Page 49 of Spring Guardians & Songbirds

“I can do loads by fear alone. No need for force.” Bayrd’s feathers quivered for a year straight when I got crowned as queen.

He shook his head. “This is not about dethroning you or making them fear you. This is about dividing Olympia. You go against tradition—”

“Tradition sucks.”

“Olympia lived because of it and now thrives through it. Your faith, too, is weak.”

“I am my own faith,” I said, sipping my tea. My own god.

“You are a harsh ruler, and your fist is of iron. It is the sign of an Isjordian heart.”

“I am Isjordian, old man, don’t forget.” Why was it so difficult for them to understand that? Or accept it?

“You are the best thing that has happened to this kingdom. Turned rock to unbreakable diamond, your army, leadership and wits could outmatch Silas’s. You are everything he is and ten times more. But our lands do not need more war and soldiers and weapons. Our lands need hope. The same hope that is dying by the day while your father tramples over Myrdur, while Fogling tear the young and old, while our skies have not seen light in years.”

“I will bring it back. All of that. I made that oath the day I wore the obsidian crown. I made that oath to the dead and the living.”

“And you are breaking yourself apart for it.” He reached to hold my hand. “Do you think we cannot see? How you are losing yourself, how you no longer eat, speak, laugh. Crown the boy. The throne of Taren will never see such powers as when you two sit side by side. Share your burden. Share it with the most powerful man in this realm.”

I stared at him long and hard. Trying to understand what odd lesson he was trying to teach me. Yet there was no lecturing in his features, only truth. “He murdered her, Alastair. Murdered my mother. Your queen. And he murdered me that night.”

He sighed. “Had it not been Adriata, it would have been Eldmoor, Solarya, perhaps even the unblessed. Had your uncle sent that letter to the Solaryans, it would have been them. It was a rash decision made by a young king. You must know this because you’ve made similar mistakes at that age in your rule.”

Betrayal tasted the sourest and most foul from those you cared about. “You cannot tell me to forgive him. Even for a dying old man it would be cruel.”

“That is for your heart to decide, hen. Decide this with your brains,” he said, tapping a shaking finger to my forehead. His eyes went watery, and I knew what was about to come—the sense of guilt all those that cared about me felt. “You’ve lived through much. Suffered more in eleven years of life than many do in several lifetimes. I put no blame on how you chose to heal what many destroyed and failed to protect. And till the end of my days, I will support you in your claim to mend. But you are queen, besides your heart, there is the heart of millions you have to care for. Crown the boy. Even if for a little while. It will give our people hope and you some rest. Let us taste power after all the trouble we’ve been through. And you will put Bayrd and the Volantians in their place. Do not forget, Elding child, faith has conquered realms. Give people hope not just your strength, wit and might. Sometimes hope is stronger than all three.”

Tristin came into the kitchen, squeezing the large wings tight against her into the small space. “The door was open again, Alastair.”

The old man waved a hand, unbothered. “No one will trouble me. My Nia comes by every day to scare the children who knock and hide.”

The Skye Commander sighed and turned to me. “There is a little boy here for you.”

“Little—” I looked over the window and a nervous Atlas had wrapped himself tightly, throwing careful glances all around him, almost tripping on his feet.

I knocked on the glass and he jumped upright with a hand on his chest. “Come inside,” I shouted, waving a hand for him to come in.

Slowly, he made his way inside Alastair's home, staring wide eyed at Tristin’s wings. “My…my queen,” he bowed and then turned to Alastair and Tristin. “S-Sir. Madam?”

Tristin raised an amused brow at him, and Atlas flinched a little.

“Who is the young one?” Alastair asked, standing to fetch him a cup of tea.

“The priest that married me,” I said, tapping the seat next to me for Atlas to sit.

Both Alastair and Tristin stared wide eyed at him. “They come young these days,” the tribe leader said, lowering a cup of tea before him. Olympia only had a couple of priests left. The teaching of gods was difficult, it took years and loads of grey hair to be a guide of the divine here in Olympia.

“I-I came top of my class,” Atlas boasted, coughing on a hot sip of tea. He cast me a glance and then jerked his attention to a far wall.

“No hard feelings, Atlas, I wasn’t going to really kill you.”

He blinked rapidly. “H-he had a sword to my throat the entire time.”

“Little Atlas, if Cai had any intentions of killing you, he wouldn’t have used a weapon to do so. It just probably amused him.” Leaning in I whispered, “He likes seeing people writhe and beg for air. And he hates cleaning blood.”

Atlas shivered a little, his temples coated with sweat.

Penelope made her way down the stairs, dishevelled and covered in dust, carrying several bags of clothing. “These all had holes, and most were half torn. I’m going to have to throw them away.” Her attention caught on Atlas, and she bowed politely, tucking a strand of wild red hair behind her ear. “Hello.”