Allegiance (31 page)

“Father,” he mumbled, recognizing the man hovering above him.

London and I looked on, while Galen hung in the background, equally worried, but giving father and son space. Steldor shifted uncomfortably, his shirt sticking to the light sheen of sweat on his skin.

“Father,” he said again, but this time he had squeezed his eyes shut and was asking Cannan to
do
something, to help him, to take away the pain.

“Steldor, stay awake,” the Captain ordered.

He slapped his lethargic son's cheek once more, startling him back to consciousness, and Cannan and London wasted no time in removing the King's shirt. The bucket and cloth that the captain had earlier used had not been moved, and he once more dampened his son's neck and chest, attempting to curb the fever before it became life-threatening. Meanwhile, London removed the bandages to examine the wound. I backed away, and in my place Galen came forward, grimacing at sight of the injury.

“What should I get you?” he asked London.

“Yarrow, to fight the infection. Also fresh bandages—we'll need to lance the wound.”

I did not watch the men as they worked on Steldor, retreating to sit by the fire, but I knew well enough what they were doing. Lancing meant reopening. They would cut through parts of their own stitching in order to drain as much of the infection as they could.

Cannan stayed with his son long after London had finished, trying to prevent him from shifting too much, as it was Steldor's impulse to try to escape his discomfort. Keeping him cool aided in this endeavor, so the captain continued with the wet rag, running it over his son's hot flesh, talking to him. Although the King too easily succumbed to sleep, he would rouse with encouragement and was still able to communicate.

London came and went, frequently checking Steldor as he attended to other matters. He and Cannan attempted at one point to feed Steldor some thin broth, made with venison, but my husband turned his head and would not open his mouth, and nothing could convince him to withdraw his refusal.

Eventually, London knelt down opposite Cannan, Steldor
sleeping between them. They had moved his bedding farther from the fire, and though the captain's periodic checks of his temperature revealed only a slight drop, he seemed to be resting more comfortably. I knew this deterioration in his health was exactly what Cannan and London had expended serious effort to prevent, and that his recovery was no longer a certainty.

“I want to act,” Cannan said flatly to London, casting a brief glance toward me. I stared at the burning embers in the fire pit, not wanting him to know I was listening. Night had fallen, and Miranna and Temerson slept in the back right corner of the cave beside each other—normally this would have been improper, but as things were, their only intentions were to lend each other solace and warmth. Galen had long since returned to guard duty outside, seeming to want nothing more than to be alone, and I wondered how he was coping.

“I want to cripple him,” Cannan continued, accepting my bowed head as proof of my lack of attention.

“I feel the same,” London replied. “But we're the crippled ones right now. Even if there were some way to embitter the Overlord's victory, we don't have enough men. We can't leave the women and Temerson without sufficient protection, and Steldor needs care.”

The captain seemed to seethe over their uselessness but was forced to acknowledge it all the same.

“Our chance will come,” London ground out, his voice barely audible. “And then he'll regret all this. We'll make him regret all this.”

Cannan did not respond, instead feeling his son's forehead for the thousandth time and allowing a lengthy pause to ensue. London regarded his captain, a question poised on his tongue.

“Will you tell him about Baelic?” he finally asked.

“No. He doesn't need to know. Knowing will tear him apart, and the Cokyrians have already done a fair job of that.”

London nodded, respecting Cannan's decision, and both men fell silent. After a time, I found myself struggling to keep my eyes open and, despite the terrible dreams I feared I would have, made my way to bed.

 

I managed only a few hours' sleep; then Steldor was too agitated for me to ignore, and I went to where he lay. Cannan and London were still next to him, attempting to cool him but having very little success. He was delirious with fever, thrashing, not wanting their hands on him when they had no choice but to restrain him so that he would not aggravate his injury. Talking to him was pointless, though Cannan did so anyway—Steldor didn't seem to hear and certainly could not comprehend. The sounds that came from his parched lips were nonsensical. At one point, morbid curiosity compelling me, I reached out to touch him but stopped within a few inches of contact, able already to feel the dry heat radiating from his skin.

“If this doesn't let up soon, it will affect his mind permanently,” London said, the stress putting him on edge.

“I know that,” Cannan grumbled. “Don't you think I know that?”

Without warning, London got to his feet.

“Where are you going?” the captain demanded, as Steldor gave a long, heart-wrenching whimper, a sound I would never have believed could come from him.

“Snow,” London replied, snatching the near-empty bucket from Cannan's side and rushing out the door of the cave.

I stood helplessly by, thinking I should perhaps return
to my seat by the fire, but too worried about Steldor to do so. Cannan glanced at me but did not comment, giving me silent permission to stay, and I moved toward the wall so as to be out of the way.

Within ten minutes, London returned with a full pail of the white ice that sparingly covered the ground outside. Cannan nodded his appreciation of London's resourcefulness, taking a handful to run over his son's neck and bare chest. It melted instantly, giving further evidence of Steldor's body temperature. Before long, the bucket was empty, and London headed toward the cave entrance to replenish it, tossing a comment over his shoulder.

“I'll send Galen in.”

The Sergeant at Arms had been on watch this entire time, and there was concern for him in the expressions of both men. Contrary to what the young officer obviously wanted, it was not best to let him withdraw, and he would surely need sleep by now. I pondered this logic, wondering when Cannan and London would allow themselves to give in to their exhaustion—when they would stop sacrificing their own needs for ours.

Galen returned in London's place, full bucket in hand, and went to join Cannan, falling to his knees beside his surrogate father, staring in dismay at his best friend. Cannan again used the snow, knowing London would have already brought Galen up to date on Steldor's condition.

“What can I do?” the sergeant asked, trembling with exhaustion and sorrow, but his words contained the hope that Cannan still believed there was something
to be
done.

“Go to bed,” Cannan answered, not looking up.

The reply was immediate. “I can't.”

“You must. You need to take care of yourself before you can take care of others.”

Galen gazed desperately at Cannan. I knew he didn't want to be idle, not while his friend's life was in danger just paces away.

“Perhaps you should take your own advice,” he retorted.

“Galen, don't. Just do as I say.”

The captain was hanging on to self-control by a thread, his posture rigid, still not glancing the younger man's way. He was so close to the breaking point that perhaps eye contact might have been too much—we all were playing this delicate game, avoiding the small things that would inevitably break us while we tried to deal with the bigger ones.

Galen lurched to his feet, then turned his back on Steldor's moaning and agonized writhing and stumbled to where he had laid out some animal skins and quilts. I moved to again sit by the fire, knowing I should also try to get more sleep. I did not want to do so, on some level feeling I should keep company with Cannan. At last I identified my emotion—it was guilt that I was not as good a wife as the captain was a father.

AT SOME POINT I FELL ASLEEP AGAINST MY WILL. Perhaps I closed my heavy eyelids for a moment, just to stop my eyes from stinging as I stared into nothingness, then failed to reopen them. I awoke sprawled uncomfortably by the cold fire pit, late-morning light coming through the shafts in the ceiling of the cavern. Someone had tossed a quilt over me, but still I shivered as I sat up, appreciating for the first time how much of a difference the fire made.

Cannan was asleep, on the far side of the cave from me, but London was still not to be seen. My eyes went to Steldor, plagued by fever even after all this time. He was not muttering, however, which I very much wanted to believe was a sign of improvement. Galen sat beside him, back against the wall, head upon his drawn-up knees. The bucket stood empty nearby—had they given up?

As I studied the two young men, Steldor took a sharp breath, and his dark eyes flew open, flicking around in alarm. Galen jerked his head up and then dropped a restraining and reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder.

“Steldor?” he said, sounding fearful. His eyes darted to the captain's sleeping form, then fell on me, and some of the anxiety left him as he realized I was awake and could rouse Cannan if need be. That proved unnecessary, however, as Steldor's disoriented state gradually transformed into one of recognition.

“Galen?” he asked hoarsely.

“That's right,” the sergeant confirmed, shifting closer. He squeezed Steldor's arm, wearing a small smile that shone weakly through his despondency. It was this sorrow that dashed my hope; the fever was temporarily reduced, but it hadn't broken.

I did not want Steldor to die; I could never have
wanted
him to die. A few months ago, I might have more easily accepted death's inevitability, grieving less once it was over. Now, my heart ached for him to stay alive, the same way it had ached for Narian to return to Hytanica in the days before the war. He
couldn't
die. The idea was even more unbearable and inconceivable than that of Baelic's absence from the world. Steldor was young; he was vital; he was full of himself. Though he had the ability to aggravate me with distressing frequency, he was also brave, loyal and, at heart, a good man, with the potential to do so much. I had always treated being his wife with contempt, but though I would never be in love with him the way I was in love with Narian, I believed now that those feelings could change—if he lived.

“I'm hot…and thirsty,” Steldor groaned, sweat dampening his brow.

At Galen's glance, I went for water, leaving without pause to do so a second time, for Steldor gulped the first cupful down. He likewise drained the second, but Galen motioned to me to leave the mug empty. The sergeant was trying
to pace him—he was obviously parched, and a rush to his system could have a negative effect—but Steldor's eagerness for the drink was making it difficult.

There was a silence, and I gave the two men space, going to retrieve some wood in preparation for restarting the fire, but still I heard Steldor's scratchy voice when next he spoke.

“It's not good, is it?”

Galen's reply was convincingly nonchalant. “I've seen worse.”

“Yes—on a dead man.”

Galen averted his eyes for a moment before giving reply. “Don't talk like that.”

“Sorry.”

“Don't apologize, either.”

Steldor gave a wry laugh. “Would you mind telling me what I am allowed to do?”

Galen couldn't suppress a smirk, though it was laced with sadness, as he recognized the beginning of one of their classic bickering contests.

“Sure—you can shut your trap.”

Steldor was smirking, too, then he grimaced, arching his back as unexpected pain shot through him, and new drops of sweat materialized on his forehead.

“Steldor—” Galen started, humor lost, reaching toward him with undetermined intent. Steldor smacked his hand away with as much vigor as he could muster.

“No,” he growled, gritting his teeth. “Ignore it. I don't want to think about it.”

Galen nodded, though he looked uneasy. “Just tell me what to do,” he said in a small voice.

“Tell me to shut my trap again.”

Understanding his friend's desire for normalcy, Galen did as he was told, and eventually the lighter, nostalgic atmo
sphere was restored. I listened as they traded stories, much as Miranna and I had done not long ago, except that for my sister and me, there was still the opportunity to create new ones. The moment his fever spiked again, Steldor would be lost to us, and it was no secret he might not return. These two young men, bonded like brothers, were remembering now, so Galen would not forget when they were separated permanently.

“Steldor?” Galen said urgently, and my eyes flew to the two of them. The sergeant was on his knees, leaning over Steldor, clutching a handful of his friend's hair and shaking his head none too gently. Tripping over myself to reach them, I realized Steldor had slipped into unconsciousness, almost without warning. In response to Galen's efforts, the King came awake once more, but he was mumbling, his words failing to flow together in a comprehensible fashion.

“Steldor!” Galen yelled, and I stood helplessly by as my husband struggled to focus, only to push at his friend, rejecting his nearness as the infection once more fed his fever.

Galen's shout roused the captain, and he came to his feet as the sergeant's chin dropped to his chest in anguished defeat. As Cannan drew near, Galen jumped up. He pivoted, slamming his open hand against the rock wall with a choking scream that comprised so many emotions I could only guess at them all—anger, helplessness, despair, fear, sorrow.

Cannan was there to catch him when Galen slid to the floor, going down to his knees to pull the sobbing young man against his chest in a fierce embrace. My throat tightened, and I could feel hot tears on my cheeks, but somehow Cannan did not let go of his feelings, did not succumb to the agony that was surely tearing him to pieces. Stoic as ever, he simply held Galen; even when the younger man's crying had at long last died away, he stayed in place, not saying a word,
continuing to console his second son within his strong arms. Feeling like an intruder, I went to fill a pail with water for use in cooking, trying to give Galen and Cannan as much privacy as I could in our cramped living space.

I returned to the fire pit, and Miranna came to assist me in preparing food. Not exactly certain of what I was doing, I began to concoct a venison stew, believing that it would at least be better than gruel. As I added ingredients, subdued voices reached my ears. Galen was sitting up, his face still tearstained, and the two men were talking by Steldor's side. I didn't try to listen. By the time I was finished, they had come to their feet, and Cannan was giving Galen one final pat on the back as the sergeant left to replace London on watch.

The day dragged on, and with it raged Steldor's fever. I tended the fire and kept food ready, as the men would eat at odd times depending on when they came and went on guard duty. Temerson continued to care for Miranna, the two seeming content just to be with each other.

London and Cannan were once more dousing Steldor with cold water from gathered snow, drenching his hair and every inch of his exposed flesh, but still the fever would not abate. I was sure London would have taken him outside into the perpetual cold if it had been safe to move him, but the risk was too great that he would be reinjured in the process—if, I thought morosely, such a thing were even worth worrying about now.

London and Cannan tried frequently to make Steldor drink through his delirium, but success did not come often. Still, their efforts were essential; at the rate he was sweating, the more water they could force him to consume, the better. Night arrived a heavy burden, and I did not welcome the sleep that threatened to crush me.

 

“Someone's coming!”

Galen was breathless as he hurtled through the cave entrance, jolting me awake with his words. Darkness was still upon us, and as I looked around in the glow from the fire, I saw that Temerson, like me, had sat bolt upright. London had jumped to his feet and was strapping on his weapons, and Cannan had left Steldor's side to go to the sergeant. Miranna stirred, but Temerson laid a hand on her shoulder, soothing her back into her dreams.

“Cokyrian?” Cannan demanded, as I also scrambled to my feet.

“I couldn't tell,” Galen replied. “It's too dark. I barely saw him moving.”

“You weren't seen?” It was London this time who spoke.

Galen shook his head. “But whoever it is, he's headed this way, like he knows exactly where he's going.”

“Stay here, both of you,” London instructed, accepting Galen's assertion without comment. “If someone is coming, you'll want to give him a healthy reception.”

London was on his way to retrieve additional weapons from near his pack, and for once, Cannan did not bristle at his commanding air. Then I saw that the captain's eyes were on Steldor's restive form and understood the reason he had no objection to his Elite Guard's decision to be the one to leave.

“I'll find out what I can,” London finished, walking back toward the other men with his bow in hand, slinging a quiver of arrows across his back.

He went out to find this potential enemy, dousing the torch near the cave entrance, leaving us with the light of the flickering fire and the torch that burned near Steldor to provide some comfort. I frantically tried to think how we
would manage if we had to flee. Steldor would have to be carried, for which we would need two men, and Miranna and Temerson would have to be shepherded, likely by me. And what if London didn't return? Who would be left to protect us as we moved? And to where could we move?

I understood from Cannan's and Galen's conduct that if we found it necessary to run, we would leave almost everything behind. They were readying nothing for travel and were talking in hushed voices to one another, though I did hear Galen assert several times that he had only seen one person. Overcoming just one person would not be difficult, nor would it compromise our position. Then again, there was always the risk that the person could be a scout for a larger group.

Despite all this, I could not afford to panic as Cannan came to urge Temerson to his feet, placing a sword in his hand just as Miranna came fully awake. He motioned to me, telling me to keep my sister quiet. The captain then went to the cave mouth to keep watch, leaving Galen to monitor Steldor.

Not a word was spoken as we waited, the only sounds the trickling of the stream into the pool, our ragged breathing and an occasional moan from my husband, which I suspected Galen was prepared to stifle with his hand if necessary. Miranna had buried herself under my arm, whimpering every so often, and each time she did, Galen's eyes would flash a warning in my direction, though there was little I could do to stop her.

Minutes crawled by, then a call reached our ears, like a bird but louder, but not the call of any bird with which I was familiar. Cannan stepped back into sight to shoot a puzzled look at Galen, whose return shrug confirmed that something strange was happening.

Galen stood and approached Cannan, and I wondered what they knew that I did not. What was it they suspected? A creature? Cokyrians signaling each other? Had the call perhaps come from London, and they were deciding whether or not to answer it? But no measures were taken. They continued to listen, until the call repeated itself, slightly different this time.

“That's London,” Cannan muttered with certainty. “Wait,” he said sharply as Galen opened his mouth to reply.

I had the impression the captain was counting the seconds as they slipped by, then the original call sounded again, apparently precisely when he'd expected it.

“It's one of our men,” he pronounced.

“It can't be!” Galen exclaimed. “Temerson said they all died except for—”

“It's one of our men. I don't know who, but he's one of us.”

Galen seemed to want a better answer. He did not have long to wait. Noises from outside a mere ten minutes later announced London's return, and he and another stepped into the shadows of the entrance. The light that dimly illuminated our end of the cave eerily fell on London as they came toward us, then Halias stepped up beside him, looking as though he'd been through hell.

Jaws dropped as much at the state of him as at his unexpected coming, for he was gaunt and his blue eyes were strangely vacant. His clothing was a mess, rumpled and torn and dirty, and the left shoulder of his shirt was soaked with blood. The long blond hair he had always pulled back and casually tied at the base of his neck had been cut, hanging at irregular lengths along his jawline. I wondered if he had done it himself with the same mind-set that had possessed me, or if the Cokyrians had for some reason hacked it off.
It didn't really matter—what mattered was the glaring truth that a few meager days in the Overlord's hands could so transform a person.

Miranna was shaking but had not raised her head. It was just as well, as I doubted she would have recognized her bodyguard in his present condition. I tried not to move or give her any indication that it was safe to emerge from my embrace, but then Temerson made eye contact with me, kneeling to take my place and pulling her into his arms instead.

“I'm fine,” Halias muttered, in response to our stupefied stares. “Did everyone else make it here safely?”

“Davan fell,” Cannan answered, avoiding any uncertainty on the issue, though his tone did contain the proper respect for the dead. “Steldor is wounded, but the rest of us made it unscathed.”

I had moved in front of the fire pit, close enough to see Halias's forehead crease with concern as his gaze fell upon the King. He was experienced enough to know from a glance that Steldor's injury was not minor.

“Will he recover?”

Cannan took a moment, his jaw tightening as he looked away.