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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Elician

T here is no sunlight in the Reaper cells. Without it, Elician’s concept of time slips away. He sleeps in fits and starts in the endless hall of the dead – waking up to near darkness, gasping awake and trembling. He looks, always, to Lio, who has taken to curling up at Elician’s side to keep warm. At least their guards remember that Lio is human. They bring him food and a bucket for bodily functions. They don’t offer much more than that. None of the Reapers have need of such things. They don’t eat. They have nothing to void. After an extended period of malnutrition, your body will enter a kin d of stasis, Marina had told him once. It is exceedingly unpleasant. But you will not die. He had been thirteen years old, curious at what his powers could do. He had never been curious about that again.

Perhaps he should have been.

A bucket has been provided for their cell because Lio is not one of them. Neither Reaper nor Giver, his body will function the way a human’s body should. He voids, and he cannot help it. He apologizes for his own humanity, shame coursing through him as the smell of his waste turns the air pungent. And sometimes, the mere act of using the bucket is exhausting for Lio, who cannot crouch over it well enough without Elician holding him up. He presses his head against Elician’s shoulder, whispering apologies. ‘It’s not your fault, Lio . . . it’s not your fault.’

Elician tries to understand the guards’ shifts as best he can, but they seem random. If one walks the length of the room, it takes him so long to return that Elician imagines him gone for hours. He tried to calculate how many once, but the numbers slipped away from him. He kept losing his place, repeating his integers until he conceded defeat. Maybe there is another doorway on the other side of the room. Maybe the guard exits from there, sleeps, and walks all the way back the next day. Or a different guard returns mere hours later.

Time is a game that Elician loses whenever he wakes, and sleep is how he survives.

Exhaustion overtakes him as his mind tries to adapt to the never-ending darkness. He tries to entertain himself, but the world is dark and dull. He cannot focus on Lio or the people in the cages around him. He sleeps, and wakes, and lies on the ground waiting for a new stimulus that never comes. When it does not, he rolls over and sleeps some more.

The next time he wakes, it is to Lio’s voice. Lio is a social creature, and the silence of the Reapers around them is a challenge. He tries, actively, to get a response from them, practising his Lunae and testing the limits of his known vocabulary. ‘You didn’t manage to irritate Cat into speaking,’ Elician sighs. ‘I doubt you’ll succeed here.’ Lio glances back at him. Shrugs.

‘I was teasing Cat. I don’t intend to tease anyone here.’ No. That does not sound like something Lio would want to do. ‘How are you feeling?’ Lio asks him.

‘I should be asking you that. I’ll be fine. No matter what they do to me. You—’

‘Yes. About that.’ Lio sighs and runs a hand through his unruly hair. It’s finally a tangled mess that matches Elician’s misbehaving curls. ‘Why am I still alive? They keep letting you heal me . . . fix me. Why?’

‘Because you’re my brother in all ways that matter,’ Elician suggests. ‘Because I love you and would bend to their orders to see you live.’

‘You shouldn’t.’

‘I will.’

‘Elician.’

‘Wilion.’

‘You shouldn’t do what they want.’

‘One day,’ Elician murmurs, ‘they will offer me a choice I find too unpalatable to contemplate. And on that day, I will refuse. But until then, Lio, I do not want to be here on my own either.’

It is a brutal thing, Elician thinks, to be loved by me. Too often Lio has not survived it. Too often, Elician has needed to force him back, even when the gods had chosen for Lio to move along. And even knowing that, Elician knows a further truth: one day Lio will die his final death. Old age will eventually claim Lio’s soul and Elician will continue on alone. Givers live long lives. Extending on and on until their god allows them the chance to rest. Only his sister and the community at Kreuzfurt will still be there in the end. And they are the only ones who would understand why their kind shouldn’t love those without their blessings .

‘Stop that,’ Lio murmurs. He taps Elician’s cheek. Not quite a slap, but close. Elician frowns at his friend. His dearest friend. ‘You look like you’re about to apologize for being you .’

‘I should. You should regret ever having met me. You have died half a dozen times in my service. You could have lived a life far away from all of this if not for—’

‘Aye,’ Lio admits. ‘I could have. And I would never have met Adalei. Or had the privilege of having you as a brother.’ He smiles, bright as sunshine in the dark. ‘I don’t regret my life with you, and I never will.’ Someday, though, Elician thinks. Someday, you might.

Elician pats Lio’s arm reassuringly. He smiles as best he can, yet it is too forced to feel real. ‘How did they know about me?’ Elician murmurs. Lio leans against his arm, and they stare out into the gloom together. ‘How did they know I could heal you?’

‘Someone talked. They must have,’ Lio replies.

‘But who?’ Only members of Elician’s family, Marina and Zinnitzia are aware of the truth. Cat knows now, certainly, but he wouldn’t have had enough time to tell anyone. Their abduction happened too quickly. ‘Who betrayed my trust?’

‘That way, madness lies,’ Lio murmurs softly.

Perhaps it does. But the question spirals within him nevertheless. It haunts him. Even as Lio settles in to get some sleep, Elician’s mind spins, working a problem it cannot understand.

A great clanking at one end of the hall announces a new shift in the guard. Elician glances towards them idly, only to sit up straighter when he recognizes Nured. The man is marching towards them at a brisk pace, wielding a torch and trailed by several underlings and . . . what appears to be a child.

They come to a stop outside Elician’s cage, and it really is a child. A boy younger, even, than Fen, dressed in a fine dark velvet tunic embroidered with a glistening silver moon and a smattering of stars. His face and hands are as pale as snow. Curly brown hair tumbles to his chin. Nured hovers beside him, one hand on the hilt of his sword as if Elician and Lio could possibly pose a threat from behind their bars.

‘ You’re a Giver?’ the boy asks. His uneven teeth gleam sharklike beyond the torches.

‘Who are you?’ Elician asks in turn, though a guess hovers at the tip of his tongue. While most of the party seem to be soldiers, there is a woman amongst them now. She wears a fine puff-shouldered dress that sinks to the floor. She has painted lips and carries a writing slab. A leather strap loops the tray around her neck, so she can more easily take notes on a roll of parchment. This child is someone important if he has all these people and a scribe at his back. And there is only one male child with this much importance in Alelune.

‘ I am the Stello of Alelune,’ the boy informs him primly.

He had guessed right. Elician swallows, then greets him by name. ‘Stello Gillage.’ Crown prince and heir apparent. A loud hissing sounds all around them. Elician flinches. Lio whirls about, head twisting as every cage seems to spring to life in an instant. Their neighbours are all suddenly on their hands and knees. They glare through the bars of their cages, hissing that same noise, like steam from a geyser. It started with only one voice, but the sound multiplies. It travels from one side of the room to the other, growing all the while. A multitude of voices clamouring together, hissing and hissing in unison until the noise echoes and crashes upon them from all directions.

The sudden noise is too much after so much quiet. Elician crushes his hands over his ears. Lio does the same, jerking his head to see the bodies moving in their cages. Nured shouts threats and curses at the Reapers in an attempt to control the din. He slams the flat of his sword against the cages, but the crashing does nothing to halt their unified anger.

Gillage begins shouting now, screeching his own name as if that will make them stop. He snatches a torch from one of his guards and aims it at the Reaper nearest to Elician. The howling screech of his victim as fire burns her flesh overtakes the hissing.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Lio throws himself at the bars of the cage. He rattles at the iron even as Elician snatches him by the shoulder to pull him back. ‘Stop it!’ Lio insists, ignoring Elician entirely. ‘You’re hurting her!’

Finally, Gillage pulls the torch from the Reaper. The smell of burnt skin fills the air. Immediate crisis over, horror swirls through Elician. He shifts, taking his turn now, reaching instinctively towards the feeling of agonizing pain that radiates from the cell next to his. He cannot touch her; she is too far away. Gillage slams the torch hard against his wrist for even attempting.

‘I am the Stello,’ Gillage repeats. The hissing does not start up again. The whole room is silent. But all the Reapers watch. They stare at him with unabashed hatred. ‘I am the Stello and you – you are a Giver.’

‘Yes. What do you want with me?’ Elician asks, distracted by the whimpers from the woman just one cage over. He cannot see how badly she’s hurt, but he can sense the ruptured skin already starting to heal over. As a Reaper, her pain is temporary. The gods never let their chosen suffer long. But temporary pain is still pain .

‘ I want you to disappear,’ he says. ‘And I want the world to forget you exist.’

For the life of him, Elician cannot recall having ever seen a child speak with such hatred. When he was a boy, there had been no shortage of schoolyard battles between his peers. All the noble children of Himmelsheim had wanted to take Lio’s place. Many had made their opinion on Lio’s status well known, and their enmity had been evident from the start. One particular group of miscreants had beaten Lio brutally and left him for dead, just to prove a point that Lio was not good enough to be at the crown prince’s side. Elician knows just how cruel children can be and has never been under any illusion that they are wholly innocent. And yet, he has never seen a child press a flaming torch to a person’s body just to watch them burn, and he has never seen a child sneer with such loathsome disdain at a person they had just met. ‘My mother,’ Gillage continues, ‘she wants you here. For now. Until things are ready.’

‘Ready for what?’ Lio hisses.

‘None of your business,’ Gillage snaps back. He turns to the woman with the writing pad. ‘Eline de Carsay will be responsible for your care here,’ Gillage states. Someone else starts hissing now, a few cages down. The sound ricochets, echoing from one cage to the next, threatening to return to its previous cacophony. It settles before Gillage can start wielding his torch and his threats, but it also seems to dissuade the boy-prince from further posturing. ‘Enjoy your stay, Giver ,’ Gillage spits out. He marches back the way he came, leading the group of soldiers and guards with him. Eline is the last to follow, still scribbling on her pad, but she looks up as their lights start to wane.

‘I look forward to making your acquaintance more thoroughly,’ she says. Then she too is gone.

‘And they say Solebens are the dramatic ones,’ Lio gripes as the darkness swirls around them once more. The exchange could not have lasted more than a few minutes, but its aftermath feels cataclysmic. The quiet is also not as oppressive as before. Hissing voices slip from one cage to the next as if messages are being passed. The woman Gillage had burned is still whimpering, burns not wholly healed just yet, and Elician reaches back towards her. He closes his eyes and imagines flesh made anew. He wills everything he has across the span to her cage.

He has no idea if it works, or if her own healing finally manages to take hold. But she stops crying only a few moments later. She sits upright in the gloom, arms around her body. She looks towards Elician, and in perfect – but accented – Soleben, says, ‘He is not our stello.’

‘I don’t understand,’ he admits, frowning. ‘He is Queen Alenée’s heir, isn’t he?’

‘Gillage,’ she says forcefully. ‘He is not our stello.’ She points one long finger in their direction. ‘You lie in the home of our stello.’

Elician blinks. He looks at Lio, but Lio does not seem to understand any more than he does. When he looks back, he notices that the others are watching too. All around them, Reapers are staring their way. Watching and waiting. Their hissing reproach of Gillage was their first sign of discontent. ‘Your stello . . . is a Reaper?’ Elician hazards.

Lio asks, ‘If this is his cell, then . . . where is he?’

Dark eyes peer back at them through the gap in the bars. Considering. Patient. Then: ‘He is serving his queen.’

His queen. The phrasing is precise. Very precise. Precise enough that it triggers a series of thoughts one right after another, like falling leaves after a harsh gust of wind. Elician closes his eyes and lets the leaves fall. The Queen’s firstborn, Stello Alest, had drowned in one of the Bask River’s tributaries at nine years old. His shattered body was found washed up on the rocks. Elician’s family had thrown a party at the news. They had celebrated the child’s death, thrilled that Alelune had suffered such a blow, and even as a child, Elician had been horrified by the delight of everyone in the tragic end for a young boy. Prince of the enemy or not.

Nine years old.

A Reaper.

I wanted to kill you for that party too, Cat had said softly, starlight flickering across his pale face.

It has been twelve years since Alest’s death. Marina had said Cat had been a Reaper for—

Elician’s hand snaps to his mouth.

‘My prince?’ Lio asks. Elician turns to look at him. He trembles, shaking from his shoulders to his heels. He is not sure if he wishes to laugh or cry or rage.

‘Alest,’ Elician says. ‘Stello Alest . . . he’s alive.’ Lio frowns, not understanding. Not putting the pieces together yet. Not even when the woman next to them nods and murmurs her assent. ‘He’s alive , Lio,’ Elician gasps. He presses a hand to his friend’s arm, shaking as the knowledge courses through him.

‘What are you talking about?’ Lio asks him. His hands wrap around Elician’s arms. It is an attempt to steady him, to hold him together. It is not enough.

‘Cat,’ Elician says, shaking under the weight of the knowledge. ‘ Cat is Alest, Stello of Alelune.’ Shaking, too, from the horrified shame that rises up at the thought.

He had been prattling on about his oh so sad reaction to hearing about Alest’s death, and how upset he was at his family for throwing a party, right to Cat’s face. Cat, who had been that terrified nine-year-old boy. Who had drowned and lost his entire world in an instant. Whose own mother had sent him to this place to grow up in the cold and dark, too small to reach through the bars to touch anyone who might have tried reaching back. It never should have happened.

Elician’s heart aches. He wishes he had choked on those words he said. Wishes he hadn’t made a fool of himself. Wishes, more than anything else, that Stello Alest had never drowned that day. Or experienced all that had come after.

Lio squeezes Elician’s arms hard enough to make him wince in pain. Elician can do nothing but squeeze back. Lio’s eyes are wild and shocked. His mouth falls open.

‘Did we . . . did we kidnap their crown prince first?’ Lio asks.

Gods damn them, but Elician is relatively certain that is exactly what they’ve done. For the second time in twenty years, there is a prince of Alelune imprisoned in Soleb.

And it is all his fault.