Page 37

He had done wrong. So much wrong. But in all of this, he has been the only person who seemed to care that it was wrong. And that, in its smallest form, is something Elician can find forgiveness for.

Elician wraps his arms around his uncle and holds him close. He presses his face into Anslian’s throat, smelling the perfume that had always meant warmth and safety even on the darkest days of the war. Anslian’s arms hold him. He weeps into the shorn mess of Elician’s curls, before drawing back to cup Elician’s face once more. ‘Will you tell Lio something from me?’

‘Tell him yourself,’ Elician says, though it is a token protest. He glances at the Queen’s body. At the door. ‘How – how are we getting out? We have to get out. They’ll kill you for what you did.’

‘Elician,’ Anslian sighs.

‘No. No, we need to leave. The grate – can you fit?’ Elician’s already working the maths, the angles. He can swing himself up, and then pull Anslian up with him. They could escape together. Somehow. They could do it.

Anslian says, ‘I killed the Queen of Alelune at a Kingsclave, Elician. It’s my duty to die for that transgression.’

‘No.’

‘I was never meant to be king, Elician. You were. Always. We hid who you were for years, bent law and sense to get to this point. Your father arranged for you to escape, to get free, knowing Alelune would collapse without its queen, and knowing that you would have your chance to rise. You were always meant to wear this crown, to stand as the leader of Soleb and end this war. He wanted that. And so do I.’

‘No.’ Elician shakes his head. He looks back to the ceiling beams. He is going to find a way out. ‘I’m not leaving without you.’

Anslian takes his hand in his. Then, reaching into his borrowed clothes, removes a bundle of envelopes. Names are inscribed on the front, each written in his father’s hand. His own, Lio’s, Fen’s, Adalei’s . . . even Alest’s. The bundle is passed securely into his care. ‘I don’t know what he wanted to tell you in the end. But he said his spy would ensure you were brought here, and that everything would end the way it needed to.’

‘And you still have faith in him? After all of this? After everything ?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I made a vow.’

‘Fuck your vow!’

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Come with me, come. We can go. We can go, and we can figure this out and no one else needs to die.’

‘Elician, everything your father and I did, every moment we fought and argued – then conceded to this negotiation – was to put you in a position to end this war. And now we are on the edge of that victory. The Queen is dead, and her throne is weak. Alelune’s rightful heir is more sympathetic to us than he has ever been, and there is a chance here for you to make sure that all of this ends the way it needs to end. No more manipulation. No more interference from others. It is your time now. I cannot be there for that.’

Not good enough. It is not nearly good enough. Elician shakes his head. He grasps Anslian’s robes and shakes him, his other hand squeezing his father’s packet of letters. ‘You cannot do this.’

‘There’s only one way you’re going to get out of here, Elician. That’s if I walk through that door and give you the opening you need to leave.’

‘I held his head,’ Elician says. ‘I held his head in my arms. I watched them kill Lio. I watched their . . . their prince cut Lio’s throat. I cannot sit here, again, and wait as someone else makes a choice that I can change. I cannot just stay here and watch you die .’

‘Let me do this,’ Anslian replies. ‘Just this one last time. Let me finish this, please.’

‘I’ll bring her back. If she’s not dead, then you cannot be harmed.’

‘You cannot bring her back, Elician. She is a queen. It’s not allowed.’

‘I don’t care ! It’s not allowed to kill someone at the Kingsclave either ,’ Elician yells. He grasps his uncle’s shoulder.

‘But it’s done. All of this is done. Everything we worked for, everything we did. All the sacrifices we’ve made—’

‘Have been bullshit .’

‘But they’re done.’

‘You cannot do this. You cannot lay this on me, the culmination of all your planning, and then tell me to just sit here and watch as they kill you. You cannot.’

‘Let me act one last time,’ Anslian whispers. ‘And when I die, I’ll be with my wilful older brother and my wife.’ Carefully, very carefully, Anslian takes Elician’s hands in his. He folds Elician’s palms inwards, forcing him to cradle his father’s letters between them. Slow and soothing, he says, ‘Please, take care of my daughter . . . watch over her and Lio. Tell him he’s everything I could have hoped for for her. That he has my blessing, now and always. Please. Follow this last command.’

‘Don’t make me do this,’ Elician begs. The fog is returning. The pain in his chest. Despair climbs through his body, squeezing his insides tight. But the choice has already been made.

‘Fen and Alest are not here . . . they’re in the safehouse in Crowen. Aliamon said you’d know the way.’

‘Yes . . . I know it.’

‘Adalei should be with them. I sent her there before I left. Go to them when you leave here. They’ll need you just as much as you’ll need them.’ Then, Anslian presses his lips to Elician’s brow. ‘I have always loved you, my boy. Always. ’ It is too much. It is not enough. It is too soon. Anslian pulls the letters from Elician’s hands and tucks them into Elician’s shirt. He guides him beneath the rafter he’d dropped from and offers his hands as a boost to help Elician hoist himself up. But Elician cannot bring himself to move. He stands, staring at Anslian, memorizing his face. His bearing. His countenance. Everything about him. It is that last look from his uncle that ends any thought of protest or resistance. That last look that makes everything evidently clear.

He’s ready. The world has wreaked havoc on this man. It has torn him to shreds and left him at the end of a terrible path, with no way to move forward. And in the end, he’d not even been the one to land his brother’s fatal blow. Aliamon had killed himself, when Anslian proved too slow at fratricide. He had killed himself and forced his brother to sever his head. Forced him to send the butchered remains of his body to Alelune as proof of a treachery that had never happened, to inspire or traumatize those it needed to influence. He’s ready to go.

Braced by his uncle’s strong arms, Elician swings himself up to the broad beams criss-crossing the top of the sanctum. Anslian wipes his face free of tears, then straightens the garments he’d borrowed from his brother – knowing there had been no need to tailor his own. He would not be King of Soleb for long. In death, as in life, Anslian wears his brother’s influence with love and pride.

Anslian takes a deep breath. He removes his crown from his head. He places it on the table next to the torn treaty. He looks up one last time before bowing to his nephew. One hand over his chest. He speaks, and Elician’s heart breaks. ‘I wish you good fortune, as the new Sun King of Soleb. May your journey be far kinder than ours has been.’

Anslian steps towards the door, reaching for the ornate handles.

‘Uncle . . .’ Anslian waits. He glances up. ‘You’re not going to be a villain in the history books. I swear to you. Adalei will know what you tried to do. That you tried to stop it. She will be proud of you. As . . . am I.’ It is the only thing he can say. It does not feel good enough. ‘I forgive you,’ Elician adds on, softer still, but heard nonetheless. His uncle closes his eyes. Takes another steadying breath, then nods to himself. He opens the door.

Elician presses his back against the wall as he balances on the supporting beams, hiding deep in the shadows. He presses his hand to his mouth as Anslian steps outside. As he announces, in the booming voice of a veteran general, ‘The Queen is dead. She kept my nephew, Elician, son of Aliamon, prisoner for these past few years, and this is my justice. I accept my punishment and my fate but say this: Elician is the rightful King of Soleb, now and always.’

Chaos descends.

The Alelunen troops rush forward, calling for Anslian’s blood. The clerics just barely manage to keep the Soleben contingent back when they try to intervene, ordering them to leave the Kingsclave and return to Soleb. The Queen’s body is removed from the inner sanctum and Anslian is taken away, to be dealt with by the Alelunen party. There is no trial; there is no need for one. Anslian admits his guilt and, by sacred oath, he is handed over to Alelune to face whatever punishment they deem fit. There can be no recourse. Even his own people don’t argue with this judgement.

The shouts and yells echo through the inner sanctum. With the door thrown wide, Elician can hear everything . He can hear how they shout for Anslian’s head. How they tear at his father’s clothes, wrapped poorly around Anslian’s body. He can hear the crowd growing more enraged with each passing second.

Elician clenches his eyes shut. He squeezes his palms over his ears. He breathes in and out as slowly as he can, waiting for the chaos to fade into nothingness. But the furore only grows. The Alelunen contingent makes haste as they remove Anslian from the Kingsclave grounds, shouting about assaulted honour and decency betrayed. They, unlike the Soleb traitors , intend to follow neutral-zone protocols. No blood will be spilled inside the sanctuary. No harm to its delegates will be permitted. But the same cannot be said for outsid e it . . .

They have started chanting their anthem as they march. Their voices swell in a vicious tide, carrying on and on until there is nothing left save the echo of their fury. The courtyard beyond falls quiet. There are some stragglers in their wake, but far fewer than before. They are milling about, murmuring to themselves about the failed Kingsclave. Some are clerics, worrying about what this means for their position as clerics. What does it mean for them, that they allowed a monarch to die under their watch?

Elician waits for as long as he dares. When he moves, his legs cramp badly. He breathes through the tingling pins-and-needles pain that slithers up his thighs and calves. Soon, the pain eases and he navigates towards the vent, across high beams, with careful ease. He hesitates before he slides out.

The crown is resting on the table, right where Anslian had left it. It glistens gold. Each careful thorn is a masterfully sculpted sunbeam in the candlelight, curling over at the edges just as the sun curves its light around the world. It should not be left here, at the Kingsclave; it should be returned to his people. Perhaps the clerics had not seen it before their judgement was enacted. Perhaps there simply has not been enough time yet to take it. The Queen’s body has been hastily collected and ferried off. But everything else has been left as it was. The crown should not be left behind, he thinks again. Yet, if he goes down now and removes it . . . they will remember that it had once been there. And how will he ascend to the rafters again without help?

Leave it, Elician thinks. He squeezes his eyes shut. I’ll get a new crown, he decides. One not steeped in my family’s blood.

Pushing open the grate, Elician checks below. No one is there – so he slides through the gap to hang precariously by his fingertips, then drops to the earth with a thump. He waits until his body heals the damage from the fall.

Turning, he presses himself against the wall of the inner sanctum. He listens to the clerics as they settle the keep for the night. Lanterns are going out. Whispers are falling silent. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, but knows he needs to leave soon. Lio will be worried.

He glances around the corner again, only to jump back when a cleric rounds it to face him. His voice catches in his throat as he tries to come up with some sort of excuse. Some sort of terrible excuse that explains away his presence. Then the cleric pulls down the white cloth obscuring their face. Raises one finger to her lips as her features are revealed. ‘Zinnitzia!’ he gasps.

She motions for silence again as she continues behind the inner sanctum – circling the tower to return to him. Once her circuit is complete, she speaks, her voice pitched low. ‘All clear, no one left.’ Then she disappears, and he waits for her, frozen against the wall.

His heart thunders behind his ribs and his hands have started to tremble again. He can’t stop thinking about his uncle’s farewell kiss. More lanterns go dark. The sanctuary is now draped in the shadows of the evening. He still does not move.

He waits, and waits, and finally Zinnitzia returns. She is not alone. Another cleric is with her, tall and slender. She also removes her head covering, and he tumbles forward to embrace Marina. She holds him close, wrapping her arms around him as she has done since he was a child – never once letting him come to harm.

‘He did not betray Soleb,’ Elician whispers into Marina’s neck. ‘My uncle was not a traitor. He did not kill my father.’

‘We know, little king,’ Marina replies. And that is not right. It cannot be right. He has always been her little prince . But now – now he is something different. Something wholly different. He pulls back and she lets him go. She squeezes the back of his neck, tender and fond. ‘We were informed just before it happened. Your father sent us here to wait for you – for however long it took. But he said to trust that you would make your escape in time.’

‘In time for what?’ Elician asks. Zinnitzia steps forward, holding up the crown he’d left behind. The one that had caused all this despair, all to protect a king without the right to rule. He is a Giver. He never should have been given this chance. And yet here it is. He realizes he hates the crown, hates it more than he has ever hated any inanimate object in his life.

‘Your father failed as a king and a father,’ Zinnitzia says. ‘Your uncle did as well.’ He clenches his fists, confused by her words, awash with emotion.

‘But they sacrificed themselves for their country—’

‘They put their personal preference, for you to rule, above their own duty to the people,’ Marina cuts in. ‘ All life is sacred. Including their own. They should have served their people – not sacrificed themselves for you. Nor bent laws or common decency just to ensure you had a place to rule. One cannot make choices to sacrifice those in the present for a future that might not come to pass.’

‘But what if they’re right? If this war does end under my reign?’ He thinks, then, of Alest. Who refused to kill his family. Who had every right and reason to want to, but still hadn’t. And who, by Anslian’s own accounts, has been manipulated this entire time, but is still the true heir to the Alelunen throne. He swallows, hating himself for volunteering someone he hasn’t spoken to in years, someone just as condemned as he is. But still, he asks, ‘What if Alest and I can halt the bloodshed, stop the war?’

‘They were still wrong to do what they did.’ Zinnitzia holds the crown up again. ‘I, Zinnitzia of Kreuzfurt, proclaim you, Elician, son of Aliamon, first of your name, Sun King of Soleb. To uphold the sacred oath of your office, and your country.’ She lowers the crown onto his head. ‘Long may you reign.’ She steps back, one hand over her heart. In unison, she and Marina bow to him. ‘May it all be worth it.’

‘What are your orders, sire?’ Marina asks.

‘Fen,’ he murmurs. ‘We need to find Fen. Then . . . home. I want to go home.’ Marina and Zinnitzia nod.

They do not need to ascend the walls to escape the Kingsclave. No one is watching as they exit through the door to Soleb. They walk the long and lonely path to the bottom of the fortress. Then, Marina goes to collect Lio and Morsen as Zinnitzia stays at Elician’s side.

Together, as they wait for the others, they stand under the blood-red moon that had risen upon the Queen’s death. The gods are watching.

Gillage will be proclaimed king in the coming days. Elician does not know what started the war aeons ago, but he knows what will drive it forward now. Queen Alenée is dead. Her forces will rally in her name, and they will be led by a sadistic child who relishes doling out pain to those he finds wanting. And somewhere, between now and then, his uncle will face Alelune’s fury. He will be executed in the name of vengeance, and Elician must allow it to happen.

‘All life is sacred,’ he murmurs to the night sky.

‘Even yours,’ Zinnitzia murmurs back. He had not wanted her opinion. But now that he has it, he feels the weight of the world crash onto him once more. All life may be sacred, but some people still must die. He presses his palms to his face and weeps for all he’s lost. Zinnitzia offers no comfort. He does not expect it. No word or touch could offer relief here. He can only cry. And when he runs out of tears, after Lio, Morsen and Marina rejoin them, he mounts his horse and guides them all towards Crowen.

He just wants to go home.