Fortress Walls

Chapter VI, Part 2

The evening of that fourth day, Zarael had a couple of hours to spend with the boy. They sat in silence for a while, Zarael staring at the floor, Tariq staring at his bandaged hands.

“I don’t see why this matters so much to you,” Tariq mumbled after a while. “It’s not like I’m important. I’m just another soldier.”

Zarael looked up at him, unsure what to say. He didn’t expect the lad wanted to hear something sentimental—you’re the son I’ve always wanted, I really do care about you—but he really didn’t have any other good reason for caring so much.

At last, he said, “Remember when I was new to the position, and I met you up on the wall the night of the Yuletide festival?”

Tariq nodded.

“I think I’ve seen you smile twice since then.”

Tariq looked at him.

“I’ve smiled more than twice.”

“I mean a real smile.” Zarael sat back. “Hear me out, lad. I hate that everyone pretends things are all right since the war. All the kids from the towns that weren’t affected by the draft show up, like, look, I’m here, there’s still young people around, everything’s just fine! Even joining the army, some of them. And at the same time…there’s all the grieving families hidden away in their homes, and the few kids still living, holed up in dark corners trying to deal with their trauma.”

Tariq was looking away absently now, as if he wasn’t listening, but Zarael went relentlessly on.

“And then there’s you. You’re the only one still here of those kids, and people see you and assume you escaped the draft, since you’re still here, not hidden away or dead. I don’t know how you’ve dealt with it for two whole years. When you could’ve gone home.”

Tariq was listening even though he was pretending not to. He clenched his fists, thinking of a brief correspondence after the war between himself and the man he’d been apprenticed to. He thought how he no longer had any place, home or not, to return to. He thought how much that artless old man Zarael didn’t know, didn’t understand. He didn’t want Zarael’s pity.

“I just think,” Zarael was stammering, “I just think you deserve better.”

Tariq finally looked at him, a bit reproachful. “Better than what?” he asked. “I have a job, a place to stay. I even got admitted to an elite corps. What do you mean better?”

Zarael threw up his hands. “Well, look at yourself! You don’t seem happy to me.”

Tariq shrugged. “There isn’t really a better, though. If I wasn’t here I’d probably just sit in a shack in the woods growing moss on my back.”

“But you’re not happy…”

The boy shrugged again. “So?”

“Tariq, I hope I’m not pressing you too hard…but why did you try to kill yourself?”

Tariq looked away. “Maybe you’re pressing me too hard.”

“Will you promise me never to do it again?”

“No.”

Zarael clenched his fists. He wouldn’t give up.

“What if I ordered you to promise, as your commanding officer? As someone who—whether you choose to believe it or not—honestly cares about you?”

Tariq looked at him, anguished. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would do anything—” Zarael said through clenched teeth— “anything to stop you getting hurt again.”

Tariq lifted his bandaged hands and let them drop helplessly. “You can’t do anything, though. You can’t stop him.”

“Who? Clade?”

“You can’t! He’ll use me till there’s no use left in me and then he’ll throw me away, or kill me, since apparently I’m a danger to him alive. There’s nothing you can do about it!” His voice cracked. He’d tried so hard to suppress his emotions the past few days; he hated that they were bursting out anyway.

Zarael had no idea what the boy was talking about, but the words made him angry, and he said, “I’ll kill him if he tries to lay a finger on you.”

Tariq swiped his sleeve across his eyes and looked sadly at Zarael.

“Pardon my rudeness, sir.”

“I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at Clade. I don’t know what that bastard said to you, but I swear I’ll make him pay—”

“Please don’t,” Tariq said, his voice very small and miserable.

“What?”

“There is really nothing you can do, sir. Please don’t worry about me. I’ll get through it. I always have.”

“Tariq…you don’t have to do this alone.”

Tariq didn’t answer for a little while. He fiddled with the little nubs on his seedy blanket, avoiding Zarael’s eyes.

“Tariq,” the general tried again, “I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you, but you have to promise you won’t hurt yourself.”

“We shouldn’t make promises we can’t keep,” Tariq said very quietly.

Zarael didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t want to give up, but he also didn’t know what his next step should be. He wanted to save the boy so badly, but it didn’t seem like he even wanted to be saved…

Tariq clasped his hands together tightly and blurted all of a sudden, “I can’t promise not to hurt myself again, but I can promise to try as hard as I can not to. When I…did that…the other day…I couldn’t really help it. I mean, it really seemed like the only option, and I was doing it…before I hardly knew what I was doing, because, I think if I stopped to think…I’d have been too afraid to do it.”

His face crumpled. “I feel like such a coward. I’m too weak to stick it out, but I’m frightened now to rip off these bandages and finish the job. I—I don’t know what you see in me. I’m nothing. I’m not worth the trouble you’re going to for me. But since you are, I’ll promise to do my best to be brave and see this life through.”

“You’re not a coward,” Zarael said. “And I’m proud of you.”

Tariq nodded, pressing back tears. They sat together in silence for a little while, each immersed in their own thoughts, until the boy could no longer hold back his sorrow, pulled up his knees to his chest, and buried his face in them as he shook with silent sobs. Zarael watched him helplessly. The boy wouldn’t want his pity, but it hurt to sit there and do nothing. Tentatively, he laid a hand on Tariq’s shoulder, only to have the boy flick it away.

So Zarael sat there helpless, hands open in his lap, listening to Tariq’s quiet tears and wishing for a million things he couldn’t have.

~

It was a while before Tariq began to calm down, and by that time Zarael had to leave and attend to his duties. Just as he was regretfully saying goodbye, there was a soft knock on the door and the doctor slipped in.

“There’s a young man to see you,” he told Tariq, “and it’s time for your medicine.”

The general took the opportunity to slip away. The doctor poured Tariq’s medicine into a spoon, which the boy dutifully accepted.

“I can send him away if you’re too tired to see anyone.”

“Who is it?” Tariq asked, scrubbing the last remnants of tears from his face.

“I don’t know him. He’s not a soldier. He gave the name Hektor. Do you recognize the name?”

Tariq shook his head. “You can let him in, if he’s not here long.”

He didn’t really want to see anyone, but if a complete stranger was here, he might as well see what it was about.

“All right. I’ll tell him.”

The doctor left, and a moment later, the young man poked his head into the room.

Tariq stared at him, thinking he looked a bit like himself, only a good-looking version. He was slim, taller than Tariq, but not by much; his dark hair was combed to one side but still not quite tidy; his face—a narrower, finer face than Tariq’s, but with the same freckles and gray eyes—seemed honest and friendly, if a little condescending.

He reminded Tariq so much of himself that the boy disliked him immediately, and wished he’d just said he was too tired for more visitors. But he couldn’t do anything now but scowl as the young man sat down in the chair that Zarael had vacated a few minutes before.

“My name’s Hektor,” the young man said. “You’re Tariq Wahidan?”

Tariq nodded, looking away.

“I’m Lord Clade’s personal servant. He sent me to see how you were doing.”

The doctor, who had stayed in the room, immediately frowned, even as Tariq went pale.

“I’m doing fine,” he snapped, clenching his fists. “What does he want?”

Hektor raised his hands defensively, alarmed by the contempt dripping from the younger boy’s tone. “Nothing, good Lord! Don’t get so annoyed. He really just sent me to see how you were.”

The doctor moved forward to frown a warning at Hektor, which the aide didn’t seem to notice.

Tariq was looking away again. “If that’s all, you can go. I’m tired of talking. I’ve had to talk too much today.”

“Pfft—!”

Tariq’s head whipped around, enraged, to glare at Hektor as he tried to suppress his laughter.

“I’m sorry…you just sound so much like him.”

Tariq decided he hated Hektor. “Go away,” he said.

The doctor agreed. “If you’ll pardon me, sir, I think it may, indeed, be time for Tariq to rest.”

Hektor sobered quickly, feeling a bit guilty. “I’m sorry, but there was one more thing…” he tapped his forefingers together nervously. “He’d like you to visit him, once you’re feeling well enough to leave the hospital. He wants to host you at his mansion. He said to tell you he’d be honored if you’d accept the invitation.”

Something in Tariq’s face warned him off even more than ever, and he backed down quickly. “O-of course, you don’t have to answer right away. We understand you haven’t been feeling well.”

“Are you done?” Tariq asked coldly.

“Y-yes…”

The doctor nodded pointedly at him.

“I’ll be going, then,” Hektor said, and beat a hasty retreat.

Out in the hall, his steps slowed and he shoved his hands into his pockets, blowing aside a rebellious strand of hair, his brow furrowing. He felt a bit guilty. His master hadn’t phrased the invitation so politely, nor was the visit intended as merely a friendly cup of tea. He hoped Clade would let the poor boy recover a little before making him endure another interrogation. He’d talk to him and see if he could soothe his fears, get him to back off.

He loved his father, but sometimes it bothered him how paranoid the old noble was.

~

Three days later, the Royal Palace

A messenger, flushed and sweaty, his hair and clothing a mess, burst into the audience chamber and stood there panting as the two ministers conferring with the king looked around in fury at the interruption. The king lifted a hand to hush their complaints and stepped forward.

“Your Majesty—I’m sorry,” the messenger panted.

“Don’t apologize. You look like you came far. What’s the matter?”

Bowing, the messenger rummaged in his bag and pulled out a letter, a much plainer one than those the king usually received, its envelope dirty and rumpled. He handed it to the king with another mumbled apology.

The king read the few scribbled words on the back of the envelope, then turned it over quickly. His face didn’t change, but his hands shook a bit as he opened it and scanned the short letter.

He crumpled the fragile paper in his hand. The ministers and the messenger held their breath as he stood there with his head down, as if paralyzed.

At last he looked up, somewhat calm again, his eyes stony.

“You’re dismissed,” he told the two ministers, and to the messenger, “thank you.”

As the three bowed and left, Cillian walked quickly from the audience chamber, summoning his attendants and guards with a flick of his hand. Stares followed them as they passed through the antechamber. The lead attendant stayed behind to usher that day’s suppliants out, assuring them a hearing on the following day. The king took the fastest route across the palace to his office, snapping orders as he went to the servants following him, nearly jogging to keep up with his long stride.

“Cosmas, I believe Her Majesty will be in one of the gardens. Do find her. Luke, fetch two messengers, if you will; and Asher, if you could find one of the men responsible for the financing and logistical management of the new railroad project.”

They bowed and left as soon as they’d received their orders. The king reached his office and sat down at his desk with a heavy sigh, drooping for a mere second before he went back to business, waving all his attendants out of the room except one, who stood quietly by, awaiting orders. Cillian grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen, uncapping his ink bottle so fast he spilled a bit. He had to inform Cassander.

~

The message was sent by the fastest hawk and reached Twdich University a day and a bit later. The hawk went to its handler in Sagewick’s post office, who handed it off to a messenger to bring to the second prince, who was in class in Armony Hall.

The messenger was quiet and quick; he slipped in, scanned for the prince, slipped the letter to him, and slipped out like a shadow, for the most part unnoticed. Cass read the note and went pale.

A minute later, he too left the lecture hall, as the class droned on.