasonable prospect of escape. When the Britannians had abducted him, he’d been able to count on his own wits and negotiating skills, as well as a Roman legion or two stationed within walking distance. He could count on neither of those now. He felt no more confident in his ability to negotiate with Fionn than he would with the moon.
He’d never felt so lost.
Part of it was the fact that stupidly, irrationally, and likely masochistically, he missed Fionn. He’d never felt so ridiculous. The man had confessed to terrible crimes. He was holding Darius prisoner. He’d revealed himself lacking in humanity in almost every capacity. And yet the thought of him was like an ache.
Darius pressed his hands to his eyes and let out a muffled groan.
The knocking stopped. Then, a few moments later, the door opened.
Brigit raised her eyebrows at the sight of Darius sprawled on his bed, though he hastily sat up and arranged himself in a more dignified position.
“Sulking, are you?” She set a tray of food beside Darius’s bed. “I’ve no patience for men who sulk. Fionn was often given to it as a child. I suppose some sisters would try to cheer their brothers up, but I never could abide that mopey expression he’d get, and preferred to rub mud in his hair or put snails in his bed. You know, give him something to really sulk about.”
Darius wasn’t in the mood for her playfulness. “Why are you here?”
“To see how you are.” She surveyed him. “I heard you decided to sample the night air. And in doing so, you vandalized our palace. What were you hoping to accomplish?”
Darius saw no reason to lie to her. “Isn’t it obvious? I was trying to escape. I stole into your brother’s chamber thinking that perhaps he had weapons I could use to force my way past the guards.”
