When the men first marched into Tortall, it seemed at first to be a dream. A nightmarish dream, to be sure, but a dream all the same.
They strode about in their cool colours, loyal to the usurper, ready to make examples of those who proclaimed they weren't, and would never be.
Protesters burned in cages. They hung from trees. They were cut up and displayed on the palace walls, for all to see, and for all to shudder at and declare they would never end up like.
Still, it was better to die in this way than to be ripped to pieces in the sky by Stormwings. Better by far to be killed by men than to be half-eaten and then discarded, left to bleed to death by hurroks.
From this, the people of Tortall learned the art of secrecy. The invaders were pleased that their brutal tactics appeared to have worked and, in truth, they had. Those who remained were more cowardly, too afraid of the consequences to themselves and their family to rebel. Until, that is, whispers of a surviving Conté prince reached their ears.
Prince Liam breathed new hope into a now cautious and suspicious uprising. United by a common fear, they whispered and tiptoed around, meeting, although only occasionally. They would not be beaten. Plans were carefully constructed, ideas shared, dates and deaths decided on.
The people of Tortall would not long be governed by fear and pain. The heart of Tortall had been broken, but not its spirit.
Now, when soldiers swaggered about the streets, cocky and overconfident, the denizens would bow and obey their slightest whim. But only because they knew what was coming. Only because King Ozorne would soon fall.
*
Something had changed since the last time they'd met. Something,
something that couldn't be defined. He narrowed his gold-tinged eyes, considering,
but was unable to decide on exactly what it was.
"I mean it," continued the dark-haired man. "I want her back. Now." Anger crackled from his tone, it was a cloak of
emotion around him.
The corners of Ozorne's mouth slowly curled up into a smile. He knew what it
was now. "We are unaware of whatever it is that you refer to," he
said comfortably, sitting down on the ornate chair. "Now, perhaps it has
escaped your attention, but we believe that you are disturbing the imperial
presence. Please remove yourself immediately, or we will get someone to remove
you for us."
Something flickered in Numair's face. "Stop it," he rapped out.
"Stop what?"
"Acting like you were born to the throne. We both
know that nobody ever intended for a weakling like you to rule. In fact,"
he continued, allowing mockery to enter his tone, "even the Stormwings
know it, don't they? You couldn't even rule a stench-ridden bunch of
animals."
Rage surged within him. After all Ozorne had done for him, this was the thanks.
No respect for Carthak's rightful monarch, oh no. No respect for the man who
had pardoned him. It could be considered
oddly convenient how quickly Ozorne had forgotten that execution order. "I
am not the one who fled the country. I am not the one who lets females
do his fighting for him."
"And I," his old friend replied quietly, "am not the one who steals, bribes and murders just to get breakfast."
For a moment or two, Ozorne was silent, trying to work out a retort that would
suitably silence Draper, and debating whether to just organise his death by
hanging this time. And, of course, making sure they hung a real person this
time. "But unfortunately you are not the one with Veralidaine Sarrasri
either," he answered triumphantly.
Numair's face darkened. "Give her back," he gritted out menacingly,
allowing a black light to bloom around his raised left hand.
Ozorne allowed a smirk to rise to his lips, which vanished as he realised that
- "She's gone!" he exclaimed, eyes darting around the room feverishly
and then fixing on the door. The open door.
Numair froze. "What?" he hissed, fists clenching and the light
dissipating instantly. He moved to block Ozorne's exit. "What have you
done to Daine?"
"Not her," the Carthaki snarled. "The
other one. Thayet. She's gone."
*
It was funny. They'd never even met.
Never seen each other, greeted each other, written to each other. Never heard the sound of each other's voice, nor the warmth of the other's laughter.
It was funny. One had taken over the other's life.
Never had a family before, been admired by so many before, owned so much before. Never had her feet kissed in the street before, had cloaks swept off and laid underfoot so her shoes didn't get muddy as she walked over puddles.
It was funny. They knew so much of each other.
But they'd never even met.
*
"No, I-I-I d-don't believe we have," she stammered nervously, eyes fixed to my hand. Or, more specifically, the dagger that my hand was clamped around as though my life depended on it.
I looked at her contemptuously. "Funny, that, don't you think?" I stated coldly, moving backwards to sit cross-legged on the bed. Ridiculous. She betrayed him, and got locked in a comfortable bedroom. My only fault was being born into a royal family, and look what had happened to me. I hardly called that fair, but I suppose they never intended anything to be fair for me.
"How do you mean?" she asked, looking like a rabbit caught in a trap. My trap. And oh, how I intended to enjoy this trap.
I shrugged her question off. She would understand later. "Let's start with your name. If we're going to meet at last, we might as well do it properly." My air was all ease and comfort, but I had not managed to successfully keep the anger out of my tone. There was too much of it to keep under control.
She brought her trembling fingers up to her face, gingerly checking her bruised skin. When she was confident that nothing was broken, she answered me. "Kalasin," she mumbled quietly, then, settling herself back in her seat, and resuming an authoritative manner, she repeated, "Kalasin, of Conté."
"Your name, please," I shot back promptly, eyes boring into hers.
"Kalasin of Conté," she answered again, looking puzzled, but trembling slightly now.
Oh, she was good. A very good actress, but then she was practised at this role. Part of me almost felt like applauding her efforts. Of course, the other part very definitely felt like slapping her.
I lunged forward in one swift movement and placed my hands on the arms of her chair, leaning over her. She was shaking now, eyes constantly darting to my dagger. "The truth," I snarled, so close I could hear her ragged intakes of breath.
"It-"
I cut her off. "Isn't," I growled, "and I, of all people, know that."
She inched backwards in her seat, unable to unlock our gazes. I could almost smell her fear, and it made me sick to my stomach. "Why you?" she demanded, regaining her haughty position momentarily. "Just who do you think you are?"
Perfect. I smirked slowly, confidently, a hunter trapping its prey. I had her. "Princess Kalasin of Conté," I replied instantly.
