Guilt gnaws at him too. What kind of penance is this, if he stops reflecting on his mistakes?
A week before his life was ruined, they lay in bed as the sun rose. Ronan was as tall as Arthur, nearly as broad, and they barely fit in Arthur’s bed. Ronan had said, “Did you know it’s my birthday tomorrow?”
He had a way of starting a conversation that made people excited to hear the rest of it. A con artist’s charisma.
“I know now.” Arthur vividly remembers rolling over in bed, rumpled cotton sheets tangled around his legs. Kissing the sleep from Ronan’s lips. “What do you want? Dinner? Drinks? Sex? A new belt? Sex?”
Ronan laughed and kissed him breathless. Pulled back and said, eyes sparkling, “I’ve actually always wanted to see the Dawn’s Tomb.”
The most heavily guarded chamber in the Bright Cathedral, where the Radiant Crown was kept.
The request seemed weird at the time. It was the only ingenuine thing Arthur ever sensed about Ronan. His faith always felt shallow, insincere, more concerned with buildings and rites and objects of worship than with Vara’s Radiance itself. All of the logistics and tools, none of the emotion. Arthur thought sometimes that Ronan was pretending to be more faithful than he was.
He thought, because he was a fool, that Ronan was pretending because he loved him.
The next day—looking back now, Arthur doesn’t even know if that day was really Ronan’s birthday—he showed Ronan the Dawn’s Tomb. Just the door outside, they couldn’t go in, but that was bad enough. They kissed under the statue of of the Radiant, and one week later, Ronan used that knowledge of the layout to break in and steal the Crown of Vara.
Leaving Arthur bleeding out and utterly lost.
He’s found more pieces of himself than he expected over the past year. Most of them over the past few weeks with Shae. But maybe it’s a mistake to think he can fully move on with this question ofwhyhanging over his head. He can’t commit himself fully to ShaeorVara when part of him is still caught up in Ronan.
The order is camped in a hollow clearing, just off the road. A freshly-cleared trail leads from the road to the camp. Arthur counts enough tents for two dozen, including squires, but only sees a handful of people around. A woman with dark brown skin and short hair takes one look at them riding in and ducks into the largest tent. Freya. They graduated in the same class five years ago.
Riding into camp should feel like coming home. Familiar white and gold banners everywhere, familiar armor, familiar faces. Even the layout is familiar—all the smaller tents in a grid surrounding the mess tent and the captain’s tent. But as two squires come forward to tether their horses, Arthur feels out of place. He has an odd sense that everyone’s looking at him, and not everyone is as happy to see him as Bernard.
Shae stumbles as he dismounts, and Arthur moves forward on instinct to steady him. But Shae recovers and steps away before they touch. His face is wooden.
“Captain’s tent is this way,” Bernard says unnecessarily. The tent is three times the size of any others.
Also unnecessary, because seconds later, Captain Edith Tanner emerges from her tent. Her height always takes Arthur by surprise—she barely comes up to his shoulders, but her presence fills the entire campsite. Her long golden hair is braided in a crown around her head, while her clothing and expression are ruthlessly utilitarian.
“Arthur Davorin,” she calls out. “I hardly believed Freya’s words. What brings you here?”
“Captain.” Arthur bows his head. “I ran into Bernard in Lanwatch and he said we should talk.” He looks up, trying to read Tanner’s expression. Should he have come? Was trusting Bernard a mistake? “If I may, it’s good to see you, Captain.”
Tanner looks him up and down, steel in her eyes. Her eyebrows rise when she sees Shae next to him. But when she turns back to Arthur, it’s with a smile. “It’s good to see you too, Arthur. Bernard’s right, we should talk.” She points at Shae. “But first, this is…?”
There’s an awkward pause in which Shae doesn’t introduce himself. He just glances to Arthur, who has to step up. “This is Shae Nightven. He hired me for a job, and he’s a friend of mine.”
It feels oddly like introducing Shae to his mother. Except his mother would probably be a more welcoming audience. This would be a hell of a lot easier if Shae tried at all to be friendly.
“Hi,” Shae says, deadpan.
“A friend,” Tanner repeats, equally deadpan. She turns back to Arthur. “Let’s talk inside. Freya, can you lead Arthur’sfriendto the mess tent to wait? If that’s all right, Arthur?”
“Shae?” Arthur doesn’t want to explicitly ask if Shae will be all right alone. The man definitely wouldn’t thank him for voicing the concern out loud.
Shae plays with an earring, at least outwardly unconcerned. All he says is, “Don’t take too long,” before following Freya.
Arthur stares after him, then follows Tanner into her tent. It’s tall enough to stand comfortably, and with her rank, she gets an actual cot, not a bedroll like the rank and file. There’s even a fold-out table covered in paper and a mug, with two chairs. Here, the wave of nostalgia finally knocks him truly off-balance. Arthur’s stood at this flimsy fold-out table dozens of times, receiving assignments or giving reports.
As soon as the tent flap swings shut behind them, Tanner sinks onto one of the chairs with a sigh. She waves to the other chair. “It really is good to see you, Arthur. Even if you are riding up with a necromancer, of all things.”
Arthur sits at her silent command, trying not to bristle at the dismissive tone in her voice. It’s not her fault she doesn’t know how amazing, selfless, brave, beautiful—well. Not her fault she doesn’t know Shae at all. “He’s a good man, sir.”
She shakes her head. “I believe you,” she says, though she sounds skeptical. “It just doesn’t look great. Especially considering your, well. Your historical choices in companions.”
He crosses his arms, no longer trying not to bristle. “Shae is nothing like Ronan. I swear on my pendant.”
