9. Six

My sleep was fitful and full of ghosts. I dreamt of the Hall of Wisdom and standing before the twelve clans as a boy while my father made his case for Primarch the first time. His bid had failed spectacularly, the clans far too conservative to allow a former slave to occupy the highest office in the land. A boy at the time, I was unaware of the clan infighting or the way they still called him traitor under their breath. I knew only what they said of my mother.

Tragic, they called her. The last high queen of the elves, for all the good it did her. She held the title for twenty days while my father laid siege to the very hall where he sought to be elected.

I dreamt of the rivers of blood my father had carved to win the right to be called a hero, and the way the streets had run red after he ordered a decimation among the slaves. One in ten put to the sword.

To keep order, he'd said, but there was no order in that. I saw the lifeless bodies of men, women, and children, the rust-colored puddles of the aftermath, the women forced to clean their kinfolk's blood from the ancient wood. The defiance I'd seen in their eyes, the raw hatred for me even though they did not know me… It was burned into my soul.

I had always wondered how Tarathiel could order such a thing, having been born a slave himself.

I woke to a whisper in the dark, my blade already drawn. Not that it would have done me any good against the elf who stood over me. If Aryn meant to kill me, I never would have woken at all. His silver hair gleamed in the dark, a gift from our shared father, despite having different mothers.

"What is it?" I asked, lowering my blade from his throat.

"Your pet is going to freeze if nothing is done," Aryn said.

I snorted and sat up, tossing the serrated blade aside. "You woke me to tell me my prisoner is cold?"

"Prisoner?" His tone made it sound as if he disapproved of my choice of words, though his face didn't betray what he truly thought. "You called him a weapon at Ostovan."

"He is both." I rose and gave Aryn my back to go piss in the copper pot. I didn't need to look at him to know he had crossed his arms. "Say your peace, Aryn."

"Tarathiel has given you an army."

I grunted in agreement. "A third of his own forces."

"With the slaves we acquired at Ostovan, and the allies you've been courting, we nearly match his numbers."

I smiled into the dark. Aryn always did have a sharp mind. Sharper than most. He saw past the pieces moving on the board to watch the hands behind them. A useful skill, being able to anticipate so many moves in advance.

"Slaves are not soldiers," I said, righting my clothing.

"Which is why you need your bird in the cage," he observed. "You need him to be loyal to you. Hurting him will not win his loyalty."

"And if I coddle him, the others will see him for what he is. My pet. My puppet." I turned around with a sigh. "Not only that, but he'd never trust me if I offered him an easy path. He already hates me. I can use that to my advantage, twist that hate into something useful."

"That is a dangerous game," Aryn said, tilting his head.

He was right. I'd have to walk the razor's edge. Push the slave too hard and he might succeed at killing me. Dying would be inconvenient for my plans. If I didn't push him hard enough, however, he might see right through my plan.

"If he succumbs to the cold, you will have lost a very valuable piece," Aryn pointed out.

I sat on the end of the bed with a frown. "The fucker tried to kill me."

"With a knife you provided."

"He bit me."

Aryn arched an eyebrow. "You put your hand in the bear's mouth and complain when he bites?"

"I gave him a choice, Aryn."

"Or the illusion of one," he said flatly, and he was right.

I had anticipated the human's every move, encouraged it even, providing the props for our pantomime, and he used them readily. Aryn was no fool. He, of all people, understood intimately how to break a strong man. He'd been trained to withstand torture and poison since he was a child, and to inflict such suffering upon others. Physical pain was only surface suffering. It broke only the weak. Need broke the strong, and every man needed the same five things: food, water, shelter, connection, hope. The humans had done most of my work for me, starving and dehydrating their captive, robbing him of any meaningful connections, and placing him in that pathetic cage. I had only to take away his hope to break him fully. Then, and only then, could he be rebuilt into the weapon I hoped to wield.

I turned away from Aryn. "He clings to his hope like a stubborn bastard."

"You will kill him before you break him this way, Ruith."

I threw up my hands in defeat. "Then what do you suggest? He would sooner spit on me than accept kindness. I offered him water and he wouldn't even take it."

Aryn cocked his head to one side, considering me in silence for a long beat. "Would you take water from the hand of your enemy?"

"If I were thirsty enough, I would. It"s a survival instinct."

"You underestimate the strength of his pride."

I frowned. He was right. It was a miscalculation on my part. I had thought the humans broke his pride already, or were close to it, but their methods were ineffectual.

Sighing, I combed my fingers through my hair. "We don't have time to wear him down. We have weeks, Aryn. Perhaps a month. It's difficult to know his mind when he can't speak."

The silence stretched on as Aryn carefully considered his words. It'd taken me many years to get used to the extended silences when speaking with him, but that was just his way. Not a word, nor a breath wasted. Everything had to serve a purpose.

"Sometimes," he said eventually, "it is better to bend than to break." There was a light flutter of fabric, and he was gone as suddenly as he'd come.

I sat in my bed, contemplating his words for some time. Then I rose and went about preparing for my day.

If I had been my father, my tent would have been crawling with half a dozen body slaves the moment I woke, each one ready to attend to my every whim. Tarathiel did not dress, shave, or bathe on his own. He did not affix his own armor or sharpen his own blade. He'd forgotten what it meant to have any degree of autonomy, relying too much on his slaves.

To say I begrudged the practice of slavery itself would be a stretch. Truthfully, I didn't care one way or the other. Holding slaves had always been a part of our culture. Even if they one day achieved freedom, it would only be to find themselves living in squalor for generations to come. That didn't make their plight any less of a concern, nor their pursuit of freedom any less admirable. But it was not my fight, nor my place, to speak for the slaves. If they wanted their freedom, they would have to find the will to bleed and die for it. For that, they needed a reason, one that hadn't yet been provided.

If there was an uprising, I would do what had to be done so long as it was in my favor to do it. But only if it served me. I was not the disciplinarian my father was, married to the glory of the past. The past was dead. Let it lie sleeping in the ground. I meant to build a future free of him.

I didn't keep body slaves for the simple purpose that I didn't enjoy tripping over them or constantly having to keep track of them or their welfare. I had a few slaves to tend to my horses, my armor, and various other aspects of life so that I could focus on my command, but I didn't allow them in my tent. On campaign, that was my only sanctuary, and I didn't wish to be disturbed.

Dressed and prepared for the day, I pulled the blanket from my own bed and stepped outside. It was early yet, with dawn still another hour off. The camp was already alive with many people moving about. Cook fires flared to life, and the shuffle of feet and hooves were everywhere. Many of the bodies moving about the camp at that hour were slaves, emptying copper pots or running morning errands for their masters.

If I could but put a sword in every able hand, I thought, watching them scurry about. But it would be foolish to do it. Even as well trained as they were, many would still happily turn those blades on us, and I had no designs to die at the hands of a well-armed slave.

My human captive was awake, curled into a tight, shivering ball on the floor of his gilded cage. The thin garments Senna had given him were little protection against the night chill, and he'd been left far enough away from the fire that its light barely reached him, let alone its warmth. Even in the dim light of morning, I saw that his lips and fingertips were blue, and he couldn't keep his teeth from chattering.

The cold dark, however, had done nothing to cool his temper. He still glared at me with fire in his eyes. I didn't know if he understood what I'd said to him the night before, but he certainly understood the implication. I had made him feel helpless, and he hated me for it. Even shivering as he was, I doubted he would accept the blanket if I offered it freely. This wild creature didn't want pity. Not from me, not from anyone.

I threw the blanket on the edge of the cart, just within reach, should he choose to take it. "This is not a gift," I said, though I doubted he could understand my words. "It's a down payment. Tonight, when we stop, you will earn it."

He didn't reach for the blanket. I walked away, leaving him to make the only choice he could. He'd take it eventually, or he would freeze.

I found Senna and gave him strict orders to ensure my caged prisoner ate from my rations and not the slave rations. He'd refuse them, of course, but I had calculated for that too. I also gave the order that he should travel in the rear with the rest of the slaves, but that none of them were to speak to him.

"If you must, use the rod," I said. "I expect you will find a reason because he's rather rebellious. Don't be shy about doing it in front of others. Let them see what happens to those who defy their masters. But no beatings, Senna, no matter how unruly he gets."

Senna, who was already prostrate on the ground, pressed his nose into the dirt. "Yes, Mirza."

An hour after dawn, the horns sounded, and my soldiers fell in line. Aryn joined me in silence, and we rode. I pushed us hard the second day, thinking hard about the longboats waiting on the shore for us. It was a week's ride to reach them, and we would all be packed in tight with the new slaves, but it couldn't be helped. If we set a hard pace, perhaps we could reach the boats in five days instead of seven, and perhaps we would be in open waters before the freeze, and perhaps we wouldn't run into any storms.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Shortly after midday, I rode back the column asking for Senna, who met me on foot. When I inquired after the prisoner, he shook his head.

"He refused his rations, but took the water, as you said. Took the slave rations when I offered them, though."

I didn't let it show that I was pleased, but I was. I was beginning to anticipate his moves even better. "What of the blanket? Has he accepted it?"

"Begrudgingly, Mirza."

I nodded. "And what of the others from Ostovan? Do they speak of my slave?"

Senna hesitated.

"Come now, Senna," I said. "You've been with me for many years. You know I want the truth. What are they saying about him?"

"They call him a pet, Mirza," Senna said after a moment. "They complain that he gets to ride in luxury while their feet bleed and freeze."

I considered my response carefully. If the cage was the problem, then perhaps I should take it away. "Take him out of the cage and leash him to the back of it. Let him walk for a few hours. Make sure the others see him."

Senna nodded. "How else may I serve?" It was a practiced response, one all slaves learned.

I dismissed him with a flick of my wrist and returned to the column to find Ieduin.

Ieduin lifted their brows at my approach. Smoke drifted in thick rings from their pipe, trailing in the air above their head. "Why do you look so smug today? I heard you nearly got your fingers bitten off. Have you learned not to poke wild animals when they should be sleeping?"

"Who is the best brawler in the camp?" I asked, ignoring the question entirely.

They lowered their pipe and gave me a curious look. "Aside from the four of us?"

"Yes, aside from us."

"Why?"

Refusing to look over at my sibling, I said, "After such a grueling march, the men could do with some entertainment tonight. When we make camp, send for your best brawler and have a fighting pit prepared. Spread the word. I want an audience."

"What are you up to, sly dog?"

"About six foot six, last I measured," I said and rode up to meet Aryn.

Aryn looked straight at me with a frown. "What are you doing?"

Finally, I let myself smile. "Giving him a choice: bend or break."