The Season of Peace
Erád the 19; 2421
Armathia

They didn't s trap him to the board again.

At first Félix thought the Prince stayed the hands of his jailers in some manipulative ploy, else a show of utter weakness. With time, however, he wondered whether or not the keepers of Armathian cells resorted to subtler methods as common practice. Perhaps they found the board distasteful, same as Lord Arden. Perhaps its use truly was restricted, even during wartime.

He wasn't grateful for the respite, but he was glad of it, even though the alternative proved unpleasant in its own right. They reduced his rations, rattled his bars, woke him at all hours of night to answer questions — the same questions, whispered and shouted, by friendly men and cruel ones alike, all designed to muddle his mind until he parted with the information they sought.

They were fools to think he'd cave. A decade at war with Belen's neighbors hadn't left him soft for an extra ration or a full night's sleep.

Their response to his silence, however, made him wonder whether such measures were mere formality: something to do while they waited for a man with true authority to take command of the situation. The Prince had left Armathia with the fleet bound for Elona — of that he had no doubt — and no one had filled his place. Just the same guardsmen, day after day.

Perhaps they continued in hopes of preparing him for future interrogation. Perhaps they continued to entertain themselves. The city had emptied of its naval might to sail for Ithaka. He'd heard as much in fits and starts, and Miss Ehrin's visit had confirmed his suspicions. Rivers knew he'd chafe if he were the one left behind while his countrymen fought in Belen's name. Some men took that uneasiness out on the closest target.

At least a few of them, however, continued on because they enjoyed it — the midnight man in particular, with his steel-toed boots and smug grin.

Yet the midnight man did him an unwitting service with his visits, for it meant that Félix never fell too deeply asleep.

The cold voice that lurked outside his thoughts couldn't slip in against his will and run amok during his waking hours. Instead, it remained a pinprick near the base of his skull, present but dim, easily swatted away. He could reach for it if he wanted. He'd done it countless times. Yet without his will, without feeding it his strength, the pinprick could grow no further.

He hadn't reached for it since the battle of Illen's Arm.

Before the flooding season, when Madesta met Windjammer and everything went so awry, he touched the pinprick daily. Visions of a glorious nation reunited under peaceful rule filled his dreams. The cold voice had made promises, given orders, demanded loyalty.

Félix wondered whether it was disloyal to avoid it now, when he'd once been so glad for its presence.

Even then, those cold, oily fingers prodding his thoughts had sent shudders of revulsion through his body — an intrusion he permitted because of what it got him in turn. Zathár had made promises for Madesta and more besides. He couldn't let discomfort turn him away from a chance at unification, at throwing off the yoke of Dramorian rule. Such softness would be unbecoming for a son of Laszlo.

Yet of late, the cold touch had faded. Its last true brush against his mind had come underway to Armathia. Zathár slipped into his dreams while he lay in Windjammer's hold, filling his mind with promises and demands that left him drifting, warm and hazy as though he'd downed a jug of spice wine on his own. It dulled the wrongness of the invasion of his thoughts and allowed Zathár to whisper suggestions unhindered.

Take the ship. You are owed one, Commodore. Take it as yours.

A flash of anger had cut through his sleepy, drifting mind. His beloved Madesta now sailed as an Oceanic warship.

Zathár, however, didn't understand the source of his anger. Though Félix longed to feel Madesta's quarterdeck shifting beneath his feet, her loss didn't kindle the anger that lit within his breast. He loved Madesta beyond measure, but even the finest vessel wasn't worth the lives of her crew, and their loss stung worst of all. In the aftermath of Illen's Arm, his rage and sorrow fixed not upon the Oceanic, but instead upon the sea-witches who had hunted without regard — and upon himself, for not bartering to better secure his people's safety.

In some dark recess of his mind, he nurtured a growing resentment against Zathár, too, for letting him think his men would be safe in the Witch King's hands.

While Zathár could see the inner workings of a man's thoughts, he nevertheless couldn't quite understand them, and thus he thought Félix's rage stemmed from Madesta's loss and that alone. Cold poured into Félix's mind, flooding him with visions of how he could stand at a helm once more.

Start with the girl when she comes to give you your meal. She trusts you too much. She wears a weapon. You can take it from her. Use her as leverage. You know the Oceanic are soft. They will do anything to keep you from hurting her.

At first it seemed like a fine idea, and he'd watched in a pleased haze as it played out before his eyes. He'd captain a vessel again — not as fine as his Madesta, but a seaworthy schooner nonetheless. He'd turn southwest for Belen—

But no, that's not what Zathár would have him do.

The dream had changed, warped, twisted under Zathár's influence. Félix would stand at the helm for a pair of hours, perhaps, but the aim wasn't to sail Windjammer southwest to his homeland. Instead, Zathár asked him to sacrifice for their cause and scuttle the ship in the middle of the gulf. Witches would set upon them. The Regent wouldn't stand a chance of survival.

None of them would.

Panic had squeezed his chest like a vise, and Félix had flailed awake, gasping and covered in a cold sweat. He struggled to shake off visions of dark waters and sawtooth smiles. He could hear the screams of his men in his ears — the same ones he'd heard at Illen's Arm.

His surroundings had returned to him in a slow fade, and he roused to find himself in Windjammer's hold. The connection with Zathár had severed upon waking. Its cold influence shrank to the back of his thoughts once more.

He was weak. Weak. He'd found the limit of what he was willing to do for the freedom of his people. It didn't matter how much he hated the Oceanic, he would never give another man to the sea and let the creatures eat him alive. Not after Illen's Arm. Never again.

Most disconcerting of all, however, was the new nature of the Zathár's request. Never before had the demon demanded such sacrifice of him. Who would fight for Madesta's freedom when he was gone?

Uneasiness made Félix reluctant to reach for connection with Zathár afterward. He wondered what the demon thought of his refusal — for though he didn't make one outright, he did his best to ignore the pinprick at the back of his thoughts. He napped in fits and starts, for when he slept too deeply, inviting Zathár into his mind was no longer a choice. He worried the demon had worked out what he was doing. He wondered what it would mean for their alliance, and for his reception at tribal council — if he managed to make it to council at all.

.

After Windjammer's arrival in Armathia, Félix had gone to the cells beneath the fort. The midnight man came every night, waking him before sleep pulled him deep enough for Zathár to touch his mind.

At least the steel-toed dung-fly was good for something.

Miss Ehrin had come and gone. He'd savored her spice cakes, rationing them piece-by-piece until the last morsels threatened mold. The battle for Ithaka drew near.

Then, one day late in the flooding season, the cold pinprick flared and went out.

He didn't miss it. He didn't — but he dreaded what its absence meant. He waited. Days passed, blurring and blending at the edges, with nothing to show for them. No oily fingers brushed his thoughts. No icy hands clutched at his dozing mind. He even tempted fate by letting himself sleep during the daytime hours, but only half-formed fictions visited him: nightmares where his fears for his people played out in increasingly horrifying ways.

Flooding season ended. Growing season began.

As the days faded and blurred into one another, he wondered whether all his hopes had come to naught after all.

...

A/N: pssssst hi friends--

The amazing smaoineamh has a new story that you guys should check out -- especially if you liked Wicked Waters and The Sword Unbroken! I got to read early drafts and it has all the epic worldbuilding, slowwwwburn romance, and political intrigue my little heart could ever ask for.