by Anna Holmes
I've been thinking about how on earth I'm going to make it back to the castle before All Kings' Day. I'll likely have to catch an airship. It'll cost a pretty penny to take Navigator aboard, but I don't think I'll be riding him across the entire island again if I hope to make it in five days.
And then what? What'll I do with our new followers?
With Alain?
I try to put this out of my mind. There's plenty of time. I need to focus on the colony for now. New rebellions, how I'm going to explain Alain to a suspicious country, and his irritatingly pretty and cruel former love—these can all wait.
I'm surprised by how much I disliked her the second she walked into the room. I pride myself on giving second chances their due, but every word she said grated on me, and that was before I knew she was the one who broke Alain multiple times. I have the leaden feeling that won't be the last time we see her, but I wish it were.
Gavroth has us back on the path we ought to have been on this morning, and with constant looks over our shoulders, we keep on until there's no more light, and even a little bit after that.
I watch Alain coax a campfire to life, pulling on the edges of the flame with his fingers. "I guess," I tell him, "that I did add Tressa along without consulting you. So this is fair."
"Is this an admission?" he asks, eyes widening in surprise. "From you?"
"Shut it, or you'll never get another one."
Gavroth and Tressa are off foraging for something for dinner. Cole wanders the perimeter. I can tell by the way his sharp, dark eyes flit around with every sound that he takes my warning about Rye seriously enough. Fiora, on the other hand, keeps firing the same arrow over and over again, sniping pine cones off the trees. She even has the nerve to look bored. I'm certainly not.
"Thank you," Alain says.
"For?"
"Attempting to be fair."
"Attempting?"
"I suspect it'll take some practice."
"You are just feisty tonight, aren't you."
"Death threats tend to do that to me," he says, his smile just a touch too crooked.
"I would think," I say, "that you'd be used to that."
"The Legion pretends at civility, so anyone who wants to kill a prince usually keeps that to themselves." He stretches out his leg and winces. He's been on it too much today.
I bend down to help him unbuckle his boot. "I meant from me."
"Oh. I suppose you did mention my horrific demise more than a few times." He flinches again as the strap tugs on his wound. "Damn my leg! Would you just bloody leave it?" He waves me off. "Sorry. Just…maybe leave it for a moment. Please."
For once, I do as he says. I stand and swing my arms aimlessly. Sitting still has never been my strong suit. Alain doesn’t seem to be much good at it, either. He stands again with no small amount of labor. "Going to…find a river."
"A river."
"Or a pond, I guess. A body of water."
"Will that help?"
"Usually does."
I take a look around camp. No one’s paying us much attention, but I’m still not in love with the idea of sending him off on his own. I adjust my sword higher on my hip. "All right. Let’s go."
He looks at me, eyebrows tilted down in uncertainty, but at last, he nods, and we start off.
We catch Tressa on the periphery of our camp. "You’re in charge," I tell her, my voice low. "If they give you trouble, shoot them."
Alain looks skyward. "And you’re troubled by my diplomacy."
"See, I’m joking. Mostly. You weren’t." Tressa doesn’t look too assuaged, so I assure her, "We’ll be quick about it. I doubt you’ll get the chance."
She nods, but still casts a glance at Gavroth. I know, it’s unfair to leave her so outnumbered, but I’m confident she can handle them. "Enjoy your tryst," she says, her mouth quirking up.
Alain goes thoroughly blue and opens his mouth to I’m certain say something extremely dignified, but I just grin back, nod toward Gavroth, and retort, "You too." Her nose wrinkles, but she laughs, and I clasp her shoulder briefly before we head out into the tawny, late summer-dried grass.
He stays quiet, lagging just behind me. I tire quickly of hearing nothing but the crunch of our footfalls. I understand him enough now to know that he’s keeping silent on purpose, and that just makes me want to break it more. "Do you actually know where we’re going?" I ask at last.
"There’s water around somewhere," he says vaguely.
"Perfect." I stoop, run my hand over the hoary top layer of grass. It’s brittle, and flies away with the wind when I pull my hand back. But the under layer is the lightest green even in the last of the sunlight, and I gesture with my chin. "Up."
His mouth quirks up to one side. "What is communing with the grass doing for you?"
"The grass is green in streaks," I explain. "Which means water has been running down into the field from somewhere. Given that that—" I point to the plateau above, "is the only land feature big enough to house a significant body of water and I can see the massive swarm of bugs from here, I’d say that’s a pretty safe bet."
He nods slowly.
The terrain gets rocky, uneven. Alain’s ankle wobbles, and he sags forward. I catch him by the arm and haul him back up. He flushes fiercely, but this time, it’s not me. I entwine his arm around mine and hesitantly lace my fingers through his. They don’t fit all the way. The webbing is shortest between his little finger and his ring finger and extends progressively higher with each digit, ending just shy of the first knuckle of his index finger. But my hands are small, and this lets me keep a better grip on him. He stiffens as my hand closes around his. I pause. Maybe I’ve gone too far.
He lifts our hands and observes them. Perhaps they don’t fit together perfectly, but it doesn’t feel wrong. He takes another step, tentatively leaning on my arm. I take his weight and edge us higher up the hill. When we reach the top, he relaxes against me. There is water after all.
I sit cross-legged at the edge of the lake—a glorified pond, really, swelled by the recent rain. After I refilled our waterskins, I had little to do but wait. I’m not one for sitting quietly with my thoughts, but here it’s easy. The red burn of the sun against the clouds has faded into a deep violet, and I catch a few hints of stars. Many have accused me of fighting for my plush castle or my fancy clothes, but really, it was imagining little places like this, free of the Legion that more often than not would cut down a tree in its path than move around it.
And that’s why Rye troubles me. He’s Legion, but he’s learned to build around the trees.
Alain’s tension has flown off entirely. It’s a different person who floats by on his back, his shirt and boots and pouches cast off in a bundle next to me. His eyes closed and his face calm, I can’t imagine that he’s thinking about Rye, or Jori, or me.
I set my hands on my knees and breathe with the lapping of the water. In truth, I’m troubled more by the fact that I can’t quite stop thinking about him even when I’m supposed to be thinking about the political mess I’ve left at home and the myriad people who’d like me dead. I lean an elbow on my knee and my chin on my fist, watching. Twilight and the surface of the water obscure the angry scars across his chest and leg, and for a moment, he’s not a prince or a slave or a hostage, but a boy.
A boy with a skewed smile, a bit of a swagger when he feels up to it, finely muscled arms and legs, and really fantastic hair.
I pull a face. Is this what happens? All reasonable thoughts flee before vacant musings on the subtle valley of his chest and the unsubtle depth of his eyes.
Ugh.
I’d read about these feelings, usually reserved for the heroes of the stories I’d grown up with. And sure, I’d noticed the odd handsome lad here and there in the Resurgence, but this is horrible and wonderful mashed into a fine powder and sifted back through me over and over. I can feel the hourglass of my stomach filling, filling, dread rising in the pit of it, and then he’ll smile or laugh or look at me, and
it tips over again.
I can pretend it doesn’t exist all I want, but the dread accumulates and its name is courtship.
I didn’t need stories on this. I had whole lessons. First, a scandal-free series of outings, on which we discuss trivial things.
Well, we’ve failed thus far.
Then, after the appropriate amount of time has passed, if all goes well and both parties behave respectably, engagement sets in. And all this is public. Oh, certainly, I could follow precedent and carry on a series of secret carryings-on, but secrecy, as I’ve discovered recently, is exhausting.
I let my head hang down, my braid slipping over my shoulder and very nearly into my lap. I can’t erase his past, or mine, for that matter. Any courtship in our future would be bumpy, subject to constant speculation. And it’s only now occurring to me that bumpy is not as much of a deterrent as my stomach would like me to believe.
The thrill and terror of the thought start to fill the hourglass.
A loud splash explodes my silence, and Alain surfaces not far from me. He pulls himself to stand, and though he winces a little, the motion is much more smooth than it was back at the camp. "You are far too serious," he notes. I try not to note the water streaming over his smooth skin.
"Ha. Remember when you screamed at me for taking nothing seriously?"
"I did not scream, I do remember, and that’s what’s got me bothered. I’ve learned. A quiet princess is a frightening princess." He holds out a hand. "Come on."
"Oh, no." I laugh and hold up my hands as though he’s got a weapon pointed my way. "No, thank you."
He sets his hands to his hips and his head to the side. "What’s the matter? Doesn’t royalty float?"
"I float just fine. We just—should be getting back, and I—"
"You can’t swim," he theorizes, a grin forming from the left side of his mouth to his right—the way his real smiles start. The false ones move from right to left. Why do I know that?
I stand and brush the stray bits of grass from my backside. "I swim perfectly well, thank you, sir. How do you think it will look when both of us come back sopping wet? Yes, Legion protocol dictates that a good lieutenant always goes swimming with her prince."
"Well, you’re not a good lieutenant."
"And you’re not my prince," I mumble.
He sloshes closer to shore until he stands in the shallows. "I am a magician, Caelin. I know, the problem of damp clothes is ordinarily insurmountable, but I think I can manage."
I glance in the direction of the water. It does look inviting. Maybe I’ll just wade.
I cast off the sword and start prying up piece after piece of armor. He politely keeps his eyes on the clouds above. Not that he’d see much of anything even if either of us wanted him to. There’s at least two more layers under here. I doff my boots, roll up the bottom of my leggings over the cuffs of my breeches, and stand at the water’s edge. "Do not," I tell him icily, "push me in, or you’ll be sore for a week."
"Fine, fine. But if you do happen to fall in, I am in a unique position to fish you out."
"I won’t be happening to fall in," I warn, trudging against the pull of the water. It does do well for my aching feet. It’s a little chilly, but the numbing is welcome enough. "Fine. Now I’m here."
"Now you’re here," he agrees.
I hold out my arms. "So? What was so important about me splashing in this overgrown puddle?"
"Nothing at all," he sighs, grinning again. "Isn’t that nice?"
I suppose it is, but my hourglass has tipped again. I let my fingertips play over the surface. "What—never mind it."
"What what?"
I wave him off and set my jaw. "It’s unimportant."
He keeps the grin in place, but his voice is gentle enough. "Doubtful."
"What are you planning to do after we—after I…this?"
"After the puddle?" Alain’s smile droops a little as he realizes that he’s not about to get me to laugh. His serious, symmetrical face is back. "I…suppose that’s up to you."
"What?"
He points to his own chest. "Traitor. Admitted criminal."
"If you could do anything."
"Eat a real meal," he muses. "Sleep in a real bed for more than a few days. After that, I… guess I haven’t thought it through."
What should I say? What do you think about formal balls? Long, chaperoned walks? The constant threat of marriage? Sounds wonderful. Why wouldn’t he want that? So I nod, take a breath. "We should get back."
I fold my arms and make my way back to shore, my quick strides splashing water up the legs of my breeches. "Caelin," he starts, his voice faltering somewhere in the middle of my name.
I stop, but I don’t turn around. "Anything of all possible things?" He asks.
I look back over my shoulder. "Yeah."
He swings his long arms, his gaze stuck on the water. "Anything, as long as you’re there. If that’s in any way possible."
The hourglass flips again, and this time, the terror settles quietly in the quickly warming sand of the thrill.
We don’t speak on the way back, but I hold out my hand to him before he stumbles this time. He takes it. I should have said something back, but I honestly can’t find words for once. Hopefully my hand will suffice.
True to his word, by the time we reach the camp, neither of us gives any indication of gamboling in the shallows. I want to ask how, but he stops just before we edge up on the others, gives my hand a squeeze, and lets it go.
In the shadows cast by the stones ringing the fire, I see August, practicing his parry. His sword is good enough for a village sword, but would make consistent, effective practice difficult. I sigh. Bringing him was a terrible idea, but leaving him would have been worse. I suppose that since he's here, I can spare some time for a lesson.
I walk over to him and draw my sword. He reels back, his blade pointed in my direction. I hold up a hand to placate him. "Here," I say, offering him the hilt. "Take it."
He eyes me warily, but in the end, trades me swords. I set his down and adjust his grip on the hilt. "Your sword is heavier," I tell him, sliding his hand further down the hilt, "So you compensate by holding it higher so you feel more in control. You'll get more power if you hold it back here."
He looks back at me sideways. "Power is well and good, but if the whole thing flies out of my hand…"
"It won't. Trust yourself. How old are you?"
"Thirteen, sir."
"Ah, yeah, thirteen is when you either trust too much or not enough. Try just a little bit more, but stop short when you find yourself thinking you're the gods' gift to swordplay. Now. Give it a swing."
He gives it a decent whirl, and winds up with a very passable parry. I slide my boot underneath his sword and kick it up into my hand. His eyes widen. "Will you teach me how to do that?"
"Not for a few years. Sixteen's the time when you stop believing things will hurt you. Maybe seventeen. Sometimes you get reminded when you're seventeen."
I glance back at Alain, holding his leg in his hand. So powerful the only thing that can injure him is himself, Jori said. I don't think she's realized what she's done.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Alain
I watch her help the boy improve his footwork. By now, the rest of us have eaten, but he seems eager enough to learn that she hasn't stopped the lesson. Cole has moved on, and Tressa and Fiora are comparing arrows. I really don’t know how they’re not watching this. I know next to nothing about sword fighting and doubt that will change much, but Caelin clearly is a master. Each movement carries the force of an explosion, masked by the controlled glide of her limbs. It looks as natural as swimming is to me, but from August’s fumbling, I can tell that it doesn’t start out that way. She’s spent a lot of time at this, and it has repaid her beautifully. Gavroth gestures with his head. "Your lieutenant isn't as hard as she seems, then."
I'm too tired for the snotty prince act, and my leg hurts like a thing possessed. I answe
r simply, "You'd be surprised."
"Ah, August tends to do that to people." Absently, he slings a stick into the fire, and I have to wonder how old Gavroth himself is. A boy’s impulse, to watch things burn. "Haven't seen him take to somebody like this, though."
Caelin explains for the third time where to keep his balance when flailing about with a sword. I'm sure there's a better word for it. I squint. It’s not a dance, not the gliding movements of the devoted at prayer, but something in between the two. He keeps stumbling. Patiently, she corrects him, and even applauds when he improves. I fight back a smile. "She's worth talking to, once you get to know her."
"I'll have to take your word for it," he laughs. "Don't think she likes me much."
"She's seen a lot."
He clears his throat. "Er…where were you assigned, if you don't mind my forwardness?"
I should feel nervous about admitting it—I have been, even to myself, for some time—but now where there used to be an awful jumping feeling at my core, there’s just numbness. "I designed the siege."
He sits back, either awed or horrified. "You."
"Me. Obviously, it didn't work out."
"We were always losing," he says, rubbing at his beard and staring at the fire. "Even when we started out." He blinks. "But you're so young for a colonial."
I'd forgotten how old that got. I heard it from the reviewers who took my information during my nomination to prince. I heard it from the other princes, and especially bitterly from those twenty five, thirty year old captains and generals from satellite territories who waited years for the honor I was afforded. I heard it in my mother's voice, pride evident. I swallow the temptation to snap at him—he doesn't know how often I've heard that. Instead, I nod my acknowledgement. It is a fact. "So's August. I'm surprised he was allowed to join."
"Toward the end, recruiting was pretty desperate. You…wouldn’t have seen that."
