Chapter Text
Ten Years Ago, Year of the Realm 868
It was raining hard by the time Joshua arrived at Martha’s Rest.
Dion was already in the room, tending to the fire, a warm meal and sweet wine set out for the two of them. He pulled Joshua into his arms as soon as the door closed.
“Joshua,” Dion said, kissing the tip of his nose and smiling warmly. “I had worried the rain would keep you longer.” He frowned. “You’re trembling.”
Joshua swallowed hard. “It is…just cold,” he managed to say, allowing Dion to take his coat and steer him closer to the fire.
Joshua was truthfully quite warm, but a coldness had dug deep into his chest since he’d left Rosalith, a coldness that made him feel numb and fearful all at once as Mother’s voice echoed clearly in his head: I had thought you having relations with Princess Elise, not that mongrel! Have you no shame, Joshua?! Have you forgotten who you are?
Dion was serving him warm broth, smiling at him, kissing his forehead, and Joshua felt the coldness in his chest grow as he tried to smile back.
He has corrupted you. He must have. I will have words with Sylvestre about this! I will make sure both Crown Prince Auguste and His Radiance are made aware of that boy’s perversion. I will not stand for this, Joshua!
“Did my last letter reach you?” Dion asked. He was still looking at Joshua; he was still smiling widely, brightly. “I sent one as soon as I returned to Oriflamme.”
Joshua swallowed past the lump in his throat. “N-no. It was…the last one was sent from Belenus Tor. I…I did hear about your victory there though,” he said, feeling, finally, a tinkling of warmth from being reminded of Dion’s success. Joshua had been so proud of him, the first he heard of it. He was going to tease Dion about it through badly written poetry.
Joshua swallowed again as his eyes started to sting. He blinked rapidly, trying to stem his tears, and shoved a spoonful of broth into his mouth to mask his distress. “It…it has been the talk of the town,” Joshua said finally, hoping Dion didn’t notice the tremble in his voice. “Your first successful campaign, and only eighteen years young, even before your knighthood. Surely with your victory, they would have you join the dragoons soon.”
Dion looked away, his smile finally falling. “Ah, there is something I meant to tell you,” he said. He looked nervous suddenly as he gathered Joshua’s hands in his. “My victory has gained me great favor with my grandfather. That is, His Radiance, the Emperor, has granted me a boon. He would bestow upon me a knighthood and land of my own. I only have to make the request.”
“That’s wonderful, Dion. Your father must be so proud,” Joshua said, even as his stomach twisted. If only Mother understood…if only she saw what Joshua saw when he looked at Dion. Exemplary, honorable, a man who loved his father and took pride, found fulfillment in enacting his duties to his nation. Who was caring, loving. Who enjoyed reading sad stories, who preened at the smallest of compliments and got competitive a little too quickly but controlled his temper well. A man who Joshua would love so deeply and profoundly forever, no matter his station, if only…. He swallowed once more, forcing out another smile. “You would ask to join the Dragoon Knights surely?”
Dion pursed his lips, then he shook his head. “I thought…I would request to be made a Knight of the Imperial Palace instead.”
Joshua’s eyes widened. “What? I don’t understand,” he said. “Dion, you’ve worked so hard… Joining the dragoons has been your dream all these years…”
“It has,” Dion admitted, swallowing, “but I have…this past year with you, I have acquired a new dream.” He looked at Joshua meaningfully, and Joshua felt within him, past the coldness, a growing sense of dread. No, he thought, his throat tightening. Please don’t…
“Dragoons are sent abroad often, and even with Waloed retreating from Belenus Tor, there are already rumblings of more sallies, perhaps even a war, afoot. If I were to become a dragoon, my responsibilities…they would take me so very far away and for so very long from you,” Dion said. “And I find that I desire nothing greater than to be with you, Joshua.” He smiled shakily. “I know that…our positions are incompatible. You will be the Archduke of Rosaria, and I…am not even a knight, not yet. My father is a Prince of the Empire, but I have not been granted the same status, and I…do not have much to my own name. But I would still ask…I would ask…”
Joshua felt his eyes fill with tears, seeing Dion speak so bravely, demonstrate so much courage, and Joshua would like nothing more but to meet him head on. To cradle his face in his hands and tell him, I only care for your safety, your comfort, your happiness. Your wealth, your status—they mean to me only as much as they mean to you, for you can have all of me and mine.
But instead, he stood frozen as Dion poured out his heart in front of him. “I would ask for your hand, Joshua,” Dion continued, hopeful and brave. “And I would…stay here in Rosaria, if that is what it would demand. I would tolerate your use of a concubine to secure your line. I would…”
Joshua sobbed. “Stop, Dion,” he said, pulling his hands away from the other man so that he might cover his face in shame at his own cowardice.
“Joshua,” Dion said, alarmed. “Please…”
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Joshua cried out as he stood up and stepped away.
Your duty is to me and to Rosaria. You cannot be so careless with your life, your reputation! This little dalliance you’re having will end, or I will rake that boy through the coals! Mark my words. I would not have you forget your duties, Joshua. You can’t dare forget what you owe Rosaria, what you owe me.
“I do know what I am asking,” Dion argued, still determined, still so brave. “And I say that it would be worth it. I would give anything to remain by your side.”
And there it was. The voice that made Joshua fold further into himself, afraid and ashamed. It was Dion’s voice saying, I would request to be made a Knight of the Imperial Palace instead. His voice saying that he would abandon Oriflamme and Sanbreque to come live at Rosalith. To give up his dream, his home, his future, all the potential for greatness that Joshua saw in him, for a life that Joshua couldn’t even promise him, for a future full of shame and ridicule that Joshua could not protect him from if he accepted. And that was what steeled his heart, so that when he looked at Dion, there was only one answer he could possibly give.
“I would not,” Joshua said, tears falling freely down his face as he broke his beloved’s heart. “I would not.”
Present Day, Year of the Realm 878
The main hall had a hidden gap between one of the staircases and the east wall. Lord Commander Murdoch showed it to Joshua and Clive when they were little. He told them they installed it as one of several hiding places should the castle be raided or if their security became compromised. Joshua had been eyeing it since dusk.
It was properly evening now, and Joshua would prefer that the castle be besieged by an invading army instead of the flock of nobles currently swarming his father’s court—Well, it’s brother’s court, now, Joshua thought with no small amount pride.
Truly, his brother’s ascension was a celebratory occasion, and Joshua was happy for him. He loved his brother, admired him very much. But the people of Rosaria, especially its most influential lords and most…effusive courtiers, worshipped his brother; Clive Rosfield, Rosaria’s champion, who had heroically driven back the Iron Kingdom and reclaimed, in the duchy’s name, the rich mines of Drake’s Breath after a near-decade of war.
“He has secured a most handsome marriage arrangement, too,” whispered, none too softly, by a female courtier within Joshua’s earshot. “Lady Jill Warrick of the Northern Territories. A fine, highly advantageous match—her dowry includes a joint defense treaty. His Grace is truly a masterful strategist.”
Joshua sighed. Oh, he agreed that his brother was masterful at many things; Joshua just…didn’t want to be there. Once more, he contemplated slipping into the gap and just…staying there. But then Lady Hanna Murdoch had spotted him and started enthusiastically waving him over, likely intending to introduce him to more of Clive’s brothers-in-arms from the war, so he steeled himself and began to cross the room to her. He gave polite nods to reluctant well-wishers on the way, as was his duty as the new Marquess—
“A pity title granted by His Grace, I hear,” said the female courtier, still, unfortunately, within Joshua’s earshot. “Our great Archduke is so benevolent, so kind to that vile woman’s little doll…”
Joshua swallowed tightly and picked up his pace.
“You must take it, Clive,” Joshua entreated, even as his brother was already shaking his head. “It would be the better course for Rosaria.” He pulled at his cravat and slipped off his gloves and then he reached for his brother to keep him still.
“Clive,” he said again, pleading, pulling his brother close by the lapels of his dress coat so that he might finally stop pacing and meet Joshua’s eyes. “You know I am right.”
“Joshua,” Clive said with a scowl, “it would severely tarnish your reputation.”
Joshua scoffed. “I worked with the Undying during the war. That tells you how much I care about my reputation. Certainly, it would tarnish hers further, but Mother has the means to weather it.” He smiled, hoping to lighten the mood, but his brother remained resolute.
“It does not feel right to me, Joshua,” Clive said. “And it is you I worry about. You believe yourself capable of weathering the fallout? I know it would hurt you,” he insisted. “And Her Grace will surely retaliate.”
“I have dealt with Mother just fine my entire life,” Joshua replied defiantly, though truly, he was already feeling the frisson of fear that always came when he thought about his mother—habitual cowardice borne from years of conditioning. He could not afford to let any fear or hesitation show on his face, however. Not if he were to successfully convince Clive to take the throne in his stead.
“And she has no power over the ascension anymore. Her condition was that Father could not name you his heir, but I am officially Archduke now; I was Archduke the moment Father breathed his last.” Joshua swallowed, feeling an intense, lingering sadness over his father’s death—his and Clive’s father, whom they had just put to rest at the family crypt earlier that day. “And I have the power to abdicate it to you, and it must be soon lest she find a way to undermine me. We have everyone who matters present in court right now. If I do it tonight, Mother would not be able to act. No one would dare question it. You are Father’s legitimate first born, and you won us the war!”
Clive made a frustrated sound and shook Joshua by the shoulders. “You won us the war, too! Without yours and the Undying’s reconnaissance, we could not have turned the tide at Bewit Bridge. We’d have also lost all of Port Isolde and Auldhyl! Not to mention…”
Joshua shook him off impatiently. “You led the charge; you were the leader at the front lines, which is what matters. Clive,” Joshua put his palms together, beseeching, “you are a far more capable and experienced leader than I am. All the soldiers would rally under your banner—they had already been doing it since Father became too injured to ride, and…”
“They would do the same for you!” Clive responded indignantly. “Our men are loyal to our house, and you are its rightful leader.”
“No, Clive. I am not its leader. I have never been its leader, and I especially could not, in good faith, be its leader since Mother installed the Black Shields in my name to sow discord within the duchy last year,” Joshua argued. “The war has just ended. We are in a precarious situation, and our most distinguished commanders are those loyal to Father, to you. They only respect me because of what I’ve represented all these years. The nobles, meanwhile, see me as a conspirator,” he continued, trying and hoping he managed to tamp down any trace of bitterness in his voice. “They see me as Mother’s puppet.”
Clive looked at Joshua furiously. “I would have any Rosarian, be they a lord, merchant, sergeant, or conscript, who would dare insinuate you disloyal or dishonorable tried for treason, Joshua. If anyone has…”
“No one has said it to me directly,” Joshua replied, placating, “but Clive, I do intelligence work. I know the pulse of our nation, our people, and have I also not been Rosaria’s dutiful servant?”
“Of course,” Clive said. “I know that more than anyone.”
“Then trust that I do this with good reason,” Joshua pleaded once more. “It is you that Rosaria needs, Clive.” He felt his brother finally hesitate, but Joshua knew he still needed to make a stronger case. “This would secure you Jill’s hand.”
Clive glared at him, but Joshua pressed on. “Securing a lasting alliance with the Northern Territories will help solidify Rosaria’s victory and stabilize our presence at Drake’s Breath,” he said. “But we both know the Warricks will not consent to have Jill marry anyone less than the Archduke.” He raised an eyebrow at his brother then. “I think the world of Jill, but I don’t want to marry her. You, on the other hand…”
Clive grabbed Joshua by the shoulders. His eyes looked pained. “Do you really think I would barter you—your safety, your happiness—even for a chance at Jill’s hand, brother?” he asked, breath hitching. “Because I would not. I am your shield, first and foremost.”
“And what of you? Do I not have the right to fight for you and your happiness, too, Clive?” Joshua said, eyes glistening as he pulled away. “It was always meant to be you anyway. I never had the strength to lead our people. I still don’t. You always have.”
Clive looked at him for a long time. Finally, he sighed. “All right. I’ll do it.”
Joshua slumped forward, relieved. “Oh, thank the Founder.” Then, he straightened, narrowing his eyes at Clive. “I know I made compelling points, but…I did expect to work harder than that.”
Clive smiled sadly at him. “I realized,” he said, “that I must do this. You don’t want to be Archduke, do you, Joshua?”
Joshua looked away, feeling a sense of shame. For more than two decades, Mother had groomed him relentlessly to take his father’s place, to convince him that it was his right—“You are my only son,” Mother would always say, “and a Rosfield of the purest blood. No other is more deserving.” Classes, sermons, and daily admonishments…sacrifices. Dion, Joshua thought with a pang. And all they did was make him not want the throne even more.
I could not live up to my father’s name, he thought remorsefully, and then bitterly, but at least I also can’t do Mother’s bidding. I suppose I can now say I have successfully and utterly failed as a son.
He turned back to Clive. “It would kill me, I think,” he admitted.
And so Clive had become the Archduke of Rosaria, to the delight of the entire duchy and to Mother’s outrage. Joshua had expected to be disowned that same night he’d abdicated. But instead, he was merely forced to sit in Mother’s private parlor and be screamed at.
“I have sacrificed everything, endured the mockery of inferiors to secure you Elwin’s throne, and you give it all to him! That mongrel! That son of a plebe, who couldn’t even survive giving birth,” Mother raged, throwing an assortment of cutlery all over the room. “You ingrate! What use were all those tutors?! All those doctors?! I should have just let you die, you useless, hateful child!”
Truthfully, Joshua had grown somewhat desensitized to his mother’s constant denigration, but it still hurt him deeply when she spoke so ill of Clive—and the mother Clive never even got to meet. Though it never mattered how much Joshua tried to speak up. Mother always found a way to shut him up and make him feel worse about it, and Mother would never change.
She had ranted for a long while, until Clive had come in and told her in no uncertain terms that the Dowager Duchess was to move to Port Isolde, where she’d be housed comfortably by their Uncle Byron. Meanwhile, the Lady Jill Warrick will be moving in to Rosalith to become the new Lady of the House and Duchess of Rosaria in five weeks’ time.
Joshua was quite grateful Mother had no more cutlery left to throw. Instead, she gave Clive a mocking curtsey, sent Joshua one last scathing glare, and stormed out of her own parlor.
Clive had approached him then and held Joshua close as he finished trembling.
That had been one week ago, and now Clive had, formally and irrevocably, ascended to the ducal throne. To help salvage Joshua’s social standing, Clive had immediately disbanded the Black Shields, stripping away the most disruptive way Mother could continue to assert her authority. Then, he gave Joshua the title of Marquess to establish that Joshua had the Archduke’s full trust.
Joshua appreciated the gesture, but he was, or at least everyone perceived him to be, his mother’s son. And with Mother absent, having, as expected, refused to come to the ascension, Joshua was to bear the brunt of the court’s collective ill will against her.
Many of the nobles knew to be discreet in their dislike of him, but Joshua had developed extremely keen ears and eyes given the work he did the past decade. So every sneer, every hateful remark—“that puppet,” “serves him right,” “surrendering the throne was the one good thing he ever did,” “coward”—was hard for him to miss.
The Knights of the Flame were cordial, however, as they knew him and his work with the Undying, knew that while he hadn’t been in the front lines, he’d been…well, everywhere else.
“To His Grace, the Archduke,” Lord Commander Murdoch was saying, his glass raised. Then, he smiled and bowed to Joshua, too. “And to His Grace, the Marquess.” The other knights cheered enthusiastically, and Joshua couldn’t help but smile, couldn’t help but feel a small amount of pride at being acknowledged, especially by people whose respect mattered to him.
“Let’s not get carried away with drink,” Lady Hanna said in warning, casting the knights a disapproving glare. “The Sanbrequois delegation will be coming in late. Everyone still needs to be on their best behavior.”
Joshua winced, having been reminded of yet another reason he wished he could just hide himself away.
“Ah yes. Shame they all missed the coronation,” Sir Wade remarked. “But is it confirmed? A new birth in the Imperial Family they said?”
Lady Hanna nodded. “Truly. Princess Lucille’s second child. A son again, I hear.”
“Good tidings to them,” said Lord Commander Murdoch, the rest of their party nodding in agreement. “To lose both Emperor and Crown Prince in the same war. This birth is a great blessing to their house.”
“Is the new Crown Prince really coming?” Sir Tyler asked. “I heard he just got back from brokering Waloed’s surrender in Northreach. He’s quite industrious, that Prince Dion.”
“I would quite like to meet him,” Sir Wade admitted. “With the way the bards tell it, he has singlehandedly won them that war.”
“Surely that’s rubbish, that is,” said Lady Hanna. “Even His Grace the Archduke had help.” She looked at Joshua then and smiled kindly. “From all sorts of places, I hear.”
“Well, of course!” said Sir Wade. “But where there’s smoke…” he trailed off, giving them all a meaningful look. “I bet he and His Grace have a lot of stories to share.” He looked at Joshua then and likely noticed his discomfort, so he quickly added, “I didn’t mean to be rude, Your Grace. I was merely pointing out the similarities between the Archduke…”
“You have not caused any offense, Sir Wade,” said Joshua. “My mind was elsewhere. I apologize.” The rest of the party were quick to offer assurances, which he waved off.
“Were you not acquainted with the Crown Prince when you were younger, Your Grace?” asked Lady Hanna, a curious look on her face. “Though I suppose he wasn’t officially part of the Imperial Family then.”
Joshua coughed slightly. “Ah,” he began, “we were…acquainted. But you are correct, Lady Hanna. He did not have royal duties or engagements back then. We also, uh, lost contact when war against the Iron Kingdom broke.”
“Oh, of course,” said Lady Hanna. “It would be a happy occasion, then? Meeting him again after all these years?”
“He…the circumstances are…much changed,” Joshua said, his jaw tight, but he forced out a smile. “But it would be a pleasure, of course, to see him again.”
Twenty Years Ago, Year of the Realm 858
Joshua had to watch the investiture ceremony from the Imperial Palace’s solar. The travel from Rosalith to Oriflamme had been marred by heavy rain, and Joshua’s constitution, already fragile for an 8-year-old, failed him—as it tended to do—that by the time their party arrived, he’d been fatigued and coughing heavily. Mother had been very displeased and had him sit out all the major events.
At least I was allowed to sit and watch one from up here, Joshua thought despondently. It was too far up for his young eyes to discern where, exactly, in the crowd of extravagantly dressed nobles and royals his parents were, but the long lines of soon-to-be newly minted Dragoon Knights at the center of the imperial plaza were unmissable. Joshua leaned forward, his tiny hands pressed flat against the window pane as he tried to get a clearer look at their armor.
“So pretty,” Joshua whispered, admiring the curves of their helmets and the complex detailing of their cuirasses. Each dragoon held a great spear, and Joshua imagined what it’d be like to be strong enough to wield one properly. He hoped to start training with a short sword soon—Clive had started at age seven. Joshua had still been too small and frail at seven. But I’m a whole year older, Joshua thought, optimistic. Surely, they’d let me try now.
“Your Grace, please don’t get too close to the window,” said Bernadette, one of Joshua’s nurses. He liked Bernadette a lot. She snuck him treats sometimes, spun sugar and sweet cream, and she didn’t force him to eat his carrots unless Mother was watching.
Joshua obediently stepped back from the window. “I’m sorry, Bernadette,” he said. Mother didn’t like it when he apologized to his nurses. But Father always apologized when he did something wrong, like when he bumped into people and made them spill what they were holding—Father was a rather large man, and Clive always did, too, and Joshua wanted to be just like Clive and Father.
It was when he stepped back that he noticed he wasn’t the only child in the room. There was another young boy that looked Joshua’s age in the solar. He had almost his entire body pressed up against the window.
“Oh, hello!” Joshua called out; he was so excited. Joshua rarely got to meet other children.
The boy swung his head to look at him; his brown eyes widened when he saw Joshua. “Hello!” he greeted Joshua warmly. He had light blond hair, and he wore white and blue Sanbrequois robes.
Joshua returned his smile shyly, scurrying to stand closer to him. “I’m Joshua. I’m visiting from Rosaria.”
“My name is Dion,” the other boy said. “I live here. My father is Prince Sylvestre of the House Lesage.”
“My father is Elwin Rosfield, the Archduke of Rosaria,” Joshua dutifully replied. Then, he stepped even closer because he wanted to get a really good look at the boy. He had met Prince Sylvestre yesterday. The prince had surprised the Rosfields by visiting their guest rooms; he’d welcomed them warmly and smiled kindly at Joshua when he wished him a speedy recovery. The prince had blue-grey eyes, but Dion’s eyes were a bright brown color. He resembled his father a great deal though.
Joshua realized he might be standing a bit too close, but Dion didn’t seem to mind. He was leaning forward too, as if to also get a good look at Joshua, and he was smiling wide, like he was also excited. He probably didn’t get to meet children all that often, too, though as far as Joshua knew, the Imperial Family had quite a few children. Mother always spoke about them. Prince Sylvestre’s brother, Crown Prince Auguste, had three young daughters. And his youngest sister, Princess Lucille, had a newborn son. Mother never spoke of Prince Sylvestre’s son, however. Joshua thought perhaps Mother did not know.
“Oh,” Joshua realized, frowning. “Are you unwell?”
Dion frowned back at him. “No. I am quite well.”
“Oh,” Joshua said again. He was feeling a bit tired, so he sat down on the nearest chair. He kept his hand outstretched though, anxious to let Dion know he didn’t want to stop talking to him. “I am a bit sickly,” he admitted sadly.
“Oh,” Dion parroted back, but not unkindly. He promptly sat right next to Joshua, which made Joshua very happy. “You are looking quite pallid,” he said before suddenly biting his lip. “Was it rude of me to say that?”
“It’s all right,” Joshua said, smiling again.
Dion sighed as if relieved, then he frowned again. “Well, why did you ask me if I was unwell? Do I look terrible? Oh, not that you look terrible. I only meant—”
“You do not look terrible at all!” Joshua assured him. “I only asked because you’re here. Why are you not with the others down in the plaza?” Though Joshua realized the crowd had probably moved on to the cathedral by now to complete the investiture rituals.
“Oh,” Dion said. Then, he looked down as if shy, and Joshua worried if he said something wrong. But Dion was already shaking his head slightly and smiling again at Joshua, though it looked slightly strained. “I was not allowed to attend.”
Joshua’s face fell. “But why not?”
“It is because I don’t have a mother,” Dion said.
“Oh,” said Joshua, feeling sad. “I understand.”
“You understand?” Dion asked skeptically.
“I suppose,” Joshua said, nodding. “I have a mother, and she has a lot to say about what I can and cannot do and what I should and should not do when I attend court. If you don’t have one, then I suppose it could get confusing, right?”
Dion frowned. “I suppose,” he said slowly, sounding unsure.
“My older brother, Clive—he doesn’t have a mother, too,” Joshua shared, wanting to comfort his new friend. “And he also isn’t allowed to attend many things. He was told to sit out the last procession at Rosalith—even if he’s a much better chocobo rider than I am.” He noticed Dion perking up with interest, so Joshua continued—it was easy to talk about Clive. “And he is good at so many other things besides, even if he is only thirteen. He is very smart, and he can already wield a longsword very well, but he’s also good at archery and hunting. His tutors say that in two years, Clive could become the First Shield of our house already.”
“Your brother sounds amazing,” said Dion, his eyes wide. “I have just started learning to hunt, but I can shoot a target well already! When I’m older, Father promised I can start learning jousting and the spear. I’m going to be a dragoon.”
Joshua was able to talk some more with his new friend, even when all the other lords and ladies at the solar had departed for the investiture feast. Some servants gave Joshua and Dion food to eat, and then Dion brought out a backgammon board and taught Joshua how to play it.
“My father is very good at this game,” Dion said, rolling the dice and then laughing delightedly when they landed on the exact number he needed. He started bearing off a checker, smiling at Joshua excitedly. “I never get to win.”
Joshua frowned, but not because he was doing poorly at the game—he was happy to see that Dion was having fun. He was upset about feeling very fatigued. He didn’t want to stop playing with Dion, so he tried very hard to stay upright even as he failed to grab the dice from the board. His eyesight was getting a bit blurry.
Dion saw through him right away. “You are feeling very sickly, aren’t you,” he said, sounding sad.
Joshua tried to lie. “I am not. I am just…concentrating.”
Dion narrowed his eyes at him. “You are not being truthful. You really are looking unwell, Joshua. You should be resting.”
“But,” Joshua said, feeling his eyes prick with tears, “I want to keep playing.”
“You can’t,” Dion said firmly. Then, he did a series of dice rolls and started bearing off all his checkers from the board. “See? I just won.”
“I don’t know this game very well,” Joshua said with a pout, “but I know you just cheated.”
“You can take your revenge next time,” said Dion, raising his hand to signal to Joshua’s nurses. “Joshua needs to rest now!” he called out.
The nurses flocked to Joshua right away and started bundling him up in another coat.
“You promise?” Joshua called out to Dion as he was being ushered away. He wasn’t quite sure what he was making Dion promise to at that point. He was really tired.
But Dion was smiling at him and waving. “I promise!” he said.
Present Day, Year of the Realm 878
“Will you be all right?” Clive asked as Joshua joined him in line for the welcoming party. The Sanbrequois delegation had just arrived in Rosalith and should be at the castle shortly.
“Of course,” Joshua said with courage he didn’t really feel. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It could be awkward,” Clive said with a shrug. “You were very close.”
“It has been ten years, Clive,” Joshua reminded him. “We are…practically strangers now, so it would be more like meeting someone new. Again.” He realized he didn’t quite make sense, but Clive thankfully let it go with a snort.
Clive had no reason to think Joshua would be so greatly affected by Dion visiting. While Clive knew he and Dion had been close friends, he never knew they’d also been…decidedly much more than that, towards the end. Since he was fifteen, Joshua had basically talked Clive’s ear off about Dion, and then when things between him and Dion started…changing, Joshua started sharing less, partly because it had been an embarrassing time for Joshua, and largely because Clive had been deployed to suppress saboteurs along the Rosarian coast—Joshua had seen Clive even less than he'd seen Dion during that period.
By the time things with Dion progressed significantly, he had been used to keeping it a secret, with letters exchanged heavily in code and personal meetings being scarce. Joshua didn’t think it would work, that they’d miss each other’s physical company too much—even if they technically gave each other leave to seek physical comfort elsewhere—but then more than a year went by, and it continued to work, and Joshua just kept falling harder. Until he fell so completely that Mother found out and then it had to end.
If anything, subsequent events proved that Joshua made the correct decision rejecting Dion’s proposal. Dion went on to become one of the greatest, most decorated dragoons in Sanbrequois history. So recognized and so beloved was he that the Imperial House had to claim him, had to make him legitimately one of their own, and when Prince Sylvestre became Emperor, it had been inconceivable to not make Dion next in line, too. None of that would have happened if Joshua had agreed to marry him—although Joshua had always felt the pain of letting him go. Sometimes, the pain would leave him breathless, would take him back to that night. Would it have truly been so bad, he would think sometimes, if I got to keep him?
But then he just needed to remind himself that he did the right thing, that he had been a dutiful son to his mother, that Dion was much better off now, and then he’d…not feel happier, but the pain would be more tolerable.
The arrival of the Sanbrequois delegation put a halt to Joshua’s grim musings. They had a full guard with them, who had dismounted and assembled at the gates so that only a small party of four came up to the inner yard: the Crown Prince, Imperial Chancellor Mercier, Imperial Cardinal Valentin, and an Imperial Herald.
The Imperial Herald took the lead, announcing each member in turn, as Clive stepped forward to meet and clasp arms with each one. Joshua stayed rooted to his spot, keeping his eyes fixed forward, hoping to delay the inevitable as long as he could.
Finally, Clive gestured to him, and he dutifully approached to meet Chancellor Mercier first. She was of average height, with a strong build and straight posture. She also had a prominent jawline that made her look severe, but she smiled warmly at Joshua when he bowed to her. “It is reassuring to see you well, Lord Marquess.”
Cardinal Valentin, meanwhile, had a relatively tall stature with a slightly hunched posture. He had thinning white hair and a kind, gentle expression. “May Great Greagor’s grace bring peace to your house, Lord Marquess,” he told Joshua before stepping away to be welcomed by their chamberlain into the main hall.
And then it was just him, Clive, and Dion, who seemed to have no trouble meeting Joshua’s eyes. They were a steely brown as he looked at Joshua, his expression blank, almost disinterested.
Joshua swallowed tightly, hoping he appeared calm if not as detached as Dion did—though there was a storm of emotions inside him: admiration, fear, anxiety, and longing, always longing. Dion had only grown more beautiful with age; taller, with a more defined jawline, broader shoulders. He kept his hair loose still, with some stray hair falling over his right eye. Joshua itched to tuck it behind his ear.
“Your Highness,” Joshua greeted with a deep bow, somewhat proud to hear his voice sounding steady. “Welcome to Rosalith. You honor us with your presence.”
“Lord Marquess,” Dion said with a slight nod. “I must admit,” he said, looking at Clive. “The Imperial Court had been…surprised by your sudden ascension, Archduke. There had been rumblings of discontent in Rosaria, but it would seem it has been…peacefully resolved?”
Joshua frowned at Dion’s words, and then he had a moment of clarity once he recalled the Chancellor’s and the Cardinal’s rather cryptic words to him earlier—the Chancellor said seeing Joshua well was reassuring; the Cardinal prayed for peace to their house. Oh no, he thought, just as he looked at Clive, who was already eyeing Dion warily. “If you’re suggesting I had appropriated the throne…,” Clive began.
“I had relinquished the ducal throne of my own free will,” Joshua said hurriedly. “My brother has proven himself highly capable of the duchy’s leadership a thousandfold. He has Rosaria’s full support.”
“Well, then,” Dion said, squaring his shoulders as he regarded Joshua coolly. “I suppose the son with greater merit prevailed.” And with that, he stepped away to join his party in the Hall.
Joshua felt an intense, cold wash of pain at hearing Dion’s thinly veiled insult, but then he saw Clive clench his fist, and he moved right away to hold back his right hand. “You will not punch the Crown Prince of Sanbreque at your own ascension feast, Clive.”
“Did you hear what that poltroon said?” Clive said furiously. “I have half a mind to throw him out of the castle!”
Joshua had to think fast. Clive still needed to host dinner. “It is…deserved, in a manner of speaking,” he finally said.
Clive looked at Joshua incredulously. “Deserved? What in the Founder's name happened between you two?”
“I’ll…tell you later,” Joshua promised, intending to not tell Clive much of anything but desperate to pacify as Lady Martha, their chamberlain, approached them, looking slightly alarmed.
“Your Grace,” she said guardedly, looking at Clive. “Your guests await.”
Joshua gave Clive a pleading look. With an annoyed grunt, Clive thankfully relented and marched back inside.
Joshua trailed behind him, a bundle of nerves. He was relieved to have pacified Clive somewhat, but that meant he could focus again on what Dion had said. And it wounded him to a great degree.
At least I know what he thinks of me, thought Joshua, feeling his throat tighten. Dion was perfectly within his rights to hate Joshua, of course, but it wasn’t like Dion…to be so unkind. It has been ten years, Joshua reminded himself. I suppose I really don’t know him at all anymore.
Thirteen Years Ago, Year of the Realm 865
The training grounds in Northreach were busy with apprentice soldiers. Joshua had very carefully crept his way past the inner baileys, where only a few young nobles were practicing, and into the outer yards, where there were far more trainees of all ages working on their martial forms.
Joshua took a deep breath and straightened, walking into the wide space as if he were one of the many squires going about their practice. He approached a weapon rack and got himself a training longsword. He tested the grip and heft of it and was very impressed by its make. Rosaria had most of their squires handle wooden weapons still, but Sanbreque seemed to already be equipping their squires with steel, though they’d been blunted for training.
Feeling a surge of excitement, Joshua lined up at one of the dueling circles, making sure to join one that seemed appropriate for his height and weight. He’d only been waiting a short while when he felt a light tap on his right shoulder.
Joshua turned and found himself face-to-face with a very familiar-looking boy. “Dion?” he said in a whisper. He had grown taller, of course, but Joshua immediately recognized his bright brown eyes and his warm smile. Dion was dressed as a squire, and he had riding boots on.
“I thought it was you,” Dion said, smiling brightly. “Joshua.” He pulled a bit at Joshua’s soft curls, as if he couldn’t help it, before blushing slightly and pulling his hand back. “My apologies. Your hair’s gone darker.”
“Well, I’m fifteen now,” Joshua said a little proudly.
“Ah,” said Dion, grinning. “So we have a fifteen-year-old Rosarian spy in our midst.”
Joshua blushed furiously, remembering what he’d been doing. “I…I,” he bit his lip, “I’m not supposed to be here,” he admitted, hanging his head.
But Dion was laughing and clutching his arm reassuringly. “It’s all right,” he said, putting a finger up to his lips and then winking. “I won’t tell,” he whispered. “But what are you doing out here, Joshua? I heard you and the Archduke were visiting, but I did not think you’d be…” he gestured to the yard.
Joshua didn’t even think about lying. He really liked Dion. “I wanted to try out the training grounds.” He gestured to the dueling circle he’d been lining up for. “I don’t get a chance to train with squires my age at Rosalith. Clive and Lord Commander Murdoch are great teachers, but I never even get a chance to win.” He pouted a bit at that, though he felt guilty, too, since he also understood that winning wasn’t the point of his training.
“We understand the limitations of your constitution,” Clive told him once. “So it is best that we handle your training directly. Do you not trust us, Joshua?” he had teased.
Dion nodded solemnly, as if he completely understood Joshua. “It is aggravating, isn’t it? Going into a match knowing already that you can’t win?”
Joshua nodded enthusiastically, and since he’d had the rare opportunity of visiting Northreach with Father, he thought he’d risk the grounds for a bit of good-natured dueling. Unlike Mother, Father was quite lenient with Joshua if he promised to take his medicine and to always be smart and honest about what he did.
“In that case,” Dion said, putting his hands on his hips, “allow me to indulge our Rosarian Lord. We are the same age, so it would be fair if we dueled, yes?”
Joshua blinked, surprised. “You would duel me?”
Dion nodded. “However, I would need some reassurance first.” He looked at Joshua carefully, assessing. “You are fit?”
“Yes. I’ve gotten better.” Some years ago, Joshua’s doctors had come up with a mix of tonics that reduced the swelling in his airways. He merely had to make sure he drank a vial of the mixture twice each day. It had greatly improved his breathing and his overall constitution, though he still tired faster than most. “I have been taking medicine,” he told Dion. “And I have been engaging in regular exercise.”
“Very well,” said Dion, satisfied. “I am choosing to trust you. You are a bad liar, after all.”
“That was one time. I was eight, and I was poorly. Now, get your sword.”
Dion shrugged and grabbed one randomly from a nearby weapons rack.
Joshua frowned. “Are you not to take this seriously?”
“I will!” Dion insisted. “But you are using a training sword, so it would be unfair if I didn’t use one as well.”
Mollified, Joshua stood close to him as they waited for their turn at the dueling circle. As they watched the current fight unfold, he noticed that quite a lot of squires were friendly with Dion. They greeted him with pats on the shoulder and cordial nods, and their friendliness extended to Joshua, too, as if his association with Dion was a sign of good character.
When the arbiter signaled their turn, he seemed surprised to see Dion there. “Squire Lesage. It is good to see you trying the sword again. And against Squire…” he squinted at Joshua.
“Margrace,” Joshua filled in.
“Very well, Squire Margrace. Two rounds. Squires take turns at defense. We're focusing on footwork and defensive combat maneuvers. Controlled strikes only, targeting limbs, chest, and stomach. No strikes to the head, neck, throat, groin, or joints,” said the arbiter. “Margrace defends first. Take your positions.”
Dion shot him an amused look. “Margrace?” he whispered as they moved to the center of the dueling circle. “From The Curse of the Phoenix?”
“You’ve read it?”
“And in its final act, the Phoenix transferred its life force into the young prince, cursing the young Margrace to witness the cycle of life and death forevermore,” Dion quoted with a flourish. Then, he winked at Joshua as he took an offensive stance with his sword. “Nothing like a tragic tale of immortality to remind us of life’s impermanence.”
Joshua smiled widely, delighted to find another thing he liked about Dion. Then, he took a deep breath and set his feet apart, raising his sword.
“Proceed,” said the arbiter.
Dion attacked right away, aiming for Joshua’s upper arms, which he neatly parried. Clive was a brilliant and extremely aggressive swordsman, so Joshua had plenty of practice at evasion and distance management. He moved laterally, making sure he always presented as a smaller target to Dion; then, he sidestepped and countered sparingly to conserve his energy. Endurance had always been one of his weakest points.
“You aren’t expected to fight in the front lines,” Lord Commander Murdoch had told Joshua numerous times. “But in the event of an ambush, you need to be able to defend yourself well in case you’re unable to run away.”
Dion’s footwork was masterful, but Joshua could easily tell that the other squire wasn’t as comfortable as Clive when it came to wielding a sword. Dion overshot some of his attacks. His footwork compensated for it well enough, but it gave Joshua something to exploit. He feinted to his right, disrupting Dion’s offensive rhythm, and then Joshua lunged quickly to score a point off Dion’s arm. “Point Margrace,” the arbiter called out, looking significantly more interested than before.
Joshua feinted again then stepped back quickly as Dion countered, and then once more, he parried and caught his friend in the other arm, scoring his second point. “Point Margrace,” the arbiter said. “Second round now. Lesage defends.”
Dion looked impressed as they switched positions. “I see that I must intensify my efforts. For unlike the Phoenix, our Lord Margace has teeth.”
Joshua won the second round, too, but Dion put up a tougher fight. “Had we sparred with spears,” Joshua said, seeking to placate, “it would not have been close at all for me.”
Dion laughed, though it sounded forced, and he didn’t meet Joshua’s eyes as they walked away from the dueling grounds. “Worry not. My ego is only very slightly bruised.”
Joshua snorted. “You’re a worse liar than I am.”
That made Dion laugh genuinely this time. “Am I so frighteningly transparent?” He grinned at Joshua. “Your efforts to comfort me are appreciated, Phoenix.”
“Oh, I’m the Phoenix now?” Joshua asked, laughing too. They sat themselves in one of the training tents to hydrate and shield themselves from the sun.
“You’ve the hair for it,” said Dion. Once more, he reached for a lock of Joshua’s hair, pulling at a curl playfully. And like before, he drew back with a blush, as if belatedly realizing what he’d been doing. “I apologize.”
Joshua shook his head. “I do not mind. Now, tell me, Dion, since you have intimated a love for tragic tales. Have you read all the works of Laurentis?”
“I have indeed,” Dion confirmed, leaning forward excitedly. “Other than all his stories of the Phoenix, I love Flight of the Harpy and Titan's Lament.”
“Those are both incredibly sad,” Joshua said.
“Do you not think it cathartic?” asked Dion. “To experience intense, painful emotions while having full control of the experience?”
“It is. That is why I like them, too,” Joshua conceded.
They traded stories for a long while, until a Rosarian squire peered into their tent and almost fell to his knees in relief at seeing Joshua. “Your Grace,” said the hapless young man. “Your father is worried…”
“I shall follow in a moment,” Joshua said. He turned to Dion, apologetic. “I regret that I must go.”
Dion shrugged, smiling slightly, sadly. “It has been a pleasure. Truthfully, I had thought perhaps you would have…preferred more illustrious environs,” he gestured to the bare tent, then he pointed at himself, “…or company.”
“Not at all,” Joshua said. “I enjoy your company a great deal, Dion, and would prefer it all the time.”
Dion ducked his head, blushing. “And I enjoy yours. Perhaps…we could correspond. As friends.”
“Absolutely,” said Joshua, smiling widely. “You shall return to Oriflamme soon? I will write to you.”
“In three days,” Dion confirmed. “Truly, Joshua?”
“I promise.”
Present Day, Year of the Realm 878
Joshua considered the vial of medicinal tonic in his hand. He had half a mind to skip drinking it for the day—give himself the excuse of feeling too poorly to leave his room.
But the evening banquet had been just shy of a disaster. Clive had spent most of it glaring at Dion, while Dion spent most of it in stony silence. Thank the Founder that Lady Martha, Lord Commander Murdoch, and Lady Hanna had all graciously engaged Chancellor Mercier and Cardinal Valentin in conversation. It was clear to everyone, however, that Clive and Dion did not like each other, and gossip was abuzz as to why, seeing as both had plenty in common and had not even properly met before.
Joshua would have to do some form of damage control. Sanbrequois-Rosarian relations have chilled over the past decade, with both nations going to war with their neighbors; resource scarcity meant both nations had to employ an “us first” approach, which didn’t serve their purported “alliance” very well. However, now that Rosaria and Sanbreque had won their respective campaigns—albeit with significant losses, it became incredibly important to rebuild their ties—another reason Joshua thought his remaining on the ducal throne would have been a bad idea.
Having an Archduke that was hated by Sanbreque’s future Emperor would be quite catastrophic for Sanbrequois-Rosarian relations, and while Clive and Dion seemed to have gotten off to a rough start, it was still salvageable. At least Joshua hoped it was.
He made his way to Clive’s rooms, where he found his brother already wrapping up a meeting with Rosaria’s constable. “Brother. Sir Parrish,” Joshua greeted them both.
“Lord Marquess,” said Constable Parrish with a bow. “His Grace and I have just finished finalizing plans for joint training exercises between our troops and the visiting Sanbrequois soldiers. Since they’ll be here for three more days, a two-day program that will culminate in a tournament would decidedly help lift spirits and build camaraderie between all members of our garrisons.” He bowed at Clive. “I shall be submitting this proposal to the Sanbrequois Marshalls posthaste.”
Joshua eyed Clive suspiciously as their constable walked out. “A tournament?”
Clive was doing a good job of avoiding Joshua’s eyes. “Just some friendly competition. To foster camaraderie and…all that.”
Joshua groaned. “You are not planning to challenge Dion to a duel.”
“A friendly duel,” Clive argued.
“Clive!” Joshua snapped. “He’s a dragoon! You’re a swordsman!”
“I can handle a spear!”
“You’ve used a spear no more than a handful of times in your life, and that includes the time you lost your sword in a frontline sortie and grabbed the first thing you could get your hands on. You nearly took out Ambrosia’s eye!”
“I still like my chances,” Clive said defiantly.
“You cannot keep antagonizing the Crown Prince of Sanbreque.”
“He’s antagonizing us! He comes into our house, insinuates that I’m a usurper, insults you to both our faces, and then spends an entire dinner with a stick up his arse.” Clive leaned forward. “What happened between you two, Joshua?”
Joshua gritted his teeth. “If I tell you, will you be on your best behavior?”
Clive shrugged. “Depends on the story.”
Joshua sighed. “It is personal. For him. And I would not betray his confidence. But I will say that our friendship did not end on good terms.” He swallowed. “Mother had a hand in it. You remember how Dion…how his parentage was used against him his whole life.”
Clive’s expression hardened. “Ah.”
“You, of all people, should understand,” said Joshua, pleading.
“That’s the problem, Joshua,” Clive said. “I feel that I should, but I don’t. If he were a true friend, he should’ve known you could not have possibly shared your mother’s sentiments.”
“That was my failing,” said Joshua. “I…I was eighteen, Clive.” He looked away, remorseful. “You’re disappointed in me.”
Clive sighed heavily. “I want the whole story.”
“I’m not ready to tell it.”
“Fine,” Clive said. “You can look at me again, all right?” He stood up and grabbed Joshua by the shoulders. “I said fine. But when you are ready…”
Joshua nodded, trying not to tear up. “I promise.”
“All right. Let’s go and…make amends, I suppose.”
“You owe him no reparations. His anger is directed at me,” Joshua said. “That is why I would appreciate an opportunity to speak with him first. Alone.”
Clive looked at him incredulously.
“It’ll be fine,” Joshua assured him. “He can’t have gotten worse than Mother.”
With Chamberlain Martha’s mediation, Joshua arranged to meet with Dion in Joshua’s private solar. He had the kitchens set up a selection of meat pastries, nuts, dried fruits, and spiced wine, which Joshua knew Dion had generally enjoyed. However, since he’d become much less confident about his familiarity with his former lover, Joshua also requested that some cheese and bread and tea be included.
He stared intensely at the spread in front of him and wondered if he may have gone overboard. This is simply too much food for just two people, Joshua thought; then abruptly, he scrambled to his feet as he heard a knock.
Lady Martha came in with a slight bow. “Your Grace. His Highness, the Crown Prince of Sanbreque, is here.”
“Thank you, Lady Martha,” Joshua said steeling himself as he gestured that the prince be let in.
Dion entered stiffly, a neutral expression on his face. He wore a belted, light blue surcoat over a white tunic, which emphasized the slim shape of his waist and the broadness of his shoulders. Joshua swallowed, self-consciously smoothing down his own tunic—red silk brocade over a fitted black hose. Perhaps I should have worn a robe, Joshua thought, feeling a tad underdressed as he forced himself to move around the table and greet Dion with a low bow.
“Your Highness,” said Joshua. He straightened and offered Dion a seat, which the prince promptly took without a word.
“Thank you for agreeing to a private audience with me,” Joshua continued, taking the seat beside Dion. Then, belatedly, he realized that sitting across from the prince with the table between them would have been a more strategic position. He awkwardly eyed the seat across and wondered if there’d be any graceful way to move to it.
Curses, Joshua thought, swallowing tightly. Dion had already moved his chair slightly so that he could turn his body towards Joshua, and so Joshua had to resign himself to his seat.
He took a deep breath. Let’s get it done then. “Your Highness—"
“I owe you an apology, Lord Marquess,” Dion said, interrupting Joshua. His back was rigidly straight, his jaw tight, and he was staring at Joshua intensely. “Last night, I implied you lacking in merit, which, in itself, had no merit. And in my shame of having spoken so dishonorably, I then behaved rudely to you, your brother, your household, and your guests, when instead I should have apologized immediately. It is not…That is not the impression I wished to make. My words and actions last night do not reflect my true character…nor do they truthfully convey what I think of you.”
“Oh.” Joshua found himself at a loss for words at what he thought was a complete reversal of how he foresaw this conversation with Dion would go.
“Please accept my sincerest apologies,” Dion said, bowing low, almost to his waist. “And I would apologize unreservedly for my behavior to your brother as well, if he would be gracious to grant me an audience.”
“That is…that…” Joshua scrambled for words even as his thoughts were stuck on, So what do you truly think of me then?
“Your Highness,” Joshua tried again, “I…greatly appreciate your sincerity. However, it is I who must apologize.”
Dion frowned at him then, a look of utter confusion on his face, the most expressive Joshua had seen it since yesterday.
“Dio—Your Highness. I…” A cloud of guilt and anxiety had begun to coalesce in Joshua’s stomach. Am I truly bringing this up? But Joshua had grown tired of playing the coward, and he would try to do right by Dion even if it was already ten years too late. “Ten years ago,” he said, immediately noticing Dion flinch, “I was…I was careless with your feelings. It was not what you deserved, and I…deeply regret my actions. I should have apologized…for my clumsiness, and I wholeheartedly understand and accept any ill feelings you may still have towards me because of it. Clive is…The Archduke is ignorant of my transgressions, so I beg that you excuse him…”
“You—” Dion said, raising a hand to stop Joshua from speaking. “You are apologizing for…being careless of my feelings ten years ago,” he repeated, sounding unsure.
“I—yes. I…I am sorry.”
“Because you…were ‘clumsy’ with how you rejected my proposal for marriage,” said Dion, raising his eyebrow.
Joshua wet his lips, suddenly finding them quite dry. “Well...I—was I not…”
“Were you not what, Joshua?” Dion prompted, an incredulous smile forming on his lips. “Were you not rude? Heartless? Ignoble?” He then sat back in his chair, his shoulders relaxing as he started laughing. “How do you imagine a more elegant way that rejection could have gone? We were eighteen. The Imperial Family wouldn’t even claim me yet. I wasn’t even knighted! Then I put you into a corner and asked you, the future Archduke of Rosaria—not any longer, but you were the heir then—I asked you to marry me.” He stared at Joshua meaningfully, as if expecting him to share Dion’s incredulity. “It was ridiculous. I deserved to be raked through the coals for that.”
“Oh.” Joshua, once more, found himself at a loss for words. It was… unsettling to see Dion recall their last point of separation with apparent good humor. Especially when it had been, these past ten years, a great source of pain and regret for Joshua.
“I regret it still,” Joshua said finally. “I regret hurting you, Dion.”
Dion sobered up immediately. “Oh.” He straightened in his seat again, the slope of his shoulders tightening. “It was I who acted with a flawed understanding of your position, your obligations to your duchy and your family, Joshua. These past ten years, I’ve…developed a more thorough perspective of what it means to be dutiful for…people in our position.” He looked contrite then, his features softening. “It was I who had been careless, and it would be ignoble of me to hold any ill will towards you for acting responsibly, knowing what I know now.”
Joshua pursed his lips as he studied Dion carefully. “So…you aren’t cross with me at all?”
Dion shook his head. “No. Not at all, Joshua.”
“That is…good, then,” said Joshua. “Your Highness,” he added belatedly.
Dion flinched right away. “Dion. Please.”
“Dion,” Joshua acknowledged, earning a small smile from the prince.
Something still puzzled Joshua even as Dion politely declined to take some food—though Joshua didn’t miss how he looked at the dried fruit and spiced wine with interest—and as he bid Joshua well before taking his leave. If Dion truly did not have any lingering feelings of resentment for Joshua all these years, then why had he acted so terse and avoidant in the first place? A strange feeling sprouted deep within Joshua’s chest then, and he tried to tamp it down because it felt a lot like hope, and Joshua, terrified, hadn’t felt hopeful in a long while.
The dinner Clive hosted later that night was unambiguously much more successful. There had been far fewer guests, and the more intimate setting was more conducive to friendly conversation—although Lady Martha and Lady Hanna, being experienced hostesses themselves, made sure to include a few loose-tongued courtiers in the invitations to help ensure word would be spread that the Archduke of Rosaria and the Crown Prince of Sanbreque did not, in fact, detest each other.
The mood also benefitted greatly from the arrival of their Uncle Byron, who’d initially been delayed at Port Isolde—Joshua suspected Mother might have had a hand in his tardiness, though his uncle resolutely refused to elaborate. His uncle was a very high-spirited man who helped Joshua smooth tensions between members of the table since Clive continued to be somewhat reticent.
Dion, on the other hand, played the part of contrite guest of honor to perfection, making charming self-deprecating remarks about his sour mood the night before and demonstrating full engagement in each conversation, leaving Clive no choice but to be cordial to him.
When the plates have been cleared, Uncle Byron invited their Sanbrequois guests to spend more time with them at the parlor. “I am a lucky hand at dice, I warn you,” Uncle Byron was saying to Chancellor Mercier as he challenged her to a round of backgammon.
Clive, meanwhile, sat himself in one of the wing chairs, a grid board for Nine Men’s Morris lay open on the trestle table in front of him. Joshua handed him a glass of wine.
“You realize you’re extending a challenge by sitting there,” said Joshua, gesturing to the open board game in front of Clive and the empty seat across.
“It’s a very simple game. Are you interested?” Clive asked, taking a sip of wine. He’d become looser once they retired to the parlor, clearly satisfied from both good food and drink.
Joshua considered, but Dion was already sliding into the seat in front of Clive, so with a shrug, Joshua settled into an adjacent wing chair instead.
“Nine Men’s Morris,” Dion said, studying the board. “Do you play, Archduke?”
Clive shrugged. “Truthfully, I’d rather have a discussion than a game of strategy right now. Tell me, Prince Dion, how did you push back Waloed so decisively from Mortfield?”
“I am wholly interested in this discussion,” Lord Commander Murdoch piped in, slipping into the chair across from Joshua. “If you don’t mind my presence.”
Dion made a welcoming gesture. “It was far from a single stroke,” he admitted. “Rather, it was more like a battle of attrition. Waloed had already established a decent supply chain in the region since we’d prioritized fortifying naval barricades in Oriflamme. They had excellent swordsmen that could easily outflank a legion of spearmen, so we had to march two legions in a tight phalanx formation, keeping our backs to the river. Four days it took before we pushed them back northeast of Dragon's Aery. We gained no more than a foot of ground every hour.”
“Four days in formation,” Commander Murdoch repeated, impressed. “That’s tremendous discipline.”
“It is,” Clive conceded.
“It was fortunate, then, that it did not rain,” Joshua remarked.
Dion turned to him, the corners of mouth turned up. “Most fortunate indeed.”
“Are you saying Waloed would have countered the Sanbrequois press with rain?” asked Commander Murdoch.
“Easily,” Joshua said. “The terrain was a crucial factor. The phalanx, after all, heavily relies on stability and coordinated movements. If Waloed deployed their longbowmen on the flanks and their infantry on the defensive, they'd have caused the phalanx to break, and while the spearmen tried to negotiate the muddy terrain, the swordsmen could've easily engaged them in close combat.”
“Indeed,” Dion agreed. “I’ve had every soldier on that field praying to Great Greagor for clear skies, and on a more practical front, a strategic retreat ready at even the slightest hint of rain.”
“She was on your side then,” Joshua said, smiling.
“Of course our Margrace would be so knowledgeable,” Commander Murdoch said, pointing at Joshua with no small amount of pride.
Dion raised an eyebrow. “Margrace?”
“Joshua’s hidden name,” Clive said with a grin. “He worked intelligence during our war with the Iron Kingdom. It came from some story he liked about the Phoenix.”
“Yes, I’m familiar,” said Dion, sending Joshua a secretive smile.
Joshua swallowed and looked away, feeling a strong blush rise to his cheeks as hope, once more, beat brightly in his chest.