The Desolate Throne

VI. An Attempt

Ardashir had lost sight of the penitent. She was here in the crowd somewhere, moving like a ghost in green. Khagra had been pulled aside by Vladan almost ten minutes ago for some kind of conference with the Leyan magus and Lieren, which was somewhat concerning. Honestly, any time she and Lieren were in the same room, there was ample room for concern. He'd created a stir by escorting Khagra in and knew that it would be talked about for some time, but he was a knight, not a lord. He did not have land or a title and so it was somewhat less scandalous. After all, he could easily just be doing the queen's bidding. The orc was well known to be a guest of Seva's at this point. Ardashir would have liked to kiss her in front of everyone, to make a point of the fact that he loved her, but Khagra had suggested a more cautious, discreet route and he respected her decision.

Holland had briefly mentioned that she would look for a rooftop for him to shout from if he ever got around to proposing, a comment that insulted him a little bit—of course he would propose, when the world and the future were slightly more certain. It had been a tease back when they were still a few days out of Tamaris, designed to get a bit of a rise out of him. She'd been merciful enough not to say it with Khagra within earshot, at least.

At least he had a glass of wine in his hand as he waited and watched. That was more than he could say for the poor sods in the royal guard who had to stand there for hours. He remembered guarding the Tuama and praying for hours that the First World relics within would come to life just so he would have something to swing a sword at. It was a trustworthy position, but far from a glorious one. Someone tapped his arm and he turned around, dark eyes settling on an altogether too familiar face.

It made sense: things had been going far too well to last. Ardashir was really only surprised that he was the first to hit a snag. Normally that was Holland's job.

"Lady Gray," he greeted politely. His tone wasn't chilly or rude, which was better than most men in his position might have handled it. Then again, he prided himself on his manners and no matter what she'd done to him, chivalry demanded courtesy to women. She was not a lady, no matter her title—that honor was reserved for women like Khagra—but he owed her at least civility.

Genovefa was a pretty woman and always had been. Her chestnut hair was in a complicated braid, her agate-colored eyes bright with good humor. She had soft cheeks and a small nose, her face a little rounder and kinder than that of the old Yssan nobles like her husband. She was smiling, but then again, she usually was. Or at least, that was the case when he'd known her. It was strange to think that he'd been married to her once. That felt like a lifetime ago. "Ardashir, you know my name," she said with amusement. "Are we really going to stand on formality?"

"I would prefer it." It surprised him that he wasn't more upset. He'd been devastated when she left him. The only thing that had made it better was leaving with Holland, getting away from all the things that reminded him of her. And then, one night on the road, Khagra had wandered into his life. Seeing Genovefa now was just a reminder of how incredibly lucky he felt to have the orc. The woman he'd once been married to was a flighty, ultimately superficial creature. She enjoyed the many games invented by the court and desired things that were frivolous. She liked romance and drama and comfort.

Genovefa was beautiful the way mirrors were beautiful: giving the impression of depth and dimension, but never actually delivering. Khagra did not merely reflect his love—she returned it, as constant as stone and as deep as the ocean. He was fairly certain that Genovefa was fishing for a reaction. She liked feeling desired and he was one of her favorites to pull emotions out of. Had he really fought other men for her attentions once? Gods, but he had been a foolish young man.