I bite my lip. “Good luck with that.”
The tired jibe does nothing to calm him. In fact he draws me closer, putting his hands on my shoulders so I can’t look away. “We all did what we had to, Eve. They forced our hands.” They. Our. We’ve been in this together for so long, and Tolly never lets me forget. “They always wanted to make us survivors, and they succeeded.”
We survived them.
House Samos is not known for the ability to display affection, and Tolly and I are no exception. I remember watching Mare Barrow hug her family good-bye the last time she left Montfort. They were all arms and movement, clinging so tightly, making such a fuss in front of an audience. Not exactly my taste. But when I hug Tolly, I think of her, and I squeeze him just a bit longer than usual. He responds in kind, giving me an awkward pat on the back that nearly knocks the air from my lungs.
Still, I can’t help but feel a now-familiar burst of warmth. It is an odd thing, to be loved and know you are loved as well.
“Do you have your speech prepared?” I ask, pulling back to see his face. If he’s going to lie about the abdication speech, I’ll know it.
To his credit, he doesn’t dodge the question. Tolly offers a crooked smirk. “That’s what the flight is for.”
All I can do is roll my eyes. “You never could finish your schoolwork on time, no matter the punishment.”
“I seem to remember you cheating on many of your own assignments, Lady Samos.”
“But did anyone ever catch me?” I fire back, an eyebrow raised. Tolly just shakes his head and lets me go, refusing to give me the satisfaction. He heads for one of the nearby buildings, where both of us can clean off.
“That’s what I thought, Ptolemus!” I shout, eager to catch up with him.
When we reach the building, he holds open the door, letting me enter first. The changing room inside is narrow but tall, with airy skylights open to the pine boughs. Ptolemus bangs open one of the nearby closets and paws through a medical kit, looking for a bandage. I grab a towel from a neat pile and toss it over to him. He wipes off his face, staining the plush cotton with dirt, sweat, and a little bit of blood from his mouth.
I do the same, taking a seat to towel off the sweat at the base of my neck.
“I would have made a poor king,” he says suddenly, and with such a casual manner. As if it’s a foregone conclusion, the end of an easy equation. He continues hunting for something to bandage up his cut. “I think Father always knew that crown was going to die with him. No matter how much he talked about legacy and family. He was too smart to think the Kingdom of the Rift could exist without Volo Samos.” He pauses, thoughtful. “Or Evangeline.”
The bandage hunt is pointless. Wren Skonos can regrow hands. She’ll have no issue mending a tiny cut. He just needs something to do, another distraction now that we’re not trading blows.
“You think Father wanted us to rule together.” I try to keep my voice as calm as his. My court training does me well. Even Tolly wouldn’t know that the idea, the lost possibility of such a future, unwinds in front of me. Ruling with my brother, Elane between, a queen to us both. Subject to nothing and no one. Not even our parents when the time came. I could live as I wished, in all the splendor and strength I was born to. But no, that can’t be true. Ptolemus was always the heir, and I was always the pawn. My parents were ready to bargain me away for another inch of power. It’s a useless thing to think of, a rotten future that will never come to pass.
“Even then, who knows,” Tolly sighs. His eyes focus on the medical kit, still searching. I count no less than three bandages that I can see, but he ignores them all. “The war would have come for us eventually.”
“It still is coming for us.” The fear that always follows, the kind so small I can usually ignore it, bubbles to the surface. Despite the sweat and our training exertions, my flesh goes cold. The Archeon battle is still a close memory. And though it drove back the Lakelanders, the Scarlet Guard victory hardly ended the struggle still ripping through Norta.
It won’t be long before it reaches us here. The raiders on the border are getting bolder, their attacks coming more frequently down on the plain. Nothing in Ascendant yet, but it’s only a matter of time until they try the heights of the mountains.
Ptolemus seems to read my mind. “Elane mentioned you’re thinking about patrol.”
“It’s what I’m good at.” I shrug, tossing away the dirty towel. “That’s how you choose a job, right? Find something you’re good at and get paid for it.”
“I suppose professional insult thrower was already taken.”
“No, they’re holding the position until Barrow gets back from staring at mountains.”
I laugh at the thought. Mare Barrow greeting everyone who arrives in Montfort with a snappy observation or cutting remark. She’d certainly be good at it. Ptolemus laughs with me, forcing the sound. His discomfort is obvious. He doesn’t like it when I mention Mare, or the Barrows. He killed one of them, after all, and there’s no amount of penance he can do to make up for it. Even if Ptolemus Samos became the most stalwart champion of Red equality, even if he saved a boatload of newborn Red babies, it still wouldn’t balance the scales.
I must admit, they worry me still. The Barrows and General Farley. We owe them a life, and while Mare promised never to collect on the debt, I wonder if the others might one day try.
Not that they could. Ptolemus is a soldier as much as the rest of us. And he certainly looks it in his training uniform. He’s better suited to armor and weapons, not crowns and finery. This life suits him. I hope.
“What about you?” I prod.
He gives up on the medical kit quickly, happy for a change in subject. After the abdication, we’re all in the same boat. The premier and his government have no reason to keep us fed and housed if we aren’t dignitaries anymore.
“I wouldn’t mind patrol,” he says. My heart leaps at the prospect of serving next to him, but I can tell he hasn’t given it much thought. “I don’t have to decide too quickly.”
“Why?” I wrinkle my nose. “Do former kings get better treatment than princesses?”
The lost title doesn’t bother him as much as it bothers me. He lets it glance off and fixes me with an impish look. Mischievous, even. “Wren is a healer. She’s lined up for a job already. I can take my time.”
“Ptolemus Samos, house husband,” I crow. He only grins, a flush spreading over his cheeks. “You are going to marry her, aren’t you?”
The flush spreads. Not because he’s embarrassed. My brother could almost be described as giddy. “Springtime, I think,” he says, toying with one of his rings. “When the snows melt. She’ll like that.”
“She would.” Well, now we certainly have something to look forward to.
His smile ebbs a bit, softening with his voice. “And you?” he asks. “You can do that here.”
My heart skips in my chest, and I have to clear my throat. “Yes, I can,” I say simply, and to my great relief, Ptolemus doesn’t push the subject. No matter how much I think about Elane, how much I would enjoy marrying her one day, this is hardly the time. We’re too young, in a new country, our lives barely formed. Our paths far from chosen. Refuse Davidson’s offer, Elane, I plead in my head. Tell him no.