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CHAPTER TWELVE

Elician

I t is a long ride back to the front. Elician had sent news to his uncle, so Anslian knew when to expect them, but time seemed to stretch out endlessly despite the estimate. For much of the first day, Elician and Lio are silent; there is not much conversation to be had. They eat while riding, and dismount only when the horses need to rest. Then, Elician pulls his saddle and bags off his mare’s back and lets her roam the tall grass and drink from one of the Bask’s longer tributaries. They are making good time, Elician knows that, but that success sits heavy in his stomach. Being free from the constant bloodshed of war is a gift he had not expected to receive. And now that he has experienced it, returning to battle is an exhausting notion.

By the second day, though, Lio rallies admirably. He clears his throat and begins a rambling diatribe that lasts through much of the morning. At noon, he suggests turning back. ‘We could tell your uncle your horse lost a shoe,’ he offers with a shrug and an easy smile. ‘We could stay in Kreuzfurt for a week at least after that; Marina would cover for us. He did say we had three months to return. We could stay longer if you wanted.’

Staying longer would mean risking more time spent with Cat. It would mean thinking too much about plans and futures that could not yet exist. Elician could not comfortably hold those thoughts for long; he would never escape their pull if he did. ‘We’re needed at the front,’ he tells Lio instead.

Lio scoffs, shaking his head, and says, ‘Your family is asking too much from you,’ without even a hint of shame.

Elician can almost hear Marina’s lessons from long ago, always ignored but never forgotten. Givers aren’t meant to be on the battlefield. They aren’t meant to be around that much death.

‘You’re the one who wants to marry into my family,’ Elician reminds him lightly. ‘That comes with expectations too, you know.’

‘Adalei is worth it,’ he replies, as serene as a duck in a pond. His cheeks darken as he smiles around the curves of his beloved’s name. ‘Your cousin is a woman beyond compare.’

Lio does not have a way with words. He has never been able to master any poetic turns of phrase, despite his best efforts. In one very early letter to Adalei, at the start of their courtship, Lio compared her to dirt, explaining everything good comes from the dirt as earnestly as any sixteen-year-old boy could. Sustenance grows from it, it’s the foundation everything is built on, and in the summer, it helps cool the worst o f th e heat. What better thing could there be in the whole world than dirt?

His family teases Elician for writing love poetry to Adalei on Lio’s behalf, but he doubts they understand how much of this necessity Lio creates himself. Elician simply ensures she understands what Lio is trying to say, to avoid her becoming offended at his attempts. The rest . . . is Lio. And Lio has succeeded brilliantly as far as anyone can tell.

For some reason, Adalei is charmed by his best friend, and for longer than anyone would care to admit, Lio has always been equally charmed by her. Dozens of men and women have tried to catch his eye, knowing that a place at Lio’s side means a place near the future king of Soleb. Glittering jewels, shimmering robes, chiselled faces and rapturous bodies have all done nothing. Lio’s heart has been Adalei’s since the day she flung her slipper at a courtier who dared speak out of turn at a banquet.

He proposed to her that night: fourteen years old and without any notion of propriety. You’re just a boy , she’d told him simply. I have no interest in children.

Her reaction had done little to dissuade Lio. He had nodded, accepting her opinion, and simply said, I won’t be just a boy for ever.

Ask me when you’re older, then , she suggested.

And he had. Every year since. He had kept up to date with the work she did as an ambassador – and had taught himself the arts that Adalei preferred, so he could help her in her own craft-making. He had served as an official crownsguard on the rare occasions she needed a proper escort during official duties. And he had always made sure that she had time to herself, away from the pestering politicians who chased her down for one more thing .

‘Do you remember when Adalei let me escort her to the Solar Festival?’ he asks now, pulling memories out of the cobwebs in Elician’s mind.

His first thought is nowhere near as joyful. That had been the night his father had announced Elician and Lio would finally be sent to the front to join the war efforts. But if Elician scrapes hard enough, he can just conjure the image of Lio and Adalei. Both were dressed in the uniforms of their station, perfectly matching in gold and purple. Adalei’s head had been carefully covered by the finest silk scarf, ends delicately wrapping around her neck and trailing over her shoulders. Her eyes were framed with kohl, her lips painted red. She had gallantly allowed Lio to walk her into the ballroom, her hand tucked neatly in the crook of his elbow.

Lio had been so flushed with pleasure at the gesture that he had not heard King Aliamon’s war announcement at all. He had kept smiling, dreamy with delight, until Marina dragged Elician from the Festival so he wouldn’t disgrace himself before all their assorted guests. Then and only then did Lio realize the calamity that had just befallen them.

A mere month later, they’d ridden out from Himmelsheim to join the war with Marina sent to Kreuzfurt, banished from Elician’s household. But Adalei . . . Adalei had finally done what Lio had always dreamed of. She had given him a token, one of her silk headscarves. Keep it close, she’d said, pressing it to his hands. Bring it back when the war is won.

Elician glances at Lio now, as his hand rests on his chest. Elician knows the scarf lies beneath Lio’s tunic, always folded over his heart, over three years from that parting.

He still writes to her every occasion he gets. Adalei always writes back. ‘I’m not a child anymore,’ Lio says now as if Elician is not very much aware of that fact.

‘We haven’t been children in a long time,’ Elician agrees solemnly.

‘When we win this war, I’m going to propose to her again. I’m going to do it right.’

‘And she’ll say yes,’ he says, fighting to smile even as his mood continues to turn ever more sour.

That night, when they finally rest for the evening, Elician lies on his bedroll and imagines Lio’s wedding. He imagines blessing the union of the most devoted man in all of Soleb. Knowing that the moment he does, it will mean he will never be able to resurrect Lio from the dead again. When the war is over, he thinks, trying to reassure himself, I won’t have to be worried about him. There will be no need to continue to keep him safe from harm.

Something yowls in the dark of the night. He twists, searching for the animal. But he never sees it. No one ever does.

The attack comes only a day’s ride from the front.

Larger groups of civilians had started to become commonplace on the road, shifting in Elician’s mind from general travellers to refugees as they appeared more desperate in their flight east. His grip tightens on his reins as he encourages more speed from his horse. There is a fine balance between overworking the beast and reaching maximum efficiency, and he tries to achieve it. He worries all the while as the faces of his people grow grimmer with each passing day.

When he sees his uncle’s banners far sooner than expected, he falters, stunned by their presence. He draws his horse up short, stopping it mid-stride. It huffs angrily at him, and even Lio needs to pull around in a circle to make it back to his side. The banners are too far from Altas. If they are here, then the city has fallen. Panic thrums through Elician’s veins as he clicks his tongue and urges his mare forward once more. His heart beats faster and faster as he approaches those flickering gold flags set to either side of a great tent.

A soldier holds out a restraining hand as he approaches. Elician reaches beneath his shirt and removes the golden pendant so the sun hangs visibly around his neck. ‘I am Prince Elician, son of King Aliamon. Let me through.’ Immediately, the soldier bows. Elician dismounts and thrusts the reins into the man’s hand as Lio follows behind him. ‘Where is my uncle?’

‘Inside, Your Highness.’

It is the accent that tips their hand. The words are Soleben, but the accent is from Alelune. Elician stops mid-step and swirls about. Lio has already pulled his sword free from its scabbard. He impales the soldier before Elician reaches him. The tent flaps thrust open and more soldiers come billowing out.

Elician scrambles, hand fumbling for his sword, surprised and wrongfooted. A blade catches him in the side. He gasps as lights flicker across his vision. Lio roars loudly behind him. His consciousness fades as he crashes to the earth. Time blinks forward and he gasps, jerking upright to see bodies lying in a crescent around him. Lio straddles his legs, sword up and defending his prone form from further harm. He must sense Elician stirring, though, because he steps to the side and makes a series of lightning-fast strikes against a pair of assailants to the left.

Rolling to his knees, Elician lurches to his feet. He draws his longsword and falls into step beside his friend. They are outnumbered, and badly so. Grey-clad soldiers continue to flood from the tent in an endless tide. An army of insects focused on one thing and one thing alone.

Elician grits his teeth as he swings his blade towards the enemy. He twists and turns, stabbing at each body that dares throw itself towards him. It is, of course, only a matter of time until one finally manages to strike Lio in the back. Elician hears the harsh hiss of air as it leaves his friend’s mouth. He turns to see Lio fumble and falter, stabbed once, twice, three times before Elician can even try to get between him and those who would harm him.

‘Enough,’ someone shouts. He turns but does not recognize the bald man who approaches with all the cadence of a commander. ‘Surrender, and you can heal your friend.’

Cold horror crashes through him. He stares uncomprehendingly at the man, the flags, the tent, and the Alelunen soldiers so deep in Soleben territory. His fingers tremble. Lio is bleeding out on the ground beside him, unconscious. Perhaps he is already dead.

Lio’s voice echoes through his head. Do good now, because who knows what comes next?

He drops his sword to kneel beside Lio and presses his bare hand to Lio’s face. Come back, he wills. His closest friend, his brother in all things, jerks awake beneath his touch. He gasps for air even as the soldiers rush forward, binding Elician’s hands behind his back and thrusting a dark shroud over his head. It’s an almost amusing mockery of how he had handled Cat on the way to Kreuzfurt.

He hears Lio start to shout, hears him yelling profanities. It makes Elician smile. His father had told him that he didn’t have a choice. He could only be the Prince of Soleb first, Giver second. But this was something his father would never be able to understand.

It is a choice, and his loved ones will win every time.

He is mid-laugh when something hard strikes him in the back of the head. His consciousness winks out, and after that, he doesn’t know how much time he loses. Only that it is long enough to obscure where he is and how far they have taken him.