Calix was up, dressed and had his armor packed and sent to the stables before dawn broke over Levitum on the day he was to leave for Mortania. As much as he wasn't looking forward to what he would undoubtedly find in Antelium, it was far preferable to the snake pit he was currently trapped in.

He had just finished lacing his boots when the lock on his door rattled, the sound so light as to be suspicious. Calix narrowed his eyes, picking up a dagger when the lock rattled again. Making his steps silent, he made his way to the door, listening for the span of a breath.

A low voice said, "It's not wise to keep me waiting, General."

Lip curling in an automatic sneer, Calix jerked open the door to reveal Prince Marcus standing outside his room. There were shadows under his eyes and a yellowing bruise around the split lip Calix had given him four days ago. 

The prince's gaze flicked down to the knife in Calix's hand and he smiled wryly. "For some reason, I doubt that's how you greet my sister when she comes up here." He tilted his head toward the closed door of the bedchamber. "What would you do if I asked if she was in there?"

She had actually left not an hour before, having spent a majority of the night saying goodbye. They had only managed maybe three hours of actual rest, but Calix was trying not to think of how right it had felt, falling asleep with her in his arms.

Calix only sighed and turned around, stalking back toward the chairs in front of the empty fireplace. The sound of a quiet laugh made him scowl, but he didn't say anything as he buckled on his swordbelt. A near-silent step behind him had him turning sharply to find the prince barely two feet away from him.

It was unnerving how much he favored his sister. Same honey eyes, same mouth, same rich, chocolate-colored hair. But there was something cold about the prince that Cassia didn't share. Something that reminded Calix of a few soldiers he had known.

Something that made him suspect the prince knew what blood felt like when it ran between your fingers.

"When you get to Antelium," the prince said, "you'll find several weak points in the western wall. Drains. Each is only big enough for one man to pass through at a time. They feed right to the Carmilion River."

How did Marcus know anything about Antelium? More importantly, why would he bother to rise before the sun just to tell Calix something he would have known with a simple scouting mission?

Calix could only blink stupidly at the prince for a moment. Then he shook his head. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I read military reports, General," the prince said carelessly. "Unlike most of the puffed-up magpies who run a majority of my father's forces, you and your General Malcinius have rather a penchant for showing some intelligence and... a flare for the unconventional."

Narrowing his eyes, Calix held his silence, not quite knowing how to respond. But then he didn't have to.

"By which you mean he doesn't care to go charging in headlong and getting everyone killed."

They both turned to find Tarquin lingering in the door, his dark gaze glued to the prince. Calix's heart fluttered with nerves as Marcus turned slowly to face the other man, his cold eyes calculating.

"Something like that," he said softly, his tone making a chill skitter down Calix's spine. Or maybe that was just the assessing way the prince was watching his friend—like he was deciding which poison would work best on him.

In an effort to draw the prince's attention back toward himself, Calix asked, "Why are you telling me this, Your Highness?"

Marcus continued to watch Tarquin for a moment much too long to be comfortable before he finally returned his attention to Calix. Cocking his head, he let an amused smile tug at the corner of his mouth. 

"Because it suits me to," he responded before he turned neatly on his heel and strode from the room, twisting slightly to slide by Tarquin. That devious smile was still on his mouth as he gave the soldier one last, careful look.

Tarquin stayed in the hall for a moment longer, craning his neck as he watched the prince leave. Then he shuddered and stepped into Calix's rooms, shutting and locking the door behind him.

"Well he's..." Tarquin trailed off, frowning.

"Disturbing? Kind of leaves you with an urge to punch him in the mouth?" Calix offered as he finally donned the general's cloak he had been avoiding since he'd woken.

Tarquin grinned. "I was wondering what had happened there." He tapped at the same place Marcus' lip had been split. Calix just shrugged. His brother snorted, then shook his head. "He couldn't really be... related to Cassia?"

"You know?" Calix began. "No, Tarq, I don't think so. I think that the king, what with how benevolent he is, just picked him up off the streets. Probably—"

"All right, all right." Tarquin lifted his hands in surrender, a laugh in his words. Then he ran a hand through his hair, gaze darting to the sword at Calix's side. Voice softer, he asked, "Are you ready?"

Calix shoved his dagger into its sheath opposite his sword, then tugged at one of the buckles on his leather vambrace, making sure it was secure. "Always," he said with a small smile. 

"Are you sure about that?" Tarquin gave him a too-knowing look.

With a sigh, he motioned for Tarquin to follow him, the cloak already weighing heavy on his shoulders. Keeping his voice low as they walked through the quiet halls, he said, "I'm still only taking a century."

They had argued yesterday about the number of men he was taking, and the day before that, both his brother and the princess ganging up on him, but Calix wouldn't budge. It was a decent enough number for what he intended to do.

"Because you're mad," Tarquin responded sagely, not sounded particularly perturbed by that thought. "It's something I've suspected for a while."

"Because," Calix drew the word out, "this is a rescue mission. It won't do me any good to bring a siege force. The prince would starve just as slowly as the Mortanians would if I did that. I can't attack the city with catapults, that would endanger the prince and his forces, if they aren't dead already. That leaves me with one option."

They had already discussed this, having gone over the particulars of Calix's plan a dozen times in the past three days.

"So, unlike a good Metian general, you're opting for stealth and intelligence over brute force and hawkish display." A smirk twitched at the corner of Tarquin's mouth. "How dare you."

Calix huffed a laugh through his nose. "Something like that." He sighed, shaking his head and lowering his voice. "The princess has made it known that she wishes for this to be done with as little blood shed as possible. She doesn't want another war in Mortania any more than you or I or anyone who served there does."

This, they hadn't discussed overmuch. Mostly because it was an impossible riddle, and they both knew there was no solving it.

A long silence followed that, broken only by the sound of their boots on the marble floors. Calix finally looked over to find Tarquin frowning fiercely. Like he could feel Calix's gaze upon him, he said, "You can't believe that any action you take, no matter how benign, won't ignite another war. It's been building too long, mindra."

The words were simply an echo of his own thoughts. Of course he knew that. Why the princess or her snake of a brother didn't already understand that was what he couldn't believe. 

It wouldn't matter if he could keep Prince Malitech from doing something terrible—the Mortanians would use Antelium as a rallying cry, and before this year was out the fourth Mortic War would begin.

Calix could only hope the king would perhaps send him to those snowy fields again. He was sick and weary of the thick forests and sloppy mud of the island. Not to mention he'd take any amount of hard riding over the nauseating roll of ocean travel required to reach Brunia's shores.

"Yes," he finally sighed. "But still... I gave her my word I would try."

Tarquin obviously had no response to that, as he simply trained his eyes on the rich paintings lining the hall. The skies to the west were now a pearly grey, quiet light seeping in through the glassed windows.

"Do what needs to be done, Calix," Tarquin said, his voice soft, but no less fierce for it. When this garnered no response, Tarquin grabbed his arm and forced Calix to face him. His midnight eyes were pleading. "War will always be there, mindra. There is nothing any man can do to stop that. Not even you." 

Calix raised an eyebrow at that, making Tarquin roll his eyes. 

Voice hoarse, he continued, "Please do not make me read a report detailing how long it took for you to suffocate to death on the cross because the princess asked you to try."

A shiver of dread at such a ghastly, dishonorable death skittered down Calix's spine. He brought his hand up, clasping Tarquin's forearm as he looked him dead in the eye. "That will not happen."

After a long moment, Tarquin nodded, a shaky breath leaving him as he wrapped his free arm around Calix's shoulders in a quick embrace. Calix returned the gesture, taking strength from his brother.

Tarquin murmured a prayer in Sorvetian, which Calix bore with all the patience he could muster. He knew it was more for his brother's peace of mind than anything.

Then Tarquin pulled back and patted his palm a little roughly against Calix's cheek, making him shove the other man away. A forced laugh came from Tarquin and echoed down the hall. They didn't say anything more until they had exited the castle, and were headed toward the stables and the warhorse supposedly awaiting him there.

The grounds were as quiet as the castle, mist clinging to the walls and nearby trees, fresh and cool in his lungs. A crisp, almost smoky smell hung in the air, heralding the coming of colder weather. 

A winding path led them around to the north side of the castle and toward the stables situated near the guards' barracks. Calix looked around, making sure they were alone before he murmured, "There is one thing I would ask of you, brother."

Tarquin merely raised an inquiring eyebrow.

His voice softer still, Calix said, "While I am gone, the princess still needs training."

"I've already said I would," Tarquin reminded him. 

"I know." Calix kept his eyes trained on the ground, guilt hot in his chest. But he would not let Tarquin take the same risks he had without knowing the exact consequences of those actions. Taking a deep breath, he said, "The king had decreed that she couldn't even watch the guards spar. Anyone who is caught instructing her will be tortured and killed. He does not want her to learn. He does not want her to succeed."

Tarquin gave him a puzzled frown, the morning wind making a few strands of his hair flutter in the breeze. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I won't let you jump in to a potentially fatal decision without knowing what you will be risking." Calix kept his voice flat, every instinct in him roaring to shut up, roaring to force a promise out of Tarquin instead of warning him away.

"Does he want her dead?" Tarquin asked, his voice soft. A cool morning wind rustled through the turning leaves of the maple and beech trees casting their path in shadow.

Calix watched as a scarlet leaf floated to the ground. The early morning sounds of the working castle were beginning to pick up. A hammer rang against metal as a rooster crowed to the rising sun. The wind changed and he caught a whiff of the tangy scent of coal smoke.

"He does not want a woman for an Heir," he finally answered, his lip curling.

"So is this an effort to have her killed?" Tarquin's hand drifted to the dagger in his own belt.

Gravel crunched beneath their boots as Calix considered that—considered if this was just an attempt at a roundabout assassination. The idea that the king might send someone after his daughter seemed to be something Cassia didn't believe possible for reasons beyond him. 

"No," he finally said. "I don't believe so."

"Why?"

"You might ask her." Calix scowled, shaking his head. "The gods demand the king's firstborn be named his Heir. Apparently that makes her immune to an attempt on her life."

"Only by her family," Tarquin corrected quietly. He shrugged in response to Calix's raised eyebrows. "If she were to die of natural causes...or unnatural ones that didn't come at the hand of her own blood, then the king would be free to place one of his sons upon the throne."

Which would likely be Malitech as the oldest of Durus' male children, but Calix would be remiss not to bet that Marcus was just as likely to ascend the throne. Neither option filled him with a sense of hope.

Calix's scowl deepened. "Then why would you ask if this was to have her killed? If he can't, or her brothers can't, why ask?"

"Because there isn't anything saying the king can't increase her chances of dying." Tarquin shook his head, his mouth a tight line. "Just as long as he doesn't kill her, or doesn't order her death, he's safe from the gods' wrath and free to choose his successor. Doesn't mean he can't let the world try to kill her. And if she can't pass the trials, she will be forced to abdicate. The gods might wish for the firstborn, but that does not mean they also don't require proof of worthiness."

Glancing up at the ever-lightening sky, Calix asked, "How do you know that?"

Tarquin's expression turned to one of satisfaction, a feline smile tugging at his mouth. "Did you know priestesses of Morrana aren't sworn to celibacy?"

Blinking several times, Calix shook his head in bewilderment. His lips formed silent words, his mind unable to settle on any single one. Finally, he managed, "A priestess, Tarquin? Really?"

His brother shrugged, still looking extremely pleased with himself. "I went to the temple yesterday. She caught my eye as I was leaving." He huffed a laugh. "And when I went to talk to her, she made it clear that sex was a very religious experience for her and her sister priestesses."

A laugh Calix couldn't choke down burst from him. Of course his brother had been propositioned by a priestess—even if that priestess did belong to the goddess of courtship, love and apparently sex.

Tarquin still had that smug smile on his face. "After a few religious experiences, I asked why the princess wasn't being... prepared for her travel years." They had both sobered at that, and Tarquin continued, "She told me what many of the priests have known for years—that he wants her to die, but that he can't do it himself."

Silence fell between them until Tarquin murmured, "And if that's the case, I have a responsibility—just as you did—to try and see the gods' work done. No matter the risks." More quietly, he added, "She deserves a chance."

With a growl of disgust, Calix lengthened his stride. The idea of leaving the princess to rescue her idiot brother while she was still so sorely lacking in martial skill rankled. But there was nothing he could do beyond trust that his brother would pick up where he had left off.

The stables had come into view, and the sounds of a struggle could be heard—high-pitched, angry whinnying, men shouting, the dull thud of hooves against wooden walls.

Then the struggle spilled itself out of the stables and Calix's breath caught at what he found awaiting him.

"Gods above," Tarquin muttered. "Are you sure the king doesn't know what you do to his daughter most nights?"

"I... what?"

Tarquin gestured to the creature before them. "Perhaps the king is hoping you'll break your neck on the way to Antelium."

The stallion couldn't have been any less than sixteen hands at his withers, his hindquarters thick with powerful muscle under a glistening coat of coal black. His hooves flashed like black death in the air as he reared and lunged, fighting his handlers every step of the way. 

He was fury given flesh and Calix was awestruck.

A shrill scream came from the horse and Calix caught a flash of movement from one of the men handling him. He'd whipped the horse using the tail end of the rope he was using to hold the animal.

"Oh, here we go," Tarquin sighed just as Calix broke into a run.

Calix vaulted over the fence closing off a small pen just in front of the stables, making two of the men recoil in surprise when he was suddenly in their midst. The stallion's eyes were wide with fury, his nostrils flaring, his coat soaked with sweat as he reared up, hooves pawing at the air just over Calix's head.

He ducked the horse's flailing hooves and snatched the lead from the man who had struck the animal. The stablehand gave him a startled look, then went stumbling backwards as Calix used the tail of the rope to strike him across the face.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" he snarled, and even the horse fell quiet behind him.

The handler raised a hand to his cheek, a red welt already forming, a blank expression betraying his shock. But then what had happened caught up to him and his mouth twisted in a feral snarl.

He lunged at Calix, making the horse snort and prance sideways, but then he froze. The man's beady eyes bulged, a vein throbbing in his forehead, but he didn't dare move.

Tarquin pressed the dagger a little harder where he held it against the man's spine and murmured, "Just leave."

The other hostlers glanced at each other, then at the horse still yanking against its lead. Another look at the hard expression on Calix's face and the knife in Tarquin's hand had them retreating.

Tarquin grabbed the last man's collar and turned sharply, throwing the man to the side and away from Calix. He stumbled briefly, then straightened. Now that the commotion had calmed somewhat, Calix could see how much the man resembled a rat.

With mousy brown hair and a narrow, leering face, Calix understood why the horse hadn't wanted to obey. He spit at Calix's feet, then scampered after his companions back into the stables. 

Calix grimaced before he turned his attention to the horse. The animal was still wound up, his eyes rolling as he tugged against the lead Calix now held. His nostrils were flared as he snorted and tried to jerk away from Calix.

"None of that," Calix murmured, holding his hand up. "None of that."

The horse flicked his ears forward in interest, snuffling at Calix's palm, taking in his scent. Moving slowly, he brought his hand up to the animal's cheek, not flinching when the horse bobbed his head nervously.

Calix continued to murmur to the horse, talking about nothing until the animal had calmed. His bright, intelligent eyes never left Calix's as he stroked the animal's glossy neck, moving his hand beneath the silky spill of the horse's ebony mane.

"How do you do that?" Tarquin asked, sounding exasperated.

"What?" Calix asked, keeping his voice low, but his touch firm on the spirited animal.

"That thing was trying to kill those men." Tarquin eyed the animal in question. "You talk it into submission and it stands there docile as a kitten."

Calix patted the horse's muscular neck again, smiling faintly. "Horses can sense fear, hate. They know when people don't like them," he added, giving Tarquin a pointed stare where he was standing nearly five feet away, watching the horse distrustfully.

"It's not that I don't like them," Tarquin protested as Calix began to loosen the rope around the horse's neck. "It's that that one looks more inclined to stomp your guts out than to carry you anywhere."

The horse snorted, its ears flattening at Tarquin's tone. Calix laughed and said, "Just go find me a bridle, would you?"

"Last man tried to bridle him wound up missing a finger," a gruff voice called, and both Tarquin and Calix turned toward the dark entrance of the stables. It was followed by an old man, shoulders hunched with age, but eyes clear and amused.

Calix smirked softly, then caught the bridle the old man threw at him. 

He tucked the bit under his arm to warm the chilled metal while he took the rope off. The horse shook its head, dark strands of its mane catching the early morning sun, but it didn't move more than an inch.

Instead, it watched Calix curiously, obviously wanting to see what he would do.

Holding the bit between his thumb and middle finger, Calix pressed it against the horse's mouth. He snorted and shook his head in protest for a moment, but finally took the bit. Calix fixed the buckles of the bridle, looping the reins over his head. He'd already been saddled.

He patted the horse's neck, muttering a few words of approval. The old man said, "He's yours. His Majesty sent an order this morning."

Calix's lips parted in shock as he once again took in the animal's powerful muscles, the clean, shapely lines of his legs. His intelligent eyes and silky coat. He must have been worth no less than a thousand gold pieces.

A Cordaran, if Calix wasn't mistaken—some of the best horses in all of the empire.

"We call him Nox." The hostler eyed the horse with a mix of trepidation and admiration. "He's headstrong, and mean as any mountain cat. Nearly killed one of my men a few weeks ago. Watch yourself with him, General. That horse is about as high-strung as they come." 

"Told you so," Tarquin muttered.

As if in response to the charges leveled upon him, Nox pawed the ground impatiently and bobbed his head. Calix patted the horse's neck again, biting his lip to keep from grinning like a fool. His. Such a magnificent creature was his. He hadn't owned an animal this fine since his father had disowned him.

The sun had broken through the clouds, clear rays of light beginning to creep past the high walls of the castle and into the outer courtyard.

The old hostler gestured to heavily packed saddlebags near a watering trough. "Food for at least a week if you're careful. And your armor." Then he went and opened the gate, suspicious eyes on Nox.

Calix gave the old man his thanks, throwing the saddlebags over Nox's haunches, tying them down quickly before he turned to Tarquin. The horse pranced to the side, rearing up a little in protest of the weight. Calix let out a sharp whistle, and snapped, "Hey!"

Nox turned his head, giving him an unimpressed stare, but he stopped moving as Calix stepped away to have a last word with Tarquin.

The soldier was watching the horse, his arms crossed over his chest, his face pale and strained. Calix placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's nothing we haven't seen before, brother."

"Before we were just grunts," Tarquin reminded him, voice bleak. "Not a general who will have to answer for every misstep, for every moment of doubt or indecision."

Calix's hand dropped, his mouth flattening as he looked back toward Nox. 

"Please, just..." Tarquin sighed, his fingers digging into Calix's elbow.

"Don't say it."

"Be..." Tarquin sighed again, this time in disgust. He couldn't say something so ridiculous any more than Calix could stand hearing it. Finally, he just ran a hand through his hair, eyes grim.

"I'll see you in a few weeks," Calix promised, moving back toward the warhorse. "Take care of yourself while I'm away."

"And a few other things." A ghost of that familiar smile brushed over Tarquin's mouth. 

Calix stepped into the stirrup and hauled himself up into the saddle. Nox bucked a little, back hooves kicking up toward the sky. Pulling gently at the reins, he warned, "I won't test you if you don't test me."

Nox's ears flicked back to listen to him, but the horse's snort sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Calix got the feeling he'd have a few very exciting mornings between here and Antelium.

Tarquin's arms were crossed again, shoulders stiff as Calix nodded to him. His brother returned the gesture. Calix took a final breath, resisting the urge to peer up at the windows of the castle. He knew she wasn't watching him leave.

She wasn't that sentimental.

Smiling slightly to himself, he touched his heels to Nox's sides. The horse leapt into an eager canter that Calix settled into easily, the animal's gait beautifully smooth.

The gates were opened for him, letting him out into the forest he'd been running in with Cassia for the past month. The feathery moss drifted down from the branches, trapping the mist that had dissipated everywhere else.

Nox tugged at the reins, but Calix didn't give him his head. They had a long journey and he wouldn't risk the beautiful animal running himself to death.

He didn't bother to look back.