Epilogue
On the third evening after the makarovi fight, Amaranthe left her room in Haiden Starcrest’s guesthouse. Haiden, the admiral’s nephew, tended the family businesses in the capital and kept an estate on Mokath Ridge. His home hadn’t been damaged during the fighting and, with order restored to the city, it had proven a safe and quiet place to recuperate. And mourn.
Amaranthe walked toward a granite bench that sat before a fountain in the center of the courtyard. All of the guest rooms opened up on it, though she didn’t know who was around. She hadn’t answered knocks to her door during the first couple of days. She’d been too busy staring at the wall with her back to the world. Her meals had been delivered by an incurious servant, and nobody else had intruded upon her rest. Rest. Could she call it that? She’d slept a lot, her body finally demanding it whether her mind found respite in it or not. Her nightmares had lingered, and she’d seen Books’s death in them over and over, often waking with a lurch to realize she’d been dreaming… then to further realize that, dream or not, he was still dead.
Having grown tired of her self-imposed exile, she sat on the bench, hoping someone might wander out to sit with her, but quietness embraced the house. Along with the benches, exotic potted plants surrounded the courtyard, creating numerous private nooks, but she didn’t hear anything beyond the gurgle of a fountain. Outside, the snow and ice had returned, but glass windows covered the ceiling and the southern wall, and the late afternoon sun peeping through the clouds warmed the interior. In defiance of the exterior climate, flowers bloomed, their scents lush and serene.
Amaranthe didn’t hear anyone approach over the flowing water, not that she would have heard his approach anyway, and twitched in surprise when the black-clad figure slid onto the bench beside her. He held a pair of scissors and a newspaper.
“Planning to cut out an article highlighting your heroics?” Amaranthe didn’t think any of the knocks had belonged to him. If she had, she would have risen, and invited him inside so she could slump against him for comfort. They’d all seemed too… emotional though. She’d feared Maldynado would be out there, wanting to drag her off to a brothel to share drinks, his idea of commiserating. She hadn’t had the heart for it. All of the deaths over the last weeks had been difficult, but the loss of a friend struck at one’s heart with far greater acuity than the demises of thousands of strangers. Books had been the one to warn her, the year before-it seemed so much longer ago-that the most profound lessons were taught by failure rather than success and that one often had to lose something to realize how much she’d appreciated it.
“No.” Sicarius handed her the newspaper.
She didn’t yet know what it said or why he was sharing it, but she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “I appreciate you,” she whispered.
A single blond eyebrow twitched. “Good.”
Sicarius was clean-shaven and smelled faintly of soap. He wore fresh black clothing-where did he find those identical, fitted, humorless outfits, anyway? — but for once wasn’t wearing his armory of knives. Though she knew he was still deadly without them, he seemed… not exactly naked, but like a man strolling about in his pajamas. A man at rest.
It had taken her a while to summon the strength to care, but she’d eventually bathed and combed the snarls, soot, and dried makarovi guts from her hair. Her clothing wasn’t new, but she’d washed and pressed it. She needed to go out and find something appropriate for Books’s funeral, but she didn’t want to venture into the city. She was glad Starcrest and Sespian had taken over planning… whatever it was they were planning. The world didn’t seem to need her, and for once she was glad to be forgotten.
“Are you going to read it?” Sicarius asked. “Front page.”
“Here we are in a pleasant courtyard, being serenaded by a gurgling fountain and enjoying lush fragrances one wouldn’t normally find in the winter. I thought you might like to enjoy the moment with me.”
“I could read the article to you.”
Amaranthe hoped his determination to share it with her meant it was good news. She was ready for good news. This rare display of impatience piqued her humor for the first time in days-after all, he was someone who could perch unmoving in the rafters for six hours, waiting for his prey to walk by.
“Really?” she asked. “You’ve never offered to read to me. May I lie on my back with my head in your lap and gaze up at you while you do so?”
Sicarius stared at her, his usual unreadable self, and she was about to pick up the paper, when he said, “Describe the gaze.”
“What?”
“Your gaze. What kind would it be?”
She had the feeling he was trying to be humorous, and though it didn’t sound particularly natural, she went with it. “Oh, an adoring gaze of course. Will that be acceptable?”
“Sufficient for now.”
Sufficient? What kind of gaze had he been hoping for? Hm.
Sicarius set down his scissors, took back the newspaper, and lifted his arms. Amaranthe rearranged herself on the bench, her back against the cool stone, and paused, her elbows braced. She hadn’t actually expected him to say yes to this scenario. Though there was nothing menacing about his features, at least not to her eyes-others never failed to find his expressionless facade menacing-but she couldn’t decide if they were actually inviting. She needed to teach him to smile. Even if it was only when they were alone.
“Sespian and I discussed this failing,” Sicarius said.
“What?”
“My inability to be… encouraging. Which facial expression or body posture would be appropriate now?”
Amaranthe blinked. “A smile is always appropriate. Surely you’ve heard the term encouraging smile?”
“I considered it, but thought you might believe I had an agenda.”
“Do you… always think this much when you’re deciding whether to emote?” She didn’t know if “emote” was the right word for those rare eyebrow twitches, but he’d know what she meant.
“Yes.”
Ah, she shouldn’t be surprised. “And… do you have an agenda?” She glanced at the scissors. Why had he brought them? Dare she hope he had a haircut in mind?
“Yes.”
Amaranthe waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.
“Well…” She tried her own encouraging smile. “Maybe we have the same agenda.”
“An appealing notion.” Sicarius hesitated, then patted his leg.
Amaranthe decided not to tell him that’d be more appropriate for inviting a dog into his lap. Her elbows were getting tired anyway. She lay back the rest of the way, shifting about until she found a thigh sufficient for a pillow.
His lips parted, and she thought he’d say something more, but he looked at the newspaper and read instead. “Fleet Admiral Starcrest’s reappearance in the empire has brought what could have been an ugly and prolonged civil war to an end.” Sicarius’s tone was terse and clipped as always, and Amaranthe decided he’d never succeed as an orator or storyteller. She enjoyed having him read to her nonetheless.
“Only two lords remain of the Company of Lords,” Sicarius continued, “the ancient organization having been decimated by cowardly assassinations ordered by Ravido Marblecrest. Rather than electing new members, the survivors opted to dissolve the Company in favor of a new government paradigm being discussed by many, but being spearheaded by Starcrest. Proceedings are being held at the University auditorium and participation is open to those who wish to shape the future of Turgonia. Before the dissolution of the Company, its remaining members voted to place Lord Flintcrest in exile for treason and crimes against the throne, given that former Emperor Sespian Savarsin was still alive at the time of his would-be usurpation. Ravido Marblecrest was put to death for the assassinations of members of the Company of Lords, for setting explosives in the Imperial Barracks, and for his ghastly decision to bring makarovi into the city as part of his scheme. The deaths attributed to those monsters number over one hundred and fifty.”