24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Silvyr

Today Urzul needed primroses for a salve.

Now that Silvyr's wound was healed enough that he could walk and move about on his own, Urzul wasted no time in putting him to work while Brokil went to his meetings. He didn't mind it. In fact, it made his heart soar and kept his mind busy.

Each time Urzul asked him to collect jars of ingredients or go to the meadows with a basket to collect more flowers, his chest filled with pleasant heat. For whatever reason, she chose to trust him, and Silvyr had no intention of betraying that trust.

He plucked each sunshine filled flower he came across, plopping them in his basket. Urzul wasn't specific on how much she needed, but Silvyr noted how little of the flower she had on her walls of ingredients before he left and figured it wouldn't hurt to collect as much as the basket could carry to ensure she had plenty. Besides, primrose was useful for more than just salves, and as long as he left enough in the meadows for the pollinators, he felt alright collecting as many blossoms as he could fit.

Before long, the basket was too full to fit any more flowers without crushing them, and as much as Silvyr wished to spend the entire day under the sun, he'd assured Urzul he would return as soon as he finished. Happy with his haul, Silvyr closed the lid, slipping his arms through the basket straps as he stood. Urzul had been sweet enough to provide him with one that strapped over his back, and with how light the flowers were, despite their great number, carrying them did nothing to aggravate his wound. He doubted Urzul would have given him the option if she believed it would.

Ready to return to Urzul's home, Silvyr tread through the wildflowers, running his fingertips along the tops of them as he went. The late season bees and butterflies fluttered around him, a few landing on his head or shoulders before moving on to find their nectar, the rest leaving him alone entirely.

It was peaceful.

He wondered if he'd find peace like this again. And if he did, how long would it last? Surely, if Father accepted Ghizol's demands, peace would never return to him. And if Father rejected Ghizol's offer, well… Peace wouldn't be much of a problem when Silvyr was dead. Perhaps he could at least take comfort in the idea that death was a peace in itself.

Flowing waves of purple caught his eyes and he turned to see swaths of lovely hyacinths waving at him just past the azaleas. Glancing at the sun, Silvyr figured he had a little time left to remain in the meadows before Urzul wondered where he was. He found a spot to settle in, set his basket next to him, and began plucking the flowers, keeping their stems long and setting them in a small pile at his side.

His fingers moved on their own. Plucking, setting aside, plucking, setting aside. An easy, mindless task that let his thoughts wander to the field of warm purples that surrounded him. Hyacinths. He remembered the stories about these flowers vividly. The pain and regret that coated their creation, if the myths were to be believed. Silvyr wondered what god or gods would care more for the creation of flowers over the plights of the people they had created.

Was it even worth pondering? It wasn't as though Silvyr would get an answer. Even if there was one to find, he knew he wouldn't get it. One way or another, his end was close at hand.

He had been trying to push it down from the moment Brokil took him from his caravan, trying to pretend that whatever was happening would end well, but it was a foolish endeavor. He knew Father. He knew Athowen. Silvyr was not worth saving to them, he doubted he ever had been. He also knew that if given the choice, however stupid it may be, he would rather stay prisoner in Ghizol, than ever return to Athowen and the cages of her marbled walls.

But it didn't matter what he wanted. It didn't matter that he pretended things would end differently. Was there a point in having hope? Was there anything he could do to change the outcome?

Silvyr threaded the flower stems together. With each braid through trembling fingers, he let himself weep, let himself spiral into the thoughts he'd been trying so hard to keep away.

Would whatever feelings that bubbled within him mean anything? Nothing Silvyr could say or do would change the path his life was set on. Nothing Silvyr desired mattered. His life had been for Father, for the crown, for everyone but himself. Even now, in the meadows of Ghizol, surrounded by flowers, gifted with freedom he'd never tasted before, nothing Silvyr could do would prevent the inevitable.

Brokil would kill him.

When Silvyr was gone, Arlen would replace him. Athowen would be richer for it. The pathetic, useless, nothing of an heir to King Keryth Quilen would be gone, and the powerful, honorable, perfect heir Arlen would replace him.

He threaded the last flower into the braid. It might have been perfect, he wasn't sure. Silvyr couldn't see through the haze of wet.

Setting the crown upon his head, Silvyr allowed himself to imagine what would happen after he was gone. Father would no doubt celebrate his good fortune, and Mother would be pleased that she was the one who provided a powerful heir after all. Arlen would be grateful that he would not have to fight to remove Silvyr himself, and Ascal… well, she might be the only one who truly mourned him, but even she would likely be glad to not be beholden to an idiot prince anymore.

Maybe Ghizol would thrive as well. Father would surely reward them for the good fortune they gave Athowen. Intentional or not. Brokil would continue to be chief. He would lead his people, provide for them and protect them. He would be remembered as the man who killed so that peace could thrive.

Maybe, if Silvyr was lucky, if he begged, Brokil would find it suitable to bury him in the flowers.

Forgotten.

"You're alone."

Silvyr's head shot up at the voice, and his heart fell to his stomach as he met Murzush's burning gaze, only a few feet away. His throat went dry, though there was no reason for him to be nervous. He was allowed to be in the meadow, he had permission from Urzul, and by extension Brokil. Still, her looming presence unsettled him.

"I'm collecting flowers for Urzul," Silvyr was quick to explain, motioning to the basket beside himself, hoping it would convince her. There wasn't a reason it shouldn't, but the dread twisted in the pit of his stomach regardless.

Murzush glanced at the basket for barely a moment before her fiery gaze returned to Silvyr. Brokil told him that Murzush was strong, that she was protective and filled with the desire to keep Ghizol safe. He shouldn't be surprised that she looked at him like he was holding a match in his hands, ready to set the fields of Ghizol ablaze.

But there was something else in her eyes, something that filled his throat with thorns and his veins with poison. He wasn't sure what exactly it was—rage, hatred, disgust—but it made him swallow the rest of his words before they could escape him. He didn't know what would convince her that he wasn't his father, or if she was even capable of being convinced, but he surely didn't want to make her opinions of him worse.

Murzush scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest. "Of course you are," she said, venom dripping from every word, however innocent they were, "and I suppose you want me to believe you were meant to do so without an escort?"

"Urzul requested I return by noon." Silvyr glanced at the sun, relief swelling within him when he saw that he still had time. "I was just about to return."

She didn't seem to believe him, her upper lip curling as though Silvyr were nothing more than a pile of cattle dung. "You take me for a fool?" she asked, and his stomach dropped.

"No, I swear it. I—" Silvyr's words cut off when Murzush snatched him up by the elbow, forcing him to his feet. He scrambled to grab the basket with his free hand, yelping when she roughly yanked him away from it. "Wait, Urzul needs—"

"Silence." Murzush's command was final. All arguments died in his throat as she pulled him back toward Ghizol.

Already he tried to think of what he could tell Urzul when he was returned without the flowers she sent him out for. Would she believe him over whatever Murzush would tell her? What would Murzush tell her?

He struggled to keep up with her long strides, stumbling over his feet, but he was determined not to trip. Determined not to make her feel the need to lift him off the ground or punish him. He could only imagine how she'd react to that.

When they reached Urzul's home, Murzush's grip on his arm tightened as though he were going to try and run. Though he didn't know how Urzul would react, he trusted her more than he trusted his own ability to get away from Murzush.

Murzush knocked twice on the door and didn't wait for Urzul to open it for her, all but slamming it open instead and shoving Silvyr ahead of herself. He stumbled over his feet, catching his foot on his ankle and tumbling to his knees. His side, though mostly healed now, ached slightly with the jarring movement.

"I see your manners are well in place," Urzul said as she came out from the kitchen, eying the woman in the open doorway.

"The elf was out without a chaperone." She said it as though she deserved an award for the discovery, though Silvyr thought Urzul didn't look impressed. Again, Silvyr wanted to tell her that he had been given permission, but held his tongue. Just as well, as Murzush barreled on, as if she expected Urzul to agree that his actions were those of disobedience and rebellion, as if she expected to be told Silvyr had been lying after all. "Said he was gathering flowers for you."

"I sent him out, yes," Urzul replied smoothly, and Silvyr could practically feel Murzush's surprise behind him. Urzul stepped forward, leaning down to lift Silvyr to his feet. "Where is the basket, Silvyr?"

"He left it—"

"I asked the elf," Urzul snapped.

Silvyr swallowed past the thorns in his throat. "The basket is still in the meadow. It—it has the primroses you asked for," he replied, stepping over to Urzul's side. Her hand came to rest on his shoulder and a wave of relief flooded him.

"Now, Murzush. I needed those flowers for my salves. It won't do to leave them out in the meadow to wilt in the basket and remain unused," Urzul said. Murzush's scowl deepened. "Since you don't trust the elf to bring me the flowers, you can retrieve them."

"I don't see why—"

"You've wasted enough time. If you have any more complaints, speak with the Chief. He entrusted the elf to my watch while he meets with our Elders, and I will use him as I see fit," Urzul interrupted again.

"Fine." Murzush said nothing else and turned on her heel to leave, slamming the door in her wake.

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Silvyr turned to look up at Urzul. "I'm sorry, I didn't think—"

"What were you doing in the meadows when Murzush found you?" Urzul stopped his apology, her face holding nothing but seriousness.

"I was picking flowers, like you told me," he said, praying she could see the truth in his eyes. He hadn't done anything wrong.

Urzul nodded, groaning under her breath. She nudged him toward the living space and he followed with no arguments, settling on the rug.

"I thought so," she said, taking a seat across from him. "Well, we'll have to be more thoughtful about sending you out on your own."

Silvyr had to agree. Even he had to admit that it was shocking to be given enough freedom to go out on his own, and while most of the other orcs on the way to the meadows had gotten used to seeing him without Brokil by his side, they were mere farmers, not soldiers. It was Murzush's job to be wary.

"I understand her concern," Silvyr mumbled, squeezing his hands together in his lap. "I know how it looks, and it makes sense that she wouldn't trust me. She has no reason to. None of you do."

Urzul hummed, setting a few jars in front of him. "Perhaps so. Regardless, you're here now, so let's make you useful."

The ingredients were familiar enough by now that he knew exactly what she wanted and set to work plucking dried leaves and sprinkling them into his mortar. He ground the dried leaves and petals into a paste, focusing on the scraping of the pestle against the mortar, the squish of the ground flora, the ache in his hand.

It was oddly calming. Sitting in silence with Urzul felt as natural as the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening. She was just as warm and her spirit just as bright. He wondered what he would have to do to live this kind of life forever, what deal he'd have to make or god he'd have to please. Would there ever be an opportunity to live in Ghizol, making salves and poultices, laying in the flowers, sprawling out in the sunlight streaming through Brokil's window?

Surely not. He might want it more than anything, but it wasn't for him. In a way, he supposed it made sense. His life never belonged to him. Whether or not it was intended, Brokil only confirmed this when he chose to take Silvyr as his pawn.

Death. It's all Silvyr would receive at the end of this. Death by Brokil's hand, or death in Athowen when Father broke him for good.

"What's on your mind, Prince of Athowen?" Urzul asked him. Silvyr snapped his head up, mouth agape.

"It is not worth bothering you over," he said quickly. In the same moment, he snatched up a pinch of petals to add to his mixture, as if he could scrape away her questions.

"It is clearly bothering you, however," Urzul pressed, and though she was well intentioned, it curled the knot in Silvyr's stomach. "Talk. It'll help."

Would it? What would saying it out loud do other than make him sound more pitiful than he already was? Moreover, didn't Urzul already know? She wasn't stupid, she was brilliant. She had to know that Silvyr realized what his position in Ghizol was, and what the outcome of his future would be. Did she really need him to say it out loud?

But she remained silent, staring at him expectantly. Something loosed within his chest.

"I like Ghizol," he finally said. The words were so simple, yet speaking them felt as though he made some great revelation. As though he said something that had never been spoken before. But it had. Ghizol was beautiful, and everyone who lived within it knew this.

"She is a gem, is she not?" Urzul agreed, nudging him to continue.

"It's nothing like Athowen, and, it's nothing like Athowen says it is." Silvyr remembered the fear that gripped him upon seeing Brokil for the first time, the stories of the war hungry orcs that would kill without thought. None of them made sense anymore. "I like it, but I know that means nothing, because Athowen has done the damage. I have done the damage."

Urzul hummed and tapped her fingers along the sides of her mortar. "It's true, there's damage done that cannot be undone, but that does not mean things cannot be mended," she said. "There is very little in this world that cannot be set to right, should you desire it. My husband believed in that, and I admit, I never believed it as much as he did, but I can see the merit in his views."

"I don't know where to start," Silvyr admitted. "There's so much wrong done. And I know my father, he would sooner go to war than give into demands. I don't want Ghizol to be crushed under his boot. We've fought with the settlements in Amesisle before, and it was devastating."

"Yes, I remember. It was during those skirmishes that my husband fell," Urzul told him, and Silvyr's face flared with torturous heat. "Though, he did not fall in battle."

Silvyr's head snapped up and he stared at her, swallowing hard. "How… How did he fall?"

"Athowen took him."

Ice flowed through Silvyr's veins.

"We've captured the leader of those beasts," Father said, his lips curling into a sinister grin. Silvyr knew better than to speak. "You are to present the findings we obtained from him to the council. From there, we will discuss our next steps to bring Amesisle into Athowen's folds."

"Yes, Father.

"Chief Thrakil."

"The very same," Urzul said.

"Does Brokil—"

"Brokil believes that he fell in the battle. It was what Thrakil desired," Urzul explained. She must have caught Silvyr's confusion, for how could she know what the chief's desires were when Thrakil was trapped in Athowen's dungeons? "He managed to get a letter out to me. I knew what Athowen planned for him, and thus I knew what his thoughts were on Ghizol's response."

Silvyr swallowed past the hard lump in his throat. "We killed him."

"You did, yes. He knew you would. He accepted that fate," Urzul agreed. "He knew what his death at Athowen's hands would bring. He knew how the Elders, Ghizol, and Brokil would react if they knew how he truly died. He knew it would bring a war that we couldn't win."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I have faith. Maybe it's a childish, foolish faith, but I have it nonetheless. I have faith that you will return to Athowen, and you will right the wrongs done," Urzul told him. Something ugly reared its head in Silvyr's chest, a disbelief that enveloped his heart as it thrashed against his ribs, but Urzul did not give him the chance to voice it. "Crown Prince Silvyr Quilen, you have more sway than anyone in Athowen. I have faith that you will do what needs to be done for peace to thrive. The Tyrant King is strong, but so are you. Believe an old woman. I've seen much."

How could he free Ghizol when he would die here? How could he tell Urzul that her faith was wholly unfounded in the face of Father's cruelty and hatred for his own blood?

Yet, despite it all, he wanted to be what she said he was. He wanted to prove to her, to Ghizol, to Brokil, to Father, that he wasn't weak. He wasn't useless.

He just needed to believe it himself.