by Anna Holmes
She sighs. "Continue chasing errant Legion fools."
"If you're ever looking to get out of that," I begin.
Tressa laughs, folding her long arms against her chest. "Something tells me no one would take kindly to a centaur bounty hunter at court. But thank you."
I could use some better advisors, and at least a bounty hunter would tell me what's actually going on in my country, but I take her point. "As you wish. Should you change your mind, you know where to find me."
"I certainly do." She nods in the direction of Alain, who's hunting around in the saddlebags. Her voice low, she says, "You'd best see to him. He's not everything he seems."
No. He's something much, much more confusing.
When Maribelle is calm enough, we venture back into the winds. So far, no rain. Alain’s mood seems completely turned about, happy to have his horse back. Once we're well away from the cave, I pull Navigator alongside Maribelle and shout to him. "I'm sorry I had to turn your horse loose. I didn't think I could handle you both."
He seems surprised. "Oh—right, yes. I'm…just glad she's back."
"That…is why you were upset, right?"
"Yes. Yes. Maribelle. Yes. I—er, didn't realize how much she meant to me. It's stupid."
"No." I give Navigator's broad neck a pat. "If anyone understands, I do. You're all right now, then."
He puts on a smile, but it's too straight. I know by now the angle at which it tilts when a smile takes him completely by surprise, completely unrehearsed. This is not that. "Yes. Everything's fine."
"I'm not upsetting you anymore."
"It's not you. It's never been you. Just—rough day."
"But you're fine now, right?"
"Completely." He spurs Maribelle ahead, and I sigh again.
He's a scoundrel, certainly, but now that I have a feel for him, he's terrible at convincing.
All the same, we ride on, back on track. Alain thinks that we'll reach the colony within a few days, but in the meantime, towns are scarce. We're nearing the foothills now, with far fewer caves for cover. I find us a patch of trees. He shoots me a look when I dismount, and I shrug. "I've done my share of camping in the open."
"Not what I'd have expected from a princess used to featherbeds."
"Yes, well, I'm equally used to pine needle beds." I squint up. These trees have been stripped by the wind and the needles on the ground are damp. A problem for later. In the meantime, I check our position. We’re high up enough that we ought to hear anyone coming from the pass, but low enough that they shouldn’t see from a distance. The tangle of the woods below should provide cover if we need to make an escape. The smoke from a campfire would be a bit of a giveaway, but I am cold enough to take that risk. This should do fine, though I still have one more question. "How do you want to do this if you want to keep me from glowing?"
He pauses. "I'll take first watch. Hopefully brigands formerly of the Rosalian Legion still keep a bedtime."
I glance his way. "When was bedtime?"
"Nine o'clock," he says.
"Strict," I observe.
"You have no idea."
I gesture to the ground. "Let me see that leg."
"I'm sure it's fine."
"Alain, if I need to knock you over again, I will." I gesture with my head. "Sit."
He swings his arms, long and knobby about the wrists and elbows, and finally does what I tell him. About time. He produces a light for me, and I ease his boot off. He flinches, but lets me unwrap the roughly woven strips of cloth from his leg and take a look.
Aside from the redness, all seems well. Just the same, I take a little jar of the ointment from the saddlebags and apply liberally. He bites his lip and grabs at fistfuls of the pine needles to keep from exploding. "Do you have to touch it?" he finally demands, apparently diplomatically, given the crease to his face.
"Yes," I say, examining my work in the light. "If you want it to heal and hurt less."
"We could just let it do what it's going to do," he suggests. "Maybe it'll improve on its own."
I fix him with a look and set about unrolling a fresh bandage. The wind has died back to little eddies here and there—still strong enough to shake the branches, but nothing like the howls and shrieks of earlier. "You're telling me the truth, aren't you?" I ask as I work. "You wouldn't let me march straight toward a nonexistent slave colony."
"Where did that come from?"
"Just wondering."
"The bounty hunter," he muses with a wince as I pull the bandage taut.
I don't answer. Tressa has an excellent point. I don't really know Alain. I know his mind, how he thinks, when he's lying. I know what hurts him. But I don't know him. "Port town, hmm?"
"What?"
"Where you’re from. Port town, right?"
"The Northern Shore," he groans as I turn his leg slightly.
Funny how everything comes back to that shore. First Riley, now him. "What did you do when you weren't fighting Resurgents?"
"Read a lot. Helped my father, mostly. He was—is, I think—a boatwright."
"You think." I stop. "You haven't tried to find him?"
He laughs slightly. "I don't think he'd recognize me."
"If you'd stop disguising yourself, that would help."
"You know what I mean."
"I think," I say, probably tugging a little too tight on the bandage, "That you still have a father, and that you should find him."
"Maybe."
"No, not maybe. When this is done."
"And your Rebel—" he swallows as though the word itself tastes bitter, poisonous. "Resurgent friends won't want me back in prison?"
"They will, but last I checked, I am the princess, so…" I shrug. "What about your mother?"
"Off in the Legion somewhere commanding someone somewhere else. It's…something of a family deal."
"Ah. And she did nothing to try to get to you?"
"She's probably disowned me for getting captured," he says heavily. "Gods help me if I came home wounded."
I think I see where her son gets his unrealistic expectations. "Oh. That's…"
"We aren't close."
"My mother and I aren't, either. Ever since my father…" I find that I'm pulling too tightly again and let go for a moment. "She should have taken his seat, but she was too distraught to do…anything. I don’t even know where they’re keeping her these days."
"And…it's only you, right?"
"I have no siblings."
"I've a sister. Elle."
"How old?"
"She would be eleven now." He laughs, a small, pensive thing. "I thought her the most annoying pest known to man, but I would do almost anything to be annoyed by her again."
"So why did you come to me?" I ask, picking my work back up again. "What about your plan seemed like a better alternative than going home?"
"May I be honest?"
"Please."
"I'd had no sleep for days, I was delirious with pain, and I hated you. My decision making process was severely inhibited."
"Hated. Past tense." I can't help a little smile. "You don't hate me now."
Immediately, he's surly again. "Can you please just finish with the damn leg? It's going to fall off."
It's all I can do to keep from glowing even through the disguise. Something about not being hated is so wonderful that I can't help it. Maybe it's because if I can bring Alain around, I can bring anyone.
Or maybe it's because it's Alain.
Chapter Fourteen
Alain
I use my time awake to think about the next move. There are two paths we could take—one long and reasonable, one direct, but dangerous; full of wolves and people, and sometimes, I honestly can't tell the difference between the two. I squint in the moonlight down the hill past the trees. I heard a howl a few moments earlier. I glance over. Caelin has not even stirred.
She hints at time in the woods and time spent bandaging and horses ridden in ball gowns, but she says nothing.
I wonder why. I almost want to shake her awake and demand stories, but—
I'm thinking of her again.
Damn it.
I stand, despite the effort it takes, and clomp around our exposed little campsite. My leg sears, but I force it to move. That usually seems to help. Usually being operative. Right now, the wound from the woman's knife seems to demand rest, while the usual excruciating pain demands movement.
Can't I ever catch a moment without being pulled in two?
Somewhere, a twig snaps. I turn and try to think. Wolves. What was it with wolves? Am I supposed to make myself look large, or should I just try to kill it? We don't have wolves on the coast. I try to remember my training, but it's just a lot of Marsh's blathering about loyalty and dignity and other lofty nouns.
I inch forward from the little fire I made when Caelin shivered in her sleep.
I shake myself. I'm tired. I'm achy. Maybe I should wake her…
Another rustle, and this time, some movement in the dark. Even my eyes, well adjusted to dark spaces thanks to the need to see underwater, can't close in on this as I need to. I limp on, trying to stay as quiet as I can with a dragging leg. Not that it matters much. I know whatever it is already sees me. I just need to see it.
I catch movement, and I turn again. This time, I shoot up a flare of light, hoping to both see and stun the thing.
It's no wolf.
In an instant, a hand shoves me aside, and Caelin stands in front of me, sword drawn. "Gods, Alain, you have to wake me for these things. Tressa, what the devils are you doing here?"
The centaur rubs at her wide eyes, blinded by the flash, and she slouches, caught.
"You brought Maribelle back so that we would leave and you could follow," I accuse.
"Well, yes," she answers.
Caelin frowns deeply. "Why would you do that?"
"I don't bloody trust him," she spits, gesturing vaguely at me. "I don't like the idea of leaving the princess of my kingdom with a Legion prince."
"A what?" She rounds on me. "Alain, you're no—"
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
I have never seen anyone seethe the way Caelin does, and I've seen some seething in my time. My father. My mother. Jori. I've been known to pitch a fit or two, but this…she stomps back and forth across the campsite, face full of murder and her hands continually flexing as though ready to do it. "You lying, two-faced—"
"I didn't lie," I interrupt, rocking forward from my seat on an overturned tree. "I omitted."
"Which may as well be the same thing, and you did too lie. Boatwright father, your royal backside."
I am still tired, verging on exhausted. My watch should have ended about an hour past, but instead we've both been awake, the centaur sitting primly in front of the fire and watching all of this play out. I’m a little intrigued myself. Since the panic died back, all I can feel is…relief is wrong, but I am oddly eager to share. Partially so Caelin can stop glaring at me, but there’s release in the words. "Not royal, really—you should know this about the Legion. Princes and kings are chosen. Birth has nothing to do with it."
"You're sure? Your mother is high up enough in the Legion to be off in Rosalia."
"Nepotism may also factor. But believe me, I'd no idea that I would ever be…"
"Now I know your name," the centaur begins. Oh, for the love of gods, just shut up, will you? I'm already in for enough shouting as it is. "Alain Northshore."
"That is my designation," I say, exhausted. "I started out as Alain Flynn. Son of a boatwright. Just as I said."
"The youngest prince ever chosen outside Rosalia proper."
"Do you have to?" I ask, out loud this time. Hang manners. I'm about to have to fight off the princess again.
"How is it," the centaur continues, "that the Legion's treasured son is running about with the Legion's most hated enemy?"
"Believe me, it's the last thing I would have asked for."
"Is it?" Caelin rounds on me. "Because you could have gone back to the Southern Islands any time you wanted."
"That's not—not quite what I mean. Would you please…" I take a breath and start again. "Yes. I was a prince. Yes, I was favored, both because of my mother and on my own merit. But I'm not…"
"Not what? Not a prince? I don't think that's something you just get forced into."
"No, it isn't." And I hadn't been. Once I'd passed Marsh's evaluations, my head may have swelled. I started thinking about what I could do with all of the magic unique to me, something my father had encouraged in private and expressly forbidden in public. Mother, on the other hand, always wanted me to use it. And I was listening to her voice in my head—work harder, do more, get more, be more. I trained an onerous amount, and I was noticed. And I had been pleased. "I let myself be chosen. But perhaps this is why they don't ordinarily choose them so young. We young people change our minds."
The centaur huffs. "And I suppose you're a perfect citizen of Elyssia now."
"No. But do I have to be? Do you?" I look at Caelin, who looks away with such a fierceness that I either want to shout at her or hold her, and I don't really care for the way those are confusing themselves in my mind right now. "It might have been what I was, but it has little to do with who I am."
"Yes, it does," she says, her voice softer than I expected. "It has much to do with that."
She turns and starts off. I start to limp after her, but the centaur catches my arm. "When a girl walks off like that, it would be unwise to follow, Prince."
"There are wolves in this forest. She shouldn't be out there alone."
"I'll go in a moment."
I uncurl her fingers from my arm and fall back to my log. "I hope you're satisfied."
"She deserved to know."
"And I would have told her."
"Would you?" She looks at me expectantly. "When?"
"And why does it matter to you?"
"Because whether you will it or not, she is the future of Elyssia, and if she's going to hang all over you, she should know all there is to know."
"Hang all over—what do you think…?"
"Oh, please," she says, wrinkling her nose. "She stayed up all night taking care of your leg. Do you think that was out of the goodness of her heart?"
"Well, yes," I splutter. "You know, if you wanted to arrest me, you should just try."
"Being a prince isn't enough to take you in."
"Yes, it is. That's how I wound up where I was. Do you know how many people I killed? None. Do you know how many deaths I ordered? None. I was there to get us into the royal city, and that was it. And that was enough. So go on, try to take me back in."
The centaur folds her arms over her chest, eyes darting about, catching the light from the flames as it plays on the forest floor. "They told me that you had to be a war criminal to go to the camps."
"They lied. They do that."
She unfolds, standing, shaking out her legs. "So do you, apparently."
"I don't—"
But she's already off, looking for Caelin. I'm left, elbows rested on my legs, staring into the embers dancing off the log, mocking me with their grace and their freedom to spark into the air and fall back in their own time.
Chapter Fifteen
Caelin
When Tressa finds me again, I've sliced the loose hanging bark off all of the neighboring trees. She gives me a look and reaches to take my sword away. I clench my grip around the hilt and sheath it when I please. "I'm sorry," she says. "I shouldn't have meddled. Don't tell him that."
"Oh, believe me, I won't be speaking to him any time soon," I answer. "About anything."
"Tell me," she says, gesturing to lead me away from my clearing of bark devastation. "He says that the prison camps are slave camps. Is that…"
"I'm on my way to find out."
"Do you trust him?"
"I don't know," I snap. She steps back slightly, and I know I should apologize. I just don't feel in the mood for it.
He might be t
he youngest colonial prince of the Legion ever and therefore have been innocent of my family's usurpation, but his mother certainly wasn't. I know what they told their recruits about the way Elyssia was run. I know they told them that theirs was the way to free Elyssia from everything my father had built. I know he must have believed that if he'd wanted to be a prince.
Add that to the fact that he said nothing about it and I am a few bark shreds short of felling a whole tree.
Tressa looks to the ground. "I'm sorry. I've made trouble for you, which was the opposite of my intent. I only…wanted to ensure there would not be a chance for a second war."
"I understand." I'd thought we were firmly back to the Elyssia I missed, but those out in the crevasses of the mountains and the corners of the country know that we are still unsteady. We are not tilting between the rule of my father and the rule of the Legion, either, but in some fuzzy third dynasty where the princess acts in the interest of another group, sometimes as questionable as the Legion itself. No wonder Tressa is nervous. "Slaves," I remark before I can think.
"Slaves," she says. "I never thought it would come to this. If it is true."
"I have little reason to doubt that," I tell her, reaching out to an unscarred tree for support. "I only want to be certain."
"If it is, I may have to reconsider my career." She shakes her head, flat nostrils flaring. "I was told I was working for justice." Tressa stops. "How are there prisons kept from you?"
"Apparently there are plenty of things that are being kept from me," I reply, teeth clenched. "By princes and advisors alike. When I get back, that will be stopped. In the meantime…" I look her over. "You know the area, and you seem as interested in finding out the nature of the camps as I am. You're welcome to come with us overtly. Just no more following."
She bows her head. "Thank you."
I rub at the back of my neck and let go of a breath. I suppose I have no more of a way of knowing that she's trustworthy than I did with Alain, but if I am honest with myself, I know that I only want someone else along so that the loneliness doesn't edge back in. Being agreed with constantly is isolating, but so is being disagreed with.
We find our way back to the campsite. I say nothing to Alain and return to sleep. He can work out the next watch with Tressa. I'm too tired.
