More than a thousand men left Edras for Salkrov, and seven hundred eighty returned to open gates and open arms.
Lyara clung to her husband’s waist, bouncing behind him in the saddle, as he led the procession up the hill to Avtalyon. It was mostly a formality, the wall guards were loyal to him—the people raised mugs of beer and threw flowers in the streets. All that remained was Hilderic himself, barricaded behind the doors in his bedroom.
His soldiers had abandoned him. The council refused to defend him. That angry old man had succeeded in driving absolutely everyone away.
Dradge still carried the sword, strapped to his side. She knew he didn’t like it, but he seemed to stand taller each time he’d drawn it as they’d swept across the western border. They’d slaughtered so many centaurs, left their bodies burning in heaps and pyres, she wasn’t sure any remained to flee into the Waste.
They’d left fields of victory, although those words no longer sounded so sweet, and only made her think of smoke.
Seren nudged his gelding closer to them, once again eyeing the sword. He’d been quiet since recovering from his wound at Salkrov, but she still couldn’t quite trust those steely eyes. Even if the man had done his best to save her life.
Dradge shot him a smile, eyebrows raised. “You finally going to ask for it back?”
Seren met his gaze—part guilty, part surprised. Still, he returned most of that look. “Transitions of power like these are always tenuous. The people will have to follow their Rebel King through to the end or they won’t follow at all.”
Dradge’s shoulders hunched to hear that title, but he nodded in agreement.
Rebel King. Lyara smiled.
That was her flair—she knew he wouldn’t like it, but Edras was her target audience anyway. The fonfyr lie was for the Fidelis, both she and Dradge preferred not to keep telling it, and she figured the people of this city would be just as happy to celebrate a liberator of any sort. And it seemed, with the Whisper articles she’d sent ahead for Adela to print, she’d guessed correctly.
Hers was the only cheer they’d heard.
Dradge pulled his horse to a halt outside the castle tower, his company filing to a stop on either side of him. He dismounted, gathering the reigns to place them in Lyara’s hands. “Wait for me.”
Nodding, she scooted forward in the saddle to slip her feet in the stirrups—pretending she knew what she was doing. She couldn’t help but notice this was an aging mare, not his typical stallion.
Dradge pointed to a couple of his men and they dismounted to follow him. Two threw their shoulders into the doors, bashing them open, then all drew their swords and charged up the stairs.
Lyara watched them disappear into the tower, wringing her hands, as she tried to convince herself there was no real need to be nervous. Hilderic had no family, no loyal guards left. The man hadn’t even picked the most formidable or fortified tower; word was, he’d holed up here two days ago and was waiting to die. She almost pitied him.
She glanced sideways at Seren. “You didn’t want to go with them?”
He laughed, under his breath. “I’m no soldier. You should know that.”
She frowned at his uniform. He noticed, and pointed to the square patch on his shoulder.
“I’m a strategist. They won’t even give me a rank. Dradge asked me to take the position about a year and a half ago after Hilderic kept saddling him with absolute imbeciles. That man would have seen your dear husband dead the simple way: with bad information.”
“Hmm. So yours was an act of charity, for an old friend?”
“Hardly.” He shifted, straightening in his seat. “Did you really think you were the only one in Edras unsatisfied with how things were? Some of us simply understand the virtue of prudence and prefer to consider the ramifications before, shall we say, scattering our opinions on the streets of the Outer Circle?”
She tried to hold back a smile, glancing down at her hands. “What ever does a man do with such virtue?”
“Write his dissertation. I should have graduated last month, joining the fine company of a mutual acquaintance of ours, Master Bontalenta.”
Lyara snorted. “Fitting. Both your noses look best when thoroughly shoved in a book.”
He inspected her with a smile through narrowed eyes. “I’ll return to university when the time is right. Unlike some, I read books not to add to their numbers, but so I can put those already written to good use.”
“Was this use acceptable?”
He peered up at the tower, the animosity fading as the smile remained. “Yes.”
The clatter of metal shoes on stones announced the returning soldiers. Dradge trailed behind them, lingering in the bowels of the tower. But the others bore smiles, so Lyara took the chance—she half jumped, half stumbled from the saddle and ran through the busted doors to meet him.
He paused at the base of the stairs—light casting across part of his face, blood staining the fake Ìsendorál’s blade—as he peered down at the crown in his hand. It was a deceptively simple thing, a woven ring of silver wire styled after leafy ivy, with the colorful flash of precious jewels hidden in-between.
She placed her hand on his, gazing up at him with a hopeful smile, as she joined him in the shadows. “It’s done?”
He nodded, still staring at the crown. “…there is no honor in this,” he whispered, voice rough. “There is no honor in killing an old, unarmed man.”
She pulled herself close to him, hands on his hips, fighting for a sense of excitement but she didn’t find it.
He leaned into her embrace anyway, some of the tension melting from him. “You know what this makes you now, don’t you?”
Lyara drew in a breath. Gods, I’m Queen.
Dradge jammed the tip of that sword between the cobblestones and sank to one knee before her. With a lopsided grin, he placed the over-sized crown on her head. “You have to keep me honest. Swear to me you will. I killed an old man in cold blood today, and I believe it was right. I could become the tyrant he was and not even know—but you would. Swear it to me.”
Lyara smiled, a laugh and tears catching in the back of her throat. Why did he think she had the moral high ground? But there was that earnest conviction in his eyes, and his face was actually within her reach for once—a distraction, she so desperately wanted to kiss him. “I swear it.”
He nodded, like a soldier taking orders, brow creasing. “And I swear, to you, to all of Avaron. I won’t become the man I’ve overthrown.”
She pulled him close, bending down to press her lips to his cheek as she slipped the crown from her head to his. “I know you won’t.”