Anarah finds a seat at the rear of the monastery, folding her ink-stained hands into her lap. The church’s spacious nave stands nearly three stories high, embellished with marble stone and open skylights. Hand-hewn pews shine under the light pouring through the many windows, warming the air within the chapel. She can smell the dust from the library. From her left, she hears the faint voices of the physicians echoing through the hall from the infirmary.

  The monastery serves the people of Erah faithfully. There is a strange comfort in the pews of the nave, for amidst the faith of the church’s followers is the weight of their pain. Peasants, lords, vassals, and tradesmen alike say their most fervent prayers sitting in pews worn down from decades of the gods’ praise. Anarah had witnessed many crying out in despair or pain, others smiling as tears streamed down their faces.

  She had called the Guardsmen to meet at the Church a week before to ensure their health in the light of the scout’s testimony. The physicians gladly accepted the task, taking the opportunity for interns to shadow their every move, to learn the makings of the human body. If not for her own examination, she would have joined them, her hand palpating hernias and administering syrups to waiting tongues, a strange diversion from the droll of Guard duty.

  From the north transept where the infirmary resides, Tygoh emerges. He is removed of his armor and sword, a strict regulation of the Church, wearing only his cotton undershirt and a pair of fatigues. Anarah catches his dark eyes as he approaches, his heavy boots softly drumming on the hardwood. He seats himself next to her, directing his gaze toward the altar.

  “So?” she says, turning her blue eyes to him.

  “I am well. Nathis has joined them now.”

  Anarah sighs. “That’s good to hear.”

  They both sit in silence for some time, staring raptly at the altar’s beauty, a white marble statue of the sun god atop his sandstone pedestal. Anarah can feel the heat wavering off her fiancé’s form. Below the statue, on a platform of wearied wood, is a stone pulpit garbed in golden silk cloth. Above, on the right and left walls of the altar are the Kerrich family sigil flag: a crow with a Damascus knife clasped in its claws.

  At the far west end of the nave, the heavy double doors creak open. Light siphons in from outside. Moments pass and it shudders closed, the sound of two pairs of leather boots shuffling up the aisle echoing through the space. A chattering of conversation follows them.

  “There are worse candidates, you know. I have dedicated my life to swords, and I am not unfamiliar with how the mind of a man works. Besides, you’re to be King soon, yes? It’s in your hands, not the Queen’s.”

  Anarah and Tygoh hear the prince’s light chuckle. As the two appear within the light of the altar, Anarah sees Lark accompanying Prince Taeg. She wears a dagger around her waist. Before Anarah can protest the young woman’s misconduct, Tygoh rises.

  “Viet, please remove your weapon. Church regulations.”

  Lark, approaching with heavy footsteps, narrows her eyes at the general. She begins fiddling with the belt around her waist, not taking her eyes from Tygoh.

  “I’ll have you know that this was a precautionary measure for the sake of the prince’s safety, General.”

  Taeg smirks beside her. He takes the pew in front of Anarah as Tygoh sits, sighing. Lark spins, stomping to deposit her dagger in the box near the door, sending tapping echoes off the climbing walls. They hear a loud clanging as her weapon drops, and Anarah can hear Tygoh grinding his teeth. Another din of steps reverberates as she returns, sliding into the seat next to the prince.

  Tygoh’s rich voice carries through the hall. Despite his relaxed posture, leaning heavily against the pew’s back, there is a wrinkle in his tanned forehead. “Viet, while I appreciate your enthusiasm when it comes to our prince’s wellbeing, a Guardsmen is expected to follow such regulations set into place by both the Church and the Crown.”

  “Forgive my human instincts to forget,” Lark replies tersely, her face remaining forward.

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  Tygoh ignores her, and Anarah feels a tug at the corners of her lips.

  “My Prince,” the cavalry general says, “have arrangements been made for the Queen’s abdication?”

  “The coronation is set for this coming day of the sun.” His voice is abnormally dry. He does not look back.

  Anarah senses his apprehension more than anyone. She places a delicate hand on the prince’s shoulder. Anarah can feel the stiff muscles in his shoulders through the leather jerkin he wears. Though he presents himself as lax and nonchalant, the prince holds a great deal of fear behind his green eyes. At twenty-four, he was thrust into the task of ruling a country while mourning his fading mother.

  “We all stand behind you, Taeg. Look to your father’s legacy. He was a wonderful man and a great king,” she says, thinking of her own father.

  Nathis still had not emerged from the infirmary.

  Lark, sitting next to the prince, nudges his shoulder with her own.

  “You’re about as qualified for the job as I am qualified to be Guard!” she jests.

  From behind, Anarah catches the soft grin on the prince’s face.

  “Then I suppose we’re all doomed,” he says, chuckling.

  A pale-skinned physician in a gray cotton robe steps out from the north transept, smiling at Taeg. He bows his balding head.

  “My prince, if you are ready, will you please follow me?” he says gently.

  Taeg rises from the pew, leaving the others to watch as he disappears through the archway.

  “Lark, how is training with Nathis going?” Anarah offers, hoping to quell her dread. The girl turns around to face them, casually placing her arm on the back of the pew.

  “He’s a pain in my ass, of course. He’s had me training the same maneuvers for three weeks now.”

  Anarah chuckles. “I remember when he trained me. He drilled those moves into my head and I am more than grateful that he did. It pays off in the end, trust me.”

  “If you want to pursue a career as a Guardsman, you need to follow the General’s instructions. While I was not trained by him, Nathis holds a wealth of knowledge,” Tygoh says. “Following his orders is the quickest way to becoming a Guard for a civilian.”

  Tygoh was raised in Inonin among the lords, in the capitol of Nelivian. He was born to the life of a lord in the house of Dacre, a forward-most family in the Crown’s development. His father before him was a general from whom he had learned everything. Tygoh spent an extensive amount of time in the castle at Erah, learning the histories of the country. The scribes taught him government, politics, war, and magic. While his father was away, the young boy trained with the stable boys and slept in the library quarters.

  “I know, I know,” Lark says, turning back around. “I’m just ready to hold the title. I’m ready to serve. This would really show my father.”

  Behind her back, Anarah shakes her head, looking down at her calloused hands.

  “The title isn’t what’s important,” she murmurs.

  “You’re not here to prove yourself to your father, Viet,” Tygoh explains, placing a rough hand on Anarah’s. She feels her heart jump. “You’re here to show the Crown that you can be trusted.”

  “Look,” Lark jerks herself back around to face the couple, “you weren’t raised by a couple of feckless idiots. They saw no purpose in the life of a woman and dragged me through the mud since I was born. I lived under his thumb until I was fourteen, and then I lived under the thumb of that damned blacksmith. I’m sure your lordship was pampered to death.” She cracks a wide, sarcastic grin in Tygoh’s direction before whipping back around.

  Anarah watches Tygoh. She sees the fire go through his eyes, there and gone in his hazel eyes. “We have more in common than you realize, girl.” He turns to the windows, gazing through the dust motes to the desert outside.

  Silence follows the conversation. Voices float in from the infirmary. The sound of a fire crackles through the walls of the warming room next door. Anarah sits in worry, waiting for the only father she’d known to emerge from his exam. She hopes her diagnosis was wrong, but she was never trained to be wrong. She was trained to observe, trained to tell men of their wear, to tell women of their life, to tell soldiers of their death. It was the detachment that she could not come to terms with. Her father had once told her of her birth family’s fate, but the blood of her relationship with Nathis was thicker than the water of her womb.

  From the north transept, Nathis appears, his fists balled beside him as he walks tenderly toward the waiting group. He smiles at Drair, who gives a slight nod in turn. Anarah stands to meet him as he makes his way to the back, her chest fluttering. She notices his once powerful arms beginning to lose their shape. The wrinkles around his usually smiling eyes are drawn downward. His salt and pepper hair recedes to the top of his scalp.

  Approaching her, he reaches for her cheeks, cupping them around her face and bringing her ashen forehead to his lips for a moment. She feels the callouses upon his palms lightly scrape against her jaw. His hands are clammy, cold.

  She hears him speak gently into her forehead.

  “You will make a wonderful physician.”

  As he removes his hands, Anarah searches his face for answers. He turns, and she watches him limp down the aisle of the nave and exit through the heavy doors.

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