I know what you're thinking. Whoa, this isn't just one of those stories with a good first chapter that's never updated again? Bingo! I know, it's a shocker. After editing the first chapter of this story, which was a NaNo...well, I had kind of a complete breakdown over the story and shut it away for many long months. It had no plot; Madeleine was an annoying brat; Ivan refused to do anything but mope. But then... I had a breakthrough. And now the story is all planned out, it just needs to be written. Which I have finally resolved to do and stop being so lazy about it. Expect (or at least hope for) somewhat regular updates...perhaps?
"Hey, Ivan, want to go jump in a river or something?"
Ivan turned to glance at his brother, prepared to give nothing more than an eye roll in response. The war was over; the whole army was marching back to Wyndl, and Thaddeus suggested they go for a swim? Some things never changed.
But he didn't see Thaddeus. He saw the other soldiers marching beside him, all erect posture and clicking heels, but their faces were obscured by the thick mist they were marching through. All he saw were shadows, forms of men with no features, no definite shapes. There was no one he knew.
And they were leaving him behind. He'd gotten out of step and couldn't seem to get back, no matter how many hops he took to wind up on the right foot. The men ran into him, jostling his shoulders and grunting as they moved past. No one stopped to wait for him; no one pushed him back in place. They just left him.
"Thaddeus?" he called out his brother's name. If no one else helped him, Thaddeus would. They were brothers, after all. They might fight for hours until both of them were bruised on the ground, but they'd always be there to pick each other back up.
"I'm over here, Ivan!" His brother's voice was teasing just out of his reach, carried on the wind.
"Where?" he asked, taking a few steps forward. He couldn't hear the sounds of the other men's footsteps anymore. Everything was silent, hushed by the fog around him. He could barely see two feet in front of his face.
Then he was fighting. A man with a sword but no face hid in the low clouds around him. Metal rang through the air; a blade sang as it cut the breeze. He held his own sword in his hand, and they fought, blocked, stabbed like mad men. The stranger stepped quicker, but his sword found its mark first.
Everything cleared like crystal, and as blood bubbled on the dying man's lips, he grew a face. It was Thaddeus's face. He paled and died on the ground.
Ivan took a step backward, the sword falling from his hand like a feather. The silence whispered to him. Murderer. Prince Ivan Glorodell is a murderer. He doesn't deserve the throne. He doesn't deserve his life.
Drops of sweat rolled down his forward. Blood slid into the cracks of his palms. He clenched his fists to hide the sight of it. But the silence whispered, We know.
Ivan jolted awake, sitting upright in his tent. Before thinking about it, he turned to search for Thaddeus in the dark, straining his eyes to make out his brother's sleeping form. But, of course, Thaddeus wasn't there. Thaddeus was lying in a shallow grave somewhere in the Tul Mountain passes in Aschare, when he should have had a prince's burial. Or more, he should have been here.
He slumped back against the ground, catching his breath. It wasn't only a dream. It was a waking nightmare, but no one else knew. There was that, at least. No one accused him of murdering his brother. No one but himself.
It had been seven months since the war ended. Seven long months of negotiations and treaty forming and then marching, but he still couldn't forget. Not that he expected to forget. He only wished he didn't have the image of Thaddeus's blank eyes so permanently fixed in his mind, that he wouldn't spend every night reliving the way his brother choked on his own blood as he died.
Thaddeus had tried to kill him first. It wasn't Ivan's fault. He told himself that every day, too. But it never seemed really true.
He stared into the darkness above him and folded his hands beneath his head. He used to talk to Thaddeus in the middle of the night. If he was awake, chances were that his brother was, too. They talked about battle strategies. They talked about how men looked when they died. And then somehow, they'd be talking about food and earthquakes and horses. And then they'd jump back into the war again and wonder if any of it really mattered.
Thaddeus told him it mattered. He said they were fighting for their home.
"What's home, Thaddeus?" he'd asked. "We haven't been there since we were five."
"It doesn't matter," Thaddeus had answered, shaking his head. "Home's like... Someday, we could just be brothers. Instead of killers."
Thaddeus wasn't usually so serious, but he had spurts of it, in the middle of the night. Ivan told him once how he felt like a coward in every battle, he was so afraid to die. Thaddeus said he didn't care about dying, it was what the war was doing to him that he worried about.
"I don't want to be like this, Ivan. But I'm good at it. And I like it. I like fighting and knowing I have the upper hand. I like calculating how to win... how to... kill. I can't help it. I've always been good at it, even when we were five. I could beat you in war any day, and I loved that, and then... I never thought it would be our whole lives."
Ivan had always thought they were different. Thaddeus liked war and was good at it, while he wanted something else. But in the end... he was the best soldier. The most mechanical. He didn't even think about it. He just thrust his sword forward and killed his twin brother.
But Thaddeus had been the traitor first, he reminded himself again. Maybe everything he'd said was just a lie to keep Ivan on his side and strike unexpectedly. Maybe he'd never been sorry for being so good at killing. But... Ivan couldn't believe that. Thaddeus was sorry, even when he attacked. But then, earth and sky, why did he do it? It's not like anyone was forcing him to!
A crackling sound carried from outside the tent, and Ivan let himself be distracted by it. He crawled to the door and help back the tent flap. A red and orange fire blazed outside, and a man sat on a log next to it.
He squinted and then recognized the man as Rafe Thornton. His chin was resting on his fist as he poked at the ashes with a long stick. Ivan hesitated, but his mind was quickly made up. He knew Rafe fairly well and sitting with him seemed like a better prospect than sleeping.
Rafe glanced over at him the moment his foot hit the ground outside his tent. He gave a crooked smile. "Ivan. Couldn't sleep, eh?" His smile widened, and nothing in his manner suggested that he was speaking to the crown prince of his country. But that was Rafe. The man had joined and deserted the army more times than anyone could count, and no one bothered much about trying to make him adhere to the rules anymore. He was a wild card, but not a bad fellow.
"You too?" Ivan asked, as he took a seat on a log across from Rafe, rubbing his forehead. He hadn't slept for more than a few hours a night in a long time, but he didn't take Rafe for the sort of man to be bothered by anything.
Rafe shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. I haven't tried. Just didn't feel like it. I was sitting here, looking at the fire, and it just occurred to me: why does everyone sleep at night? Why not in the day? I always liked the night better than the day anyway, you know?"
Ivan blinked. He didn't know. He wasn't sure what the point of the question was. People slept at night. It was what they did. Did there need to be a reason? "Well... you can see better during the day," he came up with at last.
Rafe peered at him with sharp eyes, then shrugged again. "True, that." He leaned back, dropping his stick and planting his hands against the back of his log. "Anyhow," he said, "I was considering stealing a horse and racing home. I could go faster myself than with the whole army."
Ivan looked at Rafe's grin, the way his eyebrows rose in a taunting way, like he was daring Ivan to fight him. He glanced down at the fire instead, picking out the blue flame from the orange and watching the way they wavered in the air. "I don't think you should steal a horse," he said quietly, without looking up.
Rafe shot up, standing in front of the fire with his hands on his hips. "Look, I'm in the cavalry, your highness. One of those horses is rightfully mine, and there's no reason I can't ride it back now. The war's over, isn't it? And the army's not my profession. I'm free to go as I please."
Ivan looked back up slowly. "Well, then by all means, go. But you'll miss the welcoming procession."
Rafe looked at him again, then laughed as he settled back in his seat. "You got me there, Ivan. That's why I like you. Sharp thinking. After all, who'd want to miss the welcoming? All the ladies waving their handkerchiefs at you." He winked.
Ivan said nothing. He didn't have the acquaintance of many ladies. He'd met some, of course, while they were stationed at towns near the border. Thaddeus became quite popular with some of them, but he never did. It wasn't that he didn't like them, necessarily. It was just that they were never stationed in those towns for very long, and it all seemed so foreign to him. He'd grown up in war. Every memory he had seemed related to it, somehow, except... running in the hallways. Playing in the courtyard. With Thaddeus.
He crossed his arms, cutting off that line of thought, and looked back at Rafe who was watching him with one dark eyebrow raised just a hair above the other.
"You know," Rafe said, "not stealing a horse doesn't mean tonight has to be boring. I'm sure we could find something to do." He stood up again and started turning his head from side to side, glancing around them.
Ivan watched the man and shook his head. "We're in the middle of the wilderness." They'd made it to Wyndl now, but Aschare was still close enough to make them feel like they were being watched over their shoulders. No Wyndlans lived this far east.
"Exactly," Rafe said, looking back at Ivan with a wide grin. "We're in the middle of the wilderness. Close to the same river that flows through Saimes, if I know my geography. And I do know my geography. It was one subject I thought was at least somewhat important, for traveling purposes. Visiting. So, you want to go jump in the river?"
Ivan blinked. "W-what?" That was what Thaddeus asked him. If he wanted to go jump in a river. Was that—some sort of sign? Or was he just losing his mind?
"Don't look so terrified," Rafe said. He had his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised. "It's not like you're going to die. It's just a river."
He blinked a few more times and didn't move from his spot.
"You don't have to go if you're really too afraid. But I think it would be better than sleeping with nightmares." The corners of his mouth twitched in a smirk, and Ivan clenched his fists. He was a soldier. He was better than nightmares.
"I'll go," he said, standing on his feet.
Rafe smiled. "Good." He turned on his heel and walked between the tents, into the forest outside of them.
Ivan realized this wasn't a smart idea. Tomorrow they'd be marching again, and he needed to sleep, not go traipsing into the forest with a man too wild and hot headed for his own good. But he was already on his way now. And it wasn't as if he hadn't done this sort of thing before. Not often, of course. He and Thaddeus were good soldiers. They took their battles seriously, but... in between battles was a different matter. He'd broken his arm once, racing war horses after dark with Thaddeus. Taking a short cut through the forest wasn't a good idea.
The trees drew up around them as they walked, and the thick canopy of leaves shut out any light. Trees and brush alike were shapeless voids. Pale light shafted down through holes in the top of the forest, but otherwise they were walking blind.
"Rafe, do you know where you're going?" Ivan asked after several minutes of walking.
"Not really," Rafe replied, and they kept going.
It wasn't long before they heard the river. It sounded like an army, rushing past them. They came out of the trees, and there it was, glistening in the moonlight. Thick grasses grew up next to the water, with a few white flowers bending over the surface. It was pretty, actually, if a bit eerie in the pale light.
"Is that a fire over there?" Rafe asked, and Ivan turned to see where he was pointing.
Across the river, there was an orange and red light, glowing just like the one they'd left back at camp. He nodded at Rafe and frowned. He didn't think anyone lived out here. "Who do you suppose...?"
"Let's find out," Rafe said, grinning. He looked like a maniac in the dark, with white teeth and dark, blazing eyes.
Ivan nodded anyway. He was curious. He wanted to know who it was, out here so far from any kind of civilization. He stopped nodding when Rafe started walking into the river up to his thighs.
"Well, are you coming?" Rafe asked, his hands on his hips.
"I'm...not sure that's a good idea," Ivan said.
"What, are you afraid of a little water?"
Ivan looked at the river. It was not what he would call a 'little' water. It was more like four cavalry regiments all rushing forward at breakneck speeds. They wouldn't stop for anyone, and they'd crush whatever was in their path.
"Well, if you want to go back to your nightmares, no one's stopping you."
His eyes snapped up to meet Rafe's, dancing in the moonlight. Rafe was grinning, challenging him. It was stupid, and it was the second time he'd fallen for that, but if Rafe knew about his nightmares, and it got around...he couldn't stand it. He knew he was better than that. Or at least, Thaddeus was better than that. Thaddeus.
And then he was marching into the river as if he was marching into battle, rigidly prepared. It wasn't something he wanted to do. It wasn't something he would enjoy doing. But it was something he was trained to do: take challenges, be as good as his brother, for once.
The water seeped into his clothing, and the logical part of his brain reminded him that it was much too early in spring to be swimming; they were probably both going to freeze to death, and then Wyndl would be without a crown prince, and when his father died, the throne would go to some second cousin twice removed who wouldn't know the first thing about ruling a country.
For some reason, he did not let these thoughts deter him. Rafe was beside him, going on about the fire on the other side, and then he said, "So long," and dipped beneath the surface.
Ivan stopped for a moment, a bit uneasily. He didn't want to swim across the river. He could hear it louder than before, and drowning started to seem very likely. But he was already here. There was nothing to be done.
He took a few more steps on the sandy bottom, and then it disappeared beneath him. He treaded water, then did a surface dive and started to swim. When he opened his eyes underwater, all he saw was black, swirling in great tendrils around him. Like something out of his nightmares, it stopped his heart for a moment. He expected to see Thaddeus behind the blackness, reaching out for him, for revenge. He heard his heart beat dully, muffled by the water all around him, flooding, crushing. The river seemed violent now, throwing and spinning him about. His air was leaving his lungs all too fast.
He kicked and pushed against the water, trying to reach the surface. It was farther up than he'd thought and much harder to reach. The water seemed to beat on all sides of him, as if he were surrounded by attackers, without a weapon of his own.
Finally, he managed to hold his head above water for barely a second, only long enough to take in a gasping breath and glance around for Rafe. He didn't see the man. Briefly, he wondered if Rafe was dead, if that would be his fault also, if he would be haunted by Rafe's ghosts as well, if he was a murderer twice over.
But he was fighting for his own life now. The current was dragging him down, the dark tendrils wrapped about both ankles. He thrashed against them, fighting with every ounce of willpower he had. But the river was stronger. How could he fight a whole river, a river adjoining to an ocean, somewhere far away, connected to all the water in the world? He was dragged down, slowly but steadily, and his head started to feel fuzzy, his vision blurring. He deserved this. It was clear to him, amidst the bubbles and darkness, that he ought to die. He'd killed Thaddeus, now it was his turn. When he closed his eyes, he could see his brother's face, staring back at him, eyes blank.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Then an ounce of fight returned to him with that nagging thought. But—you're the one who tried to kill me, aren't you? What did I ever do to deserve that? He thrashed again, yanking his arms and legs about, survival mode taking over. He needed to live. He needed to find reasons, and—he needed to know he was more than a murderer.
He ripped himself free of the currents and tore to the surface, gulping in air, still moving his limbs a mile a minute to keep himself free from the currents. It was several moments before he realized he was past that part of the river, and he could move easily. He blinked several times and felt warm water dripping down his cheeks. He splashed the cold water on his face and swam slowly toward the shore that now wasn't far away.
It wasn't long before he touched bottom and walked, dripping, onto shore. When he was back onto the grass, he fell on his knees. He was shaking. He was—alive. He couldn't fathom why. Yes, he'd fought back, but he wasn't stronger than the river. He wasn't stronger than the world.
"Ivan! You made it too!"
He glanced to his right to see Rafe straggling towards him. Water streamed from his black hair, and he was trying to contain his shivering, but the man was very much alive.
Ivan couldn't help but grin. "Rafe," he said. He didn't quite manage to say anything else.
Rafe grinned back at him and ignored his lack of other conversation. "Well, let's go see what that fire's all about, eh? I think we got washed a bit downstream from it. It should be this way," he said, starting toward Ivan's left side.
Ivan nodded and stood up, following Rafe. They walked along the shore, stumbling in the wet sand, forcing their way through trees and bushes that grew by the water. Finally, they spotted the orange flames through a thicket in front of them. The crackling sound of fire was in the air, muffling low voices.
Rafe stopped and turned to face Ivan. "We'll go slow," he said, whispering. "Stop in front of them, where we're still hidden. See if we recognize them, listen to what they're saying. Then decide if we want to approach. All right?"
Ivan nodded, and the two of them stepped forward, pressing themselves up against the thicket to where they could peer through. There were five men around the fire, and they seemed strangely familiar. "Isn't that—"
"Lord Luck of Pennyshire, Saimes, in the middle," Rafe answered before Ivan could even finish his question. His answer seemed almost too quick, and Ivan glanced at him with a raised brow. "I know one of his stepdaughters quite well," Rafe explained. "I used to live by them—still do, sort of. Not really. I never really lived by her, but I switch my circles to match hers, so I can harass her obsessively."
Ivan blinked a few times and then actually looked at the man. He was middle-aged with a dark complexion and a dignified manner. He looked calm and composed, almost calculating as he glanced into the fire. The men around him were all talking. He was silent, but somehow it seemed that he had more power than all of them.
"I know the others, too," Rafe said after a moment. "Lord Arem, Kent, Lisley, Graven, Shant. Shouldn't they be with the army?"
Ivan glanced at Rafe again. He knew all these men also, in a vague sort of way, as he knew thousands of people...his subjects. It seemed odd to think of them that way. "I haven't seen them in...years," he said. "They used to be around at the beginning of the war. I remember Lord Luck being there when Thaddeus and I had our first battles as commanders, but...I haven't seen him since."
Rafe frowned. "Blair said he was leaving to be with the army full time, around the same time that I left, for the final battles. But you haven't seen him?"
Ivan shook his head. "I haven't seen any of them."
"And now they're out here," Rafe said in a low voice. "What are they hiding?"
They listened, and words were spoken by the men around the fire, assassination and ascension, words that shot arrows of silence into the night. The moon glinted in Rafe's eyes, and he stepped through the thicket, forcing his way to the other side.
Ivan's heart whispered warnings, but he felt doomed to follow, and he went after Rafe when he heard the man's voice. "What the hell are you all doing? Shouldn't you be with the rest of the army, or something? Home at the very least, not sitting out here in the middle of nowhere like a bunch of vagabonds."
Ivan glanced worriedly at Rafe and at the men who were now all staring at them. Some of them looked worried, some just confused. Lord Luck smiled. "So you finally came through the thicket," he said in a smooth voice. "I was wondering when you would. The two of you breathe as loud as a horse. Rather makes me wonder how the war was ever won." He looked at Ivan especially when he said this and glancing up and down, as if wondering what he was worth.
"Yes, well. What are you doing?" Rafe asked again.
Lord Luck glanced at him. "We're having a meeting, that's all."
"Why here?" Rafe asked, glancing around. "And why haven't you been with the rest of the army?"
"We have, off and on. Much the same as yourself, Rafe Thornton. I know how often you've abandoned the army to go visit my stepdaughter. We all have our business at home. I do regret that we were unable to make it to the final battles of the war. All of us were delayed." He paused for a moment, and his eyes traveled back to Ivan's face. "I am sorry about your brother, Prince Ivan. I was devastated when I heard the news."
"I...thank you," Ivan said, nearly stuttering. He cursed himself for sounding like a such a blubbering fool.
"How did you hear the news?" Rafe asked, frowning. "If you never made it to the final battles...how do you know what happened at all?"
"News does travel quickly. And we made it farther than this. We were in Venturi when the battle was fought. We thought to travel back quickly with the news after the treaty was signed, but...it seems we aren't so far ahead of you."
"And why weren't you around when the treaty was being worked out with the Ascharans? It took an absurd amount of time. Lords like you could have helped."
"We were around, just not so visibly. We might not be spoken well of, being there for the treaty but not having been seen in the actual fighting."
"We heard you talking. You said assassination, ascension. What are you talking about?" Rafe sounded businesslike. He sounded like he had authority, while Ivan—the prince—was just standing there, gaping at them all. He tried to stand straighter, to look regal, but he had a feeling that he failed.
Lord Luck smiled. "So many questions, Rafe. Not everything can be answered so simply."
Rafe crossed his arms. "Five prominent lords of Wyndl in a secret meeting, talking assassination and ascension. It looks like conspiracy to me."
Lord Luck's smile grew a tad bit wider. "You assume too much. There's such a thing as metaphorically speaking. Besides, there's only the king and crown prince. No plotting cousins or brothers. I doubt anyone even knows who would take the throne if they were to be assassinated, as you seem to think is plausible. It would be pointless."
Ivan wanted to say something to that, at least. Attributing his and his father's murders as simply pointless, rather than treason was—wrong. Lord Luck spoke far too flippantly of the matter for his tastes. But...what was there to say about it? And what could he, of all people, say about it? He'd killed the other prince, his own brother.
Lord Luck's eyes turned away from him, and Ivan finally noticed that he'd been stared at. He had a feeling that Lord Luck knew...something. Something about Thaddeus, and himself, and what really happened between them.
There was another moment of silence before Rafe glanced at him. "Ivan, let's get out of here," he said, "There's nothing for us to talk about with these men."
Ivan nodded, still without a word, and they both turned and walked back through the thicket.
"Farewell, Rafe, Ivan," Lord Luck called to them as they reached the other side. They kept walking, without glancing back.
When they were out of hearing range, Rafe glanced at him again. "I don't know what that was all about," he said. "But I don't like it. I've never liked Lord Luck. I always felt like he was up to something when he was courting Blair's mother."
Ivan nodded. "Do you...think they're planning something?"
"Something, all right. Though I can't see what. Killing you really would be pointless, if they don't have some other candidate for the throne. And I don't know who they'd have. Can you think of anyone?"
Ivan thought of Thaddeus, turning on him in the battlefield. Lord Luck and the rest of them, they could have been plotting with Thaddeus. It could have been planned out long before that last battle.
"Well, can you?" Rafe asked.
He pursed his lips. He couldn't mention Thaddeus. That would reveal that Thaddeus hadn't been killed by the Ascharans in battle, and he couldn't let anyone know that...he was the one who'd killed his brother. "No," he said.
"Well, maybe it's nothing then," Rafe said, quickening pace. "Anyway, let's get back to camp quick. I'm freezing."
Ivan nodded and forced his legs to move a little faster. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe they'd let him alone now. No plotting cousins or...brothers. But Lord Luck had looked at him like he knew. Maybe...maybe he'd realize now that Ivan was the stronger one, and he wouldn't be easily done away with. He swallowed the gnawing feeling that he wasn't any stronger than Thaddeus; he was just a coward, just a murderer by accident. Instead, he thought of the fire waiting for them at camp, and sleep. Oh, sleep.