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CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Elician

T he Kingsclave is a meeting place designed to broker treaties between two nations that rarely have a reason to be civil. Its physical location rests on the permanent border between Alelune and Soleb (the only part of the border that never changes, no matter what ground is won or lost in the war) on top of a rocky outcrop that reaches high into the sky above the river. Two long paths, one from each country, lead up to the top. A single tower rests there, with an outer ring and an inner sanctum. By sacred decree, no blood can be spilled within the Kingsclave’s walls, and no death can occur on its grounds. For generations, members of both Alelune’s and Soleb’s clerical communities – distinguished leaders from Kreuzfurt, as well as from the sacred temples set up in praise of Life and Death – have tended to the Kingsclave as guardians of that same oath.

The fugitives move as swiftly as they can, reaching the Kingsclave without being discovered, but they are only just in time. As they reach the cliffs leading to the meeting grounds, royal retinues from both sides are already marching up their respective paths to the tower. It is uncomfortably obvious that they will not be able to walk up the path to the building without drawing attention to themselves. If they try the trail from Alelune, they will be captured in an instant. If they try to cross the border first, then double back from the Soleben side, there is no telling how Anslian’s chosen supporters will react.

There is no telling how they will react once Elician reveals himself at the Kingsclave either, but the clerics and the oaths they all share should keep them from slitting his throat immediately. ‘You’ll have to stay here,’ Elician says as they make their way to the only other path to the top: up the cliff wall itself. With sharp and jagged edges poking out on either side, he can easily hide from view if he just stays quiet in the shadows.

It is a steep climb, but the rocks and cracked edges offer just enough handholds for Elician to climb. He can make it. The food Morsen provided during their journey invigorated him more than he had expected. His muscles are still weak, but if he goes slowly, his body will heal the exhaustion as he climbs. He will make it to the top.

‘I always go with you,’ Lio argues.

‘You’re not strong enough to make the climb.’ Lio will need months to return to proper shape, and Elician cannot afford the distraction or energy he would need to heal Lio and climb at the same time. ‘I cannot watch you fall and die again,’ he says, to add weight to his argument.

‘Elician—’

‘If you must do something, then carefully scout the way across the border. We may need a quick retreat.’

‘But—’

‘That’s an order.’ He says it without looking at his friend. Says it knowing it will hurt him.

Still, despite the hurt, Lio’s voice is clear and calm. He says, ‘I understand, Your Hi—Majesty.’ Then, ‘Take a blade with you, at least.’

‘There are no weapons allowed in the Kingsclave,’ Elician says.

‘The actual order is that weapons must be held at the door,’ Morsen pipes up. He takes a dagger from his belt and slides it into place at Elician’s side. ‘You’re not going through the door.’ He is not. And yet the distinction feels wrong. He pushes it back to Morsen.

He says, ‘No,’ and this time, Morsen does not argue.

Even so, as Elician prepares himself to leave, he still does not know what he is meant to do once he gets there. I’m just going to go, tell them my sister’s not for sale, and that we need to renegotiate the terms of the truce. And hope that, after all this time, his own people will still recognize him once he emerges from the inner sanctum with that news.

Taking a deep breath, Elician presses his hands to the stone and begins to climb. The cliff offers poor handholds, but he digs his toes into every possible slant. He presses his fingers into the slightest grooves. His knuckles burn, and he relishes the journey upwards as he trusts his limbs to hold his weight steady and firm. Fraying muscles heal and strengthen with each action. The burning pain of exertion becomes a familiar friend.

There is a peacefulness in climbing. Any fall could delay or destroy his progress. In a mortal man’s life, a misstep could end it. To climb, and climb well, his mind can only be on the rock. He cannot let a single stray thought distract him from his task. He cannot allow even a moment’s uncertainty. The moment he presumes to know better than the rock is the moment he will lose his grip.

He cannot think of Anslian or the Queen. He cannot think of Fen. There is only the climb. One hand, then a foot. Then the other hand, and the other foot. He scans his path with an architect’s eye, looking for the most accessible route while also scouring for impediments. He puts his trust in his experience and grips hard on to jagged edges that threaten to tear open his palms.

The ascent is slow. Wind bites at his back as he climbs. The pungent smell of the Bask River tickles his nose. He shoves that thought down too. It’s unnecessary. Unhelpful. Still, when the wind blows it chases away the smell – and he finds that he times his more determined manoeuvres for when the wind is taking a breath. For a long time, it is just him and the cliff face. And, eventually, it is just him and the outer wall of the Kingsclave.

The wall rises from the cliff, made of stonework battered by the wind and the elements for thousands of years. He digs his fingers into the gaps between the stones. Carefully, slowly, painfully. He climbs. The higher he goes, the more he hears. There are voices now, speaking in both Lunae and Soleben. They guide him further. They beckon him close. One hand, one foot, one hand, one foot. He goes on.

The wall surrounds a great courtyard, and at the centre of the courtyard is the inner sanctum where only the monarchs are permitted, to discuss terms in private. Honoured guests are to wait inside the wall. They witness their monarchs enter the sanctum and witness their return. But the conversations held inside the sanctum are for the eyes and ears of the monarchs alone. Whatever the final terms of any contract are, they are to be determined without influence from outside factors. And if either emerges without the other, or if any blood is spilt, they will have no choice but to face the consequences of their actions by stepping into the courtyard to face the judgement of the opposing side’s forces. Without weapons, that judgement is expected to take the form of an arrest. But Elician has little doubt that the assembled party would find a way to enact their vengeance.

The assembly grows louder as he reaches the top. He breathes deep as he pulls himself up by his fingertips alone, holding the position just until he can confirm that no eyes are on him. The clerics responsible for ensuring the honour of the Kingsclave are going about their final preparations. Their white garb covers them from head to toe. Alelune despises Reapers and Givers, but clerics from Soleb include both. As is custom, all clerics in the Kingsclave are dressed in order to not be identified as one or the other, either as from Alelune or Soleb, or as baseline human or something more. From the sounds of the processions coming up the main lane, it will not take long before the Alelune queen and his uncle Anslian arrive.

He needs to be inside the inner sanctum before then. And from there . . . what? His head aches as he pulls himself up that final stretch. His elbows dig into the wall and leverage him just enough to swing his legs over the top. He spares one glance towards the bottom. Lio is just barely visible now, but when Elician waves once, Lio waves back, and it is enough to confirm he and Morsen are still free for the time being. He watches as Lio ducks into hiding, then he rolls over the top at last, getting a better look at the path to the inner sanctum.

There are three clerics lighting lanterns and making the final precursory rounds. They are talking quietly to each other, familiarity breeding distraction. Elician squints at his path of descent. It will take him several minutes to climb it. The whole while, light will illuminate his body. He would be spotted even by the most unobservant fellow.

No. He cannot climb down yet.

Licking his lips, he sends up thoughts of gratitude that Lio let him do this on his own. He carefully crawls along the top of the wall until the ground directly below him is open and unoccupied. He waits. Waits. Waits. The clerics manoeuvre to the opposite side of the sanctum, their white clothes making them beacons, easy to track as they move. They are fiddling with something. With a deep breath, Elician bunches up his borrowed shirt, stuffs it into his mouth and rolls off the wall. He plummets. It takes barely a second before he smashes hard against the earth. His teeth snap against the shirt as his body tries to scream. He gags and feels his bones shatter and piece themselves back together again. All the while his ears ring perilously, meaning he can’t hear if his fall has been discovered.

Before he has even finished healing, he drags himself away. His legs snap and creak beneath him. His ribs pop back into place. His shoulders wriggle into position. He goes left, then forward, stumbling behind the wall of the inner sanctum just as one of the clerics rounds the corner and starts searching for the source of the sound. ‘It was probably the procession, they’re making enough of a racket,’ one of the clerics excuses. ‘Just ignore it and help me with this.’ Tears streak down Elician’s face as blood drips down his brow and onto his shirt. He presses himself into the shadows, fixing himself bit by bit even as the clerics mumble amongst themselves.

Finally, he is whole again. He spits his shirt from his mouth and takes a few steadying breaths of air before daring to inspect his position better. Taking the main door to the inner sanctum is too obvious. He will not make it there unless the clerics and the earliest of the royal retinues leave. He looks the building over, up and down and – there ! A large vent graces the upper wall. It requires more climbing, but this time the pillars that decorate the exterior are set close enough together that he can brace himself upon them. He will not need to freehand it.

He presses his shoulders to one pillar, takes a deep breath, then sets his feet on its opposite twin. Slowly, so slowly, he ascends. At the top he uses his own weight to push against both pillars, lungs heaving with exertion, and holds his position. His hands search, his fingers digging into the grate covering the vent. A few tugs and it swings silently open on well-oiled hinges. He thanks the care of attentive clerics who are dutiful about their work. Moments later, he angles his head and shoulders through, and shimmies onto the wide ceiling beams that crisscross the top of the sanctum’s dome.

As soon as he’s pulled himself through, the grate snaps shut behind him. He lies on the beams, breathless and sore, and lets himself heal once more. He is finally alone, and without anyone there to see, so he takes a few moments to simply breathe. Breathe, and get his bearings.

There is a table in the centre of the room. Two chairs. No food or drink is permitted in the Kingsclave for fear of poisonings, and blue stones are used as light sources to avoid anyone trying to light someone on fire by way of candle. Apparently, someone had tried once. Elician cannot remember which side started it.

He does not have time to remember. Even as he assesses the layout, he hears the herald announcing King Anslian’s arrival. Then Queen Alenée’s. Elician looks in all directions. The beam he is lying on is not a good place to hide. While it is high enough to obfuscate him should someone not be looking his way, if anyone were to glance up, he would be spotted in a moment. It is a matter of placement then, and luck. Slowly, he shimmies along his beam until he is pressed into the darkest corner, right above the door itself.

It opens as soon as he settles. He holds his breath. Queen Alenée and King Anslian step inside. The door closes behind them, and the two monarchs approach the table. They sit. For the first time in nearly two years, Elician looks at a member of his family. His uncle’s appearance . . . is not what Elician had expected.

Anger had fuelled much of Elician’s journey to the Kingsclave. Anger, and no small amount of desperation. He could not let his sister fall into the Queen’s hands. He refused to let it happen. But that Anslian of all people had been responsible for setting up the bargain to begin with – for Anslian to have murdered his own brother to take the throne – it was still unthinkable. And Elician had always thought he was a better judge of character than that.

Elician’s mind had conjured no shortage of fantasies of what his uncle would look like as king. Proud, victorious, strong. Elician had seen him in countless battles. He had listened to his endless rally calls. He had watched as Anslian walked through the camp, inspecting the wounded and managing his soldiers. Anslian knew how to lead, and how to look like a leader. His version of a king should have been nothing less than exhilarating to behold. And yet—

At some point since Elician has been gone, Anslian’s hair has turned grey. There are dark circles beneath his eyes. Wrinkles that Elician cannot remember having ever been there before. Anslian also now walks with a limp. One of his hands is wrapped in a bandage that seems out of place compared to the other fine clothes he is wearing: clothes that Elician recognizes as his own father’s ceremonial robes. And they have not been tailored for Anslian’s more muscular frame, sitting poorly on his uncle’s body – too short at the sleeves, too long at the waist. Adalei almost certainly would never have let her father attend such an occasion in so poor a state, but she clearly had no involvement in his attire.

Beside Queen Alenée, who is dressed just as decadently as when she’d ordered Lio’s death, Anslian appears wilted. Unkempt. He does not seem the kind of man who betrays for power. Even though his posture is perfect, his head up. Even though he looks at the Queen with the air of military discipline he always wears like a cloak.

‘There are final matters to be settled before we sign,’ the Queen starts, regal and refined. Her voice is calm and neutral, and yet . . . she sounds almost bored. Elician wonders if her emotional capacity only ever extends that far. If she can experience boredom and nothing else.

‘Are there now?’ Anslian asks, sitting across from her.

‘Your nephew refused my request for a child, therefore it is your niece I expect you to give to me. You have her, I presume?’ Her hands remain calmly folded in her lap. She sits and speaks with such unnatural stillness that it casts an illusion of unreality over the scene.

Anslian nods. Elician’s heart quickens. ‘I do. Though I’m surprised. I had been expecting to hear word of your pregnancy since the day Elician arrived in Alerae.’

‘And I had been expecting to hear news of Aliamon’s death for the same length of time.’

‘Your son didn’t kill him when given the chance. He even interfered when you sent that other Reaper to finish the job.’

‘I told you Alest’s actions would always be his own. You’re the one who wanted to be king. You should have murdered Aliamon from the start.’

‘And I told you, it would have been neater if a Reaper had managed the job. Fratricide is frowned upon in Soleb.’

‘Yes, you’re all very quaint about that.’ Coward, her voice seems to say. Elician imagines if given the chance, she would have murdered her own sibling herself to secure her throne. There is a horrible history book in an abandoned room in Alerae that details countless generations of Alelunen monarchs doing just that. Anslian’s attempt to not get his own hands dirty would look weak to Alenée. It looks weak to Elician too. ‘Your nephew was quite upset when I took the liberty of informing him of your involvement.’

Elician does not think he makes a sound. He does not think he has moved. He has been holding his breath since their ‘negotiations’ started, and yet, despite all of that, Anslian’s eyes flick up in his direction. He looks at Elician, sees him. Elician freezes in shock. His uncle’s lips form a small smile. He turns back to the Queen before her attention is drawn upwards. ‘I’m sure he was. He’s always believed in justice.’

‘What a pity for him.’

‘Indeed,’ Anslian says calmly. He stands and produces a long roll of parchment from his sleeve. ‘All the terms and conditions, just as we agreed.’ He hands it to her, and she reads it carefully before nodding. Standing. She flattens the paper on the table and collects the ceremonial pen, prepared to sign. Elician glances about, trying to find the best way down.

I’ll just jump.

‘I’m sorry,’ Anslian says suddenly. The Queen glances up. Too late, and too unprepared. Anslian moves with a soldier’s speed and power, arms and hands in perfect position. Her neck breaks with a sickening crack before Elician can think to shout a warning. Elician leaps, landing on the sanctum’s floor far too late. He shoves Anslian back, only to watch the Queen’s body fall: dead.