Page 14

Chapter Thirteen - Luka

“ I ’m so glad we’re getting to spend this quality time together again, Luka,” Octavian says. The smugness in his voice is somewhat lost as he bites the inside of his cheek, words mangled by the gait of his Kiteran horse. He growls and spits a glob of frothy blood into the snow, glaring at Luka like it was Luka’s fault that he bit his own tongue.

Before Octavian can speak again, Darri presses his horse between them. The Kiterans were reluctant to give the Balivartian any weapons, but after much persuasion from Luka, they granted Darri and Darri alone a single dagger. Darri’s hand rests on the blade’s hilt now while he glares at Octavian. Cold wind buffets between them, the stark white landscape and the small party of Kiteran soldiers at their backs.

“Step back, Scholar,” Darri says. He puffs out his chest. The overcast day only highlights the shadows under his eyes, the hollows of his cheeks made more prominent by the two and a half nights he was left behind in Kiteran prison. A fact which Luka is not guilty about.

Luka looks down, focusing all his attention on maintaining his seat. He has not missed sitting in a saddle since his and Theo’s frantic ride to Hessalar, though Kiteran horses are far wider than Siacchian beasts. He is grateful to look away from Octavian, for eye contact with the man only serves to remind him of the confusing night before and the strange sensations and feelings that gripped him.

The night before, when a sudden heat overcame him. The feeling drove him to unlace his tunic to expose his sweaty chest to the inside of his tent, and then a phantom tingling that ran from deep in his stomach to his groin. Confused, he had curled on his side. It took him a few moments to recognize the source of the feelings: Theo.

It was, of course, at that moment that Octavian Scholar had demanded an audience.

“Luka, are you still awake? I wish to speak to you.”

Luka managed to muffle a low groan as the sensation of fingers trailing along his arms and collarbone brought bolts of pleasure to his groin. Truly, he had never felt anything more baffling.

He shifted, and just when he nearly gave beneath the pressure and grasped himself beneath his trousers, the feeling changed to a profound – nearly shattering – sadness. Confused, he curled on his side. It took him a few moments to recognize the source of the feelings: Theo.

And Cathalan.

“Luka, I can hear you in there.”

Before Luka could protest, the flaps of his tent were opened and Octavian entered. Luka kept his expression as passive as he could while Octavian said – something – truly, Luka was only paying him a quarter of a mind, torn between the pleasure burning in his lower belly and revealing none of the sensations to the man prattling on about – truce? Peace? Really, none of it made any sense. And judging by the slight smirk Octavian couldn’t seem to hide, none of it was worth trusting either way.

Octavian paused, “Are you listening, Luka? Or are my intentions to help your hopiar really just moving you to tears?”

“What?” Luka touched his cheeks, mortified to find his face wet. “No – I mean, yes – certainly.”

“Perhaps we should discuss this at a time when you are less… emotional.”

Luka leapt on the opportunity. “Yes. Yes – a wonderful idea.”

Octavian arched a brow when Luka didn’t rise to open the tent for him. Darri paced outside, grumbling disapprovingly, and Luka certainly didn’t want to give them and any other eavesdropping soldiers a front row seat to the pressure growing – again – in his trousers. The sadness faded quickly.

What in Thought’s name are Theo and Cathalan doing to each other to feel like this?

The thought should have been concerning. Instead, it only made it harder for Luka to concentrate on his farewells to Octavian.

As he ducked into his tent, Luka was gripped by another heat again, and this time, he decided it best to embrace the feeling in hopes of driving it away. He wetted his palm with a quick swipe of his tongue and gripped his cock. He was only three jerks in when Octavian’s voice, still just outside the tent, drifted in: “Still thinking of my proposal, Luka? I had a few more thoughts before I went.”

Thankfully, Luka was never a noisy bedmate, and he was able to finish with gritted teeth while Octavian waxed on about opportunities and potential partnership through the thin walls of his tent. It was only after, Luka’s face burning hot, that he recalled Octavian’s sharper than human hearing. Was that why he refused to leave? Because he knew what I was doing?

It means that now, Luka still can’t meet Octavian’s eye.

It also doesn’t help that they are at the heart of a Kiteran company headed by Vittoria Healer.

They were forced to wait several days for the mountain passes to clear beneath a chilly winter sun before Luka begged the Elders to release a group of two hundred Kiteran soldiers. Their group is large enough, hopefully, that Luka will be able to use them to bluff his mother into forfeiting.

But not so large that, should the Kiterans decide to claim a wounded Cesscounthe for themselves, the Siacchians won’t be able to fight them off.

Hopefully.

Luka inhales harshly, and cold bites into his mouth. He curls his hands into fists, trying to wiggle some feeling back into his fingers. Kitera stretches before him, bleak and white, and at their backs, the mountains loom, ominous as a predator. His skin, which had pulsed with a phantom ache and grown burnt-pink over the last few days, has finally healed. Cathalan finally got out of the sun, thank Thought.

The Elders’ parting words follow him.

If you’re lying , Gilianna had said, face perfectly calm. We will come and kill every last citizen in Cesscounthe. And unlike your people, we don’t discriminate between hopiar and human. We do not take kindly to those who try to play us for fools.

As if Luka could forget; Octavian is an ever-present reminder of Gilianna’s threat. Last night was not the first time Octavian haunted Luka’s tent. For each evening, before Luka finally relaxed into his meal and drink, Darri tested his food. Twice, the steaming pile of grains and goat milk were discarded. Once, the milk, when splattered across the snow before Luka’s dismayed eyes, curdled upon meeting the ground, turning a grayish green. Octavian looked on with something like disappointment.

Was all that nonsense about a partnership just a game to him? Luka wondered. Was he just trying to get me to let my guard down?

“You are lucky,” Darri told Luka while Luka gaped, “that Cathalan had me trained as a taste tester.” His words should have made Luka sad – it meant that Darri, who Luka only just learned was Cathalan’s half-brother, would have suffered in training himself to withstand a myriad of poisons. But Luka was too focused on himself.

Lucky was not the word Luka had been reaching for then. And it certainly isn’t the word Luka thinks of now, as Darri inserts himself between Octavian and Luka like a human shield. Octavian’s lip curls as he directs his mare clear of Darri’s path, though the expression on his face makes it clear he will return when Darri lets his guard down.

“I don’t understand what he thinks he will gain by coming after you like that,” Darri murmurs once Octavian’s horse has stomped away.

Luka concentrates on his steed. Though the mare is surefooted, the descent down the mountain –the sheer drop to his side –makes his hands shake. They take a different path down the mountain than before to cut the fastest, and apparently more dangerous, route to Cesscounthe. His answer emerges almost absently, “Should I die, he can go home.”

“What?” Darri says, looking back at him.

Luka blinks, meeting the man’s eyes. He’s shocked now, that he missed any resemblance between Darri and Cathalan before; the two look so similar with their tawny skin, sharp jaws–even the way Darri narrows his eyes looks the same as Cathalan’s suspicious stare. Sure, Darri is nothing but stoic silence to Cathalan’s grins, but with their mouths shut, they could be twins.

“If my horse tumbles from the cliff, I die – and Cathalan dies. But the Kiterans can explain this away with words like accident and exposure –”

“ Poison doesn’t fit. It’s not like five times the lethal limit of lovelace would fall into your cup without intent.”

“Ah, but don’t you see?” Luka smiles grimly, and his heart aches a bit. He misses Theo. He misses him the way a soldier would miss a blade. The way a bird would miss a wing. “The poison isn’t meant for me –it’s meant for you. With my persistent guard out of the way, it will be much easier for an accident to happen. And we’re miles from any sort of help or kind ear who will listen to my cause… and surrounded by scapegoats.” He jerks his chin toward the Kiteran soldiers.

Darri stiffens. He was the only Balivartian soldier allowed to accompany Luka. The others were sent home to the South, escorted by a slow-moving Kiteran group that would guarantee they arrived months later, long before the Balivartians could send political reinforcements. That means Darri is not just Luka’s first line of defense –he’s Luka’s only line of defense.

“He’s really thought that all through?” Darri mutters, looking at the back of Octavian’s head.

The Scholar sits primly on his horse, speaking to a common soldier. Though he doesn’t look back at Luka, his head turns slightly.

“Yes,” Luka says. Octavian sits a little straighter.

Darri takes in this change in posture with a raised brow. He casts a sideways glance at Luka.

Darri was hurt to hear that Cathalan left him behind –again –but he took well enough to his role of guarding Luka. It was, Darri told him, just as important as guarding the king, because of the marriage bond.

Luka inclines his head. Yes, he thinks as Darri’s eyes widen, darting from Octavian to Luka’s face. He can certainly hear us.

“He’s a smart man,” Luka says, because Octavian loves nothing more than to have his ego stroked. “We will have to be careful.”

The tension in his chest eases a bit when Darri shares a small smile with him, and says, “I see. I’m glad you told me as much.”

Luka knows about keeping dangerous, capricious people happy. His mother taught him well. He just needs to survive until they arrive at Cesscounthe –Cesscounthe, where Xyla should be stirring the rebels, and Theo and Cathalan should be at her side.

These Kiterans soldiers will be the last matches to ignite the rebellion that saves the impyassi .

Then Luka can save his brother.

And all he needs to do is keep Octavian happy –and stay alive.

It’s afternoon on the fifth day when Luka’s nerves start to wear on him. Octavian gave up on the poisonings a day ago, and now Luka’s left to wonder what else the Kiteran is planning. Fretting, Luka paces the perimeter of the camp.

There’s more than just Octavian to worry about. They’re traveling far too slow –even after the fifth time Luka questioned the navigator and he received the answer that they will arrive in about two weeks, Luka was antsy and dissatisfied.

His boots crunch snow as he walks. The soldiers eye him with mild disinterest, and Luka does his best to ignore them. Most are tall and light-haired, like Theo, and when he sees them out of the corner of his eye, sometimes his heart gives a hopeful lurch – only to fall in disappointment.

He taps his gloved hand against his collarbone as he paces. There, deep in his chest, he can feel the bond between himself and Theo. Weaker now, with all the distance surely between them, but ever-present. It means that even on long, late nights, shivering in his sleeping sack, Luka knows he’s not alone.

“Luka,” a voice says, and Luka is forcefully reminded that of course he isn’t alone –there’s always Octavian.

The Scholar smiles as he emerges from his tent, like he’s approaching an old friend instead of an old enemy. “Just the person I wanted to see. Hope you’re feeling better? You seemed a little… off the other night.”

Luka’s cheeks warm. If he ignores Octavian, will he just go away? He is caught between wanting to shrink –both to continue the charade and because of the shameful, genuine fear that fills him at the sight of his old captor –and to stand his ground. Before he can make up his mind, Octavian is upon him.

“Walk with me?” Octavian asks.

Luka tries to disguise his nervous scan of the camp as he searches for Darri as a scratch to the neck. But no Darri. The bored Kiterans don’t make eye contact. At the camp’s heart, Vittoria sharpens a knife. Her brown-black eyes find Luka’s and give him some measure of relief.

Octavian doesn’t have the power to kill me in front of her. She is too just to stand for such a thing.

Luka sets his shoulders. “Alright,” he says, and he’s proud of the coolness in his voice.

Their strides match as they fall into the footprints Luka has already laid down in his first lap around the camp. They first walk in silence, and Luka is surprised to find that for all of Octavian’s length, his wrists are just as nobby and thin as Luka’s.

“You know, Luka,” Octavian says at the farthest point from the camp. “It’s nothing personal.”

Luka draws upon the lessons from his tutors and his mother from long ago and wills his face into the calm of a Cesse board. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Octavian chuckles. He’s not an unattractive man; his face is a bit too narrow and his nose a little too pointed, but the lilt to his eyes speaks to good humor when he smiles, not just deviousness. He tucks his dark hair behind his cap before he speaks again, “No need to play dumb. I haven’t given up the game entirely, but I… I’m not the villain you think I am.”

Luka only barely muffles his scoff.

Octavian watches him with narrowed eyes. “You have different goals for when we return to Cesscounthe. No – no need to say anything otherwise. I won’t believe you.”

Luka closes his mouth.

Octavian continues, “I think you have changed since I knew you as Evland Childes. I think you have found that the beast you kept locked away is useful, and that our fellow impyassi do not deserve the treatment Siacchi forces upon them. You’ve gotten nobler. Yes. Disgustingly so.”

A pause.

Luka says, quietly, “Why do you think that?”

“Why else would Theodori have picked you over me? He would never be with a man who denied that part of himself.”

Luka swallows.

Octavian looks out across the fading horizon. The sunset streaks the sky with muted stripes of orange and red, and if not for the eternal cold, Luka might almost appreciate it. “I know I’ve done terrible things to you, but it wasn’t because I wanted to hurt you personally. Well… there was some of that. I didn’t love Theodori, but I cared for him. And you took him from me.”

“Theo is a person. You can’t take a person.” Venom seeps into Luka’s voice despite himself.

Octavian inclines his head, a little furrow digging between his brows. “What I mean to say is that… what I’ve done is for my own gain and my own gain only, but I can see that what you’re doing is for far more than that. Yes, I have been watching you. I know you, Luka. It would be much easier for me if you died, yes, but it’s not my goal. As I said the other night when you were… occupied, your death would just be… convenient.”

Cold fear seizes Luka at this confession. Fur sprouts from his arms, impossible to see beneath his coat. Claws strain his mittens. He swallows, glancing at the camp again. They round the edge of the perimeter. Two dozen steps and they’ll be within earshot again.

Octavian murmurs, “I want success, but not at the cost of hopiar –even if those hopiar are Siacchian. Do you understand?”

Fifteen steps now.

Luka shoves his fear aside so he can dissect what Octavian is saying.

“You… you don’t want Linne to succeed in eliminating all the impyassi in Cesscounthe?”

Octavian’s lips quirk, and for a moment, Luka almost wonders if the soft expression on his face is one of amusement.

Five steps.

“What I want,” Octavian says, “is only the glory of Kitera, of course. Well, that, and –”

“Luka.”

Darri’s voice is like a gust of warmth in the cold evening. He bursts from his tent, eyes narrowed as he searches Luka for wounds.

“Ah, the bodyguard,” Octavian says. He returns Darri’s once-over with a small smile. “And what a nice bodyguard you are.”

Darri’s lip curls as he crosses his arms over his chest. He ignores Octavian as he meets Luka’s stare. He doesn’t speak, only raising his brows.

Are you okay? his gaze says.

Luka dips his head.

“Well, that’s enough of that!” Octavian says. He wraps his cloak around himself tightly, shivering. “It’s freezing out here. Not sure why you would want to pace around in the cold like this.”

And with that, he hurries back to his tent.

Darri marches toward Luka with all of the intensity of an oncoming storm. His hand wraps around Luka’s arm, vice-like, and he growls, “What did I say about being alone with him?”

Luka yanks free. “We have dozens of witnesses.” He jerks his chin toward the soldiers who are watching with increasing interest.

“And you think they would have done anything to stop him?”

“Of course they would have.” Luka snorts. “I can’t imagine how you and Cathalan ever made it through childhood without tearing each other to bits.”

Darri presses his lips together, but the anger does not fade from his eyes. “You are connected to him. You cannot be so careless with his life –especially not after you told me that man is actively seeking to kill you.”

“Actually, I think he just said that he’s giving up on that. For now, at least.”

“What?” Darri blinks. It’s clear he’s just woken from an early-evening nap. His cloak hangs haphazardly from his shoulders, and his jaw twitches, as if restraining a yawn.

Luka shakes his head. He looks past Darri, to where Octavian has vanished into his tent as he mentally replays the brief conversation. He rearranges his mental Cesse board, thumbing over the piece that he thought Octavian was. But no, despite Octavian having cast a long shadow over Luka’s fears for the past few months, there is nothing truly cruel about the man –beyond his own ambition.

“You don’t need to worry about him killing me anymore,” Luka finally says.

“You’re certain?” Darri follows Luka’s gaze, scowling. “That didn’t last very long.”

“I think he realized he’s better served if I’m alive – for now, at least.”

Darri’s scowl darkens. “So you’re fine living entirely by his whims.”

Luka shrugs, wrapping his arms around himself. “I’m used to it.”

“Are you cold?”

Of course he’s cold. It’s impossible not to be cold in the cursed north. The only times Luka was warm here was when he was with Theo. Now every night he falls asleep shivering and he wakes up starving and numb.

When Luka shrugs again, Darri huffs a sigh. He looks around the camp before reaching for Luka’s arm. When Luka skitters out of his reach, Darri closes his eyes, looking as if he’s slowly counting to ten.

“Follow me,” Darri says. “I know something we can do to get you warmed up.”

He turns and walks into the camp without looking back to make sure Luka is following. Luka isn’t sure if he should be impressed with Darri’s own self-assurance, or annoyed that the man thinks he has nothing better to do. He begrudgingly trails behind his guard.

Darri halts outside of his tent, which faces the outer rim of the camp. He rummages about in the nearly knee-deep snow, grumbling, before he finally grunts, yanking free a length of branch. He plunges the limb into the ground, fumbling while Luka glares at his back.

“You wanted to show me a stick?” Luka says, mostly just because he knows it will annoy Darri. He shivers suddenly, so hard his teeth clang together. He can’t help glancing over his shoulder; with the camp at his back, he feels oddly exposed, like Vittoria and Octavian and the other soldiers will glare holes between his shoulders.

Darri ignores Luka. He ties a smaller stick perpendicular to the larger one, fixing a patch of canvas to the edges. He steps back, observing the structure. It looks similar to the makeshift targets the Kiteran soldiers make when they pause for camp each night. Since Kitera has taken the northern swathes of Siacchi, they have started practicing with fuille – and the echoing BANGS of the weapons discharging always sent Luka to his tent, clapping his hands over his sensitive ears.

“It will have to do,” Darri mutters when finished setting the makeshift target. He faces Luka.

Luka bites his tongue when shuddering, and the tang of his own blood fills his mouth. Darri’s eyes widen ever so slightly before he shakes himself. He opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Luka says, “Why haven’t you asked me about Cathalan?”

“What… do you mean?”

“I can feel him, you know,” Luka says. He nods his chin toward his chest, though Darri only responds to the gesture by looking more confused. “His feelings. You haven’t asked about him yet.”

“I don’t much care about his feelings. I care if he’s safe.”

“So you aren’t worried about him and Xyla?”

Darri’s hand stiffens over the knife at his side. “Xyla… that was that… that woman, wasn’t it?”

Luka narrows his eyes. “You realize she’s my best friend, right?”

“Ah, yes, I do remember that. Yes, I saw the way the king was around that –around Xyla. You don’t need to worry. He’ll recover.” Darri unsheathes his knife.

“He’s acted like that around people in the past?” Luka’s words fog the air as he arches a brow. Sure, he only knew Cathalan when they were young, but even then, the king was always guarded with his feelings. Never has Luka seen Cathalan’s eyes follow someone so… hungrily. Longingly.

“He knows how important it is to build a harem that will secure his throne,” Darri replies.

“Besides,” Luka says, “it’s not like they could be together. Impyassi and… well… hushiling –I’m sure the two don’t mix.”

“Oh, they can mix.” Darri spins the dagger around and shoves the handle into Luka’s hand.

Luka blinks. “Are you… speaking from personal experience?”

Darri shakes his head, looking pointedly at the knife.

Luka hides a grin as he glances at the dagger, and any amusement at the thought of Darri mingling with an impyassus instantly vanishes. Beneath his mitten, his palm sweats.

“You know,” Luka says, swallowing. “For Siacchians, they consider violence beneath a brilliant mind. If you are smart enough, you never need to draw blood. All you need are your own wits to protect yourself.”

“Unfortunately, you are not just Siacchian anymore.” Darri turn Luka so they’re facing the stick cluster –a target. “You married the Balivartian king. That means you’re part Balivartian, too.” Darri draws Luka’s arm back, cocking it at the elbow. His hand rests over Luka’s, gripping the knife for him.

“And Balivartians aren’t afraid of a fight.”

There is a crunch of snow behind them. Luka looks back to see one Kiteran soldier on his feet, but Vittoria stops the man in his tracks with her stare alone. Her eyes shift from Luka to Darri, and then to Octavian’s tent. She gestures, and the soldier returns to his post.

Darri launches the knife from Luka’s hand. The dagger snaps through the air, rotating handle over blade, once, twice, three times – THWAP!

It sinks into the lower corner of the target, vibrating.

Oddly, Luka’s stomach tightens, though not with fear or disgust –but with… excitement. He should be horrified at touching this weapon. He should be apologizing, focusing on his Cesse board.

He wants to do it again.

Darri picks up the dagger, feet crunching through the snow. He returns the blade to Luka.

“You are not safe here, Luka,” he says. “And I fear I won’t be able to protect you –or my king. Let me teach you this.”

Luka stares at the blade. He remembers how Evland Childes died at his mother’s hand. He remembers Xyla, bleeding into the dirt. He remembers his own helplessness, choking him.

“I’m an impyassus , you realize,” Luka says, not meeting Darri’s eyes.

“Luka,” Darri coaxes. Luka finally looks at the man. Darri’s face is soft. “I know you don’t want to hurt anyone, but there are people who want to hurt you. And I can’t let that happen.” He offers the knife again. “This will keep those people from getting near enough to hurt either of you.”

Luka slowly accepts the blade. When he faces the target again, his mother’s face haunts him as he pulls his arm back, and throws.