Page 26 of The Queen’s Bodyguard

Argos raised a brow but did as he was told.

They were both lifelike paintings, beautifully rendered. Both featured the young queens, crowns on their heads. But the expression on Theora’s face was starkly different from Leveya’s in the portrait beside it.

Leveya’s had been painted five years before, her eyes smiling despite her neutral lips. Sunlight haloed her brown skin and dozens of braids. Blissfully unaware that, only a few years later, she would be killed in a Vespulan ambush. It didn’t seem precisely accurate, though—she looked too intelligent. Argos had listened to the recordings of her official addresses, and the woman didn’t have an eloquent bone in her body.

Theora’s had been done a few days after her own coronation. It was much more accurate, for though she was strikingly beautiful, clear hate radiated through those cold violet eyes—the artist hadn’t thought to soften her expression for the sake of making her look like a benevolent leader. Argos loved it, honestly. Because he could relate.

“I like it” was all he said.

“I look like I’m ready to murder someone.”

Argos smirked. “That’s just your face.”

Theora let out a breath of a laugh, then frowned at the painting again. “I used to be happy, you know. And the moment I finally have my portrait painted by a legend, I look like I hate the world.”

Her melancholy expression and somber, almost heartbroken tone combined with that voice…Argos felt an odd, sudden compulsion to protect her. To comfort her as best he could. To destroy anything that might make her unhappy, including that stupid painting. Instead, he said, “Leveya never had to rule through a war. All I see is the face of a strong, capable monarch.”

Theora’s jaw dropped, and he could sense her blush, catching the beginnings of a smile, before she turned away to hide it.

“She wasn’t that great, you know,” he added, and he tried not to laugh as she turned to him to glare, even through her lingering blush.

“Not that great at what?”

“Ruling. She didn’t care about Warriors at all—she never checked in on us, our budget was minuscule because we were ‘living in peaceful times,’ the quality of our food was awful. No one liked her.”

“ ‘No one’?” Theora scoffed. “You mean in the barracks.”

“I mean no one.”

“She was the talk of every party. The nobility adored her.”

“The public didn’t.”

Theora paused, her eyes sharp and glistening as if she were on the border of tears. “Everyone keeps bringing up her flaws. She wasn’t a perfect queen, I know. But she was my friend, and it’s cruel to talk that way about the dead.”

“Spoken like someone who didn’t have to suffer the consequences of those ‘flaws.’ ”

Theora gaped at him, her offense palpable. “I’m done with you for today,” she said, and turned on her heel to head back up the hall to where they’d come from.

“Why exactly do you think she was killed?” Argos growled, following her. “Because she ignored her responsibilities to her people and abroad. Vespula is tyrannical and has a habit of antagonizing other colonies, but they never dared mess with us. Not until she showed up, neglecting her duties.”

Theora was clearly deliberately ignoring him. He grabbed her wrist, tugging her back toward him. She stumbled, colliding with him, a look of utter shock on her face as she fought to catch her breath.

“Look, Warriors don’t mourn our dead,” Argos said, leaning closer. “Not the way Dociles do, anyway. So, I’m sorry you lost your friend, Theora. But you can still acknowledge that you’ve been cleaning up her mess for the past year. You can admit that you’re rebuilding what she so thoughtlessly helped destroy…It’s okay to admit you’re a good queen without making excuses for those who came before you.”

“When you put it that way…I appreciate you saying that.”

For a moment, Argos wasn’t sure she was going to respond any more. Finally, she cleared her throat.

“That’s it for today,” she said, a bit out of sorts.

And she quickly turned and stormed back up the hall.

The next few days went by uneventfully. Theora no longer seemed to have the need to control his movements, dictate where he could or couldn’t go. In fact, she sometimes ignored him completely as she went about her morning and evening routines. And though they’d never discussed his hunting schedule, she understood that he needed exercise and didn’t ask questions when he was heading out the window as she was readying for bed. The only time she really talked to him was when she was instructing him on Docile things that he apparently needed to know.

Argos had to remind himself that it was a good thing. Her generally calm pulse around him meant that she had gotten used to his presence. The lessons meant that they would be comfortable with each other when it came time for the peace talks.

The first evening they covered protocols for the actual negotiations. The next, table manners and the order of cutlery use. It seemed an unspoken understanding between them—they would both practice each other’s cultures for as long as they were working together. And it seemed a fair enough trade to him.