Cole had to pause, had to swallow to clear his throat and test his voice, in order to put the right amount of hostility behind his response. It was hard – and he was failing.
“And what exactly would I do as your Consort, Diarmaid? I have trouble imagining.”
“Oh, do not play, Cole – there is nothing wrong with your imagination.” He let that hang flirtatiously in the air, though more enjoying Cole's lack of amusement than trying to elicit repartee.
“You would do nothing,” he turned to smile at Cole, “or everything. As little or as much as you please, it really doesn't matter to me what you do, as long as you accept the offer.”
“Consort isn't typically a powerful position, you know,” Cole said, trying to push the steady growth of an equilibrium faster than the equally steady growth of his anger. He could deal with implications, propositions, but using Nika to manipulate him like Diarmaid was... It was no use keeping the lash of his implicative tone under control. Somehow he wasn't that worried about Diarmaid's anger at the moment.
“There for one moment in the glorious court, pearl-strewn nanny the next, relegated to back-castles, bastard children aplenty about one's knees – and you know, it is entirely the fancy of the King which bastard ascends.”
“Oh, I am aware,” Diarmaid's voice lost some of its cultivated amusement. “I am aware, to every extent, the powers and limitation placed on a Consort. I daresay, I have a familiarity beyond the average, and if you're inclined to persist in this conversation,” Diarmaid's voice turned icy, “I am sure I could oblige with details.”
Well, that worked – if Cole had really wanted him riled. He didn't, momentarily satisfying as it was to sting back the way he had been stung.
Diarmaid took a deep breath, bringing his tone back up into the reaches of friendly conversation. “And since an absence as long as yours begs patience, I shall warn you: let us find a new topic for discussion.”
His smile back was not empty of bitterness at having a sore nerve struck, but Cole was more careful with his own tone of voice, anyway. At least diverting from talking about Nika had calmed his anger somewhat. “It's been a while since anyone challenged your parentage, hasn't it? Does it not bring back memories?”
“If only they were fond memories, I would not consider commanding you not to speak of it again.” Diarmaid's smile was full of teeth.
“Luckily for you, I would expect no sons to come from your Consort-hood. In fact I find myself even now wary of the 'charms' of having you in such a position, but it is worth the risk of your continually impudent and all-too-intelligent wit.”
He gauged Cole's reaction, but was well aware of when flattery fell on deaf ears. “I say again, Cole: with you at my side, we would have power, power you can only imagine. Ainjir's double branches haven't been joined in centuries. The whole of the world would be agape, just as they were when Keadar-Ainjir bowed the Six Nations under the yoke of his treaty.”
Diarmaid smirked at him. “And love as you might your rebel, he does not crowd from your heart the love of power and esteem – that is too old, and primitive, a tryst to forget.”
“And often comes paired with jealousy,” Cole responded coolly. “How would your pride fare if you had to watch it compete not only amongst the lures of power and esteem, but of a love whose truth mocks your consortion.”
Making his voice low, and not entirely free of malice and heat, Cole stepped closer, locking eyes on the King and breaching the limit of the regent's personal space. “Or has all honesty drained from the offer since last I heard it issued?”
There was a fractional twitch in Diarmaid's face, but any hope it could've spawned in Cole was quickly crushed when Diarmaid smiled easily up at him, letting the chill of his detachment turn Cole's personal approach into the closing snare of a trap. “There is honesty enough left to warn you of the dangers of inspiring my jealousy; we each care for only one side of this triumvirate arrangement.”
Cole stepped back. Diarmaid smiled in approval, then shed his smugness like a coat.
“Take the deal, Cole. You will find no better.” He sipped his wine to mask the sincerity of his gaze, “And I am not the jealous boy I once was. It would pain me, in truth, to see you refuse for the sake of pride.”
“It wouldn't be for pride,” Cole said, feeling the lump of insides going cold as he realized how closely the walls closed on him, how perfectly the path laid before him became the only path out. Hadn't he told Nika he would find a way to spare him all this pain? “He is innocent of the charges. I will find a way to prevent this from happening.”
“And you will bluff on that bet, with three days of torture awaiting him?” Diarmaid raised his brows, but had the decency to look away. “How loving. Admiring as I am of your intelligence and capability, Cole, I find it hard to believe you will find another way – and impossible to believe you will find a better one. A fraction of a day in the dungeons is more than enough.”
Cole swallowing, hating the echo his instincts gave of Diarmaid's words. “I will plead with the Council. I will do whatever is necessary.”
“Cole...” Diarmaid hesitated. “Consider carefully what may be 'necessary'. I fear in prosecuting the war as well as you did, you let some of the more continual conflicts slide. The Council afield is the striking fox; the Council in the Capitol a badger in its den...”
As Cole was aware. A badger that was particularly difficult to move, even by its own cubs. Cole could only frown, and reiterate. “I will do whatever is necessary.”
Diarmaid fell silent, turning his glass in his hand, while Cole pretended to watch the musicians play. Diarmaid should've put weights in the end of the black cloth he had prepared for announcing his father's demise. Now and then, Cole could see flashes of green under the black that pierced through his chest like hammer-driven spears.
Maybe there hadn’t been time.
“Love is cruel,” Diarmaid reflected, sympathy in his voice. Cole made a concerted effort to ease his expression.
Diarmaid stepped back and passed off his glass to a servant who approached for the purpose and disappeared just as quickly. Back at Cole's side, he glanced at Cole only briefly, but let his voice be easy as he spoke. “The deal is open until the trial. Even I have limits to what outrages I will commit for personal gain, and stealing away the defendant of a military trial is a bit much, at least so early in my reign. And, Cole,” Diarmaid turned to look face him, and Cole responded in kind, “the country really does thank you, for it all. I am grateful.”
King Diarmaid bowed his head.
A smattering of applause broke out, from those who, though absent from the conversation, recognized Royal approbation like wolves catching a leader's scent, ears a-prick and paws still. Cole bowed deeply in return.
Nodding to his guards, the King left Cole alone to listen to the music.
Cole pretended to listen. If anyone looked as if they were going to approach, he tried to look overwhelmed with proud emotion, which was a relatively easy thing to do. There was no shortage of emotion.
Consort. A male Consort to a male King was an unusual thing – rather, if he agreed, Cole would be a first – but not unthinkable. There had certainly been male royal lovers that had come close enough to be Consorts. Diarmaid was running a risk making it official, but nothing a manipulator as clever as Diarmaid couldn't handle.
In a way, he had set himself up for it, with his buffoonery and trail of broken-hearted ladies. Relationships between men were considered more 'heated' (a stereotype which Cole fell into rather easily, and of which Nika had initially been uncomfortably unaware). A male Consort would presumably be a good way to control Diarmaid's philandering without creating the conflict of multiple Heirs to the Throne. A good solution, which someone else would present, once Diarmaid gave them the words.
And Cole. He had muddied the path to his own promotion by stepping down, but there was a still a path. Cole would be General of the Army, taking up the mantle of Durante, his mentor, and reasonably promoted by merit for having quelled rebellion. It was true, too, that he was loved – he cultivated the love of the soldiers who served him, the army that surrounded him. He strove to earn it, to keep it... and this would not violate it. He would be General first and Consort second, of course. No – the soldiers would consider it their good fortune for the patron of the army to have a firm, controlling hand in running the country. As in the past, when Ainjir was mighty. Like Keadar-Ainjir.
And he could keep Nika, like the pet exotic Nika had feared he would be when they had first begun, chained up in some summer palace somewhere.
But whole – oh by Fate – he would be whole, instead of robbed of whatever the torture sought to take from him. His life would never be in danger again, not with Cole wielding half the might of Ainjir. Nor would they be apart, truly; never again would Cole find a separation so hard as it had been these past five years, worsened by war and doubt. It would be so easy, compared to possibilities that awaited now, to offend pride but court security. It would be easy, even, to keep up charades with Diarmaid, as Cole had always been more jealous than prudish.
And there was heat between them, or there had been – more than enough to conjure up a passion when he needed it. He could flirt and play, and even if necessary, debase himself, if it meant Nika was safe. It would be easy, and he wouldn't be gambling hours of pain and darkness for Nika against frightfully insecure plots and tedious waiting.
Surely it would be better. How could he justify even a single moment of torture for his as-yet undiscovered 'other plan'? Nika had feared becoming a pet – a notch on a sword – but he had also feared holding Cole back, and he had sacrificed much after that end. Could Cole hold himself back, and, doing so, force more sacrifice out of Nika?
All he wanted was for this to be over. For Nika to be safe.
Just what Nika needed – a protector.
That was not what Nika had asked of him.
He didn't yet know what Nika wanted from him. To know that, he needed to unravel Nika's plot. He might never unravel Nika's plot, much less unravel it in time to save him.
Cole began to walk.
Diarmaid was right.
Cole should take the deal.
Even his instinct worried him with the confirmation that this was best offer he was going to get; every other choice involved waiting, and any other waiting amounted to pain for Nika. It was only a selfish passion that stopped him from turning around.
Nika had asked Cole to fight for him. Finally. Asked for something he had never asked for before.
Nika had wanted Cole to fight, not to save him, but Nika hadn't known about the Prince. Cole had been too ashamed to ever tell him. The same shame was now telling him that he had worked too hard on clearing the path of his love for Nika to settle for Diarmaid's deal before he had to.
But when did he 'have to'? After they had broken his lover with the rack? Shattered his thumbs? Marred his body and broken his teeth?
And there was worse. There was always worse. It was one of Cole's failings that he was not a cruel man; people were often surprised that such a vicious war hadn't worn him down to the cruelty hidden in every violent man, like it had so many others. Though lacking the drive himself for cruelty, he didn't find it hard to imagine or believe in the cruelty of others, or how far it could outstrip his own notions.
If anything he couldn't imagine was happening to Nika, he would burn the whole city to the ground. Not with much cruelty, but precious little compassion.
Stalking for the exit, Cole had no idea how his path became clear, or how he maneuvered through the thick crowd that still stoppered the entrance hall of the Gold Room. He managed to avoid being stopped, commended, saluted, or concernedly taken aside, and that was sufficient. So bent was his whole mind on turning his passionate fury at Diarmaid's deal into a usable plan, that it was entirely possible people had tried to stop him, and he simply hadn't noticed.
He had a night – maybe, if hopes were true the serious torture would await a less celebratory time – to come up with an alternate solution that was not simply begging at the Council's feet to intervene. He had pull – lots of pull – thanks to Durante's patronage, and he was certain that the old man would take his side, but this was a weighty matter, which pull alone wouldn't solve. He needed more than his own love, more than his staunch belief, more than circumstantial proofs that Nika's intent was never to overthrow Ainjir. Most of all, he needed time, and time was the only thing guaranteed to be against him.
“Halt this instant, Brigadier, or I'll be forced to issue reprimand!”
Time, and General Hammerlyn.
He must've been calling after Cole for some time. Cole stopped, interrupting his own thoughts to evaluate: still in the hallway – windows to either side – crowd behind him – exit before him – and not a single whit of time to waste on this petty, incompetent drone.
Cole turned on his heel, and allowed only the flash of Hammerlyn's smirk, before her clapped hands on Hammerlyn's glittering uniform, heaved him off his feet and slammed him into the wall. Hammerlyn's gasp for air was not near as loud as the collective gasp of the crowd behind them as the hollow walls shook, portraits thudding like heartbeats in their frames and fixtures clattering like the crystalline jewels of a slapped Lady. Listening carefully, the crash of a servant's tray could be heard in the hidden hall behind, startled to the ground.
“You – you least of all – will pull rank on me, now or ever again, after the outrages you've perpetrated in the surety of your office, in the name of our country, against its very citizens and soldiery.”
Cole slammed Hammerlyn again before he had caught enough breath to speak, watching his eyes roll dazedly. For the benefit of the audience, Cole made sure to list specifically: “To order the commission of war crimes, at the very birthplace of our nation, to knowingly violate the Conventions of the Six Nations in the same city that forged their terms, to order the executions of surrendered prisoners, marching the very soldiers who guard them to death to do it. Were I a common soldier – nay, should I fall to the level of the rankest thief, my acts of desperation could not be so filthy and debasing in the darkest and most squalid cave as those you commit in the light of a General's rank.”
Cole scraped him against the wall, raising him up still higher, “You have addressed me now for the last time as anything other than 'Sir'.”
Setting Hammerlyn's feet back on the ground did him no good; he only collapsed, breathless and bloodless with shock and fear. Cole stepped away from the heap of a man, glaring back at the crowd as if daring them to challenge him. Two of the Palace Guards came forward to help Hammerlyn up, but otherwise it was a tableau of shock and quiet studded with the glow of gems and wide open eyes.
Brigadier Cole, the breaker of men, terror of rank, and hero of a half-dozen bloody victories commanded the hall to fall silent for his outrage, and silent it was, still as snowbanks and cold with fear. Who would dare challenge his honesty, or withstand his judgment? His eyes moved through each of them, and passed over the innocent.
The smile on the lips of the Ambassador from Adineh, standing quietly at the front of the crowd, faced him without fear. She must have followed him out. The spread of it invited him to talk, but he did not have time to waste.
He did not have time at all.
A few hours work and what did Faer have?
A half-eaten dinner and a headache like blazes. He rubbed his eyes and smelled rosemary, but it was still with some reluctance he got up to wipe the chicken grease he had just rubbed onto his face off again. This was a bloody mess. He was a bloody mess. Everyone was a bloody mess, really, and when the Council came to tidy up, there would be chaos amongst the kids for having left things in such a state.
He had several plans, but no solutions. There seemed to be an unavoidable terminating point for every scheme; once it butted up against that point, he was left with no defense, no solutions, and not even a step ahead from where he had begun. His best schemes left him back where he started.
One the plus side, the quarters were stocked as well as, if not better than, his own law offices (not to mention having room service, which was something he had long considered would be the sign for when he had finally 'made it'). He hadn't even had to leave the room yet. This General Guy was a man after his own heart.
He grinned at himself; Faer always had a fancy for men who outstripped him both in rank and talent. Not that he even for a moment seriously considered Guy, but the swarm of events that had swept in along with Cole's midnight proposal had left him more than a little aware of his choice of company. (Plus, Guy's interest was exclusively women; Faer could sniff exclusivity out like a bloodhound. The study of Law did not leave one with much time to dally about flirtations).
Faer shuffled papers. As much as he liked it, he was still amazed at the sheer volume of paper Guy had assembled, apparently as a means of getting himself abreast of the situation. He couldn't help but feel a little behind left behind – if a person who had been in the midst of the fighting and at Cole's side needed this much sheer material just to keep up, what was Faer's situation like?
But that feeling was nothing new. He had always felt a little behind in the company of Cole and Galen; Guy was just a new addition. It was what came with the territory of being Faer, and Faer knowing who he knew and always getting himself shoulders-deep in the sorts of things he always got himself in shoulders-deep. Hip-deep would be nice break. He let the papers fall gently to the bed from his hand, heaving a sigh. Maybe he should aim for that next time.
His hips never got into anything he wanted them to. Or, at least, he seemed to find it most memorable when they didn't get into what he wanted them to. Then again, things don't get much more memorable than getting the piss kicked out of you by a friend – or, on the bright side, much more memorable than the kiss that had gotten him beaten up in the first place.
Faer grinned to himself, this time conspiratorially, after calling up the memory. Worth it, every minuscule second – though by no means did he count it minuscule, and seconds were far too short an increment of time to do it justice. It had lasted well beyond an ill-advised kiss. Who, after all, had tried so hard to help him keep up, when the beating he took from Cole over the kiss (well, to be honest, over the things he said to Cole about the kiss, which was its own sort of satisfying; who got to say those sorts of things to Esras Cole and live?) put him behind on his lessons? Who had offered defense, at his own reputation's expense, when Faer's sad state had invited ridicule from the other cadets? After all – really after all – who had coached him through leaving the Academy, supported him in finding a law apprenticeship, and kept his spirits up while making the transition between old and new life, helping him overcome the bitter tang of what he thought had been ignominious failure?
Galen. Galen, Galen, Galen.
And, should he ever find himself in dire need of impressing someone, having found himself between Cole and Galen (even though it was as a cadet and they weren't famous then) made a gem of a story.
Of course, what good was he if he couldn't finagle the Law he had worked so hard to learn to save the person that had helped save him?
Faer looked down at battle plans and clerk's sheets. The problem was really the confession. Odds that they could confound the confession? Pretty low. Odds that Galen would change his mind and help them? Lower than a shot to the nuts of a knocked-down, limbless, veteran during a contest of honor. If Cole hadn't changed his mind, nobody would.
Odds that Faer could muddy up the waters around the confession enough that everyone even forgot he had done it? Pretty good, actually. Faer smiled to himself. Galen had been right; he was good at his job.
But that was only obfuscating the problem, not solving it. It was a thin limb to lie on. The only way to mitigate confession was to show just cause, and without Galen's help on that issue...
Ask to be executed, and you’ll be executed. Anything less than strong counter-evidence would be the equivalent of arguing that since he felt bad about it, Galen should get off light. As long as he had performed the actions he performed, he could still be executed.
Executing Galen was not a possibility – not one Faer would consider. He was shackled, though; he would get nowhere with the defense without more answers. He crushed the paper in his hand and threw it aside. Deal with problems as they come; execution was still at least three days away and torture (hopefully) began tomorrow. Focus on preventing the torture for now, and later–
The door opened.
Faer looked up from the papers under his hand, and by the time his smile of greeting had faded, so had all of his previous thoughts.
“Cole?”
Faer shuffled around the bed to walk towards him. He had been half the evening away; chances were the Ball was still going, but it was the wee hours of the morning, and he doubted Cole had been dancing to such distraction. He didn't look it. By blood and death, Cole looked like he had been thrashed in battle for the very first time. Pale and frowning and weary-looking. Old.
“Cole!?”
Faer stopped in front of him but resisted the urge to reach out and check for injuries, or guide him to a chair. However much he might look defeated, Cole was still Cole. Still, Faer was getting worried. He pulled himself together, snapping out his voice like an officer's.
“Cole – what happened?”
Cole looked up, and it seemed to Faer like the first layer of him had gone translucent, like suddenly he could see the thoughts and gears and emotions all so cleverly hidden beneath his thick hide moving on the surface. His eyes weren't empty, but windswept. His face wasn't pale, but bloodless. The shadows beneath his eyes were neither bruises, nor fatigue, but a simple lack of light.
“Faer–” Ah, but he was still Cole; his eyes fixed on Faer like arrows to their targets, “I must decide.”
“Decide what?” Faer frowned.
It wasn't like Cole to hide his plans, though he did look away, making Faer think Cole almost didn't want him to know. Retrospectively, Faer could understand why.
“Let Nika be tortured... or sell myself to the King.”
Faer felt something build in his chest like a great swelling wind – of course Cole should not let Galen be tortured, anything but that – but Faer put a stopper on it and folded his arms.
“The King? What does the King want with you?”
Cole shook his head. “The King is dead. The Prince is King now.”
Mercy! Faer had to take a breath. “Well, fine – what does the King want you for?”
Cole and Faer had once been friends; though they got along, what they had become after Faer had almost been taken as Galen's second choice was not friendly. Cole could not be friends, with someone who had come so close.
The look which Cole gave to Faer was one he hadn't seen since they had been friends – one of insecurity, one of trepidation.
“...To rule Ainjir. As General of the Army. He will save Nika and help him hide, and all I must do is achieve rank and consent to rule at his side as Consort.”
A silence passed.
“You'll be his creature,” Faer said, though he was having trouble speaking. “He'll have complete control of both sides of the government, and should you ever disagree, he'll simply use Galen against you. The threat remains the same, just delayed. And you hand him Ainjir – all of it.”
“But Nika will be alive, unbroken,” Cole's voice hand the high ring of hope to it, though a meager hope.
“And a prisoner, with yourself.” But Faer started to feel it working on him as it was on Cole, the bitter perfection of the deal working in his guts, making them twist. “Though a rich one, and powerful. And as an offer it's a worthy one – generous, even. Poisonous. Generous...”
Faer knew that though his jealousy would not allow him to get close to those he considered amorous rivals, Cole had never held his own affections as something for which others would battle. He was being asked to hand out something he considered meager, for the sake of that which he held in highest esteem.
Faer was no help. Or, rather, Faer was too much help. He knew how Cole felt. His stomach turned and his heart leapt, and he wanted to chastise Cole for even taking time to think about it.
Cole looked up at Faer, who was friend enough not to say it before Cole did. “I can't refuse.”