The voices of the men hunting for him faded into the distance. Now, all he had to do was make his way back to the palace and the small storage area he’d built into the back wall of the head gardener’s shed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mathos strodedown the long corridor. His footsteps were muffled by the thick blue carpet, but his heart was thumping loudly in his ears.
Lamps glowed in their sconces, even though wintery light still spilled through wide windows, illuminating the set of stairs that led up to the royal sleeping quarters.
Lucilla would have her rooms up there. She would walk those stairs each night to bed and every morning when she rose. One day, her husband would walk there with her, and their children….
He had thought he could avoid all of this. He’d planned to leave Val to update the queen—he’d reminded him multiple times to warn her about Dornar—while he went straight to the barracks to find himself a quiet room and a bottle of something strong while he waited for the Hawks to be deployed. But a message had been waiting for him at the gates. Tristan had demanded that he report back in person.
His chest ached, the healed wound in his shoulder cramping and spasming, and he rubbed it slowly, trying to relieve the spreading pain.
That’s not your shoulder, you idiot, that’s your heart.
Shut up.
He walked past the staircase, following the Nephilim warrior who had met them at the gate down the plush corridor. Past heavy wooden doors inlaid with silver—official chambers, libraries, and studies.
Alanna and Val walked beside him, looking like they wanted to be ill at having to be back in the palace, and he felt much the same. Jeremiel and Garet brought up the rear. All of them vigilant, hands on their weapons, despite how easily they had been whisked through past the guards. Despite how jubilant and celebratory the mood in the city had been.
He wished he could think of something amusing to break the tension, but for the first time in his life, he had nothing.
Nothing except the torturous knowledge that Lucy was ahead of them, now queen in reality, and he would have to look her in the eye and act as if he wasn’t slowly disintegrating.
His only hope was to find Tristan, report on the battle with Dornar, and find out the Hawks’ plans. Maybe he could request a short absence from the squad and head out early, leave them to mop up in Kaerlud and meet them in a few weeks at Eshcol or wherever they were going next.
I keep trying to tell you that—
He snarled at his beast and it shut up. Thankfully.
Ahead of them, Mathos saw a familiar shape in a doorway and the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. If Tor was guarding the door, Lucy was safe, at least.
He reached out to his friend and then stopped, his hand hanging in midair. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
Tor’s usually stoic face broke into a rough grin. “Back in the Blue, brother. Tristan is fucking Supreme Commander. We’ve got a new council. Half the palace has been tossed out. Queen Lucilla gave a speech, standing on the platform where she’d just hacked down the gallows with a sword. You can hear the people outside celebrating as we speak.”
Tor gestured at the door behind him. “They’re in there right now, deciding which title to bestow on Val so that he and Princess Alanna can act as Brythorian emissaries to Verturia to save the peace treaty. She’s promised no more war.”
Beside him, Mathos heard Alanna’s soft gasp of relief. Even Val smiled. Jeremiel and Garet congratulated each other with a rough hug, and the Nephilim guard who had been leading them smiled broadly.
She had done so much already. All that grit and determination was now focused on her kingdom, just as he’d known it would be.
He should have been pleased. Excited about the massive progress in such a ridiculously short time. Delighted to be back, restored to the Blues as the Hawks had once dreamed.
It should have been obvious that she would reinstate them, but somehow, he had not imagined it.
I tried to tell you.
Gods. It didn’t make any difference now. Now, all he could think of was that there was no swift exit. He couldn’t give his report quietly to Tristan and leave. He would be stuck in the palace. A Blue Guard. Watching Lucy from a distance.
For the rest of his fucking miserable existence.
Tor opened the door, and they filed into the sumptuous council room. Ancient tapestries lined one wall while the other displayed a set of gleaming swords, each hilt more heavily bejeweled than the last.
A massive, polished table was littered with the scattered remains of a meal, plates pushed to the middle to make way for papers and pens, open books of heraldry. Maps. His heart turned over. So many maps. He had never given her the map she wanted, and now she had her own.
And standing beside it all, the queen. Everyone was there, but he hardly noticed them. All he saw was Lucy.
