Chapter 16 #3
“All right,” Elegy says. “There are a few Cedrae laws about acting under duress. I won’t bore everyone with the precise legal definitions for ‘duress.’ But imprisoning a person for two years in a place where they must endure constant violence certainly creates the conditions for it.
Forcing them to serve in a state of constant debasement also qualifies.
And when someone acts under duress, our legal system is inclined toward leniency. ”
The Sword’s simmering rage reaches a boil.
“I don’t need to be reminded of what my own legal system values,” the Sword says. “I am more aware of it than you are.”
“Are you sure? Because I know you want to use truth serum, which is only legal if its use saves lives that are in imminent danger—-”
“We are at war, and exceptions must be made for extreme cases that put Cedre at risk!” the Sword snaps. “He has information we need, and we can’t trust him well enough to allow him to provide it without the use of truth serum—-”
His ears ring.
He thinks of waking in the hospital, stripped bare, sluggish and stupid, unsure of who had touched him, and when. It was bad enough when it was his body they stripped his control from. But his mind—-
“This man saved my life. I won’t allow you to violate him.”
“You won’t allow me,” the Sword says, and the silence that greets her words is so sudden and so tense it almost rings. “Who are you to give me orders?”
“I would never presume to give you orders, Larke,” Elegy says. “But four years ago, the augurs told me that I was fated to bring Cedre victory over the Talusar, so I hope you’ll trust my instincts and heed my advice.”
The collective shock in the room is so intense Theren flinches at the feeling of it, like electricity in his skull.
“This is probably not how you wanted me to confirm the rumors to the people in this room,” Elegy says. “But I am the Hope of Cedre, and they were going to find out eventually.”
Elegy and Larke lock eyes for a long, tense moment.
“Then I will ask you for your advice, Elegy,” Larke says. “But only if you confront exactly what it is that he did to you.”
Elegy frowns at her. Theren squeezes the edge of the table, hard, as Larke’s palms glow, the elixir that runs through her veins activating.
She gestures, and an image appears in the space between them—-the table is an obsidian.
Hovering over it is an image of Elegy Rosyk with the augur at her side. Kneeling in front of her is Theren.
“I don’t need to see this,” Elegy says quietly. “I was there.”
“You were there, but I don’t think you remember,” Larke says. “Let me ensure that you do. Watch Mr. Forint, please.”
Theren watches the hologram shift and move as Elegy plunges the tracker into Past Theren’s shoulder. Then the windows shatter, and as dark figures stream into the room, Past Theren is already moving, hurling his body away from Elegy, away from the windows—-
Running. Like a coward.
He watches as a dark--haired man, recognizable as Shir Alexios only by the familiar way that he puts a hand on Elegy’s waist, dives at his wife to protect her from the onslaught of Talusar soldiers.
Theren feels pain so sharp and so fierce it couldn’t possibly belong to him.
It’s emanating from Elegy, so intense he can’t block it.
A grief that runs deeper than any he’s felt himself.
“Turn it off,” Elegy says, her voice dark and flat.
“Do you know how long Mr. Forint hesitated before running from you? Because I’ve watched this dozens of times, and I’ve timed it.”
“Turn it off !”
Larke does. The obsidian goes dark again.
“A fraction of a second,” Larke says. “No hesitation, in other words.”
Elegy’s eyes close.
“Tell me,” Larke says. “What do you think I should do with this man who left you to die? Celebrate his return? Reinstate him as your Knight?”
Theren thinks again of the dark, still forest.
Elegy sits still for a long time. He can feel her pulling herself together—-nipping and tucking the pain until it fits inside her again. She clears her throat, and answers.
“I suggest you offer him a trade: freedom, in exchange for his continued cooperation in providing valuable intelligence that aids us in our fight against Rava Vidar. Intelligence that will be independently verified, as with any other asset or informant, no truth serum required.”
Larke surveys Elegy for a long moment.
“And you?” the Sword says. “I assume, since you were so comfortable using your role to persuade me to show mercy to this man, that you’re now ready for your four--year pity party to come to an end?
To make a public statement confirming your status, and then work to serve Cedre, as our mother intended four years ago? ”
Elegy looks away. At her fingertips, resting on the table.
“Yes,” Elegy says, and she’s heavy with dread, so he’s heavy with it, too. “Of course.”
“Fine, then,” Larke says, her eyes shifting back to Theren. “If your initial intel proves useful, Mr. Forint, you can begin easing back into Cedre society. If it doesn’t, we will revisit the idea of truth serum. Understand?”
The tension in Theren’s shoulders eases somewhat. He unclenches his jaw.
“Yes, Your Highness,” he says.
“Green, please escort Mr. Forint back to Losan Stronghold,” the Sword says, raising her voice a little. “And Mr. Forint . . .” She switches to Talusar. “Give me a single reason to revoke this offer, and I will dig around in your mind at my leisure.”
Her speech is clumsy, but unlike Elegy, she uses the right “you.”
He leaves the room without looking at either of them.
The hallway beyond is dim and empty. Green leads him a hundred meters at a clip, then glances at Theren and idles.
“Take a moment,” he says.
He must look bad for Green to notice. Grateful for the reprieve, Theren leans against the wall and presses a firm hand to his side. The wound aches, and so does the rest of him.
He expects to feel relief, but all he feels is confusion.
Exhaustion. Elegy agreed to enter the public eye as the Hope of Cedre with all the dread of a woman going to her own death.
She did it for him, and she did it knowing he failed to protect her at the Getty.
He wonders if she really considered what that meant—-what she could have salvaged of her life, if he had stood in her path like he was supposed to. Like he pledged to.
He tips his head back against the tile, and hears his name.
“Theren.”
He opens his eyes to the primly pursed mouth and pale gray eyes of Julia Martin. Maeve’s mother.
He searches her face automatically for signs of Maeve, but it’s been too long since he looked at either of them.
Instead, he remembers Maeve talking about formal dinners at her mother’s house, with starched white tablecloths and more forks than a person could ever need, and her mother running a finger up her spine to remind her to sit up straight for once—-
“I take it by the way you’re looking at me,” Julia says, “or rather, by the way you aren’t looking at me . . . that my daughter is not alive in Valla.”
“No, ma’am,” Theren says quietly. His stomach twists. It might be her reaction, not his. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.
“I assumed as much.” Her voice is tight. “Did she die from Fever?”
He shakes his head.
“Lisia and Furik did,” he says. “The others—-after.”
“I will tell the other parents so,” she says. “Did you see it happen? Maeve?”
It’s strange to hear such a question in English. In Talusar, the question would be one of identity. Were you a witness? He finds himself unable to lie to her, and unable to tell the truth, at the same time.
“Yes,” he says, unsteady.
Julia nods, slowly. Her eyes skip from his bruised jaw to the hand he’s still holding against his wounded side.
“You’re not well,” she says. “But when you are, I will speak with you again.”
He’s not sure if it’s a promise or a threat. She turns, and walks back toward the debriefing room.