Allegiance by Cayla Kluver
Temerson’s posture had gone tense, and something like anger was building within him.
“We were completely at his mercy. King Adrik had no choice but to send for all the officers in the palace and at the Military Complex, and each one of them came. The Overlord allowed the King to meet privately with the men. As he did so, the rest of us who had taken refuge in the palace were called into the courtyard. When the officers filed out of the Throne Room, they were resolute, reconciled. My father caught me and told me…”
He faltered, but his expression betrayed no weakness. He was determined to continue without giving in to his feelings.
“He told me to know that King Adrik had given permission for any man among them to escape if he could, that they would not be cowards for it. My father said for me to remember, even if no one else did, that not one of them chose to flee. They chose instead to die for their kingdom, to protect the people and their men.
“The officers were marched to the military training field and we were herded along behind. The training field was overflowing with Hytanican citizens who had been forced to assemble. The Overlord charged the officers to stand side by side in an execution line at the top of the hill overlooking the field, where all could see. We were made to watch—wives, children, sisters, brothers, parents. I watched. My father was the seventeenth to die.”
Speech was impossible; the horror was too great. The Overlord’s cruelty was legend, but never had any of us imagined that he would be so heartless after his victory was complete, when we could no longer put up a fight. And the way Temerson spoke of his father’s murder, which he had witnessed, so matter-of-factly—it was haunting, inexpressible. Clearing his throat, the young man pressed on.
“Before he started, he searched for you—all of you. He knew the King and Queen were gone, but he wanted the captain, the Sergeant at Arms, London, to torture especially. When none of you were there, he realized you must be with the royal family. So he called for the royal family’s bodyguards to come forward, those who would know the location of your hideaway, or he would kill everyone as slowly and painfully as possible.
“After he’d slowly tormented the first two officers to death, Halias, Destari and Casimir gave themselves up for interrogation, in exchange for the quick deaths of their comrades. They were taken away, back to the palace.”
In the midst of this gruesome tale, I recognized that the deputy captains had handed themselves over when Narian could easily have identified at least two of them. He had told me he would save as many lives as he could, extend what mercy he could, and I tried to convince myself he was being true to his word, despite the welling anger that insisted he should have tried harder to stop his master from performing these atrocities.
“He went down the line then,” Temerson said, “making each man scream and fall to his knees, slaughtering them with no visible weapon. He was fast with most. They died within seconds, merely part of the demonstration. The only one he…”
Temerson’s brown eyes briefly met the captain’s, and behind his implacable deportment, Cannan knew what the boy would say.
“He recognized your brother, sir. He thought for a moment Lord Baelic was you. Narian corrected him, said he was mistaken, but the relation was obvious, and…”
“And he took his time,” Cannan finished, his face stony. His eyes, however, were strange, blazing with a fury unlike any I had seen. His brother had been viciously punished because of an unlucky family resemblance, because of the position Cannan held, because Cannan had not been there himself to accept retribution. Rage was first and foremost in the captain’s gaze, but guilt burned there also, and grief, betrayed in no other way. How did he manage such control?
My hand was over my mouth, and tears trickled down my cheeks as I grappled with this horrible truth.
“Not Baelic,” I choked out. “It’s wrong, not Baelic, he can’t…he can’t be…”
My uncle of only a few months could not be dead. Envisioning his lifeless body was absurd; surely nothing could have taken away that perpetual grin, his love for his family, his hopeless affection for the horses Lania scarcely tolerated. What would Lania and the children do without him? Someone so needed could not pass away. But the Overlord had given it no thought, none at all. He didn’t give a care for the family he had destroyed, for the wonderful man whose life he had unjustly taken.
Galen, whom Baelic had treated as a nephew right along with Steldor, had blanched, and his jaw was tight. He looked to Cannan, struggling to match the incredible fortitude of the captain. I could tell it was his instinct to back out of our circle, to find solitude, but he resisted, drawing from Cannan’s example and fighting back his emotions.
“I—I ran, once it was done,” Temerson said, glancing to the back of the cavern, wanting to be dismissed. “The Overlord saw me but laughed and told his soldiers to let me go, I was only a boy. The next I remember, London found me.”
Finished with his tale, Temerson stood, and when no one tried to stop him, he led Miranna by the hand, and the two of them stumbled toward the corner of the cave.
“Get him some bedding,” Cannan said huskily to Galen, shrugging in Temerson’s direction. Somehow I knew this was done to remind the Sergeant at Arms of our circumstances, of the necessity of discipline; it was a strange sort of comfort.
Galen seized the excuse to escape, but I was afraid to be alone. Faces were flashing through my mind, each and every person now gone, making this nightmare all too real: Baelic, of course; Baron Rapheth, Tiersia’s father; Temerson’s father, Lieutenant Garrek; Tadark and all the other Elite Guards. And the three who had surrendered themselves for interrogation—Halias, carefree and devoted; Destari, stoic and trustworthy, London’s best friend; and Casimir, undyingly loyal, even with a difficult charge. All were suffering for naught; none of them would betray our location. And perhaps the most terrible aspect of it all was that several days had already passed since the Overlord’s day of execution, several days in which families would have endured unspeakable sorrow, and countless other horrors could have been perpetrated, including the deaths of the men who had escaped the execution line to be dealt a worse fate.
I needed comfort. I needed someone to make me believe that Temerson’s tale was only the invention of a confused and frightened boy. I longed for my parents, who, if I had interpreted Temerson correctly, were still alive. More than for my mother and father, however, I yearned to crawl around the fire and sink into London’s secure arms. He was safety, he always had been. He could make all of this disappear. But London’s hand had fallen on the shoulder of his captain, for despite the power struggle in which the men often engaged, he was extending Cannan his support, sympathy and admiration.
I scanned the room in the aftermath of Temerson’s revelations, bleary-eyed and lost, but my skin went cold when I studied Steldor for the first time since we’d sat down to eat. Peaceful sleep eluded him; he tossed and turned to the extent he could, never lying still. Even from a slight distance, I could make out his flushed skin tone and see his frustration at having no blankets to discard and thereby dispel the heat that had set upon his body.
“No,” I murmured, pulled from my grief-stricken trance. I staggered toward him, repeating that one word, while Cannan and London reacted just as quickly.
Waking Steldor was the captain’s first objective. He lightly but urgently slapped his son’s cheeks, calling his name again and again, each time a little louder. At last Steldor made a soft noise, and his eyes flickered opened.
“Father,” he mumbled, recognizing the man hovering above him.
London and I looked on, while Galen hung in the background, equally worried, but giving father and son space. Steldor shifted uncomfortably, his shirt sticking to the light sheen of sweat on his skin.
“Father,” he said again, but this time he had squeezed his eyes shut and was asking Cannan to do something, to help him, to take away the pain.
“Steldor, stay awake,” the Captain ordered.
“What should I get you?” he asked London.
“Yarrow, to fight the infection. Also fresh bandages—we’ll need to lance the wound.”
I did not watch the men as they worked on Steldor, retreating to sit by the fire, but I knew well enough what they were doing. Lancing meant reopening. They would cut through parts of their own stitching in order to drain as much of the infection as they could.
Cannan stayed with his son long after London had finished, trying to prevent him from shifting too much, as it was Steldor’s impulse to try to escape his discomfort. Keeping him cool aided in this endeavor, so the captain continued with the wet rag, running it over his son’s hot flesh, talking to him. Although the King too easily succumbed to sleep, he would rouse with encouragement and was still able to communicate.
London came and went, frequently checking Steldor as he attended to other matters. He and Cannan attempted at one point to feed Steldor some thin broth, made with venison, but my husband turned his head and would not open his mouth, and nothing could convince him to withdraw his refusal.
Eventually, London knelt down opposite Cannan, Steldor sleeping between them. They had moved his bedding farther from the fire, and though the captain’s periodic checks of his temperature revealed only a slight drop, he seemed to be resting more comfortably. I knew this deterioration in his health was exactly what Cannan and London had expended serious effort to prevent, and that his recovery was no longer a certainty.
“I want to act,” Cannan said flatly to London, casting a brief glance toward me. I stared at the burning embers in the fire pit, not wanting him to know I was listening. Night had fallen, and Miranna and Temerson slept in the back right corner of the cave beside each other—normally this would have been improper, but as things were, their only intentions were to lend each other solace and warmth. Galen had long since returned to guard duty outside, seeming to want nothing more than to be alone, and I wondered how he was coping.
“I want to cripple him,” Cannan continued, accepting my bowed head as proof of my lack of attention.
“I feel the same,” London replied. “But we’re the crippled ones right now. Even if there were some way to embitter the Overlord’s victory, we don’t have enough men. We can’t leave the women and Temerson without sufficient protection, and Steldor needs care.”
The captain seemed to seethe over their uselessness but was forced to acknowledge it all the same.
“Our chance will come,” London ground out, his voice barely audible. “And then he’ll regret all this. We’ll make him regret all this.”
Cannan did not respond, instead feeling his son’s forehead for the thousandth time and allowing a lengthy pause to ensue. London regarded his captain, a question poised on his tongue.
“Will you tell him about Baelic?” he finally asked.
“No. He doesn’t need to know. Knowing will tear him apart, and the Cokyrians have already done a fair job of that.”
London nodded, respecting Cannan’s decision, and both men fell silent. After a time, I found myself struggling to keep my eyes open and, despite the terrible dreams I feared I would have, made my way to bed.
I managed only a few hours’ sleep; then Steldor was too agitated for me to ignore, and I went to where he lay. Cannan and London were still next to him, attempting to cool him but having very little success. He was delirious with fever, thrashing, not wanting their hands on him when they had no choice but to restrain him so that he would not aggravate his injury. Talking to him was pointless, though Cannan did so anyway—Steldor didn’t seem to hear and certainly could not comprehend. The sounds that came from his parched lips were nonsensical. At one point, morbid curiosity compelling me, I reached out to touch him but stopped within a few inches of contact, able already to feel the dry heat radiating from his skin.
“If this doesn’t let up soon, it will affect his mind permanently,” London said, the stress putting him on edge.
“I know that,” Cannan grumbled. “Don’t you think I know that?”
Without warning, London got to his feet.
“Where are you going?” the captain demanded, as Steldor gave a long, heart-wrenching whimper, a sound I would never have believed could come from him.
“Snow,” London replied, snatching the near-empty bucket from Cannan’s side and rushing out the door of the cave.
I stood helplessly by, thinking I should perhaps return to my seat by the fire, but too worried about Steldor to do so. Cannan glanced at me but did not comment, giving me silent permission to stay, and I moved toward the wall so as to be out of the way.
Within ten minutes, London returned with a full pail of the white ice that sparingly covered the ground outside. Cannan nodded his appreciation of London’s resourcefulness, taking a handful to run over his son’s neck and bare chest. It melted instantly, giving further evidence of Steldor’s body temperature. Before long, the bucket was empty, and London headed toward the cave entrance to replenish it, tossing a comment over his shoulder.
“I’ll send Galen in.”
The Sergeant at Arms had been on watch this entire time, and there was concern for him in the expressions of both men. Contrary to what the young officer obviously wanted, it was not best to let him withdraw, and he would surely need sleep by now. I pondered this logic, wondering when Cannan and London would allow themselves to give in to their exhaustion—when they would stop sacrificing their own needs for ours.
Galen returned in London’s place, full bucket in hand, and went to join Cannan, falling to his knees beside his surrogate father, staring in dismay at his best friend. Cannan again used the snow, knowing London would have already brought Galen up to date on Steldor’s condition.
“What can I do?” the sergeant asked, trembling with exhaustion and sorrow, but his words contained the hope that Cannan still believed there was something to be done.
“Go to bed,” Cannan answered, not looking up.
The reply was immediate. “I can’t.”
“You must. You need to take care of yourself before you can take care of others.”
Galen gazed desperately at Cannan. I knew he didn’t want to be idle, not while his friend’s life was in danger just paces away.
“Perhaps you should take your own advice,” he retorted.
“Galen, don’t. Just do as I say.”
The captain was hanging on to self-control by a thread, his posture rigid, still not glancing the younger man’s way. He was so close to the breaking point that perhaps eye contact might have been too much—we all were playing this delicate game, avoiding the small things that would inevitably break us while we tried to deal with the bigger ones.
Galen lurched to his feet, then turned his back on Steldor’s moaning and agonized writhing and stumbled to where he had laid out some animal skins and quilts. I moved to again sit by the fire, knowing I should also try to get more sleep. I did not want to do so, on some level feeling I should keep company with Cannan. At last I identified my emotion—it was guilt that I was not as good a wife as the captain was a father.
CHAPTER 25
TIME TO STRIKE BACK
AT SOME POINT I FELL ASLEEP AGAINST MY WILL. Perhaps I closed my heavy eyelids for a moment, just to stop my eyes from stinging as I stared into nothingness, then failed to reopen them. I awoke sprawled uncomfortably by the cold fire pit, late-morning light coming through the shafts in the ceiling of the cavern. Someone had tossed a quilt over me, but still I shivered as I sat up, appreciating for the first time how much of a d
Cannan was asleep, on the far side of the cave from me, but London was still not to be seen. My eyes went to Steldor, plagued by fever even after all this time. He was not muttering, however, which I very much wanted to believe was a sign of improvement. Galen sat beside him, back against the wall, head upon his drawn-up knees. The bucket stood empty nearby—had they given up?
As I studied the two young men, Steldor took a sharp breath, and his dark eyes flew open, flicking around in alarm. Galen jerked his head up and then dropped a restraining and reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Steldor?” he said, sounding fearful. His eyes darted to the captain’s sleeping form, then fell on me, and some of the anxiety left him as he realized I was awake and could rouse Cannan if need be. That proved unnecessary, however, as Steldor’s disoriented state gradually transformed into one of recognition.
“Galen?” he asked hoarsely.
“That’s right,” the sergeant confirmed, shifting closer. He squeezed Steldor’s arm, wearing a small smile that shone weakly through his despondency. It was this sorrow that dashed my hope; the fever was temporarily reduced, but it hadn’t broken.
I did not want Steldor to die; I could never have wanted him to die. A few months ago, I might have more easily accepted death’s inevitability, grieving less once it was over. Now, my heart ached for him to stay alive, the same way it had ached for Narian to return to Hytanica in the days before the war. He couldn’t die. The idea was even more unbearable and inconceivable than that of Baelic’s absence from the world. Steldor was young; he was vital; he was full of himself. Though he had the ability to aggravate me with distressing frequency, he was also brave, loyal and, at heart, a good man, with the potential to do so much. I had always treated being his wife with contempt, but though I would never be in love with him the way I was in love with Narian, I believed now that those feelings could change—if he lived.