For King and Country

The Summit

Chapter 37

I rubbed my arms, trying to make the chill bumps under my thick woven gown disappear. But the chill bumps weren't caused by the cold. They were caused by the burgundy flag that was driven into the grown a hundred yards away. It was in front of a tall, wide tent of shimmering silver fabric. It was a show of extravagance, a show of wealth. My own tent was made of golden silk, with a giant robin's egg blue flag flying in front of it. I raised my hand to my mouth, immediately chewing on my nails. It was a horrible habit. I had done it since I was a child when I was exceptionally nervous. I felt a hand on my arm, tugging it down. I looked to my side, Elijah holding onto my arm that now rested at my side.

"Breathe." He whispered, his thumb rubbing circles on the fabric. My mouth tightened, but I nodded. I turned my head back toward the silvery tent, wondering what lurked inside, and when it would emerge.

We'd arrived at the browning fields this morning. The men had immediately set to work pitching tents and arranging the borders. I'd spent most of the morning nestled in the tall grass, until Elijah had demanded that Fitz and I withdraw to the large golden tent that served as a reception room. I'd paced round and round, not able to settled down all morning. The one time I'd peaked out of the room, I'd spotted a wall of guards, but beyond them were another group of soldiers that were pitching their own tents for their own King.

"When will this start?" I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. "It's nerve racking." I said. Elijah's already tight jawline twitched.

"Night fall." He said, his lips set tightly together as he stared over the dying fields. In between my tent and the tent of the King, in the direct center of the field, men were setting up the logs that would be lit later tonight. At night fall, when the fire began to burn, Fitz and I would approach as our party watched and meet the new king.

I absentmindedly played with my necklace, a simple faceted pendant, turning the stone over and over in my hand. I quickly turned on my heel and threw open the flap of the tent. I could feel the change in mood the minute I entered. Outside was tense, strained. This place was relaxed. Fitzgerald was singing to himself, his voice carrying lowly through the large area. He was stretched along on a lounge, looking as relaxed as if he was laying along the warm grass in the capital.

"How are you so calm?" I asked as he popped a berry into his mouth. I quickly took a seat at the large table that had been set up in the middle of the room. I traced my hand along the grains of wood in the circular table, immediately recognizing it. I traced the patterns that I had only seen one time before. This was the viceroy's dining table. I'd been invited to a grand winter's feast last year. My parents had been the polite ones, and I'd glared at almost everyone present the entire time.

"Why are you so interested in the table?" He retorted throwing a berry into the air to catch it in his mouth. I pursed my lips, pulling the closest set of papers towards me so that I could flip through it to avoid his questions.

"This man is the leader of the Rasholdians. The people who invaded my nation, the people who have caused thousands of deaths, the people who have pulled you away from your home. This man is everything our country hates. Are you not the least bit nervous to meet him?" Fitz sat up as I ranted, holding one of the papers up and squinting at it.

"When you were a peasant girl," He asked after a moments silence, drawing my attention, "when your biggest worry was how long you'd have to watch little children or milk the cows, or whatever peasants worry about, did you think about this war often?" He asked. I set the paper down, opening my mouth to reply, but I suddenly had lost all of my words.