38. A New Ally
Chapter thirty-eight
A New Ally
The rest of the afternoon passed in a torrent of activity. Calteak regained strength quickly, and once he’d heard Imalroc’s story, he waited only long enough to see his wife and child awake before ordering Imalroc and Almatra to ride for Sol Serene with him.
They took horses from Calteak’s stables and left Tefka and the others to scramble together a plan for the returning servants. A few passed them on the western road, their fear turning to shock as they spotted their supposedly-dying lordship galloping by.
For all the urgency, the closer they rode to Sol Serene, the less Imalroc wanted to go there.
They would demand he explain why he hadn’t told Tythe the moment he met her.
And what was he to say then? He couldn’t stomach the thought of bringing trouble to one of his old handlers?
That he hadn’t trusted Tythe with Rerdas’s secrets?
They wouldn’t understand.
It could be worse than that, he realized. They could deem him untrustworthy. Remove him from the rally camp.
He clenched the reins in his fists. He couldn’t let them do that. River was the future he’d chosen for himself, the first place where he caught glimpses of a life he could stand to live.
He went over his arguments in his mind, preparing. When they tore through the outskirts and into the city proper, he was as tightly wound as he had ever been in a battlebox tunnel. He wouldn’t let them take River away from him.
They were admitted to the Advocate’s palace and almost immediately greeted by Galada herself, which Imalroc hadn’t expected. The Command Medallion seized Calteak’s shoulder and rushed him through the halls toward one of Tythe’s parlors.
“Feldlord Calteak! Arrived so soon, and we only just dispatched the rider! Feldlady Tythe has vital news to share with you and the Council.” She looked brighter, her smile glinting wide across her face. It wavered a little as she spotted Almatra and Imalroc behind the feldlord.
“I am not here because I was summoned.” Calteak shot a grim look at Imalroc. “I have news I must share as well.”
Galada’s eyebrows lifted. “I’ll take you to her. There is much to discuss.”
She allowed Imalroc and Almatra as far as an outer parlor and then stopped. “You two stay here. You’ll debrief me as soon as I return.” She whisked Calteak through another set of doors and out of sight.
Almatra flung herself back on a long bench, setting dirt-crusted boots on pristine velvet. Imalroc walked the edges of the room, his stomach eating itself with nerves. Even if they wanted him to step down from captaincy, he at least needed to convince them to let him stay in River.
It wasn’t only the chance to destroy the battleboxes that kept him rising with the sun each morning. It was more than that now, and he’d never considered that he was gambling all the trust and respect he’d been given just because he felt he still owed Rerdas something.
He owed that man nothing. Why couldn’t he get that through his own thick skull?
“Would you stop circling like you’re on patrol?” Almatra called from across the room. “Whatever you’re shouting about in your head is too loud.”
Imalroc crossed his arms. “I wasn’t even saying anything.”
“Well, you’ve got a very shouty face.” She propped herself up on her arms. “Calm down. They’ll believe you.”
“I’m not worried they won’t believe me.”
“Then what’s got you in knots?”
“I’m—” He was going to lie again. Imalroc tilted back, staring up at a chandelier, crystals glowing in the late daylight. “I’m thinking.”
“About?”
The chandelier did nothing to interrupt his stewing, so he examined the rug. He swept his toe across the thick pile, leaving a smudge in the thorns-and-roses design. “What if they don’t want me in the rally camp? If they think I can’t be trusted?”
“Gods above and below, they’re not stupid enough to keep you from the camp. Tefka and Dola have been sending letters blathering about you as though you’re one of the Eternals walking among us.”
His chest squeezed with that sensation of embarrassment and fervent gratitude that he was only just becoming used to. He unearthed a smile. “What, no blathering letters from you?”
“I send ones complaining about your incessant hair braiding and inability to go easy on anyone in a sparring match.”
Poking at Almatra was definitely a better distraction than the furnishings. “Look, the braiding is necessary. For those of us who have excellent hair. You wouldn’t understand.”
She glared. “Careful. I’ll cut yours off.”
“But it’s my crowning achievement. Get it? Crowning?” He pointed to the top of his head, and Almatra let out a groan like he’d kicked her in the gut.
“And there’s my next letter.” She lifted her open palm and mimed writing on it. “Dear Command Medallion Galada, Imalroc’s jokes have become too awful to bear. Please inform him that he is an idiot.”
The doors at the end of the parlor opened before he could respond, and Prentia Tythe swept into the room.
“Glad to see you’ve made yourself comfortable, Almatra.
” She sounded genuinely delighted, even as Almatra swung upright and tucked her dirty boots into the shadow beneath the bench.
Tythe’s eyes fairly sparkled as she turned to Imalroc.
She had the same shine to her as Galada, and it did not dim even as her gaze sharpened.
Something had changed here.
“Imalroc,” Tythe began, “I hear that you have been quite the addition to River. Galada tells me you are just what our soldiers needed.”
“I am grateful for the opportunity to serve among them, my lady.” He knew from Almatra’s disgruntled shifting that she didn’t appreciate his obsequious tone, but he considered it a safe strategy.
Even an enlightened noble was still nobility, and nobility inhaled gratitude from their perceived inferiors the way normal people took in air.
“We are the ones who should be grateful,” Tythe countered. She examined him as though inviting him to make his next move.
She wasn’t his enemy. With effort, he dragged himself out of the land of attack and defense. This was the Advocate, and the idea of her existence had kept him alive and hoping when everyone else he knew had resigned him to his chains. This might be his only chance to explain himself.
“Lord Calteak… He told you what happened?”
She smiled. “The story of how you saved his life? Indeed.”
“And… do you believe it, my lady?”
“I do.” Tythe cocked her head slightly. “Although I wish you’d said something sooner.”
He licked his lips, acutely aware of Almatra watching him and Tythe waiting.
How quickly would he go from soldier to slave in their eyes?
How the fuck was he supposed to explain his willingness to guard the secrets of a man who had locked him in a cellar?
“When I first met you… I wasn’t certain…
I didn’t know how much to trust this rebellion.
I am certain now, and I’m prepared to speak to the Council. I want to help River.”
Tythe inclined her head, and he realized with a shock that it was in respect rather than disappointment.
“Fortunately, we won’t need to keep you from River for the time it would take to sway the Council.
Calteak is fully convinced, especially as your story exactly matches the one we were just told. ”
Imalroc had to repeat her words to himself, ponderously, trying to make sense of them. “The story you just—Someone else came to you?”
“She is eager to meet you.” Tythe stepped to the side, holding her arm out in invitation to the room beyond the parlor.
Mystified, he walked cautiously into a smaller, but no less lavish space.
It was like a solarium, all skylights and windowed walls, greenery and ceramics sprouting from the tiled floor.
Calteak and Galada were seated, each twisting around to look at him as he entered, and so did the old woman who sat opposite them.
Imalroc stopped abruptly enough that Almatra bumped into his shoulder.
“So,” the woman said in a wavering voice, “you are the battleboxer who helped my children.”
His jaw went slack. He had last seen this woman jolting along in an open rug box.
Uralta Toriem was sitting in front of him, talking to him, looking at him with eyes unclouded by seasons of sleep.
Which meant… fucking gods, if Rerdas was here… He couldn’t think. Everything crashed right out of his skull.
Almatra stiffened at the mention of Uralta’s name. She set a hand on Imalroc’s arm. “You are the woman who was asleep?”
“If you can call that drug-fueled stupor sleep,” Uralta said.
“Why are you here?”
“Almatra,” Galada said, “Lady Uralta is an ally. You could be more welcoming.”
“I do not welcome the enslaving masters,” Almatra snapped.
“Nor should you.” Uralta nodded at her. “I cannot explain what possessed my daughter and nephew to engage your friend’s contract.
I left them in a precarious position, but turning to battleboxing should not have come to pass, and you can be sure my daughter will hear it from me.
” She swung back toward Imalroc and bowed as far as she could in the chair.
“My family and I are in your debt, Imalroc. And we owe you many apologies besides.”
“No,” he said before he was thinking clearly. “You were never part of it. And your... your nephew…” He didn’t know what he was trying to say, or confess.
Uralta’s weathered brow tensed. “Rerdas is a good person. And he did a terrible thing,” she murmured. “I’m sorry that you were not given the best of him.”
So Rerdas hadn’t told her everything. Something in him crumbled, one corner of his heart cracking at the thought that no one knew the truth, and the other part welling with panic that Rerdas was here, in Sol Serene, so much closer than he had ever expected him to be again.
He needed to get out of here. He needed to leave, run, disappear.
He swallowed, mastered his voice, and willed it to steadiness. “Where are they?”
“Kirinoll.” Uralta’s gaze moved to Tythe. “Where they will remain unless the Southern Felds agree to help them.”
The cousins had gone back to the capital. If they were in Kirinoll, then Rerdas was probably with that tower of shit called a duke. That stupid fuck Umber was probably lying in bed, skin to skin with Rerdas, and Imalroc would never have that again.
“We will look into their situation,” Tythe said firmly. “It will be easier to slip them from the capital once larger concerns occupy Kuraya’s attention. Which will soon come to pass. Will it not, Lord Calteak?”
Calteak looked grim. “The queen is far beyond redemption. Once the rest of the Council hears of this, it is only the beginning. There will be no treaty, which means there can only be war.”
Imalroc ought to feel elated, or at least determined, but his gaze was dragged back to Uralta Toriem. Why hadn’t Rerdas told his aunt the full truth? Maybe it was as shameful to the huntmaster as it had become to him.
Galada rose, circling the chairs. “I have preliminary orders for River, and dispatches ready for the other camps. You two come with me.”
Almatra waited until they were on the other side of closed doors before she whirled on Galada. “The Southland Army is asked to go rescue Lady Uralta’s people?”
“It is under consideration and no concern of—”
“You think that’s of no concern to us?” Almatra hissed. “You will bring enslavers here, and we are to pay that no mind? They sent Imalroc into the boxes.”
Galada looked startled, and her cheeks reddened. She didn’t quite meet Imalroc’s gaze. “It’s… Well, that’s certainly not how we meant… Perhaps it’s more complicated than—”
“No, it’s not!” Almatra boomed, and Imalroc winced. “They are the enemy! They are what we are supposed to be fighting!”
“That’s a bit much, Almatra. Lady Toriem told you they were in dire circumstances. Misguided, but—”
“Misguided?” Almatra was white as birch bark. “Misguided! What about inhumane? What about evil?”
She was going to get herself reprimanded, shouting at Galada like this. Imalroc snatched her hand. “You’re right, Almatra,” he murmured, trying to get her to focus on him. “You’re right, and… I want to destroy the whole tradition of it. That’s what we’re fighting for. The end of battleboxing.”
Galada still looked taken aback. “Their enemies are our enemies,” she said cautiously.
He could practically feel Almatra ready to fly at the woman’s eyes, and tightened his grip on her hand. His friend muttered a curse and tried to shake him off.
“That said,” Galada added awkwardly, “I am sorry, Imalroc, that it… puts you in this position. None of us condone what they did.”
“Uralta Toriem had no choice in what happened to me,” he said. “By every account I’ve heard, she would not have let it happen had she been able to prevent it.”
And where would he be then? He could have made it south and joined the rebellion with savage joy.
No guilt to drag him by the throat, no memories of starving, uncontrollable desire to plague him.
Maybe he would have put a sword through Edim Morbank’s face in front of the whole fucking army without a thought, or counseled the others never to trust Tefka.
He didn’t entirely like the thought of the shell of him left from Wester’s holding cells stepping into River.
Rerdas had coaxed something back to life in him, but he could not forget the chains. The muzzle.
He cleared his throat, trying desperately to keep Galada or Almatra from seeing through his mask. “You have orders, Command Medallion? I’d like to get back… to River.”
He’d nearly said he wanted to go home.