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“This way, please, sir,” said the Attolian royal guardsman.
Eddis’s minister of war recognized him as one of the okloi squad leaders, one that the king personally trusted.
“And why am I invited to walk in the private royal garden just now?”
“At His Majesty’s request, sir,” was all the guard would say.
The minister harrumphed.
The guard’s expression remained bland and respectful. “His Majesty said that you would know when it was time to come back to the palace.”
“So, so.”
“I will wait for you here, sir.” The guard stood, parade-straight, by an arched stone doorway. “The garden has been thoroughly searched by my squad and myself. Your safety is—” He reconsidered his words. “I guarantee that there are no intruders.”
The minister almost smiled.
He nodded at the guard and passed through the doorway, his steps crunching unevenly on the gravel path.
He had nearly reached a graceful fountain, shaded by trees and surrounded by a tempting circle of low stone seats, when the queen of Attolia stepped out from behind a hedge. She was walking quickly, staring into the middle distance, with her hands clenched into fists.
The minister of war was not entirely surprised to see the queen. The traces of tears on her cheeks, however, were a surprise.
When she saw him, she stopped short. Apparently he was a surprise, as well.
“Your Majesty.” He inclined his head, trying not to wince. Why did he have to have his most highly fraught conversations with Attolia while more or less concussed? “I apologize for the intrusion. A squad leader of the Royal Guard delivered me here for a walk in the garden. By order of the king.”
She looked back at him from behind her most expressionless mask. “I see.”
He held himself as straight as possible, gritting his teeth, willing her to walk on so that he could sit down.
She did not walk on. She stood still, appearing utterly composed. As though she had not glared at him with boiling fury on the staircase.
As though she had not been crying in the garden.
“His Majesty will be all right,” he heard himself saying.
“No thanks to you,” she snapped.
“I don’t know if you heard the words at the start of the trial, Your Majesty.” He spoke carefully. “All of us—the king, and everyone else—had to swear before the Great Goddess to fight in earnest.” Surely Helen had explained that to her afterward. “The king himself made me promise to show him no favoritism.”
His mouth twisted, remembering the blows he had landed.
Attolia’s eyes narrowed. “Superstitious Eddisian nonsense.”
“Perhaps,” the minister hedged. “But all of Your Majesties need the Eddisians to support Eugenides as high king, as we prepare to take on the Mede.”
She nodded once, acknowledging the point. “And,” she added acerbically, “the king could not resist an opportunity to show his barbarian cousins that he could take their beating and laugh in their faces.”
He suppressed a smile. The queen was not wrong.
Her gaze suddenly swept to his head and then to his knee. “I think, sir, that you should not be standing so long. Let us sit.” She turned abruptly and strode toward one of the low seats around the fountain.
Another surprise. Blinking, he limped after her. They sat, one at each end of the stone bench.
“The king didn’t laugh in your face,” Attolia observed.
They were both quiet for a moment, watching the fountain.
“I owe you an apology, sir,” she said. “I was angry, earlier. You will find this difficult to believe, but I do not react well when the king is hurt.”
The minister shifted slightly to look at the queen, who was still staring at the play of water in the sunlight. Helen had told him this before, and he had, indeed, found it difficult to believe. But today, he had seen for himself the tears that Attolia had meant to hide.
Before he could decide what to say, the queen spoke again. “Now that I am considering the situation more objectively, I can understand that you had a difficult path to navigate, balancing your duty to your queen against your love for your son.” She glanced at him briefly. “You walked that path with honor.”
So many surprises today.
“I am not without practice,” he said, dryly, “in balancing the disparate needs of my queen, my country, and my son.”
“I know.” She turned back to the fountain. “I have always envied my husband that support. And Eddis, as well.”
Her hands had clenched into fists again. She deliberately relaxed them, smoothing her skirt.
“My father,” she said, “was a man who sold his daughter, and his country, to the highest bidder.”
The minister observed Attolia’s utterly expressionless face while he considered parents and children, uncles and nieces, queens and kings.
“Eddis is my queen,” he said, at last. “But she has taken an oath of loyalty to your country. Eugenides is my son, but he has given his heart to you.” He shifted again, easing his knee. “My support for them is support for you.”
“You conduct yourself with honor, once again.” She inclined her head. “I am grateful that you support me, even while you despise me.”
“Your Majesty.” He found a new truth, and spoke it. “I don’t hate you, not any more. Not now that Gen has sent me for a stroll in the garden.”
He heard her catch her breath, saw the slightest flush of pink bring life to her face.
“My name is Irene.” It was almost too quiet to hear.
He held out his hand, and she took it. Her fingers were cold, but strong. She met his gaze and held it.
“Irene,” he said. “My name is Hector.”
~ fin ~