Ember

by Anna Holmes

  Rye stares. "Sir, they require discipline."

  "Trust me when I say Lieutenant Holder's company is discipline enough." He blows out a breath and stares at the ceiling. "What do you know of the slave colony to the east?"

  "Only that the Rebels took many of our troops prisoner following the siege and have been using them for labor in magical item production. Beyond that, my information is spotty at best. More…rumors."

  Alain nods, rubbing at his angular jaw as though he knows all this already. I pause. Does he? Is this what he was made to do, too? I want to ask, demand what items, but he’s already answering Rye. "Despite all logic, we have been dragging the bounty hunter along because she knows of the locations of several invaluable operatives. It's a delicate thing, requiring specialized alchemical intervention and a skilled archer. Despite their bad conduct, I do believe that your Wanderers will be an excellent fit for this."

  Rye keeps his mouth shut, even though I can see that Alain has him puzzled. I myself am a little confused. We're a bit far off the trail, but we don't need those violent buffoons to get us where we need to go now. Still, objecting would do little for the health of our charade, and he has some reason, I’m sure. He must. Alain is, despite his foolhardy attempt to kidnap me, nothing if not measured. I've seen enough of him at work to see his plans, his backup plans, his last resorts. Rye folds his hands in front of him. "All due respect, but I do have others here that you may find more suitable."

  "I think that I have my mind made up," Alain declares. "We'll spend the evening here and leave first thing in the morning. Prepare your Wanderers for a mission." He stands. "Lieutenant, with me."

  I incline my head, and we leave. He says nothing to me as we retreat down the ramps. Just as well. I don’t think I can keep the wrath from invading Holder’s usual coldness right now. He stops to give Maribelle a pat, then leads me behind the trees. We duck out of view under a set of ramps nearest the camp entrance. He stops us underneath a platform and sets a hand on my shoulder as he looks around to ensure our solitude. "I'm going to try something," he says, his voice low. "But I need your help."

  "What?" I ask, sounding less than charitable, I'm sure.

  He hesitates. "You know no magic. None at all."

  "None," I say. "Sorry to disappoint."

  Alain shakes his head. "It may still work. Just…here." He lays his hand back on my shoulder and shuts his eyes. I'm about to ask him what's supposed to be happening when I get the strangest feeling that I'm not alone in my mind. It's as though there's someone standing in the corner, observing. I glance up to Alain, who grimaces as though he's straining against something. He laughs, his voice thin as though I'd just kicked his injured leg. "You weren't kidding," he breathes. "You are immune to suggestion."

  "Why would I lie about that?"

  "You had just pinned me to the floor because I was hiding in your chambers. Things like that can get blurry." He opens his eyes and releases my shoulder. "Well, this complicates things."

  "What?"

  He looks me over with the same look in his eye that I see on the tailor about to fit me for a dress. Sizing me up. He holds out his hand to me, palm up. "Try it with me this time."

  My hand settles on top of his. His skin is cool and smooth. "What am I doing?"

  "Thinking with me." He takes another breath. "Think very hard about what it would be like to be invisible."

  "Can't we just go back to the room?"

  "Not right now. There's something we need to do first. Now. When I squeeze your hand, think of it."

  "We're going to be seen," I groan.

  "A little confidence, please. Come on, then. Ready?" I roll my eyes, but I place my hand in his anyway. At the squeeze, I try to imagine it. I think it must be a bit like being made of glass. It must make one feel terribly delicate. At once, Alain disappears, and I look like I'm holding onto nothing. "Think hard, Caelin," he says. "You're the air."

  "No, I'm not," I hiss back.

  But I am light, or meant to be, anyway. Maybe invisibility isn't about being seen through, but letting light through the dark spots. I can be light.

  I look down. I don't see my arm anymore. "It worked," Alain exclaims somewhere near me. I begin to pull back, but he tightens his grip on my hand. "Don't let go. You'll become visible again if we lose contact."

  "Fine," I say, exasperated. "What are we doing?"

  "Rye was not as forthcoming as I hoped."

  I glance around. So far, only a few have passed by, and no one has paused. "Do you want to keep it down?"

  "No one can hear us," he says. "I've made the air around us impassable to sound." That would explain where the general noise of the camp’s gone. I’m starting to understand why Alain was chosen to be a prince and why he might possibly have been cocky enough to think he could climb straight up a castle and make off with its most visible inhabitant. "It won't last forever, though," he says, sounding again a little winded. "It is quite difficult to focus on all of this at once."

  "So what are we doing?" I ask impatiently.

  "We're going to see if he has anything else to say when we're not in the room. It's a bit of an ongoing problem within the Legion. Everyone says the right things, except when left to those they trust. I want to hear what he's going to tell Gavroth about why we want him."

  "And that is?"

  "Rye is far too well versed in the backhanded ways of the Legion. He's let slip only what I can tease out of him with my rank. Gavroth, on the other hand, is emotional."

  It is uncomfortable to have a conversation with a person who can't be seen. It's even stranger when you can't be seen yourself. I start to feel as though I am floating away, expanding every which direction. It's not true. I can tell by where my shoulder brushes the support beam that I am the same size as before. "All right," I concede, trying to take my mind off of the feeling of weightlessness. "Let's go, then."

  "Not just yet. There's something that needs to be seen to." I feel his other hand close around mine. "I am sorry. About your father. I had no idea."

  "Neither had I," I admit.

  "It's quiet," he tells me, "and no one can see, including me. You can do what you need to."

  I am overcome by an immense wave of gratitude even as I allow the tears to fall. Any time they had started to, I felt the ghost of my grandmother's rough hand grasping my shoulder at my father's funeral. I heard her snap, "Princesses do not cry."

  But I wanted to. I hadn't all these days, because my mother had done enough crying for the both of us, and she only ever seemed to stop when she grasped my face and murmured about how brave I was. And then there was never time, and always something else to be concerned with, and now it's all caught up with me.

  Take that, Grandmother. Here I am no princess. Here I'm not even visible.

  I find myself moving towards him and finding his shoulder. I lean into the bony curve of it. I feel him pull back in surprise, but his other arm hesitantly finds its way around me. It's nice to feel as though he actually exists, more than a hand gripping mine out of nowhere. Alain's chin rests softly on top of my head. "Did you do all this for me?" I ask, my voice stuffy.

  "I figure no one else has," he answers.

  "They took him from me," is all I can think to say. "They didn't do the will of the people. His people loved him." He doesn't answer right away, and I lift my head. "Didn't they?"

  "I don't know, Caelin. I was too young. I know they wanted a voice. That hasn't changed. You'll give them one, won't you?"

  "Yes, if I live that long," I choke.

  How could poison have made it into the castle? I have to wonder. My father took so many of his meals privately to ensure he spent time with us.

  I pull away, wiping at my eyes, glad he can't see. I know he felt the shake to my shoulders and heard the unladylike heave of my breaths, but there is comfort in knowing that at least I have that dignity left. "Thank you," I tell him.

  "Don't let go," he says. "We are going to drop in on Rye."


  "Can we switch hands?" I say with a watery laugh. "My hand's all damp."

  "Sorry," he says. "Seafolk hands." He takes my other hand, and I get ready to let go, but a funny thing happens. Neither of us does. "Um," he starts.

  "Yeah," I say, as though this is somehow a response. I release his hand and suddenly wish I had it back, seafolk clamminess and all.

  "Let's go," he declares.

  "Can I slap Rye while we're invisible?"

  "I think that would be unwise."

  "Please?" I sniffle.

  He laughs. "We're about to lose our sound buffer, so…"

  We start walking toward the edge of our hiding spot, and I hesitate. "Alain—"

  As soon as I'm about to continue there's a rush of air, and I can hear the rest of the outside world. I know they can hear us. It's a relief. What I was about to say was inadvisable.

  He knows, though. In my head, I hear his voice using my words. Not now, but not never.

  I give his hand a squeeze, and we walk on.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Alain

  It was the responsible thing to say, but I hate it. I just want the warmth of her hand back in mine.

  Thankfully, we have a conversation to overhear, and that takes a little of my focus, at least. The rest is consumed with making sure I don't accidentally step on her or bump her off the edge of one of these platforms. Walking with another invisible person is not easy. I could do it, but I want her to hear, too. I want her to believe what I hear.

  Eventually, I reach out to her both with my hand and with my mind. Give me your other hand for a moment.

  There's a rush of air as she misses, but eventually she catches my hand with her left. Before I lose track of her left arm, I take it and place it in the crook of mine. So I can tell where you are. I feel as though I'm going to push you off.

  There's another squeeze of acknowledgement, and I feel her shoulder brush my arm. It had been the right answer to give her, I remind myself. She did me that favor last night.

  But it feels wrong with her so close.

  Shut up, I tell myself.

  I feel her tense next to me. Did you hear that?

  Another squeeze. That was meant for me. I suppose I'm losing track of who's who.

  Her other hand pats my arm, and she pulls me forward. We manage to make it up the ramp to Rye's quarters with only some minor tipping and rebalancing. I hear her catch her breath next to me. All right?

  Another squeeze.

  Now the problem of the door. I can make us appear to be nothing, but we can't actually pass through objects. It's shut, so I can't make it appear to float open, as I used to when I wanted to scare my sister in the unkinder days of my childhood. None of the windows are open. I listen.

  The room is quiet. I hear the floor creak every so often, but not in our direction. Rye may be pacing.

  Gavroth starts up the ramp. I ease to the edge and hold Caelin against me, making us as flat as I can. Fortunately, he hugs the side of the building. I feel Caelin pull me forward, and I take her meaning. We slip into the room right behind Gavroth. I lunge out of the way as he reaches toward my stomach—or, as he thinks, for the doorknob. "Sit down," Rye says.

  Caelin and I stay near the door. I can feel her tension, the crook of her elbow clamping around my arm. "Uncle, I…" begins Gavroth, fidgeting with his hands.

  I almost feel badly for him. I remember squirming like this. Rye even reminds me a little of my mother, the disappointment emanating from him. The ache in my leg makes me slightly less sympathetic. "Sit," he says again.

  Gavroth takes the chair in front of the uselessly ornate desk. Of all things to save. The gold trim alone might have fed this camp for a year. "That was absolutely imbecilic," Rye says.

  "I didn't know he was the prince," Gavroth mutters.

  "Even so. Picking fights with Rebels will earn you nothing but trouble."

  "They weren't Rebels, were they?"

  "You were under the assumption they were. Honestly, Gavroth, if your poor father were to hear of this…"

  This awakens some sharpness in Gavroth's otherwise very round face, his eyebrows reaching for his nose and his mouth pulling down. "You wouldn't dare."

  So the familial jocularity is not all it seems. Rye stands and leans over his desk, balanced on his hands on the desktop. "Try me, nephew."

  They stare at each other for what feels like ages. I feel Caelin's hand slipping in mine. Damn clammy hands. Hastily, I reach out with my other and grasp hers. Rye sighs. "You're very lucky, Gavroth. Your exuberance for the cause has at least caught the prince's attention. What could very well have ended in punishment wound up a commission."

  Gavroth sits up slightly straighter, a lap dog with a treat dangled in front of its nose. "Commission."

  "He wants you and your Wanderers to accompany him." He rubs at his temples as though he has a headache. "It seems he's trying to free some operatives from the Eastern colony."

  Now the treat is gone, and he recoils. "That's suicide."

  "Better suicide than the court martial you had in store. Count your stars lucky. You'll get your fight with the Rebels after all."

  "Lucky—and I suppose you'll look after August when I'm gone?"

  "He's going with you."

  Gavroth is on his feet, wheeling to face us unknowingly. "Uncle, you can't. Order me where you will, but leave—"

  "I'll order whomever to do whatever needs doing. The prince wants his operatives, and by gods, you'll get them for him. You leave at first light. Dismissed."

  Gavroth stands perfectly still, his mouth hanging open. "You'll rot in hell for this," he spits.

  "And I'll meet you there in due time. Give my regards to your mother when you arrive."

  Gavroth's fist clenches around the edge of the chair, and I watch him consider throwing it. I can see his eyes tracking the arc it would make, smack into Rye's shiny forehead. I am pulling for Gavroth to at least scare him.

  But it stays on the floor, and Gavroth storms out. Rye returns to his papers.

  Caelin tugs at me to follow Gavroth, but I tell her, hold.

  I want to see those papers.

  I feel her pull again. She's panicking as the door slams shut. Hold, I repeat, firmer this time. Trust me.

  Who in a refugee camp does Legion paperwork?

  I lead her closer to the desk. The floor creaks loudly. Rye looks up.

  We freeze, as though somehow this will keep him from seeing us. He stares straight through what is likely the vicinity of Caelin's head. She holds her breath. I squeeze her hand. Rye frowns at the empty space for a few moments, then shakes his head and returns to his writing. We edge forward again.

  I crane my neck until I can read the papers right ways up. They’re too familiar. The official notices of death to be sent to the families of those who died in battle. One for each of the Wanderers. Caelin starts, and I begin to back us away.

  The door slams open unceremoniously, and I blink in the light. A woman is silhouetted there. Rye barely looks up. "You could knock, Crow."

  Jori.

  Caelin's grip tightens on my hand. She must sense my unease as Jori wanders into the room, arms wrapped about herself. She looks cold in the red dress, her arms wrapped about with a loosely knit shawl. And again, I’m struck by how little she resembles the Jori I knew. I rarely saw her out of uniform. Is this what she would have preferred? I’m starting to realize I have no idea. She eases herself to the edge of his desk. "Did he come?"

  "Who?" he asks without looking up from his death certificates.

  "Rye," she growls.

  "Captain to you, Sergeant."

  "Last I checked, that doesn't make a bit of difference in Elyssia," she returns. "Except that you're more likely to rot in a slave camp than I am."

  "I do so enjoy our conversations. But yes. Your prince made his appearance."

  "I told you he would. And you thought you made the Rosalian rescue up."

  "Yes, well, he's putting qui
te the kink in things," Rye intones sharply, apparently finding it much harder to concentrate now.

  Jori smiles at the ground, a demure thing with a little hint of mischief hiding somewhere behind it. My gut lurches. That smile had always been for me, or about me, and once I had been more pleased than anything to call it mine. Now there’s poison seeping from it, and I feel the ill effects. "He is quite good at that. But what's the problem? So your little story turns out to be true. What's so bad about that? Accept his help and find your way back home with your little lost lambs."

  "The only difference between him and any other Legion brat is that he's even brattier." Rye stands up now, agitated. "If they want us back in the flock, why did they send me a child who's only going to get himself killed?"

  "Alain will survive," she says, her voice like marble. It's almost an imperative.

  "A sergeant who mouths off to her captain and dares refer in such a familiar way to a prince. It's a wonder you've survived."

  "And yet you call him a brat incompetent enough to get himself killed, and you forget that I am familiar with him. He is far more skilled than any you've encountered. So far, the only one strong enough to injure him was himself. You'd be wise to resign yourself to his presence and his service."

  I frown. What is she doing?

  There's a tug at my arm toward the door. Not yet, I tell her.

  The tugging grows more insistent, and I turn on her. I'm not going to give us away to open the door. Jori knows this trick.

  She starts. She didn't realize who'd joined us. How would she know? I’d never told her Jori’s last name, or described her.

  Jori might know we’re in here already, but I don't want to chance it.

  Meanwhile, Rye arcs his eyebrows. "That is highly unlikely."

  "Well, it's what's going to happen, so…" She shrugs and smiles sweetly in his direction. "I look forward to watching this all come together, Rye. And I'm not the only one. Ensure that the prince makes it back to Rosalia safely. I'll be waiting on the hill."