“I can do more than this,” I breathe. “I’m ready, William.”
I called him Father once. In the wake of his stories about my real parents dying in the streets of Winter’s capital, Jannuari, as Spring overtook it, and how he scooped baby-me up and rescued me, it seemed logical to an eight-year-old that the man raising her should be called Father. But he turned such a shade of red that I feared he’d start spitting blood, and he growled at me like he’d never done before. He was not my father and I was never, ever to call him that again. I was only ever to call him by his name, or a title, or something to show respect. But not Father. Never Father.
So from then on, I called him Sir. Yes, Sir. No, Sir. You are not my father and I will never be your daughter and I hate that you’re all I have, Sir.
Now he ignores me, pulling his horse onward. His decisions are final, and no amount of arguing will change his mind.
Like that’s ever stopped me. “This isn’t enough! And while I can’t fault you for caring about the most efficient ways to save our kingdom, I know I can do things for Winter too.”
A few paces behind me, Dendera sighs, still hanging off Henn’s neck. “Meira,” she says, her voice worn. “Please, dear, you should be grateful you aren’t needed.”
I whip to her. “Just because you’d rather be patching dresses doesn’t mean all women should want that.”
Her mouth drops open and I pinch my eyes closed. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I sigh, forcing myself to look at her. She leans more heavily on Henn now, her eyes glistening. “I just meant that you shouldn’t be forced to fight when you don’t want to, and I shouldn’t be forced to not fight when I want to. If Sir let me go, maybe you wouldn’t have to do missions. Everyone would win.”
Dendera doesn’t look any less hurt, but she glances at Sir, a quiver of hope hidden behind her pain. She used to be like Alysson, tending to camp, until Sir got desperate—he started needing her for missions just as he started letting me help with food scouting. She’s never argued with him, not when he makes her train or when he sends her out on missions like these. But one look in her eyes and I can see how much this life terrifies her, how badly she’d rather be back at camp. She’s as uncomfortable with weapons as I’d be in a gown.
Mather strides over to me through the grass, and I think he might try to offer words to break the tension. But after a few paces, he crumples to the ground like the earth sucked him down and refuses to release him. I frown as he grips his ankle.
“Oooww,” he howls.
Sir bends down in a quick rush of panic. “What happened?”
Mather rocks back and forth and winces as everyone else moves closer. “Meira beat me in that last fight, didn’t she tell you? Knocked me flat out. I don’t think I can go to Lynia.”
The wrinkles in Sir’s face relax. “Didn’t I see you run out to meet us?”
Mather doesn’t miss a beat, still rocking and wincing. “I ran through the pain.”
I suck in a breath until Sir looks up at me, and Mather winks above a wide grin.
“You beat him?” Sir asks, disbelieving.
I shrug. I’m a horrible liar so I just leave it at that. Mather is helping me. A blush warms my cheeks.
Sir has to know we’re lying, but he won’t risk sending Mather on the chance that he really did sustain an injury. He does trust him, more than anyone here. A moment passes before Sir rubs his temples and shoots a sharp breath out of his nose. “Help Mather into camp, then get your chakram.”
I bite back my squeal of triumph but it comes anyway, a weird blubbery noise that catches in my throat and bursts out of my still-frowning mouth. Sir stands, takes his horse, and marches into camp with renewed determination, like he doesn’t want to face me now that he’s given in. Everyone trails after him, leaving me to help the invalid Mather.
When the others are out of earshot, I fall to the ground and throw my arms around him. “You’re my favorite monarch in the history of monarchs,” I babble into his shoulder.
His arms come around me, squeeze once, shooting rays of chill through my body as I realize … we’re hugging.
I fly to my feet and extend my hand to him, certain my face will be permanently stained red. “We should get back.”
Mather takes my hand but pulls down as I pull up, keeping me from leaving. “Wait.”
He turns to fish for something in his pocket and I lower to my knees beside him, my eyebrows pinching slightly. When he pivots back, his face is solemn, and the ball of nervousness in my stomach expands. In the center of his palm sits a round piece of lapis lazuli, one of the rarer stones Winter mined from the Klaryns long ago.