Elanor heard the footsteps approaching and nearly leapt from her vanity, her heart in her throat. It had been six hours—six! Her uncle had never kept him this long. Something must have happened, something dreadful, something—She couldn’t finish the thought. Instead she waited, ten paces from the double doors, hands clasped in plain sight and eyes on the floor. It was the same way she always waited when Symon was called on to make a public appearance. This time, she couldn’t keep her hands from trembling. When that door opened, what state would her brother be in? Would he be there at all?
Stop that, Elanor, she hissed. Symon is fine. You are fine. You still have time. You’re not dead ye—
“Away from the door, princess,” barked a voice, and Elanor bit back a smart reply. Haughtiness and sarcasm might be satisfying, but they’d earn her nothing but trouble. And she desperately needed to see her brother.
When sufficient time had passed, she heard the locks on the door click out of place. Then, much too slowly for her tastes, the doors swung open. Elanor kept her eyes on the floor.
The guards in the blue and silver of Estelos marched in, resting the butts of their halberds on the floor. Behind them, another two figures entered. Elanor, who could only see their shoes, dared to look up; for a moment she stared. Then she gasped, her mind finally making sense of the scene.
Two knights had escorted her brother into the room. One she didn’t recognize, but the other was Oksana Yurievsky, their guardian and fellow prisoner. Her hair was pinned back into a simple, elegant bun and she wore her dress uniform and no weapon. Elanor realized belatedly that the other knight held Oksana’s scabbard in his hands. Because, of course, Devenroe would never have allowed her a proper lance; not even for show. Still, a sword was dangerous. Though it was not her best weapon, Oksana could do a fair bit of damage with even the dullest blade. No doubt it was made of wood, or the sheath was altogether empty.
But the knight’s presence was not what surprised Elanor. Instead of a sword, Oksana bore another burden: namely, her brother the prince. Symon was draped across the knight’s arms, head lolling, eyes unfocused, skin pallid and sheened with sweat. He looked like he was dying, truly dying, and Elanor’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of him.
“Symon!” The princess managed two steps forward before the soldiers picked up their halberds, blades pointed straight at her.
“Not another step,” growled the unknown knight. Elanor halted, teeth grinding in rage.
“That’s your prince, your traitor—”
“Elanor.” Oksana’s voice was low, strained, but it cut through her outburst as if it were water. Elanor met her eyes, and the knight shook her head.
“He’s fine,” she assured the girl. She must have thought better of it, for a moment later she added softly, “He will be. Now is not the time for panic.”
Elanor swallowed and nodded, retreating with the knight as Oksana carried her brother to the bed farther in. There were two, actually, not counting the cot Oksana slept on in the main room. It was easier to keep them in check if they were altogether, and the bedroom, lavish as it was, was little more than a comfortable cell. Oksana crossed to Symon’s bed and laid the prince down with a gentle hand. Then she turned to the guards, fury flashing in her green eyes.
“Send someone with water,” she growled, “and some clean cloths. Now.” When neither thy not the knight made any reply, she strode toward them, fists clenched. The soldiers snatched up their halberds again at her approach, and even the other knight put hand to sword.
“We are not your—”
Oksana cut him off. “Get them, and get them now, or you’ll have the king’s own wrath upon your heads. If he dies, this little charade of his is over, and the king will have one less life to bargain with.” Her eyes narrowed, and Oksana’s lips curled into a small, predatory smile. “And if the thought of Devenroe’s ire doesn’t scare you, imagine having to deal with mine.”
That got their attention, and all three scurried out, shouting for the servants.
Elanor climbed up on the bed beside her brother, tucking her legs beneath her and resting his head in her lap. She ran her hands over his face—his cheeks, his forehead. Symon’s kin was hot to the touch, feverish and slick with a thin layer of sweat. His breathing labored, her brother faded in and out of consciousness, eyes unseeing even when they flickered open. He seemed to want to say something, perhaps to ask her a question, but all she could make out were soft whimpers of pain and the broken syllables of her name.
Voice breaking, she looked up at Oksana. “What happened?”
Oksana sighed, pulling a stool close to the bed and sitting next to them. She looked absolutely furious, and more than a little concerned.
“Made a sport of him is what he did, ,” she said finally. “Him and his damned dinner guests. It’s bad enough Symon goes through this every time! Bastard has no idea what it’s like, what mungroot does to a person, even in small doses…” Letting the thought die in a half-whisper, the knight laid an unsteady hand on Symon’s, stilling the prince’s own twitching fingers.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a time. Her gaze never left Symon’s face, but Elanor knew she was speaking to the princess as well. “I’m supposed to protect you, but I’m just as much a prisoner as the both of you. I can’t even keep this from happening.” Oksana sat back, letting go with a huff. “I may as well be drugging him, myself.”
“Oh Oks, that’s not true at all!” Elanor exclaimed. “What are you supposed to do, take on the whole Estellan army by yourself?”
The knight snorted. “I did that in Illyria. When I was fifteen.”
“Technically, you only fought one of them.”
“The others were too scared to fight a girl, and thus they all forfeit, to a man. That counts.”
Despite herself, Elanor smiled. It was a favorite story of Oksana’s, and one she knew well. “I don’t think Devenroe is going to forfeit anytime soon. Not when he’s holding all the cards.”
Oksana growled, a low, furious sound. “Mad prince, indeed!” she snapped. “What sort of king—what sort of man raises his own nephew only to steal his crown and poison him for sport?”
Beause that was exactly what had happened. Elanor’s parents, King Neithan and Queen Iridia, had died when she was only eight years old. Their ship, returning from a diplomatic mission in the south, had been caught in a great storm and never come out again. Symon, the oldest and thus heir to the throne, had been too young at eleven to wear the crown, and so Devenroe—their uncle and the king’s brother—had been named regent until Symon was old enough to rule.
It had been a sensible arrangement until late last year, when Devenroe had produced his own heir. With his new son came an idea, temptation too delicious to resist, and their uncle had locked them away and stolen the crown outright.
The ruse was elaborate but well done, and for all Estelos knew the prince had lost his mind. Symon’s supposed madness had set in rapidly. At first, it had been spiked wine at important dinner parties. The prince would act out, almost as if drunk, or see things that no one else could see. His episodes escalated quickly from a matter of moments to nearly an hour. Symon himself could not explain it, and Elanor nearly believed the lie himself. It wasn’t until Oksana had uncovered the mungroot in Symon’s food and nearly blown the scheme wide open that they learned the truth.
Mungroot. Elanor cringed at the name alone. It was a recreational drug, an her bthat grew in the highlands that separated Estelos from her northern neighbors, the Lachirim. “Recreational” was being generous in her estimation; people had died from the stuff, although in truth she didn’t know if it was from the herb itself or as a consequence of its hallucinogenic effects.
And Devenroe had been feeding it to her brother for weeks. He’d almost gotten away with it, too.
Actually, he was still getting away with it; the difference was that now, they were all complicit. Oksana’s discovery had bought them some time, and maybe a little mercy. These days Symon was mostly lucid: his reward for going along with Devenroe’s plot. Unless he was needed in the public eye, the prince was confined to their joint quarters and allowed to be himself, free of the herbs effects. When he did make an appearance, he ingested it willingly and allowed himself to become his uncle’s fool. In turn, Elanor went unmolested and unharmed, playing the role of the dutiful, grief-stricken sister; the princess too young and distracted to properly govern. Oksana remained as their personal guard, but even she was only useful to Devenroe as long as her imprisonment kept her father, the Estellan general, in check.
Sooner or later, their luck would run out. Her uncle would decide they were less trouble to him dead, and that would be the end of it. But for now, Symon’s compliance was buying them precious time. Elanor just wished there was some other way.
“W… wa…”
Symon, still barely lucid, lifted a limp hand. His sister took it in hers, entwining their fingers and giving them a squeeze. He looked up at her, then, eyes squinting against the low light.
“E-Elanor…?”
“Shh. Yes, it’s me,” she answered softly. With her free hand she brushed his bangs back, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. “It’s really me. I’m here. Oksana, too.”
“O-oh. Good. I’m… never… sure, anymore…” He lifted their joined hands as if to kiss hers, but Symon’s strength gave out and he settled for resting them on his chest. “…Our room?”
“Yes,” she said. “You’re back. You’re safe.” Her voice broke. Weren’t older brothers supposed to take care of their sisters? How had it come to this?
Symon relaxed against her, his breath coming easier now. The drug must have been working its way out of his system. Still, the fever hadn’t subsided, and his grey eyes were bloodshot and swollen.
“Could I… I’m so—”
“Water is coming,” Oksana told him, glowering over her shoulder at the door. The soldiers should have returned by now. “I’m so sorry, Symon. I’ll fetch it myself if they don’t return soon.”
Symon smiled, or tried to; it came out more a grimace than anything. “They forget to lock… the door?” he laugh-wheezed. “No, Oks. Stay. Please?”
The plaintive note in that please was the knight’s undoing. Her expression softened. “Of course, my prince,” she answered. “You’re right. My place is here.”
The answer appeased him, and Symon sighed. “…Hard to breathe,” he said after a moment. “Like a—a—an elephant on my chest. There’s not, is there?”
“No,” Elanor answered, “no elephant.” Normally the question would have made her laugh, but it was such an earnest one that she felt her heart breaking. Symon, oblivious to this, only nodded.
“Oh. Good. I… I didn’t think so.”
The locks on the door clicked once more, and Oksana was across the room before the last clicked into place. A servant girl, redhaired and quaking, entered the room with the two soldiers from before. She carried a tray with a pitcher of water, several small tin cups, and fresh white linens.
“F-for the prince,” she said, her eyes flicking nervously between the guards and Oksana. The knight smiled, taking the tray with genuine gratitude, and that seemed to ease the girl.
“Thank you,” said Oksana, and without sparing the soldiers another look she was at Symon’s side again. As the three left and the locks latched back into place, Elanor wondered if the girl had any idea what was really going on.
Probably not. Nearly everyone thought Symon was mad, these days.
“There, see?” Elanor said, smiling with such false cheer she thought her face might crack. “Water, just like Oks said.”
Symon only nodded. His eyes had drifted closed again, and he seemed to be drifting off. That, or he was focused on his breath, which (it seemed to Elanor, anyway) had become more rasping and shallow.
“Stay with me, Symon,” she whispered, stroking his hair with the hand he wasn’t clutching with all his meager strength. His eyes flickered open, his gaze on the ceiling unfocused.
“Are we… going somewhere?”
“Not yet,” was Oksana’s immediate reply. “Maybe not for a while; but soon.” She passed the princess a moistened cloth and poured him a drink. “When you’re well again.”
Symon’s face scrunched up in response. “Where will we go?” he asked. “Can we… Are we going home? Oh! Can we go see—go see the ships? I miss those…”
“Maybe someday,” answered Elanor. She wiped his face and neck with a gentle touch, wiping away the sweat and soothing the heat of his skin. The coolness seemed to bring him some relief, for he shivered once and relaxed; his breathing eased enough that he sighed, only coughing a little.
“Gods, that’s… so much better,” he murmured. “I’m so—my body is so…. Hot. Tingly.”
Elanor shushed him again. “We know, Syme. We’ll take care of you, I promise.” Taking the cup Oksana offered her, the princess shifted Symon gently and, with the knight’s assistance, sat him upright enough to give him a drink.
At first, her brother refused, and it took some coaxing to get him to drink. He kept murmuring not again under his breath as he shook his head, but finally Symon relented and allowed them to nurse him. After that, he drank greedily, and Elanor had to slow the flow lest he choke on it. The prince fell into an uneasy sleep after that, his head still in his sister’s lap. Elanor wished she could do the same. She felt fatigued as the adrenaline of panic finally left her body, as only exhaustion rushed to fill the void it left behind.
She felt something cool pressed into her free hand, and it took her a moment to realize Oksana had poured her a glass of water, as well.
“Drink,” advised the knight. “It’ll help.”
Elanor nodded, realizing for the first time that she was, in fact, parched. She drained the cup quickly, and Oksana poured her a second without pause.
“Thank you.”
The knight only nodded, and the two of them fell into pensive silence.
Symon was already looking better, Elanor decided. His skin had cooled since they had brought him in, and some of his color was returning. A wave of relief washed over her, and for the first time since her brother had returned, she found herself truly smiling.
After a moment, the princess lifted her head. “Did you mean that, Oksana?” When the knight looked at her quizzically, she said, “About going away soon.”
Oksana set her tin cup on the tray with a light metallic clink and leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees as she met the girl’s gaze.
“Every word,” she said. Her voice was like stone, cold and solid and steady. “I don’t know how, yet, and I may need your help, but I’m done being used as a pawn. We are not leverage, and we are not puppets made to dance at the false king’s every whim. I’m done playing on Devenroe’s stage. Symon may not survive the next time, and I cannot let that happen.” She met the princess’s gaze, and Elanor could see the cold determination in her eyes. “I swear to you, princess, we’ll get out of here if it kills me.”
Seeing the girl’s horrified expression, she added, “I’m your guardian, Elanor. Yours, and Symon’s. It is my job to keep you safe, to defend your very lives, even if it costs mine.” Here she smiled. “But that doesn’t mean I want to die. I plan to get us all out of here. All three of us.”
“Then we’ll put Syme on the throne and show Uncle how a true king of Estelos behaves,” Elanor added darkly. Oh, the thought of escape, of throwing Devenroe’s plot back in his face, was so satisfying that she almost displaced her sleeping brother in her excitement. “…Do you really think we can, Oks? Can we beat him?”
“Truthfully, I don’t know,” answered the knight. She sat back, staring out the barred windows at the castle grounds and her city beyond. “But we have to try. For the country’s sake.”
“For Symon,” said the princess. Oksana smiled, her eyes sad. She reached across the bed, hesitated; then she brushed her fingers along the sleeping prince’s jaw.
I'm upstairs and all I can hear is my niece in the living room, coughing and coughing...
She's had a cough for about a week now and the doctor prescribed her medication. Yet she's still coughing. And I know I should feel sorry for her, but all I can think is, "Will you stop already? Damn."
