Chapter 20 - Without You

A blistering heat poured down from the vast, Aelorian sky. Seated high above the gladiatorial ring, the young Prince had the perfect view of the battles taking place below. Had the perfect view of the blood being spilt across the sand, and would have been able to hear the clashing of swords and the screams of fallen slaves.

But he did not watch. And he did not listen.

Seated leisurely in the royal’s box, flanked by red drapes cascading down on either side, he sat sideways in his chair, picking at his nails with a long, sharp knife. Dull, blue eyes were locked on the flick of a thin blade, and the dull buzz in his head was disrupted as a thin hand rested down upon his knee.

Such a gesture would have sent chills down his spine only a short while ago. Now, the young prince could only lift his head up to gaze tiredly at his uncle. “It’s nearly time,” the Regent murmured. “You really should be paying more attention.”

“I don’t care for it.”

“You signed for this arena to be built.”

“You’re the one who made me do it.”

“It’s your birthday. This event is taking place in your honor.”

“I don’t want it.”

A hand slapped against his knee, chastising. “Lucian,” Darrien scolded. “Don’t be so difficult. This is a great honor. These are the finest that the arena has to offer.”

Lucian spared a glance down towards the battle, at the red blood spilt across the sands and several bodies that littered the ground. He sighed. “Clearly,” he murmured, and continued picking at his nails.

He waited until his signal. Until he heard the roar of the crowd, their screams morphing from crazed howls to one word, echoing throughout the arena. “Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!”

Lucian didn’t look up to see who stood and who did not. He couldn’t care less. He dipped his thumb downwards, and returned to his mindless picking as the crowd roared. On and on it went into the scorching hot day.

Thumb up.

Thumb down.

Thumb up.

Thumb down.

He didn’t look down at the arena once. His vision fuzzed over. His mind buzzed. His focus had dissolved entirely to the picking of a knife under a nail, rivulets of red slipping down a pale finger.

He heard the roar of the crowd. “Kill. Kill. Kill.”

He dipped his thumb down, eyes still locked on his marred finger. The only semblance of feeling throughout his entire body.

He didn’t care.

Nothing mattered anymore.

“What is the meaning of this?!”

Finally, Lucian drew his eyes up at the sound of Ceril’s screeching, and slowly his focus descended down into the ring. By this time, the gladiator’s axes should have been buried into his opponent’s skull.

But he hadn’t.

Far below, an elf lay crumbled on the ground, lioness companion nearby sprawled in a bloodied, dead heap. And above him… stood a boy. Not much older than Lucian, his nut brown skin glowed gold in the light of the sun as he gazed up, defiantly towards the royal box. Lord Ceril stood. “The Prince has instructed you to kill the elf!”

“I believe he’s wrong.”

The crowd erupted from cheers into angry boos intermingled with cruel laughter. Lucian sat up a bit straighter, brows furrowing with… curiosity.

Who was this boy?

“Wrong?!” Ceril bellowed. “How dare you! Who is his master?! I demand this slave be taken away, and punished at once!”

Finally, the slave’s eyes met Lucian’s. Defiantly. Like a no-good, bratty teen. Fire burned inside the slave’s indignant brown eyes, and he set his shoulders, voice ripping out across the arena. "Punish me as you will!” He said. “But I’ve been doing this a lot longer than the Prince. I think I’d know when someone should die, and when someone should have a chance of tasting the free air.”

Laughter. “The free air?” Lord Ceril laughed. “Please, boy. You are here for one reason only. To entertain the beloved Prince Lucian on his birthday.”

Lucian couldn’t care less what Lord Ceril chattered. His attention was locked fully on the slave below him. The slave that defied him. The slave that told him no.

No one ever told him no. He was the Prince. The heir to the throne of Aeliorn. Nobles, servants and foreign royals alike kissed his boot as they showered him with praise. Not knowing how disgusting he was. All, except this boy.

“What will you have us do?” A guard asked.

Lucian didn’t answer for a long while. His knuckles were white as they gripped the edge of his seat. Until he eased back. “Let the masters of the arena do with him as they wish,” he said, plainly. “The fate of a lowly slave and his pet leaf licker don’t concern me.”

Hatred blazed in the slave’s eyes. He took one step forward, fists tightly grasping his axes before a mage teleported both gladiators away, leaving the ring open for the next fight.

“Your highness, I am so sorry for such defiance,” Ceril said. “We will have strong words with that slave’s master, I assure you!”

Lucian didn’t answer. He picked at his finger.

He lost count of how many more fights rolled by. Thumb up. Thumb down. Eventually, he was eased to his feet by his uncle and they left, making their way through the arena’s grand halls. The nobles pooling around the Prince spoke animatedly about the fights. Fights Lucian hadn’t seen. They commented on the audacious slave, and how surely he was going to be hung. Lucian’s fingers curled into fists.

“Your Highness! Please, a moment!”

Lucian turned.

A fat, ostentatiously dressed man hobbled forward, heaving after a long run. “Please! Please, forgive me!” The man wailed as he fell to his knees, jeweled fingers grasping for Lucian’s.

Lucian ripped his hand away and Darrien scowled. “For what?”

“My name is Joran, your highness. The slave… the slave, he belonged to me. I don’t know what possibly got into him! He’s always been so well behaved.”

“Clearly he’s defective,” Darrien said smoothly. “Simply cut off his head and be done with it. We don’t want such insurgence rising up among the slaves.”

“Of course, your highness. It will be done.”

“Good. Come, Lucian.”

A hand rested on Lucian’s shoulder. He was pulled away from the kneeling man towards the exit. He took two steps… before his feet dug into the ground.

“No.”

His uncle’s gaze snapped down. “Excuse me?”

Lucian brushed off his uncle’s hand and turned towards Joran. “You will not kill the slave,” he said. “Intimidate him or whip him as you please, but you are not to take his life. I want the slave brought to the palace tomorrow morning.”

“Lucian,” Darrien hissed violently. “We do not take slaves into our throne room.”

“We take your slaves into the throne room, Uncle,” Lucian replied smoothly. “Surely this is no different.” He turned his gaze away from his uncle’s look of blazing wrath. “Can this be done?”

Joran nodded his head so quickly it threatened to come off. “Yes! Yes, my lord, it will be done, I swear it!”

A loud pounding on the door tore Lucian up from his dream. He ripped his head up, cheeks stained and sticky with tears. The world slowly came into focus.

Aven still lay beneath him. And for but a moment, Lucian expected him to stir as he woke. Expected for one warm, brown eye to slide open, and that white smile to glitter in the afternoon light as his chest rumbled with laughter. But he was still.

Lucian’s entire body went cold. Slowly, he peeled himself up into sitting from where he’d collapsed his torso upon the barbarian and exhaled, eyes closing. “…go away.”

“Your highness,” Morra said through the door. “You have a visitor.”

“I don’t give a fuck who it is. Tell them to leave me be.”

“It’s Kendyll Silvercrest, your highness.”

Lucian’s heart slammed against his chest. Kendyll. How long had it been since he’d seen her…? Since Marcello was injured… at the tournament. It seemed so long ago. His gaze latched on to Aven’s face, and slowly he pushed to his feet. “Let her in.”

The door opened. And there stood Kendyll Silvercrest.

She was only a little girl the last time Lucian had seen her. Two years younger than him, the sixteen year old stared at him in utter shock, brown hair cascading down her back, blue eyes wide. She staggered forward… then raced into his arms, throwing them around Lucian’s neck. He nearly stumbled into Aven’s bed, stunned - too stunned to hug her back. His arms hung limp at his side until she pried away. “Lucian,” she said. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

“Kendyll,” Lucian breathed. “I… how did you..”

“I’ll explain everything in a moment,” she said. “But first…” She looked behind Lucian to the still figure. “Who is that..?”

Lucian grimaced. “…his name is Aven. Come… let’s move somewhere else.”

——————————————————

After Lucian had made Kendyll comfortable in his quarters, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Kendyll Silvercrest. The youngest of three children - Theseus, Marcello and herself. Her older brother, Theseus had been the Netyarch - the Wizard King - of the country of Halruaa, before his assassination. His younger brother took the throne. Lucian hadn’t seen them in years. Before their father’s death, and before Theseus took the throne. Before Theseus’ assassination.

What was Kendyll doing here, on the other side of the continent?

So much confusion, so many questions, and yet Lucian’s features remained neutral. “More tea?” he asked and Kendyll nodded.

“Please.”

As he poured her a drink, he glanced over to the girl out of the corner of his eye. She was still as beautiful as ever and yet, she looked thin. Emaciated, even. He handed her the cup and eased down into a seat. “Mind explaining to me why the hell you’re here?”

“Mind explaining to me why the hell you’re alive?” Kendyll responded. “Lucian, the entire world thinks you’re dead!”

Lucian grimaced and sighed, lifting a glass of wine to his lips. “You can thank my uncle for that,” he muttered coolly.

“Your uncle? You mean Darrien?”

“I don’t believe I have any other uncles. Now, you were saying?”

“No.” Kendyll put down her cup. “First, you’re going to tell me what you’re doing in Faerun. Why were you at Spellhold?! Who’s the man in the room?”

Lucian scowled. “Seems you haven’t become any less annoying,” he grunted.

Her blue eyes glittered. “And seems you haven’t become any less brooding,” she shot back with a smile. “Glad to see you’re still the same.”

The edge of his lip quirked up. “Not quite,” he murmured. “Apparently I’ve changed.” He sighed and rested his wine glass in his lap. “So word has already spread to Halruaa of my… passing?”

Kendyll nodded and folded her legs up against her chest. “That’s right. Marcello even sent a letter of condolences to Darrien. We heard that your ship was attacked by pirates…. That your entire crew went down and that you were killed.”

“And yet, here I am,” Lucian mused. “I’m sure Marcello must be disappointed.”

She whacked him. “Don’t be mean,” she hissed. “I don’t know what happened between you two, but Marcello grieved when he learned you were dead.” She paused. “…what the hell happened?”

“…a lot.”

“We have time.”

Lucian exhaled. He leaned back in his chair and swept his eyes towards the window. The blue waves rolled out endlessly across the horizon. “….my uncle attempted to have me sold as a slave,” he murmured. “He told me that I had to go to Amn, for a ‘mission of diplomacy.’ There was never a mission. The moment we were out at sea, when we passed through the strait between Maztica and Katashaka we were set upon by pirates. But rather than killing us, as my uncle instructed, we were to be sold as slaves in the Amnian slave market.”

Kendyll was quiet for a long moment. Until she screwed up her nose and slammed her tea down, and it sloshed across the bedspread. “I hate him!” She snapped. “Darrien, that- I never liked him. You remember me telling you, when we were kids. I always thought he was an absolute creep.” She grit her teeth. “So you became a slave?”

“I’d sooner cut my own wrists than become a slave. Aven managed to help me escape.”

“Aven… the man who..?”

Lucian nodded. “He was my slave… I purchased him from the slaving arena and-”

Kendyll hissed and leaned forward. “Excuse me, what? You bought a slave?! Whatever for?”

“It’s complicated. In short, he was my slave. But he became my defender. We ended up joining with the Mindulgulph, whom I imagine you’ve already become familiar with, and decided to attempt to liberate Spellhold and save the mages there. And hopefully, recruit them into our ranks for when I return home.”

“Then you saved my life.”

Lucian glanced up. “What are you talking about?”

Kendyll drew her knees further into her chest. “…I was a prisoner there,” she said quietly.

Lucian frowned. He poured her another cup of tea and lifted up off of his chair to sit beside her on the bed. “I imagine there’s quite a story for that.”

“Not really,” she snorted, her fingers tapping anxiously against the cup. “Just a stupid decision. I overheard Marcello talking with his Council about Amn and Spellhold Asylum. How they were holding mages captive, draining them of their mana and killing them. I thought I could help. I could help them escape, help break them free, but…” she rubbed her neck, like she could still feel the awful collar there. “It didn’t go like I planned.”

“Of course it didn’t. You were an idiot thinking you could do it alone.”

“I know. But Marcello wouldn’t have helped me and…. And Theseus is gone.” Kendyll’s shoulders dropped. “I messed up, so badly… I’m sure Marcello is out of his mind with worry.”

“We’ll get you home,” Lucian promised. “But I have to do something, first.”

“What?”

“I have to bring Aven back.”

Kendyll’s eyes widened. “What?” She hissed. “Why? How do you plan on doing that? Not even servitors can resurrect someone from the dead.”

“I’m not sure how yet,” Lucian admitted. “But as for why…” He looked down at his hands. The bruises and broken bones he was said to have acquired in the fall of Spellhold were gone, healed away by the magic of the torc. “…he’s saved my life more times than I can count, Kendyll,” Lucian whispered. “With no thought for himself. From dragons, from assassins, from ogres, from men, from monsters. From myself. I would have died ten times over if I didn’t have him.” He tore his eyes up. “I have to save him in return.”

“Do you love him?”

Lucian’s ears instantly burned red. “Excuse me?”

“Do you love him,” she repeated. “It’s a simple question.”

Lucian scowled. “He’s a commoner. I’m a prince.”

“He sure is. Do you love him?”

Lucian scoffed and ripped up from his seat to pour himself another glass of wine. “I don’t know,” he grunted. “I feel indebted to him. That’s the only thing I’m sure of. I can’t get you home until I find a way to bring him back…. I have a servitor on board who’s keeping his body preserved, but it won’t last forever. If I wait too long, he’ll be lost forever.”

Kendyll eyed him for a moment, then picked at her lip thoughtfully. “I think I know a way.”

Lucian’s fingers stilled. “I find that hard to believe.” He glanced over. “The power of returning the dead is selective to a very few. Gods. Demons. What kind of being boasts the power you suggest?”

“It’s a man in Calimport.” Her legs kick idly off the side of the bed. “He’s rumored to have incredible abilities. Turning men into demigods, bringing the dead back to life. Surely it’s worth taking a look?”

“Calimport,” Lucian muttered. “Calimport is nothing but a den of corrupt nobles, thieves and liars. If anyone there got word of my identity, they’d send word to my uncle and Calimport will be swarming with red in seconds.”

“That’s why he won’t find out,” Kendyll said simply. “We’ll be sneaky!”

“It’s hard to be sneaky on a ship of anthropomorphic barbarians.”

“We’ll be as sneaky as we can,” she corrected. “We’ll get there, rent a building and use it as our base of operations and enter the city in disguise! We’ll find this man, he’ll bring Aven back and then we’ll go to Halruaa! It’ll all work out just fine.”

The edge of his lip quirked upwards. “You sound so positive about it, I almost believe you.” He sighed against the rim of his glass. “What is the name of this man?”

“Zassaal.”

“Zassaal. Very well. Come with me.”

Lucian dumped the remainder of his drink out the window, placed the glass on the table and swept out of the room with Kendyll on his heels. He glanced over. “So what has your brother been up to? It’s been some years since we’ve seen each other.”

Kendyll shook her head, coming to pace with Lucian. “He’s been unwell,” she admitted. “He’d never show it. You know how he is. But he just seems so…. Tired all the time. Theseus left him with a lot of burdens. And the war with Dambrath and the Crinti is escalating… he fears open war.”

“The Crinti. Are those half-drow scum still enslaving the humans?”

“The Arkaiuns. Yes.”

“I’m surprised Marcello simply hasn’t wiped Dambrath from the map. There’s only a mountain range separating you, and with your Halruaan airships it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“The Crinti have powerful shields and wards up. It’s not that easy. And I think… Marcello wants to give them a chance.”

“A chance.” Lucian glanced over. “The Crinti murder Theseus and his wife and he wants to give them a chance?”

“He’d give you a chance, too.”

Lucian’s lips flatlined. “At this point,” he muttered. “I’d find such compassion something of suspicion. The world is too cruel to allow such mercies.” He pushed through the door and they entered up onto the deck.

Mages and Mindulgulph worked together. They talked, laughed, cleaned together. But the moment Lucian stepped out into the open, all talk immediately ceased.

He hadn’t left Aven for nearly twenty four hours. He knew damn well that the entire crew likely thought him mad.

Camlen stumbled upwards from a game of cards to approach Lucian cautiously. “Lucian!” He squeeked. He twisted the end of his shirt into nervous balls in an erratic repetition. “A-are you okay? How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Is there anything I can-”

“Where is Morra?”

Camlen’s rambling stumbled to a halt. The young mage flinched, and pointed towards the helm of the ship and Lucian thanked him before marching towards the woman.

“Your Highness,” Morra said as Lucian approached. “And my lady.” She bowed her great, mighty head. “It is a relief to see you awake.”

“Where are we?”

“North of the Asavir Channel. In several days, once the chaos calms, we will set our course north to return to Amn and-"

"No. We travel south.”

Morra’s trunks shivered with surprise. “Whatever for?”

“Because we’re going to bring Aven back. Set course for Calimport immediately.”