I am decidedly less thrilled, but I console myself with the fact that he can’t get hurt. I stroke a hand down his chest. “What’s the goal?”

“What do you mean? The goal is to win.”

“He can’t die, though. And you can’t die. So are you charging through to look for his anchor? Or what?”

“Mmm…eventually. I need to figure out his strategy first.”

I suspect his strategy will be ‘take out Aron’s anchor,’ since that’s our strategy. “I’m afraid. What if he sends assassins?”

Aron hugs me closer. “You will be guarded at all times. Your food will be tasted, your wine, too. No one will get close enough.”

I really, really hope that’s not arrogance talking.

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75

The next morning, I wake up to the jingling sound of Aron putting on his belt. He’s nearly completely dressed, his tunic a blazing white with a scarlet axe emblazoned on each shoulder. He’s got a long, fur cape of pure white, and it contrasts with his long, dark hair and tanned skin.

I sit up in bed, watching as he dresses. “Should I wish you luck?”

“I need no luck,” he says, and looks like an eager schoolboy for a moment. He’s ready to get out there and kick some ass. “You’ll stay here? Safe at the queen’s side?”

“Yup. You won’t do anything crazy like get yourself captured?”

He grins. “Never.”

I hug my knees to my chest as he props a booted foot up on the side of the bed and adjusts it. “I just don’t understand the point of battling the other guy, Aron. Help me understand. He’s not going to let his anchor near the front lines, just like you’re hiding me. He can’t die. You can’t die. What’s the point?’

“If I overtake his encampment and break his army, I can search for his anchor. He cannot fight an entire army.”

Can’t he? I mean, I’m guessing that will be Hedonism Aron’s strategy as well as ours. He’s going to keep flinging men at the keep to try to break in. “You’re sure this isn’t just fighting because you like fighting?”

He moves to my side in the bed and cups my face. “I am a god of battle, Faith. This is part of who I am.”

“You’re also a god of storms, but no one’s suggesting you do that,” I mutter.

Aron laughs again and then leans down, kissing me fiercely. “Stay by the queen. I will return this evening, after I have broken his army.”

I nod but say nothing else. This is war, and that’s who he is.

I watch him go, and then my stomach growls, so I get out of bed and dress. There’s a plate of food waiting for me, but I don’t want to stay cooped up in my rooms. There’s a big window in here, but all it is is a view to the wrong side of the city. From my bedroom, all I can see are the houses and streets that squeeze together, making up the cramped-looking medieval city of Yshrem. So I grab a handful of cheese and shove a roll into my mouth, and head out of my room.

Markos is there, waiting for me. He nods and falls into step behind me as I gnaw on my bread. “You guys treated ok?” I ask him.

“Like kings,” he says with a wry twist of his mouth. “We will not be allowed to join the battle. Our task is to stay at your side.”

“Aron told me I have to stay with the queen.”

He gestures down the hall. “I have instructions to take you there, or for you to stay in your rooms. Aron doesn’t want you wandering.”

My mouth twists a little. I get it. I understand that safety is in having controlled spaces with limited access, but I don’t like the thought of sitting on a silk cushion while he goes to war outside. I itch to do something. Anything. But what? I’m the one that’s the target. “Let’s go say hi to Her Majesty, then.”

Markos leads me forward, his hand lightly at my arm, and I can’t help but notice he’s fully armored and brimming with weapons. So much for the keep being completely “safe.” There are two armed men standing outside the queen’s chambers and even more down the hall. Markos nods at all of them and as we approach, they open the doors and let us in to the queen’s inner quarters.

It’s the same library-study we busted into before. Like yesterday, there are chairs by the fireplace, and the queen sits in one while two ladies sit nearby, sewing. Like yesterday, she wears another lavender dress, but this one is practically crusted with embroidery, the sleeves long and dangling. She has her infant son in her lap, playing with him, and looks over at us when we enter.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” I say with an awkward smile, and look for somewhere to sit.

“You are an honored guest,” Queen Halla says, getting to her feet heavily. One of the ladies gets to her feet and reaches for the child, but Halla shakes her head. She holds her baby close as she approaches me. “Did you sleep comfortably?”

I flush, because I’m pretty sure Aron and I were loud last night. Did they hear that? “It was great, thank you.”

She turns to one of the maids. “Caitria, tell the kitchens we need a very large tray of food and more wine. Lord Aron’s anchor will be hungry.”

The girl curtsies, her head bowed, and then leaves the room, hands clasped.

“Please,” the queen says, gesturing at her quarters. “Make yourself comfortable.”

I smile at her and her baby. The little one has darker skin than Halla does, and his hair is jet black and shaved on one side of his head in the cyclops tradition. He sucks his thumb as he looks over at me, and for a moment, his expression is purely that of his father. “Cute kid.”

Her eyes flash with pleasure as she gazes at her son. “His name is Alistair, after my husband’s father. If our second child is another boy, we will name him after my father.” There’s a look of pride on her face, and it’s clear she loves her family. She looks over at me. “And you? We are of an age. Do you have children?”

“Me? Oh, god, no. I can barely muster the energy to run around after Aron.” Her eyes widen in surprise at my words, and I hesitate. “Did Aron tell you that I’m not…local?”

“I knew from your accent,” she admits. “You are from across the seas?”

“A bit farther out than that.” I wince. How do I explain that I’m from Earth without weirding her out? “Like, way, way out.”

Halla inclines her head. “Wherever you are from, I’m thankful that you and Aron came here. My home is your home.”

I look around the room as a maid opens the door—and she’s accompanied by Markos as she enters. As I watch, the girl sets the tray down and then takes a bite out of each of the foods. I’m startled, but I realize she’s tasting everything. There are two jugs of wine, and she pours herself a cup from each, tastes them, curtsies and leaves.

The baby gets fussy, so the queen moves back to her chair and hands him a ball, murmuring at him as her ladies smile and try not to look too closely at me. I guess I don’t match what they think Aron’s companion should be. Their hair is worn in intricate, looping braids that crisscross over their heads and are decorated with bits of jewelry. Mine’s loose and finger-combed. Their dresses are corseted and it looks like they’re wearing a dress over another dress. I glance down and realize that the dark red dress I put on today that belts loosely at the waist is just the under-dress. I didn’t realize it was a two piece. Whoops. At least I remembered shoes.

There’s a large window in the room, and I gravitate toward it. From here, I can see the battlefield in the distance, the clash of men, and the sea of banners that move as if alive. A distant horn sounds, and I glance back at the queen. “How long have the Adassians been camped at your doorstep?”

“Ever since the Anticipation,” she admits, settling her son on a thick rug at one of the women’s feet and then moving to my side. “We think Lord Aron arrived from the Aether into Adassia directly, and that is why he chose them. For a time, my husband was quite upset. He and his people are very devoted to the Lord of Storms.” She studies me. “Where are the two of you from?”