The Commander's Captive

by Alix Nichols

  The day after Areg’s departure, everyone in possession of a commlet in Eia—a great many people as it turned out—received a short written message. The sender ID was marked “unknown.”

  Receivers were asked to go to a secure place, alone or with people they trusted, and open the voice file enclosed with the text.

  The file was titled “Areg Sebi’s First Address from the Beyond.”

  A few hours later, the entire realm had listened to his recorded talk. It exhorted them not to give up hope. It urged them to fight. No matter how small their act of resistance was, it counted because their freedoms and their future were at stake. If endorsed, Boggond would turn Eia into a lawless dictatorship.

  Areg’s very recognizable voice brimmed with conviction and energy as he ended his talk on a promise that the next one would arrive a week from now. In it, he’d share concrete ideas on the things Eians could do without putting their lives at risk.

  According to Wadinnie, Marye and everyone else Nyssa had talked to, the address had shaken the realm in a most profound, hope-inspiring way.

  People talked of little else. They smiled. At the inns, markets and temples, people whispered that they were ready to fight because all wasn’t lost for Eia. Not when the Liberator was helping from the Beyond.

  Giving the mixture another thorough stir, Nyssa glanced at Dame Heidd. “Is this good?”

  The old woman nodded.

  Nyssa removed the pot from the stove and prepared to start on the next one.

  Footsteps that Nyssa could recognize among hundreds reached her from the hallway. Jancel was back from the North District.

  The door to the kitchen opened. “Mother. Nyssa.”

  “I’m glad you made it home for dinner,” Dame Heidd said without interrupting her work.

  “Shall I serve it at eight?” the cook called from behind the pots and kettles atop the main range.

  “Nine would be better, thank you.” He eyed Nyssa. “May I have a word?”

  Dame Heidd waved her off. “Go—I’ll take it from here.”

  Nyssa followed Jancel to his room.

  As soon as he shut the door, he was all over her, stroking, kissing, breathing her in. She reveled in his touch, in his taste on her tongue, his smell, the feel of his beard against her chin. All of him. But she didn’t throw her arms around him. She didn’t kiss him back. The news she was about to share paralyzed her.

  He drew back a few inches. “I missed you, kitten.”

  She’d missed him, too. Acutely. But her mouth wouldn’t open to admit that.

  “Did you hear about Areg’s address?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  Drawing his brows, he searched her face. “Nyssa, what’s wrong?”

  She told him.

  He let go of her.

  She couldn’t help noticing how his jaw clenched and his hands balled into fists.

  He began to pace the room. Then he stopped and stared at her. Then he paced more.

  “All right,” he said finally, halting in front of her. “Let’s not panic. There’s a way out of this.”

  She folded her arms across her chest.

  “Blue cosh,” he said. “Lots of it.”

  She bunched her brows. “Jancel, did you understand what I said? If I’m pregnant, it’s too late.”

  “First, you may not be pregnant at all. The delay may be due to nerves, what with the news that Areg was alive and his escape from Hente.” He paused before adding, “My wife had a couple of false alerts like that.”

  For a while now, Nyssa had been meaning to ask him—or the cook, who’d been with the family forever—how his wife had died. But she hadn’t dared. And now wasn’t the time.

  “If you’re pregnant,” he said, “you can’t be more than two or three weeks along. That’s months before quickening.”

  She groped for the ouroboros on her neck.

  “It would be an easy miscarriage.” His gaze drilled into hers. “If you’re pregnant, it’s early enough, Nyssa. The fetus isn’t alive yet.”

  His tone was dry and his words blunt. Unwavering.

  Inhaling sharply, Nyssa stared out the window. She’d considered the option herself, of course she had.

  Setting aside her muddled feelings for Jancel, Nyssa acknowledged her situation was so precarious it would be irresponsible to bring a child into the world, no matter how much she wanted it. What kind of future awaited their baby? At best, a life of permanent danger and hardship, as a bastard of a captive woman and a powerful man with even more powerful enemies hellbent on destroying him.

  At worst, danger, hardship, and an orphanage.

  Who in their right mind would wish that kind of life for their child? Jancel was right about the timing, too. It was common knowledge that a fetus was just a blob of flesh before Aheya breathed a soul into it and it quickened. Nyssa chewed at the inside of her cheek nervously.

  It was what everyone on Hente believed.

  Generations had lived with that conviction, probably going back to the first Ra-human settlers on Hente. Nyssa didn’t know if it had been the view of the Original Ra race or something humans had brought with them from Terra or both. But it didn’t matter. Knowledge that had been handed down through generations had to be valid. Right?

  “You have to do it, Nyssa,” Jancel said. “A few days of feeling sick and vomiting is nothing compared to the hell that awaits if you don’t.”

  Nyssa’s rational mind could see his point very clearly, couldn’t help but agree with it.

  But her heart saw and heard other things. The steel in his voice when he’d laid out the solution. His total lack of hesitation or regret. The way he’d recoiled—panicked even—at the idea of Nyssa carrying his babe. Their babe.

  She turned her back to him. “Brew a gallon. I’ll drink it.”

  20

  Jancel brought her the concoction later that night, along with the bucket she’d asked for.

  Nyssa drank a full glass in his presence. Then she asked him to leave her room.

  “I’d like to stay with you,” he said.

  She sneered. “Afraid I’ll pour out the rest?”

  He shook his head. “Just to—”

  “I’ll drink it. You have my word.”

  He hesitated at the door.

  “Leave me,” she said, keeping her tone as dry as she could. “I’d rather do this on my own.”

  He walked out.

  She drank another glass. She kept drinking throughout the evening. From time to time, he knocked on her door, asking how she felt and if he could come in.

  “I’m fine,” she responded invariably. “Go away.”

  She kept drinking as nausea settled in, and her stomach spun like a wheel rolling downhill faster and faster. Shortly after midnight, she began to throw up.

  Jancel forced his way in. He held her, keeping her hair out of the way as she heaved hot vomit into the bucket. His touch was infinitely gentle as he wiped her face with a damp cloth in between her bouts of gagging and spewing. When it looked like she had nothing left in her stomach, he fetched her some water to drink.

  She refused it and drank more cosh tea instead.

  In the wee hours of the morning the bleeding started, more abundant and violent than any period she’d ever had. Was she miscarrying? Or was she just having the nastiest period in her life provoked by the cosh tea? She’d never know.

  Jancel eyed the red-stained sheets with a terror in his eyes that surprised her. He was a military man. He’d fought a war for four long years. Wasn’t he supposed to be used to the sight of blood?

  “Go away,” she said to him for the umpteenth time. “Wake up Wadinnie, send her here. She’ll take care of me.”

  He shook his head. Then he fetched a pile of towels from the closet, covered the blood stains on the bed, and folded one to fit between her legs.

  She was too exhausted to resist his ministrations.

  Over the next few hours, he hugged her to him, changed the towels, ev
en tried to sing a lullaby to help her fall asleep. Another wave of nausea hit, and she doubled over the bucket again, clutching her stomach. He tended her again. Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that this dreadful night would’ve been a thousand times worse if he’d left her alone as she’d asked.

  When the sun rose, he went out momentarily to get a new bucket, something light for her to eat, and more towels.

  “Shouldn’t you go to work?” she asked when he came back.

  “This takes precedence.”

  “I’m feeling better, Jancel,” she lied.

  “I’m glad but—”

  “The bleeding has let up.”

  That, at least, was true. He could see it for himself.

  “Please, I need space,” Nyssa said.

  He gave her a confused look.

  She squirmed. “I’d like to clean myself up… Change into fresh clothes. Understand?”

  “I’ll check on you around noon.”

  She nodded.

  “Wadinnie will be outside the door. Promise me you’ll call her in, if”—his face contorted as if uttering the next words were too hard—“if the bleeding picks up again.”

  “I promise.”

  An hour and a full bucket of puke later, someone knocked on the door.

  “I’m fine.” Nyssa cried from her corner on top of the bed, hugging her knees. “The flow hasn’t picked up.”

  “May I come in?”

  Hedgehog’s balls! It was Jancel’s mother.

  “Um… I’d rather be alone now.”

  “Nyssa, please,” the old woman said. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  Dame Heidd’s calling her by her given name and offering to share information was so out of the ordinary that Nyssa went to the door and reached for the handle. Then she pulled her hand back.

  Even after cleaning herself up, she was still a mess. She’d vomited again. The window was half-open, but her room stunk. She stunk. Bloodied towels were heaped in the corner. Nyssa couldn’t let Dame Heidd in like this. A girl had her dignity, after all.

  “Please,” the old woman said again. “It’s important.”

  Oh, well. Nyssa opened the door.

  Dame Heidd looked around.

  “I apologize for the mess,” Nyssa said.

  That was when the other woman did something so weird that Nyssa’s mouth fell open. Dame Heidd wrapped her arms around Nyssa and gently held her. She stroked her hair. Called her “my poor darling.” Sniffled. In short, acted completely out of her haggish character.

  A few minutes later when Nyssa returned to the bed and motioned Dame Heidd to a chair, the old woman regained her composure, looking her usual self once again.

  Almost. The anomalous softness from before still lingered on her face.

  Nyssa eyed her expectantly.

  “I need a drink,” Dame Heidd declared.

  She sent Wadinnie to the kitchen. The maid returned a few minutes later. Dame Heidd took from her hands a tray with a bottle of liquor and two tumblers. She closed the door behind Wadinnie and poured some clear liquid into the tumblers.

  “Drink,” she said, handing one to Nyssa.

  Nyssa took a sip, then bigger one, and then emptied the tumbler. The alcohol burned her tongue and throat, chasing the sour taste from her mouth.

  Dame Heidd downed hers.

  “Jancel had a wife many years ago,” she said, nodding to herself.

  Nyssa leaned forward.

  “He’d married his childhood sweetheart.” Dame Heidd skewed a weak smile. “That was before the army. He hadn’t envisioned a military career. He’d learned his father’s trade.”

  Realizing she was holding her breath, Nyssa exhaled slowly and inhaled again.

  “They were both very young,” Dame Heidd said.

  “How young?”

  “Children, really. Twenty-one.” She let out a sigh. “I advised him against marrying so young, but…”

  Nyssa smiled. “His sweetheart got pregnant.”

  “He wasn’t ready,” Dame Heidd said, “but he was excited. Those were happy months.”

  “What happened?”

  “Hawina died in childbirth.”

  Nyssa gasped.

  “The baby didn’t make it, either.” Dame Heidd poured herself another shot. “Hawina bled and bled, and the midwife couldn’t stop the bleeding.”

  “Was Jancel there?”

  Dame Heidd threw her head back and drained her glass. “He rode like a madman to the Healers’ hospital, woke up the vestals, brought the most experienced one back.”

  Nyssa held her glass out. “One for me?”

  Dame Heidd poured her a little and she drank.

  “It was over when they got here,” the old woman said.

  “Did Jancel blame himself for not making it back quickly enough?”

  “At first, yes. But the vestal told us afterward that she wouldn’t have been able to save Hawina, anyway. Seeing how bad her bleeding had been, saving her would’ve required more than she was capable of.”

  “A rich-blood healer’s hands?”

  “Either that or level-two medical equipment.”

  Eia had neither of those things.

  “Hawina didn’t stand a chance,” Nyssa said, setting her tumbler down.

  Dame Heidd stared right at her. “No, she didn’t, the poor thing. Her, and so many other young women who die like her. No one talks about it because there’s nothing we can do.”

  “One of the things Areg was advocating for was removing the ban on level-two tech,” Nyssa said.

  “I would’ve been opposed, since vestals believe level-two tech is too dangerous. But knowing it could’ve saved Hawina’s life…” Dame Heidd stared at the skinny, crooked fingers on her hands. “I think your brother is right to advocate that.”

  Is—not was. So, she knew Areg was alive.

  “How did Jancel take his wife’s death?” Nyssa asked.

  “What do you think? He loved her… My boy was heartbroken. Worse than that—he was broken.” The old woman’s voice cracked. “He wanted to follow his wife and baby into Aheya’s Garden.”

  Nyssa closed her eyes, hurting for him.

  “I begged him to take pity on me,” Dame Heidd said. “I said my heart would simply burst into pieces if he killed himself.”

  “Is that why he joined the army?”

  The old woman nodded. “He told me not to expect grandchildren because he’d never marry again, never endanger a woman’s life to give him a child. He said no child was worth it.”

  Nyssa hugged her knees tighter. It struck her that for the first time since she arrived in the Heidd residence—no, since she saw Jancel in the Iltaqa Prison doing nothing to rescue Areg—she felt no hatred for him. It was gone.

  How strange.

  He was still the same man, his actions still the same, and on some level they still infuriated her, but… She cared for him too much to hate him.

  “Dame Heidd—” she began.

  “Please, call me Kerilaga.”

  Nyssa rolled the old woman’s given name on her tongue. “Kerilaga. Thank you for telling me about Hawina.”

  “I couldn’t bear you resenting Jancel even more than you already do”—she pointed to the pile of bloodstained towels—“because he did this to you.”

  “I don’t resent him. Not anymore.”

  Kerilaga gave a sharp little nod and stood.

  She picked up the pile in the corner and opened the door. “I’ll come back in the afternoon. Is there anything you’d like me to get you besides food, drink, and fresh linen?”

  “A detective story from your library?” Nyssa wrinkled her nose. “From the right-hand wall. I’ve worked my way through the other two walls already.”

  The old lady’s eyebrows rose.

  Nyssa smiled. “Those stories help me escape my… reality.”

  “I’ll send one with Wadinnie right away,” Kerilaga said, pulling the door behind her.

  Twenty
minutes later, at twelve o’clock sharp, Jancel knocked on Nyssa’s door.

  She told him to come in.

  Her room was still a mess, but she’d taken a sponge bath in the adjacent washroom, let Wadinnie rinse and comb her hair, and put on a clean nightshirt.

  “Nausea?” He squatted by the bed.

  She set the book down on the night table. “Gone for now. It’ll be back in the evening, I’m sure, but I’m grateful for the respite.”

  “I have a big favor to ask of you.” He took her hand. “But before I do, I’d like to tell you about Hawina.” He paused. “How she died.”

  “You mother came by earlier. She told me.”

  Nyssa had feared Jancel would be upset that Kerilaga had revealed his painful past to Nyssa without asking his permission, but the deep sigh he let out told her he was relieved.

  “When you told me your period was late,” he said, “all I could see, all I could think of was Hawina’s lifeless body… blood everywhere… my rage and helplessness…”

  Nyssa cradled his cheek with her free hand.

  He kissed the inside of her wrist. “I panicked.”

  She leaned her forehead against his. “It’s all right, Jancel.”

  They stayed like that for a while before Nyssa drew back a notch. “What was the favor you wanted to ask?”

  He gazed into her eyes, hesitating.

  “Out with it!” She shrugged with an exaggerated lightness. “If it’s something I don’t feel like doing, I’ll just say no.”

  “Will you forgive me?”

  She cupped his cheek. “I already have.” Then she leaned back on the pillows. “Now go fetch me a warm roll from the kitchen. I’m starving.”

  21

  Etana got to the serpent fountain at a quarter after nine.

  Zoly was already there, still dressed her waitress uniform, one hand in the water.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Etana’s friend waved her hand. “I’m teasing you. Just got here myself.”

  Etana had worked late tonight, like last night, and every night over the last two weeks.

  There was simply too much to do.

  In the morning, she’d head to the ERIGAT Archives, where she’d read every historical record, account, tale, and legend that could contain a clue about her gift. The curator of the Archives, Dann Umundo, now greeted Etana by name and stopped by her desk sometimes to ask if she’d found anything of interest.