19. Sixteen

The next two days were among the hardest of my life. My back was still healing, making every movement more painful, but I was not dismissed from my duties. Thankfully, I had done such a poor job with the laundry the first time that Senna had someone else do it. I wasn't sure I'd survive another trip to the stream.

Instead, since I could read and write adequately, I was sent to follow Ruith as he took stock of the camps. The second camp came up slowly, a mere fifty meters or so from the main force. Any slave with a cough, a rash, an itch that wouldn't go away was immediately sent there. Little more care was given to the soldiers who presented with the same symptoms. Sometimes the physician or one of his assistants would look at them before sending them over. Most of the time, they went on their own without ever going to the physician.

I was amazed at the efficiency of the elves. Men would have balked at the idea of their commander abandoning them to die, but not elves. They seemed to be driven by some intangible sense of honor, that it was better to go willingly to death than be dragged kicking and screaming. It was impossible not to respect them for it.

Early on the first day, we went to the stores, and I stood by while Ruith and Ieduin spoke with the quartermaster. Anything sent by Ostovan had already been given to the other camp, the transfer happening sometime overnight. I was given a list of supplies and told to balance the ledger with what was present. It was an arduous task that took most of the day, and I had to frequently find the quartermaster to have him open barrels and boxes so I could verify their contents.

That done, I was escorted from pen to pen, counting heads of sheep, goats, pigs. It was work that should have been given to the quartermaster's assistant, but he'd taken ill and been sent to the second camp. While all the elves could read and write, there were few of them to spare, as they were busy doing other work, and the slaves that remained were apparently all illiterate, at least in the elven tongue.

At the end of the day, I brought my ledgers to Ruith on bended knee and waited in submissive silence while he scoured over them late into the night. There was no attending, no stripping of clothes, no confusingly soft touches of barbarian fingers caressing my back. No dismissal to retire. I was expected to wait and serve.

As I knelt on the rugs, waiting for a command, a realization unfolded. When Michail captured me in the keep, I told him he would never be a true king. The words had been a venomous strike, born out of frustration. I wanted to believe them true, but I didn't when I uttered them.

But now I did, and I understood something I had not before. It wasn't treachery that separated Michail from all the great kings that had come before him. Every king was treacherous to his enemies. What made great kings rise and poor kings fail was not loyalty, honor, or dedication to their people. It wasn't high walls that kept armies of elves at bay, or superior forces that prevailed in battle.

The mark of success came in moments like these, in a commander willing to make hard decisions. A good king understood that sacrifice was necessary, and he made the call without hesitation. He did the work and lived with his guilt in private.

My father had been a good man, but a poor king. He whored himself around, making bastards without regard for how that might affect his kingdom, and he made no preparations for the day his own son's machinations would cut him down. He didn't see the snakes in his own bed for what they were, and it had cost him not only his life, but his legacy. His kingdom.

Michail would not be able to make difficult decisions. Not like Ruith. That would destroy him eventually.

For all his faults and his barbarian ways, Ruith would not make those same mistakes. He was a good commander. As a commander myself, I respected him for it, even as I bore the lashes of his punishment on my back.

I watched Ruith pour over the ledgers, trying to fit two jagged halves of a feeling together. He was not a good person, but to even call him a person had felt like a stretch just days ago. I found he was winning some begrudging respect from me, and I didn't hate him for it.

The second day was more difficult, partially because we'd had no sleep. The air turned colder, and an ache settled deep in my bones that was impossible to ignore.

Everyone moved somberly about the camp, the place feeling far too empty. Black plumes of smoke rose steadily from the second camp. Pyres for the dead.

I catalogued horses, carts, and barrels of pickled vegetables.

I scratched names from a roster.

At dusk, rather than take his meal in the tent, Ruith sat at the edge of camp, watching the distant smoke. His expression was carefully neutral, but I knew the ache of helplessness when I saw it. He was watching his people die from fifty yards away, helpless to stop it. The Rot didn't know elf from man. It killed them indiscriminately.

Hungry graves don't care who fills them.

Soldiers, slaves, and kings were all equal in death.

Footsteps in the grass behind us had me lowering my head like a trained dog. Ruith might excuse my liberties in private, but if it were Senna approaching…

Instead, there was the whisper of frozen grass on soft silk and Katyr appeared. He placed a hand on Ruith's shoulder in a rare gesture of affection. There was a ring on his every finger, some of them fine jewels and others simple bands of red string. If not for the pointed ears and the taps holding his magic, someone like Katyr could have fit in at any court to the west. He was elegant where Ruith was plain, and soft where Ruith was rough. I had heard Ruith call him brother, but I couldn't see it. The two were nothing alike.

"I should have been more thorough," Ruith said quietly. "I should not have pushed our pace so hard."

"You did what you thought was best," Katyr replied.

Ruith's face hardened. "Good intentions are a small comfort to the dead."

A brief pause before Katyr said, "There will be more blood before this is all done. We can mourn together at the end."

Ruith closed his eyes and bowed his head. "There is no end. There will always be one more battle to fight. One more problem to solve."

"A crown is a heavy burden to bear," Katyr agreed, withdrawing his hand. "But you don't have to bear it alone."

Weight settled in the grass nearby. I lifted my head just enough to spy Aryn seating himself cross-legged, a long stringed instrument in his fingers. Ieduin had come too, pipe in hand. While the bodies burned, Aryn began to play, the sound of the instrument low and mournful, full of words that no one could speak. A dirge for the dead, and the soon to be dying.

The song stretched on while the light waned and the air chilled. This far from the fire, it was cold, but no one seemed inclined to seek warmth or light. We waited frozen, as if the Judge himself would come down from on high to give us orders to obey.

Something wet touched my nose, and I turned my face up. Specks of white danced against the black backdrop of night.

Aryn stopped playing and looked up too. "Snow," he announced.

Ruith's jawline hardened. He stood, prompting me to stand with him. "We march at first light."

I rose in the morning an hour before Ruith. It was still dark, but it was better that way. After so many days, I was learning Ruith's routines, and some of my own weaknesses. He liked to pleasure himself in the mornings, and I didn't want to be there for it.

The elves, I had learned, didn't have any sort of cultural taboo about sex, at least around the camp. They talked about it frequently, bragging in groups about having just come from someone's bed or polishing their pommel, and their friends would pour them a drink. It was like talking about the weather for them, except much less ominous.

That morning, I didn't rush out of bed. I was too sore, too cold. Despite the possible dangers, I wanted to linger in the warmth for a moment longer. Turning over in the bed we shared, I found him still sleeping. I didn't remember him coming to bed, though I recalled him ordering me to it. I must've fallen asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

Watching him sleep made a strange pressure rise in my chest. He was vulnerable. I could kill him, wrap my hands round his throat and squeeze, or find something sharp and slice open his neck. It was the first time in a few days I'd contemplated murdering my captor, and I wondered why. That should've been the first thing on my mind.

Yet even as I laid next to him, thinking about killing him, I made no move to do it. I'd be well within my rights to try. Justified, even.

Instead, I found myself taking in his face. Ruith had long, dark eyelashes, which might've made him seem feminine if not for the harsh jaw and the aquiline nose. He didn't have the same bow in his lip that his brothers had. Instead, his lips were a wide slit, the skin a shade darker than the rest. He hadn't taken his braids out the night before like he usually did, and one hung in loose disarray against his cheek. I had the oddest urge to brush it aside, to trace the shell of his pointed ear, just to feel if it was real. He didn't look so different from any other man in sleep.

Quietly, carefully, I rose and dressed so as not to wake my master, and then I began completing my checklist. I was quickly finding there was a strange satisfaction in the simple work. I'd balked at first, thinking it beneath me, but it wasn't so bad. In fact, there was a part of me that enjoyed some aspects of serving. I might've even continued it for the right man in the right circumstances…If only I had been given a choice in the matter.

I laid out his riding clothes, inspecting them for damage and finding none. Knowing he liked to take his bath before his breakfast, I left the tent to go heat up the water.

Outside, it was that strange hour where dawn had not yet triumphed over night, and no one was quite sure if it was yesterday or today. The night guards were still moving around camp tending fires, while slaves began their work.

It was at the heating fire that I ran into Nessir again. He was there to get water for his master, too. Or someone. I didn't know who he belonged to.

"You've adapted to your role well." While Nessir's words dripped with honey, there was a hidden stinger.

I glared at him, my back aching.

He smirked. "Don't look at me that way. It's not my fault you got twenty lashes. I didn't make you assault Senna. That was your choice. Honestly, I figured the worst you would get was Senna's rod. You did the rest yourself."

I frowned, shifting the cauldron over the fire, trying to ignore him. Whatever fight he wanted, I wasn't going to give it to him.

He turned his face away. In profile, he looked even younger. With the right clothes and styled hair, he could have passed as a boy or a man, serving many tastes at once. "Making an enemy of me is unwise…Your Highness."

My head shot up, back going rigid. I didn't want it widely known that I was the bastard prince. My situation would only get worse once that got out. What little comradery I had with the other slaves would erode, and once the elves realized the true value of the prisoner they held, they would either execute me or do something far worse.

But how did he know who I was when Ruith and the others did not?

Nessir offered a pleased smirk in response. "Don't worry. No one else here knows. Yet." He hefted up the bucket of his master's water, thin arms trembling with the effort. If looks could strike me dead, I would have keeled over with the one Nessir shot me. "But it's in your best interest to behave yourself. As for what happened in the stables, I'd keep that to myself if I were you."

I frowned, watching him walk away, making an effort to sway his hips, even as he struggled with the bucket.

I couldn't fault him for being the way he was. That sort of cutthroat attitude had probably helped him worm his way into the commander's bed, affording him lots of freedoms the other slaves didn't get. He must've seen me as a threat, though I couldn't see why. It wasn't my fault things had turned out the way they did. I would much rather have had him as an ally than an enemy.

Ruith was awake when I hauled the bath water in and filled the large wooden tub. He sat tiredly on the end of the bed, unbraiding the mess of his hair. He looked up, almost as if he were surprised to see me. Maybe I should have been surprised to be there. Running hadn't occurred to me once while I was out. I blamed Nessir and his distraction.

Now that I was there, there was nothing to do but my duty. I rolled up my sleeves, testing the temperature of the bath water before adding a few droppers of rose oil. It was good for the skin and kept the hair soft and full. Ruith's hair was so long it reached his mid back when all the braids were removed. It was so tangled that morning that it was a hopeless mess. We'd be late marching out if I left him to untangle it himself.

Irritated by how long it was taking him, I came over and reached to help him. He stiffened the moment I touched his hair, spine going rigid, but he didn't immediately swat my hands away. I took that as permission and carefully started combing my fingers through the mess he'd made, untwisting the rat's nest.

Despite the tangled mess, he did have nice, soft hair. It was rare for men in the Free Cities to let theirs grow out so, in part because the practice was so common among the elves. No one wanted to be mistaken for an elf sympathizer. The style in Ostovan's court had gotten a little longer in recent years, being allowed to just touch the ears. Anything more was scandalous.

Beards were in for a few years, and then they weren't. Mine had come in over the last several days, a fact I disliked, but lived with. No one was going to offer me a razor anytime soon. Elves, it seemed, didn't struggle with the same level of growth. In the time I'd been with Ruith, I had not seen him shave once. He had a shadow of dark hair along his chin, but nothing anyone would call a beard.

He turned his head and looked up at me, lips parted like he was about to speak. Before he could, the tent opening parted and Katyr came in. Ruith immediately shoved me away, roughly too, but not before Kat saw me with my fingers in his hair. Katyr's eyes widened. For some reason I didn't fully understand, it felt like we had just been caught doing something we shouldn't.

"What?" Ruith snarled roughly. "Did you forget how to announce yourself?"

"Apologies," Katyr smirked and made a sweeping bow. "I didn't realize I'd be interrupting such an intimate moment."

My face flushed. There was nothing intimate about what we were doing…was there?

Ruith gave a dismissive wave, but there was a stripe of new color along his cheekbones. Was that… Was he blushing? About this? Of all the things to be embarrassed about!

"Say what you came to say, Kat."

"I came to tell you that there were no new cases overnight," Kat said.

We all breathed a collective sigh of relief. It didn't mean there wouldn't be future outbreaks, but at least it seemed as if we'd contained the Rot enough to move on. I didn't know why I was relieved. I should have wanted my elven captors to suffer and die. If they did, however, it would mean Michail won, and I would rather live a thousand years a slave than see him victor of anything.

"That's good," Ruith said at length. "Has there been any news from the other camp? Survivors?"

"A few are recovering." Kat sounded grim. "They're too weak to travel yet, but I've assured them we'll leave some longboats behind. They can join us when they find the strength."

Ruith nodded and stood. "We'll march as planned, then."

"On your order." Kat inclined his head. "See you for the march."

In the wake of Katyr's departure, there was a new tension in the air, one I couldn't explain and didn't understand. Ruith stood by the tub, looking at the steaming water, and I stood behind him, longing to put my fingers back in his hair for some reason.

I reached to touch him again, but he pulled away violently.

"Leave," he said roughly. "Ready my horse. I'll bathe and dress myself today."

My lips turned down in a frown. I couldn't figure out what I had done wrong to suddenly turn his mood so sour. Just when I thought we were beginning to understand one another, everything became confusing again.

I hesitated, though I'd been given a direct order. Something about him was different. The cool, calm, collected commander now seemed withdrawn and oddly vulnerable. Every protective instinct in me shouted that he shouldn't be left alone. I wanted to stay by his side. But I was his slave, not his bodyguard, not his friend. His property.

So I lowered my head and obeyed.