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All around them in the caverns, the low sounds of gathering war: murmuring voices, clanking metal, a collective feverish whisper. Mareth looks around at a muttered curse, nearer than the rest, and sees Hamnet twisting awkwardly and craning his neck, jerking at the strap of his spaulder.
“Let me,” Mareth says, and Hamnet drops the strap with an exasperated wave of his hand. He approaches, the plates of his own armor rasping quietly against one another as he moves. Hamnet is still when Mareth tightens the strap, and with their faces so close together, Mareth can see his nostrils flaring as he breathes. It is always like this, now. Gone is the simple ease he once had in battle—though there still is no better warrior, Hamnet fights with a grimness that fits ill on his shoulders.
As if he hears Mareth’s thoughts, Hamnet’s gaze flicks to him and away. Mareth finishes with the spaulder and lifts Hamnet’s arm to check the fastenings on his breastplate, and Hamnet allows it. “You know,” Mareth says quietly, his face hidden, “in truth... we need not fight. We could leave together, you and I.”
A brief pause, and then Hamnet bends slightly, his arm still raised, to look down at him. “And where would we go?”
“I know not,” Mareth admits with a sigh. He had meant it only as a jest, but when he glances up, Hamnet’s brow is creased in a frown.
Hamnet straightens again as Mareth steps away. “We cannot leave, in any case. Solovet depends on me today.”
As always when he mentions his mother, Hamnet’s face hardens, something darkening in his eyes. Mareth is not sure if he realizes the change. “The sluice gates?” he asks.
Hamnet nods. “She says it will be enough. Have you ever known one of her plans to fail?”
Mareth must admit he has not. Solovet has never been one to err on the side of caution. And the plan, in truth, is a clever one, for the rats will be vulnerable to the fliers if they are forced to swim.
Something of his concern must still show on his face, for Hamnet steps nearer again and takes Mareth by the arm. His fingers find the lacing on the underside of Mareth’s bracer, pressing into the fabric and flesh just above his wrist. “You will fight with me?”
It is a question that should not need asking. “Always,” Mareth tells him. It is not Hamnet whom he doubts.
“Thank you,” Hamnet says—more words that need not be said.
When he lets Mareth go, they both busy themselves with the last pieces of armor—sword belts, helmets. The armor is light so as not to hamper the fliers, who will meet them at the mouth of the caves, but it weighs heavily. Mareth cannot quite understand why he should feel so uneasy before this fight, which is in truth no different from the countless others he and Hamnet have fought, each defending the other.
The only sounds between them are the clanking armor, the occasional snick of some piece or other against the stone. And then Hamnet says, “Mareth—” When Mareth looks over, he hesitates, then goes on. “I know you mean only to help, but—it would be treason.”
It takes Mareth a moment to understand what Hamnet means: if they were to leave, to escape the fight that awaits them. “I—”
“You promised me you would not cross her,” Hamnet presses. His eyes, shadowed by his helmet, are deep indigo.
“It was a jest,” Mareth tells him. “I meant only to cheer you.”
Across the small space, Hamnet smiles; Mareth can see it in the crinkling of his eyes. “It is a nice dream,” he says, “but I know where I am going.” He steps toward the tunnel that leads back to the main caverns, to where Astria and Andromeda are waiting. “Tarry not,” he says. “It will soon begin.” He turns and goes, the shadows drowning the gleam of his armor, the echoes of his passage fading until there is nothing left to hear.