Checkmate, p.9
Checkmate, page 9
No.
There is good reason it’s so familiar. Luka’s stomach drops.
There, towering before them, is the wall of Cesscounthe. Luka recognizes the iconic fox hunters carved into the wooden entry – now locked tight. The guard towers glow against the pink dawn, likely occupied by terrified Siacchians or one of the few combat-trained impyassi.
But the Kiterans aren’t supposed to be here for another week!
Even if Linne does have a plan, surely she wouldn’t have accounted for such speed. To cut through Siacchi so quickly, how many lives must have been lost to the Kiteran’s warpath? How many families have been torn apart?
How many more will these monsters kill before they’re satisfied?
Luka’s breaths escape him in dry rasps as terror descends once more. His fangs lengthen, claws digging into his palms. Will they hurt Cassian? They’re going to hurt Cassian!
The thought is a catalyst to an explosion of rage and terror. He can barely contain himself. Something roars inside, something evil and deadly and hungry for blood. He has to get out of here –
“Just wait another minute more,” Octavian murmurs. “Mustn’t let all these fine soldiers know you’re awake, alright?”
The rage and fear rushing through his veins chills as Luka tenses. He knows I’m conscious.
Why would he pretend otherwise?
Why would the enemy allow me the time to take into account his defenses?
Hypotheses bubble to the forefront of Luka’s mind, fogged by the fear in his thoughts. Before Luka has the time to focus, Octavian says, “There you go.” He hefts Luka a little higher on his shoulder. Luka’s skin crawls at the touch. Out of the corner of his narrowed eyes, he can make out the man dip his head to a staring soldier. “Had a few too many last night,” Octavian tells his fellow Kiteran, shaking his head.
“You’re a beast, Octavian Scholar. Wolf-Born not enough for you?” the man replies with a laugh, and Octavian’s responding jovial chuckle reverberates through his narrow chest.
He either hasn’t seen the ropes binding me – or he doesn’t care. Luka’s cheeks flush.
“Careful about such questions,” Octavian warns. “You might find out.”
The man’s response is too quick and strangled for Luka to catch, the Kiteran dialect shifting to something near incomprehensible. This man holding me… he likely is… attended to by Wolf-Born.
Luka uses the distraction to gather his scattered emotions. Embarrassment stabs at him. He has not nearly lost control in years – almost a full decade. What would happen to him if he allowed his monster to burst loose here? His death, surely.
And then what would become of Cassian?
No. Nothing good comes of such fears.
Octavian’s speed slows as he approaches a tent placed far from the main cluster of the Kiteran’s shelters, bending low as he ducks inside and pulls the flap shut. He places Luka on a soft cushion and settles opposite, pushing stray strands of hair behind his pierced ears.
“Now, no need to pretend to be unconscious anymore, Childes,” Octavian says. “Let’s talk. I’m sure you have questions.”
Childes?
…Childes?
Two seconds is all Luka allows to gather his thoughts.
One: This man is high in the pecking order, but not the commander. Someone who has some sort of… relationship with Wolf-Born himself.
Two: They think I’m Childes – Evland Childes. But why?
Two seconds up, Luka opens his eyes. He collects himself, rolling his emotions inside like he would his Cesse pieces into a bag. Carefully, he balls his hands into fists so any minute changes to his claws will remain undetectable.
That is – if these people haven’t already scented the evil animal inside of him.
“You’re remarkably calm,” Octavian says.
Luka forces himself to take in the tent before he replies, the words trembling on his tongue. He needs to be careful. Every action that he takes now will be like a move on the Cesse board – belabored with purpose and meaning.
The tent is larger than the one he woke in; he would likely be able to stand comfortably. The walls are slightly translucent on the east side where the sunlight floods in, and Luka can faintly make out the shadows of the Kiterans soldiers moving outside. Beyond a plain bedroll unrolled on the dirt ground and a makeshift writing desk – all signs of letters or journals unfortunately tucked away – the interior is utilitarian.
“Calm?” Luka repeats. It’s likely not hard for Octavian to believe Luka doesn’t understand; Luka has a knack for dialects. He sounds practically fluent in Balivartian. But the Kiteran tongue is gruff and foreign to his ear.
If they think I’m Evland Childes, they must have never seen his face.
Realization is a cold slap: they’ve likely only seen drawing or daguerreotypes – like in a paper-runner’s article.
Even worse than that is the question that gnaws at the back of his mind:
What will they do when they find out I’m not their target?
When Octavian nods, Luka swallows, saying, “How could I be calm? I’ve been kidnapped – by the enemy.” Luka curls his lip at the word, trying to channel Evland’s superiority despite the fear making his palms sweat. As Octavian’s right brow lifts, Luka adds, “Whatever you’re planning, you should know my mother would do anything to ensure my safety.”
Octavian’s eyes only widen by a hair, but the surprise is enough for Luka to eliminate one of his theories: they aren’t after ransom money.
Ultimately, this is for the best. Besides the obvious fact that the Childes family would never pay for Luka’s safe return – in fact, they might even pay for the Kiterans to keep Luka captive – it’s a relief to hear the Kiterans aren’t seeking money.
Luka isn’t sure how much his mother would pay if it put her career in jeopardy.
“It’s not your parent’s finances we’re interested in,” Octavian says. “Your mother… she is an Elder – a Council Member, is she not?”
Luka nods.
Octavian steeples his fingers. “The Council Member whose position is being challenged?”
“Y-you know much about Cesscounthe politics.” Luka grits his teeth.
Octavian smiles. “It is my job to know things.”
And yet you kidnapped the wrong person. Luka tries to keep his face steady as he nods again. “So if not money, then why? Leverage?”
Octavian rises to his feet. His eyes flicker to the restraints at Luka’s wrists and then away as he paces the tent. “If you haven’t already figured it out, I’m not sure how much use your life will be to us.”
A chill rattles Luka’s spine. He forces his shoulders back, muscle memory instilled by thousands of tutors keeping his spine straight.
Ah.
The Kiterans do not seek compensation. They kidnapped the one who is most likely to win the Cesse Tournament. They want him for his intellect.
Well, they want Evland Childes for his intellect. All the more proof they are idiots.
“You want me to help you bring down Cesscounthe,” Luka whispers.
Octavian’s smile widens, and despite himself, old joy stirs in Luka’s stomach – the pleasure of having passed a test. He crushes the sensation.
Octavian says, “Yes. Do this, and we will spare you.”
Luka’s teeth sink into his lip as he forces the response out, “And if I choose not to?”
Octavian shrugs. “We replace you.” His hand falls to the sword hanging from his side.
Luka closes his eyes at the sight of the weapon, at the thought of such violence. He remembers the first and only time he accompanied his father on the yearly fox hunts on the outskirts of Cesscounthe. He remembers how the fuille fired through the air, filling the foggy morning with great clouds of smoke. He remembers the way the fox fell, twitching, blood pouring from its side. The little sounds leaking past its dagger teeth – the wild, rolling look in its eyes. And then the peace as it let out a small sigh and went still with death.
Will that be me?
“Oh, don’t look like that,” Octavian says, and Luka’s eyes spring open. Octavian grins. “Wolf-Born will torture you first.”
Luka gulps, and Octavian’s face grows even softer. “Look at you, you poor Siacchian,” he says. “I’ll make sure things don’t come to bloodshed. I do hate violence, especially when inflicted on those who don’t deserve it.”
Luka doesn’t trust a single word of kindness from the man’s lips. “If you want me to help you, you cannot harm me,” Luka says, though the creak to his voice steals any certainty.
“I’m doing my best to shield you from Wolf-Born, but speak to me like that again, I don’t think I’ll be able to save you from his wrath. Is that what you want?” Octavian asks as he crouches so they sit nose to nose. Shockingly, as the man’s face grows close to his, that beautiful smell flashes past Luka.
It’s not coming from Octavian – Luka would have noticed it sooner. No, it’s something that Octavian interacted with – something he must have touched recently.
The smell calms Luka, grounding him as much as his Cesse board. Luka parts his lips, unsure how he is supposed to respond, when his stomach growls.
“Ah, yes, right.” Octavian dumps the sack of food stuff and the wineskin onto Luka’s lap. “Dig in.”
Luka jerks his chin toward his bound hands.
“You’re small but you make up for it with your guts, don’t you, Childes?” Octavian says. He draws a small but sharp blade from his waist, and Luka grits his teeth as the man slices his bondings.
Luka flexes his hands as he draws a stiff piece of bread – stuffed with meat if his nose is to be trusted – from the bag. He devours it swiftly, and Octavian chuckles. “Not at all what I expected,” the man says when Luka looks up. “You eat like a Kiteran.”
He laughs at the look on Luka’s face. “Not an insult!” Octavian assures. “We Kiterans are quite clean. We cleaned you up, didn’t we?”
Luka disguises the tension that ripples across his shoulders at the words as he lifts the wineskin. He tries not to notice that Octavian is right; his once filthy, tomato stained clothes are clean. He instead focuses on the drink. It’s warm, banishing the autumn chill. The liquid is creamy and almost nutty. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand when finished.
Octavian readies his writing desk. He sets down a stack of parchment and a selection of charcoal. “Left handed,” he murmurs to himself as he does so, and Luka has to fight off a pinch of despair. These Northerners are supposed to be half-wits and barbarians – why do his captors have to be so Thought-forsaken observant?
“Now,” Octavian draws himself to his feet. “You have the day to impress me. I want a map of your city drawn to the most minute detail; all entrances, exits, secret passageways or tunnels easily marked by sundown.”
“A day… sundown may not be enough time,” Luka says.
Octavian tuts and shakes his finger.
Suddenly, Luka’s head snaps to the side, blinding white pain filling him. He gasps as he presses a hand to his cheek – blinking back into reality. Something – had something hit him?
He looks up, shaking himself, and Octavian stands before him, head cocked. “I am being kind now, Siacchian,” he says, a slight smile still frozen on his face. Only the redness on his palm betrays that he struck Luka.
Luka goes cold. Octavian was blindingly quick – how is Luka to escape such a monster?
“A day,” Octavian says. “No more. Think of this as a trial run. And remember, Evland Childes – you are infinitely replaceable. I want a map – focus on entrances that will allow us the least amount of bloodshed. We just want access to your leaders. If you do your job well, no one has to die.”
Luka’s blood pounds through him, his mind flying. He can’t think of this as real life. No, he can’t think of this as his death if he fails. He has to think of it as Cesse – as a move an enemy player has just made.
Yes, if he pictures Octavian’s strike as a piece moved there, then Luka would react like this: Luka forces a smile to his face.
“Infinitely replaceable?” he says, voice forced as smooth as a piece on the Cesse board. “You and I both know that cannot be the case.” He licks his lips, mouth painfully dry. “You chose me specifically for this role, after all. Wouldn’t a map maker be better suited?”
He was gambling on being the only Siacchian they kidnapped. They could have gone after others, but did they have the time? And surely they want to keep him hidden – too many Siacchians captured would raise too much of a stir.
“I think, Octavian,” Luka says, enjoying the bolt of satisfaction that runs through him when Octavian blinks at the sound of his name. “That you need me. There’s a reason you picked me – Evland Childes – for this task. It’s because I’m someone just high-ranking enough that my intellect is guaranteed, but not important enough that my missing will shift the tides in the war. And I’m willing to wager there aren’t many others that fit that description, are there?”
Octavian’s eyes shift, that same icy blue from before rolling across his gaze. Luka fights off a shudder. He needs to end this move softly – too harsh of a threat, and he’ll trigger his enemy’s beastly emotions.
Luka then realizes, with a shock, what Octavian must be looking for.
The tunnels. Only the old noble classes of the Abraxi District would still remember how to navigate them. No. That can’t be – how would the Kiterans have learned of their existence?
The answer comes too easily: old noble families live in the villages they ransacked.
They must have tortured those people to learn of the tunnels’ existence.
“Sunrise tomorrow,” Luka says, his face blank. “You will let me work through the day and the night, and I will produce a map for you that properly displays my skills and knowledge.” He pauses, considering, before adding, “A map of the tunnels you are looking for.” Again, he enjoys the way Octavian lifts his brows. “Should you find it lacking, I wish you the best of luck locating my replacement.”
The words feel like salt thrown across fresh wounds, but Luka sits tall as he speaks them, maintaining eye contact. He imagines his hand rising from his moved piece, the Cesse board a shield between himself and his opponent.
Octavian blinks the cold blue from his eyes away, lips curling into a smile. “Good,” he purrs, “so nobles do know about the tunnels. Keep telling us the truth.” And then, in a softer voice, he adds, “You know, you actually remind me of someone when you grow a spine like that, Childes. It’s too bad they don’t feed you enough here. Had you been given a proper diet, I might have even mistaken you for a warrior.”
“Is that a yes?” Luka asks, though he knows he has won. When his opponent sinks to degrading comments, it’s because they have no better strategy to lean on.
“Sunrise tomorrow.” Octavian brushes an invisible piece of dirt from his blue robes. “Now, I suggest you get to work.” He spins as if to leave the tent.
Luka blinks with surprise. “Wait,” he says, unthinkingly.
Octavian pauses halfway out the tent, eyes narrowing. “My patience wears thin, Siacchian.”
“Where are you going? Are you leaving me unwatched?"
Octavian offers a thin grin. “Thinking about escaping already, Siacchian? Entertain those thoughts while you can. When you’re in my tent, you are in the safest place in this entire camp. Your people fear the hopiar, don’t they?”
Hopiar? That’s their word for the beast. For impyassus.
Despite Luka’s efforts, fear must leak into his expression – or worse, his scent – for Octavian’s grin widens. “As I thought.” He bares his teeth, which have grown long and sharp, and Luka lurches away. “If you want to survive this night, you’ll stay here. Leave, and you’ll risk my people discovering you. They do not take kindly to rogue Siacchians roaming our camp, and you humans are so soft and delicate, I’m sure you won’t survive their first nibble.”
Octavian snaps his teeth to punctuate his point before leaving the tent. Luka shivers in the dirt, collecting his thoughts like a blanket.
Surrounded by wolves. Monsters are all around him. That shadow moving just beyond the tent wall? Some beast that could tear him to shreds.
Luka steadies his breathing as he settles before the writing desk. He rolls up his sleeves – the fabric is coarse and warm – wool. Kiteran blend. At least I won’t freeze to death before they find out I’m not Evland Childes.
Childes. How differently would things have gone had that coward actually met Luka for their midnight match?
These damned barbarians – they had only supplied him with parchment. Disgusting.
At least there is a small charcoal sharpener to refine the point of his writing utensil. Luka shaves a few pearls of charcoal away, hands moving mechanically.
Luka flips through the pieces of parchment. Octavian has left him seven in total; enough for Luka to start anew should he make a mistake – which should hopefully be enough, considering it will be near impossible to erase.
Carefully, Luka casts a line of charcoal. He scoffs as he starts his sketch of Cesscounthe. Charcoal. He hasn’t written with such archaic tools since he was forced to learn writing as a child. As his hand whispers across the page, tremors turning his smooth lines to zig zags, a plan forms. A plan warmed by a single realization: his captors do not know.
They do not know that I am a monster, too.
Come nightfall, Luka gathers a stray piece of parchment and sneaks from the tent for the first time that day. His stomach rumbles as he peels the entry flap open, peering out into the dim.
He knows Octavian is not far – but not too close either. He heard him, only a few hours before, scolding fellow soldiers for speaking poorly of Wolf-Born. “You must trust in your leader’s strategy,” Octavian advised, and it was only after he spoke that the other Kiterans fell silent.
The camp is made misty in twilight, oil lamps flickering as they sway from nearby tents. There are fewer soldiers now. Luka tenses as a pair of men walk past, but his shoulders relax when he realizes how unsteady their strides are and how red their faces have become – they’re drunk.
