by Morgan Rice
Despair gripped Berin then, and he could feel himself starting to weep, as he hadn’t wept since he was a child. His oldest son was dead. For all the other lies Marita had come out with, that sounded like the truth. The loss left a hole that seemed to be impossible to fill, even with the grief and anger that were welling up inside him. He forced himself to focus on the others, because it seemed like the only way to stop it from overwhelming him.
“Soldiers took Sartes?” he asked. “Imperial soldiers?”
“You think I’m lying to you about that?” Marita asked.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Berin replied. “You didn’t even try to stop them?”
“They held a knife to my throat,” Marita said. “I had to.”
“You had to do what?” Berin asked.
Marita shook her head. “I had to call him outside. They would have killed me.”
“So you gave him to them instead?”
“What do you think I could do?” Marita demanded. “You weren’t here.”
And Berin would probably feel guilty about that for as long as he lived. Marita was right. Maybe if he had been here, this wouldn’t have happened. He’d gone off, looking to keep his family from starving, and while he’d been away, things had fallen apart. Feeling guilty didn’t replace the grief or the anger, though. It only added to it. It bubbled inside Berin, feeling like something alive and fighting to get out.
“What about Ceres?” he demanded. He shook Marita again. “Tell me! The truth this time. What did you do?”
Marita just pulled away again though, and this time she sank down on her haunches on the floor, curling up and not even looking at him. “Find out for yourself. I’ve been the one who’s had to live with this. Me, not you.”
There was a part of Berin that wanted to keep shaking her until she gave him an answer. That wanted to force the truth from her, whatever it took. Yet he wasn’t that kind of man, and knew he never could be. Even the thought of it disgusted him.
He didn’t take anything from the house when he left. There wasn’t anything he wanted there. As he looked back at Marita, so totally wrapped up in her own bitterness that she’d given up her son, tried to disguise what had happened to their children, it was hard to believe that there had ever been.
Berin stepped out into the open air, blinking away what was left of his tears. It was only when the brightness of the sun hit him that he realized he had no idea what he was going to do next. What could he do? There was no helping his oldest son, not now, while the others could be anywhere.
“That doesn’t matter,” Berin told himself. He could feel the determination within him turning into something like the iron he worked. “It won’t stop me.”
Perhaps someone nearby would have seen where they had gone. Certainly, someone would know where the army was, and Berin knew as well as anyone that a man who made blades could always find a way to get closer to the army.
As for Ceres… there would be something. She must be somewhere. Because the alternative was unthinkable.
Berin looked out over the countryside surrounding his home. Ceres was out there somewhere. So was Sartes. He said the next words aloud, because doing that seemed to turn it into a promise, to himself, to the world, to his children.
“I’ll find you both,” he vowed. “Whatever it takes.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Breathing hard, Sartes ran among the army’s tents, clutching the scroll in his hand and wiping the sweat from his eyes, knowing that if he did not reach his commander’s tent soon he would be flogged. He ducked and weaved as best he could, knowing his time was running out. He had been held up far too many times already.
Sartes already had burn marks on his shins from the times he’d gotten it wrong, their sting just one more among many by now. He blinked, desperate, looking around the army camp, trying to make out the correct direction to run among the endless grid of tents. There were signs and standards there to mark the way, but he was still trying to learn their pattern.
Sartes felt something catch his foot, and then he was tumbling, the world seeming to turn upside down as he fell. For a moment he thought he’d tripped on a rope, but then he looked up to see soldiers laughing. The one at their head was an older man, with stubble-short hair turning gray and scars from too many battles.
Fear filled Sartes then, but also a kind of resignation; this was just life in the army for a conscript like him. He didn’t demand to know why the other man had done it, because saying anything was a sure way to a beating. As far as he could see, practically anything was.
Instead, he stood up, brushing away the worst of the mud from his tunic.
“What are you about, whelp?” the soldier who’d tripped him demanded.
“Running an errand for my commander, sir,” Sartes said, lifting a scrap of parchment for the other man to see. He hoped it would be enough to keep him safe. Often it wasn’t, in spite of the rules that said orders took precedence over anything else.
In the time since he’d arrived there, Sartes had learned that the Imperial army had plenty of rules. Some were official: leave the camp without permission, refuse to follow orders, betray the army, and you could be killed. March the wrong way, do anything without permission, and you could be beaten. There were other rules too, though. Less official ones that could be just as dangerous to break.
“What errand would that be?” the soldier demanded. Others were gathering around now. The army was always short of sources of entertainment, so if there was the prospect of a little fun at a conscript’s expense, people paid attention.
Sartes did his best to look apologetic. “I don’t know, sir. I just have orders to deliver this message. You can read it if you like.”
That was a calculated risk. Most of the ordinary soldiers couldn’t read. He hoped that the tone of it wouldn’t earn him a cuff around the ear for insubordination, but tried not to show any fear. Not showing fear was one of the rules that wasn’t written down. The army had at least as many of those rules as official ones. Rules about who you had to know to get better food. About who knew whom, and who you had to be careful of, regardless of rank. Knowing them seemed to be the only way to survive.
“Well, you’d better get on with it then!” the soldier roared, aiming a kick at Sartes to get him moving. The others there laughed as if it was the greatest joke they’d seen.
One of the biggest unwritten rules seemed to be that the new conscripts were fair game. Since he’d arrived, Sartes had been punched and slapped, beaten and shoved. He’d been made to run until he felt like collapsing, then run some more. He’d been laden with so much gear that he’d felt as though he could barely stand up, made to carry it, to dig holes in the ground for no apparent reason, to work. He’d heard stories of men in the ranks who liked to do worse to the new conscripts. Even if they died, what did it matter to the army? They were there to be thrown at the enemy. Everyone expected them to die.
Sartes had expected to die the first day. By the end of it, he’d even felt as though he wanted to. He’d curled up inside the too thin tent they’d assigned him and shivered, hoping that the ground would swallow him up. Impossibly, the next day had been worse. Another new conscript, whose name Sartes hadn’t even learned, had been killed that day. He’d been caught trying to run away, and they’d all had to watch his execution, as if it were some kind of lesson. The only lesson Sartes had been able to see was how cruel the army was to anyone who let it see that they were afraid. That was when he’d started trying to bury his fear, not showing it even though it was there in the background almost every moment he was awake.
He made a detour between the tents now, switching directions briefly to swing by one of the mess tents, where a day ago, one of the cooks had needed help composing a message home. The army barely fed its conscripts, and Sartes could feel his stomach rumbling at the prospect of food, but he didn’t eat what he took with him as he ran for his commanding officer’s tent.
“Where have
you been?” the officer demanded. His tone made it clear that being slowed down by other soldiers wouldn’t count as an excuse. But then, Sartes had known that. It was part of why he’d gone to the mess tent.
“Collecting this on the way, sir,” Sartes said, holding out the apple tart that he’d heard was the officer’s favorite. “I knew that there might not be an opportunity for you to get it yourself today.”
The officer’s demeanor changed instantly. “That’s very thoughtful, conscript—”
“Sartes, sir.” Sartes didn’t dare to smile.
“Sartes. We could use some soldiers who know how to think. Although next time, remember that the orders have to come first.”
“Yes sir,” Sartes said. “Is there anything you require me to do, sir?”
The officer waved him away. “Not right now, but I’ll remember your name. Dismissed.”
Sartes left the commander’s pavilion feeling a lot better than when he’d gone in. He hadn’t been sure that the small act would be enough to save him after the delay the soldiers had caused. For now, though, he seemed to have avoided punishment, and had managed to get to the position where an officer knew who he was.
It felt like a knife edge, but the whole army felt like that to Sartes then. So far, he’d survived in the army by being clever, and keeping one step ahead of the worst of the violence there. He’d seen boys his age killed, or beaten so badly that it was obvious that they’d die soon. Even so, he wasn’t sure how long he would be able to keep that up. For a conscript like him, this was the kind of place where violence and death could only be put off so long.
Sartes swallowed as he thought of all the things that could go wrong. A soldier might take a beating too far. An officer might take offense at any tiny action and order a punishment designed to deter the others with its cruelty. He might be pushed forward into battle at any moment, and he’d heard that conscripts went at the front of the line to “weed out the weak.” Even training might prove deadly, when the army had little use for blunt weapons, and conscripts were given little real instruction.
The one fear that sat behind them all was that someone would find out he’d tried to join Rexus and the rebels. There should be no way that they could, but even the faintest possibility was enough to outweigh all the others. Sartes had seen the body of a soldier accused of having rebel sympathies. His own unit had been commanded to hack him to pieces to prove their loyalty. Sartes didn’t want to end up like that. Just the thought of it was enough to make his stomach tighten over and above the hunger.
“You there!” a voice called, and Sartes started. It was impossible to shake the feeling that maybe someone had guessed what he was thinking. He forced himself to at least pretend to be calm. Sartes looked round to see a soldier in the elaborately muscled armor of a sergeant, with pockmarks on his cheeks so deep they were almost like another landscape. “You’re the captain’s messenger?”
“I’ve just come from carrying a message to him, sir,” Sartes said. It wasn’t quite a lie.
“Then you’re good enough for me. Go find out where the carts with my timber supplies have gotten to. If anyone gives you trouble, tell them Venn sent you.”
Sartes saluted hurriedly. “At once, sir.”
He ran off on the errand, but as he went he did not focus on the mission at hand. He took a longer way, a more circuitous way. A way that would enable him to spy the camp’s outskirts, their choke points, a way that would allow him to pry for any weak points.
Because, dead or not, Sartes would find a way to escape tonight.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lucious pushed his way through the crowds of nobles in the castle’s throne room, fuming as he went. He fumed at the fact that he had to shove his way through, when everyone there should have stood aside and bowed down, making way for him. He fumed at the fact that Thanos was off getting all the glory, crushing the rebels on Haylon. Above all, though, he fumed at the way things had gone in the Stade. That wench Ceres had ruined his plans once again.
Ahead, Lucious could see the king and queen in deep conversation with Cosmas, the old fool from the library. Lucious had thought he’d seen the last of the aged scholar as a child, when they’d all been made to learn ludicrous facts about the world and its workings. But no, apparently, in the wake of the letter he had provided, showing Ceres’s true treachery, Cosmas got to have the ear of his king.
Lucious kept pushing his way forward. Around him, he could hear the nobles of the court at their petty plotting. He could see his distant cousin Stephania not far away, laughing at some joke another perfectly presented noble girl had made. She looked over, catching Lucious’s eye just long enough to smile at him. She really was, Lucious decided, quite an empty-headed thing. But a beautiful one. Perhaps in the future, he thought, there might be an opportunity to spend more time around the noble girl. He was at least as impressive as Thanos, by any estimation.
For now, though, Lucious’s anger at what had happened was too great for even those thoughts to amuse him. He stalked to the foot of the thrones, right to the edge of the raised dais there.
“She still lives!” he blurted out as he neared the throne. It didn’t matter to him that it was loud enough to carry to the whole room. Let them hear, he decided. It certainly made no difference that Cosmas was still whispering away to the king and queen. What, Lucious wondered, could a man who spent his time around scrolls possibly have that was worth saying?
“Did you hear me?” Lucious said. “The girl is—”
“Still alive, yes,” the king said, stopping him with a hand held up for silence. “We are discussing more important matters. Thanos is missing in the battle for Haylon.”
The gesture was just one more thing to add to Lucious’s anger. He was being treated like some servant to be quieted, he thought. Even so, he waited. He couldn’t afford the king’s anger. Besides, it took a moment or two to digest what he’d just heard.
Thanos was missing? Lucious tried to work out how it affected him. Would it change his position within the court? He found himself glancing across at Stephania again, thoughtful.
“Thank you, Cosmas,” the queen said at last.
Lucious watched as the scholar descended back into the crowd of watching nobles. Only then did the king and queen give him their attention. Lucious tried to stand straight. He would not let the others there see any of the resentment that burned through him at the small insult. If anyone else had treated him this way, Lucious told himself, he would have killed them by now.
“We are aware that Ceres survived the last Killing,” King Claudius said. To Lucious, he barely even sounded annoyed by it, let alone as though he were burning with the same anger that flooded him at the thought of the peasant.
But then, Lucious thought, the king hadn’t been the one who had been defeated by the girl. Not once, but twice now, because she’d bested him through some trickery when he’d gone to her room to teach her a lesson too. Lucious felt that he had every reason, every right, to take her survival personally.
“Then you’re aware that it can’t be allowed to continue,” Lucious said. He couldn’t keep his tone as courtly and even as it should be. “You must deal with her.”
“Must?” Queen Athena said. “Careful, Lucious. We are still your rulers.”
“With respect, your majesties,” Stephania said, and Lucious watched her glide forward, her silk dress clinging to her. “Lucious is right. Ceres cannot be allowed to live.”
Lucious saw the king’s eyes narrow slightly.
“And what do you suggest we do?” King Claudius demanded. “Drag her out onto the sands and have her beheaded? You were the one who suggested that she should fight, Stephania. You can’t complain if she isn’t dying fast enough for your tastes.”
Lucious understood that part, at least. There was no pretext for her death, and the people seemed to demand that for those they loved. Even more astonishingly, they did seem to love her. Why? Because she could fight a little? As far as Lucio
us could see, any fool could do that. Many fools did. If the people had any sense, they would give their love where it was deserved: to their rightful rulers.
“I understand that she cannot simply be executed, your majesty,” Stephania said, with one of those innocent smiles that Lucious had noticed she did so well.
“I’m glad you understand it,” the king said, with obvious annoyance. “Do you also understand what would happen if she were harmed now? Now that she has fought? Now that she has won?”
Of course Lucious understood. He wasn’t some child for whom politics was an alien landscape.
Stephania summed it up. “It would fuel the revolution, your majesty. The people of the city might revolt.”
“There is no ‘might’ about it,” King Claudius said. “We have the Stade for a reason. The people have a thirst for blood, and we give them what they are looking for. That need for violence can turn against us just as easily.”
Lucious laughed at that. It was hard to believe that the king really thought Delos’s populace would ever be able to sweep them away. He had seen them, and they were not some blood-drenched tide. They were a rabble. Teach them a lesson, he thought. Kill enough of them, show them the consequences of their actions harshly enough, and they would soon fall into line.
“Is something funny, Lucious?” the queen asked him, and Lucious could hear the sharp edge there. The king and queen did not like being laughed at. Thankfully, though, he had an answer.
“It is just that the answer to all of this seems obvious,” Lucious said. “I am not asking for Ceres to be executed. I am saying that we underestimated her abilities as a fighter. Next time, we must not.”
“And give her an excuse to become more popular if she wins?” Stephania asked. “She has become beloved by the people because of her victory.”
Lucious smiled at that. “Have you seen the way the commoners react in the Stade?” he asked. He understood this part, even if the others did not.
