Page 25 of Aubade Rising
“Doesn’t he have more pressing things to concern himself with?” I counter, angry at being exposed.
“Sage, think of all the people that will see you up there.” Cedar sounds regretful, pleading.
“Precisely why I want to avoid it.” I’ve spent months learning how the Concord operates. I have no desire to join them in the pointless pageantry.
Huffing at my irritation, Cedar flounces back into the crowd in search of anther drink, leaving me staring into Eskar’s eyes. This is the last place I want to have this conversation. I turn and run.
Chapter 23
He follows me. It shouldn’t surprise me but it does annoy me. I twist and turn through the streets to lose him in the crowds but he catches on to my tactics and I feel a firm hand on my shoulder pulling me back.
“Sage, we need to talk. Just one conversation.” His face is anguished.
I’m sorry but one conversation is not going to justify the hours I spent trapped in the dungeon, writhing in agony at his hands. One conversation is not going to cure my fear of small, dark spaces or the panic I feel when a shadow moves in the corner of my eye and my muscles lock, anticipating pain.
“The whole of the Concord is speculating about what happened. They know we’re not speaking now you refuse to sit near me in the meetings. I don’t know how else to stop their gossip. Please,” he whispers, stepping closer, shielding me from curious onlookers who might otherwise notice my eyes filling with tears. I brush them aside and nod quickly; anything to get away from being spectated on.
He pulls me behind him, weaving expertly through the crowds, guiding us on to one of the quieter side streets. Satisfied there are no prying eyes or ears, he tugs me into an alley between a bank and a neglected haberdashers and waits for my tears to stop.
“The pain, the torture. It ate me up for days afterwards. You were innocent and I didn’t question the Almanac.” He rushes to get the words out, as if the conversation has a sand timer against it and the grains are falling too quickly. “I know Trevesiga requires an enforcer, an interrogator, but Ididn’t choose this position. The old king mandated it once my attitude manifested.” I force myself to hold his gaze, shoving my trembling hands deep into my pockets.
“It’s a special affinity with magic, found in only one Mordros family. Mine. The old king was always interested in me as a child, hoping I would develop the ability. As soon as it manifested, my parents handed me over to him, thrilled to have a child with such aprestigiousattitude. I became his personal torturer from the age of thirteen.” His face is blank, no emotion apart from his eyes.
“No one knew. They thought I was chosen to be a companion for Cado. We grew up together, the perfect cover for the King to abuse his position and force me to practise my attitude. Now the whole Concord knows what I can do as the Verax but they have no idea how I became so skilled.” Those beautiful caramel eyes are red-rimmed and full of pain. To be abandoned by your family and forced to hurt others as a child. I try to cling to my anger but it seeps away.
“What does your attitude do?” I whisper, afraid.
“I can stop water on a minuscule level.” He runs a hand through his long hair and continues. “It meant I could be used to stop the blood flowing in people’s veins, horrifically painful. The old king had me practise on myself and no one ever knew.” His shoulders drop, and a large cloud of air condenses as he exhales.
“Lord Bal and the old king relished using it to root out traitors or to make a point against anyone who stood against them. They kept the details of my attitude secret, hoping to inspire fear and help them keep control.”
“Cado promised me I’d never have to use it once he became king, but… old habits die hard I suppose. He’s promised once the rebel threat is dealt with then I won’t be needed any longer…” His voice reeks of bitterness, of a man who’s practically given up hope of seeing his own freedom, but also of something else.Perhaps he’s a little intimidated by the power he wields.
I feel for him. He feels as if he’s cornered and doesn’t have a choice. But there were plenty of opportunities to come clean to me about what happened in the dungeons and his role and he never did. Even now, there’s no apology. Just an explanation and it doesn’t feel like enough.
“Come on. We might be able to find a good view.” I see the effort he’s making to smooth things over. To move past this. But I don’t think it will be that easy. He’s resigned to his position. He isn’t fighting back.
We wander towards the city centre in silence. I reluctantly follow, unwilling to return to the palace and with no other options. All hopes of getting a good view of the King’s address disappear when we see the crowds. People queue along the streets, lining the pavements, slowing our progress. Eventually, he settles on a position he deems safe in the midst of so many people. It’s a good vantage point on the edge of a stone monument and he moves the surly teenagers out of their seats with a fierce glare. I try to apologise for his rudeness but it’s undermined by his unrepentant stare. Arms folded, he towers over my shoulder before pulling me up to join him.
I may not approve of his methods, but we undoubtedly have a good view. I can see clearly from the river crossing and the palace all the way up to the spires of Pentargon Library in the east of the city. We won’t be able to hear much of the speech but Dervla is sitting on the dais with the other Mordros dignitaries and I’m sure she will be able to give me a recap.
Given the affluence of the majority of the spectators, I imagine most of them are also Mordros or possibly Zephyrs. I wonder if I’ll ever learn to stop automatically scanning a crowd for people like me. Perhaps one day, it won’t be possible to tell the difference on the outside.
The King lands on the banks of the river and a ripple ofexcitement extends through the city, and we can catch glimpses of the procession as it passes by. Enthusiasm for the King himself is sporadic at best, so there isn’t a copious amount of cheering. The crowd are there to gawk, as if he is an exotic animal in a zoo. He duly waves as the procession makes its way through the street. I try to point out familiar faces to Eskar as I recognise them but he’s not paying me any attention; he’s focused on scanning the crowds, assessing movement, watching people’s behaviour and looking for anything out of place. I feel a little guilty at the risk I’m taking and anything that could impact me puts him at risk too.
The lacklustre spectacle finishes, the King’s words were lost on the wind before they made it to our position, we make our way back to the palace. Everyone else is heading the other way, to find taverns or restaurants for the evening. I lose sight of Eskar several times, and call him to slow down. People are parting to let him through but I’m being pushed further and further back. I assume he’ll wait at the quay for me before crossing back, so I take a moment to get my breath, away from the crowds before pushing on. A couple, older than me, pull me towards a spot in the crossroads where we wait for the melée to pass. Grateful for their help, I let them tug me out of the crowds and on to a side street.
They don’t let go once we’re in the street. As I straighten up to reassure them I’ll be fine now, the woman twists my arm behind my back, keeping me bent over and helpless. The man stuffs a sweet-smelling rag in my mouth and my eyes begin to water. I wait for them to empty my pockets, panicking now as I have nothing of value to offer them in exchange for my safety. I realise they aren’t trying to steal from me and fear rises in my throat, my vision swimming. Instead, they manhandle me aggressively down the street, hissing at each other to go faster, work quicker.
Instinct kicks in and I let myself go limp to make their livesharder, letting my weight drag me to the floor. If they aren’t mugging me, then they have a different reason for targeting me. My feet struggle to find purchase on the cobbles and, wriggling and squirming, my shoulder wrenches and I scream into the rag. My head is pounding. The more I breathe through my mouth as I struggle, the harder I find it to focus. Desperate, I reach into my magic, thinking to summon a small ball of light to blind them. It’s a last-ditch attempt; this street is quieter but I hope someone will see before it’s too late.
Two unearthly screams pierce the air and I hit the cobbles hard. Blackness envelops me.
Chapter 24
Sounds register: running water, light conversation – words indecipherable. I can smell antiseptic and an underlying scent of lilacs that the palace uses to fragrance their bed linens. I open one eye; morning light sears into my skull and I quickly shut it. My head pounds. I scan through my body, assessing my limbs and cataloguing where else I feel pain. Other than my head and shoulder, I think I am relatively unscathed. A few aches and bruises. Bracing myself, I open my eyes again. Nausea rushes up and I vomit violently over the side of the bed. From the look of the considerately placed bedpan, conspicuously not empty, this is not the first time I’ve been sick. The conversation in the other room pauses as my vomit clatters off the metallic pan. It resumes a few minutes later when I make no further noise.
Flopping back on the bed, I drift off again.
