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CHAPTER THREE

Elician

E lician has never taken someone prisoner before. It is not something his instructors taught him as he trained to join the war effort. Prisoner exchanges are rare. Once both sides have issued a retreat order, then the conflict is meant to be over for the day. It is simply too much fuss to try to take someone hostage.

Despite this, his uncle Anslian had done it once. He had been named a hero for managing to take Marias, Alelune’s prince consort, as a hostage. For dragging him from the east bank of the Bask River all the way to Soleb’s capital city, Himmelsheim. Elician even remembers standing next to his mother in the throne room as the Alelune ambassador negotiated the terms of Marias’s release. Elician had not been allowed to travel with the party to the Kingsclave when the transfer finally took place, but there had been months of negotiations before then.

Marias had been well treated, of course; no one would have been foolish enough to risk his health and well-being. But he had been caught in the first place because of an injury in the melee. Elician remembers how strange it had seemed to see such a fuss being made over a thin, pale-faced man who said little in his defence and sat slumped in his chair, left leg wrapped in thick bandages from his ankle to knee. All Marias had wanted was to go home to be with his infant son. It had seemed like a reasonable request. Young Elician had even told him so. Marias had smiled at him, and Elician had been escorted out of the room. He never saw the prince consort again.

By capturing Marias and brokering his eventual return in what became known as the Marias Compromise, Anslian secured the west bank of the Bask and the whole of Altas from Alelune. In return, Alelune had the safe return of their prince consort and an agreement that no lands past what they’d conceded would be pursued by Soleb. It had been a resounding victory for Soleb, and a brutal embarrassment for Alelune. Queen Alenée divorced and replaced Marias in the years that followed. For seventeen years, there had been peace. Long enough for new soldiers to be born and raised, Anslian had scoffed when Queen Alenée declared war. She wanted Altas back. And the Bask. And all the land beyond that shore. Three years since the war had begun anew, and she had not stopped trying.

Although Elician has never taken a prisoner before, considering the legacy he has inherited, he rather thinks he is doing it wrong. He has not taken a prince hostage here. The thin waif of the failed assassin is not going to end any wars any time soon. If anything, if anyone discovers that Queen Alenée had resorted to using a Reaper to end her troubles, it would only encourage Soleb’s armies to march deeper into Alelune territory. They did not have to stop at securing control over the river, after all. Soleb leaving the fertile lands to the west had been a stipulation of the Marias Compromise – a proviso they no longer needed to heed after Queen Alenée broke the terms of their agreement with her assault.

No one can know what the Queen had tried to achieve with her Reaper. It would just make the war worse.

That still does not mean Elician knows what he is doing.

He is lucky the Reaper is small enough to fit the makeshift two-person saddle Lio had rigged together for them both. And despite his complaints, Elician does see the wisdom in taking draft horses instead of their Trakehner mares. At over sixteen hands, these horses can more easily manage the weight of their riders and their gear. They will do well on the mountain passes leading to Kreuzfurt too, having been bred to manage the difficult terrain.

It is still not the most comfortable ride to be had. Elician brackets his prisoner between his arms as he guides his horse through the city of Altas and towards the great river crossing ahead. He can feel every breath the Reaper takes. Surely, Elician thinks miserably, even prisoners deserve more privacy than this.

They ride through Altas late at night, passing the streets that clash in architectural confusion, this building built under Soleben rule, that one under Alelunen, one right after another. Arches and curves lean against straight geometric latticework, gold and silver accenting the exteriors as people talk to each other in the chaotic dialect born from a mix of both languages used as one.

Elician hides his sun pendant beneath his tunic as they ride east over the bridge that connects the two halves of the city together. Civilians laugh and chat with one another as they pass. No one pays them any mind ostensibly, but Altasians are good at hiding their attention. Elician feels watched, even if he cannot prove it. The people of Altas are well used to changing allegiances and accepting a new rule of law whenever their city falls. Their loyalty is rarely, if ever, assured.

Crossing the city is like holding a breath too long. Expectation of the eventual release and anticipation for the inevitable conclusion whirl about to an almost painful degree. By the time they cross the bridge from the west side of Altas to the east, his nerves are thoroughly frazzled. It’s been a long day, he thinks dully. I’m tired.

The rest area they find almost an hour later is flat, surrounded by large beech trees, and far enough off the road to ensure some modicum of privacy. Elician helps Cat down from the horse but is barely aware of going through the motions of setting up camp for the night. His uncle would have likely had a system in place for managing a prisoner, but Elician has no idea what might be best. He ties Cat’s wrists and ankles, hopes that is good enough, and curls up next to his saddle.

For the first time in months, he doesn’t dream at all.

It is almost refreshing.

In the morning, he wakes not to the sound of whistles and drums, but to Lio humming a camp song as he cooks breakfast. Their prisoner has been fed – ‘Two bowls of porridge and three apples. He’s got a better appetite than you’ve ever managed’ – and Elician eats slowly as Lio prepares their horses for travel.

Elician is not sure what etiquette is appropriate for interacting with your hostage, but he is uncomfortable with saying nothing. He considers his options, eventually asking: ‘Did you sleep well?’ Cat glances at him, frowning. When Elician repeats the question in Lunae, he is given an even more incredulous look. Embarrassment flushes through Elician’s body. He winces and looks away, muttering an apology as he finishes eating. He still cannot quite meet Cat’s eyes as he cleans up, and when they head out an hour later, he is still not certain what it is he is meant to say, or if he should say anything at all.

For much of the first week, the routine stays the same. They travel slowly, but not silently. Lio seems particularly interested in pointing out every red-rumped swallow and unique foliage configuration he sees, which leads Elician to point out interesting things he sees as well. They make an informal game with transient rules on who can spot which first. Winner would not cook dinner that night. Elician won the first three days, Lio won the fourth, and by the fifth Cat had begun pointing out any new creature or species that he saw too. Elician would verbalize the sighting and take credit as Lio scowled at them both.

‘He’s only helping you because you’re a shit cook,’ Lio says when he catches Cat pointing out a black-bellied warbler.

‘By that logic, you should be willing to let me win too,’ Elician replies sweetly, even if it is the truth. He had seen Cat’s nose crinkling up at the fish Elician had tried making the night before, and even though Cat generally ate anything and everything placed before him, he certainly had not gone out of his way to eat more that evening. Elician would’ve been offended if he was not simply grateful that their prisoner was doing more than sitting quietly and following directions.

He is sure he is tying the ropes around Cat’s wrists and ankles improperly. Too loose, or too easy to shake free. Cat never seems interested in taking advantage of that prospect though, and Elician cannot understand why . He tries talking to him, testing phrases in both Soleben and Lunae. He’s almost certain Cat understands Soleben, for all he refuses to answer in it. But Elician cannot exactly be considered verbose when it comes to Lunae either. Cat refuses to speak, explain his intentions or interact with them beyond the vague miming of polite obedience.

They reach Great Dawn Pass just before sunset on their eighth day and aim for a traveller’s point that promises a glorious view in the morning. Constructed along the saddle of two rocky peaks, the pass provides a near-panoramic view of the countryside. It’s a stubborn slope down but one of the few convenient ways to reach both the capital city of Himmelsheim to the north and the road to Kreuzfurt still further east.

Their good luck, though, seems to falter as they reach their evening resting point. Elician smells the group before he hears them, smoke and spices rising through the air and making his mouth water. Then a lute’s plucking confirms what he had been hoping had just been a sign of hunger: a large party of travellers are already well encamped in the only convenient resting point for the next three hours. Old men and women, families with their children. Elician pats his chest to make sure his pendant is still tucked under his tunic and meets Lio’s eyes as his friend slows his horse to walk side by side.

‘The pass is too steep to descend at night,’ Lio says. Elician glances back the way they came. It had been steep on the way up too. Elician has marched this pass enough times to know the point is the best rest area to be found. He has never had a prisoner with him though. Especially one he wasn’t too keen on allowing near the local civilian population.

This is a bad idea, Elician thinks, returning his attention to the travellers. ‘He hasn’t been much trouble so far,’ he says. The circumstances are far from ideal, but if they break their horses’ legs trying to descend at night, their journey is only going to get worse. Lio grimaces, then nods.

‘I’ll tell them he’s sick,’ he offers, then jerks his head to a somewhat less crowded area to the left of the party. ‘Keep him there.’ Riding ahead, he dismounts and speaks to an old man sitting on the edge of the fire who seems to be the leader of the assembly.

The man looks between them all, then nods, waving his hand. ‘There is space enough,’ the old man calls out. ‘Come, come!’

‘Please don’t hurt anyone,’ Elician murmurs into Cat’s ear. He adjusts, then dismounts. He guides the horse to the area Lio had mentioned and helps Cat get down. Settling him on the ground, he gets a blanket from his saddle bags and quickly wraps it around Cat’s shoulders.

He goes to pull away when one of Cat’s bound hands twists and slips free from the blanket. It snatches at Elician’s sleeve with a weak grip, holding him in place. Meeting Elician’s eyes for the first time since they met, Cat speaks. ‘I was sent to kill you and your family, Prince, not your people.’ His words are accented – a bit too rounded along the top, vowels dragging just a touch longer than is proper – but the syntax and grammar are flawless. Elician had suspected, but the confirmation that Cat can speak Soleben perfectly fine still manages to surprise him.

He glances back over his shoulder. Lio is talking with the group, keeping them back most likely. The large draft horse that had been tasked with bearing both Elician and Cat is lazily chewing on her bridle, sighing like a disappointed grandparent and adjusting her weight even as she starts sniffing at the compact earth beneath her hooves. ‘So you are an assassin,’ Elician says.

Cat presses his lips together and releases Elician’s sleeve. He shuffles his hands back behind his blanket in an almost polite show of respect in an already damaged situation. Head down, in the dark, the circular black scar on his cheek is almost unnoticeable. Elician waits a moment longer for something else to be shared, but Cat seems reluctant to become a budding conversationalist. Turning back to his task, Elician gets the horse and camp settled for the night.

His prisoner stays quiet. Not quite a facsimile of a soldier who fell ill and is at death’s door, desperate for a trip to Kreuzfurt in order to save his life, but at least not running away into the woods.

Elician says, ‘You could, you know. Flee.’ Anslian, Elician thinks, probably never gave Prince Marias such suggestions. He glances back towards the crowd. A child shrieks in delirious laughter, running away from another child in some kind of game. There is food being prepared. Elician had smelled it earlier, and if he squints through the bodies along the fire, he can almost make out someone dutifully tending to a cook pot. Lio is crouched down next to the old man, who has finally taken his seat. They’re discussing something with intense concentration. Elician tries to read their lips—

‘Flee where?’ Cat asks. The words come at a delay, so long after Elician’s that he hadn’t expected a response.

‘You could go home.’ Though it would trigger all the things Elician had been trying to avoid when he first came up with the plan to bring Cat to Kreuzfurt. Cat would tell someone why he failed, Alelune would spread word that Elician was a Giver . . . and that would be enough to destabilize the monarchy that Cat was sent to unravel. Suggesting Cat leave is foolish. A waste. Elician sighs. But it’d be so much easier if everyone just knew what I was and I didn’t have to keep pretending anymore.

‘Home is a cell underground,’ Cat says flatly. Elician flinches at the reminder. He glances at Cat’s pretty face. The Reaper isn’t looking at him, but up at the sky. The stars aren’t out yet, and just for a moment he almost seems wistful. ‘If going home meant a change in circumstance, I would go back, but there is no point now.’

‘What change in circumstance?’

Cat tilts his head slightly, emulating his namesake to eerie effect. ‘I was offered freedom in exchange for your lives,’ he replies slowly, unblinking eyes burning into Elician’s soul. ‘Of all the people on the list . . . you seemed most important. But you cannot die. And so the task will never be complete. Why bother killing anyone else in your family? It won’t free mine.’

‘Queen Alenée offered to free you and your family . . . if you killed me?’ Elician asks, numb at the thought of it. Someone laughs behind them. A whoop of delight that quickly gains timely echoes. Elician glances towards the group, then back to his prisoner.

‘You’re worried I’ll hurt them,’ Cat observes, ignoring Elician’s question. He nods slightly towards the party. ‘I have no reason to kill them. So, I won’t.’ A grimace crosses the Reaper’s face as he tugs the blanket around his shoulders to hide his hands and body from sight. ‘Not on purpose.’

That’s the trouble with being a Reaper, though. It does not need to be on purpose. All it takes is a touch.

‘Sir?’

Elician looks up. A heavily pregnant woman approaches slowly, a bowl in each hand. She smiles politely, dipping her head in greeting. ‘We thought you might be hungry. And we had more than enough to share.’ Standing, Elician closes the distance between them. He thanks her kindly before crouching and setting the bowls on the ground. One by Cat’s side, the other near the fire he had been trying to tend to. ‘Your friend said you’re going to Kreuzfurt.’

‘Yes,’ Elician replies, awkwardly standing between her and Cat and not entirely sure what he should be doing with himself. Rarely has Elician had the opportunity to talk to somebody without Lio or someone else there to serve as a shield.

‘I . . .’ She bites her lip. Lowers her voice. ‘Do you know much about it? Kreuzfurt?’

‘Yes.’ In the firelight, he takes in her face. Her clothes. One hand rests on the swell of her stomach. His awareness wraps around her, reaching out for more beyond what his eyes are telling him. Information slides in through his thoughts as if he had conducted a physical examination himself. She is tired, dizzy even. Her ankles hurt. Her feet ache from hours of walking. And worse, much worse, he senses something he has no business knowing at all. ‘Are you worried about your child?’ he asks.

She bites her lip again and moves closer, tripping clumsily over a stone at the edge of their fire pit. Elician catches her before she falls and guides her gently to the ground. ‘Oh, sorry, sorry!’ She gasps, leaning on him as she lifts one foot and tries rolling her ankle.

‘It’s all right,’ he soothes, skin prickling as he touches her hands. Too late, his senses are already turning towards every ache and pain, every abnormality, every flaw. She’ll notice before too long: a sudden lack of any problem at all. He has already begun healing her without conscious thought, and the longer they stay in contact . . . the better off she will be. He should pull away. Immediately. It’s what his father would have him do. ‘Can I see?’ he asks as he helps her sit down, prolonging the contact needed to help her and vaguely keeping track of each soothed muscle and strained tendon that rights itself beneath his touch.

‘I . . . It’s not that bad, but . . .’

‘I just want to make sure.’

She nods her assent, and he makes a good show of checking her ankle, as if the act of massaging it is all it takes to heal the joint.

‘Oh, it feels better already.’

‘My cousin used to say I had magic hands.’ He smiles, and she laughs, missing the joke but relaxing as he continues to gently rub his thumbs into her skin. Behind him, Elician can feel Cat’s gaze on the back of his neck. But his prisoner does not speak again.

‘They don’t help with pregnancies at Kreuzfurt,’ the woman says suddenly. ‘Do they?’

‘No,’ Elician replies. ‘Givers aren’t allowed to give life, no matter the circumstances. They cannot call it into existence. Until a babe draws its first breath it is not yet considered a life fully formed. Givers are forbidden to interfere.’

‘So, if there was something wrong . . .’ She rubs her stomach again, anxiously. He wonders how often she’s done that. ‘They wouldn’t help?’

Not only would Zinnitzia, the head cleric of the Givers of Kreuzfurt, not help, but she would give a long and detailed argument for why such help would be an affront to the gods themselves. While technically only the royal family are legally forbidden from being healed or resurrected, Zinnitzia’s management of Kreuzfurt is far more draconian than that. She would never allow any of the Givers in her charge to help this woman or her child. Until the moment the child is born, it remains potential only. And Givers have long since been forbidden to enter the realm of potential as far as new life is concerned.

‘What’s your name?’ Elician asks.

‘Kassandra.’

This is a bad idea, Elician thinks, pressing just a little harder on the ankle in his grasp, willing his senses farther along until he can sense the fragile life inside her struggling to survive. ‘Where is the father?’ It’s a terrible question to ask, in truth. Hardly appropriate on the face of it, and worse: the father could well be a soldier on the very warfront that he himself has abandoned – just so he can travel to the very place that would deny her the care she desperately needs.

But she flushes instead of wincing, lowering her voice into a fast-paced ramble. ‘It’s . . . complicated. It’s . . . well, one of the Travelling Givers was doing their rotation through Altas, and I went just for a routine check-up. Might as well, right? Sometimes it’s months before a Giver comes to the city. Especially with the war on – and I didn’t really think anything of it. He asked me if there was anything he could do, and I just asked. My wife and I always wanted children, but I didn’t want to . . . do what needed to be done, if you know what I mean.’ He does. ‘And the Giver, he said it would only take a moment. He just had to touch my stomach and then . . . well, it certainly took less time than the usual method .’ She laughs, but it is a broken, anxious sound.

‘There was no attendant?’ Elician asks. Travelling Givers always came with guards meant to monitor and watch all proceedings.

‘They stepped out, there was a fuss with someone in the line outside and . . . I had a moment of opportunity, so I took it.’ For all the anxiety that came with telling the tale, she concludes it almost in defiance. She meets his eyes, lips pursed, jaw clenched, preparing for a verdict he would never have it in him to pass.

‘May the sun shine on your lives,’ he offers, giving the prayer by rote. Her shoulders relax, but the anxiety has yet to fade.

‘I know it’s illegal,’ she says, ‘and I guessed no one at Kreuzfurt would openly be able to help. But . . .’ She is worried. She should be.

A Giver can start the process. Can help encourage an egg to grow, to travel through the body and latch on to the womb. The child would be a perfect genetic copy of the mother, in all ways. She could even be born healthy and happy. But so much can go wrong, and to ensure the child survived . . . that Giver would need to be there, constantly monitoring growth and development and healing all the imperfections that threatened viability along the way. But Travelling Givers were only ever in towns for a few weeks at best before moving along to the next town in need.

Kassandra has never received the care her daughter requires.

Elician feels the child inside her. Malformed and struggling to survive with a heart too weak to carry on. He can sense the other Giver’s presence there. A subtle kind of fluctuating energy that had provided a spark of life, and nothing more. He drowns that energy with his own. Be well, he wishes. Live. Live, and be well. The child twitches, limbs adjusting. Kassandra flinches, her ankle jerking in his hand. But he is already done. He lets her pull away even as she stares down at herself.

‘I . . . I’ve never felt her move before, but . . .’ She reaches for him, takes his hand and presses it to her stomach. ‘Can you feel that?’ The babe moves again, stretching an arm that had for so long been bent in the wrong position. Better still: he senses her heart, finally beating as it should.

‘I feel it,’ he murmurs. ‘Is she your first?’

‘Yes, yes, I—’ She breaks off, distracted. Consumed by the shock and awe of hope where despair had always lurked.

‘It’s normal to be nervous,’ he reassures her. ‘Where are you going – is it very far?’

‘Himmelsheim. My wife – we have a house there now, all ready for us – I was so scared when I hadn’t felt her move. I thought . . . I thought I’d done something wrong. I was going to go to the temple once I got to the city. Pray as hard as I could.’

‘You probably still should,’ he says, wincing slightly. ‘It’s always best to thank Life for his gifts. And she will be his gift.’ And without another Giver to check on the child’s progress, she really will need a god’s help. Elician has done what he can, and she’s far enough along to give him hope. But the future is never certain.

‘Yes. Yes, I . . . I . . . Gods, I was really scared. And now she’s . . .’

‘Well, maybe you should trip on a firepit more often,’ he suggests, smiling as best he can. ‘Seems like it has good effects from time to time.’

Kassandra laughs, and he helps her back to her feet. Her ankle no longer hurts. ‘Good luck with your own journey too. I hope your friend gets the treatment he needs.’ He’d almost forgotten about Cat’s fake illness, but he manages to school the confusion off his face before it grows too obvious. Dipping his head, he says his goodbyes, and waits as she walks back to the camp.

Elician watches her go. Then, silently, collects the food she had brought. If anyone finds out what you are, his father has reminded him time and time again, you’ll have put all of Soleb at risk. No one in this country is worth saving if it keeps you from the crown. Not Lio, and certainly not some stranger on the street. There is no choice here. You are a prince first. Not a Giver. Act like it.

He’s saved a life tonight. More than one, really. Kassandra and her wife would have been devastated at the loss of the child. He could feel her love and desire and hope in every breath she had taken. And the wife, whoever they may be, has gone all the way to the capital to make a better life for their fledging family far away from the border war at Altas. He has saved a family.

And yet, it – like taking Cat prisoner in the first place – still feels like a mistake.