20. Seventeen

Riding away from my own men was the hardest thing I had ever done as a commander. I was leaving them stranded and sick with limited supplies on enemy soil with the winter approaching. I was passing a death sentence.

It wasn't just leaving the soldiers that upset me, either. We had lost a third of our slaves, and that was a painful blow to both resources and morale. The Rot had torn families apart, sending some to the sick camp to die while others lived to march with me. It was a consequence I had never intended but had to live with.

Sometimes, I wished for my father's callous soul. Then I wouldn't be so bothered by the noticeable number of slave children now without parents.

I turned my head, regarding the slave walking next to me. He was leashed to my horse, but no one would think him tame. No one would imagine him combing his fingers gently through my hair, touching me the way a lover would. He couldn't know that what he'd done was forbidden. I should have had his hands cut off for such a presumptuous offense. That's what my father would do. It's what anyone with an ounce of self-respect would do. A warrior's braids were sacred, symbols of his dedication to the art of battle and past victories. Each one I had won with sweat and blood. I had traded friends and lovers, for those braids, and he had dared to touch them so gently. So stupidly.

And I had let him.

I was getting too familiar with this slave. Too close. It was my fault. I had mistakenly started to see some of myself in him. He was nothing like me, and we both needed to be reminded of our place.

"Something is troubling you," Aryn observed. "Something besides what we're riding away from."

"It isn't what we ride from," I said coldly. "It's what we ride toward."

We spoke no more. Aryn was a man of few words, and I was poor company for conversation.

When we stopped for the night, I didn't even order the tents pitched. It would take too long to pack up and get on our way, and I wanted to find the shore before midday. Instead, we would sleep under the stars and in the snow. It would be cold and miserable, especially in light of the men we'd left behind, but it couldn't be helped.

The slave reported diligently, but I sent him away on meaningless errands. I wanted him out of my sight. I wanted him at my side. I wanted his fingers back in my hair and I wanted to go back to that moment and slap his fingers away before we were seen. I told myself at least it was Katyr. He understands. If it had been Aryn, I would have uneasy questions to answer.

At dusk, I went to find Katyr. He was drilling with the other mages, practicing fire spells. A good choice, given the cold. We walked together up and down the lines, watching them work, plumes of flame lighting up the dark.

"He didn't know what he was doing," I said. Kat would know who I meant.

He folded his hands behind his back. "Of course not."

"He's only a human. He doesn't know our ways." I looked over at my brother with his head of short, golden curls.

Katyr was the only one of us who kept his hair short. It was a form of silent protest. The golden hair marked him. At a glance, everyone knew he had Runecleaver blood, and Runecleavers were supposed to be great warrior mages. They were expected to have many braids and to treasure them. Despite his many victories, Katyr did not braid his hair, or let it grow out. He kept it cut short, like a man in mourning. In exchanges with other elves, it often meant he was underestimated. They saw him and thought him weak, inexperienced. An easy target. Kat would smile, laugh, and quickly show them the error of their ways. Wise elves knew to fear a smiling mage.

Kat stopped walking when we were just out of earshot of the other mages. "Does he trouble you?"

"The slave?" I frowned. "Why would he trouble me?"

"After you had him flogged, I thought…" He pressed his lips together. "He's been strangely compliant."

"He's no fool. He knows that his chances of survival are better if he cooperates."

Katyr gave me an appraising look. "Do you think that's all it is?"

I dismissed the insinuation entirely out of principle alone. "That's all it is. Survival."

Quiet. The only sound for a moment was the breath of fire pushing back against the cold dark.

"I did not think he would be so easy to tame," Katyr said.

I snorted, a sound dangerously close to a laugh. "Don't let him fool you. He's as tame as a rattlesnake, and his bite will be no less deadly when he decides to use it."

He smirked. "You know, they say in Savarra, the royalty drinks a tonic of rattlesnake venom as an aphrodisiac. Apparently, it gives such stamina, they can go for days."

I rolled my eyes. "That sounds like Nessir is filling your head with lies again."

Kat shrugged. "It's just what I heard. Besides, Nessir is Ieduin's pet. I find my way to bed alone these days. I'd rather do that than wake up to find a black spot of rot on my skin."

I didn't return to my bedroll that night, knowing that the slave would be there waiting for me. Instead, I made rounds through the camp, talking to the men. It had been some time since I'd done that, and it was needed. I knew morale would be low, but it felt even worse than I guessed. If we had the time, I would have stopped to do some drills. Nothing got men focused on something other than their misery better than good, hard work. There just wasn't time.

At dawn, I found my horse. The slave was already there with it, brushing his fingers over the mare's hindquarters. It was snowing again, and some of the snowflakes had gotten caught in his hair and beard. In the pale light of dawn, they looked like glittering diamonds. His hair windswept, his pale cheeks cold-kissed and pink, he greeted me with tired eyes full of concern. I wanted to reassure him that I was fine, but cultural taboo prevented me from so much as acknowledging him.

I climbed up into the saddle without a word. Strong, sure fingers brushed against my shin. It felt more accidental than a gesture of affection. Surely, he had no affection for an elf who'd enslaved him and had him beaten. I had worked so hard to make him believe I was a monster. The slaves needed to see that he was not some elf pet. If we seemed friendly, they would never trust him. He needed to hate me if this plan was going to work.

We rode out.

It was just past midday when the grey-green waters of the Barren Sea greeted us at the crossing. The water looked choppy and inhospitable, but we had navigated worse. The longboats were hauled out of their hiding places and made ready at my order. Horses didn't do well at sea, so the ones we had were abandoned along with anything we didn't need for the journey. It would be a miserable four-day sail through unfavorable conditions.

Freed from the horse, I took command of the slave's leash and brought him onto the boat where his footing was unsure and his eyes wide. No one was paying any attention to us as I found my place at the fore, so I pulled the slave into my lap and put my arms around him. He went rigid in my hold and didn't move as I put my lips next to his ear.

"Have you sailed before?"

His throat bobbed, and he shook his head. Ostovan was a landlocked city state, far from here. I doubted he had ever even seen the sea. If I could have, I would have brought him there to see her at her best, when the waters were calm and glittered in the sun. That, unfortunately, was not the mistress of the sea that met us. He was right to be terrified.

"Hold fast to me and no harm will come to you," I promised him.

He was too frightened to see the words for what they were: empty. I could no more save him than myself if the sea decided to swallow us up. There was no point in worrying over it, however. Whatever would be, would be.

We pushed off, the men taking up oars. It was too volatile to depend upon the sail. Our longboat was full of my best soldiers, though none of my commanders were with me. If our boat capsized, they had to make it ashore.

The waves swelled, pushing our boat back and forth. Even with the oars, there was only the illusion of control.

The boats went up, cresting wave after wave, the waves rising higher and higher. The sky darkened, though it was impossible to tell if it was night or the storm responsible. Someone screamed, but not in fear. It was a challenge. I strained to see through the darkening mist and spotted a spray of red hair standing near the center mast. Ieduin screamed obscenities at the storm, promising that if the sea hag opened her maw and ate them, she would regret it.

"Mad fucker," I muttered under my breath.

Lightning peeled through the sky, and I looked in the other direction. I couldn't see Katyr, but I knew he must be almost as terrified as the slave. He'd never liked storms.

As for the slave, he was curled in my lap, clinging white knuckled to me, breathing fast and hard. Brown eyes darted across the rising waves. It must've appeared a hellscape to him. To me, it was certainly less than ideal. So, he does know fear after all.

But it wasn't fear turning his face white and making his limbs shake.

My hand closed on the back of his neck, and I hefted him up, dragging him through wind and rain to the edge of the boat. He opened his mouth in a silent scream and scrambled as I pushed his face toward the water, then choked on his own vomit. I held him there while he emptied his stomach, the boat going up and down, wave after wave after wave.

When at last we stumbled back to the fore and sat, he resembled a brown, half-drowned rat more than a man. His hatred of me was forgotten as he chose to cling to me with white knuckled strength and bury his face against my chest, sobbing without sound at the primal fear that took him.

A sailor, my slave was not.

The other elves, when they were not fighting the waves or the storm, snickered and made jokes at his expense until I grabbed the nearest one by his collar and yanked him down.

"You will not insult my property again," I hissed. "Not and remain in this boat. Speak ill of what's mine again, and I will let the sea hag have you."

He stumbled back, dazed and confused, but silent. No one dared laugh at the poor boy's panic again. Not within earshot of me, anyway.

The storm raged on, the waves getting larger. The slave woke with silent screams of terror and nearly threw himself out of the boat before I grabbed him. It took me several minutes to calm him while he thrashed about, fighting ghosts.

When, at last, he was calm, I released him to stand. The aft of the boat was taking on too much water, and more hands were needed to clear it out so we didn't capsize. The slave latched onto my arm and looked up at me, terror in his eyes.

"I have to go," I shouted over the roar of waves and growl of thunder. "Stay down. You'll be fine."

Just as I tore away from him, a massive wave slammed into the boat, rocking it hard and knocking me to the side. My ankles hit the edge. Ocean rose to meet me, but I didn't plunge in. Some brave soul caught me by the hair.

I turned and found it was the slave holding onto me, wide eyed, a fistful of my braids in his grip. He shouldn't have caught me. He should have let me go overboard after all I'd done to him. Let me drown. Was it fear that made him reach out to catch me? Mercy?

Whatever had made him do it, it was over now. I righted myself carefully. Slowly, he released me. I sank back into the fore of the boat with him. It was unwise to tempt fate twice in one day.

It was night when the storm finally broke, and we sat on calm water for the first time. A veil of stars stretched above us, and a scattered fleet of eighteen longboats had been reduced to fourteen. None of the four lost held my captains. They reported in with raised flags or by shouting across the distance if they were close enough. Whatever else we lost, we would assess the damage when we arrived at Homeshore.

Worn out by his fear, the slave fell asleep with my chest as a pillow. He was soaked to the bone and shivering, but so were we all. He laid against me, lips parted, breathing deeply, softly, evenly. I was acutely aware of every breath, every twitch of muscle, the warm tickle of his breath as it struck my neck. I knew the rhythm of his heart before I knew his name or the sound of his voice. There was a wrongness to that.

I should have let him write his name.