17. Crescendo

A new coach arrived for them within the hour.

The horses were shaken and roughed up but uninjured. The driver took the calmest of the four and raced for the castle. Yasmin tried to convince Rayan to go home, try again another day; Rayan shut her down with cold decisiveness. Nicholas heard all of this from a distance, with his back turned. As far as he could get from the wreckage before Yasmin barked at him to stop.

Rayan crouched next to him. Behind them, the others were dealing with the disaster. With the corpses. Nicholas shuddered.

"Your hands," said Rayan. Nicholas saw that he was holding a key. Rayan freed Nicholas' hands, then returned his own to his lap. His right hand scratched at the palm of his left, digging into the fabric of the glove as if trying to scrape away something underneath. "Only until you pull yourself together."

He noticed Nicholas watching his hands and folded them. Nicholas wrapped his arms around himself.

"Would you have rathered we let them take our stones? Those groups don't leave witnesses."

"I didn't say anything," said Nicholas.

"It's bigger than self defense. It's the defense of the kingdom. If such acts against the crown were taken lightly, there wouldn't be a crown for much longer."

"I understand."

"It isn't as if I enjoy-" Rayan paused. His lips pressed together. Confused. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

"I never asked you to."

Nicholas watched him start to speak, then decide against it. Rayan turned his head away. They waited there a long while.

The second coach was black down to the spokes. Otherwise, the road was bare, like the fight had never happened. It took some time to hook up the old horses - there were six in total now, and four shurta. Nicholas spent that time counting his breaths so he wouldn't hurl the second they started moving and make himself Yasmin's next victim. Rayan still looked sick. He took the middle seat without complaint. Nicholas could see on Yasmin's face that she wanted to protest again, but the air around Rayan left no room for discussion. Nicholas was back in his cuffs.

They arrived in thirty minutes. Pondtam Prison was a strict rectangular building with vast stone walls. There was little to discern from the outside, just a sense of finality that reminded Nicholas of nearly drowning. Only the gatehouse guarding the front wall gave it any sense of time or feeling. That is, centuries old and baleful.

The driver strode to the iron grate and spoke to one of the shurta posted there. The grate was lifted with haste, and the prison guard vanished into the dark. He came back with two other men. Only then did Yasmin emerge from the coach and help Rayan down. She let the door close behind them, so Nicholas had to shoulder his way out. His momentum nearly landed him on his ass in the road, but at least no one saw him stumble. Everyone facing them had dropped onto one knee.

"Rise. I would like to do this as quickly as possible."

The last to obey was a young man, maybe a boy, swimming in his coat. He glanced up hesitantly, like he thought it might be illegal to stand in the presence of the king, before jumping to his feet so fast he looked dizzy afterward. The oldest of them, a man in a frock coat and a cap, spoke for the group.

"What a pleasant surprise, Your Majesty. May I introduce-"

"Did you hear me, warden?"

The warden took it in stride. He was tall, and might have once looked strong and frightening. Now, he mostly looked frightening. "Very efficient, Your Majesty. Did you hear him, boy?"

The young man darted ahead, whipped back around, bowed so deep he nearly kissed his knees, then continued to the other side of the grate to close it after them. Rayan and the warden headed the group, with Yasmin right behind them, and Nicholas behind her. One of Rayan's guards walked close at his side. Apparently, he got a real kick out of shepherding a prisoner. He kept shouldering Nicholas into place as if they weren't walking down a straight path.

Past the gatehouse was the entrance to the prison itself. It was a short walk. Nicholas tripped six times over the course of it. Rayan was in the middle of his discussion with the warden when he turned over his shoulder with narrowed eyes and said, "You're irritating me." But he was looking at the guard.

The pushing stopped. They bypassed a grim reception room with too few benches for the space or the visitors. A woman hovered at the desk, trying for the attention of a clerk who behaved as if the bars separating them blocked sound. The young man held open a door to a barren conference room and pulled out chairs for the warden and the king.

"Sit," said Rayan. Nicholas awkwardly kicked one out for himself. His guard's shadow fell over him from behind.

"Offer the guests a drink, boy."

"Right! Would-"

"No, thank you," Yasmin said as Rayan wrinkled his nose. So the boy stood at the door, sweating through his uniform.

"This prisoner you're looking for," said the warden. "The witch. What can you tell me about her?"

Rayan looked to Nicholas. Nicholas hadn't realized he was going to have to speak.

"Oh. Um. She was probably arrested four weeks ago? Or five. Long brown hair, super thin, kind of rambly...It was something about a love potion. A woman asked for it, but it worked too well, so she reported it to the graymen."

His chair rattled as the guard kicked one leg. Grayman was a colloquial term. Nicholas hadn't written it to be an insult, but apparently shurta took it that way.

"Is that all you remember?" asked the warden.

"There was also a rat."

"A...rat?"

"An albino rat."

There was something edgy in the shift of the warden's eyes. He excused himself to go check the records. When he was gone, Yasmin leaned down and muttered something into Rayan's ear.

"Better than ever," Rayan snapped. Yasmin frowned.

The warden was even shiftier when he returned, avoiding eye contact as he set a massive book on the table and flipped to a marked page. The script was neat, broken into sections. He pointed to a small one, only a few rows of text. "This is your witch. Angesie Bazar. Arrested June fourteenth at the Muck Moth Tavern in Jacim for the production and sale of illicit magical compounds."

"Are you wasting my time on purpose?"

The warden stilled.

"Bring us to her."

"Yes...of course, I wish I was able, Your Majesty." For such a large man, he seemed rather small. Not so frightening anymore. "The problem, well. She isn't here."

"Not here?" hissed Rayan.

"It happened six days ago. You see-"

Rayan squinted to read the tiny scrawl squeezed into the bottom of Angesie Bazar's section of the prison log.

"How," he cut the warden off, voice dipping low, "did you manage to lose a prisoner?"

"We believe an outside party aided her escape, but the method has proven itself rather blurry. There were no signs of infiltration or tampering of any sort. I assure you, these walls are protected by the strongest of charms. There is an active investigation in progress, and my officers far and wide are on the lookout for her. You have my most heartfelt apologies, Your Majesty. Trust, the situation will be resolved soon."

Rayan had stopped listening. He moved to drag his hands through his hair, then remembered himself and dropped them.

"Your arm," Yasmin said sharply, wrenching the conversation to a stop. "Show me."

Rayan cursed. "Leave," he ordered. The warden was all too happy to obey without question, taking the young man with him.

"Show me," she said again, and Nicholas realized she had been babying Rayan this entire time. Because when she gave a command - really gave one - her voice was strong enough to move a king. Rayan reluctantly stood to shed one arm of his jacket. The black shirt underneath was wet. Yasmin had spotted a tiny crimson dot on the skin between his sleeve and his glove in the second he raised his hands.

He unbuttoned the cuff, rolled up his sleeve. It clung to his skin. There was a gash in his bicep, so messy with red that Nicholas couldn't tell how deep it was.

"You need to get that treated."

"I will have it treated at home. By my doctors."

"You will have it treated here," she said in that same voice. She was at least four inches shorter and only seven years older, but there was something maternal about the way she spoke to him. Or, it was the way he visibly held back an argument, frowning like a scolded child. He nodded.

The infirmary was at the end of a dank, poorly-lit hall, near enough to the cell wing that Nicholas could hear the restlessness of the inmates. From the peek he got when the young man ushered Rayan and Yasmin in, it wasn't any more inviting on the inside. It looked more like a torture room than an infirmary. Maybe it was both.

Nicholas waited outside with the guard, who watched him intently as if he might make a run for it. From armed mages. In a prison. Nicholas refrained from any sudden movements but did lean his head against the wall, ear angled toward the door.

The walls didn't trap sound very well. If any torture did go down in that room, the sound of screaming could probably reach the inmates. Maybe that was intentional. Maybe Nicholas was thinking too much into it, like a writer.

Before any greetings could be exchanged, he heard Rayan ask, "Where are your gloves?"

"...Your Majesty?" That was a new voice. The doctor. He sounded gruff, like he could definitely torture someone.

"Your gloves. You aren't wearing gloves."

"I don't-"

Rayan's voice rose in volume. "Where are your gloves?"

"I'm...not too sure there are any, sir. But you're in good hands, swear. Please, Your Majesty, let me see your arm."

"You will not touch me."

"Your king expects that you work with gloves," Yasmin stepped in cooly. "Find some."

The door swung wide as the doctor - a beast of a man with bruised knuckles and a scarred face - scurried from the room with his tail between his legs. It closed slowly, heavy and scraping the floor. Nicholas strained his eyes to see inside.

Rayan sat at the corner of a lumpy wire bed with his eyes closed. Yasmin stood behind him. He let his head slump against her chest, and she raised her hand to cradle his face. She never normally wore gloves, but she had them on now, like she always carried a pair around with her. For his sake. Nicholas looked away before the door closed.

"When we return, tell the driver to set course for Jacim."

"I won't."

"Yaz."

"Don't," Yasmin said, firm in a way that didn't match the look he'd seen on her face. "We are going home."

"I cannot," said Rayan. "This is the only lead I have."

"And it will still be there tomorrow."

"I might not."

"Dramatic king."

"How can I be dramatic with my own life?" Nicholas couldn't hear his breath, exactly, but he could hear the way it broke up his words.

"Jacim is a rowdy city. In your state, you won't last a minute in a tavern there."

"How dare-"

Nicholas stepped away from the wall until their voices dropped away. His guard side-eyed him warily. In the end, they didn't go to Jacim.

Nicholas read alone that night. This wasn't unusual, though it had become more so over time. He had grown to expect another presence in the archive. A distracting, aggravating presence, but one that didn't say much on most nights. Nicholas had to admit - measured against the aches that came with Rayan's company, the silence wasn't so bad.

The next night found him slouched sideways on the armchair, legs dangling over the side. It wasn't comfortable. The arm dug into his spine and his neck hurt from holding the weight of his head. But he had gotten used to leaving the sofa unoccupied after dark.

It was late. Around the time that Rayan would normally leave and Nicholas would drag his heavy feet upstairs to sleep. He couldn't even remember what he was reading; the words were fogging together on the page, bleeding into large blocks of black that slowly took over his vision...

"Wake up."

Nicholas jerked awake. He tried to push himself up and wound up pushing himself right off the armchair.

"Isn't this getting a little ridiculous?" he groaned, face down on the carpet.

"I cannot hear you when you speak to the floor."

Nicholas heaved onto his back. Rayan stood above him. From this angle, he reminded Nicholas of one of those gothic clock towers, pointy and looming and feeling strangely lopsided. It was the sort of thought Nicholas would normally have in a dream. Considering he was half-asleep, he let it slide.

"It's practically morning," he said.

"I had a busy day."

So when do you sleep? Nicholas could only assume that Rayan was some sort of insomniac. That would explain the persistent shadows beneath his eyes. So really, this was all Nicholas' fault for drawing him that way. Nicholas wondered if it was related to whatever tragic past would cause a king to unravel at the simple touch of a bandit's hand. Was that also his fault, then, for always drawing Rayan with gloves?

"I've brought something."

Nicholas sat up and scooted back against the chair, wary. You could really hate me. Not just for the way he would die, but for the way he lived.

Rayan held out a porcelain figurine of a young woman sitting on a backless bench. Long hair swept down her back, merging into the black of her tunic dress. Her mouth was open, her eyes closed, like she was singing. Nicholas forgot to be skeptical or surprised. Without thinking, he reached for her.

"Don't."

He yanked his hand back.

"You'll ruin the charm," Rayan said, then muttered, "Sino dakira."

Sino. A bell charm, but not the one Malik had used to speak to Adrian from afar. Not one Nicholas knew.

A low note pulsed out from the figurine, then another. Nicholas' lips parted as the slow build took the shape of a song. Piano. Like something from a music box, except it had the muffled quality of being recorded, and it was far too complex. Too fast, too loud, the longer it went on. It kept building and building, never easing up.

It sounded...sober. Grim, but not sad. Just deep, and overcast, and frank. The musician had a straightforward style that almost felt like boasting.

"You said you weren't that good," said Nicholas.

"I said I wasn't a pianist."

"Sure sound like one."

The crinkle between Rayan's eyebrows was defensive. Nicholas recognized the music like he had recognized the king's face in that jail interrogation room so many weeks ago. The callousness of it. The understated power behind the lower notes, the restraint in the high ones. He had never heard Rayan play, but he wouldn't be convinced that this had come from anyone else. Rayan seemed to realize this. He opened his mouth to lie, then closed it again.

"You say you read faster with music," said Rayan. When Nicholas didn't comment, he kept going. "But no band. You're very demanding."

If the music's strange familiarity wasn't enough proof that the song had come straight from Rayan, the hurry to his words and the thin purse of his lips confirmed it. Flustered.

"Thank you," said Nicholas. He hauled himself onto the seat as Rayan crouched to leave the figurine on the floor. There was a moment where they were at eye level for once.

"It isn't a gift."

Rayan took a book off the new pile - they had already charged through the first - and then took the sofa. The song was lengthy; it ended with a note like a thunderclap, blunt and sudden. In the abrupt quiet afterward, Nicholas could make out the sound of a page turning in the recording. A second song began.

The music didn't speed up his reading. Not even close. Nicholas' attention was shot.

This song was frantic. It wasn't fast, exactly, but there was urgency to it that felt...smothered. It's so him, Nicholas mused. He could almost see it. Rayan's left hand pressing slow and steady, presenting a veil of composure, while his right jumped from feverish high chords to angry lows. Deeply fucking repressed.

For all the time he spent visualizing, Nicholas' imagination could only scrounge up an incomplete image. He glanced at the sofa, at Rayan's spindly fingers splayed across the cover of his book. Look at me - it wasn't just in his eyes. Every part of him screamed it. Nicholas listened, looked, trying to picture those hands flying across the keys, corded shoulders shifting to follow them. Was he still expressionless when he played? Did he nod his head along?

The song didn't feel ominous, but it was probably supposed to. If that isn't Rayan in a nutshell.

"Focus."

Nicholas raised his eyes from Rayan's hands. I'm very focused, he thought, because he was. His face burned.

"You're frustrated."

Nicholas couldn't argue that, so he said, "Mind your business."

Rayan looked unimpressed. "Mind your manners."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Nicholas gave a sugary sweet smile.

Rayan stared, even less impressed.

"Focus," said Nicholas. Rayan's deadpan cracked. It was nearly a laugh.

The figurine cycled through a couple more songs. When the last ended, the recording restarted from the beginning, though it was tinny, less clear. This happened every time, until the music was muted and scratchy and Rayan came over for the figurine.

"You haven't eaten," he said. Nicholas' lunch and dinner trays sat on the bed upstairs, untouched.

He hadn't been able to since the attack. "I'm not hungry."

"I could hear your stomach from the sofa."

Over the music? Embarrassing.

"Worried, Your Majesty?"

Rayan took the figurine. The faded music stopped, forcing Nicholas to hear his own voice and the teasing note to it. The quiet as it hung reminded him who he was and who he was mocking. This seemed to have been Rayan's intention; he looked smug as he left. Nicholas went to sleep at dawn.