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iron sprouting in the dark
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I second son
~
Luc had always liked being the second son. It meant he wasn’t fettered to LeFer Manor on the outskirts of Neufvallees. He didn’t need to sit with a tutor two hours a day who drilled into him what it meant to be the head of a prestigious family. He was allowed to play in the dirt of the greenhouses by the goldfish lake and tear his garments on the roses climbing the walls. He chose the subjects he wanted to pursue and made the friends he wanted to make.
Most importantly, when his brother and Luc enrolled at the University of Copperoak, Phillipe studied Classics and Law at the request of their father while Luc followed his heart’s desire.
His career as a medic led him from the most renowned hospitals of the Kingdom of the Nine Valleys to the battlefield. His parents didn’t like that, his brother even less, though Phillipe had never been one for big words and speeches. His distaste was found in an upturned lip, a twitch at the jaw. Luc’s mother spent a week trying to convince him to keep working at the White Crystal Hospital. It had been founded by his ancestor and was as much filled with spirited minds of the finest scholars as it was fond of him. Why should he exchange polished halls and awed smiles, a most modern lighting and heating system, a regulated schedule, and his many friends and associates for the risks and discomforts of the army life?
Luc had never quite found a good answer to that question. It was an instinct maybe, the wish to experience more of life than only its smooth, golden sides. There was beauty in darkness, in ugliness. Not everyone was lucky enough to be born a LeFer, rich and popular among the gentry. Luc wanted to be a medic for all, not only for those who’d pay him the most, either in favors or in money. He wanted to offer his help where it was needed the most. If that was where death breathed down your neck and despair lurked like mist, that was where he needed to go.
Luc wasn’t afraid of war. He could deal with blood and pressure and most grievous injuries; he didn’t need to be pampered and bathed in rosewater. For a long time, despite the horrors, he knew he’d made the right decision.
It was only many months later when he woke with chains on his wrists, stuffed into a tiny cage with too many men, the stench of fear and sweat heavy in the air, when he felt for the letter in the pocket of his waistcoat that he felt regret, swift and biting as a blade. He’d read this letter so many times the words had lost all their meaning, yet its contents were etched in his mind like the branding of a sheep.
Dear Ludovic,
Unfortunately, the medics at the White Crystal Hospital weren’t able to relieve the fever of your brother Phillipe. It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you of his passing on the Day of the White Lily. Please return immediately.
It was signed by Luc’s father, Germain LeFer, the man who’d lost not only one but both of his son within the span of a month. For how was Luc to return, chained and bound for the enemy’s land?
~
II cailleach
~
They weren’t enemies at first. For a long time Cailleach was a blank spot on the maps, an abandoned land, populated by nothing but bones and ice and the most cunning of beasts. The libraries didn’t have a name for it. Only the oldest scrolls described a folk of nomads, lone wolves, too small to be a threat. The Shadow War used up all of the Nine Valleys’ resources, keeping them from sending out scouts, and why should they travel a dead land either way?
But this land and its folk weren’t killed easily. When magic returned to the lands and the Nine Valleys recovered from the blow the war had dealt them, strangers dressed in furs and dragonskin came, crossing the border of the sixth valley. With gestures and chalk drawings on granite plates they conveyed their intention to speak and trade with their leader. The King welcomed the opportunity to gain new riches and strengthen their relations to foreign kingdoms, now that they could allow themselves to look beyond the borders.
It was a time of opulence, joy, and progress. Scholars of both lands met and learned from one another. Exotic meats and fruits entered the houses of the Nine Valleys and the influx of strangers with rolling accents entertained the people for they were most generous and polite. Perhaps the victory over the curse of the Shadows and the salvation of the cursed made the people gullible, overly confident. For what danger could be worse than the Shadows? How could they ever be defeated armed with magic?
Later historians and politicians would wonder if Cailleach had always worn a mask. Had they pretended to be friends and laughed at them behind their backs? Or had they arrived with innocent intentions? Had greed seeped into the fragile, new connection like poison and turned it sour as time went on?
It was the best of times, and as such it couldn’t last. Disputes broke forth; Cailleach demanded they gave them a share of their crystals, the source of their magic, for their caves lay in the Raven Mountains which Cailleach had a claim on too. Accusations of robbery, dishonor, and corruption escalated into violent border clashes and skirmishes until the day of the declaration of war, 156 ABN.
Five years later Luc LeFer was born.
~
III beyond the nine valleys
~
The day Luc LeFer became a prisoner of war he was with the 3rd Division. Of one hundred men only two dozen were still alive. Their general, Richard Beryl, had been one of the first to die. His good friend Alexis Rothwood’s death had hurt the most. Luc had been with him the moment his eyes had clouded over and his chest had stopped moving, frantically trying to still the bleeding of the hole the bayonet had left between his ribs. For others he could cling to delusion, imagining they might have escaped the massacre even though logically he knew no one could have survived those horrors.
For the longest time the Nine Valleys had been advantageous due to their crystal supply and their knowledge of magic that surpassed that of Cailleach. Their weapons were more effective, swifter, and more powerful. However, Luc had long wondered if that wasn’t wishful thinking on their part, if Cailleach wasn’t biding their time, well-versed in a different sort of magic. There was no satisfaction in being right. Cailleach had dragons now.
Of course they’d always had dragons. They were at home in the frozen deserts of their realm and only the occasional colony had crossed the borders. Yes, for a long time the scholars of the Nine Valleys had thought them on the verge of extinction. The paintings of dragons displayed in art galleries and exhibitions called to mind ferocious dogs with leathery skin in various shades of blue. The books Luc had read on them described the behavior of mostly flightless birds like chicken and a hunger that didn’t suit their small bodies. The Cailleachans had introduced an even tinier race to them. Around 100 ABN it had been all the rage among the nobility to carry these dwarf dragons on the shoulder or on the brim of the hat. There had been the occasional accident – a younger princess had lost an ear to her pet and scars in the face had become curiously fashionable – though it had been easy to forget they’d been wild beasts once.
This dragon would’ve crushed its dwarfed relatives between its claws.
The worst part was Luc had intended to leave. The first thing he did after receiving his letter was meet with General Beryl to inform him of his resignation. No matter how much he yearned to help out there, he was raised an honorable man, and he knew in these dark times his place was with his family. He must lock away his grief and his selfish wishes and become the heir his brother had sacrificed his life for. How could Luc give less than Phillipe?
However, he wasn’t done with packing yet when the screams started. He hurried out of the tent. Day had turned to night and a storm rattled the branches of the patch of forest they were camping in. Only there was no storm and it wasn’t night. A hand shielding his eyes, Luc studied the shadow blocking the sun, closing in on them with rapid speed. The booming of rifles and pistols and the clash of bayonets sounded in a close distance. Smoke swept over the clearing like fog, whirling beneath the power of the monster in the sky.
The dragon was black as pitch, as large as a cottage, and it could fly. It had a long, angular snout with vicious teeth and eyes like solid flames. Its roar thundered across their tents and reverberated within Luc’s bones. Impossibly, there was a man on its back, though Luc would only later take a good look at him and would only later learn his name.
They shot at the dragon. The most fearless of soldiers tried to get close enough to cut it, though no amount of crystal-powered strike could harm its skin. They only made it angry. Its claws tore the entrails out of three men at a time; its fangs bit off the heads off their necks as easily as popping a grape. It was no battle; it was slaughter.
Luc didn’t know why he survived. Perhaps even Cailleachans grew sick of the smell of blood and insides after a while or perhaps they had some other use for prisoners but didn’t wish to burden themselves with more than necessary. Cailleach’s climate was too hostile for trains. They were loaded into cages on carts, two of each. They were pulled by wiry animals with bristly hair looking like a cross between wolves and horses. Their long, blue tongues darted out now and then to taste the snow.
Luc shared his cage with General Beryl’s second in command, Yves Buckthorn, a brash man with a quick mind, ashy blond curls, and a thin moustache that would look better shaved off. He’d always been the first to make a joke, as annoying as he was oddly endearing. Now he was silent, except for the occasional, incomprehensible murmur or gasp that signaled the rousing from a nightmare they all shared. The battle hat cost him three of his fingers. Luc had bound the stumps with the cleanest parts of his undershirt, though they were already bleeding, dripping to the rough wood beneath their bodies and mingling with other bodily fluids Luc didn’t want to think about.
“It’s not your fault,” he croaked as Yves stirred once more with a shriek, clutching his arm with his bloody hands and sniffling apologies. Though he was the larger man, Luc tucked him to his chest, remembering the times they’d shared a bottle of spiced wine at the warm fire of an inn. He’d told Yves the way he fought was too risky, he was a show-off, Luc would have a lot of work with him if he didn’t get himself killed before.
“At least I’ll go down smiling,” Yves had replied with a wink.
Neither of them was smiling now. How strange to think Yves had been one of the few to survive. There were others whose names Luc knew – Damien Esteban, whose broken nose Luc had righted once, Tristan Realgar, and Serge Wensley – though they’d never been close and a cage beneath an open, icy sky wasn’t the best place for forming friendships.
Most of the time they were dozing curled up, pressed against each other to keep warm, the landscape a never-changing blur of dark stone and ice and a gray sky, while they juddered down the rocky road. The Cailleachans spoke only in their own strange tongue around them, though Luc was certain they must know at least some words of Nine-Valleyian. He’d learned some of their tongue, but not enough to follow their fast conversations. What he understood, though, was that their journey would lead them to their king, and it would be a long one.
They didn’t seem eager to interact with their prisoners. Luc had thought they’d be taunting him or beating them up for the fun of it, though it was almost as though they were carrying an invisible plague. They only received scornful gazes and scoffs, if they were acknowledged at all.
Luc used the nail of his little finger to mark the wood at his back, one line for each day. Splinters cut open his skin, but it was worth it. He wasn’t sure whether death of infection might not be the better way to go instead of whatever awaited them at the end of their journey. Twice a day their captors gave them a waterskin and half a loaf of moldy bread to share. Luc’s stomach was churning all day long. He felt sick, though he couldn’t tell if it was an oncoming fever, the wavering cart, or the food.
With longing, he thought of his books lost in the camp, most of all his slightly worn third edition of The Principles of Medicine And Magic by Avery and Bartholomew LeFer which, despite its age, was still highly relevant. Luc’s family had brought forth quite a few medics, though he’d always been particularly fond of Avery whose heroic deeds and later scholarly efforts were described in the Shadow War Museum. Though he wasn’t his direct descendant – Avery had never married – Luc liked to think they were kindred spirits. A painting of the brothers in their old age hung in the winter garden of LeFer Manor. Maybe that had sparked his curiosity for the battlefield as well. It was a bitter memory. A hero such as Avery would’ve never let himself get captured this easily. He would have died fighting.
But Luc was no solider. He was a medic, and he did his best to heal even in this cage. It was a most ungrateful task. The second day the first man died. It was an elderly soldier whose leg had been trampled by the dragon. The sour smell of death had clung to him from the first moment he’d been flung into the cage and Luc had only been waiting for it. Still, it was a horrible feeling. A kind of wild life got into the soldiers, chains rattling as they flinched away from the corpse, though there was no space. Luc was pressed against the iron bars so violently he feared one of his ribs might crack.
The Cailleachans fired a rifle. That silenced them. They dragged the corpse out of the cage and burned it, the tower of smoke visible on the horizon long after they’d continued on. It wouldn’t be the last corpse they pulled out of the cart. On the sixth day only half of them were still alive.
When Luc woke next, Yves’ body had grown as hot as a furnace. He was whimpering and mumbling something about his mother. Gingerly, Luc unwrapped his injured hand and winced at the sight of the angry-red, festering wounds. Yves needed real medicine or he would die. It was as easy as that.
Luc’s tongue needed a moment to remember how to form words. He called to the nearest Cailleachan soldier, a barrel-chested, bearded man. “Hey! Hello! I beg you, please, my friend has a fever, I need medicine for him. There are flowers that might help him too. I could describe them to you.”
When there was no reaction, Luc tried to repeat his inquiry in their tongue. “I’m a medic,” he added. “A medic.”
He wasn’t sure whether he pronounced their word for it the right way – or if it even was the right word. The Cailleachan cast him a frown that might as well be coincidental and scratched a spot beneath his chin. He barked something to his companion to the right and laughed. They ignored him. Yves was lost.
Or so Luc thought. That night, as the army settled in for the night in an elaborate cave with paintings all over the walls, one of the Cailleachan soldiers opened the cage of their cart.
“The healer,” he said in broken Nine-Valleyian. “The healer?”
Luc needed a moment to realize they meant him. He raised a shaky hand. “That’s me. I’m the … the healer.”
The soldier beckoned for him to come closer. Luc had no choice but to roll his stiff muscles and crawl out of the cage, shoving himself past dirty bodies as weak as he, the chains weighing him down. They locked the cage behind him. To his surprise they opened his cuffs as well. He rubbed his sore wrists gingerly, grimacing at the pain long suppressed. The greatest surprise, though, awaited him in the form of a hot spring at the back of the cave, a bar of soap, and a set of Cailleachan garments roughly his size.
When Luc froze before it, the soldier snapped, “Wash yourself.”
“Why?” Luc asked hoarsely.
“Wash yourself.” The soldier turned around, giving him some privacy at least. Luc eyed him warily, yet his confusion prevailed. Who would give a prisoner of war new clothes? After letting him starve for five days? Still, he would accept any small comforts. At least he might be able to share these garments with Yves and the others when he returned to the cage. The last of their men had died of cold.
Though the hot water burned his cool flesh and was a shock to his tormented skin, scratches and bruises scattered all over his body, there was also relief. Luc combed his dark hair with his fingers. It had grown longer than he was comfortable with, falling well past his ears. He felt oddly guilty about being clean again, recalling the miserable state of his comrades.
When Luc was done, the soldier brought him to the largest of the tents, red and hung with furs. When he glanced towards the cave entrance, he saw – behind a row of fires and heartily laughing and drinking men – a shadow writhing in the darkness, a shadow with ruby eyes. Luc shuddered.
The soldier lifted the flap and shoved him inside before Luc could gather his thoughts. He recovered his balance after a few steps. A tall man was leaning against a desk of shiny metal, studying him with crossed arms. His dark garments covered most of his body, though he’d gotten rid of some of the layers the Cailleachans wore on the battlefield. There was only soft leather, no vambraces, no chainmail.
An oil lamp cast an eerie glow across his features. He was maybe five to ten years Luc’s elder. He had a strong jaw with a stubble, brows as sharp as arrows, and unruly hair the color of moth wings braided at the temples. His eyes might be hazel and might be green in certain lights, though now they called to mind the soggy darkness of an empty well. Pale scars cut through his cheek and reached his mouth in a way that gave it a perpetual wry quirk. He was the dragonrider, Luc was certain of it. Reflexively, he squared his shoulders in an effort to stand taller.
“What is your name, little healer?” the man drawled in slightly accentuated Nine-Valleyian.
Luc narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t as tall as his brother but he wasn’t small by any means. He’d been taller than most of the other students of his classes. “Luc LeFer.”
“Luc? Short for?”
“Ludovic.”
“Hm. I prefer Luc.”
Luc bit back the urge to tell him he had no right to call him anything after what he’d done to his friends. The man smiled at him. “Well, Healer Luc, do you know who I am?”
Luc shook his head first. In a moment of foolishness, he said, “The dragonrider.”
The man laughed. It was such a shock Luc flinched, though there was nothing evil about it. “Yes, I suppose you can call me that. Or you can call me Emrys Vaughn. I’m the Commander of this army.”
Luc’s heart sank. Why in the name of the gods had he been summoned by their leader of all people? “Why am I here, Commander?”
He didn’t have any hopes Emrys would give him the medicine Luc had asked for. If Emrys had wanted to save Yves, he’d already be saved.
“I wasn’t aware a healer was stationed at this part of your army. It was the auxiliary, wasn’t it?”
Luc didn’t like that Emrys knew so much about their military strategies. Even less he liked that he was flaunting his knowledge before him. His chances of escape grew smaller by the moment.
“There was a fever spreading through the 3rd Division.” Luc spoke slowly to make certain Emrys understood him and wasn’t mistaking his words for thinly veiled threats. He didn’t look like a man you’d want as an enemy. “I was sent to quell it two weeks ago – that is, almost three weeks ago now.”
“And did you? Quell it?”
Luc nodded, not without pride. Still, he felt a pang at the thought that most of the men he’d saved were dead now anyway.
“You’re a skilled healer, then?”
Luc shrugged. “People usually have a higher opinion of my skills than I.”
“Good. You can’t trust a man’s opinion of his own prowess. Most of them are awfully arrogant, don’t you think?”
Luc didn’t know what to say to that. “I suppose.”
Emrys rolled his shoulders, leaving his position at the desk to stride towards him. He was an even more imposing figure up close. Muscles bulged beneath the fabric of his garments, straining it. There was a sword at his belt. Luc doubted it had only decorative purposes. “We’ll put your skills to the test, little healer. It so happens that I have a need of them.”
Luc suppressed the urge to back away from him. “I feel … honored, Commander, though I must admit to a certain level of … confusion.”
“You’re wondering why I’m not giving this task to my own healers?”
Luc nodded.
“Oh, I did. They failed. So now it is your turn to fail … or succeed?” Emrys smiled as though they were friends toasting to the new year. “I heard you asked my men for medicine for your friend. If you succeed, I’ll give you what you need to save him – if that is possible.”
“And … if I fail?”
“Then you’ll die,” Emrys said, still smiling, “though I like your face and your bravery. You may choose the way you’ll die. How does that sound?”
How kind of him. Luc gritted his teeth. He didn’t have a choice either way, so why was Emrys pretending he did? “What is my task, Commander?”
Emrys laughed, patting his shoulder with a scarred hand. “So eager! I’ll get right to it. Please accompany me.”
However, he didn’t move for another moment, his gaze roving over Luc with uncomfortable intensity, his hand still resting on Luc’s shoulder. His fingers drew small, playful circles. There were yellow specks in his eyes and faint freckles on his nose. Luc didn’t like that he was close enough to notice that.
“Tell me, Healer Luc,” Emrys said in a lower voice, almost secretively, “are all the healers in your realm as pretty as you?”
Luc’s bafflement must have been visible all over his face. Emrys broke into a burst of roaring laughter. His fingers slid from Luc’s shoulder and he turned to the tent’s opening, though the way his eyes blazed as they shot him another quick glance told Luc it hadn’t been the joke he made it out to be. His face grew hot. Suddenly, he was very glad it had been that strange soldier with him at the hot spring and not Commander Emrys Vaughn, the dragonrider. Gods, what had he gotten himself into?
~
IV catrin
~
Emrys led him to another tent. Two soldiers, likely guards, were sitting before it on a fallen, mossy tree trunk and sharing an unlabeled bottle of what looked like booze. The moment they saw Emrys they scrambled to rise and gave a stiff bow.
“How is he?” he asked in Cailleachan. It might as well have been How is she? as they had no distinction in their tongue, though Luc didn’t expect any women in the camp. Of the answer of the guards he only understood good and sir.
Emrys nodded gravely. He lifted the flap of the tent and beckoned for Luc to go inside first. He’d been wrong. On a cot cushioned with furs and feathers, wool blankets and thin pillows a girl lay. She couldn’t be older than sixteen years, her cheeks and chin rounded, if pale, her lashes long and quivering in restless sleep. Sweat glistened on her sweet, finely cut face – despite her evident sickness, Luc was certain she’d grow up to be a great beauty. Her hair was a shade lighter than Emrys’, cascading down her shoulders like an untamed waterfall. The blankets only barely covered her breasts. Luc felt the urge to draw them higher, his face tingling. Before Emrys could catch him staring, he shifted his gaze to the bowl beside her cot. A shallow lining of soup remained.
“Her name is Catrin,” Emrys told him, coming to a halt beside her. At the name rustling echoed from the cot, though Luc didn’t dare look at her again. “As you can likely already tell, she’s fallen ill. For seven days she’s been bed-bound. My healers have been unable to help her.”
With an aching chest, Luc thought of Phillipe who’d been bright and healthy the last time they’d seen each other, now wasted away by a fever. He closed his eyes, shoving Phillipe’s face out of his mind. That wasn’t helpful.
“Is she…?” Luc hesitated. Catrin must have some kind of importance for Emrys, though he didn’t want to offend him by speculating. She could be anyone from his daughter to his wife. Luc sincerely hoped it wasn’t the latter.
“Do you enjoy leaving your sentences unfinished?”
Luc bit his lip. “I only meant to ask what she is to you – that is, what your relation is.”
“Nosy, are you?” Emrys’ lips curled. “How exactly will my answer improve her condition?”
Luc cursed himself for his stupidity. He wiped his cheeks, feeling feverish himself. If he didn’t focus, he might soon be dead – which would doom Yves as well as his family. “I apologize for overstepping my bounds, Commander. I’ll do my best to help her.”
“You may start examining her.”
Luc didn’t move. “I – I don’t believe it would be proper … in a state of undress…”
Emrys laughed and a hand curled around his wrist, drawing him closer. “Are you a healer or not? If she were a boy, would you hesitate as well? Or does she remind you of a sweetheart at home?”
Luc pulled back his hand as discreetly as possible, scowling. In fact, there was a woman he’d been going out with before following the call of the battlefield – Flore, a witty lady of the working class whose intellect had gained her a stipendium at Copperoak, a most attractive woman. She had a way of carrying a book as though it was the most precious and wondrous thing in the world.
However, she’d been busy with her studies and as he’d grown restless in Neufvallees, they’d decided to take a break. He’d had a painting of her at the bottom of his bag that was lost now. Oh, how much he would have liked to take it out and see her smile. How much he longed to see her. Flore would put her small chin on his shoulder and whisper into his ear all the ways he'd change the world. It felt so far away now. Luc’s eyes stung. He’d never missed her and the Nine Valleys as much as now. Briefly, he hated Emrys for reminding him of her most of all.
Belatedly, Luc realized he was expecting an answer from him. He decided to ignore the latter comment and said, “In the Nine Valleys a gentleman doesn’t look at an exposed woman. If it cannot be changed, I’ll do my duty, of course.”
“I assure you my niece is well-versed in protecting her honor herself, little healer.”
There was a dark edge in Emrys’ voice. The debate was annoying him. It seemed Cailleach treated these matters differently. Still, he’d given him an answer – his niece. Luc was relieved. He allowed himself to look Catrin over more directly, carefully taking her hand to check her pulse. It was faint, irregular. Her skin was as hot as Yves’. Not good.
“Does she wake?” Luc asked.
“Sometimes. Not for long.”
“When she does, do her eyes look strange? Are her pupils perhaps dilated, eh, larger?”
Emrys considered the question for a moment. “Perhaps.”
Luc suppressed a grimace. This would be difficult. Even if he made the right diagnosis, he had no idea if he could save her, and he doubted Emrys would let him live if his niece died. He wondered how she’d ended up in this camp, though he’d certainly refrain from asking Emrys any more questions of that kind. Luc sighed. “I’m afraid I must ask you to tell me more about her, Commander. What has she done and eaten before falling ill and how has the sickness progressed? And anything else that might have struck you as extraordinary. Any detail might be important. I would ask her herself but I gather she isn’t strong enough?”
When Emrys glanced at his niece, his features softened; he looked more like a farmer or a tailor, a simple man caring for his family. The wish to help Catrin stirred in Luc. No matter how much he hated Emrys and his soldiers, such a young girl didn’t deserve to die.
“I’ll answer any question you have,” Emrys said, and he did.
Apparently, Catrin had wanted to accompany her uncle to the Nine Valleys due to her fascination with strange lands and her boredom at home. Emrys hadn’t found much fault with that. He had, however, kept her away from the battlefield even though, much to Luc’s bewilderment, she’d been training with various weapons since childhood. The day the sickness had overwhelmed Catrin, she’d been exploring the forests of the sixth valley Cailleach was currently occupying.
The symptoms Emrys described to him were vague and could point to a variety of diseases and poisons, most of which were deadly. Luc furrowed his brows, digging into his mind for any information on the sixth valley he could remember. If Emrys’ healers hadn’t been able to help Catrin, it was likely her disease was a Nine-Valleyian peculiarity and no common sickness.
He examined her nails – there was a shrub of the sixth valley whose pollens could, if inhaled in large quantities, cause a poisoning of the body which turned the nailbeds a bright green color – though he found them perfectly normal. He really did not want to search her entire body for rashes. There was, though, maybe…
“Miss Catrin, I must take a look at your tongue. Please don’t be scared. It’ll only take a moment,” Luc warned her quietly. Though she might not hear him, it was better to reassure patients before the attempt – or he might end up with bitemarks on his knuckles. Gently, he opened her lips with his thumb and index-finger and tilted her head until the light of the oil lamp reached her mouth. He gave a strained sigh. The corners of his mouth lifted.
It was difficult to see if you didn’t know what you were looking for but Luc was quite certain there was a dusting of blue dots on her tongue and a light inflammation of the gums. Which was a sign of one thing: the bite of a ringed lake adder. It populated the sixth and fifth valley and had killed quite a few daring swimmers in the summers before the Nine Valleys had found an easy antidote for its venom.
Luc looked Emrys in the eyes. “Your niece has been bitten by a snake of our realm, Commander. Its venom works slowly and the bite is painless, which is why it usually isn’t discovered immediately. There is a flower that must be prepared as a tea that can purge the venom from her body which should be able to restore her to health within a few days.”
“A flower? Which flower?”
Luc licked his lips. That was the harder part. “The brass lily. I’m afraid it only grows in the sixth valley – our kingdom. If I accompanied you to the border, I could gather it for you.”
Emrys’ smile grew wolfish. “No. I’m not stupid, little healer. Can you draw? If you cannot draw, you’ll describe it to me. Either way, I’ll go alone.”
Luc should’ve expected that. He nodded grimly. “I’m not an artist, though I should be able to sketch it for you.”
Emrys watched his face, perhaps looking for a lie, a sign that he might rather doom both his niece and himself than help him. Finally, he nodded. He squeezed Luc’s arm, leaning closer. “If you’re right, you’ll have won my esteem as well as your friend’s life.”
Luc endured the touch stiffly. Emrys gave him a piece of parchment and a charcoal pencil. While he drew the flower and added further descriptions and information in his fine, curvy handwriting, he said, “You should hurry. The snake’s venom kills within ten days. If she’s been like this for seven days, she won’t have much time left.”
Emrys winked at him. “I need no more than a day, little healer. If you lied to me, you should use it to pray to your gods.”
~
V the roll of the die of fate
~
Luc was ushered to Emrys’ tent and told to wait there for the Commander’s return. A soldier he vaguely recognized brought him a tray with thick, meaty stew and a sour-tasting tea in a kettle. It was the first time he felt sated since his imprisonment. After days of moldy bread, the stew was the most delicious meal he’d ever eaten. He had to keep himself from licking the bowl clean. Afterwards, though, his nervousness returned.
Luc had saved the letter from his dirty clothes and re-read it. A poor idea. Tears sprung into his eyes and his heart soared. He folded his hands and begged the gods for guidance. If Catrin died while Emrys was gone – no, he mustn’t think like that. There was no reason why she should die. Emrys had said he’d be back in a day – likely because he was flying on dragonback, wasn’t he? How strange that Luc should hope for the safe return of his enemy.
No one had told him whether he could use Emrys’ cot, but he didn’t feel like sleeping where he’d slept either way. Luc fetched one of the furs and lay down close to the fire. Despite his restlessness, he dozed off quickly, though he still felt as though he was being wheeled across rocky terrain, like a sailor who could never shake off the sea.
When Luc woke, a new tray had replaced the old one. This time he’d received a bowl of firm fruits reminding him of apples and a savory pie as well as a jar of clear water. He wished he could share some of it with his comrades in the cages, though the shadows before the tent made clear he was being guarded at all times.
The rest of the day Luc spent pacing the tent and searching for weapons and other things he might use to escape. The only chest, though, was locked. Moreover, even if he had a weapon, he could hardly fight his way out of the enemy’s camp and escape back home without a horse. A rush of hopelessness rolled over him.
Luc wouldn’t be able to escape on his own, not in this strange land. He’d need help – either from the locals or his own people. Or Emrys. Luc shivered at the memory of his gaze, his words. You’ll have won my esteem. Would Emrys truly allow him to save Yves’ life? And if he was ready to do that, was it so unlikely he might be willing to agree to another deal?
The only problem was Luc couldn’t conjure sicknesses and injuries from nothing. And what could he possibly offer him if not his services as a medic?
~
Emrys returned by nightfall, as promised. He brought a bag of brass lilies with him, their glimmering, dark orange blossoms emitting a spicy smell that reminded Luc painfully of home. He prepared Catrin’s tea and watched as Emrys helped her drink it with slow, shallow sips.
Luc expected to be brought back to the cage. However, he received a tent to sleep in, not big enough to stand in, yet warm from the nearby fires and cushioned with furs. When Luc saw it, he tensed. “Thank you. I truly appreciate your … care. Still, I worry about my comrades, particularly the sick one. Yves Buckthorn. He was our general’s second-in-command. His wounds are festering. I did all I could to save your niece, might I at least be allowed to clean his wounds with fresh water and bandage them with clean linen?”
Emrys’ expression darkened. Luc had the bad feeling of having offended him, though he couldn’t pinpoint how. Should he have displayed stronger gratitude?
“Yves Buckthorn?” Emrys asked with a smile like a python curling around prey. “You’re worried about him. Do you share a bed?”
Luc needed a moment to realize what he was implying. Heat rushed into his cheeks. “W-we’re not – no. He’s a friend. I worry about everyone who’s feeling ill. It’s my duty as a medic. Healer.”
“Ah.” Emrys nodded. “I will allow it.”
Why did Luc feel like he would have given a different answer if Yves had been a closer, more intimate friend? His mouth felt dry. The stench of the cages was stronger now that he’d been away from them for a day, fed and cleaned. Luc gagged and covered his mouth before getting used to it.
Yves was still alive. Their comrades helped him to the opening of the cage where Luc placed a bowl with water on a stool and carefully redressed his wounds. Yves’ eyes were watery, yet clear, river pebbles in a flushed, tortured face. His bones were more pronounced.
“Luc,” Yves whispered. “You’re back. I thought you were a ghost. I thought they killed you. Are you really back?”
“I’m very much alive.” Luc decided not to worry him with Emrys’ test. He was confident Catrin would respond well to the tea. “The Commander heard of me being a medic. He had me treat his niece.”
“T-that’s good. Maybe you’ll live then. I’ll feel better going, knowing you’ll live.”
Luc grasped his wrist more tightly. “You’ll live. The Commander will give me the medicine you need. You won’t die if I can help it, Buckthorn.”
Yves gave a shaky, all too quiet chuckle. “All right, Mr. LeFer, sir.”
Before Luc left, he slipped Yves the piece of pie he’d kept in the folds of his shirt.
~
The next day Luc didn’t receive any breakfast. Instead, he was led to Emrys’ tent where the desk was set with a feast fit for a family of ten. There were nuts and flatbreads, dried fruits and pickled vegetables, sweet pies and the savory one Luc already knew, honeyed milk and spice tea, and different sorts of roasted meat.
Emrys welcomed with a playful slap on the shoulder. “You didn’t lie, little healer. I’m glad. We’ll celebrate my niece’s well-being together. Please take a seat.”
Emrys told him Catrin’s fever had gone down. She was still weak, but had already eaten a whole duck on her own. “The women of my family have a healthy appetite.”
After the breakfast Luc was to prepare more tea for her, though Emrys had already sent his healers to Yves to treat his wounds and the fever. Luc would’ve preferred to do that himself, though he supposed under these circumstances he shouldn’t test his luck. Instead, he smiled and nodded and expressed his relief at Catrin’s survival. The food was delicious, though his stomach protested after a few helpings, so while Emrys showed him it wasn’t only the women of his family who had a healthy appetite, Luc sipped milk and tea.
Gathering his courage, he decided to take advantage of Emrys’ good mood and ventured, “May I ask a question, Commander?”
Emrys’ smile grew almost unnoticeably tenser. “Go ahead, little healer.”
“What will happen to my comrades and me? Where are you taking us?”
“All prisoners of war are to be taken to our King in the capital who may choose men to serve in his palace. The others will be sent to the mines or the construction sites of our temples. Does that answer your question?”
Luc’s misery must’ve shown on his face for Emrys added gently, “Don’t worry. You won’t end up among the workers. I’ll put in a good word for you. The King appreciates scholars and is always looking for translators. After all, if we take over your lands, we must know a way to communicate with your people, right?”
That wasn’t quite the comfort Emrys thought it was. The prospect of ending up at a strange court deep in these frozen, merciless lands made Luc sick to the stomach. He’d never see Flore or his family again. Yves and the others would be no better than slaves, kept alive now to suffocate in the mines or be crushed by blocks of marble. And then there were the Nine Valleys who didn’t know yet of the dragonrider and his power. Someone must warn them. They had to find a way to protect themselves from the dragon and kill it before Cailleach brought more of them and overwhelmed them.
“I appreciate your kindness,” Luc choked out. “How long until we arrive there?”
“Three or four days,” Emrys answered. “It would be my pleasure to keep dining with you here, little healer.”
Luc mustered up a smile. “Of course. Thank you.”
“Now, my dear Catrin asked to converse with her savior. She doesn’t speak your language very well. How is your grasp on ours?”
“I can read it almost fluently, though I find it difficult to understand sometimes as I could never practice with a native speaker.”
“Oh, you’ll have much time to practice. Fantastic. My soldiers will accompany you to her tent. I trust you will treat her with the same respect you show me.”
“Of course,” Luc said. Leaving the tent felt like climbing out of the lion’s den.
~
VI catrin II
~
Catrin had her uncle’s eyes. They were bright and curious, yet there was also a wild spark inside them that reminded Luc of the dragon. He wouldn’t be surprised to find her riding her own in a few years. Fortunately, she was dressed again in what looked like man’s clothes, tailored to fit her. Her long hair was braided. When he entered, she sat up, pulling up a few pillows to cushion her back. Traces of sickness lined her face, though death’s handprint had faded.
Luc placed the tray with the brass lily tea on the table beside her bed and pulled up a stool. Her eyes never left him as she grasped the steaming cup and took small sips.
“Hello, Miss Catrin,” Luc said in what he hoped was Cailleach. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Catrin chuckled, looking younger as dimples appeared in her cheeks. “You speak funnily.” She added something Luc didn’t understand, though his confusion must have been evident. She repeated more slowly, “You don’t look like a Nine-Valleyian, Healer Luc. I’ve read about your people. You’re not very brutish at all.”
“We’re not…” He couldn’t remember the word she’d used and shrugged, his cheeks tingling. “Thank you.”
“I should thank you.” Catrin reached over, squeezing his hand. Her skin was still clammy, though cooler, and when she grinned, Luc noted her gums had lost their angry-red tint. “You saved my life. A Nine-Valleyian! One of…” Here Luc didn’t know the word she used, though he gathered it was some term of endearment meaning something like beloved uncle. Or maybe she was the kind who called him idiot lovingly. “… Emrys’ prisoners at that. You must have a big heart.”
“I’m a healer,” Luc said. “I’ll always help the suffering. It’s my duty.”
“You don’t belong on the battlefield then,” Catrin remarked, as though it was as easy as that. “I like you. You’re handsome and polite.” Or kind? “I hope the King gives you a splendid room on the seaside. He simply must employ you. My mother is on his Council, so we’ll be able to see each other often. I’ll pay you in … every day.”
Furrowing his brows, Luc repeated the strange word she’d said to his best capacity.
Catrin corrected his pronunciation with a chuckle. “It’s a type of candy parents buy their children. It’s very delicious.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Luc lied.
“[Beloved uncle] Emrys will also be very happy.” Catrin winked at him as though they were sharing a secret and leaned forward with a conspiratorial whisper. “He doesn’t have a … at the moment.”
Luc frowned. What was she getting at? “He doesn’t have what?”
“A…,” Catrin repeated, grinning. “A heart. He isn’t married either.”
Finally, with a rush of dizziness, Luc understood. Catrin was saying Emrys didn’t have a sweetheart. A lover. But why should she be telling him that, with that look in the eyes at that? Luc suppressed a grimace. She didn’t really believe…?
Catrin tilted her head, her lips pursed. “What do you think of him?”
Oh Gods. Luc felt as though a sword was dangling above him. Give the wrong answer and there would go his head. But he couldn’t possibly tell her the truth, could he? What was she thinking, that he might forget his home, his friends, and the misery Cailleach had caused them and run off into the sunset with the very man who’d imprisoned him, only because he’d given him a fresh set of garments and some food? What kind of people were the Cailleachans? Or was she just that young, sheltered, and naïve?
“Commander Vaughn is a generous man,” Luc said, putting emphasis on the surname. “I’m grateful for everything he’s done for me.”
“Do you think he’s handsome?”
Luc rubbed his face, hoping she didn’t notice his discomfort and growing aversion to this conversation. The way Catrin interrogated him, you could think Emrys was about to ask his parents for his hand. Luc shuddered. He croaked, “I don’t know.”
Unfortunately, Catrin seemed to think he hadn’t understood her question and repeated it. Luc shrugged helplessly.
“It’s all right,” Catrin said. “I won’t tell him.”
Won’t tell him what? Luc had the growing suspicion she didn’t see the predicament he was in, believing he was here on his own volition. A part of him wanted to shake her. Was it anything Emrys had told her or implied? With a sinking stomach Luc thought of the shared meals awaiting him. He could accept Emrys ogling him, even flirting with him, but he wouldn’t – couldn’t –
Luc’s throat tightened. He needed to know. If he knew, he might at least prepare himself for it mentally. “Your uncle,” he rasped, “will he…”
How did you ask such a question? To an innocent girl? Worse, Luc didn’t know the right words in Cailleachan. His mind was reeling. Finally, he settled on the one thing he knew how to say. “Does he want to kiss me?”
Catrin’s eyes widened. She laughed, the sweet, genuine laughter of the youth, endearing under any other circumstances. “Of course! But he won’t do it. We have strict rules when it comes to prisoners, though you’re not really a prisoner anymore, are you? Either way, he’s an honorable man. He won’t do it.” With a mischievous smile, she told him, “You’ll have to go first.”
Luc thought he might faint. Still, there was also relief that Emrys wouldn’t make a move on him despite this unwelcome infatuation with him. “Ah. Thank you for telling me, Miss Catrin.”
Catrin clapped her hands with unconcealed glee. Already she looked livelier than half the soldiers outside again. “Will you tell me of your home, Healer Luc? I’ve seen so little of it.”
It pained Luc to speak of the Nine Valleys, knowing he might not see them again, though he far preferred this subject to the dubious honor of being Emrys’ new sweetheart. He spoke slowly, yet as thoroughly as possible. At times when he had to describe words he didn’t know in Cailleachan Catrin taught him a new one and many times she had to correct his pronunciation.
Despite his perpetual tension, it was an almost pleasant conversation. Catrin was the perfect audience, interested in everything he had to say and excited about every detail, no matter how mundane. When Luc didn’t know what more he could tell her, Catrin started telling him of her home, the capital, what she liked and didn’t like, the boys she’d like to marry, and many more things that soon mingled in his mind. Though Luc didn’t understand everything, he did his best to listen to her attentively. It appeared to him Catrin was a romantic, very similar to the girls in Neufvallees. What a shame they had to fight each other.
~
Luc spent the afternoon lying in his tent as Emrys wouldn’t leave the cave until the morning, in case Catrin showed symptoms again and needed more brass lilies. He hadn’t told him not to wander around the camp but Luc didn’t like the idea of his soldiers watching him and the cages with his comrades would only remind him of his inability to save them. And the fate that awaited them.
Luc pressed a hand to his chest where the letter was, feeling a pang of homesickness and despair. Restlessness made his blood run hot. The farther they distanced themselves from the Nine Valleys, the harder it would be to escape – and if he truly were to live at the royal palace like a priced bird, it would be entirely impossible. The only hope would be their army coming to conquer Cailleach entirely, but he’d be delusional to cling to that after seeing Emrys’ dragon. If only they’d had no dragons – or the Nine Valleys had dragons of their own….
Luc bit his lips. Those thoughts were going nowhere. He felt as though he was walking circles in a never-ending forest. Perhaps he could try sneaking out at night? He’d only have to get the cages open and find a couple of horses and – argh, ridiculous. He’d only get killed. Luc clenched his hands, tears blurring his vision. Wasn’t there anything he could do?
If Emrys let him go, only him, Luc might feel guilty for the rest of his days, but he’d be able to tell the King of their dragons, he’d be able to carry on the family line and perhaps return to save his comrades and all the other prisoners Cailleach had made over the years. Their capital was about eight days of slow riding away from the border of the sixth valley. That knowledge was better than nothing. Five days back to the Nine Valleys. If Luc rode quickly, he might make it in three – but even if he went hungry and thirsty, he would still need warm blankets. It was hopeless. Or was it?
Emrys’ face flared up in his mind, a playful glint in his eyes. The gaze of a man who liked what he saw, who wanted more. You’ll have to go first, Catrin had said. And suddenly Luc realized he did have something to offer beyond his services as a medic. Only one question remained: was he brave enough to offer it?
~
VII sacrifice
~
Luc dozed off in the tent to the tune of nightmares, twisted tales half memory, half imagined horror, featuring headless men and the snap of dragon wings and so much blood he was choking on it. He jolted awake at the sound of a soldier calling him to dinner. He’d never felt less ready to face Emrys.
With shaky fingers, Luc combed his hair, trying to make himself look more presentable. A part of him still wasn’t convinced Emrys and his niece weren’t playing an elaborate joke on him – the very idea that that might gain him his freedom was laughable. Perhaps Luc should discard it. He wouldn’t be able to go through with it either way. He wasn’t even interested in men like that!
Again, Emrys had prepared a feast. This time he even produced a bottle of wine and poured each of them a glass. It tasted faintly of walnuts and pears. The food Luc couldn’t eat. He took one bite and felt so sick he feared he’d throw up all over the table. Perhaps then Emrys would loose all desire to kiss him. While he dug in heartily, Luc cut the meat on his plate into tiny pieces and shoved them around. Though Emrys spoke to him in Nine-Valleyian, Luc could hardly follow the conversation and often had to ask him to repeat himself. Cold sweat gathered in his neck.
Eventually, Emrys’ smile fell. He leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the table. “You’re upset. Why?”
Luc winced. “I … I miss my family. Just before – before the attack I received a letter … a letter telling me my brother died.”
Emrys looked genuinely sad for him. “I see. I’m sorry, little healer. I wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone.”
How ironic, considering how many brothers he’d taken from their families. Luc bit his lip. “Miss Catrin is a sweet girl.”
“She’s like a daughter to me,” Emrys said. “Her father, this…” He spat out what sounded like a colorful Cailleachan insult and smiled grimly. “...left my sister while she was pregnant for another woman. I dueled and killed him for it.”
Yet again Luc had no idea what to say to that. Strangely, Emrys looked at him expectantly, as though he should compliment him for it. For killing a man. Luc whispered a quick prayer under his breath. There was no way he could bring himself to feign affection for this man, no matter how handsome he was. And yet it might be his last, his only chance.
“Emrys.” The name sat oddly in his mouth, like a too large bite of an apple. The mischief in Emrys’ eyes faded; they darkened, though not with anger. He placed a hand on the desk, watching Luc intently.
“Were you serious when you said … I was pretty?” Luc knew the answer, and he learned it again and again, in all the ways Emrys’ face came to life with a fire that dared Luc to reach for it. His lips twitched, curving in a crooked grin. Luc’s heart was beating in his throat.
“I never lie, little healer. Now, you look as though I’ve insulted you. Would you have preferred I said beautiful? Enchanting?”
Luc felt himself blush more strongly than ever. He downed his remaining wine. This is good. Go on. “I … I don’t feel insulted.”
“Has no one ever complimented your beauty before? I can’t believe that. Or have all your people horrible taste?”
Luc’s head was pounding. “I don’t know. No. Not like that.”
“Your people think only women can be beautiful. Ridiculous. They’d only need to look at you. Your face has been carved by the gods themselves, little healer.”
Luc rose so abruptly he felt a rush of vertigo. He croaked, “I should leave.”
“Are you sure?”
Luc turned to the tent’s entrance, nodding. He couldn’t do it. His eyes stung. He couldn’t do it. Heavy steps sounded. Emrys’ shadow appeared in the corner of his eye, so much larger than his. What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to do?
With a strained groan, Luc spun to Emrys. Before he could lose his courage, he grasped his shoulders and stood on his tiptoes to join their mouths. He squeezed his eyes shut for the kiss, trying to pretend it was Flore before him, though that was difficult with the stubble and his height and his scent of sweat and smoke and musk. Nausea rolled within Luc, yet he made himself deepen the kiss, gingerly tracing the curves of Emrys’ lips with his tongue.
A large hand landed in his neck and buried itself in his hair. An arm curled around his waist. Luc gasped as Emrys returned the kiss with a low growl, pressing him to his tall, firm body, so that Luc felt his muscles ripple beneath his clothes. Emrys changed the angle, lightly biting at his lip in a way that made Luc shiver, and he opened his mouth for him to explore. Emrys did so with the passion of a wild animal. Luc felt caught in his embrace as though in a bear trap.
A low moan vibrated in Emrys’ throat. His hand rose to cup Luc’s cheek. There, he froze. He pulled away, his eyes like withering grass, a grim line at his mouth. He muttered darkly, “Are you crying?”
He was. Gods, he was. Luc blinked hastily, suppressing the urge to rub his eyes. His hands slid from Emrys’ shoulders. “I…”
He stiffened when Emrys grasped his chin and pressed another kiss to his lips, his eyes wide, watching him. Luc couldn’t look away. He couldn’t breathe. Emrys let go of him with a scoff, looking as though he would have preferred to be on the battlefield, cutting down men left and right. His jaw was working. Luc had never been so afraid of him.
“Luc,” he spat out. No ‘little healer’. No indulgent smile. “Tell me the truth. What do you want from me?”
Luc’s legs grew weak. “Want? W-why? I don’t understand–”
Emrys grabbed him by his collar, his strength reverberating within Luc. If he’d wanted it, he could have knocked him unconscious with a single blow. He growled, “I’m not stupid. I’ve killed many men, Luc LeFer, and I’ve seen many kinds of fear in their eyes. Yours are brimming with panic – like that of a fawn before it’s shot. Again, tell me: what made you kiss me when you so evidently don’t want to?”
Luc had thought it couldn’t get any worse. Oh, he was so terribly stupid. “I – I thought you w-wanted … me.”
“And you always let the men who want you fuck you? Apparently, I was wrong and you did lie about your occupation.”
Luc flinched, tingling with both shame and anger. “I’m a nobleman.”
“And you behave like a whore.” Emrys’ breath ghosted over Luc’s face. He turned it away, making a sound all too much like a whimper. He’d never felt so humiliated. Coldly, Emrys said, “I won’t ask again. Why?”
“I–“ Luc’s voice broke. “I want to go home. My parents need me. Please. I’ll do a-anything – if only you let me go free. Please, I’ve already saved your niece, haven’t I? Please let me go, Emrys – Commander Vaughn. I’ll do whatever you want. Please!”
Emrys let go of his collar. Luc fell back, sniffling. He rubbed his eyes, inhaling sharply, unable to look at him. His face was burning with shame. He half-expected Emrys to thrust a sword through his ribs for his impertinence.
“I prefer my lovers willing,” Emrys said with deadly quiet, “but I could make an exception for you.”
Luc glanced at him, stunned. He was considering it? He didn’t know whether to be glad or horrified. Emrys beckoned him closer, the glow of the lamp dancing over his massive body – a warrior’s body. His scars glimmered like streaks of war paint. Luc halted before him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. He clenched his hands to keep them from trembling.
“Have you ever been with a man before?” Emrys asked.
Luc shook his head.
Emrys scoffed. “With a woman?”
Luc nodded, feeling hot. They’d been drunk and young and stupid. Luckily, the girl hadn’t become pregnant and they’d never exchanged a word again. “Once, a long time ago.”
“You’ll know the principles then. Are you married?”
Luc shook his head.
“Good. A union formed beneath the gods’ sky is holy; I wouldn’t desecrate it.”
There was a beat of silence. Luc cleared his throat. “What, um, what will you have me do?”
“So formal,” Emrys drawled. “Are you certain you won’t break apart when I touch you? How did you imagine this would go?”
Luc couldn’t say. He’d figured if he’d come this far, the pieces would fall into place, that Emrys would do most of the work and instruct him, verbally or non-verbally. He’d hoped – he didn’t know what he’d been hoping.
“If I told you to go down on your knees and take my cock into your mouth, would you do it? Would you even know what to do with it?”
Luc couldn’t help the disgust flashing across his face and Emrys laughed. “I see. You’re in over your head, boy.”
“I’ll do it,” Luc ground out. “I can do it. Please.”
It couldn’t be that difficult, could it? Luc had dressed wounds with pieces of bone poking out; he’d cleaned empty eye sockets and amputated poisoned limbs. He could do this. To prove his conviction, Luc dropped to his knees. He ran a hand over Emrys’ leather belt, trying to figure out a way to open the foreign buckle. He gasped when Emrys grabbed a handful of hair and yanked Luc’s head against his body. Against the bulge in his pants, hot and stiff as a rock. And big. Oh Gods.
“Do you feel that?” Emrys rasped. “That’s what you’re playing with, little healer. You’re lucky you’re so pretty or I would’ve cut off your hands for trying to deceive me. I don’t like to change lovers every night. I would’ve gone slowly with you, I would’ve cherished you, but if one night is all I get, I’ll make the most of it. Take off your clothes.”
Needle pricks ran over his skull as Emrys let go of his hair. Luc slumped, nodding hastily, so Emrys knew he would do what he said even though his body felt as heavy as lead. As he lost the layers of fabric covering his skin, one by one, goosebumps travelled over it and coldness seeped into him despite the fire. His own cock, nestled in dark, curly hair, was soft. A part of him wanted to laugh. How could he ever have thought to be able to fool Emrys?
Naked, Luc felt even smaller next to him. He kept his gaze fixed on his toes. They had a bluish tint. He inhaled sharply when Emrys put a hand on his chest, gently tracing the lines of his muscles, wandering up and down his sides. Under different circumstances, his touches could’ve been pleasant.
“You have a well-shaped body,” Emrys murmured. “A soldier’s body, but without the scars. Flawless.”
Luc doubted that. He whispered, “I had basic training before coming to the battlefield. I do a lot of horse-riding and running as well.”
“Hm.” Emrys leaned down. Luc tilted his head to meet him for the kiss, doing his best to return it, though inside him everything twisted and tightened. He tasted the wine on Emrys’ tongue. Loose strands of hair tickled Luc’s cheeks. Emrys pressed his forehead against his, giving a low sigh, looking older than he was.
“You’re a cruel man, Luc LeFer,” he rasped, before straightening as though awakening from a dream. He squeezed Luc’s shoulder. “You’re cold. Lie down beneath the blankets. Wait for me.”
Luc nodded, though he knew no amount of furs would be enough to make him feel warm again. He didn’t need to wait long – only for the amount of time Emrys needed to get undressed – though it felt like an eternity. An eternity in hell. He wrung his hands, staring at the intricate pattern of the blanket slung around his body. They were skilled craftsmen, the Cailleachans.
Emrys’ body was a puzzle of scars, some ugly and bulging, others as fine as adornments. His muscles were even more impressive without garments to conceal them; he reminded Luc of ferally graceful lynxes and lions. His cock was hard and flushed at the tip. Luc didn’t dare look too closely at it, feeling a strange heat spiraling through him. He’d seen other men naked before, swimming in public lakes and in Copperoak’s dormitories and had never thought much of it. It was an entirely different thing knowing this body would soon be intertwined with his.
Emrys seated himself on the cot beside him. “Come here.”
Luc forced himself to crawl over to him, breathing heavily. He didn’t know what Emrys expected of him and found his mouth unable to form words. Gently, Emrys guided his body until Luc was sitting in front of him, all but leaning against his chest. The velvet tip of Emrys’ cock grazed his back. He closed his eyes, suppressing a shudder. It was only another part of the body, a very natural part of the body, Luc told himself. It would be fine. It would be fine.
“You’re shaking,” Emrys said. “You don’t need to be afraid, little healer. I won’t hurt you. I have honor.”
If you were truly honorable, you wouldn’t have accepted my offer, Luc thought. You would’ve let me go, me and the others. You wouldn’t have killed all these men in such brutal ways. Still, a twisted part of him was grateful Emrys hadn’t acted upon his fantasies before, that he hadn’t forced himself on Luc in the most violent of ways even though he could’ve. It was a small mercy.
Emrys opened his legs for Luc to settle in, drawing him against his chest with soft, yet insistent pressure. Luc’s head dropped against his neck. He thought to feel Emrys’ heart beat beneath his. Emrys’ cock twitched, pressed flush between them. Tears welled up in Luc’s eyes. He blinked them away.
Emrys kissed the crown of his head, his temple. He seemed perfectly content in this close embrace, though Luc was as tense as a bow string. There was a whisper at his ear. “Try to relax. Try to enjoy yourself.”
A hand curled around his cock. Luc cried out, bucking his hip weakly in an attempt to shake it off. “No! I don’t – you didn’t –“
His voice transformed into a strained sound somewhere between sob and moan as Emrys started pumping him, his other hand cupping and squeezing Luc’s balls. A jolt of pleasure shot through him, ever-growing. Luc whimpered. “S-stop.”
“You said you’d do anything,” Emrys muttered. “What if this is what I want?”
Luc threw his head back, grimacing. He couldn’t argue with him. Still, a part of him wished Emrys would have thrust his cock down his throat instead; it would’ve been better than this cursed tingling in his blood. These feelings were meant for Flore, for magical summer nights and the first week of marriage. He wasn’t supposed to feel them here, in the enemy’s camp, caught in the arms of the man who’d killed so many of his friends and comrades. He felt betrayed by his body. In an odd way, he felt betrayed by Emrys too.
“Y-you’re the cruel man,” Luc sobbed as Emrys continued stroking him with the skill of a man who’d done this many times before, as he grew hard despite himself.
“Did you think I’d fuck you like a dead man?” Emrys growled into his ear. “No, Luc, if you must leave this camp tonight, I want you to remember me – I’ll make sure you’ll remember me for the rest of your days. That is the price of your freedom.”
Teeth grazed his neck. Emrys lightly bit his jugular before sucking at his skin, sure to leave marks. Luc shivered, panting, each touch at his cock eliciting waves of lust and pleasure. This couldn’t be happening. Luc couldn’t be enjoying this – the touch of a man, a murderer. And yet when Emrys pressed him close against his body, lazily grinding his own cock against Luc’s back with husky moans, when he pumped him even more vigorously, Luc couldn’t fight the climax rolling over him with the power of an avalanche. Lightning flashed before his eyes. He moaned, loudly, while his pulsing cock shot ribbons of cum all over his legs and Emrys’ hand.
Luc collapsed against him with the bitter taste of defeat. Emrys hummed contently. In the corner of his eyes Luc saw him lift his hand and lick it clean. His eyes were glinting with mischief. “You taste as sweet as nectar, little healer.”
He was trying to provoke him. Luc was glad he was too exhausted to give much of a reaction. He couldn’t understand how Emrys could do that willingly, how all of this could turn him on, why he rather had him in his bed than the young women of the capital. How he could find him beautiful. Luc licked his lips, tasting the salt of his tears.
When Emrys’ ran his fingers down his jaw, Luc flinched. He swiftly regretted it. With more strength than necessary, Emrys grasped his shoulder and flipped him over, pressing him into the furs and blankets. He pinned his arm to the ground even though Luc wouldn’t have dared to move either way. He knew he was staring at Emrys like a mouse at a cat, though he couldn’t help it. Every fiber of his body refused to play the enthusiastic lover.
Emrys cupped his cheek, studying him with dark eyes and thin lips. From outside the muffled noises of drunk soldiers, patriotic songs, and crackling fireplaces carried over. Did anyone of them guess what their Commander was doing with their prisoner? Did any of them care?
“I have many admirers in the capital,” Emrys told him quietly. “Any of them would gladly trade places with you.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Luc croaked. He could see why others might find him handsome, though that didn’t change the facts that stood between them.
Emrys’ chuckled hoarsely, sitting upright. He patted Luc’s thigh. “Spread your legs. And relax. It won’t hurt if you relax.”
Very comforting. Emrys produced a bottle of oil and Luc sadly knew enough about sex between men to know exactly what would happen next. He froze, filled with the urge to leap up and run. It took all of his willpower to overpower that wish and instead open his legs for Emrys to reach between them. His calloused fingers were slick and cool on Luc’s ass. He curled his toes, squirming, pretending to be anywhere but here.
Luc gasped when Emrys thrust a finger inside him. It felt too much already. He clenched down on it, floating in and out of his body, nausea spreading through him. His legs fell together reflexively, but Emrys pushed them open again, ordering flatly, “Relax.”
As though Luc could simply turn his tension on and off! Without warning, Emrys added a second finger and Luc hissed, clenching his hands. “J-just give me a moment. Please. E-emrys.”
“I like it when you say my name. No one’s ever pronounced it quite like you.” Emrys scissored his fingers, spreading him thoroughly. When he hit a certain spot inside him, a hot shiver ran down Luc’s spine and his cock twitched with interest. He felt sick. After a few more moments of that ordeal, Emrys seemed to decide it was enough – or maybe he’d grown impatient – and withdrew his hand. Oil leaked out of him. Luc tried not to think about what would join it.
Flashes of the only time Luc had had sex ran through his memory, though that girl had been soft and small, her core wet and ready for him as their bodies had molten together. He couldn’t understand how Emrys could want this. Him, angular and slim. It felt like a perverse joke. And yet Emrys’ desire was evident, his cock perfectly hard as it pressed against Luc’s entrance.
He grimaced, tears welling up in his eyes. Fear stirred, hot and biting. “It’s too big. It w-won’t possibly fit!”
Emrys hushed him with a humming sound. “You’re far from the smallest man I’ve had and they’ve never complained. You must relax.”
Easy for you to say, Luc thought. Emrys was wrong. It hurt, though it wasn’t quite the searing, burning pain Luc had feared. Emrys shoved himself into him slowly, with low grunts, grasping Luc’s thigh to adjust the angle. The air was pressed from his lungs. There were no thoughts in his mind, only sensations and sounds, a strange awareness of Emrys’ hot, massive body and the way they became one. Sweat rolled down his cheeks.
Emrys withdrew slightly to pour more oil on his cock and the cleft of Luc’s butt; it gathered beneath them in a sticky pool, such a waste. Emrys’ wet fingers dug into his ass, kneading it gently. Luc felt a surge of pleasure, giving a hoarse sigh. Then Emrys buried himself within him with a single, deep thrust and a moan, and Luc could think of nothing else, pinned to the cot. Only when dark spots appeared in his vision did he remember to breathe.
Emrys was moaning in rhythm with his motions. Slick sounds echoed most obscenely. In that moment, caught beneath his body, rocked by his thrusts, Luc truly felt like a whore. Shame burned within him. Wasn’t he selling his body too?
A tear trickled down past the bridge of his nose, though he was too tired for violent weeping. He felt like he was drowning. In his despair he clutched Emrys’ shoulders, feeling the ridges of his scars beneath his fingertips. Emrys fucked him without mercy, driving into him with the hunger of a starving man, and it felt like a punishment. Particularly when he hit his prostate and ecstasy flooded him, and for the briefest of moments Luc thought it not so horribly wrong after all. Wanting more.
“You take me well, little healer,” Emrys rasped with a wry grin. “You should be proud of yourself. I underestimated you.”
He leaned down to suck at Luc’s earlobe, sending shivers down his spine, and growled, “I hope it’s worth it.”
He kissed Luc’s cheek, his stubble itchy as a badger’s fur. His fingers squeezed Luc’s shamefully half-hard cock, drawing a broken moan from him. “I hope you can sleep at night – no, that’s a lie. I hope you lie awake. I hope you take your sweet little cock into your hand. And I hope you’ll think of me when you touch yourself, of my cock inside you. You should memorize it well, little healer. We might not see each other again for a long, long time.”
They were cursed words. Luc tried to shove them away, but Emrys’ voice had a way of finding a way past his defenses, blowing over him like a storm. There was something strangely wonderful about the way he slid in and out of him, so very big, yet not painful, despite the pressure, not painful at all. Tingling heat gathered below his stomach. His cock swelled and kept swelling with each of Emrys’ thrusts. Luc hated him as he’d never hated anyone before. Most of all, he hated himself.
Emrys’ motions grew erratic, his voice hoarse and his accent more difficult to understand as he approached his climax. He panted, “I could still keep you. I could ask the King for you. You could become Catrin’s tutor; she already loves you. You should be mine, Luc LeFer.”
He spoke like a stubborn child. Luc shuddered, unable to reply as his mouth was busy giving throaty groans. Still, he knew Emrys wasn’t serious, it was merely the darkest of his wishes floating to the surface, seeking release. In some ways he was a man of honor. And Luc trusted he would honor his promise.
Emrys kissed him, an attack more than a kiss, a prayer in the midst of a blizzard. Luc endured it. A shadow crossed Emrys’ gaze and the corners of his mouth sunk. He reminded Luc of the beggars in the streets, of the men in the shabbiest of venues, the Swampy Tavern, who drowned their miserable lives in booze. And Luc felt pity.
“You’ll die,” Emrys rasped. “You might leave now, but you’ll return, and you’ll die, little healer. My comrades will kill you when we take your lands.”
“I don’t mind, ah, dying for my kingdom,” Luc murmured.
Emrys said, “You could stay with me.”
Luc shook his head. Emrys’ grip around his hips tightened, his thrusts growing faster, more forcefully. Luc spread his legs and accepted it. They spoke no more words. Eventually, Emrys buried his face in Luc’s neck and came, his moans reverberating within Luc’s flesh, his semen hot and sticky inside him. He’d taken long enough. Luc could hardly feel anything anymore. Even as he too came a second time with Emrys hand on his cock and filled with his cum, it was no more than a brief high, a leap from the cliff before the long, long fall. And Luc was still falling.
Emrys pulled out of him quickly, though only to wrap his arms around Luc, dragging him against his body. He held him as though Luc might disappear before his eyes if he let go of him. Luc couldn’t even summon disgust. There was a twisted kind of comfort in this embrace after the press of reeking bodies in the cage. He could still feel the shape of Emrys’ cock inside him. He didn’t think he’d ever forget it.
There was no relief.
~
VIII home
~
Luc left in the early morning when the last smoke of the dying fires mingled with the frozen mist of the icy desert. Most of the soldiers were asleep. Those who weren’t didn’t ask any questions when their Commander led their prisoner to the horses and handed him a bag with blankets and provisions. Emrys accompanied him out of the cave, past a formation of rocks, down a lonely, narrow path where the wind roared and tugged at their coats and hair. Soon they were powdered in snow.
Luc got a last glimpse of the cages with his comrades. Yves was still there. His cheeks seemed more colored, though perhaps that was wishful thinking. Guilt gnawed at him and forced him to look away. Still, what could he have done for them? He’d be more useful in the Nine Valleys. They’d be saved, it might just take a little longer. Luc would make sure of it.
He shrieked when hot air encompassed him and red eyes blinked at him in the darkness, close enough that he could see the yellow specks in them. Luc stood frozen as the dragon climbed gracefully as a lioness down the mountain, breathing foul clouds in Luc’s direction. Its massive tail flipped back and forth, sweeping loose rocks down the slope. Sword-like teeth flashed. It seemed to smirk.
Emrys clicked his tongue and said some words in Cailleachan Luc didn’t understand. The dragon stopped its approach, tilting its head. Its blue tongue darted out and flicked over its nostrils. Emrys patted its leg like the flank of a hunting dog. He grinned at Luc’s expression. It was the first time since he’d accepted Luc’s offer that he was giving him a genuine grin. It was the most handsome Luc had seen him.
Still, he couldn’t return the smile. Emrys’ faded as well. He nodded as though to a silent question and said, “If I catch you again, little healer, I won’t let you go a second time.”
Luc tightened the knots of his bag, checked whether his letter was dry and secured, and swung himself into the saddle. He glanced at Emrys, thinking of Catrin and the sad expression in his eyes, and wondered if they could’ve been friends in another life. He nodded, acknowledgement of all Emrys had done for him, and all he hadn’t. “Then I won’t let myself get caught again, Commander.”
Luc nudged the horse’s flank, spurring it on, setting off into the snowstorm. Towards home. One last time he glanced back to where Emrys was looking after him, a lone, blurry figure in the embrace of ice, his shadowy dragon his only companion. It was almost as if he were waiting for something, or someone.
“Goodbye, Emrys,” Luc whispered.
~