Page 159 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

Radia blinked in the face of this emotional effusion. “But—but that’s lovely.”

“Osric,” called Aurienne from the stage. “You’re wanted. We’re about to begin.”

Osric waved at her and turned back to her parents. “Yes, terribly beautiful. Also—small, minor point—there’s something you should know about me. My surname isn’t Hungwell. It’s Mordaunt. And I’m not actually a scalpel merchant.”

Quincey popped into existence at Osric’s elbow. “I am so sorry to insist, but you really must get on the stage, Mr. Fyren, sir.”

Radia said, “Mr.What?”

“That’s the minor detail—” Osric was tugged away by Quincey. “I’m a Fyren.”

Radia’s and Rosbert’s eyes flew wide as Osric was whisked away.

Osric felt thoroughly out of place on the stage. Tristane was still absent (she had said she would come, the liar) and so left him as the sole Dusken Path walker on a stage full of Bright Path spods.

Swanstone’s courtyard was full of Haelan, Wardens, Ingenauts, Leyfarers, and, in a dim corner, a handful of Hedgewitches.

Diverse speeches were given, commemorating the victims of the Dreor plot—the children who hadn’t made it; the Druids, trapped and killed in their own laboratories; the dozen Haelan who had fallen in defence of the ramparts.

Prendergast took the stage to thank the Wardens particularly. “The Haelan Order owes possibly the very survival of our Order to the Wardens. We have long been allies and friends. We never imagined our bond would be tested to the extent that it was. We saw courage in its purest form: eight Wardens holding the line against over a hundred Dreor. We speak the names of the fallen Wardens and remember them: Solace, Tenet, Hraith, and Beorgan.”

A minute of solemn, respectful silence followed.

“And we speak the names of those defenders who were here to the very last, and who have honoured us with their presence today: Verity, Haven, Ataraxia, Echo.”

These Wardens, onstage, received bows from the audience.

“To commemorate the Warden Order’s courage and self-sacrifice in the defence of the Haelan Order,” continued Prendergast, “it is our honour to unveil this new addition to Swanstone.”

He swept his hand towards a large draped-over form to the right of Fria. The drapery came off to reveal a massive stone auroch, his horned head lowered in warning. He was flanked by shields bearing the Warden Order’s tacn. On the shields were inscribed the names of the Wardens who had fallen in Swanstone’s defence.

The Wardens were touched. Hands were pressed to hearts. Dinadan sent a difficult, tearful smile towards Prendergast.

“We must also thank another Order—an Order which I never thought I would thank, in my seven decades on this earth,” said Prendergast. “In the moment when the night seemed darkest, help came from the darkest night. The Haelan Order marks its deep gratitude to the Fyren Order.”

On Fria’s left side stood another form shrouded in drapery. An apprentice pulled the drapery off, unveiling an enormous hellhound, her teeth bared, her horns curving wickedly, her skeletal face pointing to the sky.

“It’s a good likeness,” came a voice.

There were gasps on the stage. Tristane had just materialised among them—from which shadows, Osric did not know. It was high noon.

“Absolute rager of a party,” said Tristane to Xanthe with a jut of the chin towards the sombre Haelan.

“It’s a commemorative ceremony,” said Xanthe.

Tristane descended from the stage. Her boots rang on the flagstones as she walked towards the hellhound. Her black hair glistened under the sun. Her gaze travelled over Fria’s statue with contempt. When she reached the hellhound, she stopped. Silence reigned in the courtyard.

She stroked it between its stone ears. “I like it.” Over her shoulder she said, “The Fyren Order accepts your thanks.”

Tristane gave the hellhound a last scratch between the ears and disappeared.

The Haelan presenters regrouped after a bit of discombobulated muttering among themselves. A long series of thanks followed—to Paediatrics and Virology for their tireless work, to the Ingenaut, Leyfarer, and Hedgewitch Orders for coming to Swanstone’s assistance at the end of the fight.

Xanthe took centre stage. “Before us are days of uncertainty. The balance between the Orders has been thrown. We discovered that the Dreor Order plotted and carried out something unthinkable, with repercussions not only on other Orders but on civilian populations—and children, at that. We found that the monarchs of some of the Tiendoms were involved. The fallout of these upheavals is still unclear.”

Xanthe turned to Osric and Aurienne. “There are two individuals who merit especial gratitude in exposing the truth. They have done much work in shadow and secrecy—work that was undertaken at great risk to themselves and with little thanks. They are Aurienne Fairhrim of the Haelan Order and Osric Mordaunt of the Fyren Order.”

Osric felt the pressure—exceedingly uncomfortable, for one in his line of work—of hundreds of pairs of eyes on him. Aurienne gave his hand a comforting squeeze, then stepped forward, and pulled him withher. He resisted. Prendergast gave him a nudge. He resisted more. The Warden called Haven gave him a push too powerful to resist.