@TheWattys 2022 Shortlist Novel
@HistoricalFiction Top 25 of 2022 For Historical Fiction Awards
@HistoricalFiction Best of Historical Fiction 2022
This is a continuation of @TheWattys Shortlisted Novel, The Ostler's Boy.
(BOOK 2)
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Love. Duty...
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Sweet, Beautiful Rose,
Will you still love me, when I return?
I feel it now, the break down of my existence. My soul, clawing for freedom from this cage of flesh and bone.
I am asked of things I am not sure I have the strength to do. The Oath no longer holds the shine it once did, glimmering at me from afar within the years of my youth.
Children are the essence of what we're fighting for, aren't they?
I cannot stomach this.
Yours.
The last letter I scribed before that night was incoherent, really. The ravings of a man on his final stretch of life, but I could not find the words to convey my ailment; this... disease I had been inflicted with.
Ser Dalton had accused me of having nothing to offer the coming infant. 'You are nothing, you have nothing.' I replayed his voice; the things he said, inside my head; I did not sleep.
Still, my Oath, my sense of Duty, drew me to arrive at the Palace gates. It was, as promised, open, and my party was, as promised, quick to trickle in.
Ser Dalton was proud to find me there. He offered me a strong grip of my shoulder, before he led Linen and I down a nearby path. Behind a wall of shrubbery, he gestured to a lot of discarded armor, and started to dress himself in a set that was already put to the side. I did not know when. I did not ask where any of it had come from, or how he had acquired it. I did not want to know. There were enough stray pieces to form three full suits for us, a few parts left over.
Grey armor.
Darker than Oreian Bronze, marked with the Azarii seal. Forged in layers upon layers of damascus, found only in one fleet.
Chalke Knights.
We donned ourselves and Dalton gave us a rundown of the entry points at every end. The servant's door was in the back, just as ours was, and he had seen several Blades go in and out of it over the days of his surveillance. He knew it to be unlocked.
"The Palace is split in half," he told us. "The Queen will be at the far end. Her room overlooks the stables and yard. There are roses on the door. You can't miss them."
That detail troubled me. Roses.
"The son is in the same hall," he continued. "His room connects to hers. His Majesty is on–"
"You're still certain on this?" I asked. "You think this is what we must do?"
"You were given the chance to opt out," my uncle said, all pride evaporating.
