15. Twelve

We had the command tent nearly broken down when the order came to put it back up. I didn't know whether to be annoyed or pleased at how badly the reversal irritated Senna. The old Savarran cursed profusely in his native tongue, careful to avoid directing any of his ire at the masters, and smashed the rod repeatedly against a nearby practice post. It would have been almost comical if each strike didn't gouge splinters from the post.

It took an hour to put the tent back up, mostly because I had never pitched a tent of that make before. I had put up tents, of course, when I accompanied the king on hunts.

The old king, I corrected my own thoughts. Michail would never go on a hunt. He was too frail, too sickly. Besides, he had never had the stomach for violence, or so everyone believed. Little did they know he was capable of it and then some.

The tent erected, I was given new duties. Senna deposited a basket of soiled clothing in my arms and directed me to take it to wash in the nearby stream. I had no idea how to do it, a fact that I realized too late. Not that it would have done me any good to voice it had, I realized. I had no voice at all.

The brutes that were always with Senna followed me closely to the stream, probably to make sure I didn't make a run for it. I wouldn't, mostly because I hadn't gotten my bearings yet. I knew where we were roughly, and that the closest allied city would be Brucia, but I doubted they would take me in. Given the temperature and the time of year, I would freeze to death before I ever made it to Brucia.

I took the clothes and the soap I'd been given, deciding to sit on the edge of the stream and scrub them down as one would while bathing. It wasn't easy or efficient. I was certain there had to be a better way, but I didn't know it. In Ostovan, there were servants for such tasks. Servants took away soiled clothes, and they came back clean. That was all I knew of laundry.

When one of the more delicate garments tore under my fingers, I winced and glanced back at my guard, half expecting Senna to appear with his rod. Senna, however, was nowhere, and the guards were staring at me, bored.

I laid the garment aside and moved on to something that looked a little sturdier.

"That's an interesting way to wash clothes," came a voice in Savarran that did not belong to Senna.

I looked up and found Nessir approaching. A flutter of memory from before made my face heat, and I quickly looked away.

He stood over me, his hands on his hips, watching as I undoubtedly failed at my task. "You've never done this before, have you? You're as useless at laundry as you are at getting your cock sucked."

I glared up at him.

Nessir rolled his eyes. "Don't make a big deal out of it. We all do what we must so we can survive out here. Get your laundry and follow me into the water."

The water was ice cold, biting into my ankles. My toes quickly went numb, but Nessir assured me if I kept wiggling them, all would be well. He showed me how to use the rocks and pebbles, how to beat the heavier garments against the bigger rocks to clean them. His instructions all came in well-practiced Savarran. The only other I had heard speaking that language was Senna. Perhaps that was why he spoke it. But it struck me as strange that an elf might know Savarran. There weren't many elves all the way out there.

Washing clothes was far more labor intensive than I expected, even after Nessir showed me the right way. By the time I was half done, my back and shoulders ached, and my skin was raw and red from the shins down from being in the cold water. The sun had climbed high, warming the grass enough that retreating to the shore brought a welcome reprieve.

We went back to the shore together and Nessir showed me how to wring out the clothes without tearing them. He had strong forearms and delicate fingers, almost as if he'd been made for such work. I had thought him a pleasure slave the night before, at least with the way Ieduin spoke of him.

"It doesn't have to be like this," Nessir offered eventually. Pale green eyes watched me. Dark curls shifted against his temple in the wind. "Your life could be better, even as a slave. You should do as I've done. Get close to one of the mirzas, as I have with Ieduin. They've become obsessed with me. I think the poor fool may even be in love with me. Although Ruith might be more difficult for you. He's much stricter about the rules. Not like Ieduin is. I get away with a lot because they're not Tarathiel's heir. No one expects much of the son of a whore. That's where he's from, you know. Some whorehouse up in the Yeutlands. They'd be there still if magic hadn't proven he was the Primarch's child."

I wanted to ask him questions, to know why he was speaking to me at all, but the collar strangled me.

"They're generous masters to those who serve faithfully," he added. "Don't bite the hand that feeds you, as they say."

Generous masters. I scoffed at the very notion. Listening to Nessir speak was like listening to a bird sing the praises of his cage. He only did it because he'd never seen the sky. One taste of freedom would shatter someone like him, someone who had been brought up from birth to obey. Even if I explained it to him, Nessir would never understand that fighting and dying for freedom was better than even the most generous master.

Still, I didn't want him to think I faulted him for what happened the night before. He was only doing what he knew. I put my hand over his and gave him a small nod, the closest thing I could to an acknowledgement.

Nessir took a deep breath and offered a smile. "Oh, that reminds me. Senna sent me to fetch you."

It turned out that Nessir was a devious little shit. He'd known full well that Senna wanted me right away, and had neglected to tell me for almost two hours. By the time I found my way back to Senna, he was fuming and struck me with the rod repeatedly for being late.

I couldn't guess at Nessir's motivations for getting me into trouble at first. Then, as I was brushing down Ruith's horse, I thought perhaps it was Nessir's vengeance for rejecting him in front of his master.

It was becoming clear that I was going to have to start thinking differently about everything, considering motivations and reasoning that never would have occurred to me before. Kindness was something I couldn't trust from anyone in the camp. I wasn't stupid, but between Ruith's plotting and Nessir's scheming, I was starting to feel as if I were.

At least I knew something about horses. I had tended to my own enough times in Ostovan to be familiar with all the tack and saddles, even if elven saddles were a little different. I knew how to care for the animal and enjoyed it. I liked it more than laundry, anyway.

The horse seen to, I was yanked roughly by the leash back into the command tent where Senna impatiently walked me through how to care for Ruith's armor. That, too, was needless instruction. I had people who did it for me at Ostovan, but only out of necessity. I knew how to inspect each strap carefully, each edge for wear or damage, how to oil which pieces with what, and keep it all in good working order. Usually, care of armor was accompanied by care and inspection of weapons, but the elves knew better than to let me within eyesight of anything sharp.

After, I was treated to a small meal of dried meat and half an apple before I was instructed to ready the tent for Ruith's evening return. That consisted of turning down the bed and ensuring it was clean and ready for occupancy, filling the lamps with the appropriate amount of oil, and sweeping any dirt from the rugs. Other slaves brought trays of food and stood in the doorway until I came and took them, placing them on the table. They regarded me coldly with obvious distaste in their eyes. When my fingers accidentally brushed against one woman's, she jerked away and spat on me, muttering, "Coward," in my native tongue before retreating.

Senna came in, inspected my work, and directed me to a rug. "There's one more thing you have to learn, and will be perhaps the most difficult of your duties."

I went and stood where he pointed, waiting for him to assign me something impossible.

Instead, he simply said, "You will learn the posture of a slave," and told me to kneel.

I instantly hated it, perhaps more than I'd hated it the day before. Last night, kneeling had felt like a necessity, a begrudging surrender ripped from me with a fight. The task before me now was to learn to do it on reflex.

And it wasn't just kneeling I was to learn. There were postures. I was to sit a certain way when my master was present, but did not need me. Another posture for demonstrating I was ready to take an order, another to placate foul moods, another to assume while attending properly. There was even a posture for waiting in my master's absence. Always, I was to keep my eyes down, my chin tucked, like I was ashamed of my very existence. Always in submission, ready to receive. The thought disgusted me.

He walked in a circle around me. "Tonight, you will not go back to the cage, and you will not sleep in the slave tent with me as you did last night. You will sleep here. The mirza has asked for your presence in his bed."

I made a sour face. It doesn't serve me to bed you, he'd said. Was that a lie, too? I could no more guess the elf's intention than I could Nessir's earlier in the day.

"You will do as you're ordered," Senna said. "You will submit. If you don't, if I hear one peep about you being a disobedient little brat, you will get the beating of your life. Do you understand?"

Staring straight ahead and envisioning once again shoving that damned rod up Senna's asshole, I gave a slight nod.

Senna left me like that, waiting. Alone.

Every muscle ached. My joints groaned at the unfamiliar position, and at the rough treatment they'd gotten over the last few days. I longed to stretch out, to take advantage of the empty bed, even if it belonged to an elf. It was better than the floor I'd slept on last night, or the cage the night before.

After working myself to the bone, I had thought I might fall asleep as soon as the opportunity presented itself, but I was too uncomfortable. Too on alert.

Ruith swept into the tent and the sight of him took my breath away. Not for any particular reason, except that on my knees, he seemed impossibly tall. Too tall. More like a god than a man or elf. He came wearing black leather riding clothes. With his long black braids, he looked like the night incarnate, the only light the sliver of silver lining on the inside of his cloak.

But he didn't come into the tent alone. Aryn followed him in, and by Aryn's gait and Ruith's hurry, they almost seemed to be arguing.

Aryn stopped by the door, drawing up stiffly. "Ruith."

"I've heard enough." Ruith put his palms on his desk, errant braids falling like a veil around his face.

"You've heard nothing." Ayrn marched forward, stopping just short. "If we wait—"

"Then we will miss our rendezvous with the Broken Blades. Yes, Aryn. I am aware."

"Surely a trained veteran force is worth more to you than—"

"Than slaves?" Ruith snarled roughly, turning around.

Aryn glanced at me but stood up straighter, clenching his fists. "I realize this is not an easy decision. Trust me, no one wants victory more than me."

"I want it more than you," Ruith said firmly. "I want it more than all of you. I want it for you, Aryn. For Kat. For Ieduin. Did you think I hadn't noticed how he overlooked every one of your victories this season, giving the honor of braids to another?"

"I don't care for braids," Aryn scoffed. "You know that."

"He threatened to have you executed for treason. It is only because you've let him act like you're dead—"

"Aria is dead. It doesn't trouble me to bury that name and that life for good. It was never mine." Aryn shook his head. "Let him mourn the daughter that never was. Let him keep saying he has only three sons. It doesn't trouble me to be disowned or threatened by a tyrant whose days are numbered. But it does trouble me that you come to me less. There was a time when you sought my counsel daily."

"I seek it still," Ruith said quietly. "But this…I cannot do it, Aryn. Not after what I saw in D'thallanar. You weren't there. You didn't see how it was afterwards. How the streets were red with blood. How they cursed my name as the cause. And they were right. I will not pass a death sentence upon them."

"Their king already did."

"Then I won't be King Michail's headsman!"

My head shot up at the mention of my half-brother, but all I saw were two elves, staring each other down. A muscle twitched in Aryn's jaw, the only outward sign that he had lost their silent struggle.

"I will meditate on it," Aryn said at length. "Perhaps there was something written in the scrolls, some treatment or salve that can help stop the spread."

Ruith sighed, rubbing his eyes. "At this point, I would settle for a name."

"What you need is some rest. If you listen to nothing else, listen to that. Seek your bed. Take whatever comfort you need to find it. No matter what choices we make, the next days will be long and hard." Aryn turned to go but paused, his hand on the tent flap. He glanced over at me. "See to him," he ordered and was gone.

As soon as Aryn left, Ruith sank into his chair, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy. I had seen that look on my father's face many times toward the end of his days, when the council whispered that he should do more to secure the city's future and shore up his own defenses. It was a particular kind of exhaustion that came only from making many difficult decisions in a short span of time.

A slave's function is to anticipate his master's needs and see them done. That's what Senna had said. Ruith needed to have his cloak removed, his boots and outer tunic pulled off and perhaps a drink. He needed the usual comforts of a stressed man, but I couldn't bring myself to care enough to provide it. What comfort could I be? I was just a possession.

At length, Ruith lowered his hand from rubbing his face. "It's the carriage problem. It's always the damn carriage problem." He lifted his head and looked at me. "Do you know it, slave? Surely, you humans must have your philosophers. Old men who sit around in the days past their prime to contemplate difficult ethics in simple terms."

I shook my head.

He gestured for me to rise. "Help me out of these damn clothes and I'll ask you, then. Maybe a fresh perspective is all one needs to solve impossible dilemmas."

I rose and went to him, carefully removing the pin that held his cloak in place. I took it and folded it before kneeling to help him out of his boots. In the morning, I would have to scrub and buff them until they glowed.

"A runaway carriage is barreling through the streets, unmanned, out of control, headed straight for a group of five innocent children," Ruith said as I worked. "There's no time to warn them, but you could push some boxes over and redirect the carriage's path to strike a single man instead, saving the children but damning the man. Do you push the boxes and kill the one to save the many?"

I shrugged and nodded. It was a terrible choice, but not an impossible one.

Ruith's chair creaked as he leaned forward. "Now imagine the children are slaves. The single man is your lover. Who do you save now?"

I frowned. The answer didn't come as easily that time. It didn't come at all. It made me feel a little sick to consider either outcome.

"That," said Ruith with a tired sigh, "is the carriage problem. Fundamentally, nothing changes between the first scenario and the second. Killing your lover to save slaves is still sacrificing one to save many, but the slave children are nameless, faceless people who mean nothing to you. Their deaths would be tragic, but quickly forgotten. The death of your lover, noble as it is, would be crushing. No one would fault a man for not making the second choice, but a leader…He is expected to make it."

Michail wouldn't make such a choice. He had no one to protect, no one to love. He'd never put himself in such a position where the carriage problem could happen. Briefly, it crossed my mind that no king should, but that was unreasonable. No one that callous and detached deserved the loyalty and love of his subjects.

I helped Ruith out of the tunic and loosened the laces of his undertunic.

Then he rose and blew out the flame flickering in the oil lamp. "You will sleep here tonight," he said. "In my bed."