Page 16 of Artemysia
Now, I’ll have gold around my neck. One step closer to the top. Closer to crimson, where I’ll sit at the king’s table in the war room,able to make the biggest difference. For a future with less hurt and death.
My pulse rises sharply.Violet, blue, green, gold, crimson.
Throg taps the sole of his polished boot on the stone floor, interrupting my spiraling thoughts.
“Hurry up. It’ll take us twenty minutes to ride to the High King’s castle. I’ll go get our elk ready.” He’s freshly washed and smells like oranges from the oils he uses. His fair curls are waxed into place.
For someone so hedonistic and free with his love life, and really, most other activities, Throg loves schedules and being on time.
“Pain in the ass,” I mumble. “Your obsession with getting everywhere early—”
“Keeps us from missing the good meats that they only bring out once,” he retorts. “Fire-roasted boar. Twelve-hour braised hare.”
I laugh, but he folds his arms across his chest, reminding me that my lack of obsession for punctuality will make that vein on his neck throb if I don’t get going.
Speeding up, I braid a black ribbon into my long hair before pinning the strays into place. My father used to joke that my hair lost its color when I was a child because I worried too much. Now, I keep an undercut, leaving the top long. I sweat less with the sides short. Other than our basic uniform, the higher-ups don’t dictate what we do with hair and accessories such as bandoliers and holsters and weapons of choice.
Whatever gets the job done when it comes to killing Syf.
After all, Syf don’t care if we all match or not. But today, we’re meeting the High King and the colonels, so I take the time to look a little neater. I choose my dual holster that crosses like an X behind my hips. A scabbard hangs on each side near my pants pockets, and I sheathe my two short swords—my favorite weapons in a fight, meant to be wielded one in each hand.
By the time I meet Throg at the stables, he’s ready with our saddled elk, and alongside others receiving promotions today, we ride toward the large rectangular stone fortress made of southern mountain granite.
The High King’s castle.
The ceremony takes all morning in the grand hall. Lined with longwooden tables and chairs, the hall seats five hundred or so. Royal blue and silver banners line the high stone walls.
There’s a lot of standing and taking oaths on the main dais, where High King Galke of South Kingdom leads the ceremonies from a throne carved out of a monolithic piece of granite. Many speeches later—names and ranks and awards announced, new silk cravats handed out—we’re finally feasting on the mouthwatering spread prepared by the High King’s chefs.
Rare meats, dozens of hearty sides, and colorful desserts.Desserts. Plural. A dream come true, in a land where sugar is hard to come by.
This feast is the real reward.
I forget about my lofty goals of saving humanity from the Syf. I would have enlisted just to eat this food once every few years when I’m promoted. Meat and bread and pastries pile up on my plate in a ridiculously chaotic manner. Do I care if my duck meat in port sauce is stacked over the slice of cherry vanilla frosted cake? No. I’m not picky about details like that.
My elbows are on the wooden table as I hunch over, shoveling food into my face. When I glance at Throg beside me, he has nothing to say because his attention is on his third plate of meat. He always says that bread is a waste of stomach space and goes right to his belly fat. Gods only know how many glasses of wine he’s washed down that trunk of a throat of his.
So when an attendant approaches in his royal blue tunic that matches the blue center of the large moonflower embroidered across his chest, and politely asks us for a moment of our time, Throg ignores him while I pretend I don’t hear anything over the clinking silverware and din of hundreds of hungry, feasting soldiers. They probably want me to sign an extra copy of my certificate of promotion or deliver aspare cravat, but food takes precedence over bureaucratic chores.
The poor attendant clears his throat again. “Please, Captain Julian, High King Galke requests your presence urgently.” The sunlight streaming in from the high windows in the stone walls around us highlights the creases in his young brow.
The king requested me?I thought it was only a meeting with the colonels, to be held after the feast. A quick glance at the dais shows the king is no longer in the hall. What did I do wrong? My mind jumps to someone reporting that a new captain was seen kissing a messenger. Ugh, what was I thinking? No, that can’t be it.
“Commander Throgmorton, too.” The young man’s voice cracks.
Throg is in the middle of gnawing on a duck leg when I elbow him in the ribs. He wipes his greasy lips with a napkin and swallows. A long-suffering sigh escapes from deep inside his throat, as if it isn’t our duty to serve king and country. He throws a menacing glare at the attendant and slides back his wooden chair with a loud scrape against the stone floor.
“War room is this way,” the attendant says meekly.
Throg sulks. “We know where it is. We aren’t cadets.”
I throw the poor boy a smile to counter Throg’s irritation and reassure him that Throg won’t crush him with one of his humongous ogre-like hands for interrupting his meal.
After a long walk down a dim corridor, we arrive at the war room. I’ve been here before, whenever I’m called into a strategy meeting with my superiors.
Those are exciting.
But because I excelled in the Academy, I teach strategy courses to the new recruits in addition to combat training, so I regularly report back on progress and changes to curriculum. Mind-numbing bureaucratic stuff.
