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Six months after the dreams first began, Alanna of Trebond found herself once again under the looming shadow of the Grimhold Mountains and their surrounding forest. Ahead, the trees stood as dark sentinels against her approach. Above them, the slow creep of the dawn light cast the severe stone slopes in soft tones of gold and pink. The trace remains of snow lingering at the very peaks seemed to glow.
The sight reminded her of the view from her childhood bedroom. Thom had always been late to rise and late to sleep, but even as a very young girl, she’d love to watch the dawn. It had been her own time, moments snatched just for her, before their nursemaid bustled in to make them dress for the day and face their father’s cold gaze over the breakfast table.
The last time she had been this close to these mountains had been six years ago in the spring of 434 H.E. in the wake of her father’s death. She’d spent three days doing her duty–three days of stifling incense and the Black God’s priest talking of familial love and grief–before she’d been ready to punch someone. Probably the priest.
Sick to death of everything, she’d badgered Thom into going for a ride northward with her–her twin complaining the whole way and bouncing like a sack of potatoes in his saddle–until they passed through the rocky terrain that surrounded the ancestral Trebond castle and into the mountain forest proper. The crisp smell of pine and the earthy undertones of damp and rot of the forest floor had cleared her mind then, and it did again as she guided her horse forward and passed from under open sky to beneath the boughs of trees.
A few paces in, Alanna dismounted and felt her booted feet sink slightly into the damp ground. Despite the thick cloak pulled up over her head, the air was still icily cold for March, and her breath fogged in front of her.
Beside her, Coram dismounted his own horse. “You alright, lass?” he asked gruffly, even as he tried to disguise a pained breath at the impact on his knees.
Alanna winced. Her friend wasn’t getting any younger, and she’d spent the last two years dragging him across half of the Eastern Lands and beyond. “I’m fine, Coram, just nervous. We don’t know what we’re going to find out here.” Her dreams had been less than specific in that regard. Persistent visions of mountains and Old One ruins were all well and good, but some specificity would have been better.
Well, there was only one way to find out.
She started leading her horse further into the forest. They were doing their best to avoid attention, which meant no roads for them. That unfortunately also meant going on foot from this point.
We all know you’re hoping your prince is squirrelled away in those mountains,’ Faithful remarked with an amused tone to his voice. The cat was perched in her vacated saddle, paws tucked in primly as he watched her with unabashed amusement.
Alanna glared at him. “Jon isn’t my anything. And he’s a king now, not a prince.”
‘Is he? Roger is the one sitting on the throne, after all.’
Alanna grit her teeth in response to the needling and reminded herself that she loved him.
“That murderous traitor isn’t a king, no matter what he tells everyone,” she replied with forced calm, “Jon is my king.”
‘Your king, hmm?’
She pointedly turned her back on Faithful. Despite that, she could practically feel an aura of smugness radiating from him. She had a sneaking suspicion she’d provided the exact reaction Faithful had wanted. It didn’t help that Coram was doing a very poor job of keeping the amusement off his face, either.
Damn them both.
They walked in silence for a most of the day while after that, focusing on navigating through the gloom. The canopy above was dense enough that only a small trickle of light made its way down to the forest floor. Moss dripped from trees and rocks, a verdant green covering. There was an ancientness to this forest that the Royal Forest in Corus lacked, a wildness that couldn’t be denied. Most people would have found these woods threatening, but Alanna wasn’t most people.
The sun had risen higher in the sky, and with it the forest had began to wake; the sounds of birds and other animals going about their day filled the air. As time went on she felt her shoulders relax, and her steps felt lighter somehow. Almost without realising, the tension that had been her constant companion left her, a level of relaxation she hadn’t achieved in months.
Several hours in, she realised with a start that she had missed the sound of northern birdsong–while the birds she’d seen travelling the Catharki Empire and then the Roof of World had often been beautiful, the sounds just weren’t the same.
From his position on horseback, Faithful suddenly sneezed. ‘I smell magic up ahead. Be careful,’ he warned. From the way Coram stiffened, he had clearly heard the cat as well.
Alanna grasped the ember stone around her neck and froze. A short distance ahead, a shimmering wall of sapphire blue magic blocked their path. Her heart leapt into her throat. She’d recognise that Gift anywhere.
“Coram,” she hissed urgently, “I think Jon-”
A twig snapped behind her, and she whirled around, Lightning leaping to her hand. Despite the speed of her reflexes, it was much too late. They were surrounded.
Six men in dark cloaks and dull grey mail and leathers had come up behind them. Now, the soldiers stood in a loose semi-circle, swords and spears pointed towards them. Their faces were shadowed by hoods.
Alanna braced herself, hoping that this wouldn’t lead to a fight. Beside her, she saw Coram shifting minutely, his own sword also drawn. Then a flicker of movement caught her eye then–in the saddle, Faithful seemed completely unconcerned and had started washing himself.
Interesting.
The tallest soldier stepped forward. “Halt, strangers. Declare yourselves.”
Beneath her hood, Alanna felt a broad smile cross her face. Though it had deepened somewhat in the last two years, she knew that voice.
“Is that any way to greet an old friend, Goldenlake?” she said, and pulled her hood down.
Raoul of Goldenlake, knight of the crown and one of her oldest friends, let out a choked sound. He didn’t lower his sword, but she could see the blade shake slightly as he processed what he was seeing. “Alanna? We thought you were –” his voice broke on the last word, and Alanna felt unexpected tears prickle her eyes.
“It’s me, I promise,” she said.
“How do we know it’s not one of the false king’s illusions?” One of the other soldiers asked, grip tightening on his spear. She didn’t recognise him–maybe he was one of the King’s Own? “He’s sent others.”
‘Because Roger wouldn’t know how to impersonate me,’ Faithful remarked.
Raoul’s head snapped towards the cat, and then he sheathed his sword. Around him, the other soldiers made the sign of Mithros, spooked by the unnaturalness.
Before Alanna could do anything else, she found herself swept into an enthusiastic hug, feet lifted off the ground. It wasn’t especially comfortable given they were both in mail, but she couldn’t have cared less as she wrapped her arms tightly around him in return.
“Praise Mithros, you’re here! Nobody’s heard from you in over a year; we thought Roger had killed you,” he said wetly, and her own tears threatened once again.
Forcing them back–she didn’t have time for a breakdown, not yet–she tried to reply, but the force of the hug squeezed the air from her lungs. It took her several thumps on Raoul’s back for her friend to finally deposit her back on solid ground.
The knight pulled his hood back then, and she tried not to stare at the sight. A new scar cut across the ruddy skin of his face. Sensing her gaze, he scratched at his cheek self-consciously. “A gift from Alex.”
She flinched. She’d had her suspicions that Alex had been caught in Roger’s web, but the confirmation hurt.
Breathing deeply, she smiled sadly at her friend. “I’m sorry I worried you. I travelled too far to write, and I didn’t hear the news until it was too late.”
Raoul shook his head. “It’s not your fault–what Roger did, no one person could have stopped him, not even you this time. He would have tried to kill you even more so than the rest of us if you’d been there.”
She wanted to argue, but he was probably right. From the rumours she’s heard, it was a wonder anyone who supported Jonathan had made it out alive from the coronation. She knew that there had to have been many deaths, many people she’d never see again, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to ask who. There was only one person she couldn’t wait to ask.
“Did Thom…” she began, but was unable to finish the sentence.
Raoul’s mouth twisted in sympathy. “Roger has him locked up in the palace. Our spies tell us that he pulls him out occasionally to make a show of him.”
Part of her burned with fury–how dare Roger do that to Thom? But relief won out in the end. At least he was alive. She'd wanted to believe she’d know, but part of her wondered if the time and distance between them might have dulled their connection enough that she’d missed it.
Raoul clapped her on the shoulder. “There’ll be time to think about that later. Let’s head back to camp.”
What greeted them through the magic barrier was only a camp in the barest sense. This wasn’t just a camp–it was a fortification.
As they passed through the illusion, she found herself stunned by what she saw (even if she’d half expected it from her dreams). Ahead, the forest opened up into an expansive clearing ending in a sheer stone face.
Set into the cliff face itself, the brilliant white stone only found in Old Ones ruins gleamed in the morning light. The sight gave her intense deja vu, the ruins in front of her momentarily overlaying with the flashes from her dreams.
Narrow windows were set deeply into the stone, the black doors (propped open to allow easy movement) were solid and unmanaged despite their age. Guards were arrayed across the clearing, watching servants as they went about their business with eagle eyes. The barrier had also clearly been blocking sound, because as they approached, the air was suddenly filled with the hubbub of people going about their days.
Pulling her hood back up, she followed Raoul as he wove amongst the assorted people. After a brief pause to hand the horses over–Coram insisting he’d stay with them while she went on ahead–she and Raoul entered through the black wood doors.
Inside, the improvised war camp continued to be both strange yet oddly familiar in other ways. The location was certainly unusual, for one thing. Yet she could see the logic in choosing these ruins over tents or other constructions. She’d spent a lot of time in ruins like this the last couple of years–her initial foray with Myles had awoken a keen interest she’d stoked over her travels–and they were built to last, solid despite millennia of disuse. If they’d been here during the winter, it also would have been far, far warmer than tents.
Not only that, but something in the construction of Old Ones ruins was oddly resistant to scrying. Based on some old records she’d unearthed in a ruin in southern Maren, she suspected it had something to do with their ongoing conflict with the Ysandir. It was part of the reason the Royal Palace remained in Corus. Built on the ruins of an old settlement, it afforded the royal line much-needed privacy from enemy magics.
But beyond the unusual location, there were many things that reminded her of that long-ago war camp on the banks of the River Drell, as well as the refugee camps she’d encountered full of Sarain refugees in Maren. There were so many people here–not just soldiers but palace staff she vaguely recognised. Anyone who had seen what Roger was and chosen to flee.
As they walked, she saw them turn curious eyes in her direction and was thankful for the deep hood and Raoul’s company both. While she was eager to reunite with old friends, there was someone she wanted to see more than anyone else. Anticipation and dread churned in her stomach as the may there was through ancient halls turned to an improvised warcamp.
“He’ll be happy to see you, you know,” Raoul murmured to her.
There was no question of who ‘he’ was. “Will he?” she replied. “He thought I’d be back sooner.”
Raoul chuckled as they dodged around a servant carrying baskets of laundry down the corridor. “You know, every time one of your letters arrived after you first set off, he wandered around like a lovestruck dolt, not the crown prince. He’ll be happy.”
“You know about us?” she squeaked, flushing bright red. She and Jon never actually told their friends that they’d been together–telling other people meant acknowledging their relationship in a way neither of them had been able to commit to.
The bemused sigh her friend let out wasn’t the response she expected. Neither were his next words: “Alanna, we all knew something was happening between you two, even before we found out you were a girl. Half the eligible young ladies in court practically cheered when they found out you were female, because it meant they had a chance with Jon after all.”
Alanna spluttered, caught between outrage and embarrassment. She thought they’d kept it a secret, but the Court had known?!
Raoul barreled on. “It’s just like we knew George was in love with you for years–those of us who know you both, anyway. He’ll be happy to know you’re back as well.”
Relief flooded her. “He’s alright?” She paused, biting her lip. “Is he here–?”
“Not at the moment, he keeps moving these days, managing his flock of little birdies and feeding information back to us. But he’ll be back sometime soon.”
Before she had time to think more on that, and the complicated feelings discussing George always brought up, Raoul stopped outside a large door. Without knocking, he pushed it open and stepped in. Taking a deep breath, she pushed her hood down and stepped inside.
Inside, the room was lit by the warm glow of mage lights. Two familiar figures were leaning over a table. A map of Tortall was spread out over it, some magic cast to conjure miniature terrain. At the sound of the door, they both looked up, and Alanna’s breath caught as she found herself looking at Jonathan of Conté for the first time in two years.
He looked older, the boyishness of his face tempered into stern regality. Stress had carved deep lines in the corners of his eyes. The moustache he’d sported had become a neat beard, and he looked sterner than she’d ever seen, desperation and tragedy having forged him into steel.
Those sapphire blue eyes were the same though, and they were currently wide with shock as they took her in. She wondered what changes he saw in her own face.
“Alanna?” he breathed, shocked into complete stillness.
The man beside him was not frozen. While Jon stopped and gaped at her, Myles of Olau came around the table. A wide grin stretched his face and crinkled his eyes. He looked older and tireder, and just as scruffy as always.
“Oh my dear, I am so glad to see you safe,” he said, pulling her into a warm embrace. She nodded mutely on his shoulder, unshed tears burning hot in her eyes. She hadn’t realised how acutely she had missed this man–a man who’d been far more of a father to her than her own blood–until this moment.
Pulling back, he gripped her by the shoulders and looked her over with eyes twinkling in mock reproach. “I’m not sure how you’ve managed it, but you look even more the gallant knight errant than you did before you left.”
She laughed. “You know me, I can’t help but play the hero.”
“I know,” he said with another warm smile. “Now, as much as I’d like to monopolise you, I think there’s someone else who wants his chance.”
Alanna glanced over to where Jon was still frozen in place, gaze locked on her, and flushed once again.
Myles patted her shoulder and then stepped away. “I’ll leave you two alone to get reacquainted. Raoul, walk with me?”
A moment later, the door closed behind them, and Alanna and Jon were alone.
The world seemed to stand still, neither of them able to move. She wanted to move, but her feet were rooted to the ground as all the time and distance and words unspoken crashed down on her.
If anyone had asked her while she travelled (not that they would have), she would have told them that she missed Jon, but that it was a distant sort of missing. It wasn’t like she had been pining over him for the past two years. She probably would have even believed it herself.
Now, faced with the man himself, she realised it would have been a lie. All the emotions she'd tossed in a box, locked up and shoved into the deepest recesses of her brain had burst out in an unexpurgated flood. Dammit it all, she loved him, for all it did her no good whatsoever.
Finally, Jon broke the silence when it became clear that she was unwilling (or perhaps actually unable, given how tight her throat felt) to go first.
“You came back,” Jon said, voice wondering and painfully, achingly soft. “George couldn’t find any reports of you anywhere. We thought that you were gone-”
“I’ll always come back,” she interrupted, voice fierce. “Nothing could stop me, not even the Black God himself.”
At that, Jon made a choked sound and rushed towards her. She met him halfway, reached for him in turn. He pulled her in close and buried his face in her hair. For long moments, they stood there, gripping each other so tight that it hurt. Alanna silently mourned the fact that she had left Jon alone to face this. This near, she could feel him shaking ever so slightly, as though with one wrong move he’d fly apart in her arms.
Eventually, she pulled back slightly so she could look at Jon's face. He couldn’t quite meet her gaze, jaw set tight as he held himself together.
Sighing softly, she raised her hands to cup his face and made him meet her eyes. His jaw clenched together, but she forged on. “It’s okay, Jon. Remember what you told me once? We’re both scared, but we can be scared together.”
Expression crumpling like so much wet parchment, Jon crashed to his knees, and the dam of his emotions burst open. Shaking, he wrapped his arms around her waist like she was the only anchor he had left. “Oh, gods, Alanna. It all went so wrong, and they’re counting on me to make it right.”
He began to weep then, and Alanna cried too. There had been so many tears left unshed these last few months, and finally she felt them begin to release. They came slowly at first but gathered speed until she was curled forward, hands tangled in Jon’s hair as they both shook apart in their grief.
A long while later, emotionally wrung out and exhausted, they moved to a padded bench tucked at the side of the room. They leaned heavily against each other, conversation passing in fragmented snatches.
“I wish I hadn’t wandered so far–maybe if I’d been closer, I could have made it back in time.”
“Or maybe you’d be dead,” Jon retorted.
“Maybe,” she admitted. She didn’t want to think Roger would have bested her, but she knew how lethal he could be.
Time passed. Then:
“Where were you, though? We got the letters you wrote in December of 438 H.E., and then you went silent. Then George lost track of you, and even I couldn’t scry on you; we all thought…”
“That he’d finally managed to arrange my death?” she finished grimly.
Jon nodded, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Operating on muscle memory (and not thinking too hard about what this meant), she snuggled into his side. This felt so familiar and overwhelmingly comforting.
Eventually, she continued speaking.
“I told Raoul some of this earlier, but it wasn’t Roger. At the turn of last year, I went east along the coast to Siraj. While I was there, a local shaman showed me how to make a charm that–well, it wasn’t a disguise precisely, but it stopped people noticing me or finding me. I needed it, too. The local governors weren’t very fond of the Northerner who had been helping slaves escape.”
Jon huffed out a laugh. “Of course you did.”
“Then I travelled deeper into the empire, even though Coram protested the heat. It was like nothing I’d ever seen. I went far enough that there was no easy way to write home, and news from Tortall takes a long time to trickle out that far.
I had no reason to think they’d be any important news, no idea Roger was back, not till last September, and by that point he’d already shown his true colours.”
Jon mulled that over, and she could practically hear the gears clicking in his head.
“You found out six months ago?”He finally asked, voice carefully blank.
She winced. “I wanted to come back sooner, but there was something I had to do that the Gods wanted me to do.”
He turned to look at her fully then, eyebrows furrowed. “What did you do?”
A smile twitched across her lips. This seemed like as good an opportunity as any. In a move that she hoped was fluid rather than simply awkward, she slid from the bench to the ground, kneeling before Jon.
His frown deepened. “Alanna-” he began, then broke off as he saw her unfasten the pouch from her belt and pulled out a small box.
It was a small thing carved of dark wood. Its surface was etched with arcane symbols for protection, the lines filled with gold. His eyes tracked the lines before flicking back to her face in a silent question.
She squared her shoulder and lifted her chin, allowing the eight years of etiquette training that'd been beaten into her to guide the words that came next. “I have brought you a gift, my liege.”
Jon’s eyes were trained on her face, so still he barely seemed to be breathing. With the weight of ceremony in his voice, he spoke in return. “What have you brought me, Sir Alanna?”
“Majesty, I have brought you a tool to win this war–” with practised grace, she flipped open the box, revealing the jewel within shining in the flickering candlelight of the room, “–the Dominion Jewel.”
Jon’s breath caught, and he reached out to touch the jewel. It blazed under his touch, illuminating his kingly features in stark radiance. A shuddering gasp escaped his lips, and then he pulled Alanna up into a tight embrace, spinning her around as he began to laugh in earnest. The box fell from her hands, but she paid it no mind–the Dominion Jewel had survived countless years; it could survive being dropped. Her own laughter joined Jon’s, the joy infectious.
He only placed her back on the ground when they had both run out of breath, foreheads resting against each other. Their breath mingled together, lips mere inches apart. She was suddenly excruciatingly aware of how close they were. The places where their bodies touched burned hot, and she felt the butterflies in her stomach form a whirlwind.
“You brilliant, brilliant woman, I could kiss you,” he murmured, and there was an unspoken question in his words.
Alanna knew in this moment she stood on a precipice. Whatever she chose here, she knew Jon would respect her decision. She could do the smart thing and step away. Whatever else they had been, they’d been friends first, and she knew they could be again. It would be sensible. Neither of them needed the complexity that reigniting this fragile thing would bring.
She didn’t feel like being sensible.
Feeling her pulse begin to thrum loudly in her ears, she raised her arms to curl around the back of his neck, pulling him even closer till their entire bodies were flush. Jon shuddered under her touch as she pressed against his growing hardness. It made her feel oddly powerful, knowing how much he still wanted her.
She held him there, in that moment of tension for a long few seconds, as everything burned hotter and hotter, then–“Why don’t you kiss me, then?”
The kiss that followed was simultaneously everything and nothing like she’d felt in the past. Jon had always been a good kisser, and he knew her body almost better than she did. Yet there was something ferocious and desperate in this kiss that she’d never experienced. It felt like a tide breaking over them both, an outpouring of emotion that threatened to drown them both.
There was so much unspoken in this moment: loss and love, relief and remorse, all of it melding together.
She let herself drown in it.
Later–though not as long as she would have liked–they broke off the kisses and heated touches to try and smooth each other’s mussed hair and rumpled clothes in a vain attempt to appear presentable. When their attempts were clearly unsuccessful, she gave an irritated huff and used a flick of purple magic to fix what hands alone could not.
After checking that her tunic was now sitting smoothly, she looked up to find Jon watching her with a raised brow. The expression was both so quintessentially Jon and also oddly irritating that nostalgia washed over her from the many, many times he’d directed that expression at her. “What? Did I miss a spot, your highness?” she snarked, though her voice lacked any real bite.
His lips curled into a rueful smile. “Using your Gift like that– “ he shook his head, “you’ve changed, is all.”
He was right. But the first rule of dealing with Jon was to never admit that. It would go straight to his head, and no one needed a monarch who couldn’t fit their crown. Instead, she punched him in the shoulder, smirking at the exaggerated wince he gave in response. “You’re one to talk. It’s been two years. We’ve both changed. What did you expect?”
The prat that he was, Jon just kept smiling at her, though his eyes were sad. “It’s silly, I know. Maybe I just wanted to stay the same, after everything.”
His expression was almost as bad as when Faithful tried to con her into sharing a piece of cheese with him, as though he wasn’t millenia-old constellation turned flesh (and hadn’t that been a surprise to learn from an Ekallatum mage?).
She also knew that just like Faithful, Jon was not above exploiting his soulful blue eyes for sympathy, even if it wasn’t truly in his best interest. There was work to be done, and she could not, would not, allow Jon to fall into one of his moods.
“Nostalgia is for when we get your throne back,” she retorted, narrowing her eyes. “Right now there’s far too much to do for us to get lost in the past.”
“When we get my throne back?” he echoed back at her, more seriously.
“When,” she repeated, with a firm nod.
The evening that followed was filled with the joy of long-awaited reunions. Though there was a bittersweet edge to it, it was like everyone had decided that it was better to ignore that fact. What use was there in weeping more tonight? The dead were dead, and they could only hope that they were smiling in the Black God’s halls.
As much as she and Jon wanted to spread hope, they kept the news of the Dominion Jewel quiet. Just because Roger hadn’t found them yet didn’t mean there weren’t spies in the camp. Better to share it tomorrow with those they trusted most (and who would be subject to a truth spell first). The thought of Roger becoming aware of the Dominion Jewel–worse yet, getting his hands on it–was a thought that chilled her to the bone.
As the celebrations had escalated, someone had cracked into the reserves of wine rations. While they had less than they might have liked, it was soon enough to tip the gathering from jubilant to straight out raucous.
Some might have called it frivolous. Certainly, when she was a page or even a squire, she would have. That was before she had broken bread in the refugee camps in Southern Maren and the slave barracks of rural Cathark. Those people had so very little, and yet they’d found joy where they could. She still remembered the headache after one night when a small band of K’mir had celebrated Chavi West-Wind and plied her with a drink made from fermented horse milk while they danced around the bonfire.
This night was like that in many ways. It all melted into a blur of laughter and snatches of conversation. At one point, she had found herself dancing, being spun around in Raoul’s arms as they danced a half-remembered folk dance they’re learning at the Dancing Dove before nearly colliding with Douglass of Veldine in a tangle of uncoordinated limbs made loose with alcohol.
What she did remember clearly was the moment late in the evening when her gaze had met Jon’s across the room. Jon was red-cheeked and bright-eyed, and in that moment seemed so much more like the boy she’d fallen in love with. A silent understanding had passed between them in that moment. Within a few minutes of each other, they’d slipped away from the crowd. Outside of the common space, the sound was oddly muted beyond what she would have expected from the solid stone.
After taking a moment to breathe and let her head stop spinning, she’d gone in search of Jonathan. He’d been waiting for her in a nearby alcove. Almost invisible in the dim light, he’d pulled her into the shadows and kissed her until her toes curled. It wasn’t subtle, not even close, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to care.
Light-headed for more than one reason, he’d then lead her through the corridors (with a few more stops in convenient alcoves), before they finally reached his chambers.
Even with alcohol in their systems, what followed was nothing short of earthshaking. Jon had pounced on her with all the desperation of a starving man presented with a banquet. In short order, he demonstrated that he hadn’t forgotten all the details of her body that made her scream. Never one to be outdone by a challenge set, she’d made sure to rise to the occasion until they were both boneless with pleasure and exhaustion.
Afterwards, Alanna curled herself around Jon like the big cat that was her namesake. He’d drifted off to sleep almost immediately, all tension leaving his body. She watched in the flickering candlelight as the lines around his eyes had softened in the embrace of sleep. She hoped that Ganiel blessed him with kind dreams tonight.
The soft inhale and exhale of his breath was soothing, but sleep refused to find her. Instead, her thought wandered aimlessly for some time, before settling on the elephant in the room.
Part of her knew that falling back into bed with Jon was foolish. When she was younger, she’d be so scared of falling in love, of being loved. With Jon, there had been a certain safety in the finite nature of their relationship. No matter what feeling bloomed, they would always follow their duty: Jon to marry well to strengthen the kingdom, and her to serve him as his knight. There had been no future together, no fairytale ending.
Even now, she still believed that was the case. One day (and she hoped it was soon, for all of Tortall’s sake), Jonathan would regain his throne. He would bring the might of the Dominion Jewel–the might of the land of Tortall itself–down on Roger, and defeat him once and for all.
When Jon once more sat upon the throne and was proclaimed King Jonathan IV of Conté, he would need allies in other kingdoms. Tortall had been broken, and not even a king wielding the Dominion Jewel would be enough on its own to fix things. She knew with absolute certainty that she would need to let him go.
Yet despite it all, she made no move from the bed.
The future was still far away at this moment, and the present was full of fear and uncertainty. Jon was her rock, and she was his, and together they would weather the storm. No matter how much it might hurt her when the time came, she would let herself cling on for a little longer.
The pain would be worth it.