31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Silvyr

Athowen felt completely and utterly empty.

The cold marble floors echoed with each step Silvyr took, the statues in the halls staring blankly at him as he passed. Expressionless, yet still somehow seeping with judgment. Even the sunshine, trickling in through the windows, seemed dimmer than he remembered.

It all felt so alien to him now, heavy and constricting around him. Even his clothing felt uncomfortable against his skin. The linens he received in Ghizol had been taken, probably burned, and replaced with his usual well-tailored silks as soon as he'd arrived. While the emerald green tunic, lined with fanciful silver hems, might have once been a luxury he enjoyed, now it felt all too similar to a cage. Reminding him that he was trapped here, that Father would find him no matter what.

More importantly it reminded him that he needed to figure out what Father had planned for Ghizol so he could put a stop to it. Whatever it took, he would do it. Ghizol didn't deserve whatever hellfire Father had planned for them. Ascal had been frustratingly silent about any of Father's plans during their travel back to Athowen. She wouldn't even let them rest until the horse refused to go on, and even then, she only stopped long enough for it to recover before taking off again.

He was barely given a moment to breathe when they passed through the castle gates before being dragged to their healer, his entire body poked and prodded for hours. When they discovered the wounds he received in Bravrith, he tried to explain that Ghizol was not to blame for what happened, but as he expected, he was not believed. Of course, against his wishes, they reported the injuries to Father and put the blame on Ghizol anyway. Later that evening, Silvyr received a message that Father requested his presence the next morning before breakfast. Dread had pooled in his stomach, but he was careful to keep it off his face. The squire was young, but he was by no means trustworthy, and Silvyr couldn't let word of his weakness get back to Father.

The next morning, he headed straight for Father's office as early as was appropriate. He would not be late to the meeting. Tardiness was inexcusable, and Father was already angry enough at him. He rarely held meetings in his office, preferring the gathering hall with the other nobles and their family, yet now he demanded it. Silvyr could guess why.

Father would want to know everything that happened in Ghizol. He would want to know their strengths and weaknesses and anything he could exploit to make them pay for what they had done to Silvyr. He would want to know everything about Brokil and how to take him down. He would want to know how big their army was, how strong they were, how well organized.

He would be sorely disappointed. Silvyr hadn't given Vakmu the information, even after hours of torture. He was much more familiar with Father's tactics, and he knew he would not break.

Determined to give Father nothing, Silvyr stepped up to the office door and nodded at the soldiers flanking it. They respectfully returned the gesture, but said nothing as Silvyr stepped inside.

Father's office, in contrast to the rest of the castle, was utterly plain. The marble floor and walls were sparsely decorated with a simple crimson rug and a map of the realm along one wall. The wall facing the door was wide open with a bay window that held the view of the farmland beyond the castle wall, accented with a mounted sword just above the window. The sword was a newer addition compared to the rest of the decor, and so different in style that Silvyr never quite understood why his father decided to display it. He'd never done so before, but then again, Silvyr had no idea which of his many conquests this trophy came from.

In the middle of the room, father sat at his oak desk, a spitting image of Silvyr if not for the age lines around his eyes and spots of gray in his hair. Something Silvyr may look forward to one day, he mused as Father set the paper he had been examining down and turned his calculating gaze up to Silvyr.

"The healers informed me that you are well, despite the Ghizol orcs' attempts to maim you otherwise," Father began, bitterness coating every word as he looked Silvyr in the eyes. It felt like staring into a corrupted mirror, the image distorted and tarnished. He dared not look away.

Silvyr took the seat on the other side of the desk. "They did not wound me, Father. I explained to the healers that it was the Bravrith orcs. Ghizol has already dealt with them accordingly, and they are electing a new chief. Potentially one willing to work with us," he said, setting his hands in his lap. He had little hope of Father understanding, but at the very least, he might believe Ghizol hadn't hurt Silvyr.

"Bravrith. And how, pray tell, did you come to be in Bravrith while you were in the possession of those beasts?" Father asked, an edge in his voice that Silvyr would need to tread carefully around.

"I had many freedoms in Ghizol, Father. They are not unreasonable people. I was in the meadows of Ghizol when the Chief of Bravrith made his move." Silvyr tried to keep his voice from shaking, to keep his hands from shaking in his lap. He couldn't let Father see him wavering now. "Ghizol was quick to provide treatment. Our healers even stated that the wounds are healing well and were taken care of properly."

"What reason could Ghizol possibly have to treat your wounds?" Father demanded. "It's common knowledge that they are working closely with Bravrith against us."

Silvyr bit his tongue to keep from interrupting before the man was finished, from telling him just how wrong he was and that their intel must have been incorrect. He drew in a deep, but subtle, breath to calm himself before responding.

"They are not. Their relationship was strained, and they disagreed on the method of captivity," Silvyr said, determined to keep Father from viewing Ghizol poorly. He would do whatever it took. He motioned to the healing scar across his cheek. "Bravrith resorted to methods of torture to obtain information on Athowen. Ghizol was much more willing to show good faith, despite the circumstances." Silvyr decidedly left out that several members of Ghizol wanted to keep him below the Council Chamber when he first arrived.

"So, what information did you provide to Bravrith?" Father asked, and Silvyr's fingers tightened into fists in his lap. Of course, Father would assume that Silvyr broke and gave Bravrith whatever information they desired. He'd never seen Silvyr as anything other than weak, so the idea that he could withstand torture would have been preposterous to him.

"Nothing, Father," Silvyr said, setting his lips in a firm line. "I told them nothing of Athowen."

Father didn't look convinced and turned back to his papers, flipping through a few until he landed on a familiar piece of parchment, still curled from its time spent rolled in a tight scroll. Father set it before Silvyr.

"These are the demands made by those beasts," Father said, changing the subject and allowing Silvyr to take the paper to look over himself. He didn't need to read it. He knew what it said. Brokil had explained to him the depths of their demands, and Silvyr felt no need to proofread against Brokil's words. Brokil was many things, but a liar was not among them.

"What are your thoughts on their demands?" Silvyr asked, making a show of looking carefully at the paper, if for no other reason than to make Father believe Silvyr was reading every word.

"Unreasonable and completely unacceptable," Father nearly spat.

"I do not think they are," Silvyr dared to say, knowing full well that Father would never agree with him.

Just like he assumed, Father scoffed and leaned back in his plush chair, crossing his arms. "Is that so? You seek to insult me then? Do you also believe that these beasts deserve to be rewarded for their insults against me?"

"I did not say that." Silvyr set the parchment back on Father's desk and tried to keep his heart from bursting with nerves. "All they are asking is that you allow them to continue living the way they have been. They have no desire to join us and just wish to be independent. Is that such a bad thing?"

"Continue living like beasts of the mountains?" Father's lip curled into a snarl. Silvyr bit his tongue again, readying himself for the lecture he knew was coming. "They demand things from me as though they have my power, and here you are agreeing with them. You are a fool if you think that bending to their demands would do anything other than enable them. If we bend, they will rise up to take the power that we have."

"They wouldn't—"

"You know nothing," Father silenced him, slamming his fist on the desk. Silvyr leaned away, though he tried to keep his back straight, tried to make it look like it wasn't a flinch. "You would insult me even after those beasts used you as a pawn for their own gain. What god cursed me with a fool like you?"

"Father, if you would listen—" Silvyr hoped to reason with him, to show him, but like always, all Father need do was hold up a hand and Silvyr fell silent, the words melting away before they could pass through his lips.

"There were weapons in the abode you stayed in, were there not?" Father asked, his voice a low whispering of danger.

Silvyr swallowed hard. Brokil used knives for his cooking, and kept his weapons within the home. "Yes," Silvyr conceded, careful, but not hesitant, because he knew where this would go. He had expected this from Father as well.

"And when Ascal arrived, the building you were in was not locked."

"No. It wasn't." Silvyr's heart fell. He never told Ascal anything about Ghizol while they rode for Athowen, but neither had he told her to withhold the information she found on her own. She couldn't know what Father would do with it, he knew that, but the ache of betrayal still throbbed in his chest.

"And you made no attempt to escape them yourself. None at all. You just sat by, waiting for us to send someone for you." Every word Father spoke dripped with venom and disdain, his anger a tangible weight in the back of Silvyr's throat.

"Father, the citizens of Ghizol are many, and I am one. It was not a fight I could win," Silvyr countered, shocked that Father would expect something like that of him. One or two men, Silvyr might have been able to escape from, but dozens? Hundreds? Even without knowing how Silvyr and Brokil had connected over their time together, Father couldn't possibly expect Silvyr to fight off an entire town of warriors.

"It matters not. You should have fought." Father waved a hand through the air, as if physically brushing away any of Silvyr's retorts. "Now they believe I have raised a weak heir, and they are not wrong. You are weak and pathetic, Silvyr Quilen. You are a burden on our name. On my name."

Silvyr remained silent, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking. The familiar words hurt, but for once, Silvyr felt no sign of tears or shame. He knew better now. He wasn't a burden, not where he belonged, and he would not be useless again. Father was wrong. He wouldn't see it now, but he would soon enough, Silvyr would make sure of it.

"We have sacrificed too much for Athowen to be set to ruin because of your weak heart," Father continued. His brows knit tight together, and the corners of his lips pulled down in a vicious frown. "Do you truly believe those beasts would simply let the matter rest if Athowen pulled back? Do you believe they would not see it as a sign of our weakness and use it to their advantage? If you do, you are a bigger fool than I was led to believe."

"They want peace, Father—"

"They want war!"

Silvyr swallowed his arguments, staring at Father with wide eyes. Father had never shouted that way before, never looked at Silvyr with such disdain and malice that Silvyr could feel it prying his ribs apart.

Unable to stop himself, Silvyr glanced up at the sword above the window and swallowed hard. He hadn't realized it before, but the hilt matched Brokil's sword almost perfectly. Dread pooled in Silvyr's stomach. Father's insistence on Ghizol's intentions, his anger and vicious fury, it all flooded together in a maelstrom of horrific understanding.

Thrakil.

"What are your plans for Ghizol?" Silvyr finally asked, shocked to find his voice emotionless and clear despite the chaos brewing in his chest.

"I will tear them down." Father looked Silvyr in the eyes, as though daring him to argue with him. Silvyr wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

"I see. May I be excused?" Silvyr asked, desperate to leave before the fear spilled out of him completely. He would have to find a way to warn Brokil and Ghizol. They needed to be ready for Father's rage, and Silvyr wouldn't let them be taken off guard.

"No," Father said, setting his hands on the desk. "You spent several weeks in their possession. I want a report on their activities, their leader, and their armed forces within the week."

As expected, but Silvyr would not comply. Even if it brought the lash to him, he would not betray Brokil or Ghizol. Not for Father's desire to obtain more power.

"I was kept in that building by myself with no access to their village or their warriors," Silvyr lied, the words coming out so smoothly that he almost believed it himself. "Their leader, Chief Brokil, did not share any kind of tactical information with me."

"Is that so?" Father's eyes narrowed and he leaned back. "You just said you had many freedoms. So, which is it, Silvyr Quilen of Athowen? Were you trapped in that abode, or were you given free reign of the settlement?"

Ice filled Silvyr's veins. Gods, it was such a simple and foolish mistake to make, and he knew he couldn't take it back. Father didn't relent, continuing to stare at him so intently that Silvyr feared he might see into the depths of his soul and learn the truth.

"Leave," Father said simply, an ugly satisfaction mixing with the anger in his eyes.

Without waiting, Silvyr stood up and left the office, hurrying back to his room. He didn't know what Father would do about his lie, but surely it wouldn't be good. How could he be so foolish as to speak without thinking? To get caught so easily? Brokil had told him he was a horrid liar, but Silvyr thought he could do this much at least.

He shook his head, refusing to dwell on the lingering shame in his belly. There was punishment on the horizon, but there was something more important to worry about now. More important than Father's anger with him, anyway.

He needed to warn Brokil.

Perhaps he could find someone skilled with hawks that could deliver a message. Or pay a messenger to reach Ghizol with secrecy and haste, before Father prevented him from doing so. Something, anything, to bring the message to Ghizol so they might prepare themselves. And more than that, he needed to tell Brokil that he hadn't wanted to leave him, not that way, not after he made that promise. He tried not to imagine how Brokil could have responded to finding Silvyr gone when he returned from the hunt.

Did he scream or shout? Did he curse Silvyr's name and the Quilen family like he might have had Silvyr managed to escape the first time? Silvyr would forgive him if he had. Under the circumstances it would be understandable. He wanted to do the same himself, scream at the heavens for taking the choice away from him, taking Brokil away from him.

Back in his room, Silvyr closed the door and sat at his desk, pulling out a piece of parchment and a quill. Quickly he began to write, putting everything Father had said to paper, as well as what he needed Brokil to know about him leaving. He hoped the message would get to Brokil in time. If it didn't reach them, Silvyr wasn't sure he could live with himself knowing that something could have been done to prevent the worst.

A knock sounded at the door just as Silvyr finished the letter, and he set it aside, allowing the distraction to pull him away from his thoughts.

"Come in," Silvyr said, turning to watch Ascal step through the door before closing it behind herself. She must have been off duty, as she wore simple linens and a leather jerkin rather than her usual armor. Her daggers still hung from her hips, but it wasn't an unfamiliar sight, as Silvyr doubted he'd ever seen her without them. Silvyr relaxed his shoulders, motioning for the empty chair beside his desk.

Ascal sat down, crossing her legs. "You spoke with your father?" she asked him.

"I did," Silvyr said, glancing at the parchment on the desk. "I need to send word to Ghizol that Father will be punishing them."

It probably wasn't wise to tell Ascal his plans, but he trusted her more than anyone else in this damned place. If anyone would be able to see the reason in Silvyr's words, see just how unreasonable Father was being with the Ghizol orcs, it was her. Once she understood that Ghizol was good and didn't deserve the hellfire Father would send them, she would agree with Silvyr.

"Sending word?" Ascal questioned, leaning forward.

"Yes. They need to know that Father will punish them however he sees fit, most likely with war if his earlier words are anything to go by. They need to be ready to protect themselves." Silvyr looked back to Ascal, determination set in every line of his body. "They're not monsters, Ascal. They… they just want to live in peace."

"They took you," Ascal began, but Silvyr didn't let her finish.

"They did what they thought they needed to do. What other options would they have?" Silvyr asked, trying to keep his voice from rising too high. "Everything else they've tried has failed. Diplomats, bribes, gifts. What else could they have done short of war?"

Ascal stared at Silvyr with disbelief. "You care for them, don't you?" she whispered, each word spoken so carefully.

"They're good people, Ascal." Silvyr leaned back in his chair, shoulders dropping heavily, weighed down by his worry for Ghizol, for his home. "They don't deserve what Father wants to do to them."

Ascal looked to the desk, eyeing the parchment Silvyr had been working on. "What happened in Ghizol, Silvyr?" she asked softly, her voice radiating concern.

Silvyr bit back the tears that threatened to overflow at the question. He didn't want to cry now. He trusted Ascal, hoped he could convince her to help, but she would not understand why he cried. "I saw how they live and who they are," Silvyr told her just as quietly. "I stayed in Chief Brokil's home, and he showed me Ghizol. They were good to me, Ascal."

Silence fell upon the room, dragging on long enough for the panic to settle in his stomach, the worry that Ascal still did not understand. Or worse, that she didn't want to.

"I was there for months and they only ever treated me as a guest. I saw their farms and their children. I even saved one from a boar pen, and his mother brought me a pie to thank me." Silvyr's words strung together, spilling from him so rapidly that he knew he sounded desperate. He was babbling, but he needed Ascal to see the goodness he did. "Chief Brokil's mother is a healer, and she taught me how to make salves. She made me this ointment for my wounds, and this tea for the mornings, and she showed me how to make them too so when I left I could—."

He cut himself off, stumbling over his own tongue at the reminder that even if he knew how, he couldn't make the salve or tea here. Father would never allow it. He'd have to be careful with what he had, perhaps sneak ingredients into his rooms to make more if he had the chance.

Ascal stared at him, and Silvyr could practically see the thoughts roiling in her head. Learning that the amalgamation of information she had received all her life could be false was no doubt difficult to swallow. He could not blame her for wanting to stew in her thoughts.

Athowen's idea of the Amesisle orcs was vastly different from what Silvyr actually experienced, from what he told her of. While they were frustrated and fed up with Father's attacks against them, while they had every reason to shove Silvyr in their dungeons to wilt away, they didn't. They may not have welcomed him with kindness at first, but he'd shown them that he wasn't Father. They were worth protecting, and Silvyr would be damned if he didn't do everything in his power to keep them safe from Father's wrath.

"They're good," Silvyr said again.

"I see." With a deep breath, Ascal stood and held out her hand for the parchment. "Let me find a messenger then. I will see to it that it's sent out."

Silvyr stared at her with wide eyes, surprised at her agreement, but thankful nonetheless. He took the parchment and rolled it up, tying it off with a ribbon. "Thank you, Ascal," he said, handing her the scroll. She took it and slipped it into the chest pocket of her jerkin.

"Your father will not be pleased," Ascal said slowly, shaking her head, "but I think I understand. The home I found you in… It seemed warm enough. You seemed… safe."

Happy, he imagined she wanted to say. Silvyr couldn't help but smile. "It was. I was taken care of there. They kept to their word that I would not be harmed," Silvyr said. "Even the wounds I received in Bravrith have been treated, and they've been punished for it by Ghizol. It wasn't taken lightly. I just wish Father could see that."

Ascal nodded and placed a hand on Silvyr's shoulder. "I am glad you are home now. It's much better being the personal guard of someone who's actually around," she said, squeezing his shoulder and giving him an almost playful smirk.

Silvyr would have hugged her if he didn't think she would squeeze the life out of him. "I missed you too," he said instead.

???

When it came time for dinner, Silvyr left his room and made his way to the study.

Ever since coming back, he had taken to having his meals where he could be surrounded with books to distract himself. He was still working through the botanical books he'd gathered from the castle library, looking for the wildflowers he'd seen in Ghizol. He hadn't found them yet, but he was determined.

A small, childish part of him mused that maybe the book he searched for was hiding from him. That it knew, should he find it and see its illustrated pages, it'd be butchered and torn apart to be hung across the walls of his room. Plastered on every surface he could find in an attempt to recreate what he'd lost. To pretend he was back in that meadow outside of Ghizol, waiting for Brokil to join him and take him home.

Dinner was already on the table when he arrived at the empty study. He settled into the plush lounge chair and picked up a piece of melon, plopping it in his mouth and chewing slowly. Before his capture, he might have enjoyed the mild sweetness of the fruit, but now the dull taste twisted his stomach. The grilled chicken and roasted asparagus the servants dropped off looked entirely unappetizing, and the simple salad, while elegant and light, looked miserable on its plate. He found himself yearning for something warmer, more flavorful. A warm bowl of stew, perhaps. The beef one that Brokil would make whenever Silvyr asked. The one that burst a myriad of herbs and seasonings across his tongue with every bite.

Silvyr had barely finished half of his meal when the door to his study opened and his brother stepped in.

Despite Father's ire toward Silvyr, it could never be said that he wasn't a Quilen. If Father wasn't proof enough of the fact, Arlen certainly was. With Silvyr's same yellowed hair and sharp features, the same green eyes and thin lips, Arlen might as well have been a reflection there in the doorway. Perhaps a less tarnished one than Father's, less warped, but a reflection all the same. The perfect image of what Silvyr was meant to be. What Silvyr was supposed to be.

It should have been a happy reunion, but Arlen and Silvyr had never been close. Father made sure to keep it that way, made sure Silvyr knew that he wasn't the preferred son. Arlen was taller, stronger, much more like Father than Silvyr ever could be. If Father was capable of feeling love or showing affection, Arlen received all of it. Had done since the moment he was born.

"May I join you?" Arlen asked, his voice low and almost hesitant.

Unusual, but Silvyr didn't pay it much mind and motioned for the seat across from himself. "Of course."

In truth, he didn't want to be around anyone right now, but he couldn't be outright rude to his brother, lest Father discover it and bring punishment upon him. He was in enough trouble already.

Arlen took the seat offered, oblivious to Silvyr's mixed feelings. He adjusted his evening silks and pushed his hair back over his shoulders. "I did not think you would return home. I feared those brutes would have killed you."

Silvyr straightened in his chair and set his utensils down, considering his words carefully. If Arlen was here to speak of Ghizol, Silvyr had no doubt Father had sent him to pry up information. Let him try.

"I am alive and well. They held up their end of the terms," he said.

"I can see that." Arlen chuckled, crossing one leg over the other. "But you are injured. Your lip is still healing, and the healers have been talking about the rest of your wounds."

"None caused by the orcs in Ghizol," Silvyr said quickly. Too quickly, but he would not have them believing that the Ghizol orcs caused him any harm. They did not deserve that reputation. "Besides that, they will heal, and the scarring will be minimal. All things considered, I am unscathed."

If Arlen saw through the lie, he said nothing of it. "So then, what were they like?" he asked instead, interest brimming in his eyes, but Silvyr did not believe it. It had to be a trap, and Silvyr would give him and Father nothing.

"They were good people," Silvyr said, choosing every word to ensure Father could use nothing to attack them with. "They take care of their own, and they are strong. I did not see much from where I was being held, but I noticed that much."

Arlen listened, reaching out to take a piece of melon from the fruit bowl. Silvyr felt no need to stop him, he wouldn't be eating it anyway. "What of their leader? I've only heard rumors, and some of the men from the caravan said he threw you to the ground the moment he saw you." Sparks of memory filled him. Brokil had been a force to be reckoned with the moment they met, and continued to be so even after they'd grown closer.

Silvyr caught the corners of his lips twitching, and he took a deep breath to compose himself, glancing out the window to feign distraction. "He did. He is a strong man and willing to do whatever it takes to protect his people," Silvyr said. "Even so, he did not hurt me. Surprise me, yes. But hurt me, no."

"I see." Arlen hummed, taking another piece of melon. "Well, regardless, I am glad you're home now. They would have killed you if Ascal didn't rescue you first. Father had no intention of submitting to Ghizol's request."

"I know that," Silvyr said, turning back to look at his brother. "Perhaps Father should learn that diplomacy is better than conquest. Ghizol did try diplomacy first, you know. Father might as well have spit in their face. He cannot be surprised when they react harshly."

"Do you believe that?"

"I do." Silvyr stood from his chair and gathered the books he'd chosen for the evening into his arms. He gave his brother a small bow of the head. "If you'll excuse me, I'm tired and must retire for the night. Thank you for your visit."

He didn't wait to hear what his brother said. He couldn't be around him much longer without the risk of giving too much away. Arlen was too good at pulling out the information he wanted, and Silvyr had never had a good head for deception.

Returning to his room, Silvyr dressed in his sleeping clothes and sat in front of the vanity, watching his reflection as he combed through his hair. In another life, maybe he would see Brokil coming up from behind him. He would feel those thick arms wrap around his waist, tight and protective, maybe even a little bit possessive. He would allow Brokil to take him to bed where they would fuck and kiss and cling to each other through the night.

It would never happen. Silvyr would likely never see Brokil again, never feel the strength of his arms or breathe in his comforting musk again, but it didn't matter. His time with Brokil might be nothing but a precious memory to him now, but Ghizol was not. She was still standing, and Silvyr was determined to keep her that way. No matter what he had to do, he would be sure of it.

As he pulled his blankets over his shoulders, the bed feeling emptier than ever before, Silvyr closed his eyes and imagined Brokil at his side. Imagined a life where he was allowed, for once, to be happy.