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We tracked bloody footprints as we left the bridge that were soon lost in the long grasses beyond, and managed to obscure ourselves in the fog just as shapes loomed behind us and we heard more screams.
It was mostly Quarehian pleas and prayers this time. That held its own kind of terror because it was a stark reminder of the senseless waste of it all: an eternal push and pull between the north and south that never granted either one true victory. The border had been fought over for centuries, with thousands of people dying on both sides, and for what? The chance to do it all again the next day?
We passed through the border lands without speaking, the sounds and smells of the horrific battle still echoing around my head even a day later when I woke to a brisk, cloudless morning. As a result of needing to find somewhere else to cross the river, we were nearly a day behind Ren and the others, and it was only when I’d tripped over my own feet from exhaustion that I’d finally agreed to take a short nap. And of course, because Parvan was far too good at his job to let me sleep unguarded, he’d pushed through and stayed awake the whole time, which meant I had to subsequently give him some rest in turn. I don’t know how he slept with me anxiously pacing around him the whole two hours, but I was nearly ready to explode with frustration by the time he roused.
“Regretting pledging yourself to me yet?” I asked, only half-teasing as we set off south once more, trying to ignore the ache in my belly that told of how pitiful our supplies were compared to the huge, over-luxurious meals I’d been enjoying as a guest in Stavroyarsk.
“Never, Your Highness,” Parvan said blandly, and I snuck a glance at him to see if I could tell whether he was just humouring me. But other than for the man’s rare bouts of emotion – like when I’d outed myself to Temar, or when he’d apologised in the castle – he was a difficult one to read. He didn’t entirely have Jiron’s stoic professionalism or his quiet confidence; it was more that Parvan seemed to empty himself while working, as if he were no more of a person than a suit of armour or the sword he wielded.
Yet he couldn’t hide the pained lines around his eyes and mouth when we caught sight of a platoon of Quarehian soldiers later that afternoon. They traced a glorious long line up the road, the shiny metal buckles and weapons of fifty men glittering in the sun, although the uncoordinated movement and nervous expressions told their own story. These weren’t soldiers. Recent recruits, perhaps, willing or not, but ultimately just fodder that the false king could throw at his northern neighbour to overwhelm Astrid’s lines or bolster his own.
More human lives to be lost so needlessly in a war that had never needed to be waged.
Parvan let himself sigh then, as he reached the same realisation as I had. These men were marching straight for the border, ready to be cast against swords and arrows and other instruments of death and mutilation, and they’d be lucky if half of them – untrained as they were – would survive the week. Each of these awkward, fumbling not-soldiers who passed us where we stood with our faces hooded in the throng of travellers who’d been moved to the side of the road by the platoon’s demanding heralds…each one would soon see things, feel things,dothings they might never recover from.
“My prince,” Parvan murmured, but it sounded less like a warning than resigned acceptance. I supposed I was anything but subtle in my urge to help; I was practically bouncing on my toes, my lips peeled back from my teeth as I listened to the officers bark out orders tostraighten up, hold formation, keep the pace.What the fuck did such things matter?
I hadn’t been able to save either the Mazekhstani or the Quarehians at the border. They’d died, just as more probably had today, and might keep dying until Ren wrestled back his crown and instilled the peace we’d fought so hard to secure with the northern countries.
But it didn’t meanthesemen had to die.
I’d given myself for Astrid Panarina at St Izolda’s Monastery. For Val, at Sesveko. It seemed fitting that there was one last heroic act left in me for the third country of Riehse Eshan, and if it couldn’t be for Ren, at least it was for the people he loved. These Quarehian men might never have met my prince, and I might not know their names, but I had their faces engraved on my soul.
A man with tears welling in his eyes as he stumbled along, clutching the spear he’d been assigned so tightly that its tip wobbled above his head. Two elderly gentlemen, stooped from hard labour, their faces creased with the pain of being ushered along at a pace unsuited to their age. Another man – a boy, really, far younger than myself – muttered something that could only be a prayer from the way his hands were wrapped around the cross at his neck. He didn’t look up, not once, and despite the noise of the platoon I somehow heard his shuddering,terrifiedsob as he passed.
I exhaled.
“Down with the false king!” I then yelled with my next breath, expecting all eyes to turn my way.
But as if they’d been expecting it,waitingfor it, the commoners milling around me transformed into movement and anger. They quickly took up the cause, bustling and shoving and jeering out similar cries to mine.
“Dios fuck the false king!”
“Down with Weasel Welzes!”
“One throne, one king!”
Parvan tugged me back into the protective ring of his arms as the crowd surged forward against the line of soldiers, confusion reigning for several seconds as everyone began pushing, fighting to get to nowhere and everywhere at once.
Fuck me, it was as if I’d ignited a barrel of black powder.Explosivewas the only word for it: these people were riled, and it was more than my words that had done it. I’d merely been the fuse, lighting something that had clearly been simmering for a while, because the shouts soon turned personal. Men and women screamed out about their families, their livelihoods, their hope, theirchildren…these people were grieving for things that had been taken from them, whether by Welzes or Iván Aratorre.
It was a sight to behold. Or it might have been if there had been any jubilant triumph to it, like an oppressed people rising up against their tyrants. But this was just a bunch of civilians shoving and hurling abuse at another bunch of civilians, where one side had weapons merely because they’d been told that they were soldiers now, primed to fight and die for a country which had never done anything for them.
It got ugly quickly, as the crowd lost track of who was right and who was wrong, and all that hate had nowhere to go but into each other. Parvan and I stared in disbelief as the crowd descended upon itself, hitting and kicking and scratching andstabbing.
I’d wanted to distract the platoon and its leaders, sure, but I didn’t want anyone else getting hurt. I’d incited this: the least they could all do was fuckingrecognisethat.
“Long live King Ren!” I shouted in an effort to draw their attention, shoving back my hood to expose my fair skin and hair, but my words were lost in the yelling of those around us.
Fuck.
“Renato Aratorre e istinskiyat kral na Quareh!”Parvan boomed, andthatdeclaration of the true southern king certainly got their attention, the Temarian words cutting harshly through the resonance of Quarehian accents.
The crowd seemed to freeze, and then eyes began to turn to us as they spotted and pointed out the northerners in their midst. An officer barked out orders, stabbing an irate finger in our direction.
Parvan hauled me backwards.
“Run, Your Highness,” he growled, and shoved me towards a slim gap between the people closing in on us.
