Chapter 22
Two days passed like a year.
The bond lay still, like water on a windless day, reflecting Bastion’s thoughts back at him. Lyanthis’s parting words stuck in his mind, each one a barb that only dug deeper when he tried to pry it from his skull.
Sever the bond. Set her free.
Bastion hadn’t formally returned to his duties as Endre’s bodyguard, and he had nothing to fill his time. So, he did what he always did when he needed a distraction and lost himself in practice, drilling until his muscles screamed and his body shook with fatigue.
Then, a summons came.
The messenger, well-trained and aloof, gave no indication of the cause.
Bastion followed him to a more bureaucratic part of the palace, curiosity turning to apprehension.
When they turned the corner, and Bastion saw Endre and Nesrin outside the council room, his stomach swooped like he’d missed a step.
Nesrin, dressed in a loose shirt tucked into high-waisted pants, leaned against the wall opposite the doors, as still and stoic as an oak, with her arms folded. Endre paced.
That was never a good sign.
At the sight of Bastion, Endre dismissed the messenger. For a moment, the three of them stood in silence.
“The entire council is in there,” Endre said at last, his voice tight.
“Why?” Bastion expelled the word more than said it. The blood beneath his skin pulsed.
“A hearing. About your knighthood.”
Bastion glanced at Nesrin, who hadn’t moved. She regarded them from beneath her lashes, as though she were unsurprised, but a vein throbbed in her neck.
“It makes sense,” Endre continued. “In wartime, you would likely fall under one of the council members’ commands. My father thought they should be part of the decision since your situation is–”
“Unprecedented,” Bastion cut in.
A pained expression rippled across the prince’s face. Then, his shoulders sagged. “They won’t let us come in.”
Bastion nodded. He knew that they were too close, too personally invested, but still. He would have liked to know someone inside had his back.
Bastion ran his hands through his hair, his fingertips catching the texture of the ridges along his skull. His heart banged against his ribs like a fist on the doors while they waited. Through the windows at the end of the hall, the sun shifted.
Endre continued to pace, a sharp staccato echoing through the hall with every step he took. Nesrin remained unmoved, a tree determined to grow moss.
Finally, the doors opened.
Bastion’s insides squirmed. He glanced at Endre and Nesrin, who were both doing a poor job of concealing their worry. Then he took a deep breath and grasped the pommel of his sword, taking comfort in it as he had before so many other battles.
When he entered, the low murmur of voices ceased.
At the far end of the room, past pools of sunlight falling from skylights, the monarchs sat on a low dais.
Queen Thyra’s presence was a welcome surprise, though he’d rarely seen her in such meetings.
She wore a gown of cloth-of-gold, and he felt her warmth from the door.
Beside her, the king wore blue and gold and a simple circlet.
Bastion had been to enough meetings like these that the sight of it meant King Torvald expected resistance.
To either side, two long tables funneled him towards the dais.
Council members watched him from their seats, their expression ranging from curiosity to annoyance.
It took more effort than he cared to admit, but Bastion kept his head high and his spine straight.
Among those assembled were Lord Kyrith and the rest of the war council.
He passed Captain Hanniel and Lord Lawrence.
Neither reacted, but the sight of them sent a thread of relief shooting through Bastion’s body.
Nearest the dais, Lord Valin and Master Lyanthis sat across the aisle from each other, both watching Bastion approach with differing degrees of acrimony.
The doors closed with a snap, and goosebumps raced from Bastion’s heels to his neck. He imagined this was what it felt like to step into a colosseum. Between two pools of sunlight, he stopped and bowed.
“Thank you for coming, Bastion,” King Torvald said. The words came out tired, and his brows crinkled, as if he wanted to apologize. “The council would like to hear about your Trial. Please, tell us what happened.”
Bastion maintained his grip on his sword. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lyanthis’s gaze fall to the hilt.
“Nothing, Your Majesty,” Bastion answered. “Two weeks passed, and I saw nothing and no one. When I returned to The Gillyflower, Prince Endre informed me that they had only been waiting three days.”
“What of your Godmark?” Hanniel asked, ever direct.
Bastion shook his head. “I am unmarked.”
Saying that out loud felt like condemning himself, especially when whispers began to ripple through the room. A collective inhale punctuated the silence that followed.
“What did you do during your two weeks?” Lord Edward asked. He oversaw Etruria’s infantry and worked closely with Hanniel when he was in residence at the palace.
“I explored. I made camp. I hunted,” Bastion answered.
He kept his tone matter-of-fact despite the nerves rattling through him like gamblers’ dice.
“When lost in the wilderness, getting a sense of the terrain is vital, especially since I didn’t know what I would encounter.
Shelter and food were also essential, since every Account differs in how long a prospective knight is on the island. ”
Every question that followed felt like a stone thrown.
What did he find on the island? Ruins nearly swallowed by vegetation, deer trails, and a few old campsites.
Did he keep to one camp or did he move? He traversed the terrain to understand his surroundings and be prepared.
Did he see anything unusual?
The imp traipsed through his mind. Bastion didn’t know if keeping his mouth shut was better than letting them think he was mad. Madness was an accepted outcome of a Trial, but without a Godmark he wasn’t sure it was worth the risk.
“And where is your Account?” Lyanthis asked.
A sudden sweat rolled down Bastion’s spine. He’d completely forgotten that Ulla still had it. “I will–,” Bastion groped for words, “have to retrieve it.”
The Yvri’s mouth and brow flattened, sharpening his features into greater severity. “Why didn’t you bring it?”
Bastion matched Lyanthis’s expression. “I did not know why I was being summoned.”
King Torvald interjected. “The Account can wait. Continue.”
Lyanthis bristled, but didn’t push. The questions went on and on. The persistent onslaught wore him out. He felt like a clam being pried open.
Finally, when his back began to ache and his feet started to complain, a question surprised him.
“Did you pray?” came a craggy voice. Beside Lyanthis, a wizened man regarded Bastion through a beard and shaggy eyebrows that were more curtain than facial hair. He slouched with age, but his knobby hands gripped a staff with deceptive strength.
Darach. A priest of the Three Sisters.
“In the beginning, yes,” Bastion said.
“Only in the beginning?” Darach asked, lifting one eyebrow.
“I found my own strength to be a better friend than my faith,” Bastion answered. “If I’ve learned anything from this experience, it’s that the gods are fickle.”
“How so?” Lord Kyrith’s question boomed against the vaulted ceiling.
Bastion paused to weigh his response. Many of these men had deep faith in their respective gods. He wasn’t sure his newfound cynicism towards the divine would be received well.
“We call on them, and they answer in their own time. Their own way, if at all. I have called, and they have not answered.”
Someone scoffed and said, “There’s your answer. He’s faithless.”
“Is he?” Lawrence challenged. “He has prayed, he has acted in faith through the years of his training. We’ve all questioned silence from a deity, have we not?”
Bastion could have kissed Lawrence. Some of the stiffness in Bastion’s neck and limbs bled away as a few men nodded.
Then, Lord Kyrith said something that zapped Bastion’s short-lived relief. “This is all a formality. Bastion has already taken the knee.”
Stunned silence followed.
King Torvald leaned forwards over his thighs, a flash of annoyance and curiosity competing with each other on his face. Another mannerism Endre had adopted. “You were knighted?”
Bastion nodded. The council members' eyes held the same focus as a line of arrows trained on a target. He fought to keep his shoulders back while his stomach threatened to jump into his mouth.
“By whom?” Queen Thyra asked.
Bastion took a deep, steadying breath. “Lady Nesrin, Your Majesty.”
The council erupted.
“What!”
“She did not!”
“That’s preposterous!”
The outrage continued, each exclamation as sharp as a whip crack.
The king stroked his beard thoughtfully.
A tremor tingled through Bastion’s fingers.
He glanced at Hanniel, who hadn’t commented, but tipped his head back and inhaled deeply.
Bastion took the cue and matched him, blocking the outrage and remembering his training.
Torvald cleared his throat.
“Only royalty can knight someone!”
“Are you challenging my daughter's place in the royal family?” Kyrith bellowed. “She’s third in line for the throne!”
“She’s a woman!”
“Silence!” the king thundered.
The room quieted, but the air was heavy with vitriol and scorn. Torvald shook his head. He waited a beat, then said, “Fetch Lady Nesrin.”
The doors opened, and Bastion’s mouth went dry, fearing he’d made a grave misstep.
A moment later, the strong, purposeful slap of Nesrin’s footsteps echoed behind him. Then, she stood at his side, the mask of a royal firmly in place.
“Hello, niece,” King Torvald said. “Your father tells us that you knighted Bastion. Is that true?”
The only evidence of her feelings was the vein still throbbing in her neck. “It is.”
Torvald raised a hand, silencing any whispers before they escalated.