The Never King, page 11
part #1 of Lost Lands Series
“Where did you go?”
I hold up the jug.
He frowns at it. “You were at the river?”
“That’s where the water is.”
“I would have gone. You should have told me you were thirsty.”
“I let you sleep. You’re welcome.”
“I woke up with a heart attack so it didn’t do me much good.”
I smile. “Were you worried about me, Bast?”
“Don’t be cute,” he mutters, snatching the jug from me. “You’re better than that.”
When our bottles are full and Bastian has them tucked away in his backpack, we head toward the river. We’re not sure if we should but we don’t have a lot of choice. We’re both starving but that can’t be helped, not right now, and we won’t die of it for weeks. Thirst, though, that’s quicker. It only takes a couple of days to die of thirst. That’s what Jacquard told Bastian. But before that there’s the agony of dehydration, and after getting a taste of it yesterday on top of the concussion, I’m not about to walk away from water any time soon. With Bastian’s leg the way it is, we can’t leave the level road. Walking through the mushy fields would take him a week.
The river is our reluctant companion. It brought us here and it will bring us home. We can’t leave it any easier than we can leave each other.
We’re quiet as we walk. Partially because we’re wary of ears that might hear us but also because the shore looks like a mortuary. So many bodies. So much death. It’s like we’re hiking into Hell. It gets worse the closer we get to France. I wish we could walk away from it and go up north toward Angers. Or south to Poitiers where I’m Duchess of a nice little chateau with a comfortable bed and all the scones a girl can eat.
But we can’t and we won’t. This is our choice and we’ll live with it. We will march ourselves through the destruction and pouring rain, straight to Loire and his mad as a hatter father who is probably on a raft with a glass of Scotch having a glorious day. He’ll complain about how lazy all the dead people are. He’ll pick their pockets as they float by.
When we come across a small shelter on the side of the road, I ask for a break. Bastian briefly studies the metal structure labeled Bus before nodding in agreement. He joins me on the rusted metal bench under the cover, wincing as his weight comes off his leg. I’m itching to look at the bandage again and make sure it’s alright but I can tell by the deep V cut in the middle of his brow that he’s not in the mood to be mothered right now.
He offers me my water bottle. “Drink.”
His voice sounds too loud. It’s the first thing either of us has said in at least an hour and my ears had grown accustomed to the quiet.
“I’m fine,” I decline.
“I wasn’t asking.”
I frown at him, surprised by his demanding tone. “I don’t love being told what to do.”
“Then travel with someone who doesn’t outrank you by a mile.”
“Being Dauphin doesn’t give you authority over my body.”
“Jesus, Ria, it’s water. Not opium.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if was.”
“What is wrong with you?” he snaps.
“What’s wrong with you? Why are you being so pushy about the water?”
“Because I don’t want to see you dehydrated again. You’re hurt enough as it is, and watching you writhe on the ground in agony really sucks, so just drink the water.”
I snatch the bottle out of his hand, popping the cap angrily. I drink down half of it before handing it back.
“Good girl,” he praises.
“Don’t be a dick,” I bite back.
That was too far.
I just called the Dauphin of France a dick.
Definitely, absolutely, without a single solitary doubt, I have gone too far.
I can hear my mother’s voice in my ear scolding me and my vicious tongue. That’s what bothers me the most. That my mother would lay into me for hours for saying that, not that Bastian is going to be pissed. I can handle an angry Dauphin. That’s kid stuff compared to my mother on a rampage.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” I admit, my eyes locked on the ground.
“Don’t apologize for it,” he warns. “Your mother would tell you to, but don’t.”
“I have to.”
“I’ll be angry if you do.”
“Angrier than you are right now?”
He shakes his head, shoving both our bottles into the backpack. “I’m not angry, Ria. I’m pretty happy, actually.”
“Happy that I called you a dick?”
“When was the last time you did that?”
“Never.”
Bastian looks at me disapprovingly. “I’m the last person you can lie to about this.”
“I don’t know. Five years ago, at least.”
“Longer. A year or more than that.”
“It doesn’t matter. I got too comfortable. I won’t slip up like that again.”
He nods slowly, his eyes on the clouds hovering over us. “When do think was the last time we were comfortable with each other? Can you even remember?”
“It’s been a long time.”
“We have our reasons, don’t we?”
“Do you miss it?” I ask accidentally.
Bastian is as surprised as I am. “Miss what? Us?”
“Me.”
“Yeah,” he answers without hesitation. Without reservation. His eyes are on mine and my heart is in my throat. My stomach in knots as he tells me, “I miss you every day.”
I want to tell him I miss him too. I want to say not a single day has gone by that I haven’t looked at him and wished things were different. I want to tell him I have dreams where we’re running through a field under a summer sun, but we’re not kids. We’re us. We’re grown and we’re free. Free from his dad and my mother and the expectations that have tethered us our entire lives. I want to tell him everything, every thought I’ve had about him, all the ugly and the lovely. The memories and the longings. I want to tell him he’s beautiful. He’s breathtaking and heart-stopping and heartbreaking and so horrible I can hardly stand him. But I love him.
I want to tell him.
But I can’t.
“Me too,” is all I can say.
He nods like he knows. And maybe he does.
I hope he does.
I pray he doesn’t.
chapitre vingt-neuf
“I spy something blue.”
Bastian laughs, deep and genuine. “Are you color blind? Everything you see is blue today.”
“It’s nature,” I chuckle. “There’s a lot of blue. Deal with it.”
“Size?”
“It’s bigger than you, but smaller than the sky.”
“Is it flowers?”
“Periwinkles. And yes.”
“Too easy,” he scolds.
“Whatever. Your turn. Pick something hard.”
He’s silent for a long time. Finally, he says, “I’ve got it.”
“What color?”
“Yellow.”
“The sun.”
He curses under his breath.
“That was meant to be hard?” I laugh.
“I’m rusty. It’s been awhile.”
“The sun isn’t even out.”
“But it’s still in the sky,” he reasons.
“I can’t see it and neither can you.”
“You got it, though.”
“Cheating!”
“I’m not cheating,” he chuckles.
“You’re always cheating. Go again.”
“No. It’s your turn.”
“How do you live with yourself?”
“Pretty comfortably,” he says with a smile. “Go. Quit stalling.”
“Fine. I… spy… something…” I scan our surroundings, looking for something that will stay with us as we walk. “Gray.”
“A cloud.”
“Nope.”
“The road.”
“It’s black.”
“That dead goat in the water.”
“Oh my God!” I laugh. “No, Bast!”
He chuckles, but his eyes search the field warily. “Keep your voice down. If you keep screeching like that you’re going to get us killed.”
“Don’t be disgusting and I’ll be quiet.”
“So we both have to become completely different people, then?”
“Guess so.”
We play quietly for the next hour, our shoulders bumping into each other as we walk. It gets difficult toward the end. There’s not much that stays with us along the river. The sky, birds, bushes, his backpack, my hair. Eventually we’re grasping at straws and we call the game a draw.
As the light starts to fade and the rain finally lets up, we have to think about finding shelter again. Neither of us is happy about it. We thought we’d at least be back in France by now and we’re not. We’re walking slower than we should. Bastian’s leg can’t handle much more, though. We’re doing everything we can but it doesn’t feel like enough.
Suddenly, Bastian turns to me. He grabs my shoulders, pushing me backward across the road, toward the field.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
His eyes are dark. “Don’t look.”
“At what?”
His face is a mask of pain.
“What happened?” I nearly shout.
Bastian stops. He looks down at me, at the road. His breathing is labored. “I don’t want you to see. Just let me think.”
“About what?”
“Let me think.”
I shake out of his hold, darting around him quickly. I go on his weak side. I do it on purpose because I know what will happen. My heart pings with regret when he tries to block me, barking in pain. He can’t follow. Not fast enough to stop me from running to the river’s edge.
“Don’t look down!” he begs.
But of course I look down. Anyone would, though I wish I hadn’t.
Bastian reaches for me. He tries to turn me away but it’s too late.
There’s a body on the bank. He’s wearing a poor man’s clothes and a rich man’s face. His eyes are vacant but I can remember when they were filled with life and hope. When his cold, open mouth was warm against mine.
“Gable.”
chapitre trente
“We have to bury him, Bast.”
“I know.”
“We can’t leave him like this.”
“We won’t. I promise.”
It takes all evening to get Gable out of the mud. We’re in it up to our thighs. The smell of the water is terrible. Gable’s body is soft in ways it shouldn’t be. Bastian wraps a shirt around his brother’s face to hide it. That makes it better somehow.
No, not better. Easier.
I haven’t cried yet. It’ll come. I can feel it like the brewing of a storm over the mountains. The clouds are gathering. Rain is imminent.
But not yet.
Not yet.
“Get his legs, Ria. Can you lift him?”
“I’ll try.”
“I can do it alone if you can’t.”
“I won’t leave you.”
Either of you.
When we have him on the road, we don’t know what to do with him. We’re in between towns. The sun is getting low. We don’t have a shovel.
“We’ll have to dig with our hands,” Bastian says.
“The grave will be shallow.”
“It’s all we can do.”
“He deserved better than this,” I whimper.
The sun goes down. The grave goes deeper than I thought it would. We dig in silence, at least three feet. My hands are sore and bleeding, but it’s done.
“Roll him in on his side. Gently.”
“Can we say a prayer?” I ask.
“Do you know any?”
“No.”
Gable’s body drops into the shallow grave. He’s taller than we planned for. We have to dig again to make him fit. My hands are shaking.
“I’ll cross his arms over his body.”
“I’ll find some flowers.”
“Look for the blue ones,” he tells me. “Blue was his favorite color.”
“I remember.”
We burry him in the moonlight. The sky is so bright with it, I feel like God is watching us.
I wonder if we’re doing this wrong.
I wonder if there’s ever been a way to do it right.
“Do we say goodbye?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “He wouldn’t hear us if we did.”
chapitre trente et un
It’s over an hour before we find shelter. It’s an old barn, decrepit and crumbling. The inside is empty but the smell of hay still lingers in the air.
That should worry us, but it doesn’t.
We’re both so exhausted we collapse on the floor without a word.
We fall asleep immediately.
♥♣♦♠
Sunlight is streaming through cracks in the walls.
Birdsong is calm and clear in the rafters.
Bastian is calling to me urgently.
“Ria, wake up,” he repeats as though it’s the hundredth time.
My eyes open slowly. They feel sticky, like I rubbed them with glue before crying myself to sleep. My back aches, my right arm is numb from sleeping on it, and my head is pounding again. I try to remember the last time I had anything to drink but remembering makes me think of Gable and Gable makes me want to cry and I don’t have time for that now.
We have company.
Two men in matching wide brimmed hats stand at the entrance to the barn.
It’s also the only exit.
They’re wearing dark pants and T-shirts that look softly worn. They’re only a few years older than Bastian, probably mid-twenties, but the shotguns slung over their shoulders look as old as the plague.
“Stand up,” the short one orders. “Slowly.”
His hand is on the butt of his gun like he’s ready to bring it around at any second.
I rise very, very slowly.
The men look us up and down with a critical eye.
The tall one asks, “Are you armed?”
I shake my head.
“No,” Bastian answers.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“They’re French,” the short one comments.
“Of course they’re French,” the tall man snaps. “I can hear their accents, Gall.”
“I was just telling you.”
The tall one motions to Bastian’s leg. “What happened there?”
Bastian looks down at his mud encrusted pants. His bandage is gone, his pant leg ripped from his thigh to his shin. It must have happened last night when we— Last night by the river. The wound on his leg is angry and swollen. It’s worse than the last time I saw it.
“I was hurt during the flood,” Bastian explains.
“You need to see a doctor,” Gall tells him.
“I won’t argue that.”
“Gall is full of helpful insights,” the tall man mutters. He nods to me. “Are you hurt?”
“I hit my head,” I say.
“Can you walk?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Aurelia,” I answer. “I live with my parents in Loire. I work at a dress shop.”
That’s too much information! All they asked for was your name!
He turns back to Bastian. “What about you? Do you work in a dress shop too?”
“I own a bar,” he answers blandly.
“What’s your name?”
“Tom.”
“Where’d you—” His mouth hangs open in a surprised O as the wheels turn violently behind his eyes. “I know you.”
“You don’t,” Bastian says.
“No, I do. Your face…”
“He looks like the princes,” Gall says quietly. Suspiciously.
Renot straightens sharply. “That’s it. You’re right. He’s a dauphin.”
“No,” Bastian says sternly.
It’s a mistake. It sounds like an order. Like a dauphin.
Renot is adamant. “No, I recognize you. You’re Prince Bastian!”
“It can’t be,” Gall argues. “The whole Royal Family is dead.”
“What?” I gasp.
“It’s definitely him,” Renot continues. “He looks just like his dad. And do you remember a couple of years ago? That gold coin. He had his face stamped on one just so everyone would see how pretty he is.”
“He’s not les Dauphin,” I argue.
Renot glares at me. “I’m not buying it. You’re trying to save him.”
“Save him from what exactly?”
“Aurelia,” Bastian warns.
“If he’s a prince, then who is she?” Gall asks.
Renot snorts. “Who cares? We have the last member of the Royal Family. Right. Here,” he says slowly. Pensively.
“What do we do?”
“What do you mean ‘what do we do’, Gall? He’s the next King of France.”
“I heard he’s crazier than his dad.”
“No one is crazier than Arden.”
Gall looks angry. His eyes are hot as coals burning brightly. “He wiped out my hometown when he swept the west. My gran died in the attack.”
“He did the same to my cousin Tilly and her family. Soldiers burned their farm and every animal on it.”
“I remember.”
In a move so swift I almost miss it, Renot brings his shotgun into his hands.
He points it at Bastian’s head.
“Stop!” I shout.
“Are you still unclear about what we’re going to do?” Renot asks Gall.
Gall’s weapon comes up. He points it at Bastian’s stomach. “What about the girl?”
“I don’t care about her. All I care about is cutting the head off France.”
“No!” I scream.
I lunge at Bastian. I put my body between him and the men. The guns. He fights me but it’s useless. I refuse to budge, even as my stomach seizes painfully, my eyes looking down the barrel of two shotguns that are now pointed at my head and my stomach.
“Ria, don’t!” Bastian shouts.
“He’s not Bastian!” I scream at Renot. I put my palms out as though I can stop his bullets.
“Get out of the way!”
“He’s not! I swear it!”
“I’ll shoot you to get him! I mean it, maddy!”
