Chapter 24: - The Great Illusion

  Exia stared at the invitation in his palm. It was a ticket to the Zimya ball. He’d been to it several times, in fact it had been the highlight of every year since he’d begun attending them. The Zimya was a day to celebrate royalty, to honour Bessmertnyy history, and look forwards to its future.

  He loved it because it was one of the few times Father was guaranteed to be around—not busy saving the kingdom, but home, and happy, and with him and mother.

  Now, what was it?

  A chance for Volkov to parade Exia around like some trophy.

  He’d been to the last one in the hopes of—well he didn’t know exactly what he’d hoped for, but he never found it there. Instead he found misery in seeing the very mouths that once smiled at Father, now kissing the boot of his usurper; he’d found rage in the averted gazes cast away from him by those too riddled with guilt to meet the face of their treachery, and he’d found a hollowness in seeing the few idiot nobles stupid enough to attempt to whisper dreams of reclamation in his ears be shot dead in the ballroom’s very courtyard just minutes after the party.

  Another reminder from Volkov. Another execution.

  Exia had no business repeating the affair.

  He tore the invitation into little pieces and threw them on the ground.

  He was a puppet, but he had no cause to dance if his strings were not pulled. So unless Volkov decided to order that he attend, Exia would stay in his room, alone with his thoughts. Because in truth his thoughts were all he really had to himself. And he was beginning to think that it might be all he would ever have.

  There was a furious banging on the door.

  It was open before Exia could stand—Volkov didn’t allow him locks anymore—and Navtej walked in. There was heat in his eyes where warmth once resided. “Explain to me why you ordered the guards not to let Ksenija in?!”

  Exia shied away from his friend’s gaze. “Because I don’t want to see her,” he told him.

  “Because you do not want to—” Navtej caught himself in a mix of what sounded like frustration and exasperation. “No, no. That is not a proper excuse. I want you to explain why to me, right now!” he roared.

  Exia felt his anguish twist into rage and let it bleed out of him. He met Navtej’s eyes with heat of his own. “Why isn’t it a valid reason, Nav? Do I not get to decide who enters and leaves my home?” He was on his feet now. “Are you so used to the idea that your Father owns everything I could ever hope to lay claim to that the very thought of me exercising my rights baffles you?”

  Navtej paused, his eyes narrowed, and he tightened his jaw. “You’re trying to enrage me. You’re trying to make me angry and drive me away. Why?”

  Exia curled up his fist, eased his grip, then scoffed. “I already told you, Nav. I don’t want to see the whore, because she smells of shit, piss, and everything in between. And while it was entertaining running around with her, I think you and I both know that now it’s out in the open, it is far less exciting. And with no excitement, that leaves me then, only with the rancid smelling peasant, and nothing to gain from her.”

  Navtej’s eyes were as cold as winter now. “That’s not funny,” he said, voice like ice. “And if you say that to me again, I will punch you in the throat.”

  They held one another’s eyes wordlessly, then Navtej turned and headed for the door.

  Every single fibre of Exia’s being wanted dearly to call out for him—to apologize, to explain, to do anything but stay alone in his room. But Exia didn’t, because Volkov was not a man to stop at just using Ksenija to get to him. Everyone was fair game to him, and that included his own son too.

  So the door shut, and Exia was alone once more. With his thoughts.

  ###

  Exia gasped as his shoulder popped back into place, he growled as he felt his wounds stitch themselves back together, his bruises boil as they faded. There were men who would rather die than fall under the care of a Life Mage. Sadly, Exia didn’t get much choice in the matter.

  So he just laid there as the man hovered glowing green, gloved hands over his body, and a pain like needles dancing underneath his fingernails coursed through every cut.

  Exia was drenched in sweat when he was done, and the Mage was covered in a little as well—though his was less from pain than exhaustion. To heal was a taxing thing, and they could only do it so many times before running out of magic.

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  “There are still wounds upon you, but they should mostly have faded naturally by the time the battle is upon us,” The Mage said, turned, and was out of the room in an instant.

  That left Exia alone. Which was the last state he sought to be in at the moment. He actually found himself missing the agony of his healing. At least that was its own sort of company.

  He sighed, got to his feet and settled his mind on the war, on the Duke, on the approaching force, but try as he might, all he saw were flashing images of a gun to his head, Navtej’s back turned to him, and a blue sky. It pierced his thoughts as if it were something alien rather than born of him—like the voice of Zcigmagus, made even more intimate and cruel.

  The door slid open, and a familiar face entered. Ksenija Lyubushkina set warm eyes on Exia. “It didn’t go well, I’m guessing?”

  Exia shook his head, anticipated a piercing agony, and was reminded he’d been healed only by its absence. “No, no it did not,” he told her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “I’m sure you are,” he replied simply.

  Ksenija waited for more, and when she did not receive it, the woman moved to more formal matters.“We need to talk details. How best to take on Ludwig. Together, we have a good chance, but only if we’re on the same page.”

  Exia held her eyes only for a moment. “What’s there to discuss? We find him, we attack him, we go home.”

  Ksenija raised an eyebrow. “I think we both know it’s a little bit more complicated than that, Exia.”

  “Doesn’t have to be,” he replied.

  Ksenija paused, weighed him, and then spoke. “You don’t trust me.”

  “Should I?” He asked. He wanted to, oh he dearly wanted to, but he knew he shouldn’t. “You’re a mercenary, a spy, you work for whoever pays.”

  “Kudrin pays,” she pushed back.

  Exia grinned, but it was probably a weak thing. “So does Ludwig. Better probably, he’s done more looting.”

  “Kudrin doesn’t display children’s heads on pikes,” Ksenija bit.

  “Does that matter to you?”

  “Fuck yes it does,” she snapped. “Did you ever think it didn’t?” she challenged.

  Exia hesitated. “That was years ago…” he told her. She was a child then, he was too. A lot could change between that and adulthood. And he would be a fool if he ignored that. But he wanted badly to be a fool.

  Ksenija met his eyes with a hardness. “I am not less of a person than I was before, Exia.”

  He held her gaze, scanned it for deception but knew that even if it was there, he would find none. Not with Ksenija, and not in the state he currently was in.

  She clearly noticed what he was doing, and her eyes softened on him. “Exi, I’m going to need you to let me in this time.”

  Exia felt his chest burn with guilt at those words—an old guilt, but an unforgotten one. His gaze hit the floor. “I’m sorry for what I—”

  “You don’t need to apologize…” she told him, voice soft, understanding. “But you don’t need to push me away anymore.”

  Exia looked at Ksenija, her red scarf, her impossibly bright eyes. She could see him—his pains, his secrets, his deepest desires. And it should have left him recoiling with fear, but all Exia wanted to do was step closer and give her a better look of him. Like you did with Nav? No. He was being irrational. He would not turn everyone away because of Navtej’s betrayal. He would not turn her away. Never again…

  Exia drew in a breath and let out a soft sigh. “Fine, let’s discuss the plan.”

  ###

  Sasha reached for the door handle and saw it swing open before she could grab it. Out of the King’s quarters stepped Ksenija Lyubushkina—the sellsword they were forced to work with.

  She smiled falsely at Sasha—an expression that wasn’t made to cast an illusion, and merely there to portray exactly how little effort she put into creating the falsity. “Captain Osin,” she gave a mock salute.

  “Lyubushkina,” Sasha greeted, and shut the door with the both of them outside. She turned to the woman. “What were you doing in there?” she shot.

  The woman feigned confusion. “I was plotting with Our Grace as to our method of attack. Like I was instructed by the Governor.”

  Ah, yes, the Governor that she had advised against the hiring of Lyubushkina in the first place. Sasha did not growl, but only because such a thing would be unseemly. “Of course,” she nodded, and turned back to the door.

  “You don’t like me very much,” Lyubushkina chimed.

  Sasha paused, considered being the bigger person, opening the door, closing it behind her, and not escalating any further. Yeah, fuck that. She rounded on the woman. “What I do not like, is a mercenary and spy floating behind my line, and around my ward.”

  Ksenija did not break or bend under Sasha’s heat. The woman grinned, a familiar grin—like Exia’s but less playful, more surgical. Where he searched for weaknesses to toy with, this one was searching for them to fashion into weapons. “No, that’s not it,” she said, shaking her head. “You actually care for him don’t you?”

  Sasha didn’t say anything, didn’t give her any more ammunition.

  Lyubushkina didn’t smile, she looked at Sasha almost pityingly. “You are aware you’re the one responsible for his pain, yes? Tying your chains around his neck, tugging him around the country.” Again, Sasha said nothing, but still Lyubushkina seemed to get her answer. She shook her head. “That must feel so terrible for you. So sickening, so monstrous, so…torn. Good. You should feel that. You should feel that and more you fucking cunt.”

  Lyubushkina winked, snorted, turned back around, and made her way off.

  Sasha watched her go, and still in the end, didn’t have anything to say.

  ###

  Sixty-thousand strong.

  Ludwig had been called upon a force sixty-thousand strong. And he was going to put them all to use.

  The cold wind howled against them as boot after boot after boot crunched into the ice, and bright yellow uniforms marched through the empty whiteness.

  He was on his horse—the Black Kurgan—it had seen him through great battles and a great many campaigns at that. And it was going to once more. This time their prey was Snegovetska—a city in need of breaking. And it would be broken.

  “Duke Ludwig!” A man yelled over the cold. Ludwig turned to see that it was a runner approaching, but he was not running. He approached as if he were terrified of something—Kurgan perhaps.

  “Yes?” he asked. “Speak, boy!” he roared.

  The boy jumped, did, and the wind snatched his words away from Ludwig’s ears.

  “Louder, or I’ll bury you in the ice!” he ordered.

  “Message from Snegovetska, my lord!” he finally found the balls to speak.

  Ludwig saw the letter in his hand, snatched it, opened it, and read it. As his eyes flowed over each word his heart raced faster and faster, and faster. By the time he was done, he found words a thing beyond him.

  He could only grin.

  Because he knew now that the King awaited him in Snegovetska. Well done Lyubushkina.