It never ceased to amaze him how the earth, with seemingly so little effort, created so much from so little. Color surged, plants expanded, the world heated, so much change, so much energy, and from what? It seemed nothing at all, simply a breathe of air, the steady turn of time, and everything fell into place. He wondered, mused, if there might be armies of unseen workers beneath the soil, within the branches of trees, turning and spinning invisible machines with strong orders at their backs to accomplish such impossibilities.

Fall he understood. It was easy to fall. Easier than most people knew. It took so little to simply stop, to let things crumble away. Very few things truly wished to be alive, he'd concluded. If they did why would they let themselves slip apart so effortlessly?  Individuals clung to life of course, but no one clings to something that tightly if they don't know just how easily they could lose hold of it. And when you piled lives, one on top of the other, when you snapped all those clumsy existence into a chain, into a knitted community, their totally effort to survive did not grow stronger, it grew weaker. The systems and structures that formed to unite lives, to allow survival, they were fragile things, and the more wills that joined them the weaker they became. Strange, he'd always thought, how people valued ten lives so much less than one, and a hundred lives less than ten, in many circumstances. The larger the fabric of lives, the easier it was to tear apart. It required no effort at all to do so, simply for the thread that ran through them all, binding everything together, to stop weaving, for the one man that woto just let it go. Then collapse. Then loss.

Governance, Godwin had found, was similar to being the constant master of an evolving mechanical beast, that possessed a malicious will, no sight, and was constantly plagued by other alien mechanisms nipping at it's ankles.

The beast was filled, toes to tip with other smaller fleshy beasts, who did not even know their home was alive unless it stumbled and they fell off their seats. They didn't truly see that the food they ate came through it's mouth first, or that the waste they produced fell through it's digestion afterwards. People were too busy clinging to their own easily misplaced lives to think of things like that. The beast was great, and always growing, always changing. Some days it needed to swim a river and such ability had to be provided for. Some days it needed to climb a mountain and such ability had to be provided for. Some days it needed to eat grass, some days meat, some days stone, and such ability had to be provided for. But this beast was cursed, doomed by the mistress of time to always move forward, to always run, and no new country it had to cross was ever the quite same. The beast needed to drop appendages as easily as it acquired them, and as a blind creature, it needed a careful master directing it's journey onward.

The master needed to guide the beast over hills, oceans, forests. And the best masters saw as if their eyes were constructed of telescopes, seeing not the present, but the future, the next country rather than the current. It hurt, to look so far ahead, but it was as it must be. The master had to prepare for the days yet unseen, live not in the present but in the shifting ominous cloud of things not yet passed. Looking ahead did not mean seeing only landscapes and obstacles, but other beasts that would circle and slash at it's heels, or pass harmlessly by. Sometimes preparing for such encounters meant building the beast a poisonous skin that was death to bite, sometimes it meant making it's shape match the oncoming creatures so they might mistake it's nature, and sometimes it meant taking careful aim through telescopic eyes and squeezing a trigger. The master had to guide the beast so smoothly that the creatures within never stopped guarding their own fragile lives, for if they did so, the cogs and gears of the beast would stop turning and it would crash into stillness.

Strange. How nature seemed to manage so effortlessly, how the beast of the world, which indeed must need the most vigilant and stern master of them all, hardly seemed to require one at all. But that was just the point wasn't it? In the beast of the world he, Godwin, was merely a creature along for the unperceived journey. The job of the master was to remain invisible. Maybe one day, if he looked close enough, far enough, he might glimpse the secret cogs of the world. Maybe one day, he would look into the great master's eyes and ask to understand such secrets.

Godwin knew that his beast was slightly different. When a beast stumbles so hard that every one of it's passengers crashes to the ground as well, they cannot help but suddenly know the nature of their lives. They cannot help but see the master and the fault he caused. They cannot help but hate. And when a new master picks up that beast, gear by gear, until it stumbles to a walk once more, and then a run, and then a climb, they cannot help but know his face. They cannot help but love.

From where he stood Godwin could see the factory the event was to held at in just a few hours. The factory was one of the earlier that he and Sarai had opened, a few months less six years ago. There were crowds gathering in the surrounding park already, blankets being spread, clusters of life settling into the space. The podium had been arranged in front, the factory still turning behind, it's breathe still pushing grey and white into the sky above. Clouds snuck across the sky but they seemed to lack conviction, he suspected the sun would be shining through by the time he stepped out in front of his people. There was a massive screen erected above the stage. His face would be nearly the size of a building, looking out over all of them, his voice filling the air with the force of a storm. Two banners hung on either side, one of himself, fifteen stories tall, the other of Sarai. Crowns on their heads, lights in their eyes.

The divine blood. What a concept. His father's blood had been as divine as his. He had been a cowering creature stained with his own shit clutching at a fourteen-year-old's feet, snot and tears running down his face. Divine did not come from blood. It came from will. Definition was a careful craft. Gods were built, not born.

He checked his watch neatly. The sun came to Metraterra sooner than Catheda. Sarai would likely be awake by now, especially if her dawn-sickness continued to plague her. Such inconvenience. It marveled him, even to this day, what she, what all women bore for the lives they created.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, working the necessary swipes quickly. It rang twice.

"Good morning," Sarai's voice smiled through the phone.

He could see her face, even hundreds of miles away. The sunshine suited her. Catheda was grey more days than not, and he could hear the light of her homeland shining through her now, filling her like a cup of clear, sweet water.

"How are you?" Godwin asked, sitting down in the stern-backed chair that faced his tidy desk.

"Oh, sick, happy, sleepy, you know," she answered.

"I didn't wake you did I?"

"Oh no, I've been awake a little while, should have been up well earlier. The house has been up for hours."

"Houses always wake earlier than people," Godwin said.

"Only when there's a few particular people there to rouse them," Sarai argued.

"How's the sickness?"

"It's not as bad as it was, getting better. He's settling in."

"Boy then?"

"I think so," Sarai says. He can almost see her through the telephone running a hand over her belly, less than half the size of what it would become soon enough. "Just my luck. Two boys. They'd never forgive me if this was still home."

"How's your cousin?" Godwin asked.

"He's alright." She paused. "It seemed good at first, better. It's become... challenging."

"It's quite the change," Godwin said, "for the girl."

Sarai sighed through the phone. "Of course it is, I suppose I just didn't realize just how dramatic it would be. I'm glad I came. I can't imagine if Eammon was alone."

"And how's Jozef," Godwin asked.

Sarai brightened. "He likes it here. At least I think he does, you know how reticent he can be sometimes. He's quite cynical for a ten-year-old."

Godwin smiles. "I'm afraid that might be my fault."

"I'm sure it's your fault," Sarai smiled back. "But this is good for him, I'm so glad he's here. He's never been around animals like this, or the fields. He's getting color in his cheeks. It's handsome. Good for him."

"I'm glad," Godwin said. And he was. He liked to see her happy, and to see Jozef develop. Both him and she went into their son in equal measurements, and if he prepared accordingly, Jozef's reign would be twice as successful as his own had been. And that was truly what mattered in the end. Persistence. Legacy.

"It strange, isn't it," Sarai started, her voice taking on that tone it always did when she was feeling reflective: misty, and filled with the knowledge that time, once set, stamped the world in one shape, but might have pressed into any form at all, "it's been thirteen years. Already. Although, maybe that's not quite right... Has it gone by quickly or slowly? I can't tell."

Godwin tapped his finger idly against the rich surface of his desk. "Maybe both at once. Years can go by slowly, and decades quickly. Jozef's decade has rushed past. And those first three years, with all we had to accomplish, all we had to rebuild, time passed so furiously."

"Mm," she hummed idly through the line. She was tired. She often grew philosophical when she was just barely awake or nearly asleep. "I'm sorry I'm not there."

"As am I," Godwin said.

"I miss them," Sarai said.

"Who?"

"All of them. My city. The people. I don't know when it became home, but it did. Here's still home as well. The smells are home. And the feel of the air. But I've given myself to those people, to our people, and they've given themselves back. It's as though we've exchanged something, a deep secret thing, passed back and forth, and I feel it's absence when I'm far from it."

He smiled. He'd chosen his wife exactly as he should have. Well, not chosen, none of them chose, not any more, not since he signed that document. But he had signed it, and if he hadn't seen her potential, her possibility lined up so neatly alongside his own, he may never have laid his crisp slanted signature along-side the others.

"You can come home, whenever you like. Tomorrow if you care to," he said.

Her answer came exactly as he'd known it would. "Eammon needs me, I can't leave now. And Jozef is learning so much here, things he could never have in Catheda. I'll stay. For now at least."

"Do what you feel you must," Godwin said honestly, warmly.

"Enjoy it," Sarai smiled. "Kiss the country for me."

"I will," he answered.

"Talk soon," she said, voice as light as the sun he knew was filling her homeland. "I love you. I miss you."

"And you," he said simply. "Good-bye."

They parted thus, and as soon as the conversation ended he stood, straightening his suit neatly and turning out the door, his sharp shoes carrying him down the marble steps, one crisp echo at a time.

It didn't take long to reach the event. The crowd was packed tight and vast in the park. There must have been five hundred thousand spread across the fresh grass and the closed surrounding streets. At the very least. There had been fewer last year, and double today's number when they had celebrated the tenth anniversary three years ago.

His state-car and security detail made it's way through the passage that had been carved through the downtown traffic especially for them, easing into the back of the factory. Once outside of the cool silencing walls of the vehicle the noise of the crowd bubbled up all around them like an eager living sea.

Godwin's tight darkly-clad security ushered him easily in the arranged entrance. As soon as he entered the factory applause and cheers rang out from all sides. The workers had all gathered to welcome him, thousands lining the first, second, third stories that all looked down into the foyer.

Godwin smiled, small and humble, waving back. The CEO was waiting for him, red face beaming, fat hand already waiting to clutch his own. He bowed as soon as Godwin let him take it.

"Your Majesty, it's an honor, as always. We're so grateful to host you, host this, on such an occasion."

Godwin smiled, "The honor is mine." Though the occasion was not remarkable. It was for them perhaps, the creatures within the beast.

He'd chosen this factory particularly. There were many that had been revitalized in the years following his father's death, and indeed this one was not unique to any of the three he had chosen on the past celebrations of the anniversary of his coronation. But there was more of an eye to the future in this selection. The tenth anniversary he'd held at a steel factory, the backbone of their industry that had crumbled under his father's wavering grasp, then two car factories, and today again, automobiles, or rather automobile parts. However, this factory held a specialization in battery production, an area it was vital to control if their automobile market was to continue to be relevant in the shifting dynamics of the times.

"We're all eager to begin," the CEO, Prevott, Godwin remembered easily, "I'm sure you are as well."

"I wouldn't want to keep anyone waiting," Godwin nodded.

"Then, your Majesty," the man swung an expansive arm, "we can head right this way."

They moved at a healthy speed, through cheers and applause echoing off and around the factory's walls, to up and out, where the cheers had no confines, and their numbers, their volume soared like a million cawing birds up into the sky above.

The day was bright, bright enough to cause his blue eyes to blink harshly as he passed into it. He'd never completely gotten used to the sun. It was usually so clouded over in Catheda.

Smiling faces and hands eager to be shaken lined the path to the podium. He moved through it slowly, and indeed he did feel Sarai's absence. When she was here he had another to share this attention, to take half the hands in her own, and return half the smiles. It was a greater burden alone.

The podium rose before him and he crested, stepping to the top to a sudden wave of sound from the crowd spread out beyond. The citizens rippled, shifting and shining like a field of wheat under a summer breeze. Most wore red, the color of his house, of his family. Chants rose and fell, individual voices carried for a moment only to be lost against in the hum of the masses. He raised his have to wave and their voices cried out, the wave crested and shattered again over him. Love poured out of them, drenching him in adoration, worship.

He stepped back to where he should be as CEO Prevott approached the podium, ready to welcome him. The man clutched the podium, thanking the crowd, and a relative silence fell, anticipating the words to come.

"Thank you all, for joining us on such a special occasion," Prevott began. "We are truly honored to be the hosts of this year's coronation anniversary. May there be many more."

The crowd cheered, echoing his statement back at him-- "Many more! Many more! Many more!"

"You all know why we are here. We are here today because this city, this country, lived many years in a darkness few of us imagined possible. When I was twenty-seven, the same age as our king behind me, it seemed Catheda would shine forever. The factories rose by the sea, and the trade flowed as easily as the tides. And then a darkness fell upon us, and as with all shadows, the unexpected timing made it fall heavier and thicker than we ever imagined it could.

"The Divine Blood we had trusted so, failed us. Our king, failed us. When the world began to age, and catch up with our success, all that we had built began to rust. There was no one to polish what we had built, no one to ensure that we grew as quickly as the world did. Time passed over Catheda and it passed heavily, as a king simply stood by and watched, distracted so with his own demons that he could not notice the smell of his country as it rotted around him.

"I remember the day I had to release ten percent of my staff. Then thirty. Then fifty. I remember the day my neighbors across the street moved away, fleeing to Fleuvia with what savings they. I remember when the house next to them emptied, and the house after that. I remember walking streets and hearing more stray dogs barking after scraps than human voices, houses staring out at the street empty and forgotten."

“I remember when the anger of the people finally cracked. There were so few of us left, and we carried the rage of all those who had left on our backs. I remember when we walked to the palace, when we threw the rocks that had been out streets, the bricks that had been our homes, the steel that had been our work, anything, everything; we hurled what we could find at the place that had harmed us so. And all we received in return were bullets into the gathered crowds.

"I remember the day my wife asked me why we hadn't left. I remember when she looked at me, so tired, so lost, as all of us were. She asked why we hadn't gone with the rest of them, why we couldn't go. I couldn't answer her. I didn't know myself. I knew I loved my country, still, deep within. There was a part of me that still beat for Catheda. But I didn't know why. I didn't know how. Godwin Nikolaas Arnoldus reminded me. Godwin Nikolaas Arnoldus saved me. Godwin Nikolaas Arnoldus saved us all."

The cheers exploded out of the crowd, shattering off the steel buildings around them, soaring up into the clear sky.

"It seemed impossible," Prevott continued, "I know I was hesitant to believe, we all were. But it was true. Our miracle had come. The king was dead and in his place was a monarch who returned to us everything we had lost. Thirteen years ago today Godwin Nikolaas Arnoldus was coronated and took the place of his father on the throne of Catheda with his beautiful consort Sarai Eustance Celestine by his side, our queen, who we miss greatly on this day of celebration."

The crowd release a sympathetic hum of support.

"In thirteen years, Godwin Nikolaas Arnoldus has taken our capital from the most desolate of metropolises to a thriving, vibrate, expanding, industrial city that puts even what it was fifty years ago in the shadows!"

The cheers soared again, impossibly louder, impossibly stronger.

"And so, without any further delay, I give you, your king!"

The noise exploded over him, waves upon waves. The faces in the crowd were all turned towards him, towards the massive screen that projected his face ten stories high, towards the banners of he and Sarai and towered monumental. Godwin took the two steps up the podium to stand before them. He rested his hands on the smooth metal, and with a calm smile, he looked out over his beast.

Taraesa heard the sheep before she saw them, brittle cries anxious and excitable. She leaned against the old wood of the fence posts, splintery and tinted with lichen. The sheep normally wandered wherever on the land they pleased without restriction or borders, but it was spring, and there were certain chores that needed their presence.

She smiled. He hadn't seen her yet, too distracted by the task at hand. Even though it was hardly warm enough he'd stripped to his shirt, arms freckled and corded, dancing with his actions. He held the sheep he'd wrangled firmly, running the clippers over her with practice. Under him she could see the knees of his jeans soaking against the damp of the earth, but he didn't seem to mind. His tussled red-hair seemed all the brighter against the grey of the day.

After a minute or two he let the sheep go and it bounded out of reach, bony legs exposed and quick, agile after it's initial awkwardness upon standing. It shook roughly, feeling the air against it's now exposed skin and bleating out short confusion.

"There, better now, eh?" Ronan called after it. The sheep ignored him, wiggling it's tail idly and returning shyly back to the gathered group, nose down in the boggy earth.

"Doesn't seem terribly grateful," Taraesa observed, leaning heavily on the fence under her.

Ronan turned with a surprised smile, hefting the shorn wool up with him. "Where'd you come from?"

"Been here for hours," she shrugged. "I'm surprised you didn't notice."

"I must be terribly distracted," Ronan teased back.

"Seems so." She eyed the wool in his arms, all of it dirty with mud, thistles, twigs. "Replenishing?"

"Don't have much yarn left after Brogan's," Ronan answered, dropping it into a basket where more was already waiting. "I'll have to spin more. Don't want to run out."

"It was good to see them, up in the mountains," she said.

"It was," he agrees fondly.

"Do you miss them?" She asks after a moment. "Even now?"

He drops more wool in the basket. "Every day."

"It was nice to be there," she continues. "To forget about things for a moment."

He smiles. "Did you? Forget?"

She frowns. "No, I suppose not."

"Distractions can be tricky," Ronan says, moving across the grass, scattering a few sheep as he gets close enough to lean next to her. "You can tie as many lures as you like but you'll have to toss them in sooner or later."

She'd heard that one from him before, a little too often in fact. "It's not lures I'm worried about it's the bloody boat."

The nerves that had been dancing around her stomach since that morning tightened as she remembered what was waiting for her in only a handful of hours. She'd come out here to breathe some air, to try and forget it, or at least push it aside for a moment. Worrying did no good, she was as prepared as she was going to be and she knew it well enough. All thinking about it now did was make her stomach sick and hands clammy. It was best just to push it aside. Best, but still impossible.

"You'll be fine," Ronan says, leaning over to nudge his freckled arm against hers.

She lets her head tip over to rest on his shoulder heavily. "How do you know?"

"Because, you always are."

"That's not a good answer."

"How about, there's no reason to be nervous?"

She lifts her head up again with a vexed expression. "There's a thousand reasons for me to be nervous, millions, one for every citizen who could hate me even more as the months go on."

"They love you. They know you are doing the right thing."

"I don't know if that's true. Why should they care about refugees?"

"For the same reason you do," he answered simply.

She couldn't find the right words to respond to that, so she settled instead for silence. She stared off at the sheep sullenly, watching as they nudged at each other, feet quick and light on the budding land underneath. She found herself wondering for a moment if they were being considerate of the life trying to grow there, or if they simply didn't like their feet getting wet if it was possible to avoid.

"Are any pregnant?" She asked quietly.

"Four. I think," he answered.

She hummed quietly. Did they know, she wondered? Did they sense the life as soon as it was part of them? They didn't need sticks and colors and doctors confirming or denying. Early on she'd checked at least three times a day, boxes of sticks littering their bathroom every week. Then, eventually, only daily, and now she did her best to test only a few times a week. It minimized the disappointment that way, but to replace it there was more room in-between for hope to spring.

Did they know, wandering around now alive with the smell of the earth? Did they feel the life as it expanded? Did they even care?

"Maybe we'll ask Brogan and Catarina down this way," Ronan suggested. "Cat could see the little ones once they come."

"I'm sure she's seen lambs before," Tarasea said, voice still distant.

"Not these lambs," Ronan smiled. "These are the best of the best." She couldn't help smiling back.

He wrapped a long arm around her shoulders pulling her close. He smelled like mud and spring and salt, pressing a kiss close and warm to the top of her head. He ran his hand up and down her shoulder, quick, comforting, and warm.

"Come on your Majesty," he squeezed. "Let's get you ready."

She hadn't realized she'd fallen asleep until their state-car came to a slow stop. Ronan's suit jacket scratched against her cheek as she lifted her head up to look out the window, eyes still bleary. There wasn't much she could see from where she was through the clustered bodies outside and the tinted windows blocking them, but judging by the noise and the movement she could see, a reasonable crowd was waiting for them just beyond those doors. There nerves in her stomach began to dance again.

She turned back to him. "How's my...?" She gestured vaguely to her face.

"Good," he smiled. He leaned in and kissed her on the mouth. "Very good."

She just managed to smile back at him before their door opened. The noise poured in all the better for it, giving the crowd a whole new weight.

Ronan stepped out easily, waving over the roof of the car. Voices cheered appreciatively, camera flashes splashed across his face, white and quick. He held a hand out for her and she took it, easing out of the seat and standing beside him before them all. It was a large crowd, spread out across the square opposite of the state buildings. Larger than she expected.

She waved, formal, loving, wrapping an arm around Ronan's waist as he smiled bright and full. The Seat waited behind them, a long stone building constructed far later than the castle they'd left, but still centuries hence. She'd always felt it was gloomier than their castle, sterner lines, straighter edges and stricter windows. But then again she'd spent her childhood learning the fold and curves of the castle, and nearly every time she'd arrived at The Seat her stomach had been a messy knot of nerves and concern. Their flags waved in the spring air atop the ramparts, proud and bright against the grey sky. She focused on them, doing her best not to let her attention linger on the crowd.

"The Lords are all gathered, your Majesty," a tall man in a dark suit with a stern expression said beside them.

"Thank you," she answered, turning to make her way up the long stairs towards the wide wooden doors of The Seat. Ronan followed her, arm tight and warm around her own.

The crowd that had gathered opposite The Seat was chanting something. She tried not to listen, the words were hard to make out anyways. In the end it was merely voices, raised, passionate, throwing themselves against the stone building that looked down on them. There had been signs in the crowd when she'd looked: "Send Them Home", "Our Land Our Right", and maybe most definitively "Fuck Gloriaterra".

The marble steps scuffed gently under their feet as they headed up set after set till they finally reached the top. The large ornamental doors were pulled open by footmen on either side and they bustled in quickly.

Inside the space was all cold echoes and rushing bodies. The staircase at the back of the circular foyer was wide, spiraling around up through five floors and stopping under a domed glass ceiling. Taraesa looked around, wrapping her scarf closer. All of it still felt as big as it had to her when she was a child holding her father's hand, walking these hollow halls. Wasn't it supposed to feel smaller by now?

"Your Majesty," a smiling woman stepped forward from where she had been waiting just beside the stairs. She was wearing her  dark hair back today, body small but sturdy. She was older than Taraesa by about ten years, though her eyes seemed far older.

Taraesa smiled. "Hello, Ina."

The woman approached, files and folders neatly tucked under one suited arm. "Ready?"

Taraesa sighed. "Bloody hope so."

Ronan chuckled beside her.

"You'll be alright," Ina said, voice low and careful. "We've been over the figures a dozen times this past week. Trust them."

Taraesa sighed, feeling the comfortable weight of Ronan's arm under hers. "Best get it over with."

Ina nodded, stepping aside to open the way up the marble steps. They scaled them all together, climbing past tall windows that looked out to the cities shining scenery and the hills beyond, past suited security posted at regular intervals staring into space as if it were a book to be read. It didn't take them long to reach the third floor.

Ina led the way, snaking down the halls with familiarity. Taraesa was glad of it, she was always afraid she'd become lost if she were here alone. She'd been to The Seat every month since she was a girl, but she was always so distracted by the events at hand that the twists and turns of the building never seemed to set in properly. She suspected the lords might move things around on her when she wasn't there, just to make her feel more lost.

Finally, they reached a tall proud door. It swung open from the inside, Taraesa took a deep breath, and stepped through.

"Good morning, my Lords," she said, voice steadier than she felt.

All around the wide conference hall chairs squeaked on stone as they were pushed back and the Lords of the land stood to acknowledge her presence. They bowed their heads politely as she Ronan, and Ina moved into the space. She and Ronan took their places at the head of the table, their chairs pulled out by two servants waiting against the wall. Ina settled herself in next to one of them, the seats were for the lords, not her own staff.  She sat quickly, it always made her wary that they had to stand as long as she did. Ronan could be terrible about it, standing by his chair and talking to them for half an hour before finally sitting down. She'd never been exactly sure if he did it on purpose or not.

"Thank you for convening today," she said as she sat.

Stupid. All of it. If it were up to her she'd still be out in the field, watching her husband roll his sheep over and running the shears easily as anything. But these reports were required, and even though the lords most certainly were the ones doing the requesting, it was her "formal invitation" that gathered them all in this place.

"Thank you, your Majesty," Lord Richard said at the opposite end of the table. He earned that seat with the largest parcel besides her own, representing twenty percent of her people alone. She'd never liked him. He always looked back at her the way cats looked at dogs that were smaller than them. And he was clever. More clever than her by three fold at least, and he knew that perfectly well. Her father had always called him "that bloody mink" while cutting his meat too roughly at the dinner table.

"Are we all gathered?" She asked. Another stupid question. Formalities.

"All gathered," a staff member's voice towards the back confirmed.

She ran her eyes down either side of the long table. There were forty of them all told, maybe three women's faces in the lot. Less than ten of them were under fifty. None under forty.

"Now, I'm sure we all know what the most pressing issue at hand is currently," she said, "the continuing conflict in Gloriaterra, and the current state of the refugees seeking asylum within our borders."

"With due respect your Majesty," Lord Francis replied, "their status as refugees has come under some debate. They are being checked only loosely, and it is possible that under these circumstances rebel militias are entering our borders."

First sentence in and the tension was already growing.

"The refugees," she pronounced, "are here to avoid war, not cause it. The war to be fought is in their land. Not ours."

"Gloriaterra is limited," Lord Thomas added, "maybe a hostile takeover of land that is not under such contentions seems an attractive possibility to some."

"Now, now," Lord Julis eased in. "It's quite a jump from some tents on a hillside to hostile takeover, Thomas."

"Maybe a jump, but a few well calculated steps, spread over a year, possible two, that is not such a leap," Lord Richard's eyes shone across the table.

"These people are not fighters," Ronan said next to her.

"Gloriaterra was full of peaceful men," Lord Francis continues, "until one decided peace was no longer desirable. And now, their country is on fire."

"I am happy to discuss all of this in full," Taraesa broke in, "it's why we've gathered after all. But we should allow General Durran to debrief us before we begin properly. Would you agree, Lord Richard?"

The cold eyes didn't leave hers. He nodded quietly.

"General," Taraesa gestured to the man a few seats from her left with medals shining in the dull light. "Please."

The man stood, seat creaking as his weight left it. He spoke through his whiskers with practiced clarity. "Gloriaterra's state remains, as it has been: chaotic, and unpredictable. We lack the intelligence resources within the border to understand the details of the specific conflicts, but it appears that of the four factions which have been battling for control, the Pilum, Free Gloria, Equites, and Velites, the later two are moving into the strongest position in the conflict. They are now  the center of most of the fighting, which is orbiting around the western coast and Rhodyne. The other two factions are still battling but at far lesser strength, and moving north towards the mountains."

"Ah, you see," Lord Julis said. "The east is quiet. They're fighting for their cities, their ports, resources. There's nothing in the east worth the conflict. Her Majesty's right, refugees are the extent of this 'intrusion'."

"That's well and fine, Julis," the thin voice of Lady Vance returned. "So, we shall call them refugees if it pleases, but they are not without power to disrupt under that seemingly benign title. Our resources are pressed as it is. And everyday, more and more flee into our hills."

"Pressed seems a fairly ambiguous word for it, my Lady," Lord Wolton joins. "Do we not have some responsibility in the greater scheme of humanity towards these people? Would you rather send them back again, into mortars and chaos. Half of them are bloody children."

"Do not curse at me sir," Lady Vance returned neatly. "And I will not be painted as a villain for turning injured children from our borders. But if one of these children came to your door, asked to sleep in your beds, eat your meals, and use your home as it's own, would you welcome it without question?"

Lord Wolton laughed. "I don't see why not."

"And what if there were fifty children standing on your doorstep?" Lord Richard asked quietly.

"But they're not on his doorstep," Lord Julis joined again. "They aren't on anyone's doorstep. They are in a regulated area that's been nothing but rocks for years."

Lord Richard ran a thin finger down a paper in front of him. "My sources have informed me that the current 'regulated area' is being expanded by one hundred dwellings each day on the average. There's no knowing how long this conflict will last. There's no knowing what further violence may push these individuals more aggressively eastward. It could not be long indeed Lord Wolton before fifty starved dirty faces are looking up at you for charity."

"Well Sara and Hugh off at university now, been a bit too quiet, big house like that, the wife and I could use some company," Lord Wolton smiled back.

"If only the struggling citizens of our own nation shared your charitable spirit," Lord Richard smiled back.

Ina cleared her throat lightly behind them. Taraesa took the hint. "We have prepared additions to our screening at the borders to ensure that only the most in need will be given refuge," Taraesa said.

"The most in need?" Lady Vance asked.

"Families," Taraesa defined, "children traveling alone, women with child, the elderly. We are limiting the number of lone women of fighting age entering to thirty per day, and the lone men of fighting age to ten."

"And what of the others?" Lord Thomas asks. "Is there a limit on them?"

Taraesa felt her chest tightening angrily. "Not at this time."

Lord Thomas almost laughed. "So if every child rendered homeless by this war, arrived at our borders all at once, we'd simply open the way."

Taraesa's eyes tightened on him. "They are starving. They are maimed. They are lost. And they need our support."

"Here, here," Lord Wolton affirmed, giving the table a smack.

"When will it end?" Lady Vance asked.

"When Gloriaterra can support it's own citizens once more," she answered.

"And what if it never can?"

"I will not deal in hypotheticals."

"You'll excuse me your Majesty," Lord Richard said quietly. "But it seems that is exactly what you have been doing."

"We will take this as we have," Taraesa said firmly, "one day at a time. We will look at what we have, and we will look at what they have, and as long as it is reasonable, as long as it is manageable, we will maintain our support."

"What is it, your Majesty, that you believe qualifies as 'maintainable'?" Lord Francis asked.

"I invite you to judge that for yourself, Lord Francis," Ronan said suddenly. "All of you in fact."

Lady Vance's thin eyebrows lift. "Excuse me, your Majesty?"

Ronan's hand squeezed her leg firmly and warmly under the table.

"We will be announcing, on the steps after this meeting, that we will be taking an evaluating committee to the borders, to the camps, to meet these refugees, and examine the situation first hand," Taraesa said

The table stirred uncomfortably. Lord Richard remained still.

"I invite you now, as I shall publicly soon enough, to join Ronan and myself on this trip. I invite you to see these people with your own eyes and decided then what you believe is 'manageable'."

The Lords shifted in their seats. Lord Wolton looked at her with concern. "Your Majesty, the camp isn't without danger, and being that close to a warzone--"

"I'm sure you'll manage alright Wolton," she smiled back.

"I might, but yourself," Wolton continued, "your Majesty, it is a risk, and not just to yourself but all of us."

She felt an anger tighten in her throat. "If you think that I will be slaughtered by a stray mortar, leaving you all without an heir, I would urge you to understand that such danger is utterly minimal. And I would thank you to discuss my body and it's conditions as little as possible. I will bring it to your attention when it is necessary."

Lord Wolton nodded solemnly. She felt a pang of regret. She couldn't blame the man. She remembered his face shining as he threw her in the air when she wasn't more than six. And it wasn't her body, not completely, it was theirs. Her womb especially.

"We will be leaving within the month to evaluate the conditions," she said firmly, twisting the subject back to it's main focus.

"Then," Lord Richard said smoothly, "may I be the first to accept this invitation."

Taraesa bowed her head respectfully, trying not to let her stomach squirm. "Of course, Lord Richard. I can think of no one better suited for the assignment."

The night was warm enough to leave the windows of her father's library just barely ajar. A breeze, slight a sweet smelling slipped over the land and pushed its way inside to join her. There was darkness on all sides. She hadn't turned on the lights. She hadn't needed to. The moon was bright, hanging heavy and pale against the sky.

She'd been in the library since just after dinner. She'd watched the darkness creep in from the corners outwards. Funny, how if you watched a room grow dark, watching it, waiting for it, it never seemed as black once it finally got there. She'd sat in her father's old tall back armchair, bare feet curled under her, one of Ronan's sweaters pulled close under her chin. She'd watched it come, watched the room go golden against the sunset, then a paleness that slipped into blue, and a blue that darkened, bit by bit, into black, like sinking deeper and deeper into the sea. But then the moon had risen, and silver slipped in the windows, slashing the floor with dim light once again.

She wondered idly how late it was. It didn't matter. She wasn't tired. She'd had two glasses of warmed milk already and it did not good.

She held her sweater closer, gazing out the window across the hills and the fields. Soon enough they'd be nothing but green, vibrant and lush all across them. Her eyes travelled up to the sky overhead. The moon stared back, constant and watchful. The stars winked at her. They seemed brighter somehow, brighter than they should be. But that was foolish, who was she to know about such things. They could shine exactly as bright as they liked for all she cared.

She heard the door open behind her. She didn't turn to see who it was. She knew him by the way he moved so easily and so silently across the floor towards her. He was always quiet for someone so large. All of them were she'd noticed, Brogan, Ruary, everyone. Hunters. Men who grew up walking in forests and doing their best not to make a sound.

Ronan's hands snaked around her hips, pulling her back against his chest. She leaned back, feeling the warmth of his breath as he nuzzled his head into the space between her neck and her shoulder, inhaling her deeply.

"The stars are bright," she murmured gaze still against the sky.

"They have been," Ronan said without looking, his hands pressed closer, easing back and forth with smooth movements. His voice was close enough, low enough, to make her shudder ever so slightly. "They've been bright since Brogan’s wedding. I think they followed us home."

She leaned into him, letting his touch fill her with a hazy lustful comfort.

"Come to bed," he whispered.

"I can't sleep."

He urged closer. "You don't have to sleep."

"What are you thinking?" Talya asked.

He opened his eyes again. She was smiling at him in that way of hers, with just one corner of her mouth. He liked that smile. She only wore it when she knew someone well enough to not need answers to her questions, but was happy to receive them all the same. It wrinkled one of her eyes slightly, creating and almost skeptical air. But he liked that as well. Skepticism was one of the healthier traits someone could be gifted with.

"Spring," he answered simply.

"How novel," she teased back.

"It's a classical preoccupation," he returned. "And for good reason."

"It is pretty," she said, looking out over the gardens. "But it's steady, predictable... and a little too loud."

"Is that right?"

"Mmm," she nodded, taking a sip of her own drink.

She propped her bare feet up on the stone wall that bordered the portico they sat on. She wore a light linen dress, short enough to show the taut tan length of her legs. She flexed her toes in the warmth, shaking the length of her dark hair behind her.

"It's better in the desert."

Armand smiled at her under his sunglasses. "Is that right?"

"Definitely," she nodded.

"I didn't know you had spring in the desert."

"Well, we don't. Not really. Not like this. But one day the air will go very still, and you'll know something's coming.” She waves her hands as she speaks as she always does. “And when the sun rises again the sky will go almost black and split open like a cut throat, rain pouring down like the world's about to end for days, even weeks. Then it stops. Just like that. Suddenly, flowers explode out of things you never expected, bulbous and strange and beautiful. And then, you remember, that everything's alive after all."

"Sounds very dramatic."

"Beautiful. Thrilling. Maybe a little too thrilling for some people," she teased back at him. She painted her hand across the sky in front of her, mocking up a headline. "'King of Marigemma, slain today by a shocking display of cactus flowers.'"

He laughed quietly raising his drink to his lips again.

Sitting there, he wondered what the season looked like everywhere else. He thought of Delphine. Would it ever be spring where she was? The mountains were so tall in Erraviquo, it might be that they never lost snow the entire year. Spring in Vugge might be different. Warmer, farther south, and lower down the mountain. Maybe Catarina would swim in that ocean instead of their own, or grow flowers she hadn't been able to in this climate. Strange, he knew so much about the politics and functions of the world outside of their home, but they never really taught you what it might feel like stepping out on a summer evening in another country.

Spring in Kakos he knew was hot, humid, and heavy. But Rosaline had always liked the summer. Maybe it was still something she could enjoy.

Behind them the tall glass doors to the palace's larger salon were pushed open suddenly, and a familiar laugh made it's way out onto the portico.

Henri pushed his way out onto the stone work, wrapping his arms around his mother's shoulders. Talya turned instantly, reaching behind her back to grab him around his waist and flip him all the way over into her lap as he squealed and kicked his legs.

"Easy!" Armand tried, moving her glass just in time before it was kicked over as Henri screamed and Talya messed up all his finely arranged clothing by tickling him until he was breathless and wild-eyed.

"I'm so sorry your Majesty," the governess called behind them. She was a short and small-boned spuma woman with a pretty face and curled dark hair. They'd only just hired her this season. "He was so eager to see you."

"Don't give it a second thought," Talya called over her shoulder, wrangling the squirming child in her lap.

The two of them were hopeless, especially together. Armand did his best to make sure the boy was presented as an ideal prince, but he didn't take to it the same way he had when he was little. The boy was always escaping to climb trees, scuffing the knees of his cashmere trousers, staining his elbows with grass or worse. Whenever they put him in a proper outfit his whole body seemed to be fighting against it subconsciously, fingers sneaking out to tug at the neck, feet tapping impatiently at the floor, hips wiggling back and forth during ceremonial dinners. That was Talya's blood, and far too much of her brother's along with it. They had that way to them, inpatient, constantly looking out windows and scrambling over rocks, always moving, always feeling the earth with their hands and feet and all too often their faces when they crashed to the ground after a foolhardy attempt at something bold and supposedly impressive. He'd never gotten along with Talya's brother and doubted he ever would. At first he'd hardly gotten along with Talya, but where he'd come to love her kindness and sincerity, her brother offered none of the same charm.

Ien was a deviant. On the few visits he made up to them he spent most of his time climbing antique fountains or putting his feet up on the furniture. And what made it worse was when Armand asked him very politely to please not engage in such destructive and careless behavior, something in his golden eyes went petulant and he seemed to only do it more afterwards. It certainly didn't help that when he asked Talya to deal with her brother's immaturity she only laughed at them both. He had a fear that one day, he'd go into his son's room and find him flipping off his bed with feathers in his ears and Ien's taunting smile on his lips.

"What's that?" Henri asked, reaching out for the sparkling pink beverage.

"An adult drink," Armand answered, sliding it easily out of his reach.

The boy grinned craning his head backwards to look at his father over Talya's shoulder. "Booze."

Armand sighed heavily and Talya laughed, pulling her son's shirt up enough to take a dramatic nibble at his stomach while he screamed and kicked at her.

"What are you doing today?" Armand asked him.

He settled into his mother's lap better, picking at the edge of her dress. "Lessons. Nothing interesting."

"Oh, come on," Talya pressed, "it's not that bad."

The boy shrugged apathetically. "I don't know why I can't sit out here with you. It's finally warm and nice."

"You can. You are now aren't you," Talya said.

"Yes, but she," he glared in the direction of the poor governess, "is going to make me come back inside with the books." He said the last word like someone else might say invasive parasites.

"What if you did your lessons outside today?" Armand asked.

Henri perked up in Talya's arms. "Can I?"

"'May I'," Armand corrected gently. "And I'm not the one you should be asking." He nudged his head in the direction of the governess.

The boy glanced at the woman with a frown. "Why? You're the king. Everyone does what you say. If you say it's alright everyone has to listen."

Talya hid her smile over her shoulder.

"That's not how it works," Armand answered, leaning onto the table. "If you think everyone will do what you say just because you say it you won't be a very good king. Being a king isn't about doing what you want, it's about doing what's best for everyone."

"How do you know what's best for everyone?" The boy asked, wide golden brown eyes staring back at him.

Armand smiled. "Sometimes you have to guess. But to be good at guessing, you have to understand that people don't like being told what to do. They like having homes and families, and they like those things to be safe, and strong. If you prove to them that you can make sure they have those things, they will know you care about more than just yourself, and it's easier to ask for loyalty and respect in return. You should deliver what you wish to receive. Does that make sense?"

The boy nodded quietly.

"So?" Talya asked, giving him a squeeze.

He glanced over at the governess. "Can we study outside today Miss Mandei?"

The girl smiled back. "Yes, I think that would be alright. But you have to promise to pay attention."

"I promise," he said instantly.

"Careful," Talya said. "When you make a promise it's to all who heard it."

That was one of her desert sayings. He supposed it came from living in rooms filled with people all her life, families extended beyond just blood by love and a routine that relied on everyone doing their part.

He nodded seriously. "I promise. I do. Really."

"Good." She kissed him, sliding him easily back down on the ground.

He hurried back over towards his teacher.

"Hey," Armand called. "What about me?"

Henri grinned, ran over to his seat, jumped up high enough and  kissed his father's cheek. Armand smiled and ran a hand through his hair, getting it back into place. "Go on."

And he did, following his governess across the grass and into the folding turns of the fluorescent garden.

"You're afraid he's going to turn into Ien, aren't you?" Talya smirked.

Armand took another sip. "Why would I be afraid of that?"

"Mmm, no reason I suppose," Talya answered. "I know how much you like him, maybe we could have him visit more now that Henri is older?"

He gave her a look. She'd called his bluff.

"Alright, maybe I am a little worried."

"He's more like Delphine than Ien anyways," Talya comforted.

"Delphine never tried to swim in the fountains," Armand corrected.

Talya laughed, taking her own drink and swigging it back with a sigh. She glanced over at him, and smiled warmly. "It's good to see you like this."

"Like what?" He asked, looking back at her.

She shrugged. "Happy."

He frowned, leaning forward again. "I have been happy. What makes you think I haven't been?"

"Well," she sighed, "maybe that's the wrong word for it. Contented. Focused. You've just seemed so distracted lately, distant."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You don't have to apologize," she answered. "Your sisters left, that's a lot to take in all at once."

He frowned, looking out across the garden. "It hasn't been just that."

Talya rolled her shoulders to face him, voice suddenly quieter. "It's the Graces, isn't it?"

He said nothing, but after a moment gave a short nod.

"It's not worth it, you know that, don't you?" She continued.

"I don't know what you mean," he said.

"I mean that asking questions, wondering, it's not going to change things, and even if you get answers, what do you expect will happen? Do you want Delphine, and Rosaline, and Catarina to all come home again?"

"No, of course not. They need to live their own lives."

"Then why put yourself through all of this uncertainty?"

He set his jaw. The truth was he wasn't sure. Yes, he wanted his sisters to have their own lives, but it was unfair that they had to risk such unhappiness, and in some cases, likely find it. He'd thought of Rosaline often since she left, up in some steel tower with a criminal born to a common street girl sharing her bed each night. Now his nights were full of the others as well: Delphine up on a mountain in snow and air so thin he didn't know how they could live in it, Catarina surrounded by a culture so uncivilized they probably didn't even use utensils. And for what? For the sanctity of the blood? No one valued that more than himself. He knew that they were unique, they and the other royals. That had to be saved at all costs, and he understood why his father and others had signed The Order. The days had been dark and full of death and chaos. But decisions made in fear were often unsound. Why couldn't he have picked his sister's husbands? Why couldn't they have picked their own? It seemed impossibly stupid to not do so. There was risk and danger in it that was just what The Divine Order had been designed to prevent.

"It just seems so useless," he said finally. "And I don't understand why it should be simply accepted. We should be allowed to manage ourselves."

"We do," Talya pressed. "We have. It is only when the world as a whole is at risk. And isn't that worth something?"

He frowned. She was right in many ways. He wasn't sure what he hoped to gain from questions.

"I just want to understand," he said, voice low. "I want to know  why, and who, and how. I think we all deserve that, if it affects our lives."

She sighed, leaning back again. "I suppose you're right, I just don't know what good you think it will do."

Likely none. Was he really only curious? He'd never been curious by nature. He'd enjoyed school and lessons for the sake of understanding how things worked, and knowing how he might help affairs continue as they had. He'd never asked questions, or had any desire for exploration. Maybe he was making up for it now. Or maybe he just feared that one day and Order would arrive with Henri's name on it, promising him to someone unknown and unsuited, and he knew, even now, that he would not be able to stomach it.

"I think I will go and visit Uthu. And the heirs," he said.

"What? In the south?" Talya asked.

"Why not?" Armand said, rolling his head to look at her. "I haven't seen them in too long. I've missed them."

Talya rolled her eyes. "Ten children is absurd. Your poor mother."

Armand smiled. "She bore it well."

"Exactly what a man would say," Talya returned.

"It would be good to see them all, see how their lessons are going."

"I can't believe he teaches all of you. How exhausting."

"He's always been with us," Armand said. The southern palace had always been for the relatives and younger siblings of the royal family. It was a place for education and growth, outside of the chaos and distraction of the main court. The heirs were always educated in the main palace, and Uthu had been there was he and Delphine and the other two had been younger, but when they grew up and new children were born to their parents, Uthu had promised he'd look after the young ones until they were grown as well. So, he remained at the southern palace, teaching Armand's siblings instead of the new heir. It was for the best. He was getting old and it was nice for him to avoid the strain of court.

"And you want to go just to see your siblings?" Talya pressed.

"Uthu might have some answers," Armand admitted. "Answers I don't have."

Talya nodded. "Well, I did want to visit home, help Ien with this wedding."

"That's right," Armand remembered. He suddenly pitied the boy. He couldn't imagine opening the doors of your home to Noxmilitas. "Has he met her yet?"

Talya shook her head. "He's dreading it."

"It would be good for you to be there."

"Getting rid of me?" She teased.

He smiled. "Never."

The night was warm enough to feel like summer. They had left the tall windows of their bedroom open along with the door that spread out towards the balcony. They faced the gardens and nothing beyond; the guards he'd posted since The Midnight Broadcast patrolled regularly, so there wasn't any significant danger in leaving them ajar.

There was a breeze, as there always was, no matter what the season. It pushed off the sea and headed inward, but the heat seemed to hinder it, wrapping heavy arms around its waist and holding it back, so by the time it reached them it was hardly strong enough to move a curtain, let alone provide relief.

Talya had tossed and turned for hours before finally sleeping. He'd wondered earlier in their marriage why she had difficulty sleeping in the warmth when she grew up in such heat, but she'd explained that desert nights were often colder than it ever was in Marigemma. Eventually she'd succumbed, motions slowing and calming, and now her long limbs covered most of their bed, a leg draped over his ankle, an arm across his chest. She was so still, and softly he reached down and pressed a hand to her back. He couldn't feel her breathing, so he slid a finger to neck her and waited. The pulse was there. He pulled his hand back, wrapping an arm around her again. It was foolish but he found himself doing it every now and again when she was sleeping so solidly.

He couldn't sleep, or maybe he just didn't want to. His dreams had been conflicted. There was strangeness slipping into them, and he wasn't sure of it's source. Hooded figures passed behind his eyes, speaking with voices made up of hundreds. The voices would grow close until they were almost inside his skull, as if his own voice were made up of so many. They fluttered around his head with so many words so many voices that they became a buzz and then the buzz became a hum and the hum a song. But when he woke he could never remember the melody. He didn't like the dreams. They made him feel a sense of foreboding he didn't understand and didn't want to. It felt as if something was getting closer, louder, and he wished it wouldn't. But maybe it was just that he felt everything else moving away from him and his dreams tried to pull it back again. He couldn't be sure whether what he saw when he closed his eyes was merely his own fears and anxieties reflected back at him, or something else altogether.

He knew he should sleep, but tonight it felt impossible. It was easy enough to slip away from Talya, she always slept so heavily. Moving through the dark of the palace halls he could hear soft voices occasionally: guards changing their watches, one or two servants up late with some task or other. He nodded at the men guarding his son's quarters as he passed, and moved inside past them. The playroom that acted as the foyer to his rooms was neat and tidy, stuffed dolphins, models of cars and planes, books with big bright images splashed across the covers, all tucked away in baskets and cases, leaving the open floor with pillows and comfortable couches, a few chairs, the circular rug a bright map of the world. He was sure if it weren't for the servants the room would be a wreck. Henri had never been very diligent in tidying after himself.

Armand's bare feet moved softly across the carpet, pushing the unlatched door to the bedroom open gently. The boy's room was wide, circular, windows looking out to all sides of the garden. The light of the moon off the ocean fell white across the floor. The ceiling was hung with the night sky, a series of wide spanning mobiles that hung stars down in luminant colors. Now, in the stillness, they spun ever so slightly overhead, shifting gently against the push of time.

He approached the bed. It was large and the boy looked almost silly so small inside of it. There were large vases of flowers on either side. They had started teaching him how to pick his own to wear in the mornings. He normally just picked the ones he thought were the most exciting for the season, but he was starting to enjoy the stories they told as well.

Armand sat on the edge of the bed, watching the boy breathe steadily. He hesitated, then reached out and brushed his hair from his face. His own hair was so wiry and unmanageable he tended to keep it quite short, but the boys was softer, somewhere between Delphine's and Talya's, and it was easy to push it aside and out of his eyes.

The boy stirred, and he instantly regretted disturbing him, pulling his hand back, but it was too late.

"Papa?" The boy muttered, voice heavy with sleep.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up."

" 'S alright," Henri managed, rolling over slightly. "You can stay if you want."

Armand smiled. "Maybe I will."

The boy frowned, wiggling back down under the covers. "I had a dream."

"A good one?" Armand asked, running a soothing hand over his back.

The boy shrugged slightly. "There was a song."

Armand suddenly felt cold in the warmth of the room. "What song?"

The reflection in the mirror stared back at her. Somedays, if she was lucky and she stared long enough, she wouldn’t recognize the face looking back any longer. Tonight it was almost easy. The lights from outside the penthouse windows flashed: pink, red, yellow, pink, purple, white. Neon caught against the shadows of her face, making her alien, and she fancied, maybe even monstrous. The girl with the removable heart. The girl made of emptiness: hollow where there should be life, nothing but shadows mistaken for shapes, with poison under her skin.

Even up this high the sound of the city beat around them constantly. The thick thump of music from so many sources they became indecipherable from each other pulsed through the air. In the gardens at home there had been songbirds, and now, here, their wings were all steel, hearts nothing but mechanics. Human voices joined them: screams, whoops, laughs, all tossed carelessly from the windows or large blaring advertisements like litter. Down below the traffic became like the hum of tide: squealing brakes, trumpeting horns, burning rubber, all of it constant and distant as the ocean had always been for her.

She focused on the face staring back at her. It only had half it’s makeup painted. She liked it like this - the concealer and layers of powder making it all seem some uniform mask wrapped around her skull. If seemed that someone could slash a knife across her face and it would only cut like plastic. But it wasn’t finished as it was, and she couldn’t see them like this.

Her King had sent her Xavian’s cosmetics spuma after the princess left. She was very gifted in her art, but she had given the girl the evening off, and rather than call another she was glad of the silence and the chance to stand in a room with nothing but herself. At least for the moment.

She finished slowly, drawing out the moments. There was purple liner for the wide dark eyes - then black against that, then silver. The shadow she applied in layers - navy, lilac, white in the corners. Finally the plum against her lips. She ran them against each other and pursed them once, looking back at the face in the mirror. They looked ripe, lush, tempting as heavy fruit. It was easy to pretend they could even be poison.

Stepping back from the mirror she ran her hands down her dress: tight and small, geometric shapes of black leather slashing across the body, contrasting with the classical pattern woven in black thread against the other material that made it up. Her shoes were tall, thick, and rich. The metal and stones on them made each at least five pounds, but it didn’t matter, she didn’t need to run. She was past that dream now. She ran a hand along her hair as well, all of it tied sternly in a condensed shape at the back of her head, pulled so tight that was merely a smooth shift in texture over her skull.

She looked back at herself one last time. She imagined the heart in the jar, and she turned to leave.

The door to her room was opened for her. The two spuma guards were there as they always were, waiting for her to leave. They were stern dark shapes standing in the shadows, all suits, shifting weight, and power. She didn’t know their names. When she was a child she’d known the names of the spuma who worked the most with her family. There had been Uthu, Armand’s tutor, with his long but peaceful face, and Maki and Shira the maids, sisters, who had taken care of her and her sister’s rooms when they were young. But here, the faces always changed, always shifted. It seemed the security men who followed her were different every day. Sometimes she thought she recognized something in one of them, but she could never be sure.

They followed her like shadows through the palace. The halls were dark, the only windows were the arched glass ceilings that covered them, showing nothing but a hazy orange sky of light pollution and smog above. Vibrant light painted the darkness of the palace in splashes of neon and fluorescent. The art her husband collected so fervently was everywhere, paintings covering the walls and sculptures decorating the center of the halls. It was chaotic and haphazard, classical, modern, wretched, beautiful, all slapped into the same space. It wasn’t there for it’s aesthetic after all. It was there for it’s value.

She walked past a plexiglass sculpture of a woman in a gas mask nursing piglets, and in the same step a scene hung on the wall in a fine gilt frame, two Cronasol nobel children standing in a palace garden, the delicate brushwork cracked with age.

As they passed down the halls noise and voices echoed out of the rooms of the palace. Beyond one door was the splashing of a pool, loud lewd laughter and the clinking of glasses, another was merely a steady driving beat of music and one man’s voice giving low instructions. Walking past the staircase she could hear, echoing up from the lower levels, a whole chorus of cheers and gasps, all preceded by the sound of smacking flash and tumbling bodies. She could almost see the ballroom, the one that her husband had transformed into a pit and a ring. His favorite would be leaving soon after all, of course they would want to get as many bouts out of him as they could.

After one more turn, the balcony doors glowed in front of her, and the security waiting by them opened the way as she approached. The heavy hot air of the city wafted over her, oozing over her skin and pulling her out into it.

The balcony with lit with pink florescent lights in tall glass tubes held by classical marble figures. The space was roofed with an arched ornamented ceiling, and carpeted with a thick fur throw black as coal. White leather seats faced each other, and she could see her fellow ladies waiting for her there. They held sculptural drinks of brilliant colors with their perfect nails.

“Is that the Rhosh?” Guslang asked, glancing down at her dress as she approached. “From the show, last week?”

Rosaline stepped up the two steps to their platform, sitting neatly in one of the square leather armchairs. “Yes,” she said softly, keeping her back straight and her hands crossed in her lap.

“There, you see? I told you she wouldn’t be able to resist it,” Guslag said, rolling her purple drink between her fingers. She was taller than both of them, posture effortlessly straight and poised. Her own dress was a deep indigo of finely tuned layers, collar high and regal. For a woman of her years her face remained surprisingly taut and fair.

“Good you got it,” Lovisa said. “It’s a pretty thing sure enough, but I’ve not got the hips to give it that proper shape like you, love.” She winked and flashed a smile, the few gold teeth she had shining brilliant with the white ones.

She’d gotten used to the contrast these two women presented by now, the mothers of her new country. When she’d first arrived it had been one of the harder thing to adjust to, seeing the queen who had given birth to Xavian and Grier, and the mistress who’d had Max and watched him ascend to the throne instead of the others, seated beside each other as equals. But now it was simply the reality of this world for her. Guslag was tall, proud, and elegant. Lovisa had her skin tight prints and heavy furs, breasts hoisted high and proud as a twenty year old girl even though she had been past forty for sometime. Guslag spoke with the voice crafted and perfected over years of critical evaluation. Lovisa spat her words freely and frankly as any street-bred girl, all too aware of the harshness of her language, and not caring one bit.

A spuma stepped up silently, offering Rosaline a drink, and she took it, sipping delicately as the girl backed away again.

“Did you hear them boys down there?” Lovisa asked, her bright red nails tapping against her glass.

“It sounds like the fight is still going,” Rosaline answered.

“Could you hear it from your room? How dreadful,” Guslag sighed.

“Oh yes,” Lovisa smiled again, eyebrows groomed to sharp points. “We mustn’t disturb our princesses.”

Rosaline said nothing. She was a queen and technically so was Guslag, since her husband had died on the throne, but Lovisa had never called either of them by that title, and she suspected she never would. Her husband never seemed to notice the omission.

“It is certainly a unique use of a ballroom.” Guslag smiled with her lips alone, “I would have never expected to see it so… utilized.”

“Smart feet are better for fighting than dancing,” Lovisa said simply. “Real men can throw a punch, real women too at that. Isn’t that right Ros, love?”

Rosaline gazed down into her drink. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Ah, ‘course not, pet,” Lovisa grinned. She had her son’s smile. “Look at those pretty little hands. They’ve seen nothin’ ugly in their all lives have they?”

She looked at her own hands. She remembered them scrambling at bloody sheets, sticky and slick with blood, her voice screaming and blathering nonsense in her own ears.

“I suppose not,” Rosaline said, looking up at her mother-in-law. “I was raised in better fortune than most.”

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of dear,” Guslag returned. “None of us can help where we were born. It’s just in our nature to surround ourselves with things of a different… taste.”

Lovisa’s golden teeth shone against the florescent of the lights. “Now, now, common’s a taste that even the most high and mighty can get a tongue for.”

Guslag hardly moved, eyes focusing against her companion’s face just a hair sharper as she raised her drink to her lips.

“I got some new dogs yesterday,” Lovisa continued seamlessly. “Maybe you both like to come name some? Always makes the fights more interesting I think.”

“I don’t understand the joy in naming something only to watch it die,” Guslag said simply.

“Only the weak ones die,” Lovisa said. “And watching something you named kill has it’s own pleasure.”

“Thank you,” Guslag smiled brittlely, “but I think I will refrain.”

“What a shame,” Lovisa said without a touch of regret. “What about you love? Come name some pups?”

She thought of her heart in the jar, beating slowly in the shadows.

“If you’d like,” she answered.

“There’s one just for you,” Lovisa answered. “She’s all white - solid breeder, good strong bitch. I think she’ll do alright, but you never do know, do you?”

“No,” Rosaline smiled, “I suppose not.”

“Will be good for you to get out more,” Lovisa continued. “With Xavian off and married it’s good for the people to see you more.”

“Agreed,” Guslag echoed. “You have such a pretty face, darling. You should let people see it.”

“I fear I lack her vivacity,” Rosaline said.

“Oh aye, we all miss that.” Lovisa grinned.

They’d once watched Xavian thrown an ancient Erraviquo vase at her mother after two hours of disapproval and thirty dresses tried and rejected. In the end her husband had brought one in, unaware of the argument, and both had accepted it without a word.

“You’ve had three sisters married this year,” Guslag observed. “My Xavian, and your blood sisters just this past season have both wed. Delphine, and Catarina, up north?”

“That’s right,” Rosaline said. She’d learned to stop thinking of her sisters in terms of moments and touches. She saw their faces as covers of a magazine or an image on a television screen.

“There’s so little for proper media in the north, it’s really a shame. It would have been lovely if we could have seen the ceremonies. Although they both appeared happy, in the coverage we did manage to glimpse.”

She thought of the newspapers and the flashing images on the news. Caterina had seemed happy, nervous, but happy. Delphine smiled, but under it she’d seen the worry. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen her worried. But how could she? They were girls in a picture, their sister was someone sealed away in a jar in the dark.

“At least we saw something,” Lovisa added. “Xavian had none of that, poor dear. And they came back and brought all her pretty clothes with them. I wonder how she’s doing without them.”

Guslag said nothing. She took another sip of her drink, this one longer than the last.

Behind them there was a sudden burst of sound, cheers from down below leaking up the stairs with drunken power. She heard his laugh above the others. She always did. It had taken her less than a day to learn it, like some wild small thing pricking it’s ears up to the rolling of thunder across a field.

“That will be that then,” Lovisa concluded. “Give ‘em three minutes.”

And she was right. Hardly that time had passed when the door behind them shoved open with rough laughter and messy steps.

“Evening ladies,” Max slurred. He stumbled out onto balcony, one arm wrapped around a grinning Grier, a few straggling gangsters tagging along behind them, all sharp suits, white teeth, and smoke hazed faces.

Her husband crossed the balcony before even glancing at her, leaning down to kiss his mother’s waiting cheek. Lovisa smiled back at him. “How many?”

He bit the cigar between his teeth firmly. “Five in, five down. Six-hundred thousand.”

“Good boy.” She glanced at his cigar. “Where’s mine?”

Max snapped and one of the men emerged from the shadows, brightly colored suit lining flashing as he reached in and pulled out a cigar with a purple and gold band. She took it neatly, smiling at the younger man as he lit it for her. She sucked in, brightening her eyes with the glow of fire.

“Sit down, lad. You’ve earned that much at least,” Max yelled across to Grier.

She heard Grier moving, feet heavy and tired. He collapsed into the nearest seat with a heavy sigh. She didn’t look at him. She never did. And he never looked at her. It wasn’t that they had been told to avoid looks, or even that anyone would notice if they didn’t. It just seemed, since the day she arrived, they both silently recognized it would be best that way.

From the edge of her vision she could get a sense of him. He was still dressed for the fight, shirtless, shoeless, chest heaving. She could smell sweat and blood flowing from him in waves. Without looking she could glimpse the blurry splashes of red on his face, the brilliance of it against his taped knuckles. She wondered if his nose was broken again. She heard him sharply intake air when he adjusted himself, maybe another rib as well.

Guslag said nothing. She wasn’t looking at her son either. Rosaline had noticed that, since she got here. She rarely looked at him, and when she did it was as if he were someone she didn’t know. Rosaline wondered sometimes if it was easier for her that way, to see him as something unconnected to herself, rather than a child taken away from her before she realized it, sculpted all too easily from a king into a pet.

Even if she had pulled herself from her own affairs enough to notice Max’s effect on her child before it was too late, would she have been able to change anything? If she had tried, what would have happened to her? What would she have become? Maybe she had noticed after all, and it just been easier to turn the other way. But no, easier wasn’t the right word, was it? Nothing here was easy.

“Good fight?” Lovisa asked him.

Grier glanced up at her. “What?”

“Was it a good fight? Enjoy it?”

She heard him swallow. “He was good. Quick.”

Max grinned. “Not quick enough, eh?”

The men who had come with them laughed. Grier let out a huff of his own. That was one of the few things she’d recognized about him when she’d arrived. He still laughed the same.

One of the gangsters was smiling at her, or rather at the skin and everything else that covered her. Not really her. Never her. She felt a familiar hand on the back of her neck. Holding tight and firm. The gaze shifted away. She could smell Max’s breathe behind her, all smoke and metal and liquor. His fingers were rough, and strong. At first she’d thought him skinny, but under that skeletal shape were bones as strong as metal. If she were younger and still as simple as she had been she might imagine that people who grew on the streets of the city would always have a part of it inside them. Max had it pulsing through him, steel wiring wrapping around his insides, smog on his breath, and blood gone poison with sewage.

At first she’d thought Armand had been punishing her for her sin, sending her here, but she knew better now. Her brother could never inflict such filth upon his own blood. She wasn’t sure now who was punishing her for what she’d done, but she knew that in this place she couldn’t see the stars, and maybe that was their own choosing.

“We’ll miss your fights,” Lovisa said. “Never seen a boy with a hook like yours. How many teeth’d you knock out in one throw that fight last week.”

“Five.” Max answered for him. She felt his grip loosen ever so slightly, the tips of his fingers snaking into the bottom of her hair.

“Get ‘em, gold-plait ‘em, make some rings,” Lovisa continued. “Knew a bloke who used to do that. Made the next punch that much worse.”

Guslag had finished her drink. One of the gangsters had sat next to her heavily, arm slung back over the white leather of the sofa. She didn’t seem to notice him. She didn’t seem to notice anything, gaze fixed on the city beyond, firm and steady as her posture.

“What are you gonna get up to over there across the sea?” Lovisa asked. “I hear all they do is write poetry and sniffle about the color of the sky.”

Grier shrugged, look saddening. “Don’t know. Whatever kings do, suppose.”

Rosaline glanced at Guslag. Her face remained a mask of blank composure.

“You best keep in your game,” Lovisa said. “Talent like that’s rare boy, shouldn’t let it get rusty.”

“I don’t think kings fight over there,” he frowned.

Max took his hand from her hair and moved to grip his half-brother’s shoulder firmly. “Kings do whatever they bloody please, lad. Don’t you forget that.”

“I don’t know,” Grier said softly, flexing his fingers rigid from fighting in his lap. “I don’t think I’ll be much good at it.”

Max frowned, and all at once he crouched down in front of Grier. He reached up and held his face firmly between his tattooed hands. “That’s enough of that now, so pack it up. I’m not sure of much, but I’m damn sure that you’ll make me proud. Understand.” He kissed his forehead firmly and leaned back again.

She didn’t need to look at them to see Grier’s face. She knew the way he looked at him well enough. Devotion. Gratitude. Love.

“Yeah,” she heard him swallow, smiling through a busted lip. “Yeah, I understand.”

“Good,” Max declared, clapping his hands and standing again. “Now, there’s plenty of fun to be had tonight, let’s not waste it.”

He extended a hand in her direction and she moved to stand when suddenly Lovisa cleared her throat. “Max.”  

He looked at his mother. Her eyes were firm, sharp. “Don’t you want to tell me about your trip? Never been to Noxmilitas. Hear the weather’s lovely this time of year.”

Max looked back at her for a moment and then his face broke into a smile. “ ‘Course! Boys - give me a few, eh? Ros, love.” Rosaline stood. Max met her eyes, strong and firm. “You show them a good time, won’t you?”

She bowed her head. “Of course.”

“I’m sure you’ll excuse me if I retire,” Guslag said standing neatly.

“What? No parties for you Gus?” Max grinned.

She ignored his indolence. “I’m sure you’ll forgive me.”

“I’m sure we will,” Lovisa concluded.

Guslag bowed her head and turned back towards the palace, shutting the door behind her.

Max took her seat. “Won’t be too long, will we?” He glanced at his mother.

“Not a bit.” She smiled at their guests.

“Let me show you the way,” Rosaline said, voice steady and practiced. She turned towards the doors and the men followed her. “There’s dancers from Luminata tonight; they’ve brought some interesting local libations. And we have a selection of girls from The Panther ready and waiting.”

The door swung shut behind them. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure they were all still with her. Most of them were joking between themselves, rough voices clouding the air. She could see Max and Lovisa sitting close on the balcony, her cigar’s smoke obscuring her face as they spoke low and quickly.

Grier wasn’t with them any longer. He must have gone back to his rooms.

“What’s that, your Majesty?” One of the men rasped.

She turned. “Excuse me?”

“What you got there?” He pointed with a meaty finger to her chest. She looked down to the flower pinned against her dress.

“Oleander,” she answered.

“What’s it mean?”

She looked up at him. “What?”

“Don’t they mean something?” He smiled, reaching out to stroke on petal, careful not to touch her. “I thought that’s what you Marigemmians got up to with that.”

She smiled, pleasant, beautiful, practiced. “It means ‘the love of the sea’.”

The man frowned. “Bit fickle, ain’t she?”

She wrapped her arm around his, leading them towards the music pounding down the hall. “Yes, I suppose. But it’s only a story.”

“Flowers with stories.” He scoffed. “Must get well dull back home, eh? Bet you’re happier here, with bit more fun to be had.”

Eammon sat on the portico of The Grange, the worn wooden planks for a seat, booted toes tapping idly and quickly on the flat stone work spread out in smooth circles below him. He knitted his hands together between his knees, cracking his knuckles, or rather trying to. They stopped cracking at least ten minutes ago. He glanced at his watch, the silver of it catching in the clear light of the day. They should have arrived half an hour ago.

Strawberries grew along the edges of the portico, heavy leaves shading the green and red bulbous berries underneath. He reached down and snatched one up, biting into it’s flesh for a distraction.

It was a quiet day, whenever his mother left it seemed like half the servants went with her, and most of the hands were out in the fields since it was still early. There were a few voices flitting through the halls behind him, and out by the stables he could hear the braying and rustling of horses being corralled in and out of stalls as they were needed. It felt very still; the calm before the storm, he reminded himself.

Tomorrow would be another story altogether, tomorrow was the day their princess arrived - the girl who would one day be their queen. And that day, his own marriage, still felt impossibly close at hand, even if it was two seasons off still. She would arrive to a bustling household filled with action and tasks all to support her and the occasion of her arrival. He felt strange not meeting her in the capital with his mother, but the Queen had insisted that it was better for her to meet him here, at their true home.

Off at the end of the drive there was a sudden spray of dust and he stood instantly, looking for the car that was causing it.

He could see the thing barreling towards them, large and tough enough to handle the dirt roads but still with the gleam of royalty. It pulled to a dusty stop in front of him and he hurried down the few stone steps to meet it.

The doors opened, one man stepping back quickly to reach inside and help his cousin out. Eammon took over instantly, sweeping in with a wide smile to hold her arm.

“I am actually capable of basic movement, you know.” Sarai smiled, shoving him off only to grasp his shoulders again and give him a proper look over.

He smiled and tried to keep his shoulders and back straight. She always gave him shit about that.

She looked almost exactly the same as she had three years ago. It felt like madness that it had been that long, but they were all so busy always, time seemed to escape them. Her hair was almost the same color as his own, pushed back tidy but sensual. She wore a low buttoned white shirt - big enough to fit over her wide pregnant middle - and khakis, just like she had before she was a queen. A few very thin gold chains glittered against the gentle tan and freckles of her chest.

Just looking at her from the shoulders up he might never know she was only three months from another child. She had always been like her horses in that way, her body didn’t seem to change drastically besides the globe of life in the center, but she looked stronger, broader, like her shoulders could take more weight and her arms would punch harder than ever.

“Well,” Sarai said, squinting at him and wrinkling her nose, “at least with the stubble it’s not as easy to mistake you for a twelve-year-old.”

“Thanks,” Eammon answered. He moved to hug her and then hesitated looking warily at her stomach.

She quickly wrapped her arms around his shoulders pulling him in roughly. “I’m not untouchable yet, gods Eammon.”

He laughed into her shoulder. She smelled the same in a lot of ways: wildflowers and rivers, but there was an urban element there as well that he knew Catheda had imprinted on her, a steeliness he remembered from her wedding there all those years ago.

He’d never liked Catheda. He didn’t know how anyone could live with so little room to breathe and so many straight lines cutting the sky into pieces. It had felt like there’d been smoke stuck in his throat for months after he left. Maybe it didn’t bother her. She might have learned to breathe it, but he couldn’t imagine doing so. It would feel like breathing underwater.

“Jozef, get out of the car please,” Sarai smiled behind her.

Eammon was suddenly struck, he’d had no idea she’d bring him. He would have thought Godwin would want him to stay behind in the capital.

A thin strung boy eased his way out of the car behind her with an immense air of skepticism. He was tall for his age, which if Eammon remembered correctly was just about ten. He looked almost frighteningly pale, but then maybe all city people did. Eammon remembered the first time he’d seen Godwin he’d thought he was ill.

There was a lot of Godwin in the boy, Eammon would admit he’d wondered if there would be any at all, but here it was more than clear enough. He had the same heavy concerned brow, the same shapely mouth, straight shoulders, height. But there were differences; Godwin’s eyes never once looked self-conscious and this boy’s, though the same pale blue as his father’s, had an air of being overly-aware of himself and how he fit into everything else.

Eammon couldn’t help smiling at his clothes. He looked the perfect little diplomat with his shiny shoes and stern lines. He could see the boy eyeing the worn brown leather of Eammon’s boots, the messy cuff of his work-pants, the obvious grass and manure stains on the knees.

“Hello,” Eammon smiled.

“Your Majesty,” the boy nodded, eyes still tight on the dirt at their feet. Eammon tried not to laugh.

“Jozef,” Sarai said gently, putting her arm around his shoulders. “This is your uncle Eammon. He’s not a king yet, although I’m sure he’s very flattered. And remember, it’s polite to look people in the eyes when speaking to them.”

The boy looked up, cheeks going pink. “Sorry.”

Eammon wanted to squeeze his shoulder warmly but was a little afraid that might not be best risk it. The boy didn’t look like he was used to being touched by anyone but Sarai. He smiled widely instead. “No worries, it’s good to get used to that anyways.You know when your great aunt comes back she won’t let anyone call her anything but Your Majesty.”

The boy squinted against the brilliant sunlight. “Really? Even you?”

“I might be able to get away with Mother Divine, but we’ll see.”

The boy smiled back at him. Maybe he wasn’t that clinically stoic after all- and it was good to see he was clever. Probably a good deal more clever than himself all things considered, but how could he not be with parents like his.

Sarai groaned, “I’m beat - those roads were murder.”

Eammon reached into the car and grabbed her travel bag, slinging it over his shoulder. The rest of their luggage was being unloaded from the car by servants behind them. A second car was coming down the road in the distance, and he was sure it was the rest of their baggage.

“How did they never feel that awful before?” She asked, critically eyeing the stones and dirt under their feet.

“You were never six months pregnant before,” Eammon said.

“Right,” she smiled, giving Jozef a gentle push up the stairs in front of them. “Just hungover.”

She let out a sigh as soon as they entered the house, craning her neck and looking all around at the wide circular foyer and the arching ceiling beamed with old timbers. Her son followed suit, staring around at the space, albeit with some more reserve.

“Do you remember it?” Eammon asked him. “It’s been a long time since you were here. I don’t think you were any older than four.”

The boy glanced around him, at the untrimmed stick banisters, the arched windows, the stone and three-foot-wide wooden board floors.

“I think I remembered it larger,” he admitted quietly. “But nothing’s as big as Catheda.”

“Just mountains,” Eammon smiled. The boy looked up at him wonderingly.

“Well, I think it’s almost time for my fourth nap of the day,” Sarai declared, turning to them. “Jozef, why don’t you find your room while I talk to uncle Eammon, and when we’re done he could find you and show you the farm.”

The boy nodded quietly. Eammon grabbed a servant’s attention and the man easily led the boy off to where his luggage was being assembled.

“Now, where’d you put me?” Sarai asked, turning to him.

Eammon smiled. “Where else would we put you?”

Little had changed about her rooms since she’d left. They were still wide and airy, doors opened to the balcony and the steps that led directly down to the stables. Someone had filled the vases with daisies and dandelions - her favorites. He’d have to remember to ask who had been in and compliment them on their insight.

She collapsed on the bed with a thick sigh as soon as the doors were shut behind them.

“Does it feel good to be back?” Eammon asked her, leaning against one of the chairs that rested by the open windows.

“Very,” she answered.

“Do you want the window’s shut?” He asked, suddenly realizing. “I know it’s hot in here.”

“No, don’t you dare,” she answered, “I almost forgot what real wind feels like.”

Eammon smiled. “No wind in Catheda?”

“There’s only city wind and ocean wind in Catheda,” she clarified. “The city wind is battered around between all that steel, and the ocean wind has absolutely nothing to stand in it’s way so it hits you like a brick. This is the real wind, old wind, that’s been dancing over the hills and the fields in the sun for weeks until it finally gets to you. It’s happy to be alive, can’t you tell?”

“So window’s open, then.” Eammon smiled.

She grinned back and sat up better in the bed, jamming a few thick pillows behind her back. “Alright, enough dodging around. Let’s have a real talk.”

Eammon raised an eyebrow. “A real talk?”

“That’s right,” she confirmed. “I know you’re worried. You keep going to crack your knuckles and then remembering you did it already. And you obviously cut yourself shaving. Did you forget how? You should really have someone do that for you, you’ve always been a complete bumbler.”

“I didn’t forget how,” Eammon started defensively, “I just hadn’t in a while. And I don’t like people doing that for me, it makes me feel…” he caught himself.

“Like royalty?” She finished.

He gave her a look.

“So,” she started again, “why so nervous?”

Eammon let out a short laugh. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously!” Sarai said. “It’s just a girl, Eammon, and we all do it. We get set up by some ancient alignment and a paper signed by spooky shadow people on some island in the middle of the ocean, and then we meet who ever we’re told to, we smile, we talk, and we get married. It’s the same for everyone. It’s nothing to be nervous about.”

He looked at her firmly. “Really? You weren’t nervous? Not even a little?”

She shrugged. “Not really. I mean it’s set in stone. What do you think will happen? She’ll get a good look at you and go running back to her mountain?”

He tried to laugh like that wasn’t exactly what he had been thinking.

“It’s hard, leaving your home,” Sarai said, voice lowering in sincerity. “That’s always the hardest part. It’s strange, and honestly, it is terrifying. We’re all raised to love our land, our homes, more so than anyone else. We’re the caregivers, the protectors, it’s (in?) our blood. It’s our purpose. And then suddenly we’re told to throw that away and give all that love and all that care for something else: a new family, a new country, a new ‘home’. It seems like an impossible challenge to become such an important part of something that new. I know. And she’s learning that now, wherever she is.”

“I just want her to be happy,” Eammon said. “I don’t want it to be hard. I want it to be easy for her.”

“Well, it won’t be,” Sarai said firmly. “So, you’d better stop thinking about it like that right now. It’s going to be the hardest thing she’s ever done. The best you can do is not make it any harder. And you’ll know if you do that right.”

“How?” He asked.

“Because,”  she smiled. “You’ll become home for her before anything else does.”

Eammon sighed and sat in the chair he’d been leaning against. “But how do I do that? I just want her to know… I just want to make it easier.”

Sarai bit one lip. “What do we know about her? Is it true what the news says - that she’s been living alone in a monastery with her brother since she was two?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Fuck me,” Sarai stared off into space, before focusing again. “Well, they’re star-eater’s aren’t they?”

Eammon winced, “I’m not totally sure they like that name.”

“Sorry,” she said, “we don’t get many on my side of the world.”

“But, yeah - they do a lot of star worship. I’ve been trying to learn about it…”

“So, that’s something,” Sarai said. “We have plenty of stars.”

Eammon smiled. “I suppose so.”

“You could take her to The Site - where the first one landed,” she suggested.

“Yeah, that might be nice. I should.”

“When’s she coming?”

Eammon swallowed. “Tomorrow.”

“That’s right,” she muttered. He couldn’t imagine anyone forgetting that date. He’d had it blazed across his brain like a brand for months now.

“I’m excited to meet her. I want to see just how real that purple hair is,” Sarai said. She stretched as well as she could and let her head fall back. “Now, I’m very happy to see you and all that, but I wasn’t kidding about that nap.”

Eammon stood. “Don’t worry, I’ll find Jozef.”

“And get him some new clothes to wear, could you?”

“Yeah, of course.”

He left her in the breeze and the softness of her bed, the sound of grasshoppers drifting through the window.

The day circled around them, unfolding piece by piece. He was glad they were there with him. He couldn’t imagine spending this day with nothing to distract himself, and Jozef turned into a pretty diverting distraction.

They spent most of the afternoon in the fields and the stables. He’d never seen a horse in real life before, let alone touched one. Then  he ended up meeting half the herd one at a time. He stood with fearful eyes, reaching out bravely and slowly,  falling back again when they shook their heavy heads suddenly. But each time he reached out faster and firmer and before the end of the day he hardly spooked at all.

Sarai was awake again for dinner- the cooks had prepared a meal especially for her. It had been a long while since she’d had anything that hadn’t arrived on her table by boat, so a farm fresh meal was over-due. There was fresh arugula with thinly shaved salted meat and heavy ripe goats cheese. They had  beef cut right from the loin- lightly grilled on wood fires and paired with shallots and ripe roasted onions in perfect purple spheres, and bulbous bread still steaming with newly churned butter, white and pillowy waiting to be spread.

She consumed everything that slid in front of her, but lasted hardly half an hour after stuffing herself before needing to collapse into bed once more.

Eammon wasn’t so lucky.

Sleep found him in fits, edging around his mind with tempting whispers only to be flung back again as the realities of tomorrow slashed back. He tried to shut his eyes, turn over, focus on small things that would distract him - the sound of the insects singing in the grass outside, the clinking of bells as the cows wandered in the field under the moonlight, the gentle knocking of the stable door in the breeze, but none of it stuck. Through it all was only the picture of the girl, the wide eyes staring back at him as if he was something to be afraid of.

Eventually, after all the sheets in the bed were too warm to be comfortable any longer he stood and wandered towards the window. Leaning against it heavily he looked out, bare arms against the wood of the frame. The moon was bright, bright enough to cast firm shadows all through the fields. Everything was drenched in blue and grey, sharp shapes and lines. He could see the forms of cows lying heavy in the dry grasses, or standing, heads low as they idly fed. Above them all the stars shone hard and constant: summer stars, crisp in the dry air.

Below there was a soft noise, and he let his eyes go to it. A woman was standing against the gate of a fence, just a dozen or so meters from the house, by the stables. He recognized Sarai instantly, her posture, the roundedness of her figure, the way she lifted her arm to brush her hair from her face.

After a moment, another shadow joined her: young, slight, enough confidence in her step to label her as one of the stable girls, but he couldn’t be sure which one. They stood close, seemingly talking, though he couldn’t hear the words. The girl’s hand slipped through Sarai’s, and she in turn ran a few fingers along her jaw until they found their way into her hair, easily pulling her close. They kissed, alone in the moonlight. They stayed like that for a moment or two, and then moved on, hands knitted together, off to someplace else.

Eammon stopped watching. He looked back to the stars, and eventually, he let himself fall back to bed.

He woke late. The sun was already half way across the floor by the time he opened his eyes, and he found himself swearing as he tumbled out of bed and across the floor.

He reached for his work pants only to catch himself half way and pull on the clean shoes, khakis, and dress shirt that had been laid out for him particularly for this day. He did up the buttons as quickly as he could, frowning at his worn boots on the floor all the while.

As soon as he was out of his room the day came into focus. The household was all action: a servant bustled past him with arms full of towels, another was moving up the stairs balancing two vases packed with flowers in each arm. The smell of fresh bread, bacon, and buckwheat pancakes floated through all of it, no doubt already laid out down stairs and ready for guests.

He hurried for the stairs, glancing at his watch. It was hardly fifteen minutes until the arrival time. He hit the bottom of the steps hard, turning towards the door.

“Whoa there,” Sarai’s voice called, her warm hand catching his arm.

He let her stop him, turning to her, out of breathe, eyes hesitant to stay in one place.

“Hey,” she said, locking her eyes on his and smiling firmly. “What’s the rush?”

He took a deep breathe. “They’re not here yet?”

“Not yet,” she said calmly. “Soon. We’ll go out in a minute, alright?”

He nodded quickly, swallowing. He’d been rushing so fast he hadn’t had time to feel sick but now the nerves were creeping into his stomach like vines. He focused on Sarai’s hands on his arms.

She stepped back. “Let’s have a look at you. Come on, chin up.”

He looked at her, posture shifting to as straight as he could manage.

She smirked, looking over her shoulder to where her son was waiting behind her. “What do you think Jozef?”

He glanced over, as if he was surprised to be spoken to. He looked Eammon up and down. “Fine.”

“Well, we can do better than that.” She grasped his shoulders and pushed them back like she always did, then reached for his sleeve and unbuttoned where it was tight to his wrists.

“Hey!” He called. “That’s not…”

“Trust me,” she said, already neatly rolling up the right one or two clean cuffs. She did the same for the left and unbuttoned the topmost button by his neck as well. He waited patiently, trying to resist the urge to crack his knuckles.

She swept his hair back and then mussed it slightly. “There.” And finally she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small mint. “Open.” She commanded, and he did. She popped it into his mouth. “Helps with the nerves.” She smiled.

She gripped his shoulders and turned him to face his nephew. “There, how about now.”

The boy smiled shyly. “Good.”

“Great, we’ll take it,” she said.

Outside there was the sound of a car and the suddenly bustle of voices. He could already hear the snapping of cameras. They hadn’t allowed much press, but a certain amount was unavoidable.

“I think they’re here,” he said, staring at the door.

“Sounds that way,” Sarai agreed. She nodded at the servants by the doors, as they pulled them open she linked her arm around his, firm and strong, walking him out into the sunlight.

It was another brilliant day and he blinked hard despite himself as soon as they emerged. Just his luck. He would probably be blinking on the cover of every paper tomorrow. The cameras snapped all around him. He could see the press sectioned off to either side of the front steps, and between them, his mother’s state-car was parked.

Her security men exited first, moving toward the doors, and the presses’ attention shifted away from him. The doors opened and his mother stepped out, smiling for the cameras and the brilliance of the day. She was still dressed for the city, simple elegant linen suit and a black silk scarf. He was sure he could never look as royal as she did even in the most rich of clothes. It was her posture, the angle of her chin that said it all. He had none of that. She waved at Eammon and he felt her comfort easing against him, helping him breathe a little better.

She reached into the car behind her, a pale thin hand took it, and Linnea stepped out of the car.

It was always strange, seeing people you had only ever seen in photographs or on television. They look the same, and although you expect that somehow it feels like they shouldn’t, that there should be something different between image and reality. But there isn’t, because why would there be?

She was shorter than his mother but not by much. Slighter, thin and light, with gentle limbs that seemed to speak of bones as weightless as a bird’s. She wore layers of silk, with little to no skin shown, all lavender, violet, and indigo with slashes of ivory and pearl in-between.

Her hair really was purple: pale and luminance against the brilliance of the day and the clarity of the air. It was arranged back onto her head, held in place with delicate and finely designed pins which made it look like some precise and untouchable sculpture.

She looked around her, at the land, the gathered people, the press, all with an air of someone looking but not truly seeing, as if there was too much to absorb all at once. There was a distance, a hesitance to the dark blue of her wide eyes that couldn’t be avoided, and lurking under all of it that fearful expression he’d worried over.

The cameras snapped frantically all around her, voices calling out. She shut her eyes for a moment against it all, holding onto his mother’s hand tighter as she led her up the steps.

“Shoulders,” Sarai muttered at him. He straightened, and then suddenly realized he still had the mint in his mouth. What if he choked on it when he tried to say hello? Or somehow it flew out of his mouth and landed on her? He swept his hand up to his mouth and spat it out as discreetly as he could manage, tossing it into the grass at the side. When he looked up again she was in front of him, and for a moment, he couldn’t see anything else.

She was beautiful. Almost impossible. There was something luminescent in her eyes. All star light. All distance.

He was vaguely aware of his mother hugging Sarai close off to their right, running a hand over her stomach, kissing Jozef on the cheek.

Eammon smiled, all too aware of how ridiculous and lopsided he looked when he did. “I’m Eammon.”

She nodded, looking down at her knitted hands. “Yes.”

He felt like he should maybe do something confident and endearing, like swipe a strand of her hair from her face. But he was afraid if he tried it he’d get it wrong and the whole artful arrangement would fall apart in two seconds. If there was a puddle she needed to walk over he could lay a coat down over it or something like that. He was suddenly more disappointed than ever it hadn’t rained in a month.

“Did you have a good trip?” He asked helplessly.

She looked up at him, and again, he couldn’t help feeling stunned by the depth in her eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “It was long.” Her voice was so gentle and soft he was sure if he was a foot further from her he wouldn’t have heard it.

“It must be warmer here than your home,” he tried, and gods that was stupid. She lived on the top of a mountain, of course it was warmer here.

“The air is different,” she said softly, glancing around as if she was unsure of herself.

“Oh, yeah?”

She glanced at him. “It’s heavy.”

He laughed and her eyes widened in worry. He swallowed it roughly.

“Was that wrong?” She asked.

“What?” He stared. “Oh no, no, sorry, I just, it’s pretty dry here. Not that you were wrong! Obviously you know if it’s different. I just mean, well, compared to other places, or even other times - of the year I mean. It’s dry. I guess… comparatively.”

Her look was nothing but confusion.

“So, you see my son,” his mother said, sweeping into the rescue and smiling kindly at the girl.

“Yes, your Majesty,” she answered.

His mother put a gentle arm around the girl’s waist and a firmer one around Eammon’s turning them towards the cameras with a ease he’d never understand.

“I think we’ve given them enough to work with,” she whispered between them. “Should we head inside?”

The girl nodded softly.

“Good,” his mother smiled, and together they all turned, pushing out of the sunlight and into the cool of the house.

Eammon watched her as she entered, her wide eyes turning all around, taking in the entire space with the same distant fearful expression. He wondered what it would be like, to enter a new place and try to sculpt it in your mind into a definition of home. There would be edges that didn’t fit right, and either you’d have to try and shear them off or change your own shape to fit against them.

“Welcome,” his mother smiled, sighing out of the sight of the press.

“It’s very beautiful,” she said, as if she thought it was the right thing to say.

“Of course we are happy to do anything we can to make you feel more at home,” his mother said. “Isn’t that right Eammon.”

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat. “Right, of course. Anything.”

“Is this where we will marry,” she asked, glancing at the floor shyly. “Tomorrow?”

Eammon began coughing violently.

“Tomorrow?” Sarai laughed. “God, I hope not.”

The girl looked back at them in confusion. “I’m sorry, I thought—“

“In the mountains things move a little faster,” his mother picked up. “I know your brother was just married, wasn’t he, to the princess from Marigemma?”

A sudden sadness darkened her face. She nodded once.

“We think that it would be better for you to get to know us, the country, before joining it in a more official capacity,” his mother continued.

“Official capacity,” Sarai mocked quietly.

“So,” she began. “How long until…?”

“We were thinking a fall wedding might be nice, during the harvest season.” His mother said.

“Oh,” she was surprised.

“You must be exhausted,” Sarai said approaching. “Come on, let me show you your rooms.”

The girl nodded gratefully and Sarai led her up the steps.

She moved strangely. Eammon had spent his life around folk who were used to pushing animals far larger than they were where they needed to go, who turned the earth with their hands and made the seasons their own. They were people made of heavy steps and worn hands and sun kissed shoulders. She was different. Watching her next to Sarai was like seeing the sun and the moon in the same sky. Sarai was all light and energy, glowing with life and vibrancy. But Linnea, she hardly seemed to touch the ground when she walked. She looked everything around her as if she were miles away, just glancing at things she couldn’t touch or ever truly feel a part of.

“What do you think?” His mother ask, stepping closer and the women crested the stairs and moved towards the rooms off to the west.

Eammon stared after them, watching the space she’d left empty. “I think I’m lucky.”

There were many windows laid across the rounded walls, even a domed glass roof, and a balcony he could stand on to look out over the square in front of the building and to the sea that was just beyond. But he didn’t like looking at the sea, the memories of it swelling and lashing out with sudden violence and mass, like a starved beast, was still too fresh. He did like the sound of it though, he always had. It was soft and ever-present, even through the noise bustling out of the city.

It was a strange place, truthfully, up there in his domed room above everything else. He didn’t feel at home in it, rather that he’d been placed there, like another furnishing, only he didn’t quite fit the rest of the decor. Everyone that came into the room seemed to fit infinitely easier than he did. They wore finely tailored suits or  long woven robes, official, all aligned to the same aesthetic. He had his old clothes, the simple black baggy things he’d always worn. They hadn’t given him anything else, and it felt a little too strange to be dressed by someone else.

The desktop in front of him was scattered with various papers, along with a computer filled with even more data. He knew he should be focusing, that he needed to understand all of it, but it seemed every word just turned things around even more inside his head until nothing was decipherable. He would think he understood one element, and then the next paper or report would rear it’s head and dash that perception to pieces.

He picked up a report documenting one of the Magisterial meetings from before he arrived, squinting at the discussion points. Nothing. It was all just noise made of familiar words spun into sentences he had no means of understanding. The face of it was clear enough, some debate on the issue of sewage treatment, but the undercurrent was completely alien, and the unspoken realities that snuck through each word were too foreign to understanding. It was no difference from actually sitting in the meetings, of which he’d been to several. He simply sat at the head of the table like something decorative while they debated issues he couldn’t follow all around him and finally settling things seemingly from nowhere. He was dreading the day they passed legislation across his desk and he was forced to either explain he didn’t understand or sign it without comprehension.

With a sigh he dropped the papers back to the desk again, running a hand through his hair and looking around the space.  

He stood, and crossed towards the balcony, his steps loud in the vastness of the office. Opening the door, the warmth of the air rushed in on a fresh sea breeze. It was a brilliant day, sun bouncing off the ocean with ferocity. He blinked against it, avoiding the sight of the sea and focusing instead on the city spread out below. The marble of the banister under his arms was rough, worn by weather and salt, and the smells of the city floated up around him, all alien but the ocean. He closed his eyes.

There was a soft knock on the door behind him.

“Magistrate Aetius is here to see you, your Majesty,” the voice came through the door.

It was his assistant, a younger man with nervous eyes and arms that seemed a little too long for his body. Qai wondered what he managed to do all day when he himself had to struggle to find occupation.

“Yes, send him in,” Qai called, eyes focused on the streets below.

It was strange that after ten years the city still seemed half a ruin. He knew it had been an impossible event, the damage taking out over seventy percent of the nation, and many had wondered if the country would even survive. He’d imagined it differently for all those years before now. He’d imagined it as the pieces of memory he had treasured from childhood, sun drenched streets with close alleys and the constant sound of the sea. The sea was still there, but rubble was piled high on the edges of every street, buildings collapsed and forgotten. It was as if the ruins had simply been pushed aside just enough to make life possible. The square in front on the government offices and the offices themselves were some of the few structures that had been repaired in full after The Doom, but it was more apparent each day how limited the reconstruction had been, even after a decade.

“Good morning, your Majesty,” the Magistrate’s voice called, cheerful and bright as he entered the office behind him.

“Good morning,” Qai answered, turning to head back inside.

“No, no,” the Magistrate insisted waving at him, “stay out there, I’ll join you.” He stepped out behind him onto the balcony, taking a deep breath and pushing his rounded glasses more firmly up on his nose.

He looked out across the square, eyes sharp and bright. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

Qai looked over to him questioningly.

“So much has been done, and yet there’s so much left to accomplish.”

Qai laughed. “I was just thinking something similar.”

“Do you remember it much? From when you were younger?”

Qai leaned heavily against the railing. “Pieces. I remember that fountain,” he nodded in the direction of it in the center of the square. “I remember a speech my father gave from this building. I stood behind him, with my brother, listening. But I don’t remember what it was about.”

“He was a great speaker your father,” the Magistrate said. “I remember many of his. It was very inspiring to me as a younger man, although, admittedly, I wasn’t too much younger. Ten years seems much longer when you are eight than forty, your Majesty.”

Qai smiled briefly before shaking his head. “I just… I keep trying to understand, but it’s more difficult than I expected.”

Vicco leaned back, eyeing the desk inside the room. “Ah, yes, I see.”

“It’s been ten years and yet it seems that so little has been accomplished. The country still feels devastated.”

“Well, it was devastating.” Vicco said calmly. “Two third’s of the country and it’s population were lost that day. It isn’t something entirely simple to recover from.”

“I know, I know,” Qai said quickly. “It just feels… I don’t know. Like I said, I’m just trying to piece it together. How the reconstruction began? What has been done? What limits were faced? What challenges face the people and how we can overcome them?”

Vicco smiled at him kindly. “You can’t absorb a lifetime of work in a month, your Majesty. I understand your desires, but you must let us help you understand what you need to. This will take time.”

“But I don’t have that time,” Qai pressed. “I am King now. I need to know how this country runs, how I can serve it, what I can do for the people.”

Vicco laughed. “Just your presence is an immense help to the people, Sire. They have been without a King, without an identity, for so long. Now that you are here, they feel as though they have a direction once more: they have their soul again.”

Qai couldn’t help sighing. “It’s not doing them much good.”

“Come now,” Vicco said kindly. “Let’s sit down, you can show me what’s giving you trouble. Let me help. Please, it’s my honor.”

Qai nodded firmly, he did need help, there was no denying. “Yes, yes, of course. Let’s sit, please.”

Vicco swept a welcoming arm back into the office and Qai followed him, settling into the ornate chair behind the desk and staring down at the mass of jargon-laden papers in front of him. Vicco eased into the chair opposite with a sigh, crossing his hands smartly over his knee.

“So,” Vicco began, “What is it you are finding so troublesome, your Majesty.”

Qai sighed, wondering where to begin. “I suppose I don’t understand what I should be doing.”

“For now,” Vicco said, “you are doing what you should be doing. You have your seat presiding on the weekly Magistrate meetings, and you will be signing the legislative actions that cross your desk, and all the while learning the way this government functions, which doesn’t happen overnight mind you.”

“I don’t understand half of what passes my desk, or what passes in those meetings,” Qai tried desperately.

“Well,” Vicco smiled. “Which half?”

“I understand that there was aid provided, in a very large sum after The Doom, by a number of countries, in order to help reconstruction Galit. I understand that money is issued and it was decided it would be controlled by an office established as the GRA - the…”

“Galit Reconstruction Alliance,” Vicco finished neatly. “That’s correct. Without those funds and without that body we would have no means to pick ourselves up again and the country as a whole would not exist today.”

“The money was… borrowed,” Qai tried.

“Yes, of course.” Vicco continues, “A certain amount was given as relief alone, but reconstruction is an investment, and money in amounts that large is nothing a country could donate without their people, their taxpayers having some promise of a return eventually.”

Qai nodded, eyes blankly focusing on the papers across the desk. “Yes, I understand the scale of the sum. But I don’t understand where all that money has gone…”

Vicco looked at him firmly. “Your Majesty, with all due respect, you did not see what this place was in the years after you left. There was so much to be done, so much to be built. This building we are sitting in now was half rubble, people were living in filth with no homes and a foot of water around their ankles. There was no food, and no means of trade.”

“I know I wasn’t here,” Qai began quickly, “I know I can’t understand what it was like. I’m just… where has the funding gone, exactly, at least so far?”

“The primary goal of the GRA was to give Galit the best chance of standing on it’s own once more as a partner in global trade. We needed food, provisions. The first five years of reconstruction were spent ensuring that the docks and port were functional once more. It’s been a massive undertaking, but we have allowed global trade to still flow through our doors.”

“What what exactly flows through?”

The Magistrate shrugged. “Imports, exports. There is no real means for the country to feed itself because of the destruction, almost all of our food is imported from other nations. And we now have a reasonably strong export industry, all of which makes us an important global partner in the larger economy.”

Qai frowned. The export industry. He looks down at the papers, at the words “work contract” spread across the early pages, and then over time “work contract” seemed to become simple “contract” and contract became…

“Spuma. Tell me about that,” Qai says.

Vicco frowned. “What would you like to know?”

“That man,” Qai started, “that day, the first day, when I returned. There was a man in the crowd. He was asking me what I planned to do about it, about the spuma trade. I believe you had him taken away.”

“Ah, yes,” Vicco sighed. “Well…. it is a controversial issue. I want you to know we didn’t take that man away because we don’t value his opinion. He can be heard, in the right forum, and indeed has been, but many of those individuals have violent pasts. It was a public event, and we didn’t want to risk any danger to civilians.”

Qai flipped through the documents on his desk, and finally found one of the larger bound treatise. He pulled it to the top and set it down. It read GWCO on the front in clean crisp letters.

“This is the document, the agreement that began the Spuma trade?”

Vicco looked down at it. “I would argue there were many causes, but yes, this was the legislation that legalized the finer points of the contract worker system.”

Qai flipped it open. “It was authorized by this man, Rei Araboa. And no one else?”

“Councillor Araboa, as the Councillor of Internal Affairs, is the head of civil matters in the state. He was the one to sign it yes, and his agreement allowed for the system we know today.”

“He’s still the Councillor of Internal Affairs, isn’t her?”

“That’s correct.”

Qai frowned down at the thin sharp signature at the bottom of the document. “I would like to talk to him. I have some questions.”

“Of course,” Vicco nodded. “But I will warn you, he’s not fond of being ‘summoned’.”

“I don’t care,” Qai said, sharper than he meant. “I will understand this.”

“I should warn your, your Majesty,” Vicco continued. “Rei isn’t particularly enjoyable company. He’s one of those men who thinks his own opinions will always be superior to others. He wasn’t raised to speak to kings, and I’m sure there is a part of him that lacks the proper respect your office demands.”

“I don’t care if he’s ‘enjoyable’. I would like to see him,” Qai affirmed brusquely.

Vicco bowed his head politely. “Of course, I’m sure it could be arranged for tomorrow morning.”

Qai shut the document again. Outside the sea still pushed, back and forth. He thought of the docks, and the line of people. He thought of the children walking along with the rest.

“Good.”

They had arranged a statehouse for him. It was beautiful, of course, all fine furnishings and elegance. It was close to the government center. Closed off, protected from the smell of the street and the sight of the city. There was a garden filled with fragile flowers and a blue tiled walk way. There was a kitchen packed with ripening fruits and salted meats, and servants to prepare it and serve him. His bedroom was open and airy, light cotton blankets and windows that let in light at all times of the day.

He should be contented there. They had put effort in, he knew, and he understood that a monarch’s place had certain connotations that weren’t avoided. But he just couldn’t seem to stomach it. He’d fallen asleep at his office desk more often than in that bed. The house felt sealed away, like some preserved and foreign world in a little glass case. He’d spent all the time he wished to isolated from the rest of the world, and he felt useless enough without living in some doll’s house.

He didn’t go to the statehouse tonight, something strange inclination made him ask to see to the old palace again instead. After a short drive the car pulled to a halt beside the palace ruins and he waited patiently for them to unlock the doors before climbing out.

It was starting to irritate him, the level of care they took with his person. Each time he left the building, men followed him, ushering him into a car rather than letting him walk the streets. Anytime he went somewhere, someone had to be informed, simple because he wasn’t allowed, for his security, to travel alone. He wanted to wander the streets himself, to meet the people he was supposed to be caring for and understand them from their own mouths. It would likely be far more informative than the cryptic legislation laid out  his desk.

It would have to happen sooner or later, the security and the servants, all of them, were his citizens after all. He could order them to leave him alone and let him do as he liked. Wasn’t that what kings did? He was sure it was, he just wasn’t sure he had the stomach for it just yet.

The crumbled palace looked just as it had the last time he left it, only partly standing, still clinging to the cliffside, seaweed and salt stains painted across the walls. It was growing dark all around them, and the palace was shrouded in the dark indigo of late evening. Everything seemed quiet suddenly. He knew down below the barges and ships were still running, that the make-shift slums were still moving through life as best they could, but here, for a moment, it was still.

He looked at the palace doors, hanging on their hinges, both blocking and opening the way inside all at once. He began to walk towards the palace.

“Sire!” The voice of his driver called out behind him. “I do not think it would be safe to enter.”

“I’ll be careful,” Qai said instantly, feet moving him up the steps quicker. He needed to go inside suddenly, he couldn’t say why. “I promise, there’s no need to worry.”

The driver’s voice was strained moving closer behind him. “Sire, I insist.”

“I’m fine, honestly,” Qai insisted right back. He was at the doors now, the first one was stuck, rusted shut, but the second swung easily enough, opening the way into the shadowy interior.

“Then, your Majesty, at least let me come with you, to ensure you are safe,” the driver continued.

“No,” Qai said quicker than he meant. “I’m sorry just… I would like to go alone.”

The driver seemed at a loss, but finally he stepped back from the stairs, giving a small bow. Qai forced a smile back at him, and pushing the door open further, stepped inside.

He braced himself for a smell, but nothing dramatic struck him. There was no scent of rot or mold heavy on the air, in fact the air was almost light. It smelled of salt, of marble, and of sand, but nothing more offensive. It was hard to see inside, given the lateness of the day, but as he walked in his eyes began to adjust and things started to show themselves through the gloom.

He was instantly struck by how well he remembered it, even as it was. The foyer of the palace was still much as it had been. The patterned tiles of different sizes and colors under his feet were the same he’d played on as a child, just barely covered in a thin layer of sand and debris. The ceiling arched above undamaged, seaweed and grim covering the glass and making the light that filtered down murky and heavy. The stairs were still there, circling around the back of the room up to the second floor where he and his family had lived. Even old portraits, obscured by filth, still hung on the walls, and there were tall elegant vases standing in some corners, tops overflowing with sand now instead of flowers.

Walking deeper into the space he could look down the halls that surrounded the foyer: one was collapsed, just rocks, debris, and detritus blocking the way. The hall to the east was gone completely, opening the way, a dozen or so meters down it, to nothing but a view of pale twilight sky and sea. He supposed the breeze that opening allowed to permeate the halls was to thank for the lack of mold or other clustered odors. The other two halls seemed almost undamaged, simply shadowed and lonely.

The stairs also seemed reasonably sound, although what did he know about such things? It was dark and likely that if he tried them he’d end up crushed in a pile of rubble two steps from the top. He imagined the headline, “Lost Price Crushed To Death in Own Palace After One Month as King”. Probably too long for a headline anyways. He put a foot on the first step.

There was a noise behind him, something moving in the shadows. He turned quickly.

There was nothing to see. But the room felt different suddenly. After years of living in the darkness, he knew when he was being watched.

“Who’s there?” He kept his voice calm.

There was no answer, but another noise came in the dark, someone shifting, hiding maybe. It sounded small. It might just be a cat.

“It’s alright,” he tried, stepping away from the stairs. “It’s fine. You can come out.”

It was quiet for a long moment. He was about to admit that it must have been just a cat when something stepped out of the shadows. It was still too far in the darkness to be clear, but he thought it must be a child.

He took a tentative step forward, peering into the shadows. “Hello?”

The shape moved half a step closer. He could see better now, and it was indeed a child. He wasn’t sure if it was a boy or a girl, there were simply large peering eyes, slanted with a feral suspicion, and medium length hair that looked unkempt and tangled. The clothes it wore were aged and rough, much of it seeming too big for the little body.

“Are you alright?” Qai asked, staying where he was but kneeling down to be at eye level.

The child dragged his or her toe against the sand on the floor, hands knitted tight behind it’s back. “Sorry. I didn’t know anyone lived here.”

Qai laughed. But that wasn’t so strange was it of a thought, was it? And strangely enough, standing here in these ruined halls, he felt more at home than he had in years. It felt calm, familiar, with none of the sterile isolation of the statehouse or his office. It felt like him, lost and forgotten, but still standing where it should.

“That’s alright,” Qai said, “I haven’t lived here in a long time.”

The child peered up at him nervously. “You’re the king. From the TV, and the papers. I can see your tattoos.”

Qai nodded. “That’s right.”

“What are you doing here?” The child asked.

Qai sighed. “I don’t know, honestly.” He glanced up again. “What about you?”

The child frowned. “Just need a place to sleep.”

Qai felt something tighten in his throat but he tried to ignore it. “What happened to your home? Your family?”

“Never had one,” the child said simply.

“Where were you then? Who were you with before this?”

The child shrugged. “We had a house, some of us, kids. But they went on the boats, a lot of them. Then the house was gone, so I needed to find a new one.”

Qai furrowed his brow, trying to understand. “Why’d they get on the boats?”

“They didn’t know where else to go.”

“But you didn’t want to go with them?”

The child’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. “They don’t come back from the boats. People say they do, they say they will, but they never do. It’s lies. They go away and no one ever sees them again. I don’t want to go away.”

Qai focused on the small face in front of him. “Well… you could stay here.”

The child looked around, arching it’s neck to see the span of the roof, the darkness of the halls. “I don’t know… It’s big. And there’s no one here.”

Qai smiled. “What’s your name?”

The child narrowed its eyes. “Shria.”

“I’m Qai.”

The face nodded wearily.

“You wouldn’t be here alone, Shria,” Qai said, feeling suddenly calmer than he had in weeks. “I’ll stay too.”

Shria looked at him skeptically. “…Really?”

Qai nodded.

“Why would you stay here?” Shria asked, eyeing the ruins all around them.

Qai smiled. “This is home.”

He was exhausted by the time he made it to the office the next morning. In the end he hadn’t slept much at all, he’d spent most of the night clearing out the foyer, opening the space as much as he could, arguing with his driver to go home and leave him, to just come back in the morning. He’d won out eventually.

Tonight maybe he’d try the stairs, or explore one of the other halls, but for now the first room was more livable, and he actually felt as if he’d done something, no matter how simple.

He collapsed behind his desk, taking the coffee his assistant had left steaming for him. He hadn’t been seated two minutes when the door knocked.

His assistant peered his head inside. “Your Majesty, I have Councillor Araboa here to see you.”

Qai looked up. “What?”

“Magistrate Aetius made the arrangements for the meeting yesterday,” the assistant tried, “after you talked.”

“Oh, yes, right, please show him in,” Qai said, standing awkwardly at his desk.

The assistant pushed the door open enough and the Councillor pushed his way inside. Qai recognized him instantly as the infinitely apathetic younger man from his first day. He felt quickly embarrassed for not remembering which faces belonged to all of the titles.

“Your Majesty,” the Councillor bowed briefly. “How can I help you?”

Qai felt suddenly flustered, the man’s dark eyes had the look of someone quite busy who’s taken time away from his day for something he doesn’t think deserves it. But it didn’t matter. He had to understand all of this, it was his right, his responsibility. If this man considered it a waste of his time it didn’t make a difference.

“Please,” Qai gestured to the chair opposite.

The Councillor crossed the room, sitting stiffly in the chair offered, adjusting his well-fitted suit slightly as he did. He eyed the table still strewn with documents skeptically.

“It’s Councillor Araboa, Rei Araboa?” Qai tried.

“That’s right, your Majesty,” the man answered flatly.

“And you are the Councillor of Internal Affairs.”

“Correct, your Majesty.”

Qai shifted a few papers on his desk, trying to mentally sift his thoughts. “I’m not sure if Magistrate Aetius told you why I wanted to speak with you, it’s mainly that there is so much to understand and I want to make sure I am seeing things fully.”

“It is quite a bit to understand, your Majesty,” the Councillor answered, voice unaltered.

Qai paused. There was something in the way he said the title that felt out of place. He looked at him, but the man simply held his gaze, firm, intelligent, and rather disinterested.

“Magistrate Aetius thought you might be helpful.”

“Vicco often thinks people will be helpful,” the man said easily. “Likely because he’s so unhelpful himself. But ineffective individuals often make the best politicians. Your Majesty.”

Qai was startled. “He’s been very obliging.”

“You’re the king. It’s his job to be obliging. As it is all of ours. Your Majesty.”

Qai watched him quietly for a moment. The arrogance of his tone was starting to grate. He turned one of the larger stacks of paper on his desk around, and flipped to the back.

“Is this your signature?” He asked.

He saw the man’s jaw flex under his skin. “Yes.”

“Can you explain to me the purpose of this document?”

“Haven’t you read it?” The Councillor asked. “Your Majesty.”

“You don’t need to end every sentence like that you know,” Qai found himself snapping.

“Which ones would you prefer, your Majesty?”

Qai could feel annoyance prickly along his throat, but he pushed it aside. “This document, the GWCO - Galit Workers Contract Ordinance - established the right for long term work contracts to be issued to civilians. This allowed for citizens to be paid in advance a small amount for years worth of work. It effectively established the spuma trade in this country, isn’t that right?”

“This country, and others,” he answered simply.

“Based on your signature, right there? As the head of Internal Affairs?”

The man’s eyes were dark and strong. “Yes, your Majesty.”

Qai focused on the blank expression. “Why?”

A rough smile cracked across the man’s face, but there was no mirth in it. “That’s a complicated question.”

“I’d like to understand.”

“With due respect, your Majesty, I don’t think someone who has only known this country for a handful of weeks can understand as easily as that. Things are not that simple. Even if you’d wish them to be.”

The anger in Qai’s chest was starting to boil. “It’s little more than slavery. Isn’t it?”

The Councillor looked back at him coldly. “Yes. It is.”

Qai felt the rage surge with sudden fire. “There’s children, walking down those docks, and getting on ships, packaged away like good to other countries and sold. There are families being torn apart, people of this land being shipped away to fight in other nations armies, to raise Marigemma’s children, and work in Cronasol’s fields. I need to understand that, I have to know how this was allowed happened.”

“It was the option that presented itself,” the Councillor answered, tone flat, but jaw tight. “Things became… difficult.”

“How? I just… I don’t understand how could they possibly have become that hopeless!”

The man’s eyes shone sharply in the light of the office. “Of course you don’t. You were never here.”

Qai stared back at him. The heat in his chest was growing dangerous. “You don’t seem to think much of me, Councillor Araboa.”

“Apologies, your Majesty,” he said. “I’m not used to speaking with Kings.”

“What are you used to?” Qai shot.

The man’s eyes tightened. “Running this country. After all, your Majesty, I think we can all agree that someone should.”

Qai focused on the desk in front of him, trying to contain his anger. “I think you should leave now Councillor.”

The Councillor bowed his head calmly, pushed back his chair, and stood. “I would ask one favor, your Majesty, before I leave.”

Qai laughed in rough shock. “Oh, really?”

“If you summon me again, please try to make sure it serves some purpose.” And with that, he turned and left the room, shutting the door neatly behind him.

Qai’s moved towards him, bare feet cool on the patterned tiles spread across the floor. The sunlight glanced off his eyes as he stepped out to meet him, and he blinked hard against it, adjusting to the brightness.

He stood next to his father’s familiar presence, looking out over the ocean that spread vast and familiar. His father seemed tall but he couldn’t place why. Qai could smell the churn of sea, salty and fresh, the smells of the trading docks, spices, fish, and steel, lifting up towards where they stood.

“So still,” his father said. “I’ve never seen the sea so still. Have you?”

Qai turned to look at him and fear slithered up his spine. Suddenly the day was not so bright.

His father’s face was wrong. Pale. Lifeless. His eyes were open, mouth open, as if he saw him, as if he were about to speak, but he knew he wouldn’t, he couldn’t. His hair was floating, weightless, and suddenly there was no more balcony, there was no more sun, just water. Everywhere.

“We are beginning our final descent, your majesty,” A voice crackled over speakers.

Qai opened his eyes.

“Are you alright, your majesty?” A voice asked. He looked up, it was the flight attendant. There was only one. He was the only one on the plane after all, well, aside from the security and the pilot of course.

“Yes,” he tried to level his breathing and smile. “I’m fine, thank you.”

She smiled pleasantly. “Can I get you anything?”

His heart was still beating harder than it should have been. He cleared his throat. “No, I’m fine. Did I hear her say we are landing soon?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

He wasn’t used to that yet. The Graces had called him Majesty, but they had said it differently. They had said it like a simple label, like someone else might say “fish” or “sand”, just the proper name for exactly what he was. “Majesty” wrapped around this woman’s tongue with the same care that a word like “stars” had come from the Graces.

“How long do you think it will be? Till we land, I mean,” he asked.

“Half an hour, likely less.”

He nodded, murmuring some quite thanks. She moved on, easing her way through the small tube of metal towards the front once again. He leaned back against the leather of the seat, turning his head to look out the window. The chain he wore from his nose to his ear pressed closer against his cheek, cool and comforting. There was more to see than just ocean by now. For most of the flight it had just been a dark vast expanse below, scattered with clouds occasionally. But now there was land as well, small islands spearing free from the blue, and a wider landmass that he knew must be the shore of an entire continent, what was left of his country.

Amazing really, from this high up, it seemed the simplest thing in the world for the sea to surge, push against the fragile edge and crumble away at it. Distance always made things seem simpler he supposed, whether it was space or time that separated.

His hands knitted nervously in his lap, fiddling with the edges of his clothes. He’d dressed simply, black, cotton, a loose fit to the bottoms and a stronger one to the top, arms free. He didn’t have many clothes different from these. The Graces didn’t have much else to offer him. The tattoos spread across his body made up for what his clothing often lacked with detail and artistry.

He didn’t remember getting most of them. He knew they had all come eventually, but they covered so much of his body by now he couldn’t point to one session or another. The Graces had said they were stars, almost like a map of the sky spread across his skin, even though the looked nothing like stars, or any language he knew. They were runic in ways, but they spread and flowed in all directions, weaving together in spirals and other shapes languages didn’t tend to follow. It was more like the night sky in that way, everything twisting and turning with no real pattern to be seen, just a knitted cosmic spread of characters, some noticeable in one moment, others the next.

He shifted in his seat. His stomach was tight under his skin, and he couldn’t pretend it was just the dream.

Twelve years. He’d been away for twelve years, and now he was coming back, stepping into an opening that had been waiting for him all his life. But no, that wasn’t right was it. Not all his life. He’d never thought he would be here when he was younger. He’d had brothers. Sisters. He’d been so young compared to all of them. This was never supposed to be his role to play. He’d watched his siblings learn, watched them complain as they were dragged off to lessons and instruction on leading a country, controlling a nation: trade, etiquette, speech. But they were gone, all of them, and there was no one to ask for help. He would have to find his way on his own as well as he could.

The plane gave a jolt as it turned, easing sideways in the air and drifting downwards. The tendrils of anxiety around his stomach gave a twist and he swallowed. The voice crackled to life over the speakers again.

“Now landing in Galit, welcome home your Majesty.”

The doors opened and he braced himself for the sound of a crowd, the flashing of cameras, but nothing came. His stomach loosened slightly and he followed his security’s gestures down the stairs and onto the tarmac.

There was a soft warm breeze pushing it’s way across the airfield. It smelled of asphalt and gasoline, but the ocean was there was well, inseparable from the land. He tried to remember if it smelled the same as when he was a child, and found with a sense of loss that he couldn’t. He’d often walked by the ocean on the island of the Graces, maybe the ocean simply smelled the same everywhere.

He looked around. He didn’t recognize anything he could see. But of course he wouldn’t, after all it had been twelve years and it was all new now. He wasn’t even sure he’d ever set foot in this part of the city when he was little, or if this part of the city had even existed to set foot in. It looked fairly similar to what he remembered airfields looking like; planes, square stout buildings, signal towers spread across. There was a fence far across the tarmac and although it was hard to see, he was almost sure there was a crowd there. A large one.

“This way, Majesty,” his security guard directed.

Qai looked where he gestured and saw a significantly smaller group waiting for him, seven or ten people maybe. They were dressed in suits and other finery, presentable, diplomatic. He swallowed and forced a smile as he approached.

“Your Majesty!” One man called out, bowing. Most of the rest followed suit, tipping their heads in respect as he reached them.

The man who had called out stepped forward, reaching out a hand. Qai took it and the man covered it with his second warmly. “May I be the first to welcome you home after all this time.”

Qai smiled, “Thank you.”

The man was older, maybe early fifties. His hair was full and grey, swept back from his face elegantly. He was handsome, suit lined with silk, small circular glasses sat on his nose and an intelligence to his eyes Qai couldn’t help but notice.

“I’m Magistrate Vicco Aetius,” he slid a friendly arm around Qai’s shoulders turning him towards the rest of the group. “And here we have Magistrate Dursa, Magistrate Gaius, Magistrate Flavian, Magistrate Horatia, and finally Magistrate Quintus.”

Qai looked and each face in turn and tried to remember them, but his nerves were scrambling and he was somehow sure he would have to be reminded of each of them all over again. Maybe a few times.

Magistrate Aetius seemed to sense his discomfort. “Apologies, your Majesty, are you familiar with the government systems that have been in place since you left us?”

“I have been educated to that end,” Qai tried, “but I understand many things are different in practice then in theory.”

The Magistrate laughed, “Wise words, sir, wise words indeed. I’m sure we will all require some time to adjust.”

A man towards the back of the group rolled his eyes. Qai couldn’t help staring at him for a moment. He looked severely disinterested, almost annoyed. Everyone else was smiling, staring. This man checked his watch.

“Ah,” Aetius said, noticing Qai’s interest. “Apologies, apologies. Forgive me, Rei, come here.”

The bored man stepped forward. He was younger than the rest of them, he would guess by at least ten years, but it could be closer to twenty. He had smooth strong features, dark sharp eyes, and a mouth that looked as if the most anyone could win from it was a smirk.

The man looked directly into his eyes, and for a moment Qai thought there was an expectancy there, as if he was waiting for something. Qai wasn’t sure what to do, so he stuck out his hand. Something in the man’s eyes shifted, almost confused or disappointed, but it was gone as quickly as it arrived, the cold evaluation resumed once more as he took his hand firmly.

“Your Majesty, this is Rei Araboa, our Councillor of Internal Affairs,” Magistrate Aetius said.

The man bowed his head curtly as he let go of his hand. “Your Majesty.”

Qai nodded. “It’s good to meet you, all of you,” he looked around. “Forgive me, but aren’t there two other councillors? External Affairs? Securities?”

Magistrate Aetius smiled, “I see you’re well informed. As much as Councilors Vitus and Scaevola would have treasured meeting you on your first day here, they are currently out of borders, occupied with some talks regarding possible solutions to the current chaos in Gloriaterra.”

Qai felt instantly foolish. “Of course, as they should be.”

Magistrate Aetius nodded. “They should be back within a week or so, but it is your first day home, your Majesty! We wouldn’t want to tire you with all of this political toil so soon.”

“No,” Qai said quicker than he meant to. “I’m sorry, I’m… I know it’s been a long time, since I was home, since my family had a place here—”

“Sir,” another magistrate broke in quickly, Gaius maybe, “You’re family has always had a place here.”

“Thank you,” Qai smiled weakly. “I only mean, I know it might be trying, but I’m eager to learn. I want to start where my family, my father left off.”

The man at the back- Rei, he reminded himself- looked impossibly more put off.

“I understand,” Aetius said warmly. “We’ll have plenty of time to make sure you are all caught up.”

Qai nodded. The man at the back reached inside the pocket of his suit and pulled out his phone. He glanced at Qai once before answering it. He turned his back, stepping away from the small group so as not to be any more of a distraction.

“Now,” Aetius began again, “we don’t want to rush you, you’ve had a long journey and I’m sure you must be quite exhausted, but the people would love to see you, and the press as I’m sure you can imagine is giddy with questions—”

“Of course,” Qai said instantly, turning towards the distant shape of a crowd by the fence. “I want to see them, talk to them.”

“We thought you might,” the Magistrate smiled. “We’ve set up an event just outside by the docks if you’d like, we can go anytime.”

“Now,” Qai said instantly. “I mean, if it’s no trouble, I’d like to go now, Magistrate.”

“Please, no need for titles,” the man begged, “Vicco is fine.

It took them more than an hour to reach the press conference, which surprised him since they’d hardly gone half a mile from the air-field. He sat close in the warm leathery interior of a town-car, Magistrate’s Aetius, and another, a woman, he thought her name might be Georgiana.

They talked quickly back and forth. He tried to follow it but there was too much he didn’t understand. He tried all the same, forcing his brain to take in all of it until the car finally stopped. He could hear the crowd even through the glass and metal. He reached for the door but it was opened for him from the outside and he got out into the warmth of the sun. There was more security here, ushering him with the Magistrates along towards where he apparently was supposed to be.

He tried to take in what was around him. Things felt more familiar off of the air-field. They were moving up a set of stairs that was cut into the side of what he guessed was an overlook, a little square that looked down onto the docks and the ocean. The streets where close and the smell of the sea was stronger here, mingling with the smell of cooked fish and gasoline from the docks. His companions eased him up towards the top, and he realized they had been speaking to him but he hadn’t heard a word of it. The crowd was getting louder and louder. He tried to call back, ask them to repeat, but then he was stepping up the final step and instantly the sound of cameras and the cheering of thousands drowned out everything else.

He staggered slightly, finding the podium they’d set up for him and locking his hands on it securely, trying not to hit the microphones. He took a moment to try and properly see the scene in front of him. He was on an overlook. There was a group of fifty, maybe a hundred reporters, cameramen, journalists directly in front of him on the same level, but his podium was tall enough that he could also be seen by the crowd spread out below the overlook and on top of the docks. The square below the overlook stretched out to where the docks began and was filled with pressing cheering bodies look up towards him with bright hopeful faces. Beyond them the docks seemed to function regularly, ships pushing and and out, cargo loading and unloading.

He felt the Magistrates moving in behind him, instructing someone to quiet the crowd and the must have because the noise dimmed enough to hear individual voices again. A sick feeling suddenly clutched as his chest as he realized they might expect him to have a speech, but he felt a warm arm against his and suddenly Vicco was steering the microphone to his own lips.

“Good afternoon,” he began. “Today is a day we have all waited sometime to see, the day our lost prince is finally returned to us once again!”

Another cheer went up from the crowd and Qai tried to keep his breathing even.

“I’m sure that in the near future we will have many opportunities to get to know our new monarch all the better. Today is just one of many soon to come, so we will keep questions brief, but his Majesty is happy to answer what he can.”

And with that Vicco smiled warmly at him and stepped back.

Qai stared out, suddenly lost. “Yes, thank you.”

That was all he could seem to manage. Was he supposed to call on someone? All of the reporters were practically jumping out of their seats, hands high in the air. He swallowed, trying to think of what he should do when a female voice called from behind him. “Christian.”

Instantly one of the reporters stood up. “Thank you, Magistrate. Firstly, welcome home your Majesty.”

“Thank you,” Qai said, again, and felt like an idiot. They would think that was all he could say after this.

“Can you tell us what it’s like, to be back in your home country after all this time?”

A treacherous thought rose in his mind: this wasn’t his home country. The ocean had taken a bite out of a continent and all that remained now was the jagged edges, struggling to survive. He wasn’t even sure if he had ever stood on the land under his feet before now.

Qai focused on the man asking him the question. “I’m glad to be home,” he tried. “It’s been a long time. I’m eager to be useful, where I can be. I want to be of service, to my people, to my home. I hope to be an king that can earn your love, and your trust.”

The reporter smiled back at him, maybe that had sounded alright.

“Viquo,” the Magistrate called.

Another reporter stood. “Many people are curious to know your Majesty, how you managed to escape the palace all those years ago, since you’re the only one who apparently made it out.”

Qai cleared his throat. “I was very young, so I’m sorry that I can’t remember exactly.”

It wasn’t a lie. He remembered the water breaking down the doors, he remembered the screaming, the furniture swept away as if it was nothing. That’s when things began to fog. He focused again.

“A helicopter found me. I remember soldiers lifting me up from a hillside, taking me away. There’s not much else, I’m sorry.”

There were other things, shadows: a hand on his, angry young eyes, a voice not much older than his own telling him to move, to reach the soldiers. Sometimes he could feel a hand leaving his wrist as the soldier’s lifted him, a face down below growing smaller and smaller as he moved away. But he couldn’t be sure which thoughts were dreams and which were memories. Maybe one day he would remember again.

“Lenia,” the Magistrate’s voice called again and another reporter sprung to her feet.

“You’ve been gone for twelve years, your Majesty. The Graces took you in after the loss of your family. You have been with them since you were seven years old. Is there anything you can tell us about them?”

Eager whispers and mutters sprung up from the crowd around them. Qai swallowed, feeling more lost than ever. “What exactly?”

The woman looked like she might laugh but swallowed it. “Anything! You’re the only person to have seen them or communicated with them outside of edicts and messages. What do they look like?”

Qai frowned. The truth was he didn’t really know himself. The years he’d spent with them had been dark, looking up through holes in the caves to the stars above, listing them, naming them. They brought him to the sea side sometimes and it took him fifteen minutes before the sun didn’t hurt his eyes. And they always remained in the dark.

“It’s hard to say. They were hooded,” Qai tried. “I never saw enough to describe them to you. But they were kind, and seemed... young.”

“There’s a rumor that they are children, selected from all over the world as babies and taken in secret to serve, to continue their mission to protect the bloodlines. Can you confirm or deny that?”

“I don’t know,” Qai struggled, almost laughing himself. “I can’t confirm or deny anything I suppose. That could be the case. I never saw any babies, but they all spoke in a similar voice and seemed young enough to be children.”

“Did they give you those markings?”

“Yes,” he said instantly, desperate for an easy answer.

“What do they mean?”

“They’re star names, I think.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, I mean, well…”

“How many Graces lived with you?”

“I--”

“I think we’ll take some new questions now, thank you,” the Magistrate’s voice broke in.

The woman opened her mouth as if she didn’t wish to be silenced but the Magistrate called on another reporter before she could start again.

“Have you heard from any other Monarchs, your Majesty? Have you planned on going to other nations or inviting any leaders here?”

“I haven’t heard from anyone just yet,” he said, “but I’m sure I will soon. For now I think it’s best that I focus on understanding my own country before reaching out to others.”

“Your Majesty!” A voice called out, a man standing suddenly without permission. “What actions do you plan on taking regarding The Servitude?”

The Magistrates behind him began muttering instantly. Qai tried not to listen, tried to focus.

“Excuse me?” He asked. “I don’t understand.”

“The Spuma trade,” the man continued. His voice was strong, eyes angry. He seemed more desperate than the other reporters, more eager. Some people were moving away from him. “I’m talking about the forced servitude of your people. What do you plan on doing about that?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t…” Qai struggled.

“Take him,” A voice behind him muttered. Through the crowd large men in dark clothing began to press towards the man whose eyes had not left Qai’s face.

“You owe us an answer!” He called. Qai opened his mouth to try and respond but it was too late, the men had reached the reporter and were shoving him too deep into the crowd to hear. Mutterings sounded all around them.

“Christa,” the Magistrate’s voice called, friendly and firm.

A young woman stood up, all sharp fashion and smiling lips. “Your Majesty, now that you are back, and your previous fiancé was lost tragically in the events of the Midnight Broadcast, have you considered new options for a consort?”

Qai tried to bring his mind back into alignment. He could still see struggling towards the back of the crowd. The woman waiting for an answer was smiling at him bright enough to blind. Out past her the docks moved as if they didn’t notice any of it.

“No,” he said finally, forcing a smile. “Not at this time.”

The press conference didn’t last too much longer after that. He was hurried back into the car, the Magistrates on either side congratulating him on his performance. He didn’t feel like he was owed any congratulations. He felt hollow, empty of all the things he felt he should be full of: answers, speeches, information. He let his body slump in the seat of the car, vaguely hearing them tell him how he should rest, how they’d prepared staterooms for him at the government offices. It all drowned into a hum, and even that left him feeling guilty and lost. Perhaps it was just his first day, and the travel and all the rest of it left him incapable of doing things as he wished to, but he couldn’t help feeling like he’d be left feeling just as useless on ten days of rest.

He tried not to feel disheartened. It wasn’t his fault. This was all new. He had to give himself time to learn. He would ask questions, and get answers, and the next time someone told him they deserved an answer he would give it to them. But he couldn’t stop remembering the man, that councilor, and how he’d rolled his eyes, how he’d taken his phone and answered it as if Qai was something that didn’t really matter.

The car stopped several times, once to let out one Magistrate, Georgiana, he was almost sure now, and again to let out Vicco. He leaned in the door before he left, smiling at him and offering kind words. He said a few things to his driver before leaving him alone with just his security in the front seat.

They drove him through the winding streets carved into the hillsides. He tried to look out the window but the streets were close and the windows were dark and he could hardly see the city.

“Excuse me,” he said suddenly.

“Yes Majesty?” The driver asked.

“The palace, is that still here?”

“It’s in the old section,” the driver answered, “down past the flood lines.”

“But is it still there?”

“Oh yeah,” the driver said, quickly adding, “Your Majesty.”

“Could we see it?”

The driver hesitated.

“It’s not advisable.” His security man broke in, voice stern from the front seat. “That area of the city is mostly ruins. When the sea took the city, those areas were underwater for almost two years before it receded. It’s all ruins now.”

“No one’s gone back? Built it up again?” Qai asked.

“There was much to rebuild, your Majesty.” The man said.

Qai felt foolish, again, which seemed to be the immutable trend of this day. Of course they wouldn’t rebuild the palace. There wasn’t anyone left to live in it.

“I’d like to see it,” he said.

“It’s not a safe area, your Majesty,” the man continued, “Much of the flood zones left in ruin are slums now.”

“People live in the palace?” He asked, surprised.

“No,” the man said, “People have not lost that respect.”

That respect, Qai thought. What else have they lost?

“I’d like to see it, if it’s not too much trouble,” he said.

The men in the front were quiet for a moment.

“We should not stay too long, your Majesty,” the security guard said finally.

“That’s fine, thank you,” Qai assented.

It took them twenty minutes or so to arrive. Qai tried to roll his window down to take in the city on the way but found it locked and didn’t want to trouble them further by asking for it to be otherwise. When the car ground to a stop on debris littered roads, Qai waited for his door to unlock and stepped out.

The palace was built on a hillside, that much hadn’t changed, but it clung to the edge far more desperately now. The waves had eroded large chunks of land surrounding, and he could still see clear evidence of years spent underwater; up the tall walls there were lines horizontal dragged across the exterior that must have marked where the water descended month after month, matching the stone behind them. The pillars and tiled dome ceilings were all faded, white with salt and worn against the sun. Portions had crumbled away, lost as the rock beneath them fell. The whole eastern section was gone, just a gaping opening where it had been pulled away from the rest. His sisters had lived there. They’d had a garden of their own, and he’d often spent afternoons under the wide leaves of the trees filling it. There was no sign of it now.

The entrance to the palace waited, darkness beyond. One of the great doors hung half off it’s hinges, opening the way inside like broken teeth. He wanted to go inside, but he didn’t want to worry them any more than he already had, and there was something about this place that made him want to be alone.

He turned away, looking instead to the land out around them. The palace was up and away from many of the other buildings, but standing on the edge of the rocky cliff it stood on, leaning against the walls that surrounded the once trimmed now wild and chaotic gardens, he could see them down below.

The ruins there were different. The streets were still filled with debris, the builds still worn and salt streaked but there were tarps covering roofs, boards and bits of metal filling holes. It had been patched, desperately, a broken thing held together again with pieces that didn’t fit quite right.

The docks were busy, small metal boats hurrying in and out, people scrambling, shining with work under the warmth of the sun. His eyes traveled over the activity and then suddenly caught. There was one dock stiller than the rest.

There was a boat, larger than the others, better maintained. It took up the largest bay in the docks, large enough to carry loads of freight and at least five stories tall. There was a line of people standing along it, orderly and still. They stood one after the other, as if waiting their turn. At the front of the line was a figure with papers in his hands. Each individual passed by him, spoke some words. He seemed to write something on the back of their hands, and then they moved inside the ship. They did not come out again.

Qai frowned. They were not eager, moving quickly as if working or traveling. None of them carried cargo or luggage. They simply waited, and then walked inside the ship. Off behind them he noticed there was a barricade, a wire fence separating the line from the main body of the dock. At the fence stood others, watching the line move. Those figure held each other close, watching, as the line of men and women was eaten slowly but steadily by the ship.

“What is that?” Qai asked.

His guard stepped closer. “What, Majesty?”

“That ship, those people.”

The man looked over the wall, down to the dock. “Spuma ships, Majesty.”

“Where are they going?”

The man studied the ship more carefully. “It looks like a Noxmilitas ship, Majesty.”

Qai watched one woman join the line. A child grasped her arm, holding on tight. Another figure pulled the child away, turning it from the ship as the woman moved with the line. Slowly. Steadily.

“Why?” Qai asked. “Why are they going?”

The man watched the sight effortlessly, his voice calm, simple. “People do what they must, your Majesty.”

Whatever it was scratched against the plaster once more. He leaned back to stand when suddenly his office door pushed open. Jozef lingered in the archway, small hands clasped behind his back, one toe scuffing nervously again the marble of the floor.

“Hello,” Godwin said.

“Hello,” Jozef answered, eyes still on the floor.

He was getting tall already, just as he had at that age. It was strange, most boys didn’t truly grow until they were at least thirteen or older, but Godwin had always been tall, and it seemed every year with more certainty that his son would be the same. Like many things that were a little larger than they felt they should be there was a timidity to Jozef. A self-consciousness clung to his movements, and there was a careful hesitancy taken with the world around him.

“Something wrong?” Godwin asked.

“No,” Jozef answered, shaking his head. His hair fell against his face and he brushed it back again. The waves were darker than Godwin’s, still blond, but the slight curl and the look of wet hay to them spoke much more of his mother’s.

“I finished my lessons,” Jozef says, finally looking up to him. “I thought I might be able to help you.”

Godwin gazed back at him. His eyes were blue, just like his own, but he didn’t see himself in the boy. More often than not he saw his brother, and sometimes, when the boy woke at night with nightmares heavy on his mind, he saw his father staring back at him.  

“I’m almost done,” Godwin said, “but come here, sit down, I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing.”

The boy smiled, expression fragile but charming as his mother’s. He hurried over to the seat opposite the desk and sat down obediently. His eyes traced over the contents of the desk with reverence and curiosity.

“Do you know what today is?” Godwin asked, leaning forward on his elbows, the finely tailored and simply designed black linen suit stretching slightly against his back.

“Yes,” the boy said instantly. “It’s the SWETA Summit for the first quarter.”

“That’s right,” Godwin answers. “And what does SWETA represent?”

The boy focused, delicate blonde brows furrowing. “South West Established Trade Alliance.”

“Good. And what is the purpose of the summit?”

“To discuss the alliances’ position on existing conflicts and to prepare for the future.”

“That’s right,” Godwin said. “I have been creating an agenda for the discussion.”

The boy frowned. “Shouldn’t there be one already? They’ll be here in just a few hours.”

“There is,” Godwin says. “This one is for myself. Everyone will discuss the issues facing our alliance, but I want to ensure that I have certain answers as well, in order to run the country to the best of my ability.”

“I see,” Jozef smiled. He was proud of his father. Godwin supposed many boys were at his age. He wondered idly what that felt like.

“Did you write the group agenda?” Jozef asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you always?”

“Often,” Godwin said, “but today I am the host for the summit so it’s especially relevant.”

“I don’t understand why we don’t always host,” the boy said quietly. “We’re the largest, the most economically powerful.”

“Because it is an alliance,” Godwin said carefully. “An alliance is only as strong as the respect that holds it together. We represent a continent. Our strength is in our unity, an entire landmass held together by our mutual interests and friendship. It prevents conflict, gives us stronger footing with the other nations outside of our alliance.”

The boy nodded quietly, hands knitted together in his lap.

“But more than that, each member of the alliance brings a unique benefit,” Godwin said. “Can you tell me what those are?”

The boy looked up quickly before focusing again. “Shamalhajar is mineral rich. They provide resources for our manufacturing, and they have a small but very strong army.”

Godwin nods. He’d always been an attentive boy, listening with care and consideration to his lessons. “What about the others?”

They were harder, he knew, but the boy focused. “Yaaxil’s forested, but they don’t have any strong trade. The forests are protected. But there are medical resources that they do export, and they have a very focused scientific and research industry. There’s value in that. Fleuvia has trade routes. The rivers navigate the continent. They’re important for transportation despite the small population.”

“Well done,” Godwin smiles.

The boy smiles back. “Maybe one day I will be able to go to the summit?”

“Soon,” Godwin answered. “I promise.”

He pushed his chair out and stood, stretching his neck slightly from side to side. “We should get ready to receive our guests. Where’s your mother?”

The boy stood up, already almost to his shoulder. “Sick. Again.”

“I see,” Godwin answered. “Up in her room?” The boy nodded.

Godwin began to walk from his office and the boy followed. “Seems like all the baby does is make her sick.”

“That’s what babies do for a little while,” Godwin answered. “It was the same when she was pregnant with you.”

“Really?” The boy looked up, mouth set in a concerned frown. “Why does she have to be? It doesn’t seem fair…”

Godwin turned the corner to the stairs. “It’s just how it is. Now go find Vakir and tell him I said to get you ready. Alright?”

The boy nodded, heading off down the wide halls of the palace.

Godwin continued up the stairs. This part of the palace was always quieter. The lower levels would be bustling and hurried, everyone preparing for the Summit. The press was sequestered off in their sections, the boardrooms and meals would be undergoing a scrupulous evaluation, rooms for the guests aired and cleaned and pampered. But up here, in the residential area, it always felt quieter, emptier, with the tall cold marble walls of white and black surrounding everything. It had always felt rather like a crypt to him, but he supposed that was more to do with memories than the actual construction, and anyways, it was his palace now, the seat of the throne. It was as it was, and as it always would be.

Even now they didn’t keep much in the way of staff. The SWETA alliance had voted to ban the spuma trade in their lands when it arose eight years ago, so it was only hired help for any of them. There was security of course, all the necessary staff to run the state, but the residential halls were never bustling with the voices of servants. He was told it had been different once, long ago. But when his father’s sickness had taken him, he’d feared treachery and deception from everything and everyone. The servants of the palace had been the first to take the punishment for his illusions.

Godwin remembered as a boy walking up these very stairs, stopping to stare as a pool of red slowly slipped down the steps one at a time. The servant girl had still been draped over the marble, her neck the wrong direction, like a twisted toy. The puddle on the step below her had grown, one drip at a time, the sound of the rhythmically falling liquid echoing across the hollow marble belly of the palace.

He stepped easily up the stairs towards the royal chambers. The palace was cool. Even in the winter he liked to keep several windows ajar. The air had been stale enough to choke on when he was a boy, the smell of it spread thick and heavy over his memories, dripping down and filling in the gaps of all of them. He still hated the sense of being sealed in some protective case, and he liked the smell of the city as it drifted through the halls.

At the top of the stairs he stopped, folding his hands behind his back and looking out over the capital. There was a haze clinging to the towering buildings, floating white against the stark black  lines. Beyond the hard shapes of the city lay the sea, vast and dark against the grey of the day. The occasional red and white light flashed from the ships, always flowing in and out, heavy with goods; steel, timber, anything to manufacture, and wealth.

The widow at the top of the stairs was huge and circular. There had been a time when he had to stretch to see through it, reaching up to the tips of his toes with his brother next to him. He’d always seemed so afraid looking out over the city.

He’d seemed afraid the last time Godwin had seen him as well, face sharp through the static scattered image on a television screen, staring at him, at the world, at who knew what else. His face had been still as stone. But not his eyes. His eyes had still been so afraid. Just as they always had been.

Maybe he had finally stopped being afraid that night. Godwin hoped so. Fear seemed to be a terrible thing.

“Godwin? Is that you?” A voice called from one of the chambers.

He turned, heading in the direction it had come from. “Yes.”

He pushed open the door to his wife’s room. It felt warmer than the rest of the palace, as it always did. And there were always flowers, no matter what time of year. He liked it in her room. It felt light and free, he liked it for all the reasons he liked her.

There was a rustling from the bathroom and Sarai stepped out, leaning heavy and exhausted against the doorframe. She looked at him with a weary smile, eyebrows sharp and clever, skin still somehow sun-kissed from her home, freckled and fresh and so different from the smooth marble of his own. She’d always looked like she had grown from the earth, raised in the sunlight with soil under her bare feet. He knew he wasn’t like that. He and his siblings had always looked more like things carved by a pernicious artist who thought sunlight was merely something that spoiled furniture. Godwin looked like he’d been designed to be framed, and she was quite the opposite. Even her portrait hanging in the main hall didn’t seem quite right, like she shouldn’t be contained in something as material as canvas and oil.

She was wearing a simple light cotton slip, feet bare, hair loose. She tossed the dirty blonde waves to one side with a sigh. “Why did we do this again?”

Godwin smiled. “I think we liked the results of the first attempt. Might as well try another.”

“Stupid thought,” Sarai teased. She crossed the room, collapsing into the white softness of her bed. Godwin sat in a chair opposite, slipping one leg over the other.

“They here yet?” Sarai asked, holding a hand over her already rounded stomach. She was all skin and cotton, legs free and long, one breast slipped free from her slip. “I suppose not, or else you’d be down there.”

Godwin hummed affirmatively. “Jozef said you weren’t feeling well.”

She laughed light and open. “He’s so concerned. So serious already; just like you.”

“I’m not all that serious.”

Sarai raised an eyebrow in his direction.

“Fine maybe I am,” he conceded. “But there’s not too much wrong with serious.”

“Everything in moderation.” Sarai smiled. She sighed, running a hand over her stomach. “I think it’s a girl you know. I used to always be able to guess when it was horses.”

“Are you still unwell?” He asked.

“No, it’s alright, it’s mostly passed. But I don’t think I’ll come down right away when they arrive. They’ll understand. I’ll join you for lunch.”

Godwin nodded. “Of course.”

“Godwin,” she began suddenly.

“Yes?”

She sat up better, pushing a few pillows behind her back to hold her posture properly. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Oh?”

She seemed worried, a small line forming on her forehead. “We don’t have to decide now, we can discuss it more later.”

“What is it?” He asked.

“I’d like to go home, for a visit, for Eammon.”

He had guessed that was what she might say. It was simple enough, and it honestly did not trouble him. He just had to make sure he responded appropriately.

“I see,” he said.

“He’s getting married, like everyone else this year it seems,” she began. “To the girl from the mountains, you know, and he’s such a mess. He’s never managed at all with girls.”

“Funny, I thought that was genetic,” Godwin smiled.

She smiled back, “Apparently he’s not that lucky.”

“So, you want to go for the wedding? It’s in the fall, isn’t it?”

“That’s the thing,” she sits up better, focusing her bright brown eyes on his. “I’d like to go now. In a few months who knows how ready I’ll be to travel. I don’t want to take any risks.” Her hand rested over her stomach.

“Ah,” Godwin said. “Soon then?”

“In a few weeks ideally,” she said. “I’d like to get there around when this princess does, be there for him.”

“I understand.”

“And,” she hesitated. “I’d like to bring Jozef. He hasn’t seen my family since he was little, and now that he’s growing up, I just don’t want him to be separated from his culture. We’re a part of him as well.”

“Of course,” Godwin smiled. “He should go. You should. Both of you.”

Her face instantly lightened. “Really? I don’t want to leave you here alone, I know it’s been hellish with all this new traffic in the ports, and all these marriages coming down the line, and Gloriaterra and the rest of it…”

“It’s fine,” Godwin says. “Honestly. I’m sure I’ve been a bore with all that nonsense and I’ll only continue to be. Go. See your family.”

She smiled warmly at him. “I love you.”

He smiled back. “I love you.” He stood. “Now I should go down. You’ve slipped out of your dress by the way.”

“Oh,” she glanced down, easily adjusting her strap so her breast slid back under the cotton. “Thanks.” She never noticed those things.

“I’ll see you at lunch, then?” He asked, stopping at the door.

She waved. “See you.”

The press cameras were flashing as the wide doors opened and his guests made their way in. Security lined the doors, glancing around the perimeters and muttering to their earpieces. Apparently it had started raining; umbrellas pushed through the door, shaking and sounding as they were squeezed into thinner shapes.

Ien met him first. “It’s fucking cold. How do you stand it?”

“Ignore him Godwin,” Sabella’s voice called. “He’s been complaining half way across town.”

Godwin met them with a smile. Ien stepped forward, grasping his hand firmly. Under his fingers Godwin could feel the blisters and rough patches left by weapons from decades of fighting. Drifting from him was the smell of sand and heat, rocks ripped bare by howling winds.

Ien was dressed in layers of soft woven hemp, sandy tones slashed with colors of maroon and indigo. His golden eyes glanced all around him as they always did, quick and sharp. He looked rather like a hawk that someone had dunked in water, light brown hair was rumpled and askew, expression petulant and vexed. But he moved easily, fighter’s limbs carrying him with grace across the palace floors. He was shorter than Godwin by a good four inches but somehow he always seemed to be the tallest in the room.

Sabella created a more composed picture. The season was something they shared, even though she was just north, the rains and the winters were always similar. She stood straight and tall, her elegant and simple cut layers of clothing easily falling from her limbs. She wore a deep neck, exposing her sternum fully and proudly, symbolically he knew, bearing her heart to her allies and their people. He always felt unusually rigid when he was with them: Ien moving quick and smooth as the wind and Sabella flowing like water.

“Where’s Schoren?” He asked.

On cue the last of their party walked through the doorway. The cameras flashed eagerly. It was rare to see him outside of the borders of his own country and press coverage inside of Yaaxil was limited. He was dressed simpler than the others, black hair pushed out of his face and held there with a woven headband. His face was sharp, carved and lithe as the rest of him. His narrow eyes edged with green smiled as he stepped up to him. They all returned it friendly, respectful. They did not pass more greeting than that. Schoren had always been mute.

“Well, shall we?” Godwin gestured into the halls.

“Plenty to discuss,” Sabella said, leading the way.

“Understatement,” Ien huffed.

By the time they reached the conference room they were alone. It was laid out with some refreshments and simple flowers set on the table. There were several folders with notes, figures and reference points regarding the operations of the alliance. There was a large monitor on the opposite wall, prepared for display.

Ien collapsed into the nearest chair, instantly grabbing some water. Sabella settled next to Godwin. Schoren sat across the table, knitting his long fingers simply in his lap and glancing at the monitor.   

“How’s Sarai?” Sabella asked.

“Fine. She’s a little unwell this morning, but she said she’d meet us for lunch,” Godwin answered.

“Good,” Sabella smiled. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen her. She must be due soon.”

“Not too soon, six months or so.” He realized then that she would likely give birth at her home if she left as she’d asked. He wondered if he should have taken more issue with that. But the moment was passed now, no point in concerning himself over it.

He slid a paper onto the table, glancing it over. “Now, first on the agenda—”

Ien sighed loudly across the table.

“First on the agenda,” Godwin repeated eyeing him sternly.

“Come on, Godwin,” Ien began. “We see what’s first, economics, and honestly there’s not much more to say besides well done you, and all the best, is there?”

Godwin smiled dryly. “I think there’s a good deal more to say, but thank you.”

“It’s all well and fine for you,” Ien continued. “Both of you,” he gestured to Godwin and Schoren. “You don’t have to worry about any damned marriages.”

“Are you suggesting we move onto item three? Approaching nuptials?”

“Yes.”

“Seconded,” Sabella sighed.

Godwin glanced at Schoren and he nodded quietly.

“Well then, consider us moved on.”

“What are we going to do about it?” Ien said, elbows leaning sharp on the table under him.

“What do you mean ‘do about it?’ There’s nothing to ‘do about it’.” Godwin answered. “The arrangements have already been made.”

“I don’t see why we have to listen to what some hooded figures out on some rock in the middle of the ocean have to say,” Ien continued.

“Well, there’s a few reasons,” Godwin sighed. “One, the Graces are not entirely responsible, after all the Divine Order was signed ten years ago by representatives of all our nations, giving the Graces the right to make arrangements that the Blood remains strong throughout the years. And two, even if it was the Graces, they’ve kept the peace between the nations for over a thousand years so we might as well endue them with some trust.”

“Some peace,” Ien scoffed. “Have you seen Gloriaterra lately?”

“That wasn’t the Graces,” Sabella said. “It was terrorism, and it was an attack against all of us, the Graces included.”

Godwin could feel Schoren’s quiet stare against him. He did not meet it.

“I still say it’s not fair,” Ien continued firmly. “Godwin actually got to sign the damned pact, and he was already engaged. And now it’s ten years later and Sabella and I have to open our gates to strangers who, for all we know, are poised to poison our nations from the inside out.”

Schoren nodded quietly in agreement.

“It’s true Godwin,” Sabella continued. “You know it is. Noxmilitas and Kakos represent a powerful and dangerous alliance. They’ve stood against us in almost everything and now we have to open our doors to them?”

“Did you know, ten years ago, signing that pact, that this is what would come out of it?” Ien asked.

“No,” Godwin shook his head. “Of course I didn’t. None of us knew exactly how things would play out over the years, but we knew we had to do something. Kings and Queens were dying. Galit had been dragged into the sea and nearly all it’s royals along with it. Thrones were being left to children. I was hardly seventeen when I signed that agreement.”

Ien dropped his eyes to the water on his hand, letting his fingers trace the cool of the glass. “I know Godwin, and I’m sorry. I am. But this is dangerous. There’s no denying that.”

“I’m not denying it,” Godwin answered. “I can’t.”

“I still don’t see why we couldn’t have been left to it on our own,” Ien continues. “Schoren married your sister, and we all love Hillane. It’s only strengthened us, and we could have just gone on like that. Talya could have married you instead of that flowery annoyance. I could have married Maribol. And Sabella could have married your brother. And we’d all still be here. Strong and together.”

“I’m more than happy with Sarai,” Godwin continued. “And as much as you hate it you know Talya’s quite content with Armand. Sabella’s sister is more than happy in Luminata with her ocean boy, and you know well enough that my brother isn’t well enough to marry anyone.”

Ien rolled his eyes as if he did know it all well enough but still wished it weren’t so.

“I wish we could see Garette,” Sabella said, eyes honest and bright. “I understand he’s not well, but it’s been so long.”

Godwin focused on the table under his hands. “I wish you could as well, but trust me when I say it wouldn’t do him any good. He’s best where he is.”

He did meet Schoren’s eyes this time and Schoren held his gaze. Quiet, humble, and far from afraid, but sad in a way Godwin could never understand.

“Let’s look at this properly, shall we,” Godwin continued, taking control of the monitor. He pulled the first set onto the screen, complete with a photo to the right.

“Sabella’s set to marry Prince Grier of Kakos in two month’s time.”

Ien frowned at the photo. “He looks like he might eat rocks.”

Schoren smiled, hiding a silent laugh behind his hand.

“Who knows what they get up to over there,” Sabella glowered. “They’re flesh traders, all of them. It’s disgusting. His brother tried to send me a spuma as an engagement gift. The poor girl couldn’t have been more than seven.”

“Flesh and lies,” Ien glared at the screen. “It’s all they do. There’s no grace to them, no anything. Have you seen them in the press? The egos! That Xavian’s on full display, half naked across every cover nearly every single week, laid out like meat for the masses.”

“She won’t be anymore, not in the Frosthills,” Godwin noted.

Sabella smiled. “I would love to see that.”

“The truth is,” Godwin continued, “Grier’s his brother’s dog. He bites when he’s ordered to and doesn’t let go until he’s told. He’s violent. But he’s simple. Simple is easy to handle.”

“And what if his brother sends word to cut Sab’s neck in the middle of the night?” Ien asks.

“Sabella will just have to be careful not to leave too many knives in the bedroom.”

“You can joke,” Sabella said. “But you never know. Although I’d be more worried if I were you.” She said to Ien.

“Don’t remind me,” Ien answered.

Godwin flicked the screen. “Princess Xoana Gurutzeta Molora of Noxmilitas, marriage arranged to Ien eu Saban of Shamalhajar in four months time.”

“Speaking of knives in the bedroom,” Sabella teased.

“We’d all do well to remember that Xoana is not her sister.”

“But she still has a sister, and she’s a walking nightmare,” Ien added.

“Yanna’s a strong ruler. And as long as she stays on her side of the ocean we shouldn’t have any problems,” Godwin answered.

“Who’s to say this isn’t the first step on this side of the ocean?” Ien asked. “She drives her sister into my land, has Max’s dog to the south, and together they open just enough doors to let Noxmilitas in. Yanna’s as land starved as her Grandfather, only twice as vicious. She doesn’t stop if she wants something.”

Sabella shook her head. “She’s a wretched woman. Her and Max both, they deserve each other.”

“Talya says Armand hears hardly anything from his sister, and when he does it’s nothing good. Max doesn’t even let her speak to them outside of letters. And when I met Yanna’s husband…” Ien continued. “He’s a walking shell of what he was, nothing but forced smiles and shards of memory. No one should be allowed to break a human being like that. No one.”

“That’s enough,” Godwin breaks in. They silence respectfully. “We know they’re not what we want. No one denies that. But they are coming, and we need to know how we will handle it, because there is no stopping it, not now.”

Ien quieted, leaning back in his chair. Sabella’s mouth was set in a tight line but she didn’t argue. Across the table Schoren watched them all, still, evaluating. He met Godwin’s eye and nodded.

“Good. So let’s get to work.”

It was past midnight when he finally found his way to the office again, but he wasn’t tired, not yet.

It had been a full day, broken only occasionally by meals and family. Jozef had wanted to meet them all again and they’d been more than happy to comply. He’d left only after Ien had made him promised to come to Shamalhajar to learn how to fight properly and Sabella had gotten him blushing with compliments to his height and good looks. Sarai had gone to bed early after dinner, already half the journey home mapped out and planned to start within the next week or so.

The alliance had mapped out the groundwork for a strategy. Defining the scope of control was the most important, ensuring that the various laws of regulation and governing principles left no room for their new spouses to gain any kind of edge in the political system. Next would be the alignments of the military powers, situational evaluations and action plans for all eventualities.

He sat behind his desk, the quiet of the palace heavy and dark all around him, gathering his papers and work together again.

Across the room, something scuttled.

He looked up. There was a mouse standing quite still against the wall. It was just where the noise had been this morning. The scratching behind the layer of plaster and paint.

A voice drifted up from his memories.

“In the walls, Godwin- they’re in the walls.”

The eyes had stared up at him, blue, sharp, terrified. He’d looked so old, even if he’d been hardly forty.

His father had been on the floor, papers strewn, thick damp air clustering all around and smelling of filth.

“They’re coming, the shadows - can’t you hear them? In the walls?”

He’d cowered, curling in on himself, a soft whimpering in his throat. The servant he’d shot two days ago still lay collapsed in the doorway, the smell of flesh and waste mingling with the rot of the food that had fallen around him. He’d been bringing his father lunch. But his father had thought everything poison by then.

The gun had still been on the desk. He hadn’t turned when Godwin had lifted it. He’d simply muttered, hands twitching dumbly against his own arms.

He’d shot him in the back of the head once, crossed the room, and opened one of the windows. It had finally been quiet.

It was just as quiet now. He’d never heard the scratching. He’d thought it was one of his father’s illusions. Now he wondered if this was all it had been. This little mouse, clambering through the walls. But no, that was foolish. It had been ten years since then.

Suddenly the mouse moved again, scuttling behind a short cabinet beside it.

Silently Godwin stood, and carefully he crossed the room. He stood by the cabinet, making sure there was no other way out than where the mouse had snuck in behind it. He stood very carefully, eyes fixed on the opening, and with a sharp motion he jolted the cabinet.

The mouse ran out. He moved quickly, trapping it under his foot. He looked down at it. There was a familiar panic in it’s eyes.