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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Elician

E lician has seen the border towns of Alelune before, but none of them compare to the capital city of Alerae. Built entirely of alabaster and limestone, Alerae seems to glisten in otherworldly white. Where Soleb’s capital city of Himmelsheim is awash with golden arches and gleaming representations of Life and his great sun, Alelune is its mirror opposite. White stone pillars with silver adornments shimmer gloriously under the full moon of the night. Blue stones, mined from Alelune’s north, illuminate the corners of the city. Ornamental arches swoop over each doorway, and great pillars and tall brickwork make up the line of homes and businesses that crowd each city street. Each structure is rectangular and tall with long lines that reach up towards the sky. All dwarfed by the great glistening palace, which casts shadows over any who approach.

The leader of the group that had overtaken them is a tall, hairless man named Nured. He takes a certain kind of pleasure in jerking on the lead attached to Elician’s tightly bound wrists. Nured’s knots do not slip or weaken, and each snapping pull forces Elician into a half-stumbling jog as he tries to keep pace and not fall. Lio rarely keeps to his feet when his lead is jerked. His stability and balance have been in decline since they crossed the border into Alelune, and he has been losing weight and mobility the longer he is forced to march.

Nured only ever offers meagre portions for them to eat, and water comes once every four hours at best. While Elician’s body will regenerate itself as needed, Lio’s can only waste away. He trips and falls now at such regular intervals that Elician often needs to barter with their guards for permission to help his friend. Then and only then can he send soothing waves of comfort into Lio’s body, supporting him so they can continue to trudge forward.

They are not brought into the palace.

Instead, just before the main gates, Nured opens a door and marches them down a series of steps leading deep beneath the city. Torches with blue flames light the way into the abyss. Elician’s thighs burn as they descend. His knees creak unpleasantly, and he needs to steady both himself and Lio when his friend loses his balance again and nearly sends them both tumbling to the bottom.

‘I have you,’ he whispers, squeezing Lio’s arm as one of Nured’s underlings shoves him in the back. He nearly falls but manages to hold his balance. ‘I have you,’ he repeats. They keep walking. Down to where the sun cannot hope to reach them.

The stonework is extraordinary and the craftmanship undeniable, even in the dim lanternlight. Their steps echo almost musically along the carefully built walls. Absurdly, he imagines this to be a wonderful place to play an instrument. The reverberations would hum and echo pleasantly within the stone stairwell. He almost laughs at the thought, but his humour fades when he needs to prevent Lio from falling once more.

Their energy flags as they reach the bottom. Elician sways in exhaustion, squinting at the seemingly endless hall now before them. Cages line the walls with the occasional support pillar dotting the walking space between each cell. He cannot see where the hall ends. It is not lit well enough for that. Another hand shoves Elician in the back. His knees hit the ground this time as a wave of vertigo overcomes him.

Lio reaches for him. ‘My prince—’ he starts to say, and is promptly struck in turn, right in the same spot. Lio curls over himself, gasping and bracing for another.

‘He’s not your prince here ,’ Nured sneers.

‘Shockingly,’ Elician replies, preparing to hoist Lio to his feet once more, ‘that’s not how monarchies work.’ He waits until his friend meets his eyes. ‘Ready?’ At Lio’s nod, they stand together. Lio sways but manages to keep upright. Their legs are shaky beneath them, but they manage to keep walking. Neither is struck again.

Elician peers into the cages as they go. It is dark here, so dark that only one pillar in five seems to display a lit torch. The guards carry their own to illuminate the path, but the gloom feels even more oppressive when he realizes an abyss of shadows lies beyond their small party.

At first, Elician thinks the cages are empty. But then . . . no, there is movement. There’s one person per cage, small, curled up and pressed into the darkest corners. They are filthy and ill-kept and Elician’s stomach turns at the familiarity. Cat had looked just like them when they first met.

Finally, they stop at a truly empty cage. The door screeches open and both Elician and Lio are shoved – and locked – inside. Nured leads the rest of the entourage away. No questions asked, no information provided. No audience with the Queen. ‘What the fuck,’ Lio curses, rolling over and trying to assess their situation. Elician’s eyes struggle to adjust. When they do, there is precious little to observe.

The ironwork that holds the cages together is sturdy and bolted into the ground. The cages themselves do not reach the ceiling, instead cutting off at a certain height. Elician can stand, but only if he hunches over, his shoulders touching the top and his head tucked low. There are gaps between each cage too. If he stretched an arm out to his neighbour, he would not be able to reach them. Not unless someone reached back as well. He doubts they would.

The people in the neighbouring cages do not look his way. They lie curled on their sides, backs to Lio and Elician, and silent in all things.

Elician presses a palm against his chest in a horrible attempt at calming his too-fast heart, unnerved by the hideous lack of stimulation. The silence is so all-encompassing that he feels a cold sweat break out on his neck. He shivers and tries to take a few steadying breaths, and is saved only when Lio rallies enough to ask, ‘Where are we?’

The question echoes, bouncing off the nearest wall and ringing in Elician’s ears. Lio had not spoken loudly, but it felt booming.

‘The Reaper cells,’ Elician replies. He thought he had managed to keep his voice down, but it still feels too loud. There is a cloying kind of despair in a place this quiet. During their travels, Elician had often wondered at Cat’s refusal to speak. Now, he wonders if Cat ever felt the world beyond this place was overwhelming. Chaotic. He closes his eyes and summons up the memory of that first haphazard sighting in the midst of the battlefield. Cat’s hands pressed against his ears, as if somehow he could block out the cacophony of war.

He wonders which is worse.

‘They’re Reapers?’ Lio asks. Elician flinches at the volume.

‘Yes,’ he confirms, opening his eyes once more to investigate their surroundings with more attention.

They are sitting directly on great slabs of alabaster. But alabaster is a soft stone, easily moulded and carved. He presses his hand against it and feels the grooves and marks of a long habitation. There is a shallow divot at the back of their cage, a small one – perhaps the indentation of a body where it had lain for a long time.

Marina had said Cat had only been a Reaper for eleven or twelve years. Which meant he had first come to the Reaper cells as a child, around eight or nine years old. Elician tries to imagine a child in a place like this.

‘No one is going to find us here,’ Lio says. The words are too loud, and yet his voice is a balm. He shakes the bars of the cage as if the door will magically open for him. Someone, several cages down, turns towards them, but when their eyes meet, the face ducks down and away.

Alelune did not publicize his capture. He was not brought before the Queen and her court. There is still time for that, but if Alelune wanted to use Elician as a political tool, they would not house him in a place no one goes. If formal talks between Alelune and Soleb begin, Queen Alenée will not admit to having Elician as a prisoner until it gives her an advantage. She will deny his presence. And, if Alelune denies them . . . if there is no proof of life, then death or desertion are the only options his father will have when it comes time for him to explain Elician’s absence.

He will never admit I’m a Giver, Elician thinks, blinking into the gloom. He won’t admit I deserted either. It will make us look weak. Him, weak. And if he wants to keep the people motivated enough to endure the fight . . .

A dead prince serves as better propaganda than a flighty one.

Exhaustion slithers through Elician’s body at the thought. He lies down, curling on his side just as this cage’s previous occupant once had done. ‘I think we should have turned around when we had the chance, Wilion,’ Elician murmurs to the cool stone beneath his cheek.

‘Yeah. Next time, let’s not be in so much of a hurry to rejoin the army,’ Lio replies, shuffling close enough for Elician to feel his warmth.

‘Next time . . .’ Elician should say something. Something funny, lighthearted, something to make it better. All he can think of to say, though, is, ‘Next time, let’s just go home.’

Lio nods. Pats his shoulder. All they can do now is wait.