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Chapter Three - Luka

L uka’s heart slams against his chest as cold iron manacles close around his wrists. He forces his gaze ahead. He will not look back at Theo. He will not.

At his side, Darri’s shoulders hunch. Twice, the guard attempts to pass a message to his fellow Balivartians, and after an initial warning, the female Kiteran draws her axe and removes another guard’s head from her body. Silence falls as warm blood sprays.

Now, Darri, wet with red, walks at Luka’s side, not a single sound leaking from his lips. It’s impossible for Luka to tell if the man’s shoulders are slumped in defeat, or if there is still a plan churning behind his furrowed brows – and there is little point in Luka trying to ask him.

They are led through the towering walls of Akull. The gate creaks shut behind them as the storm increases in fury. Snow falls so thick now, it’s hard to see – which helps. It means, logically, that even if Luka were to glance back at Theo, to stare at his mate, his lover, beseechingly, it would be harder for Luka to see the man, though they must be only a few strides apart.

But Luka is struggling with logic.

Failure here means we get no allies. It means we can’t make it back to Cesscounthe. It means that, in two months’ time, when Cassian fails the Bombani Exam, Mother will kill him.

This is doing Luka no good. He wets his lips again, instead focusing his attention on the short female Kiteran who leads their group. She moved quickly when she executed the Balivartian guard, and is stronger than her small size implies. There is a strange scent about her, a musk like wet fur. The previous night, Theo tried to show Luka how to use his beast’s nose, and Luka pieces together the meaning now, uncomfortable with how he must draw upon his beast.

She’s an impyassus .

Luka takes in the five other Kiterans guiding them into the heart of Akull; it’s hard to smell them above the wet cold of the snow, but the two closest to him have a similar scent.

Despair knots in Luka’s throat. They’re probably all impyassi.

They are so fortunate that Cathalan arrived wearing the disguise of a diplomatic noble. If he revealed himself to be king and the barbarians decided to turn against him… but why?

What did Cathalan do? The Kiterans wouldn’t imprison a diplomatic visitor, even one from an enemy nation, not when they are already at war with Siacchi – though the West will provide little resistance now that Cesscounthe has fallen.

Luka allows himself a moment of painful terror; the rabbit-like emotion tears through him, and it does little to help. The guard behind his elbow glances at him out of the corner of her eye, and amber rolls across her irises as her nostrils flare. She can smell my fear.

Just as quickly as Luka loosens his grip on his emotions, he clamps down again.

Enough of that.

Yes, enough of thinking back to last night, when Theo wrapped his arms around Luka and they were so close that Luka thought nothing could part them again. That was yesterday, and this is now. Now, when the short female Kiteran’s axe seems eager for another beheading.

Akull grows around them as they enter the heart of the Kiteran capital. Towering pale structures vanish into the growing blizzard. Torches flicker, steaming with animal fat. Luka lifts his chin, craning his neck back to take in the winter palace as snow melts from his lashes.

Akull’s base is lined with tents made of tanned animal skin rippling from the winds that make it through the towering ice walls. Distant puffs of smoke rise, darkening the snowfall with ash. Luka can barely make out the commoners who emerge from their tents, faces dirty, cooking knives in their hands and dinner on their lips as they take in the manacled arrivals; most smile at the sight.

Raised stone paths lead them through the towering, finger-like buildings. Piles of snow rise on either side of the walkways. They likely have to shovel twice a day, if not more. Ice windows gleam against the storm, entire buildings made of a mix of stone and ice. Impossible buildings that could only be made with impyassus strength.

Luka can feel curious eyes following them. They don’t walk for long before the Kiteran soldiers move to separate Luka from the group.

Luka’s wrists ache in his manacles as a Kiteran guides him away by the shoulder. This time, he can’t keep himself from desperately looking back.

“He cannot be separated from me,” Darri says suddenly.

“What did I say about speaking?” the short female Kiteran asks. Her husky voice is low and soft, and on anyone else, it wouldn’t have been threatening – but for the blood smeared across her cheek. There is something familiar about her that Luka can’t place.

“You don’t want us all dead, do you?” Darri lifts his chin as he faces down the Kiteran. He’s almost two heads taller than her. “The newly-crowned king told me to not let his First Consort out of my sight. If he learns that I have disobeyed my orders, myself and my soldiers will be forced to commit suicide.”

Luka manages not to blanch. The lie is bald-faced but delivered with such certainty, doubt flashes across the Kiteran woman’s face. She blinks slowly at Darri, her hand resting on her axe’s pommel. Luka swallows.

Theo says in a gravelly voice, “Vittoria, you don’t honestly believe that nonsense do you? They’re going to kill themselves? With what weapons?” He chuckles and Luka’s stomach rolls.

I hope you know what you’re doing, Theo.

The woman, Vittoria, looks at Theo. Her name brings a flash of memory – Luka, when first captured, and the Kiteran doctor who examined him. Luka tries not to gape. She has changed much in the past months. Vittoria’s eyes gleam brown-black, the beast rolling beneath the surface, and she laughs, though the sound is humorless. “You were always so eager to underestimate our enemies, Theodori.” To the soldier at Luka’s elbow, she orders, “Take this talking one with you to the hole.” Her gaze swings from Darri to the rest of the guards. “The rest can go into the Pen with the soldiers that came with their king.”

“This way,” says the guard behind Luka, though Luka barely hears the words through his relief.

Darri falls into line at Luka’s side as they are guided away from the group, toward the western sides of the city. Luka doesn’t look back, though he imagines he can feel Theo’s eyes following them, cradling Luka’s shoulders until they vanish around the corner. The snow melts on the waterproofed skins draped over Luka’s body, and it is then that the cold slams into him, forgotten in his fright. He realizes his teeth are chattering.

Three guards escort them. All are armed. And all are likely impyassi.

Three versus two.

And then, even if Darri and Luka manage to overpower these guards, they would have to face down the rest of Akull to get to Theo.

Luka closes his eyes and finds himself wishing, not for the first time, that he knew how to reach for his beast.

But what good will that do here, against soldiers who have been trained to fight with their animal from birth?

Hysterical laughter bubbles in Luka’s chest; he doesn’t stand a chance. The thought of turning his frantic claws against the leather-armored woman next to him makes his stomach heave.

They walk in silence, Luka’s chattering teeth punctuating each step. The snow is deeper here, and he must step with care. He tries to conjure his mental Cesse board to ground himself, but the cold is too great, breaking his concentration.

Out of the corner of his eye, Darri’s face remains blank. Frozen blood still splatters his cheeks. It is only when they pass a long stretch of stone and ice buildings, now shrinking to one-story structures as they approach the western edges of Akull, that Luka realizes Darri is signaling something.

Pinky finger scratching at the brown-black blood on his chin. Ring finger worrying his collar. Pinky finger twisting the empty place at his belt where his poisoned daggers used to hang.

Stay in place. Attention with me. Prepare for future orders.

Relief breaks over Luka. Those nights prior when Darri lectured his guards endlessly on dozens of hand signs had seemed overly paranoid to Luka, but he’s now grateful he still bent half an ear to listen.

Darri has a plan.

They’re getting out of this. They can salvage this, somehow.

Luka’s relief wears thin as they exit the city and cross a small, snow-covered hillside. The blizzard has only increased in ferocity, but the manacles tearing dull, frigid teeth into his wrists promise that even the storm obscuring visibility won’t make for an easy escape. The female guard at his side echoes the sentiment in a low growl, saying, “It’s been months since the last prisoner tested the pitfall traps, so please, try running. Help us confirm the spots.”

The snow first rises to their ankles, then their knees, before stopping at Luka’s thighs. His teeth clatter and he tries not to stare at Darri, to will him to send another message. It isn’t until they enter a small, walled camp, with watchtowers high enough that they vanish into the howling winds, that Luka wonders if maybe Darri doesn’t have a plan. Because they seem well and truly screwed. Darri, yet to provide new hand signals since he saw the understanding on Luka’s face, avoids eye contact.

Luka is allowed some measure of relief as they enter a dimly lit building warmed by flickering fireplaces. As the wood door closes on the storm outside and snow from their boots and cloaks pools on the stone floor, the heat that slams into him is so fierce, he nearly stumbles. His numb toes and fingers scorch to life, aching fiercely. He grits his teeth to dampen a grunt of pain.

They must have passed half a dozen guards on the way to the prison’s entrance, but inside, there are only four others, each pair stationed over strange black circular cut-outs in the ground. The four Kiterans raise their heads, and it is the tall, broad man who speaks.

“These are them?”

The woman at Luka’s elbow says, “Yes – did you clear out cell four?”

The man’s expression changes minutely, tensing in a way that Luka nearly misses. He mumbles, “No. All of the cells are full with our other political prisoners from the last of the Siacchian rebels.”

Luka shudders for the third time, as if he can shake the cold from his bones. His clothes cling to him now as his body begins to sweat, and the damp feeling spreading from his armpits is terrible.

The woman grumbles, “I told you this morning, Jauson.”

“But he – he kept talking to me – I thought he might have something important to take to the Elders –”

“And I told you not to speak to them – you know he has a snake’s tongue.” The woman behind Luka heaves a sigh so heavy, it ruffles Luka’s damp curls. “Fine. We’ll put them together for now.” She flashes a bared tooth smile to Luka and Darri. “Unless you two would like to spend the night with pissed off Siacchian mercenaries?”

The woman doesn’t wait for them to reply, instead forcing them forwards. The tall man and his shorter partner approach the first black cut-out. This close, Luka can see it must be made of heavy wood – both men strain as they lift it up –

And reveal a pit hidden beneath.

A pit with two familiar faces peering out.

The first face is expected; the once Third Blessed Prince and now King of Balivartia, Cathalan, first of his name, squints up at them, shading his eyes with a too-thin hand.

The other face is a shock.

Xyla Mobiele stares up at them, her eyes widening once they adjust to the dimly lit prison above. Her lips shape Luka’s name three times before any noise passes from her throat.

“Luka?” she says. “What – what are you doing here?”

“Oh,” Cathalan says with a smile. “Good. You’re here. We can get down to business then.”