Page 64 of Aubade Rising

I wake disoriented. There’s a hush outside the tent wall that is unnerving.

Not even a bird calls overhead. The canvas tent flaps softly.

Dervla has gone. A fleeting panic that I’ve been abandoned while the Navy marches on Tanwen has me ripping open the tent door.

I’m greeted with the backs of sailors, crowded in front of Cado’s tent, all standing to attention.

A solemn formation, some are in full uniform, most are half-dressed as if they were commanded from their beds.

Not a single person turns or moves as I push my way forward, skirting through the rows.

The scout’s voice travels lonely on the air ahead and I make my way towards him.

“No sign at all your Highness, until this morning. Right when we were about to leave, we saw him.” His voice is grave and the sailors gathered round the tree stump part to let me through.

“You’re sure?” Cado’s voice is deathly soft as I finally reach the front.

He stands tall, spine straight but his face is leached of colour, mouth pressed in a firm line.

Dervla stands to his left, shoulders hunched forward, hands clasping the leather gauntlets round her forearms. Neither react to my approach.

“Certain,” the scout replies. “The rebels were expecting us and wanted us to know it. They used him as a signal.”

My heart is in my throat. An icy trail of dread floods my body. I take my place at Dervla’s side, eyes fixed on the familiar cloak. It lies on the mossy tree stump, covering something large.

Dervla’s gaze is fixed ahead, staring over the heads of the sailors and out towards the tree-line.

Under my breath, I ask what’s happened. She shakes her head and I see tears well in the corners of her eyes.

Her hand stifles what I think is a sob before she turns and pushes her way out of the crowd.

Cado sees her move and gestures to one of the sailors to follow. When he sees me at his side, his gaze changes, becoming hardened and unyielding.

I don’t see the command for others to disperse but the sailors file away, leaving Cado and me alone, standing next to the covered stump.

“Did you betray us to the rebels?” Gone is his melodic, honeyed voice, it’s replaced by a deeper, harsher tone.

“No, never. What’s happened?”

“Do you know who did?” His unearthly, cold voice scratches like gravel down my spine.

“No. What’s wrong?” I barely hear myself whisper, eyes still trapped on the tree stump.

He pauses at my response, anger dissolving. His face is stripped bare of the political blankness and has a look that approaches pity, as if he would like to unknow what has happened today.

“He’s dead.”

My lungs freeze in shock; my knees start to buckle. “Eskar?”

“Our scouts saw his body fixed to the watchtower walls this morning.” He speaks gently, raising his deep green eyes to mine, the bruises underneath them wet.

“There wasn’t a mark on him, not one that could have killed him anyway. I think he was suffocated. That is Kitto’s trademark, after all.” He walks forward and pulls back the cloak covering the tree stump.

No!

I scream, throat shattering. My knees hit the floor and fingernails dig into the dry earth.

Eskar’s body lies prone on the mossy tree stump, eyes closed, arm hanging limply by his side.

He’s gone, truly gone. His dark hair has fallen back from his forehead and tangles with the moss, the old tree stump recognising a companion in death.

He ventured out alone and met his match. Kitto won again.

I make myself take in his body, his neck streaked with red grazes, from frantic hands likely trying to find air.

The grazes are so similar to the ones he inflicted on himself when she tortured him, when I was forced to watch.

But this time, I wasn’t there to save him.

Nobody welcomed him home to Chi An Mor and nobody fought for him when he died.

My legs refuse to move, even though staying here is the last thing I want. Outsmarted again and again. Each time, the price of losing is higher.We failed. I lost Eskar to my arrogance. It was our plan but my retribution.

I force myself to stand, to walk through the small encampment, feet leaden, body heavy, leaving Cado to keep vigil.

The usual busyness of the morning returns as the sailors organise themselves, presumably to leave for Tanwen – to destroy the rebels.

I can’t bring myself to share in their anger, their desire for revenge yet.

Without a particular route in mind, I walk wherever is most empty, stepping over discarded equipment and half dismantled tents.

My cheeks are wet, my chest cracking in two.

I’m at the far edge of the camp, teetering between here and wandering into the forest and losing myself in the trees when I hear the first garbled shouts.

Initially, I ignore them, my fingernails scratching deep into my arms as I try to hold myself together, sobs rising in my throat.

The shouting changes to piercing shrieks cut off mid-scream and there’s a clashing of metal.

I turn. An animal instinct – existing through generations of evolution – calls me to the forest. To run. I’m not a predator here: I’m prey.