A raucous feast commences in the mess hall. Taeg, removed of his great black cloak, sits at the head of a long mesquite table with his crown resting over his forehead. Smaller tables line the outskirts of the room, seated with nobles, soldiers, and guardsmen. The young servant boys of the kitchen flit about the room, offering wine, spirits, and fresh cream to the guests.

  Drair and the guardsmen sit at a table to the right of Taeg, still in armor. About them are dishes of smoked boar, buttered yucca tubers, crispy spinach tarts, and a light vegetable stew. Drair pokes at her yucca tubers, drinking steadily from a mug of rye ale. Lark, who is unfortunately sitting much too close to her, shoves a spoonful of lemon custard into her mouth and swallows before speaking loudly.

  “Why would he show up for my instatement as Guard? He didn’t even want me leaving home!” She scoops more custard into her mouth.

  “Maybe because it’s seen as proper for the nobility to show up for a new king’s coronation.” Tygoh sits back in a chair, sipping cider quietly.

  “He looked right at me!”

  Nathis sits forward, grasping a bone-handled stein. “Generally in times of strife, as such we are in now,” he waves a hand, shaking his head, “the nobility are expected to support their king. That doesn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t happy to see you, Lark.”

  The girl scoffs, and Drair purses her lips, gazing into her ale as if it were a portal to another world.

  Anarah is sitting next to Tygoh, serving herself shreds of boar and soft chunks of yucca root. “I worry about how Taeg is taking all of this. To be crowned so quickly after we find a Denand scout spying on the castle. I’m sure he’s terrified…though he’d never show it.”

  “He’s been training since he was little,” Nathis says. “I remember seeing him crawling on the floors of the conference room below his father as they talked about politics. He’s been around this sort of life nearly every waking hour. I’m sure he knows more than you give him credit for.” Nathis drinks heavily from his mead and sits it back down. He picks at plates of olives and cheese, but never serves himself.

  Anarah looks hurt. “Of course. I never meant to insinuate that he didn’t possess the knowledge for such a role. I just hope he’s doing okay.”

  “He’ll be alright,” Lark says superciliously. “He’s got us and Nathis and the council for help. If we do our jobs correctly, the king should be fine.”

  A comfortable silence falls among them. Drair slips a shred of boar into her mouth, conscious of the chewing sounds coming from behind her lips. She swallows hard. The din of festivity sounds over her shoulders. Grand Master Argos can be heard loudly patting a likely flustered new king on the back. A cup bearer stops by Nathis and refills his stein. The general takes a drink.

  “So Drair, Lark, how are you feeling after becoming both our youngest and most unique royal guards?” Drair suppresses herself from jolting at her own name as Nathis’s voice breaks the silence.

  “Oh, I’m not stopping at Guard,” Lark replies, cleaning out her bowl of custard. “You might be the army general now, but I’m right behind you, old man. Maybe I’ll shoot for Grand Master Argos’s position. Right by the king’s side.” She blushes, hastily grabbing a wooden serving spoon to dish up a stewed pear.

  Drair, sitting pensively at the end of the table with her arms crossed, clears her throat quietly. Candles flicker around the group as her voice slips subtly through the noise.

  “Just trying to keep my head down. I fulfill a job that I’m good at, and I’m content with just that.”

  Tygoh turns his dark eyes to the woman, his arm wrapped around the back of Anarah’s chair. “So, what is your goal here, Drair? You came out of the woodworks of Cale, a vagabond in the slums. What made a person such as yourself pursue a career with the Crown?”

  She sits forward, staring at the stein of mead in front of her. She had seen the smirk on his lips. “My goal?” she says lazily. “My goal is reconnaissance. I locate enemies, scope out potential hazards, and protect all of you idiots from getting assassinated.” She moves to take a long drink, sets the stein down again, and continues. “I didn’t pursue this career. It found me. Created the person that I’ve become. I became an assassin long before I worked for the Crown. To survive. It only occurred to me that the safest place to get paid for my services was the castle at Erah. No more running the streets with an eye in the back of my head. For the Crown, I became the assailant in the alleys I used to watch for.”

  She resists the urge to check that her eye patch is secured tightly, reaching for her mead.

  “More like for personal gain,” Lark frowns.

  Drair shoots back. “The only ones here for personal gain are those with cruel mouths who question the duteous natures of those around them. If you were as keen on serving the Crown as you are serving your ego, you may find that those around you are not a threat.”

  Lark scowls vehemently. A mouthful of pear and a glance from Nathis quells her retort. The group falls silent again, but Lark snatches an olive from the brass plate in front of her and chews, staring venomously into Drair’s left eye.

  From afar, the Chamberlain can be heard chortling at the highly inebriated Chancellor’s words, “For shame, they never let me through the door again! I came back later with the seal of the Crown on my breast! Ruffled their feathers, I did!”

  Drair, feeling the tension build between her shoulder blades, downs the remainder of her drink and stands up, pushing her chair out abruptly from behind her. “I have business to attend to.”

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  She slouches off, leaving the others in silence. She slips through the crowd of drunken nobles, ignoring their jests and sodden eyes. The king is watching her. Where there was a smile on his chin now sits a line of worry. She is aware of the eyes of the others on her back.

  Feasts were cumbersome. Rituals, physician checks, meetings…they were all formalities unfamiliar to her, a mild stipulation that came with the protection of the crown. She felt it a small price to pay when the only backlash she received for dismissing herself prematurely were a few glares.

  Walking to the large fireplace at the back of the room, she pulls a cigarette from the pocket of her fatigues and lights it in the flames, feeling the heat on her fingers before putting it to her lips with a sharp drag. She makes her way through the main door, shutting out the sound of bellowing men behind her. The courtyard, still verdant with flora, greets her with stars above and a welcoming chill to the air. Tendrils of smoke escape the end of her burning cigarette. Above her, the family sigil flutters.

  She remembers the first time she saw the castle. It was uglier than her imagination could have pictured it. She had been given a graying horse by the name of Henry that carried her roughly from the villages of Cale. She, having never ridden before, bobbed awkwardly in the saddle, feeling every jar in her back. Nathis rode before her, giving a tour of the kingdom as if she had never seen it before. She had never told him of her past and he had not asked. Whether out of propriety or lack of interest, she could not tell. The ride was amiable.

  For all the kingdom knew, she was a citizen of Cale, a rough and tumble mercenary like the rest of them, her story hidden under a leather patch strapped to her right eye. Each time she removed the patch, she ran her fingers across the callouses on the crook atop her right ear where the strap made its home, a reminder that her life would never be the same.

  The sunlight shone too brightly for her covered eye now. Her left eye, oily black and wide, sees greater than it ever did before, trained by the weakness of its partner. In the night, she can make out the guards atop the battlements, pacing with their bows. She spots the rattlesnake sigil on their breastplates, the moon reflecting off its ruby eye each time they turn. Moving to her head to the right to check her blind spot, she sees a scribe across the courtyard, studying in the veranda, her pale face glowing in the moonlight.

  There were no ties for her here, only a civil sense of duty in which came the luxury of shelter and safety. Her colleagues, each made from different cloth, challenge her ability to remain callous and indifferent. For the old man, she holds respect in a modest form. He had taken a stranger into his home, and if her truth were ever found out, he risked losing good faith with the crown. Tygoh, the cavalry general, went to great efforts to prove his worth, and in doing so, drove his companions away. She saw herself in him. Anarah was the gentle one – too gentle. She chose her battles with great discrepancy and spread herself too thin. Drair understood her drive, but looked down upon her lack of self-respect. The last of the group, Lark, made herself known to all that would listen and all that would not. Though she was a nuisance, Nathis saw something special in the girl. Most of all, Drair feared Lark would be the one to uncover her secret.

  The scribe across the courtyard pulls herself up off the bench and sidles in through the library doorway, leaving Drair in the dark alone. She drags on the last of her tobacco, watching the smoke from her lungs dissipate into the air. Hoots and laughter come from the heavy door behind her as she watches a crow land atop the battlements.

  A flood of light illuminates the courtyard as the mess hall door opens wide. She turns to see Nathis stepping onto the veranda. He walks to her left side where she can see him, standing shoulder to shoulder. They are the same height.

  “There is nothing like the desert nights,” he drawls, his voice like gravel. “I think they are underappreciated with this lot.” Sweat beads on the weathered skin of his forehead.

  The two stare into the courtyard, uncomfortable in their silence. Nathis looks at the ground with his arms crossed, leaning heavily into a pillar.

  “You hate these things as much as I,” he says.

  “They are needless formalities. Presentation only. I’m not looking to foster relationships.” Her voice comes out drier than she intends. She pauses, looking at him. “You should lay off the mead. It’s making you ill.”

  He chuckles. “It's too late for that. My only hope is that you and the others learn something from my being here. I could die peacefully knowin’ that my mistakes didn’t go forgotten, that I’d tried to redeem m’self at the least.” He seems to drift off into thought, blinking slowly. “That maybe my choices didn’t jeopardize others.”

  Drair pulls at her cigarette. She remembers the tour Nathis had given her of the aging city. He had pointed proudly to each ancient building, telling its story along the country’s timeline. She was wary of him, his balding head and his castle armor. The horse under her loins smelled.

  In Cale, she was surrounded by familiarity. She knew the back alleys, the brothels, and every mercenary within a ten-mile radius. She had become too comfortable. Nathis offered her refuge in the castle under the ploy that he was choosing an experienced assassin. He never let on what his true intentions were, and for all her years of reading the body language of others, she never caught on.

  “You know why I picked you, right?” he says, looking up from under heavy brows.

  Drair turns to look at the older man with her uncovered eye. He does not move. The crow atop the battlements calls. She keeps her composure. Nathis only shifts his weight painfully, swaying lightly where he stands. She can smell the alcohol on him.

  “I don’t have long t’ live, I fear,” he murmurs. “My body is killing me from the inside. I didn’t plan on taking in refugees, but at this point, it would be no mark against me for going under the Crown’s nose. I saw potential an’ I took it. I want you to know that you are protected.”

  Drair is silent, watching the old general talk. He is staring languidly at the ground. His fists are curled under his armpits, shoulders hunched over. Normally a man of honor, he reeks of humiliation. His doublet is faded, unbuttoned at the top, hairy chest showing. He continues.

  “Understand that I, of course, expect the best from you all. You may be my last refugee, Drair. Please take that title with honor,” he says, peering at her.

  She waits a few moments before replying. The feast inside is starting to quiet down, with chinks of dishware and the occasional burst of laughter. “What are you saying?” she speaks quietly under the hubbub behind her. She feels no unkindness from him, but his words are those of treason. The general clears his throat and hugs his sides.

  “I’m saying that you’re not the only one hiding something, m’dear. Lark, Tygoh, you. You’re all the result of this man’s treasonous heart.” He shakes his head. “I only regret that I hadn’t shoved it in the Queen’s face before she lost her damn mind. She has such pious opinions on the purity of her subjects. I suppose I should be grateful that she doesn’t remember.”

  He chuckles lightly. Drair flicks her dying cigarette to the ground, watching it smolder in the sand.

  “I hope you’ve made the right choices, then,” she says, watching the crow above take flight. “For all our sakes.”

  know he struggled with the affliction of self-doubt. He was just really good at hiding it behind a goofy face or a well-placed joke. When he knew he was dying, he became bitter and angry. Nathis will be the grandfather I remember, not the one he became in his death.