Chapter 18
The messenger lived, and the castle celebrated.
The news confused me, for I had not felt victory through my bond with Renn. Or, perhaps, I had not interpreted it as such. Perhaps the dragons had been conquered while I slept, my wall had blocked it, or I simply did not understand the emotions of war.
The war was not over. No—as long as both Renn Noblewight and Adoel Nicosia both lived, the battles would continue.
But this was the first major victory for Cansere, and so while there was no extra food for a feast, there was dancing, singing, and games throughout the bailey, barracks, and camp.
Princess Azra led the celebration, taking on the role as though she had already become a leader of our nation.
She pushed for as much of a feast as our meager supplies could manage and lit a bonfire that first night.
She danced with her guards and the few remaining soldiers, never with castle staff.
But she was lively, weaving around the flames like a fire sprite, and I could see a world where Renn might fall in love with her.
He would not be the fantasized farm boy dancing around a Fount bonfire, but a king joining the princess at hers.
He had so much more opportunity with her. With the war, yes, but with future politics. Better trade options, more international connections. That, and Azra was nine years my junior. Therefore, more opportunity for children as well.
Eden did not participate in the festivities, but watched with a small, hopeful smile on her face.
I, too, did not celebrate, but stood atop the rampart, gazing toward the northeastern horizon, seeing that golden thread in my mind’s eye stretching endlessly between me and it.
The messenger had traveled hard to get word to us.
He was not the only one; others had set out to the rest of the country to spread the news and garner more troops, as a broken and displaced government could not uphold the draft.
Armies could not travel as quickly as single men on horseback.
And while I knew Renn could cut through the air more swiftly than any of them, he would not. A good king did not leave his men.
Despite the glow of victory, I worried. I felt Renn’s agony from a week ago as though it had left physical scars, still healing.
Feared what he had sacrificed for the win.
I worried, and I wondered if he felt that worry, or if my emotions just blended in with his everyday sensations the way his so often did with mine.
All I knew was this: Renn had been hurt gravely, and a victory today did not promise victory for tomorrow.
It came to me then, standing alone on the rampart with summer wind tousling my hair. The weight of loneliness I had endured for months now, that I still worked to combat.
Was I inflicting the same on him?
By putting up this wall, by cutting myself off from him to protect myself, was I leaving him to bear the burdens of war, of leadership and death, alone?
Renn was surrounded by people—generals, commanders, soldiers.
But I also knew how easily he shielded himself from others.
Knew his defaults of hiding his own pain to please people, and to be accepted by them.
A deep shame bubbled in my breast. I’m so sorry, Renn. I’ve been selfish. Even if my future was not at Renn’s side, he would always be dear to me, and I to him. We would always have my shared heart, until we shared death.
I tore the basalt wall down.
Emotions and physicality flooded my being—my regret, repentance, worry, and hope, alongside his exhaustion, relief, concern, sorrow. Then, after a moment, surprise, and then relief again.
I pressed my apology through the link as best I could, my half-heart flickering with the effort. I needed to refuel it soon.
Come back to us, I pleaded, invoking each god by name. Let him come home.
Yet, in truth, Renn’s true home was still far from our grasp, the heads of his family likely still decaying on its walls.
I settled myself, until the sun sank too low to see the horizon the army would pass over to return to Derren Castle. Renn Reshua Noblewight would return soon. Eden had the craftlock troops well underway, which meant the only thing tethering me here was the proper farewell I desperately needed.
I considered my words as I retreated into the keep, lighting a tallow candle and making my way to the small war room, where a map of the dyadic continents still rested on the table, with no markers to indicate future war plans.
Holding the candle close, I leaned over the map and studied the roads.
Found the one many of the merchants used; I could take it halfway to Fount, and then a smaller road to Grot.
I knew my way from Grot. If I met up with a caravan, I could make the journey safely, and swiftly enough.
Which meant all I had left to do was say goodbye.
I knew when Renn’s company had returned. Knew before the bugles blew and the soldiers hollered, before Beatty went into a frenzy to prepare enough meals for the arrival.
It was just past noon, eight days after the messenger had arrived with news of victory. My end of our bond lit up like a freshly kindled fire, sputtering with hope, urgency, and the undercurrents of relief. The sensations of a man nearly home after a long time away.
I abandoned my chores and rushed up through the west tower, feet so quick on the stairs my calves cramped by the time I reached the rampart.
Breathless, I threw myself against a merlon and gazed northeast, sun streaking my vision.
Wind tousled my hair, making it wilder than it already was.
I waited, watching, nails clawing the keep’s ancient stone.
Half an hour passed before I saw the first flag bearing the phoenix, the first horses, the first glimpses of red on the long meadows in the distance.
I bounced on my feet, feeling fifteen again.
Tears moistened my vision as the first trumpeter rang out a triumphant note, and soon the grounds filled with shouts that the king had returned, and to make way for the officers, and that Hem himself looked down on us with blazing approval.
There were so many of them—far more men than had left Derren Castle: other regiments and soldiers who had joined us at Serravia, returning here until the next battle began.
A single Antsan flag waved among them. In the back of my thoughts I worried about sleeping arrangements, about provisions, about integrating the craftlock troops with the rest, but at the front, all I could think of was him.
I searched the growing army for his golden hair, though many wore caps, making the men blend into a red-highlighted black mass.
I leaned between merlons for a closer look, my fingers trembling, my breath still caught somewhere in the tower’s winding stairwell.
Then I saw him, a beacon of fire among the troops, just off-center in the army, and relief snowed across my limbs.
His body lit up with that unearthly light, prismatic wings extending from his back.
The trumpeter bugled again, his call met with two more from the army, and people on both sides cheered. It felt sacred. It felt historic.
Eden had told me Adoel Nicosia believed himself a god in the making, a child of Zia. Yet he was nothing—absolutely nothing—in comparison to Renn Noblewight.
He’s safe. My eyes finally confirmed the magic threading between us. He’s safe, and he’s back.
A second Antsan flag caught the wind as the snaking army neared the castle. Princess Azra rode from the bailey with her small entourage; Jonras held aloft the blue, white, and yellow flag.
She rode the white mare from the stables, a beautiful purebred horse with braided mane and tail. I was close enough to spot something else.
The princess, who had straightened her hair in Canseren noblewoman fashion every day since I’d met her, had instead meticulously curled every strawberry lock. She wore them loose, the perfect, uniform curls bouncing against her back as she rode out to meet the army.
I touched my hair, the curls frizzy and wind-tossed, wild and uneven, and wondered.
It reminded me of my upcoming farewell. The jubilation of the army’s return dimmed.
Then again, I’d never expected it not to destroy me.
It took hours for the soldiers to come in, find their places, and stake their tents. I busied myself in the kitchen, unsuccessfully working through my nerves.
Water was heated for baths, though most of the men washed cold in the stream that ran by the castle and through the bailey, caring little for their modesty. I knew Renn stayed and washed with them. After I greeted Sten in the bailey, the faithful guard revealed as much.
So much work over hot coals and ovens had me sweating, my knotted wreck of hair tugged into a merciless plait. I worked hard, trying to stay ahead of my own turbulent emotions, trying to mask the way my hands shook.
When the work was done, I stepped into the back and washed my face and hands. Scrubbed my apron and left it to dry. Tried to finger-comb my hair, but it refused to give in to my administrations.
I had not fully crossed to the keep when I saw Renn near the portcullis, Sir Arquan and another general, whom I presumed to be Cuplend, at his side, along with Princess Azra and two of her guards, neither one Jonras.
She had her mare with her, and she held the horse’s lead and gently petted its nose while speaking to Renn, full of smiles and pleasantry, looking hale and lovely in her layered Antsan-style gown.
The setting sun highlighted her fair skin and the red in her hair like she was woven from the sunset itself.
I couldn’t hear their conversation, but she laughed, and Renn smiled, and she propped herself up on her toes to kiss his cheek.