The following day Ragna and I agree on the final revision of the treaty and the heralds are sent out to announce the formal signing on the morrow. I spend the evening packing what little I took from my trunks and then lie on the bed, looking out the window at the stars over Shraeven’s sea. This is not the last time I will see them, but it still feels like a goodbye, like an ending. I was supposed to stay here, after all…to take up the governor’s mantle, to oversee Shraeven province until such time as the Godson called me home…or more likely, I died a good servant of the Kingdom. But my road did not lead here. Instead I will leave and the Governor’s mansion will become the Queen’s residence.
Colblain is right. It’s past time for us to go home. I fall asleep with the light of the stars on my brow.
In the morning, Ragna and I dress for our roles and process to the square, and there in the shade of Ragna’s tree, before the eyes of hundreds of citizens, we put a quill to the twin copies penned by the governor’s scribes. The work is handsome: these are documents worthy of the words on them and the relationship they define. As we make the required speeches and then sign the treaty, I think that all I will remember of this day is the shine off the still-tacky ink, the brine scent on the breeze, and the perfume of the god-kindled flowers blooming above us.
We return to a manse in tumult as dozens of servants prepare in haste for Ragna’s tour. I am glad to see the egg carried out and my trunks borne away and then to follow, leaving her to organize her people. I have my own duties.
* * *
“All is in order?” I ask, sitting astride Honeydipped.
“We’re ready to march at your convenience, Your Grace,” Nedwin responds.
I wonder when all this “your grace”ing began. Whose idea was it? Did they really call the Godson that?
Yes, he says, breaking the uncommon silence in my head.
I imagine that grew tiresome, I say, trying to draw him out.
It’s the least of the things that will bother you, he says. Trust me.
I don’t think I’m going to have much time to be annoyed by petty things, I say, my gaze flowing over the serried ranks and finding the discipline remarkable. I wasn’t sure Fort Endgame’s men would be this sharp so soon after the desertion of their general, but they seem more together now than before she left. Good riddance, then, I think.
I hope your vixen catches her and gives her what she’s earned, the Godson says.
Silfie’s silk robe is folded into a tight square and packed in my saddlebag. I feel it against my leg and fight the wash of melancholy.
They’ll be wanting you to marry, the Godson says. And for that you’ll need…dresses.
Startled from my moping, I say, “What?”
Nedwin glances at me.
Dresses, the Godson says. And parties. And many, many eligible bachelors.
They didn’t force you to marry! I object.
Of course not, he says. They gave me a harem. Do you want a harem? It could be arranged...
The idea is horrible, just…just awful. But he’s teasing me again and that makes it worth the embarrassment. The quiet has felt unnatural. No…no, one man is going to be enough trouble. Besides, unlike you I have to spend several months making my heirs. I can’t just scatter them around my imperial concubines.
I’m going to miss sex, the Godson says, wistful.
I burst out laughing.
“Your Grace?” Nedwin asks, ears flicking backward.
Go on. Tell him how good I am at this! I put jesters to shame!
“Nothing,” I say, wiping my eyes. “Nothing.”
I want a hat. With bells!
You don’t have a head anymore, I say, suppressing my grin. I kick my heels into Honeydipped’s sides and say, “Let’s go.”
* * *
I’m waiting for Ragna outside the city gates when she finally appears with her entourage…there are rose petals clinging to the thick fur of her arms, in her mane and on the tail curled over the back of her mount. I knee Honeydipped over and pluck one of them from her head, my mouth twitching. “Let me guess. Impromptu parade?”
“Where do they get all these rose petals?” Ragna asks, holding still for my ministrations. You have to listen hard for it, but there’s a trace of exasperation in her voice.
“It’s spring,” I say, smiling. “I’m sure in summer it would be something else. Ripped up paper, maybe.”
“At least the rose petals make good fertilizer,” she mutters.
I laugh and turn my attention to the man at her side. “So you’re coming along too, then.”
“Of course,” Negrat says, beaming up at me. His ram is short enough to put his head at Ragna’s hip, but the absurdity of it suits him. This is the man who explained the godhead to me using knots tied in a dirty blanket…and it turns out he was right all along. I find myself wishing for someone like him to counsel me in my new role…but I am the shaman of the Godkindred kingdom. I’ll have to find my own way.
“Of course,” I say. “Shall we go, then?”
Ragna arches her whiskers at me and we go. Her small group—herself, Negrat, and what looks like a few servants, a scribe and several guards—rides out first, and following, I pull an army behind me, the steady drum of their boots shaking the earth beneath Honeydipped’s feet. Wagons roll alongside, drawn by the army’s beasts; my egg is in one of them, attended by several soldiers. Above us the corvid messenger and his mate dip and swirl, shadows against a bright sky.
It feels good to be leaving. I should be enjoying it. Instead, I’m occupied by the need to fill the holes in the command structure, wondering who to promote into Casandre’s and my slots. I’ll have to chat with Nedwin about it in the ample time we’ll have between here and the next stop. An army—even the Godkindred Kingdom’s finest—does not cover ground quickly.
As if summoned, Nedwin joins me, reining his mount in alongside mine.
“Good afternoon, Nedwin,” I say.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” he says. He lifts his dark face to the spring breeze and twitches his ears forward. “Good weather for this. I hope it holds.”
“It will,” I say firmly and unhook my feet from the stirrups. When I grasp the pommel of my saddle, Nedwin glances at me and says, “What are you doing, Your Grace?”
I forget he’s never ridden with me on campaign. I grin at him and say, “Accompanying my men, as always.” And then I get my feet under me and with a leap I’m skyborne. As I soar upward, a dart of fire rips free of the air and spirals around me, dancing…and beneath us, hundreds of faces look upward and cheer.
Nicely done, I say to him.
I like a spectacle, the Godson says, and I’m pleased to hear the smug satisfaction in his voice again. Together we overfly our people, finally homeward-bound.