august
—« that boy went stone-cold crazy »
I
t is spring and the jasmine is in full bloom, tangled up the walls, thick along the sides of the streets. Its scent mixes with the salt tang of the sea and the faint woodsmoke in Denocte’s own proprietary perfume. And as August climbs the steps to the castle, he wonders just how close he’s come, in the last year, to never smelling it again. All of those instances are his own doing, of course. And had he not had them - well, he might be nearer yet the grave. And so he can’t be sorry, can’t be shameful, as he reaches the wide double doors, relieved to not be limping.
Once he’d known the corridors and servants’ quarters of the castle as well as he later knew the Scarab. But he hasn’t been here since he was a boy and his mother a maid. And anyway, there is only one place he needs to go - straight forward, to the throne room, where Denocte’s sovereign is expecting him.
When he stands before her, guards flanking the room and midday sunlight illuminating dust motes before the high windows, he feels a different kind of calm than the one before a battle. “My queen,” he says, and blows out a breath. “Thank you for agreeing to this audience.” His silver eyes flick up, and when they find her, it is to remember the last time he saw her - not a queen on a throne, but a regent in the marketplace, amid the memorial candles, a hundred little flames for souls known and unknown. His gaze drops again, to the polished floor, embossed with symbols of moons and stars.
“I have spent most of my life in service to others - though the last year of it has only been in service to myself.” His mouth twists, a dozen memories surfacing like dead wood in the current - himself on a ship, in the middle of a fighting-pit, in the middle of Solterra’s royal gardens, in the mountains surrounded by snow and blood. Always with the taste of copper in his mouth, always ready to fight, always feeling a single slip away from dying. He blinks and inhales - jasmine, woodsmoke, the sea. “I find that I am happiest when I serve something greater. And I have always loved Denocte, as my parents did, and theirs before them.”
At last he lifts his gaze again to hers, and holds it steadily, the way he would test a new blade. He swallows, draws himself up, and banishes Aghavni’s judgmental expression from his mind. “Queen Antiope, it would be my honor to serve as a Champion for you and Denocte. Or as her Warden. I think that you will find my swordsmanship up to the task.”
