by Krista Rose
She sighed, and I flinched as I saw a tear slip down her cheek before she turned away from me. “I’m tired now, Reyce. Why don’t you visit me again tomorrow?”
I swallowed and nodded, my words cut short by her pain.
2 Veyshin 577A.F.
I was kneeling in the snow, my bow aimed at a deer some fifty paces away, breathing in through my nose and out my mouth as she had taught me to calm my nerves and steady the shot, when she stepped from behind a tree. The blinding glare of sun on snow was dimmed by the radiant light of her, and my shot went wild as I gaped, my heart trembling within my chest.
The Lady smiled. “Reyce.”
I let out a cry, and rushed to throw my arms around her, tossing my bow aside heedlessly. She laughed as she caught my embrace, spinning me so that I was dizzy and dazzled by her, her eyes sparkling down into mine. I had never seen her before in daylight, and I drank in the colors of her: the burning copper of her hair, the brilliant blue of her fathomless eyes, the dusting of pale gold freckles upon her perfect nose. She was beautiful, resplendent, and the hole in my heart was healed in an instant.
“Did you miss me?” she murmured.
I thought of the nights I had spent weeping in my hammock, convinced that she could not find me, hidden away from her in the Forest. I had tried to resign myself to the loss of her, thinking that I would never see her again.
I realized I was clinging to her, and forced myself to step away, though it was reluctant. I wanted to sink to her feet and stare up at her forever, absorbing her presence like sunlight. “Yes, Lady. I missed you.”
She reached out to cup my cheek. “I missed you, too.”
“I- I’m sorry I left the farm. Kryssa got hurt, and the Crone was evil, and-”
“Shh. It’s alright now.”
“I thought you would never find me again,” I whispered, tears burning my eyes.
She laughed softly. “Ah, Reyce. I would be able to find you across a thousand oceans, beneath a hundred mountains. Never fear that I will lose you.” Her smile turned sad. “But I must go away for a time. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
“Go away?” Fear scraped like nails beneath my ribs. “Why must you go away? Why can’t you help me? Why do I need help?”
“I can’t tell you.” Her beautiful eyes darkened for a moment in frustration, the perfection of her brows drawing together as she frowned. “There’s a darkness coming, love, and I wish I could stay. But I have to take care of things. I could only slip away for a moment.”
“But when will I see you again?”
“Soon.” She stepped forward, and laid a kiss on my brow. It felt like atonement, and forgiveness, and healing. The weight of my blood-guilt slipped from my shoulders, leaving me light and heartbroken. “Remember to keep practicing your footwork.”
I swallowed the wails that rose to my throat, and nodded. She smiled, and turned back into the trees, her brilliance fading into their massive shadows. I waited as long as I could, then followed her, determined to go with her so that I would never have to live without her light again.
But she stepped behind a tree, out of my line of sight, and when I reached where she had been I found only a deer, its soft eyes wide and startled as it stared at me before bounding away. She was gone, not even footsteps left in the snow to tell me where she went.
I sank to my knees, and wept with loss.
ALYXEN
16 Veyshin 577A.F.
I loved the Prince.
Not romantically, of course, but in the same manner as I loved my brothers, or perhaps as I might have loved my father if he had not become a monster. The Prince was strong, assured, confident: everything the awkward, dreaming boy in me wished to be. I watched him for months in the Great Hall, trying to mimic the ease with which he sat in his own skin, the power that radiated from his presence.
It was in early winter that he came to me, hard on the heels of my success with the hand pumps, to request my help with an escape route from his chambers on the far side of the Great Hall, should there be an attack. Feverish with excitement, I worked on my designs for days, and nearly burst with pride at the Prince’s extensive praise when I presented them: an elaborate elevator, the idea of which I had stolen from Janis’ books on Dwarven technologies. I built it for him with the help of the smiths, its weight managed by a complex series of pulleys and stones that lowered it gently to the forest floor among the pens of the Camp’s animals.
Kylee wouldn’t talk to me for a week after I finished it, but I ignored her glares of reproach, too full of pride to worry over her sulking for the intrusion upon her privacy.
The Prince set me to designing other improvements for the Camp: secret doors, bridges that could be raised and lowered, traps for any enemies that might stumble upon us. The others only stared at me as I boasted of it to them, their emotions well-hidden behind shields and blank expressions.
Brannyn warned me to be careful, emerging from his haze of Marla-induced wonder to gaze at me, strange shadows flickering in his eyes. I flippantly replied that I was always careful, and turned away from him to return to my designs.
The Prince praised my work, loudly and often, and invited me to eat with him in the Great Hall. I found myself yearning for his accolades, the warm glow that filled me when he acknowledged me with a hand on my shoulder, declaring me a man to those who normally scorned me as a child. He gave me permission to call him Hamund when we were alone, a sign of trust he gave to few, and I basked in the honor of it.
And, in midwinter, my feelings at last were sealed.
I was in the Infirmary, working to build extra hand pumps and sinks for those that had the most need of clean and heated water, when the rescue teams returned. The Prince staggered into the room first, half-carrying, half-dragging the bedraggled form of an emaciated boy. The chains that dangled from his too-thin wrists marked him as a slave; beneath the layers of filth and despair, he looked to be scarcely older than me.
Hamund gently lowered the boy to the cot as the rest of the rescue team straggled into the room, their faces set and determined as they brought yet more half-dead slaves to be treated by Bryonis, who left Kryssa’s side to assist them. The sight of so many starved, empty faces made my chest ache as I struggled for breath, and I stood, frozen and useless with my tools in my hands.
Hamund glanced around and spotted me, motioning me over as Bryonis bent over the boy. I approached the cot on leaden legs, oddly terrified by the broken expression on the slave’s face, and the tired, defeated look the healer gave as he glanced at Hamund.
The Prince didn’t see the look; he was staring at me, his eyes overly bright as I reached his side. “This is Alyxen,” he told the boy, his voice gentle as he smiled Bryonis moved away with a sigh. “He’s going to help me care for you.”
The boy didn’t even glance at me, his pale eyes vacant as he stared up at the ceiling. His lips were cracked and bloody, and I could see the print of dark bruises beneath the dirt crusted on his face.
Hamund took a long, thin pick from a pouch on his belt, and began to work the rusted locks of the manacles clamped to the boy’s wrists. “I need hot water and rags, and the ointment the healers use for infections.”
I nodded, and hurried to do as he asked, hauling buckets of water from the rain barrels to the brazier to be heated, then carrying it to him with fresh rags. Hamund washed the boy’s wounds, cleaning dirt and blood and Gods know what else from his skin. He was infinitely gentle, though the water turned his hands red and raw. When the water turned foul and muddy, I carried it to the window and poured it out, then went to draw more.
We spent the remainder of our afternoon and evening in this manner. I tried repeatedly to help the boy drink, but he wouldn’t swallow, letting it dribble from the sides of his mouth to soak the pillow beneath him. My back and shoulders ached from hauling buckets, weariness and hunger from missed meals causing little black spots to dance before my eyes. But the Prince never wavered, and so, I thought, neither wo
uld I.
I fell asleep at last somewhere after midnight, my head buried against my knees as I leaned against a wall, exhausted with effort and emotions I couldn’t define. I woke before dawn to find Hamund still treating the boy, carefully cleaning dirt from between his fingers with a damp rag. The boy’s eyes were open and lifeless, and his chest no longer moved.
I winced, and rose awkwardly on stiff limbs to grip the Prince’s shoulder, half-conscious of Bryonis wearily tending to the other patients. “My lord, you should stop. You need rest.”
“He has to be treated,” he replied stubbornly, his eyes unfocused, gleaming with desperation. “He has to be saved.”
My throat tightened, but I made myself say the words. “My lord, he’s dead.”
“No.” He shook his head, denying, but his hands trembled. “I can save him.”
I had seen Kylee like this once, after she had spent an entire day treating a sick fox. Even when the poor creature had died, she had continued to tend to it, refusing to admit to the reality of its death until Kryssa had at last been forced to stop her.
I fetched Bryonis’ smelling salts, and held them under the Prince’s nose. He jerked, and sneezed, his eyes watering as he finally saw me. “Alyxen, what-” The intense void of his gaze faded, and he looked down. His throat worked several times, and then he stood and left the Infirmary without a word.
I stared at the nameless slave-boy for a moment, then reached down to close his eyes. It did not feel like enough, not for the suffering he had endured, but there was nothing else I could do. I sighed, and followed the Prince.
He hadn’t gone far, just to a nearby landing, out of sight and hearing of the Infirmary. His back was to me as I approached him, and I watched as he curled and uncurled his fists, his body tensed with emotions I didn’t understand.
“It’s like that sometimes,” he said at last, though I did not know if he was speaking to me or himself. “They give up the will to live. No matter what you do to save them, they just die.”
“It’s not your fault, Hamund.”
“I was born free, like you were,” he continued softly, as if he hadn’t heard me. “My brother Han and I lived in a small town in eastern Valory, near the ocean. I used to throw stones in it when I was little. Have you ever seen the ocean, Alyxen?”
I shook my head, forgetting that he couldn’t see me. “No.”
“It’s awe-inspiring. Water, green and grey and blue, as far as the eye can see, rising up in these great waves that die upon the shore. I haven’t seen it since my mother died.”
I remained silent; I did not need Lanya’s gift to sense he rarely spoke of this to anyone.
“I was twelve when it happened, and Han was eight. Wasting sickness. Our aunt took us in, but sold us six months later. Too many mouths to feed.” His tone was bitter, his words tasting like ashes in my mouth. “I was sold to a merchant with an appetite for young boys. It was awful, but I was well-treated and well-fed, and rarely beaten. I escaped when I was sixteen, slitting my master’s throat in his sleep. I was found by a rescue team returning from the Salt Flats, and they brought me here.” His voice dropped even lower, so that I had to strain to hear him. “I had hoped Han would be here when I arrived, but he wasn’t. I searched for him for years.”
“Did you find him?” I asked, unable to help myself.
“Do you know what 'damaged goods' is, Alyxen?” His words had an unfamiliar bite. “Damaged goods is the term slavers use to refer to the boys they can’t sell, because they have some deformity. Han had a crooked eye, and no one that liked young boys would buy him. So my bitch of an aunt sold him to the silver mines.” His body shook, either in grief or rage, or both. “He died there. Gave up on living before I could find him. Before I could save him.”
My eyes burned. I had no words to comfort this kind of pain; nothing I could say would ease it. What is it like to be haunted by this much regret?
He let out a deep, shuddering breath, the emotion draining from him, and turned. Tears streaked his face. “I see his face in every boy we save, in every life we bring back. If I can only save them-” He wiped the tears from his cheeks, and gave me a ghost of his familiar, mocking smile. “You should get some sleep. You look like death.”
I made a face at him. “You don’t look much better.”
He chuckled. “I suppose I don’t.” He glanced at the sky as the first brilliant spears of sunlight crested the horizon. “Good night, Alyxen.”
“Good night, Hamund,” I murmured, watching as he walked away.
KYLEE
1 Zyten 578A.F.
I hated the Camp.
It wasn’t the people, though their presence smothered me, and I struggled for breath around them, feeling as if their eyes were always upon me. It wasn’t Thellin, though the shriveled old man was cantankerous and rude, refusing to even call me by name. It wasn’t my duties, though it was difficult to care for a dozen horses even with Thellin’s help, and I spent long hours that winter wrapping them in blankets and tying strips of rags around their legs to keep them warm while my face and fingers froze and snow poured over the tops of my boots to soak my feet. It wasn’t even the Camp itself, though I despised the fear that pulsed through it like blood, and the dizzying heights that turned my knees to water.
No, what I truly hated was the Prince.
The others didn’t seem to mind him as I did, or at least they never spoke of it. Alyxen even agreed to help design an elevator for him, which landed him beside the animal pens on a small platform, so that I was forced to see more of him than I had ever wanted to. I thought of him as a snake, slithering and seducing, staring at the world around him with the desire to infect it with poison. My stomach clutched in his presence, and I felt dirty and diseased when I was near him, disgusted with the way his eyes slid over me.
The Camp’s pigs greeted his arrival with excitement, and their clamor was nearly deafening. The first time it had happened, I had stared, my jaw dropping open in utter shock as they screamed for his attention, their cold, calculating eyes bright with vicious hunger.
They screamed for blood.
I have never liked pigs, but it wasn’t until I met those at the Camp that I truly came to hate them. After the first few weeks, I refused to do more than empty the kitchen scraps into their pen, and I desperately hoped that they would freeze to death in the early months of winter.
The day they were slaughtered dawned bright and cold. I stood, shivering and horrified as the butchers dragged the pigs from their pen and unceremoniously slit their throats over a large metal basin. The pigs shrieked curses at their killers, threatening death and agony even as their life drained from them, squealing with rage until their eyes at last went dark.
“Awful, ain’t it?” Thellin had walked up quietly beside me while I hadn’t been paying attention. His face resembled a walnut, wrinkled and brown. “Always hated th’ peg-slaughterin’.”
I shuddered. “It’s horrible.”
“Aye.” His head jerked on his skinny neck in a nod of agreement. “’Tis th’ screamin’ tha’s th’ wors’ fer me. T’ain’t been able t’ eat peg fer nigh on twenny years now.”
The thought of anyone- especially my brothers and sisters- eating these terrible, cannibalistic monsters made my stomach revolt, and I doubled over, retching. Thellin grabbed my arm in a surprisingly strong grip, keeping me from collapsing when my knees buckled.
“I think ye shoul’ go home, lass,” he said, his gaze sympathetic. “I ken look af’er thin’s here. Go home, get some rest.”
I swallowed, not trusting myself to speak, and carefully turned away from the pigs and their butchers. Their screams followed me as I lurched toward the Camp to warn my brothers and sisters.
Don’t eat the pigs.
Surprisingly, they listened to me. We ate only venison that winter, shot by Reyce. The pigs that remained after the slaughtering were sullen and silent; though they glared at me, they no longer shrieked for my blood. It was an improvemen
t of sorts, though I still hated the Camp, and prayed for the day when the others would finally want to leave.
But it was there that I discovered the secret of lightning.
No matter how foul the weather, I still had to exercise the horses, which meant taking each of them for a daily ride. My favorite was the large, black stallion I had taken to calling the Nightking, and I raced him through the Forest with glee, my heart free as I imagined riding him toward the sunrise, and never returning to the Camp.
It was on the first day of the new year during one of these rides that I met the man. The leaden skies threatened another foot of snow, the wind biting my face as Nightking flew across the ground.
Then the man stepped from behind a tree, spooking Nightking so that he reared and threw me.
For those who have never been thrown from a horse, let me tell you: it is unpleasant. If you do manage to land without breaking a bone, you will undoubtedly have bruises, and be angry and dizzy and slightly lightheaded as you stare in dismay after your fleeing mount.
I turned to glare at the man, who simply stood staring back at me, his face set in a glower that said he wasn’t any happier to see me than I was him. I pushed myself to my feet, wiping snow from my face and clothes as I stalked toward him.
“What’s the meaning of scaring my horse like that?” I demanded, wishing he wasn’t more than a foot taller than me so that I could punch him in the face. “You have any idea how long it’s going to take for me to catch him in this weather?”
“Hush your useless prattle, girl.” His expression had deepened into a scowl, his eyes flashing, fiercely blue. He was unshaven, his clothes worn and well-traveled in. A heavy bow hung from his back, and he had tied his long dark blond hair away from his face with a leather thong. “I have no time for your inane whining.”
I gaped, my fury and indignation rendering me speechless. “How- how dare-”
“Give me your hand,” he demanded impatiently, and snatched my wrist.
