A lesson in obedience is not necessary. Following his saviour inside is the smart choice anyway as a heavy rain is beginning to fall, and what would a teenager do in the middle of the night all alone in a godforsaken forest anyway? The men light torches and distribute them around the spacious cavern. It is big enough to take the horses inside, too. The boy has melted into the shadows of the rock walls, hardly more than a shadow himself, but never far away from Emhyr who is busy giving more orders to his men. It does not take long and the mouthwatering scent of a hearty dinner is coming from the campfire in the middle of the cave. The men gather around it.
"You want to eat, you need to earn your keep, son," Emhyr says without turning his gaze away from the fire.
"How?"
The word from the shadows behind him is barely more than a hoarse whisper. The first one the boy has spoken since the failed execution. It sounds like it is painful for him to talk. Not a big surprise after what happened. Hopefully, the hanging has not caused any permanent damage to the boy's larynx. Although, come to think of it, most men talk far too much to Emhyr's liking anyway. The ability to listen and keep quiet is, to be honest, what he definitely cherishes more in a loyal subject, far, far more.
"Come here." Emhyr draws his knife. The boy's eyes grow wide, but he does as told.
"Closer. Now turn around. You'll need your hands." With one swift cut of the keen blade, he frees the boy of his fetters.
"And you don't need that anymore." Emhyr points at the rope that is still around the lad's neck. "Chin in the air! And don't move!"
The boy stands stock still and hardly dares to breathe while Emhyr carefully severs the noose. Loosening the knot might be easier than using the knife, now that they are not on horseback anymore, but like this it might be a valuable lesson in trust. It is strangely intimate, too, and exciting. Just one minute slip of the blade could cause a lethal injury. But, of course, he is in total control of the situation and will not slip.
Finally, the sturdy rope falls to the ground. Emhyr draws in a sharp breath. The skin of the boy's neck is not only incredibly dirty, but also black and blue and badly grazed and blistered. In the dimly lit cave, it almost looks like the boy is wearing a weird kind of collar. Rope burn. Well, not much of a surprise either considering the height of the drop and the coarse material of the noose. It is not a dangerous condition, for all Emhyr knows, as long as it does not get infected. However, it must hurt and should be treated properly. Unfortunately, consulting a healer or a mage is out of the question, the rumours about today's events will soon reach even the most remote places and the ligature marks are extremely conspicuous. Finding a mage would be almost impossible anyway as pretty much all the Nilfgaardian sorcerers and sorceresses have been arrested and locked up by the Usurper. A neckerchief to cover up the telltale signs of what happened will have to suffice for now. Tomorrow, he will ask d'Arvy. The count must know a good healer who is willing to work for them and will keep their mouth shut. Soon, the whole execution will not be more than a faint memory. It is how the human mind works, at least as long as one keeps oneself busy. And Emhyr does not intend to let the boy laze about. It is for his own good. Obviously, the one or other nightmare about today's unfortunate incident is to be expected, but who does not have nightmares from time to time? Once in a while he, for instance, still dreams that he is back in his hedgehog form, ashamed to show his face, vilified, powerless, at other people's mercy. It is ridiculous, but he wakes up panting and sweating nonetheless. You learn to deal with it. The boy will, too. It will make him stronger. Like all the horrors that he had to live through made him into what he is today. How did Vilgefortz phrase it so fittingly? Happy childhoods make for dull company. And they produce nothing but useless pansies.
"You see that bucket over there, son?" Emhyr asks after having cursorily inspected the injuries. "Get water for the horses. There's a rivulet not far to the left of the entrance. You can't miss it. Feed and water them and brush them down. When you're done, you can eat."
The boy nods, gets the wooden pallet and, wordlessly and without hesitation, disappears into the darkness of the evening and the pouring rain. He will be drenched to the bone within seconds. Certainly not a task he would be eager to carry out at the moment, Emhyr must admit. It will take care of the worst of the dirt, though. Living on the streets must have toughened the boy up against the hardships of the elements anyway. Emhyr knows a survivor when he sees one. Cats have nine lives, and, unlike those good-for-nothing, pampered weaklings most lords and ladies raise in their castles, street kids are very similar to stray cats. In more than just this one respect.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
He looks more like a drowned rat than a human being when he comes back inside, water dripping all over the cave floor from his clothes and hair, his teeth chattering with the cold. Nevertheless, the bucket he carries is filled almost to the brim and so heavy, the boy has to hold it with both his hands. Biting his lip in concentration so he would not spill any of the content, he hauls it over to where the horses are standing. Neither Emhyr nor his men need to tell him how to take care of the animals. Emhyr throws the one or other appraising glance in his direction, but the lad clearly knows what he is doing. And is doing it diligently and thoroughly although he must be terribly hungry himself and keen to join the men for dinner. As there are six horses, it takes a good while and the rebels have almost finished eating when, still shivering and somewhat hesitantly, he approaches the fire.
"Well done, son," Emhyr addresses him with an approving smile. "I see you're handy with a horse. The animals like you, too. That's good. Useful. You can be my stable boy."
"S-Sir? No, I - I—" he stammers hoarsely and Emhyr almost laughs out loud at the expression of utter horror in the boy's face. Of course, making him a simple stable boy would be a total waste of talent and not at all what he intends to do with him, but it is too early yet to let the boy know of his plans for him. Well, they are not really plans anyway, just ideas based on a hunch. He might be completely wrong about the kid. Only time will tell. But what he has seen so far is promising.
"What? Don't you like horses, boy?" Emhyr enquires, looking at him sternly.
"Sir, I - I like horses. T-truly." The boy swallows. Every word seems to cause him pain and the chattering of his teeth does not make speaking any easier. Emhyr's piercing gaze must be quite intimidating, too. "But I," he continues anyway, "I can't be your s-stable boy. I have to be a soldier!"
"A soldier. Hmm." Emhyr furrows his brow. "Why?"
"To kill the U-Usurper." There is so much loathing in the boy's words, it is almost funny.
"Hmm, this, son, is ambitious," Emhyr says, masterfully keeping a straight face. "I like it. You've got soul. However, you're not old enough to be a soldier yet." He raises an eyebrow and sizes the boy up critically. "But, I know a good soldier when I see one. And I believe, I can make one of you. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"Y-yes."
"It's 'Yes, my Lord'," Emhyr corrects. "Remember that, son. Always." The boy nods. He should make him repeat the words to assure he will never forget it, but the kid looks so pitifully cold, Emhyr gives him a pass on it this once.
"Here," he says instead, opening the clasp of his cloak, "you won't be of any use to me if you freeze to death." He takes off the black piece of fabric made of heavy wool and wraps it around the boy's trembling shoulders.
"T-thank you, my Lord," the boy says, his eyes wide with surprise. "For - For everything," he then adds, blushing. He must be acutely aware that his words are hardly adequate considering that Emhyr has saved his life and is now providing food, a roof over his head and is even giving him his own cloak. Perhaps he should fall to his knees and kiss his saviour's hand? But would he want that?
"Just make sure I'll never regret it," Emhyr says before the boy can do anything. "I don't take kindly to traitors."
"Yes, my Lord. I promise, I'll never betray you."
"Good, son. However," Emhyr wags his finger in the boy's face, "you should be more careful who you make such promises to. I could be the leader of a horde of bandits or horse thieves, of drug dealers, marauders, or cannibals feasting on freshly cooked children." He pauses for effect. The boy stares at him wide-eyed. Pretty blue eyes, Emhyr notes. "You're lucky, though" he goes on with a smirk. "For I am no other than Emhyr var Emreis, the rightful heir to the Nilfgaardian throne. I will not rest until I've put the Usurper in the ground together with all his grovelling, mindless minions. I will destroy them. And then I will pave my ballroom with their gravestones and dance on the barrows of my dead enemies."
The dark words send shivers up and down the boy's spine. Not shivers of terror, though, but of excitement, exhilaration. The man, his saviour, is the true Emperor of Nilfgaard! It is hard to believe, but it cannot be otherwise. The thought alone makes him giddy, takes his breath away. This is his chance to finally become what he has dreamt of during all those dreary months and years struggling to survive in the streets of Nilfgaard. A soldier, a knight rising up against the Usurper and bringing his downfall. For his father and brothers, the family he has lost, and for his saviour.
"Now that you know who I am," Emhyr interrupts the boy's reeling thoughts, "it's time for you to tell me who you are, don't you think, son?"
The boy blushes again. He ought to have knelt before the Emperor, kissed the ground in front of his boots, not stood there staring at his saviour while fantasising about his revenge. However, the Emperor does not appear to be upset by his lack of etiquette. If anything, he looks kind of amused. And curious. Like he is truly interested in who he is. The boy swallows down his embarrassment, straightens his back and looks the Emperor in the eye.
"I am Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach of Vicovaro," he says, standing proud and tall despite the rain still dripping from his wet, overlong curls down into his face and onto his shoulders and the fact that he is more than a head shorter than the man opposite him. His voice is still raspy and strained, but, thanks to Emhyr's warm cloak, his teeth have stopped chattering.
"Good to meet you, Cahir, son of Ceallach," Emhyr says solemnly, hiding his surprise. He has heard of the Dyffryns of Vicovaro and their tragic demise at the hand of the Usurper. No wonder the boy - no, Cahir - hates the traitorous man's guts. He was right, too, with his hunch. Not a common orphan at all, but the last living offspring of ancient nobility. What a fortunate fluke of fate! Or was it destiny that has brought them together? If that fool of a bailiff had known who he had dangling from the rope, he would surely have put a lot more effort into recapturing the scrawny little gutter rat. He gives Cahir another appraising look. High time to get some more meat onto his bones. "Now, son, go sit down by the fire and get yourself something to eat. You're no good to me starved, either." Flashing the lad an encouraging smile, Emhyr motions toward the big iron pot suspended over the fire.
"Thank you, my Lord," Cahir says with a stiff bow. It has been an awfully long time and usually he only half listened to them - if he listened at all - because he found them exceedingly boring and an annoying waste of time as they kept him from fighting monsters and evil enemy knights from the north with his wooden training sword, but he has not entirely forgotten his parents' lessons on how to behave toward a high ranking nobleman. Fortunately, his father gave up on his expectations that he would become a diplomat like his older brothers rather quickly. Never in his wildest dreams would he have anticipated that his impetuous youngest son would, one day, meet the heir to the Nilfgaardian throne, Cahir suspects. What a strange stroke of luck. Or was it destiny that has brought them together?
"Harod, see to that Cahir has everything he needs. We'll leave at first dawn to meet with Count d'Arvy and his men. Together we'll take out another one of the Usurper's minions. The fools are having a hunting party. Only they have no idea yet that they're the prey and we're the hunters." The men laugh and jeer at their leader's words. Then one of them, it must be Harod, grabs Cahir's arm and ushers him to a free spot by the fire. From the cast iron pot, he ladles a generous amount of hot meat broth into a big bowl, drops a thick slice of dark bread into it and presses the bowl into Cahir's hand. Cahir stares at the huge chunks of meat swimming in the soup, so overwhelmed by the appetising sight and the delicious smell that he totally forgets to eat.
"What're you waiting for, laddie? The sow don't bite, she's thoroughly dead and cut in pieces, trust me," Harod laughs. Then he passes Cahir a big tankard. "You sure are a wee bit young for beer, but after what happened today, I bet, you can need it. When you've finished, you can use the bedroll over there. You've heard the Emperor, no sleeping late tomorrow."
Cahir nods, too bedazzled still to say anything. Then he digs in with an appetite. The soup is delicious indeed, the tastiest dish he has had in years. The beer less so, it is far too bitter, but the food is spicy and he is thirsty, so he drinks it anyway. Soon, a comfortable warmth spreads throughout his body and he feels pleasantly full and sleepy. The strangely muffled sounds of the other men talking to each other are soothing, like the sound of gentle waves on a beach or the whispering of leaves in a soft summer breeze. The Emperor is busy speaking with two of his followers a bit farther away from the fire, probably making plans for the attack tomorrow. Most likely, he has already forgotten about the scrawny little street urchin he has rescued, and why would he not? He is not a soldier yet and can hardly be of any help in the upcoming fight. It is a miracle why the future Emperor of Nilfgaard has taken any interest in him at all, why he freed him from the scaffold and not any of the others. Still, with this group of ragtag rebels, Cahir feels safer than he has in a very, very long time.
When both the bowl and the tankard are empty, Cahir gets to his feet gingerly. He is dizzy from the alcohol, but he manages to stumble over to the corner Harod indicated as his. He flops down onto the bedroll and closes his eyes, so tired all of a sudden that he does not even remember to take off his shoes. Nor is he aware of the fact that he is still wrapped in the Emperor's borrowed black cloak. It is cosy and warm and safe. It feels like home.
When Emhyr walks over to where Cahir has laid down just a minute or two ago, he finds the boy already asleep. He looks kind of cute like this, his light brown, mussed up curls framing his sleeping face, his mouth slightly open, the right side of his lower lip drooping just a little. Totally relaxed despite the half dozen adult strangers in this cave in the middle of nowhere, and after this shocking day. Astounding what a hot soup, a few friendly words, a warm cloak and a beer can achieve. Emhyr smiles to himself. The beer should not become a habit, though.
A pity, he will have to wake the boy up again, at least a little. He hunkers down and shakes him lightly by the shoulder.
"Son, don't sleep just yet."
The voice of his saviour. With an effort, Cahir forces his eyes open. The Emperor is kneeling next to him, a wet cloth in his hand. He blinks up at the man as if he was an apparition.
"Let me see your neck, son." He tries to sit up, but the Emperor stops him.
"Just lie still. This might hurt."
It does. Cahir hisses with pain and screws his eyes shut when Emhyr starts to carefully dab at the injuries caused by the rope. Although it hurts, so much so that tears spring to Cahir's eyes, it feels nice to have someone take care of him. The cloth is warm and wet. It smells of camomile. Like his grandmother, Eviva. Maybe it is his grandmother who is washing him and not the Emperor? It must be, Emhyr var Emreis would not do something like this, he must be dreaming it all up.
But then there it is again, the Emperor's voice.
"Now turn around, son."
He does with a moan, glad his saviour will not see the tears that are now rolling down his cheeks and soak into the bedroll.
"Almost done," Emhyr says when he has finished cleansing the wounds on the back of Cahir's neck. Cahir feels his saviour's strong, calloused fingers wrap a surprisingly soft and cool cloth around the injuries. Silk. It must be the Emperor's handkerchief. Or a piece of his shirt.
"Now sleep, son. And tomorrow we'll change the world. The two of us, together."
Together. The word holds so much promise, so much hope that, with the last coherent thought before he drifts off to sleep again, Cahir makes a solemn vow. He will do anything for him, for Emhyr var Emreis, his saviour, his king. Even die for him. Gladly.
Children are so easy to manipulate, Emhyr thinks with a smug smile on his lips as he rises to his feet. Not so different from a stray cat or a dog that you take in. Just show them a little attention, a tiny bit of affection, and they will soon eat from the palm of your hand. A favourite new pet.
Soon the boy will do anything for him, without tears, without questions, without hesitation. One day, Cahir will be his most loyal knight. Until he has served his purpose.