The Owl Prince

by Alex Faure

  He stopped. He regarded Darius with a new look in his eyes, and then, suddenly, he laughed.

  “You have a silver tongue, Commander,” Fionn said. “First you humble yourself before me, then you tempt me with valuable information. You had me thinking about giving you what you asked in spite of myself. I see now why your general has elevated you to a position of power, despite the feebleness of your sword arm. You’re not a soldier at all, are you? You’re a bard.”

  Darius felt a stab of frustration, but it didn’t linger, as Fionn’s easy amusement was infectious. “A bard who could stand fewer reminders of his physical inadequacies, perhaps.”

  “Does it bother you? Knowing that you have no talent for fighting.”

  Darius examined him, and then, finding only curiosity in Fionn’s gaze, answered honestly. “Not usually. I’ve managed to get by well enough without it. I suppose I could get better if I worked harder, practiced more. But I don’t—well, the truth is, I don’t care for it.” He found himself half surprised by his own words. “I’ve never had much respect for violence.”

  “Your Empire certainly does, at least according to the tribes you call Britannians,” Fionn said. “Have you ever thought you took up the wrong profession? Why not sit at home writing books and giving speeches?”

  Darius smiled faintly. “I wanted to see the world.”

  “And have you?”

  Darius met the strange silver eyes glinting at him in the firelight. Again he found himself giving voice to thoughts he had barely known he possessed. “Sometimes I think I haven’t even begun.”

  Fionn rose. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow I’m taking you back to your people.”

  “I—” Darius froze. “You are?”

  “It seems you’re incapable of making the journey yourself,” Fionn said. He didn’t look at Darius.

  “I thought I was your prisoner.”

  “I won’t hold you against your will.” Again that strange trace of sadness.

  Darius watched him settle himself against a tree like a fawn, where he had formed a makeshift bed from moss and leaves. He had never met a more confounding person in his life. Making sense of what Fionn was, who he was, his motivations and even his words, was like trying to catch moonlight in a net. It left Darius breathless and eternally frustrated. He wanted to go to Fionn’s side, shake him awake.

  He thought of Fionn’s transformation. How he had pressed his mouth against Darius’s in something that had been more of a threat than a kiss. Or had it?

  Darius watched Fionn’s chest rise and fall. In the interplay of shadow and embers, his pale hair took on an eerie luminescence, like will-o-the-wisps. Darius thought he could see a shadow of the creature he had become when the moonlight touched him. Part of him wanted to see that creature again, to try to make sense of it. To map the strange lines of its body.

  Darius pushed the impulse aside and settled himself on the forest floor. He was going to Attervalis tomorrow. That was what mattered. He would be among men of sense again, men whose desires were simple, measurable in coins and flesh. And then?

  And then, Darius resolved as he remembered the brush of the witch’s claws, the burn of the nightfire in his veins, the glittering eyes of the forest sprites, then he would leave Hibernia. Good riddance to this mad green labyrinth and everything that inhabited it. He would put in for a transfer—Agricola would grant it, he knew. He would go anywhere else in the Empire, provided it was far from here. He would turn his thoughts to roadbuilding and tax collection and soldiers’ drills, and then the year would pass, and he would return to his olive groves.

  Darius drew a deep breath. The memory of home was so strong he could almost feel the hot, dry air on his cheeks, even in this sylvan damp. He rolled onto his side so that he was facing away from Fionn and firmly closed his eyes.

  *

  Fionn shook him awake at first light. He didn’t speak, merely handed Darius a bowl of some sort of hot, salty potato stew.

  Darius ate quickly. Even if he spent a year with Fionn he doubted he would get used to the man tending to him this way, cooking his meals and examining his wounds. It was a level of intimacy that Darius had only experienced with his father, and sharing it with Fionn was positively eerie, like being mothered by a leopard. As Fionn examined Darius’s leg with light fingers, Darius tried to focus on anything other than the spill of pale hair across his forehead, the lean lines of his body. Fionn’s beauty was otherworldly; it drew him in even as it frightened him away. It was possibly the most dangerous thing Darius had encountered in Hibernia.

  He finished the stew, and they set out. While Darius’s state of mind certainly hadn’t benefited from his stay in the witch’s cabin, he found his ankle improved by the bed rest. Still, they could only travel at a hobbling pace, and Darius doubted they’d reach Attervalis that day. He found that he didn’t regret the delay as much as he expected. He rejoiced at the prospect of being back among civilized people, but at the same time, part of him found it impossible to accept that he would never see Fionn again.

  That was the word for it—impossible. Darius couldn’t imagine waking up the next day in a Roman garrison knowing that he would never see those silver eyes again, or listen to that strange lilt of a voice. Surely it was only the mystery of the man that Darius regretted leaving, like abandoning a riddle on the cusp of resolution.

  Not that he was close to understanding Fionn.

  The Celt walked ahead of Darius, darting over tree trunks and slipping through brush, moving as easily through the forest as a leaf borne by the wind. He was no longer trying to conceal his inhuman grace, as he had during the early days of their acquaintance. Consequently, Darius spent the better part of the morning staring at him, helplessly fascinated, no matter how many roots and branches this caused him to trip over.

  Fionn seemed to find his clumsiness amusing. After one particularly spectacular fall, he backtracked and helped Darius to his feet, saying, “I have a new respect for you Romans.”

  Darius shot him a look, in no mood for the barb he knew was coming. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “You’ve managed to conquer the world despite having the physical capabilities of blind squirrels,” Fionn said. “You couldn’t have done that without intellect.”

  Darius didn’t know what to say to that. He settled for honesty. “That’s true enough. Though you’ll find we become more than squirrels on the battlefield.”

  “Because you use strategy,” Fionn said. “Not because your men are strong. You’re smaller than us—most of you, anyway. But you plan the terrain, calculate odds, organize your soldiers into neat lines according to their value like a miser sorting his coins. Among my people, your battle tactics would be considered dishonourable trickery. They would say that if you cannot win by the strength of your arm, the accuracy of your shot, the gods have forsaken you, and you deserve defeat.”

  Darius nodded. “Many of the barbarian tribes of the continent took a similar view. It’s why they now pay tribute to Rome.”

  Fionn watched him, his expression unreadable. “Tell me more about Roman intellect.”

  Darius scarcely knew what Fionn wanted him to say, but he was used to the feeling by now. Because he could see little harm in it, he began to speak of the Empire’s governing structure, its Emperor and Senate, consuls and magistrates and justices. He told Fionn of the glory days of the Republic, a time looked upon fondly by his father, though Darius himself was less inclined to that sort of nostalgia. Emperors were not infallible, yet Rome’s might had grown, its prosperity spreading to lands far and wide, under their reign. Next he told Fionn of Rome’s wisest minds, particularly Cicero, of whose philosophy Darius was fond.

  Fionn listened without interruption. Darius found himself growing comfortable, as if speaking of Roman ways loosened something inside him. Since Fionn offered no direction, he meandered from topic to topic, offering his opinions on Cicero’s stoic paradoxes and Emperor Domitian’s ambitious building programs. He had no idea
how much of it Fionn understood. The man asked no questions, except to ask Darius to explain words that had no equivalent in the forest language.

  Darius was almost surprised when he looked up to find the sky darkening as the sun slinking below the trees. He was tired after a day spent clambering over fallen trees and slipping on moss, but he also felt more at ease than he had at any point following the attack on Sylvanum.

  He tried to help Fionn gather firewood and prepare dinner, even going so far as to snatch the bundle of fish he’d caught out of his hands. Fionn let out a sharp word in his own tongue at that, which Darius ignored. He didn’t need a nursemaid anymore. Besides, Fionn’s attentiveness was beginning to make him feel guilty, and he didn’t want to associate guilt with a man who had slaughtered his soldiers, even if it had been a fair fight. He managed to get the fire started, but he burned the fish. Fionn ate the meal Darius served without offering any commentary save for a now-familiar glitter of amusement in his eyes.

  “We should reach Attervalis tomorrow,” Darius said. “I should think you’ll be happy to be rid of me.”

  Fionn only gave him another unreadable look from across the fire. Darius sighed. “You could give me something, you know.”

  Fionn frowned. “Give you what?”

  Darius rose slowly and moved to his side. Sometimes he felt as if Fionn were some sort of wary animal he might startle away. The other man didn’t show any reaction as Darius sat next to him. “Some hint as to why you saved my life,” Darius said. “Why you killed a dozen Roman soldiers without pausing for breath, then nursed their commander back to health and sent him back to the Empire’s embrace.”

  Fionn set his bowl aside. “You must leave Araiah as soon as possible.”

  Darius was thrown. Araiah, he knew now, was the barbarian word for Hibernia. “Why?”

  Fionn let out a soft breath. “Did you not see what we did to your fort?”

  Darius grimaced. He knew Fionn believed his people could defeat Rome. They had been successful at Sylvanum, it was true, but only because they’d had the advantage of surprise, not to mention whatever diabolical mind had come up with the nightfire plot. Rome wouldn’t be caught off guard again. Hibernia would join the Empire, nestling among its other jewels like an emerald in a diadem, and if the tribes gave Rome much more trouble than they already had, the hammer wouldn’t fall lightly. As Fionn had himself acknowledged, the Hibernians simply didn’t have the tactical knowledge to stand against the Empire.

  He met Fionn’s eyes. An unfathomable part of him had grown attached to this mysterious creature; there was no point in denying it. He didn’t want to see him harmed. “You’re the one who should leave,” he said. “Go back to your village, wherever it is. Convince your chief—King Odran, you called him—to surrender to Rome at the first opportunity. Your people will be treated leniently if you do not resist the Empire. That is our way.”

  Fionn smiled—there was a hint of the feral, winged demon in it. “Leniency. For the people who humiliated your men at Sylvanum?”

  Darius grimaced. “Best to blame that on the Robogdi. Though it would create some goodwill if you handed over the man who came up with the plot.”

  “And how would your general deal with him?”

  Darius’s face darkened. “I don’t know. But I’d see that it was slow.”

  “How vengeful of you. I like it. I thought you Romans were all cool stoicism. What would your Cicero say?”

  Darius shot him a look. “I respect Cicero. I don’t take his views as gospel.”

  “Thank the gods for that. What a dull grey mouse of a man he must have been.”

  “You’re changing the subject again.” Suddenly, he was angry. “Why can’t you answer my question?”

  “Because you don’t know what you’re asking,” Fionn snapped. “You can’t. You’re Roman. Your mind is all straight lines and right angles. You look at me and you want to know what I am. What you want is a word you can write down in a book next to a list of measurements and calculations. You don’t even—” He seemed to force himself to stop. His breath had quickened, and there was colour in his pale face. “You will leave Araiah. Your ships move between here and Britannia regularly; take the next one out. You’ll be safe there.”

  Some part of Darius registered how easily Fionn gave orders, as if it was something he had been born to. But he was too angry to puzzle over it. “You think you can command me? I don’t owe you anything. I never asked for your help, any more than I asked for your people to kill my men.”

  “How you dwell on that.” Fionn’s voice was hard. “How many of my own people have your soldiers killed since you arrived on our shores? Are you so blind to all but your own interests to think that we would welcome you and your self-serving philosophies and your fat emperor? You’re like a child who tries to pick a fight with everyone on the playground and then whines when his nose is bloodied.”

  Darius fumbled. “What your people did was without honour. It was—”

  “You should thank us. We could have burned you alive in your beds, or stricken you with a dozen poisons. Instead we let you fuck yourselves to death. Did you not enjoy it? You Romans enjoy the embrace of other men, they say. Was it not a novelty to watch your soldiers bend over for you like whores?”

  Each word was spoken with cruel precision. Darius’s head spun. Part of him wanted to lash out at Fionn as he had done once before, and he knew from the look in Fionn’s eyes that he wanted it too. Yet through his anger he saw what Fionn was doing, and his natural instincts—to talk rather than fight; to transmute violence into negotiation; to calm waters made turbulent by anger and mistrust—reasserted themselves.

  “What do you want of me?” He said it flatly, without anger or accusation, as if he were opening a negotiation over territory. Fionn flinched as if Darius had slapped him. They gazed at each other for a long moment.

  “Are you cruel, that you would ask me that, or merely thick-headed?” He said it softly, his silver eyes gleaming like coins.

  Darius swallowed. His heart was behaving strangely. Fionn shifted position so that his knee pressed into Darius’s thigh. He felt frozen, unable to believe that Fionn meant what he thought he meant. He was a Celt. He wasn’t even human.

  And yet Fionn was leaning towards him, his eyes half-lidded. His pale hair gleamed golden in the firelight. He looked in that moment like any of the lovers Darius had taken in the past just before they came together—a combination of nervousness and yearning. Darius remembered the feeling of Fionn’s mouth on his.

  “It can’t—” Darius stumbled to a stop. “It can’t be this simple.”

  “Isn’t that how you see me?” Fionn was closer now. “A simple barbarian. Isn’t that how you see us all?”

  Darius could feel the blood thrumming in his veins. Every inch of his skin prickled with heat. He had given in so quickly to the witch when she had worn Fionn’s face, and he realized with a start he had never wanted anyone as much as the pale creature sitting beside him. He wanted to take his face in his hands, run his fingers through his strange hair and down the nape of his neck, and press their mouths together. Fionn’s lips were slightly parted.

  Darius hesitated.

  It was a small thing, born of fear perhaps, or disbelief. By now, he was used to Fionn’s unknowability, his essential otherworldliness. It seemed impossible that Darius could be certain of what he wanted, and that it could be something as human and commonplace as a kiss. It was only the slightest of movements—a slight intake of breath, a tilt of his head.

  Fionn leaned back, an unreadable constellation of emotion flitting across his face. Then he reddened and stood abruptly. It was the reaction of a boy, and as incongruous with Fionn as a hiccup in the throat of a songbird.

  “No,” Darius said, though he didn’t know what he was protesting, for he felt as much relief as regret. “Wait. I—”

  Fionn strode into the darkness without a backwards glance.

  Chapter Twelve

&nbs
p; It took Darius the better part of an hour to fight his way through the forest. He wasn’t even sure that he was following the path Fionn had taken—it was the only deer trail he had been able to find, but why would Fionn bother with trails? He could melt into the trees like a shadow.

  In the end, though, Darius got lucky. The trail led to a glade with a stream trickling through it, and a small waterfall that rumbled over mossy rock.

  Fionn sat in the middle of the glade, one leg bent beneath him and the other dangling over the stream. He’d removed his boots, as if the chill didn’t touch him. The moonlight shone full upon him, and Darius took in the sharp, terrifying lines of his wings. The fine down on his arms caught the moonlight with a subtle gleam, as if he was coated with frost. Mist from the stream wreathed him like a spell. Darius had never seen a more unearthly sight, and for a moment he merely stood among the trees, staring.

  Darius didn’t try to muffle his footsteps as he approached, and yet Fionn didn’t look up until Darius touched his shoulder. He started almost violently, and leapt to his feet. Darius understood then why Fionn hadn’t heard him, despite his preternatural senses—he simply hadn’t been paying attention. His face was wet with tears.

  “I’m sorry.” Darius caught Fionn’s hand before he could retreat. He was thrown by the tears more than he cared to admit—the idea that he was capable of affecting Fionn that way was a heady thing, like foreign wine. It was so easy to forget how young Fionn was. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Fionn said nothing. Darius could see that he wanted to pull away, to run or fly from Darius’s gaze. But he didn’t—Darius sensed that his pride wouldn’t allow it. He settled his wings, which he had opened as if to take flight, with a gentle rustle.