Chapter 6
Argos
Argos awoke well before Theora’s alarm, so as not to startle her—an olive branch, of a sort—but when he exited the bathroom he found her sitting up in bed.
“Good morning,” he said, but she didn’t seem to know quite what to do with that greeting, her gaze shifting awkwardly.
She looked pretty like this, he could admit, her silk scarf still wrapped around her hair and wearing a nightgown the color of moonlight.
And the fact that she didn’t care if he saw her this way, looking not so strict and regal, could only be a good thing…
unless she simply saw him as a servant of no consequence.
She can’t possibly be stupid enough to make that mistake again.
“Are you usually up at…” She squinted at the small clock on her side table. “Four a.m.?”
“Depends on how long I spent hunting the night before.”
“Well, don’t start prowling about my room.”
He grinned as she did a whole drowsy routine of yawns, stretches, and rubbing her eyes, before reaching for her glasses. Despite her words, she seemed to be feeling a bit more comfortable. Or, at least, she wasn’t thinking about how unfamiliar it was anymore.
Argos leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You don’t have to get up. I’ll be quieter next time.”
“It wasn’t you.” She put on her glasses, finally looking at him. Really looking at him, as if finally accepting that this living arrangement was as much part of the plan as the following week, when he would protect her. “I’m a light sleeper. Since the war.”
He nodded, with more understanding than he ever thought he could have with a Docile. “I haven’t slept too well since the start of the war, either.”
“Never pictured a Warrior with nightmares.”
Theora took out some lotion from her side table drawer and began rubbing it on her arms. Just that simple act made Argos smirk—there was something adorable about the need to have the stuff accessible to her while in bed, as if she might forget to use one of the dozen bottles on her vanity before she was safely under the covers.
He shrugged. “Just can’t get to sleep by myself.”
Theora paused. “Why do you sleep in a room alone, then? The other Warriors room together.”
Now, that was…a question. One with an answer that would either chase her off or prompt her to dig deeper. He wasn’t really in the mood for either at the moment. “There was a while where I wasn’t…playing well with others.”
That was the truth, just not all of it. All of it would’ve been…
not quite raw, but definitely far too personal.
Not to mention it would have given away his hand—Theora was bound to choose a different Warrior if she knew the one she’d selected meant to commit murder during the peace talks.
But it was clear that “all of it,” perhaps, would’ve made this truth more palatable, because Argos sensed the slight elevation of Theora’s pulse as she cleared her throat.
“I have no trouble believing that,” she said, her voice on edge, before kicking off the blanket and heading toward the bathroom.
“I’ll be finished with my meetings by one,” she added sternly. “Be here when I get back. I have things to teach you before next week.”
“Ominous,” he teased.
As usual, his humor went unappreciated, Theora glaring at him as she shut herself in the bathroom.
As requested, he was waiting in their room at one.
Five minutes later, they headed down a back elevator to the ground floor, stepping into the broad, marble-inlaid room.
“Please remain with your tour group at all times,” read a sign posted at the beginning of the hall, and it made Argos smirk as he watched Theora walk briskly down the hall, as if they were tourists trying to avoid being caught.
He followed casually, his long legs easily keeping up with her.
“This hall is closed to tours,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “for the next hour. That will give us plenty of time to get you up to speed.”
Argos raised a brow. “On what, exactly? Aranean art?”
“There are a few dignitaries you should know before we arrive. Just so it doesn’t look like I’ve married someone too far outside of my station. Their portraits are toward the end.”
Argos replied with a simple grunt.
As if she were annoyed by his lack of enthusiasm, Theora’s tone was biting when she said, “Don’t touch anything.”
It was a strange wonder tourists would ever bother with this hall.
Low, backless benches sat at intervals along its center, large paintings in embellished frames lining the walls—these were what they paid to see, he supposed, though he recognized most of these paintings from books of legends and folktales.
To him, the space seemed vast and cold, the ceilings unnecessarily high, the floor exceedingly loud—and when hundreds of tourists occupied it at a time?
He couldn’t think of a worse sort of racket.
“Is that you?” he asked, but he wasn’t sure whether or not Theora had fallen for his sarcasm as she halted and looked at the painting in question.
“The Discovery of Silk” read the plaque. It was a beautiful painting, in muted greens, grays, and blues. The depicted trees wept their fine, glowing strands of silk in a breeze while an awed girl watched. This was one he’d seen before, painted hundreds of years ago. Clearly not Theora.
“That’s the first ancient queen,” she replied, not processing his teasing. “Who founded Aranea.”
“A little girl?”
“It’s…artistic license.” She sighed impatiently. “It’s supposed to represent the wonder of discovery. Now, can we please focus?”
“On what?” Argos grumbled.
“If we could make our way to the end,” she replied, continuing down the hall, “I’ll show you.”
Argos sighed, taking in more of the art as they went.
One painting caught his attention, if only because of the use of stark light and shadow.
A woman stood in an outdated suit of steel armor, glowing like a sun, her red hair cascading down her back dramatically, her delicate hand reaching out to a young girl yielding before her.
Or perhaps goblin was a more accurate term for the child—she had exaggerated fangs, pointed ears, and a merciless scowl on her face, and she was dressed in leaves.
The creature was in the shadows, as if unworthy of entering the light.
Argos looked at the accompanying plaque. “The Birth of the First Warrior.”
What the actual fuck—
“I suppose this is also ‘artistic license,’ ” growled Argos, gesturing to the painting.
Theora frowned, looking the painting over. “Not all culturally significant art is…politically correct.”
“And you’re fine with that sort of depiction representing you as a monarch?”
She opened her mouth, then shut it—but, like a good little queen, pushed through her hesitation quickly. “Historians curate the art in the capitol.”
He looked at the painting again, barely holding in a growl of disgust. Historians. War. There was always some excuse for why nothing ever changed.
“Warriors used to be honored in society as Knights, protectors of the Crown,” he said, feeling Theora’s surprise as her head jerked in his direction. “Why isn’t that part of the history on these walls?”
“H-how did you know that?”
Argos scoffed—never mind that he’d only learned about Warrior history yesterday. The fact that Theora knew and did nothing about this display was what was disappointing.
But his scoff seemed to make her even more defiant, because she let out a frustrated huff. “Knowing what you know about ancient Warriors, I wonder why you’re giving your Sovereign-chosen queen such a hard time.”
Again, she continued down the hall. Argos felt his chest rumbling, but followed instead of arguing, slowing down at the next painting.
“Is this supposed to be you?” he asked, if only to annoy this selfish, pompous little—
“None of these paintings are me,” she snapped, but looked at the one he pointed to nonetheless.
To be fair, the woman could have at least been her grandmother, though the clothing suggested someone from a time far older.
She stood beside a man dressed in equally rich robes, both bearing large crowns on their heads.
The light source made them appear as if the Eye of the Sovereign were upon them—an omen of peace.
“That’s the last archaic queen.” Theora sighed, as if she were some reluctant tutor, stepping up beside Argos. “Who eventually established the practices of modern-day Aranea. Beside her is her king.”
He looked at the painting another moment. Each brushstroke seemed filled with so much care and reverence. This was the sort of painting Warriors deserved. “What does the king do?”
“That’s an obsolete title, just like Knights. He’s married to the queen. We call those consorts now.”
He looked down at Theora, who seemed as awed by the painting as he did. “So…that’s what I am? A consort?”
Her face flushed hot.
“My, you are full of questions,” she said, suddenly annoyed. “We’re married under Warrior ritual, not Aranean law. Husband will do.”
She turned on her heel and continued down the hall. Argos rolled his eyes and followed. But as they finally neared the end of the gallery, he felt a spark of emotion, a grin slipping to his lips as he looked at the final painting.
“That one is definitely you.”
“Would you stop it?” She tripped to a halt, before turning on her heel to face him. “And why did you say it like that?”
Argos raised a brow. “Because it…looks just like you.”
“Please say you’re joking. This painting is horrid.” When he looked confused, she threw up a hand, as if at a frustrated loss. “Look at it. Compared to Leveya’s, especially.”
Argos raised a brow but did as he was told.
They were both lifelike paintings, beautifully rendered. Both featured the young queens, crowns on their heads. But the expression on Theora’s face was starkly different from Leveya’s in the portrait beside it.