A/N: I went camping this weekend (no technology!), hence the sort-of-late update. It seems like all I'm doing these days is coming up with excuses... but at least I've managed to maintain my "one chapter per week" goal! It's one of the first times I've updated a multi-chapter fic consistently (except for my Reservoir Dogs trilogy on my other account that was just too fun to write).
Right, so Ghalio is a slimeball, and now we're going to return to our poor demoted Lieutenant.
A Moment of Truth
The forest was dark and treacherous. A young dark-haired man tripped over a root and just managed to catch himself against the trunk of a tree. The Sergeant had woken the trainees for this outdoor survival exercise. They had been split into two teams, and their objective was to stalk and tag members of the opposite team. In the woods. In the middle of the night. The young man was separated from his group, and he would have liked to cast a Charter light to help him find his way, but that would betray his location to the opposing team.
Suddenly he felt a strange sensation in his head, like the soft ringing of a bell. The man smiled; he and his friend had established a spell in case they got lost, a magical call that could only be heard by the two of them, but this was the first time that they had used it. Sketching a Charter mark with one hand and shielding its light with the other, he sent it out into the woods. Soon he received a reply, and following the calls he eventually met a fellow trainee. The other man was covered in dirt and grime, but smiled when he saw him. "Hello Ciprian," he whispered.
The young man grinned. "Hello Madran."
The faint magical call hit Ciprian like a glass dart. Madran was looking for him. But Madran couldn't be all the way out here in the middle of the woods. Ciprian shook his head; his senses were playing tricks again. Only yesterday he had mistaken the wind blowing through a crack in the rebel encampment walls for his sister's tuneless whistling. Maybe he too was going mad.
The magical call came again, tinkling gently in the back of his mind like an itch he could not scratch. Ciprian wished that it would stop. As if his disgrace was not enough, now his own hallucinations were torturing him. How embarrassing. Ever since his demotion the young man had experienced bouts of melancholy. He would spend entire days in his tent refusing to talk to anyone, or he would wander through the woods for hours. Ciprian was aware that he was losing weight, that he hadn't shaved, that he was neglecting himself. But he did not care.
"It doesn't matter," he said aloud to the forest, not knowing what he was really talking about. It was nice to be in the forest where things did not matter. And it was lonely. He liked that.
Ciprian looked down at his pale hands that tenderly cradled a knife.
The magical call struck him a third time, more insistent, and in a fit of temper Ciprian sketched the answering Charter mark and petulantly flung it away from him. Maybe now the dratted hallucinations would stop and he could be blissfully alone. Finally he would think about nothing. When the whole world had gone crazy, sometimes all you could do was leave it. Keeping his mind scrupulously blank, Ciprian brought the knife up to his wrist. He closed his eyes to savour the sounds and smells of the forest one last time. It smelled like damp moss and dirt and crushed pine needles. And it sounded wonderful: The trills of birdsong, the whispering of the branches as they brushed against one another, the chattering of a squirrel, the faint sound of running water...
The crunch of quick footsteps on the forest floor.
"Ciprian?" A voice.
The young man opened his eyes and laughed. There, standing a few feet away from him with a hand resting on the trunk of a tree, was Madran. A hallucination, Ciprian thought, grinning. Even now he could not be left alone. It was all there, every detail of his friend's appearance down to the hairs straying from his ponytail and the smudge of dirt on a bruised cheek. Madran took a hesitant step forward, and Ciprian suddenly frowned; hallucinations did not get their cloaks caught on bushes, or leave footprints in the loam. He raised his chin. "You're real."
The other man looked at him in concern, and his eyes flickered to the knife. "Are you all right?" he asked seriously. "What are you doing?"
It really was his best friend Madran, out looking for him. Not my best friend, the young man corrected himself. Not after he lied to me. Not after he attacked me. Not after I attacked him. He did his best to tamp down on that dark memory, but his best wasn't good enough. He came back to finish what he started, Ciprian couldn't help thinking. His heart began to race in fear and anticipation. He is going to fight me now, when I am weak. This time, he will kill me for sure.
Madran took another step forward, and reached out. "Easy, now."
Muscle memory kicked in and Ciprian raised the knife. With a wild yell he swiped at the other man, who defensively raised his arms and barely managed to dodge the weapon. Ciprian's blade sank into the trunk of a tree, and he wrenched it out before attacking again. He hardly knew what he was doing, but enough was enough. Emotional and unfocused, he swung the knife heedlessly, connecting with the surrounding growth and bearing down upon the other man.
"Ciprian, wait!" Madran was shouting. "It's me!"
"Get away from me!" Ciprian bellowed. "I want to be alone – just leave me alone!"
He was half-hoping that Madran would retaliate. He would let Madran kill him, he would welcome it. It would save him having to do it himself. Lately he had proved himself to be a shamefully incompetent officer, and it would be best if someone else could send him to his grave. Then suddenly he pulled up, panting and surprised, and stared at the second figure who had pushed through the underbrush. "Favilliel?" he gasped.
His sister flung herself forward and embraced him wordlessly. He stood for a moment, knife clenched in his hand, and then he closed his eyes and returned the embrace. Vividly he remembered hugging his sister on the steps of the House before leaving to become a Royal Guard. A tiny thread of normality was unexpectedly returning to his chaotic existence. "Ciprian, what were you doing?" Favilliel exclaimed, pulling away. "Oh, you look terrible. What would mother say if she knew you hadn't been taking care of yourself?"
She was so natural; it was as if the rebellion had never happened. Ciprian felt like crying, but with an effort he summoned up his customary cheerful disposition: a cloak he had learned to cast on and off at will. "I don't want to know," he replied with a smile. Then he turned to Madran, suddenly awkward. "Sorry," he mumbled, sheathing the blade and feeling stupid.
Madran and Favilliel exchanged glances. "It's all right," the Ensign reassured him. Ciprian was grateful that he did not tell Favilliel exactly what Ciprian was doing when he had found him. "We... hear you've been having a rough time."
Ciprian gave a mirthless laugh that jarred against the peaceful sounds of the forest. "A rough time?" he mused, grinning at the vast understatement. "Yes, I suppose you could call it that." Then he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. The two of them suddenly showing up like this – it seemed too good to be true. "Why are you here?"
"We need help," Favilliel admitted frankly. She was never one to beat around the bush. "You simply cannot imagine the things that have been happening in Belisaere, with Lord Ivor too, and now the Clayr are involved –" Madran nudged her in the ribs, and she broke off. "I'll give you the short version, then." Favilliel took a deep breath. "Do you remember the Clayr Illirae? When her term of service ended King Rothain would not release her. So Madran and I got her out of the Palace, and I was caught and imprisoned for treason."
"You?" Ciprian blurted out in surprise. His sister had always been the responsible one. Then an unpleasant memory resurfaced. A memory of two women on a horse, and a brave archer...
"While I was in prison," continued Favilliel, interrupting his dark thoughts, "I spoke with Lieutenant Padric. He was friends with Ghalio, remember? Lieutenant Padric told me things about Ghalio..." She trailed off, shaking her head helplessly.
Madran took over the narrative. "According to Padric, Ghalio loved Queen Irabel, and he convinced Padric to help him frame the Queen and Lieutenant Dernic for adultery." Ciprian stared at his old friend, wondering if this was some kind of joke. But there was more. "Ghalio then had Padric try to assassinate Vansen at an archery tournament, but the arrow struck the King's protective wards, and they pinned the attempted regicide on an innocent archer."
"Charter..." Ciprian was shaking his head. This was just too much to take in all at once.
"That's not all," said Favilliel. Her expression was grim. "Vansen believes that Ghalio was involved in your own demotion, brother. And now that he is Lieutenant, he is inciting Betrys to attack Belisaere. We're going to stop him, and we want your help."
Ciprian was stunned. Ghalio was his cousin. He had never been upset over Ciprian's promotion. He had always supported Ciprian, and had even defended him when Betrys had found him drunk. "Are you both completely out of your minds?" Ciprian cried. "You're saying that Ghalio is behind everything? But – but – he is our cousin, Favilliel."
His sister planted her hands on her hips. "And you're an idiot, Ciprian. Hear us out," she said loudly over his spluttered protests. "Padric was going to be executed, and had no reason to lie about Ghalio. None of us truly know him. His father split from the rest of the family, remember? It was always a touchy subject. Mother and father never told us what happened, and uncle Thorael got angry whenever we even mentioned it." Ciprian reflected for a moment in silence. That much was true, at least. But he had trained with Ghalio, and his cousin had been a decent enough fellow, once you got to know him.
"I don't know..." he muttered.
Favilliel rolled his eyes in that way that irritated him so much. "Listen, everything falls into place," she insisted. "Framing his professional rival Dernic, trying to assassinate Vansen, getting both you and Vansen drunk, and now he is a Lieutenant – it's all his ambition. I do not know exactly what he is planning, but the Clayr say that Betrys will march on Belisaere, and if the rebels win then Ghalio could be one of the most powerful people in the Kingdom."
Ciprian was quiet for a moment. He wanted to believe his sister and his old friend, but it was possible that this was an elaborate Loyalist plot. However, since he was no longer Betrys' officer they could gain nothing by winning him over. If they were sincere, then they were now traitors to the Kingdom as well. Besides, the story was so ridiculous and far-fetched. If they had truly wanted to trick him, then Favilliel and Madran would have come up with something much better. It was this last point more than anything that convinced him.
"If this is the truth," he said finally, "and I'm not saying it is, then we are all in trouble." It also meant that this rebellion could be attributed to Ghalio's jealousy, given his desire for the Queen. It was a stupid reason for a war, in Ciprian's opinion, but then the causes of war were usually stupid. And did he really have any other choice? "All right," he sighed. "I'm coming with you."
Favilliel laughed in relief and Madran clapped him on the shoulder. "We tethered our horses past the bridge," said Madran, leading the way through the trees.
"I don't have –"
"We brought a third horse for you," his sister interrupted, anticipating him. She exchanged an amused glance with Madran. "The Clayr saw to that."
They soon came to the stone bridge spanning the Upper Ratterlin. Ciprian was surprised that the guardhouses were unmanned. "It was unguarded earlier today," Madran observed. "Rebel patrols are mustering in the woods beyond. Ghalio must have convinced Betrys to attack Belisaere."
"The Clayr warned us of the attack," explained Favilliel. "Belisaere's forces have undoubtedly moved out by now. Having you with us, Ciprian, the King may listen if we try to explain what's going on. Or maybe not the King, but the Chancellor at least. With Vansen's defection, and now yours, people might listen to all of us."
They crossed the bridge, and came to the royal road running north and south along the riverbank. Madran led them into the trees where the horses were hidden, but suddenly paused and gestured for silence. Ciprian froze and listened intently. It was just like being on a scouting patrol with Madran again. He missed those days. Ciprian allowed his ears to filter through the various sounds, and finally heard it: someone was pacing back and forth on the forest floor. Madran signed with his hands that they were to flank the person, and that Favilliel was to go up the middle. Ciprian nodded and drew his sword slowly, carefully, so that it didn't rattle against the sheath. Setting off into the woods, he gently placed one foot in front of the other, avoiding twigs and dried leaves, taking his time, until he finally settled into place behind some blackberry bushes. Peering around them, Ciprian could see the person's brown tunic, and he waited.
Madran gave the signal: a whistled bird-call. Ciprian jumped out from his cover, the other man whirled around and whipped out his sword, and Ciprian found himself face-to-face with Lieutenant Anthone. He couldn't say which one of them was more surprised. But he soon recovered his wits and brought his blade to the other man's throat. At the same time, he felt Anthone's sword brush his side. They did not move.
Madran and Favilliel had also emerged from the forest, and quickly levelled their blades at Captain Betrys' oldest son. "Don't make any noise," Madran warned in an undertone.
Anthone glanced at the Ensign out of the corner of his eye, careful not to move his head. "If you're thinking of killing me quietly," he replied, "I have a rebel force just through those trees that will soon be looking for their Lieutenant." He calmly turned his gaze to Ciprian. "So you defected to the Loyalists," he remarked. "I can't say I'm surprised."
Ciprian did not answer. He had served under Anthone for nearly three years, both as an officer of the army and as a rebel. For a long time the other man's opinion had meant a great deal to him, and he had respected Anthone. He was a good man, and Ciprian did not want him to come to harm; the nameless archer's meaningless death had been enough. Besides, he could not attack Anthone without being seriously injured himself and alerting the rebels. And there was no way Anthone could win a fight against the three of them, outnumbered as he was. It was a stalemate.
"Why are you out here by yourself?" asked Favilliel. Anthone remained stubbornly silent.
Ciprian applied some pressure with his sword, ignoring the answering bite of the other man's blade, and Anthone was forced to tilt his head. "I just needed some time alone," he hissed.
"Because Betrys ordered the troops to move out?" Ciprian guessed. Anthone's eyes flickered, and the sword against Ciprian's side twitched. "We were Lieutenants together, for a short time, and I know you don't want a war," said Ciprian. "Madran and Favilliel tell me that Ghalio is behind it all. I haven't defected, Anthone. We just want to stop this."
The other man was scrutinizing him, and Ciprian did not blink. Finally, Anthone lowered his sword and sheathed it. Ciprian, Madran, and Favilliel did the same. "Go on then," said Anthone. "If you can prevent all of this... Well, then may the Charter preserve you."
Soon Ciprian was riding down the road, laughing as the wind blew back his hair. He had a purpose again. Of course, it was likely that they were three idiots riding to their deaths. But given the chance, the truth was that Ciprian would rather fight against impossible odds at the side of Madran and Favilliel than take his own life in the woods any day.