Chapter 16
When they come for him, he’s at least wearing clothes, this time.
Standard--issue Cedrae military casual dress: a white T--shirt tucked into black canvas pants, which are themselves tucked into black boots.
The door opens, and he jolts awake. He didn’t intend to sleep, but the anesthesia is still coursing through him, and he can’t seem to stay awake for more than an hour at a time.
Three soldiers in black uniforms stride into the hospital room.
They have silver seals stitched on their sleeves, which means Cedre special forces, Army of the Sword.
They’re more clean--cut than the soldiers he’s seen so far, all three with the same brutally short hair.
None of them are afraid of him, which is a relief.
“The Sword wishes to speak with you,” one of them says. Tall, with deep brown skin and a shaved head that shines in the light, and the name green stitched on his chest. “On your feet.”
Theren has been waiting for them. He doesn’t know this Sword, but if she’s anything like her mother, she doesn’t want to waste time letting someone like him recover from his injuries before interrogating him. Better to do it now, while he’s weak.
Maybe he should expect better of the Cedrae, but he doesn’t. He feels nothing. Detached, like a kite with no flying line to tether it to the ground.
He gets up, and follows Green out of the room. The other two fall into step behind him. They pass Arias at the coffee machine on their way out, and he looks like he wants to object—-but there’s no objecting to the Army of the Sword. Even Theren, four years removed from Cedre culture, knows that.
A sleek Sparrow waits for them on the landing pad, its engines on. He follows Green on board, and buckles himself into one of the seats.
“It’s a short flight,” Green says. “To Losan City Hall.”
It’s more explanation than Theren was expecting. He didn’t realize to what extent four years in Valla had conditioned him not to ask questions until now. He’s used to going where he’s told, when he’s told, regardless of how he feels about it.
The ship takes off, smooth and easy. It’s nearing dark, and the city lights are dazzling even from a distance, bright signs for businesses he doesn’t understand, technology he can’t use, locations he doesn’t remember.
The streets, too, are lit up, lines of light that make up the grid of downtown.
Their ship coasts for a while, and finally touches down on the landing pad of city hall.
It’s a new building, by Losan standards, a pillar of black glass that comes to a sharp point at the top, like an arrow aimed at Cedre Station.
The dock is off to the side, a few stories elevated for ease of use.
They touch down, and as Theren unbuckles himself, he thinks that he once would have found Green intimidating, but now, all he can think is that at least he isn’t Satka.
Or Rava.
Green asks for his wrists, and Theren complies, seeing no other option than to let the man bind his hands with hard plastic.
He follows Green into city hall, where walls and floor are black tile, a glasslike material that seems to show neither footprints nor fingerprints.
Theren hasn’t seen anything like it before. Four years is time enough for change.
They stop at an opaque glass door. Green touches a sensor, the elixir in his hand lighting up for a moment, and the door opens.
The room beyond is dim, so Theren can’t tell how large it is.
He can see a handful of people sitting along the edges.
Standing in the center of the room is a huge table, and it’s illuminated from above and below, so it looks like an aquarium.
Seated at the far end is the new Sword of Cedre, Larke Rosyk, flanked on one side by General Thompson of Losan Stronghold, and on the other by a man Theren recognizes but can’t place.
He’s never met this Sword, Larke Rosyk. He’s only ever known her as the heir.
Before Elegy heard her prophecy, he was supposed to serve her with the rest of the Knights, and he heard she was as exacting and stern as her mother.
By the look of her, that assessment seems right—-her darkest--red military jacket is buttoned up to her throat, and her hair is smoothed back into a tight knot.
She has even lighter skin than him, and a high, narrow nose.
The only feature she seems to share with Elegy is her freckles.
He doesn’t like the feeling of her. There’s something claustrophobic about her.
She’s as focused as the point of a needle, and he’s certain she’ll be just as precise when she interrogates him.
Why she feels the need to conduct this interrogation herself is unclear to him, but he thinks it must have something to do with his mother.
The woman responsible for Larke’s own mother’s death.
“Mr. Forint,” the Sword says, and she gestures to the chair at the other end of the table. “Sit.”
Green pulls out the chair for him, and he sits gingerly, resting his hands on the table in front of them. Larke’s eyes catch on the tattoos on his hands with interest.
“Your Highness,” he says to her.
“Welcome to Losan. Have you been here before?”
“Once,” he says, stiffening a little.
“Ah, right. On the day of the Getty attack.” She gives him a cold smile.
On the day your mother betrayed my mother, she may as well say. But she doesn’t need to. He can tell by the ripple of feeling that goes through the room that anyone who didn’t recognize his name before does now.
The Sword tilts her head to the side, like a bird.
“Earlier I received a brief description of the events that brought you back here, courtesy of my sister,” she says. “I understand we all owe you our gratitude for bringing her safely back to us.”
Theren doesn’t reply. He knows she’s building toward something, and he knows he won’t like whatever it is.
“What I’m not sure I understand is why you were even in a position to accomplish this feat. Why you were permitted to move freely enough through House Vidar to acquire a key, a weapon, even a horse.”
He thinks of the forest where he almost died. Quiet and cool, the pine needles rustling in the wind.
He doesn’t want to be here. He would have chosen death, instead, if Elegy hadn’t stopped him.
“My sister says you were summoned to interrogate her when other methods had failed,” the Sword says. “So it sounds very much as if you were acting as one of Rava Vidar’s lessers. Is that the case?”
“No,” Theren says. A beat too late, he adds, “Your Highness.”
He hears murmurs all around him. Feels the press of everyone against him. But his focus is on the Sword.
“We have also uncovered intelligence that Rava Vidar is planning something significant. Do you know what it is?”
Memories drift into his mind. Rava coming back from a long journey, looking frustrated. A whispered conversation with Ranos that stopped when Theren walked in. Satka disappearing for days at a time without explanation. But none of them add up to anything.
“If I did,” Theren replies, “it would have been the first thing I said upon my arrival.”
The Sword opens her mouth to speak, but she’s interrupted by the door opening. Every head in the room lifts. He doesn’t need to turn to know who it is; he can feel that it’s Elegy. She’s like cold, clear water.
He isn’t sure—-and he can’t explain it, if he’s correct—-but he thinks a frisson of fear goes through the Sword at the sight of her.
“Your Grace,” the Sword says. “What are you doing?”
“Attending the debriefing, Your Highness,” Elegy says, with a casual tone. “I assume my invitation got lost, because it wouldn’t make sense to exclude me, would it? After all, I can corroborate Theren’s account of our escape.”
There’s a chair on the right side of the long table, tucked under the tabletop.
She drops a duffel bag she’s carrying, pulls the chair out, and sits, looking clear--eyed and cheerful.
Despite this, her hair is mussed, and she’s missed a button on her shirt—-her arrival was clearly rushed.
Her arm is in a sling. She doesn’t look at him.
“You are, of course, welcome to join us,” the Sword says.
“Lovely.” Elegy smiles a broad, warm smile at General Thompson. “Good to see you again, sir.”
“Your Grace,” he says to her, nodding. “I see you still have a flair for the dramatic.”
Elegy winks. “Don’t let me interrupt. Oh, except for this.” She reaches into the duffel bag and takes out an Eye. Thin lines of light spread down her fingers and the tendons in her hands. The Eye hovers, and then zips around the perimeter of the room like a beetle.
“What,” the Sword says flatly, “is the meaning of this?”
“Oh,” Elegy says. “I rented it from the library. It just seemed like you’d forgotten that debriefings of Cedrae citizens are required to be recorded for the official record.
So I thought I would lend a hand.” She smiles.
With her downturned mouth, even a smile looks skeptical.
“And this must be a debriefing, not an interrogation, because Theren is twelve hours post--surgery and still doped up on painkillers, which, if it was an interrogation, would be a violation of Cedrae’s ethics laws. ”
The forced cheer of Elegy’s tone grates on the Sword. He can feel it. The only outward sign she gives, though, is a brief clench of her jaw.
“Well, as you say,” the Sword says, “this is not an interrogation. It is also not a debriefing. It’s a hearing, intended to assess the measures that will be necessary and appropriate in the handling of Mr. Forint’s situation.”
Something about the word “measures” makes his heart stutter.
Cedrae doesn’t allow the administration of pain or deprivation in interrogating enemies of the state, so it’s not torture he’s concerned about, it’s truth serum.
A perfectly calibrated concoction that suppresses deception, encourages speech, and lowers inhibitions.