Ember

by Anna Holmes

  Without a word, Gavroth jerks his head and the others follow carefully. Tressa's hand tightens around her bow. Navigator settles again, and we fall back into place, slowly. Either Gavroth is not as talented as he thinks himself, or he has allowed us to take the rear. Tressa prudently watches behind us as we go. Alain keeps his eyes front, trying not to look agitated. Lieutenant Holder always seems to be glowering, so at least I'm allowed to look how I feel.

  Dim green-gray light filters down through the unseasonably verdant leaves, and were I not worried about an ambush, I would have quite enjoyed this. I was always finding myself hiding spots in glens and thick patches of hedge. My mother would tell stories about the fairies who lived there.

  Alain's hands close tight around Maribelle's reins. I think I know where we're going, his voice says, though his lips don't move. It takes everything I have not to jump, scream, something. Will casters can do this brain whispering thing, but it never stops it from being a surprise when one does. Tressa nods slightly. So she heard, too. I'm kind of relieved—something about having Alain being a voice inside my head unsettles me. The relief doesn't last long. She's pulled out an arrow.

  Hold, Alain tells us silently. We may not have to fight.

  Her jaw clenches, nostrils flaring. I think we may have finally asked too much of her, the bounty hunter who looked down at the remains of her parents' farm. Legion soldiers did that, and we're asking her—I think—to walk straight into a nest of them. She's itching to run, and I'd let her, if I didn't think it would jeopardize what we might be able to discover.

  Cole begins to push aside drapes of vines, and he falls back to hold them open for us. This is not lost on Tressa. "No, go on," she says. "I can hold my own vines."

  He turns his eyes heavenward. "For gods’ sake—"

  "Do as she says," I tell him.

  He gives her an acidic look and jogs back to the front.

  Alain fumbles in the saddlebag and hands something I can’t see to Tressa. He looks directly at her. He's speaking to her, and apparently it's quite the conversation. Her eyes flash, her knuckles bearing down hard into her palms. He holds up a hand to calm her, points to me, and gestures broadly.

  She stares him down a few more seconds, but ultimately reaches down and attaches something to one of her forelegs. He tosses her something else, which she tucks away in the pouch that circles her waist. I try to catch a glimpse of her new anklet, but Navigator bumbles in the way.

  I look to Alain, who tells me wordlessly, Follow my lead. I must look displeased about this, as he sort of laughs, this time out loud. He catches himself and switches back to sending me messages. You're going to have to trust me this time, Caelin.

  I feel like a child again, being led along without knowing what I'm doing or why. I’ve always hated because I said so. I favor him with a stamp of my foot—if I'm to be treated like a child, I may as well act like one.

  You wanted me to be the prince, his voice says in my head, his eyebrows lifted.

  I want to be able to shout back at him, but he has a point. I settle for fuming and squinting into the light through the last curtain of vines. We approach a clearing.

  In the middle of it, Gavroth stops and spreads his arms, bellowing, "Wanderers returning home. Three guests."

  From above, the light ripples, and sentinels come into view, dangling from branches above. Tressa begins to fit an arrow to her bowstring. "Hold," Alain admonishes her aloud.

  The three sentinels drop down, each clad in some remnant of Legion uniforms. Pressed black trousers here, a green alchemist’s shirt there. One wears the full coat. One approaches us, tired eyes scanning what weaponry we bring in. Another scribbles something down furiously on a pad. "Do you vouch for them?" Trousers asks Gavroth.

  "I do," he says, eyes flicking to Tressa.

  Coat seems already suspicious. "Of what make is that bow?"

  "My own," she snaps, drawing it away from him.

  "Subject centaur female is hostile," he mutters to himself, still writing.

  "Subject!" she interjects.

  Gavroth waves a hand. "Forgive him. He's not lost his taste for protocol. He calls everyone that."

  Shirt rolls his eyes. "Carry on, then. The Captain would like to see you."

  "Of course." Gavroth waves for us to follow him. Tressa gives one more glare to Coat and kicks up a little extra dust as she goes. We push past one more curtain of vines. "Welcome to the Grove," Gavroth says, pride evident in his voice.

  As we walk in, wooden structures built into and around the trees ripple into view—visible only to those their makers intended to see them. Pieced-together ramps and ladders wind up trunks and down into gullies and across ponds. And all around us are people. Fifty? Twice that? They make noise like three hundred, laughing and chatting and calling to each other across the bridges in the trees. I whirl. How is it we didn’t hear them from outside the trees?

  Tressa's eyes scan the crowds—looking for marks, I think. She's as alarmed as I am about the unseen settlement. "How could I have missed this?" she mumbles to me.

  From one of the treehouses, a trio of former officers approach down a ramp. I guess they rank highly given their posture and the fact that although they don't wear pieces of their old uniforms, their hair is still neat, and their plainclothes are pristine. Two women and one man greet us, and the man claps Gavroth heartily on the shoulder. The sunlight dappled onto his gray hair and pleasantly crinkling face takes on an almost reptilian look. Like a snake.

  "Captain," Gavroth says, though he skips the salute.

  A little band of marauders was one thing, but a camp with a Legion captain and somewhere near a hundred other Legion leftovers is another A nightmare, a pit of these snakes. If Alain’s magic fails, or he decides he isn’t as done with the Legion as he professed…I can’t afford to entertain the thought.

  "At ease," the man laughs. I am nowhere near ease. "Nephew, who have you brought me today?"

  Gavroth looks around the camp. "Not here," he says.

  "Very well. Cole, Fiora, August, dismissed. The rest of you, with me." He indicates the ramp. "Your horses may stay at the bottom of the tree."

  Indeed, there's a post hammered into the ground. So thoughtful, these hidden soldiers. Alain does his best to come down smoothly, though his bad leg catches a little, and he winces. I offer him an arm, but he breezes past me. Help must be frowned upon in the Legion. Typical.

  The Captain says nothing as he leads us up the ramp. The wood creaks underneath Tressa's hooves. Alain holds his hand out, palm up, and the wood stops creaking. She shoots him a glance, and he smiles, looking at the ground.

  I wonder how Alain would have taken the existence of this place had it not been for our meeting. I wonder if he would indeed have been the prince that tried to put an end to the crown again had they gotten their claws into him. I wonder if they'll try now. I wonder if he'll listen.

  We are led into a room that is not luxurious, but well-outfitted. It’s wide and fairly tall, the far wall adorned with a large, battle-singed Legion banner. The nearest wall is an arsenal, and I feel my throat clench. Racks of the jagged swords and spears and axes that felled my people. I still remember the uneven scrape of my blade against theirs, and maybe it’s imagined, but the metallic undertones of blood mingle with the earthy scent of the fireplace. I check the blades for telltale stains, but they’re polished to a gleam. A nauseated rage simmers in my gut. They’re the only decorations in the room. He’s proud of these things.

  One of the women positions herself outside the door, and the other shuts it, barring the exit. The Captain settles behind a spacious dark wood desk and looks us over. "This is unusual indeed. With whom am I visiting?"

  "This is the prince, Uncle," says Gavroth, barely containing his excitement.

  The Captain seems unfazed. He lifts his thick gray eyebrows and turns his eyes directly on Alain. "Indeed," he says. "You don't mind if I ask to see it?"

  Alain nods and holds out his left han
d. I can’t be seen gawking, but I do want to see how he intends to prove his rank. In the palm of his hand, a raised, red series of three interlocked circles materializes where before there had been only pale grayish blue skin. A brand—the symbol of the Legion.

  Something in my stomach falls. I almost had myself convinced that Alain's former status didn't matter, but there's something very final about watching it blossom in his hand. Now the Captain's eyes register something, and I can't read it. Happiness? Satisfaction? Relief? I can't tell. "Sir," he acknowledges, though there's something grudging there. Had he wanted to prove Gavroth wrong?

  "Alain Northshore, Will Caster, First Class," Alain says briskly, returning his hand to his side. The mark fades. He has the Legion prince voice down, all right. Just the right touch of condescension. I wonder how much of that is an act. "And your designation?"

  "Captain Archibald Rye, Alchemical Engineer, First Class." He says this with a hint of resignation. The Captain is not used to being outranked, and it shows. "Your companions?"

  "This is Lieutenant Holder of Rosalia. She's a swordsman—the best in the Legion, actually. And this…" he casts a sidelong glance at Tressa, disgust etched into his face. "Is our prisoner."

  Tressa doesn't flinch. This must be what they discussed—or rather, what Alain told her. I look out of the corner of my eye at her foreleg. Attached is a metal bracelet with wicked-looking spikes around the closure. The Captain laughs slightly. "I was beginning to wonder why you had a known royalist bounty hunter with you." Tressa snorts, but says nothing. He continues to be amused. "Not exactly inconspicuous, is it."

  I am almost impressed by the Captain's smarm. It must take years of work to get this good.

  "No, indeed," drawls Alain.

  "I am also intrigued," the Captain continues, "by your armor and your sword, Lieutenant. If I'm not mistaken, those are Rebel pieces."

  I panic. It's one thing to lie to Gavroth, but this is a man who knows something about the current state of things. He knows Tressa. He might very well know me by my lacework metal gorget. As far as I know, it's the only one like it. "Taken," I manage.

  "Now, Lieutenant, you know the Legion discourages trophies."

  "It also frowns on chastising subordinates in front of others—a rule I am willing to break for you, Rye." Alain's eyes move around the room as though he is utterly bored by it all. "I know your type. You find yourself the tiniest bit of power and you hold onto it. You throw it around. You intimidate to establish yourself. This is not the sort of operation I want to run, and not the type that the Legion expects to advance. Am I understood?"

  Now I want to kiss him. Rye and Kelvin could have been brothers for all their similarities, and what I wouldn't have given for the words to put my obnoxious officer in his place. The ruddiness is gone from Rye's cheeks now, and he bows slightly. "Yes, sir."

  Alain sighs, a sigh that suggests he's tired of having this conversation. "Now tell me. What makes this camp so special that I'd be sent all the way out here to check it out?"

  "The Legion's noticed us, then."

  "Hard not to, with this lot running around." He waves a hand at Gavroth. "One of his friends slashed me across the leg. Not exactly a stealthy operation."

  Quickly, Gavroth says, "It was a Wanderer from another camp. She joined us briefly and acted without orders."

  "Hmm, I seem to remember it differently," Alain says. "In fact, didn't you attack my lieutenant in broad daylight in a civilian establishment?”

  "We…thought you were Rebels, sir," Gavroth says, face cast to the floor.

  "All the same. This sort of thuggery will get the Legion nowhere. Do you want to build sympathy for the Rebels? How quickly people forget the true character of a faction when a victor is declared. They don't need any more encouragement to deify that princess."

  Deify me, huh. And again, I wonder how much of this is honest.

  Alain continues, "You will keep your desires for revenge focused firmly on the missions I give you."

  The Captain looks up sharply. "You have missions."

  "Provided," he says lazily, "you tell me why I should consider your camp worthy of receiving, and what news you've had from Rosalia."

  Oh, he's brilliant. Maybe I do love him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Alain

  Gods, I hate Rye. No wonder the Rebels wanted us out, if this is how they see the Legion. Fatuous when left alone, simpering when cornered, and boastful in between. Gavroth has been dismissed, likely for discipline later. Rye will not have liked his conduct, and well he shouldn't, but I don't like the Captain’s, either. I would have had them both cleaning the latrines. That seemed like another lifetime, so I am disturbed by how quickly it comes back to me.

  We are given a tour of the place, and it's a testament to the resilience of the people who live and work there. There's a little vegetable patch, and a teacher leading a group of young children. However, in almost every face I see the same hardened, locked jaw and sharp eye that tells me they are still living the war.

  When I mentioned the Rebel victory, I watched Rye cringe. The Grove does not acknowledge defeat. As though the slave camps and the restoration of the inherited monarchy are but minor setbacks. I have at least a dozen scars across my back and chest that say otherwise.

  The war hasn't ended here, and that makes this camp dangerous. I glance to Caelin. We'll need to spend a night for propriety's sake, but after that, I want us out of here.

  How many others are there like this? How many others are waiting for Rosalian salvation? I want to know, but even more, I want to grab each of the weary villagers and shake them by their shoulders and tell them. Rosalia isn't coming.

  Again my mind turns to Jori. Maybe she had made it back to Rosalia after all. Whatever the case, I am tired of being shown how the Grove's chicken population shows hope for a return to the Legion. Caelin looks a little ill, too. At length, I say, "I've seen enough."

  Rye stops mid-sentence and straightens. "You have."

  "It's fairly impressive, the community you've built here. No doubt it's a credit to its inhabitants more than its captain." I have to keep myself from smiling, watching him squirm as he struggles with whether to agree with me or to go on the defense. The one perk of being a prince that I would gladly regain is being able to tell anyone precisely what I think of them. "Still, I think I need more evidence that you can be trusted with a delicate task."

  Rye takes a moment to compose himself, then answers, "Of course, sir. Perhaps over luncheon?"

  "That would be acceptable. In the meantime, some accommodations would not go amiss."

  He gestures to the woman who follows him around—his own lieutenant—who leads us up a different ramp to a barracks. "My apologies," she says. "We are not used to housing princes and their entourages, so you may find the quarters less than hospitable by the standards you're used to."

  "This will be fine."

  Her eyes dart to Tressa and back to me. "I can remove the prisoner to a holding cell if you like."

  "The prisoner will not leave my sight," Caelin barks.

  I am a bad influence on her. I think she might be enjoying playing the part of Lieutenant Holder. Rye's lieutenant bows and indicates a room, the first in a series along the walkway, which is to be theirs. I am given my own. We are told that lunch will be held in one hour. When I am sure that I have been left alone, I make a run for their room, up a ramp a little ways. Unceremoniously, I burst in the door. They both turn, and I hold a finger to my lips.

  Caelin looks baffled and Tressa looks about ready to kill me as I jump without a word onto the cots, reaching out to try and detect a trace of magic. It’s old, so the hum of the spell has been reduced to a subtle vibration, but it’s still strong enough to do its work. I find it in a corner. A little gray box. I pass a hand over it and watch the glass set in the lid shatter. "Listening box," I say, tossing the shell aside, the magic all spilled out.

  "You spy on your own soldiers?" Caelin asks,
disgust all over her face.

  "Not me personally." It's too difficult to enjoy the twist to her face anymore. I look at Tressa. "I apologize. It was simply the only reason I could think of."

  "Why should it bother you?" she asks. "You don't have to wear one of these things." She points down at the inhibitor.

  "What is that, anyway?" Caelin demands.

  "A torture device," Tressa mutters.

  "It sends a mild shock through prisoners when they misbehave. You’ll find yours is disabled. You can take it off whenever you wish. I wouldn't recommend doing that while we're still here, though."

  "You disabled it?"

  I nod. "I'm not interested in taking prisoners." Caelin snorts, and I amend, "Anymore."

  Tressa shifts her weight from side to side. "Thank you, I suppose."

  "I'm going to try to coax out any information about Rosalia’s ongoing interference as quickly as I can, but we may need to spend the night."

  Caelin’s lip curls. "We're running out of time."

  "I know," I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "But this is delicate."

  "What is this place?"

  "It would have been an outpost during the war, but after the siege, those who stayed behind hid away. I heard whispers of places like this often, but never this organized. Gavroth and his bunch wander the countryside and bring in Legion sympathizers."

  "What good could that do?"

  "If the Legion is planning to activate its remnants in Elyssia, keeping them together would be optimal." I rub at the palm of my hand. Summoning the brand is unpleasant at best, like recalling the fire that made it—one reason most princes tend to wear it always. I preferred to keep it hidden for a multitude of my own.

  "And this isn't something you want, prince?" Tressa says, spitting the word out as though it is poison itself.

  "More unrest? I don't think so. I was born the son of a boatwright and am happy enough to be that still as long as there is peace. My first allegiance is to Elyssia. Whatever…" I fumble a bit and manage to gesture to Caelin. "Whatever that may mean. Just make it good, yeah?"