The Consort, Chapter 16
Author’s Note: A reminder about the timeline we’re working with here, because I’m jumping back and forth a few days. So you know where we are, Cain left for the South on Friday. He and DG exchanged their dispatches on Saturday, and that evening he found Jeb in the camp, as Raw sensed. They were attacked that evening. The Spire Palace attempted invasion took place in the early-morning hours on Tuesday. And now we find ourselves back at…
Sunday
Wyatt Cain woke up in a grungy, puke-green tiled room. It looked...institutional, like he’d been committed to a low-rent insane asylum.
He hoped that wasn’t the case.
“Great Gale,” he muttered. He tried to sit up but found he could not, because he was shackled to the bed upon which he lay. “What the hell?” he said, a little more awareness coming into his mind.
“Lie still, now,” came a soothing voice that made Cain think of his Poppa, his mother’s father, a kind-hearted man with gentle hands who he’d adored as a boy. Poppa had died when Cain was twelve, and in some ways he’d never gotten over it. But it couldn’t be Poppa here with him now, his confused brain reminded him.
A face appeared over him, an older man about Ahamo’s age with long gray hair tied back in a ponytail and a neat goatee. “Don’t struggle,” he murmured, his tone oddly insistent. “They’ll hurt you if they have to.”
Recollections were rushing back into Cain’s mind. Scout camp. Tracking devices. Longcoats. Battle, gunshots, blood and fighting and men falling all around him. Being forced onto his knees. He’d seen the sword and knew he was about to die. He’d thought of Jeb, flung a wild prayer skyward that he’d somehow escape with his life. He’d thought of DG, a sharp stab of pain passing through him that he’d never see her again, never hold her again or find out what they could have had together. He’d whispered her name, the only benediction he could give himself, then…a pinprick to the back of his neck, then the sword. He gasped, his flesh recalling the sensation of the cold metal passing through him, and then nothing, until now.
He looked up at the man standing over him. “Where am I? What is this place? Who are you? Where are my men?”
“Shh, one thing at a time.” The man put a calming hand on Cain’s chest. “I’m Dr. Mynus. You’re going to be just fine.”
“But…he stabbed me,” Cain said, lifting his head to look down at his chest. He was shirtless, and over his heart was a raw pink gash, healed over. He blinked dumbly at it. Great Gale, have I been here long enough for it to heal that much? “How long have I been here?” he croaked.
Dr. Mynus looked stern. “If you don’t calm yourself, I’ll have to knock you out again. Do you want that?”
“No,” Cain muttered.
“I’ll answer your questions as much as I’m able, but you can’t excite yourself. You’re coming out of…well, a state.”
“How long?”
“Less than 24 hours.”
“But how…the wound!”
“I know. Amazing, isn’t it? Little trick the Longcoats picked up from the western desert shamen. It’s called near-death stasis. They inject you with a stasis agent right before they strike the fatal wound. The stasis suspends all body functions, which simulates death to a very high degree of accuracy, but shields you from the injury. While you are in this state of suspension, the injury can be healed very quickly.”
Cain goggled at him. “They…they faked my death?”
“I’m afraid so. It isn’t the first time they’ve done it.”
Cain looked around, his confusion mounting, along with his rage. “Who are you people?” he choked out.
The doctor sighed. “Don’t group me with them. I’m no more here of my own free will than you are. As for who they are…I’m not entirely sure. There are Longcoats here, but Flornish too, and some mercenaries I think might be from Swyra. But if you want to know who’s in charge, I can’t help you. I’ve been here three months and I’ve never seen anyone giving orders.”
“Where are the rest of my men?” He wanted very badly to ask about his son, but he didn’t want to alert anyone that his son was among the prisoners, in case they didn’t already know. No need to advertise the leverage they had on him if they were holding Jeb.
Dr. Mynus put his large, careworn hand on Cain’s arm. “You’re the only one here, son.”
Cain felt cold. He didn’t need to be told what that meant. “Why…why’d they bring me here? Lot of trouble,” he muttered. “Why fake my death if nobody knows about it?”
“They will have made sure someone saw you die, so they could report as much to the authorities.”
Another memory sprung to Cain’s mind, this one of Jeb, held by Longcoats, shouting and struggling as Cain was pushed to his knees… “They made my…one of my men watch,” he said. “He saw everything.”
“You really need to rest,” Mynus said.
“My wife,” Cain said, grasping at the doctor’s shirt with the limited amount of motion he had in his hand. “She’ll think I’m dead.”
The doctor sighed. “That, I’m afraid, is the entire idea, General Cain.”
Cain was moved into a cell with a heavy steel door, a small porthole cut into it at eye level. He paced restlessly, testing his legs, trying to make sense of his thoughts.
I’m the only prisoner they brought. But they made sure Jeb saw me stabbed, so he’d have to be kept alive. But they didn’t bring him back here. They must have him somewhere else. In order for him to tell anybody what he saw, he’ll have to be taken back to Central City.
Which means they’re probably planning to go to Central City.
DG.
A guard brought him a tray of food, another guard holding a gun on him while it was set down on the table. “Who’s in charge here?” Cain demanded, trying to sound authoritative. “Why are you holding me?”
The guards just sneered at him and left, bolting the door behind them.
Cain felt like tearing his hair out. He kept pacing, unable to sit still while his son was out there in Longcoat custody. His men were dead. He couldn’t bear to think of Danny and Damien, loyal officers, friends, killed in the raid.
They’re planning something. It’s the only explanation. Something big, something major that they need me to be dead for. It has to be an attack on the palace. Prelude to…Great Gale, maybe even an invasion.
He thumped his forehead against the wall, a vast and useless rage coursing through him at the thought of DG in danger and himself powerless to do anything about it. His Queen, his wife, the throne that he had sworn to protect.
If I lose her now, I won’t make it.
The simple fact of this thought was beyond debate. He’d survived losing eight years to a tin suit. He’d survived losing his son. He’d survived losing Adora not once, but twice. Losing DG, now…he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t think about it. If it happened, there wouldn’t be much left of him.
The door opened again. Dinner already? But no, it was Dr. Mynus, handcuffed. The guard uncuffed him, then locked them both inside. “I’ve come to check on you,” the doctor said.
Cain sat down. Mynus leaned over him. “Heard anything new?” Cain asked quietly.
“They’re definitely planning something.”
“I figured that much. What kind of preparations are they making?”
“Well…there are more Longcoats around than usual, and these guys look tough. Tougher than most, even.”
“They’re getting a strike force together. How many Longcoats around here, total?”
“I don’t know. No more than fifty.”
“Not enough for an invasion, then. But enough for a surgical strike on the Palace, paving the way so a larger force can mount one.” He shook his head. “We’ve tracked some buildup of forces along the border, but nothing on the order of an invasion army, unless it’s being somehow concealed.”
“Well, these people are damn good at concealing things,” Dr. Mynus said, his tone grim.
Cain looked up at the man’s profile. “Where are you from, anyway?”
“Win-Kia.”
“No kidding? I’m Winkite myself.”
“I know.” Mynus shrugged. “I was visiting my cousin here, and at the border on my return trip I was told I could not return to the O.Z. because of some administrative mix-up with my papers. I went back along to the customs office willingly enough, assuming it would all be straightened out, but they brought me here. I wasn’t allowed to contact anyone in the Zone for help.”
“Maybe we can help each other,” Cain said.
“Don’t distress yourself. Neither of us are going anywhere they don’t want us to go. This place is magically shielded. It can’t be seen with the eyes or Viewed with the heart.”
“You seem pretty cavalier about the whole situation.”
“I’m making the best of the lot I’ve been dealt, General.”
“Well, I can’t just accept it.”
The doctor shook his head. “You have no choice.” He closed up his bag and knocked on the door. The guard returned, cuffed him, and led him out, locking Cain back into his solitude.
Monday
Time slowed to a crawl when all there was to do was stew about things you couldn’t control.
Pacing got old. Sitting got older. Lying down was pure torture given that the mattress was an inch thick over industrial-grade metal springs. If only beating the shit out of somebody were an option, Cain might not have felt like he was about to tear off his own skin just for the sheer novelty of it.
But there was nothing to do but worry about DG, worry about Jeb, and obsess over all the things that might happen, or might already have happened.
His first break in the monotony of inaction came in mid-afternoon, when Nejo, the Longcoat who’d stabbed him, came barging into his cell, accompanied by two musclebound goons who hauled Cain to his feet (he’d been experimenting with sitting on the floor) and held his arms. “Thought you might like to know about our little midnight party, General Cain,” he said.
“I don’t give a shit about your entertaining plans,” Cain growled.
“You might give a shit about these.” He produced some hand-drawn maps and schematics. Cain stared, recognizing the interior layout of the Spire. “Your son’s been so helpful.”
“Jeb would never help you!” Cain spat.
“I didn’t say he was happy about it. Oh, look here. It’s the bedroom where your precious Queen sleeps. Ever been allowed into the sanctum sanctorum, Cain? I guess you must be, if they want her pregnant. Do they put you in there only when she’s ripe, keeping you in your own pen the rest of the time like the royal stud bull? Or do they just milk you like a racehorse and get out the turkey baster?” Cain lunged forward but didn’t get very far with two large men holding him back. Nejo laughed. “Touchy.”
“Don’t you talk about her,” Cain spat.
“Hmm. Protective. That’s nice. Don’t worry, I’ve got a nice new husband lined up for her. I’m sure he’ll take real good care of her, if you get my drift. Maybe he’ll be willing to share.”
“If any of you so much lay a finger on her, I’ll make you wish you were never born,” Cain said, raw and bleeding fury roughening his voice.
Nejo didn’t seem impressed. “Love makes fools of men, Cain. I thought better of you, I gotta say. Such a famous do-gooder you are, so upstanding and stuffy. I hate to see you panting after that stringy little thing like this. But it’s good for me that you two have gotten so…affectionate. I’m sure it’ll be that much more of a blow to her when I show her this sword,” he said, pulling out the same sword he’d stabbed Cain with. It was bloodstained and looked horrifyingly huge and sharp. God, that thing went through my chest, Cain couldn’t help but think. “She won’t have much fight in her after that, I don’t think. We’ll give it a month or so for the transition before she has an unfortunate accident. Or hey! It could be suicide! She couldn’t go on without you. That’ll be nice and dramatic.”
No, no, no, no, Cain’s mind chanted. “It won’t work. It’ll never work.”
“We’ve planned for everything, Tin Man.”
Cain let his head hang down so they wouldn’t see his eyes. I bet you haven’t planned for DG. People keep underestimating her. I hope you found out how badly you’ve done so.