And so what should have been the first trumpets of war had been allowed to quiet once again back into the whispers of strategy.
Still, seven years later, tensions remained high, the veil of diplomacy shroud-thin, and Alucard didn’t blame Ciara for downplaying her heritage when she made her livelihood in the shadow of the royal palace. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps it was only a matter of time before war came to London, in one form or another.
They drained their glasses, and took their seats, and the game began.
Alucard moved three of his soldiers, a bold opening.
Unlike Sanct, there was no way to cheat in Rasch. It was pure strategy. When a player swept a piece from the other side, they could take it off the board, or turn it into one of theirs, depending on the endgame. Some played to eviscerate their enemies. Others to make them allies. As long as one of the prime three pieces was still standing, there was a chance to win.
“Anesh,” he said as he waited for her to make her move. “Have you had any interesting guests?”
Ciara considered. “All of my guests are interesting.” She moved her priest to the back of the board, where it would be safe. “They sometimes talk in their sleep.”
“Do they?” asked Alucard, waiving his turn.
When it came to Rasch, she was far better than him, so he rarely bothered trying to win, preferring instead to find new ways to vex his opponent.
“There are rumors,” Ciara went on, having finished her next move, “of a pirate fleet off the coast of Hal. One almost as big as the Rebel Army.”
“Funny,” said Alucard, “my spies say it is only four ships, and they cannot seem to settle on a course of sail, let alone a captain.” He pushed a soldier forward. “And in Vesk?”
“The crown prince has not been seen at court in weeks. Some think he is at sea. Others, that he has docked somewhere in Arnes, and travels southward in disguise to save his youngest brother, Hok.”
Alucard drew the soldier back again. “Save him from what? Stiff beds and long-winded metaphors?” Rhy had placed the Veskan heir in the hands of the priests at the London Sanctuary, and all reports were that he was proving a bright and exceedingly polite pupil.
As Ciara considered her move, he sat back, rubbing absently at one wrist.
It was a habit born years before the Tide, when the worst scar he wore came from the iron he’d been forced into as a prisoner, the metal heated until it burned a cuff into his skin. A painful reminder of a life he’d left behind. Now the darkened band was little more than a backdrop to the molten silver running up his arms, tracing his collar, his throat, his temples.
Most, like Ciara, saw the silver as a badge of honor, a sign of strength, but for a long time, he’d hated the marks. They hadn’t been a reminder of his might, only a testament to his weakness.
For months, every time he caught the glint of silver, he saw was his little sister, Anisa, hollowed out in death, felt his own body collapsing to his cabin floor, remembered the fever, burning his worst memories into his mind as Osaron turned his whole spirit from a fire to a candle flame. And Alucard knew that his life would have been snuffed out if Rhy Maresh hadn’t found him there, dying on the floor of his ship. If Rhy hadn’t lain down beside him on the sweat-stained board, and tangled his hands through his, and refused to let go.
For months, every time he crossed a mirror, he’d stop and stare, unable to look at himself. Unable to look away.
It was only a matter of time before Rhy caught him staring.
“You know,” said the king, “I’ve heard humility is an attractive trait.”
Alucard had managed a smile, and parried, with a shadow of his usual charm. “I know,” he’d said, “but it’s hard when you’re this striking.” And Rhy must have heard the sadness in his voice, because he’d draped himself over Alucard, and pressed a kiss into the silver-creased hollow of his throat.
“Your scars are my favorite part of you,” said the king, running a finger from the molten lines all the way to the brands at his wrists. “I love them all. Do you know why?”
“Because you were jealous of my looks?” he quipped.
For once, Rhy didn’t laugh. He brought his hand to Alucard’s cheek, and turned his gaze away from the mirror. “Because they brought you back to me.”
“Your move,” said Ciara. Alucard forced his attention back to the board.
“What of Faro?” he asked, moving the same soldier. “They claim to be our ally.”
“Ambassadors have silver tongues. You and I both know that Faro wants a war with Vesk.”