“It sounds dreadful,” he declared, shooting Percival a look. The horses they rode progressed slowly, allowing them ample time to speak.
“Well then, how about something a little more ambiguous. Perhaps King Edgar would settle for something like Heroes Day, or Victory Day. Or perhaps you could name the day in honor of your good friend and loyal companion, Percival Fairweather. I do say, there’s something tremendously appealing about the name Fairweather Day. It sounds lovely.”
“There will be no holiday named in our honor,” Braxton retorted, snorting with laughter. “We were sent out to do our job, and we’ve done it. If holidays were named after so arbitrary a notion, we’d have no shortage of Blacksmith Days, or Housekeep Days.”
“No housekeeping has ever taken four years to accomplish, or could have resulted in the loss of a mighty empire should the starching have gone wrong.”
“The point of the matter is, I desire no other reward than bringing satisfaction to the king.” His gaze wandered across the cityscape of Londër as he spoke, absorbing her charms. Smoke curled lazily from chimney stacks, and the smell of spiced meat saturated the air. The closer they drew, the louder they heard the commotion. People talking, laughing, singing, screaming…
The city he’d left behind was as vibrant as ever, and in his absence, she had grown larger still. There were new stone buildings he did not recognize, and roads that joined them. The streets were cleaner than he’d remembered, both of horse droppings and of hay. If there had been any sun, they would have sparkled.
Not even on a day like this could nature be bothered to shine light down on the greatest empire in the world.
“I’d forgotten what home feels like,” Percival observed.
Their horses approached the checkpoint, and he was pleased to see that labor was being invested into building walls. The more secure their sovereign’s home, the better he would sleep at night while abroad. While he did not doubt the king’s resilience on the battlefield, should the city be sieged during his absence… he feared for the safety of the people.
“I as well.” Braxton missed Londër more than he thought.
Two guards, tall and slender, little more than untried youths, stood at the checkpoint as they approached. One of them, a lad in his early teens, eyed Braxton as they stated their names and business.
“Braxton Grantham, Duke of Sherbone and celebrated general for Britannia,” said Braxton. The promise of a warm bed and a hot meal drew at his soul, and he detested the last mandatory pause before such things could be his. Once they arrived at the castle, he was sure King Edgar would welcome them in and have them fed as they recounted their tales of battle to him directly. Sitting by a fire on plush chaises, basking in its glow, as they dined on turkey legs and hearty root vegetables baked in spice sounded like a veritable paradise in light of the conditions they’d just left.
My bones will thank me tonight, Braxton thought, when I turn in for the evening to a bed instead of the ground. There is no pleasure as exquisite as comfort after so long spent deprived of anything apart from the lust of the kill.
“Braxton Grantham?” the lad gawked. “The Braxton Grantham?”
“Unless another Duke of Sherbone has risen in my place during my absence, yes.” He lifted his chin and pushed his shoulders back. Few mistook his physique—broad and muscular, with a handsome cut to his jaw and a body hardened by battle, he was the most desirable man in the kingdom. Despite it, he remained unwed. His fealty was pledged to the kingdom and the king, and no woman could ever overthrow that bond.
“And Percival Fairweather,” Percival commented, puffing himself out in much the same way. “Duke of none, but keeper of the great Braxton Grantham.”
“Keeper?” Braxton asked in disbelief.
“At one point, I kept custody of your gloves while you spearheaded the charge into battle,” Percival said stiffly. “I consider that quite the keeper indeed.”
He barked out a laugh, but the lads at the checkpoint didn’t see the humor. Awkwardly, they exchanged a glance. Then, the second one spoke.
“King Edgar wishes to see Y-Your Grace at the palace post haste,” he said. “I must demand that Your Grace report to the palace.”
“We had planned to do as much,” he replied. “I am eager to see him. In our absence, it looks as though much has changed. While we share stories of our victories and the harrowing circumstances that brought them, he shall surely share with us the rich news of our beloved Londër.”
“Y-Your Grace is to report to King Edgar at once,” said the lark again.
“And so it shall be done.” Percival leaned forward at the hip to bow, his horse’s neck interfering with the gesture. “Fantastic work, gentlemen. I eagerly await the day I may call you gate masters. When will the wall be completed?”
“I’m not privy to information as such, sire.”
“Nor I,” said the second. “But in the next eventually, of that you can be certain.”
“To the next eventually, then.”
Percival removed his hat and held it up, and while Braxton laughed, the lads did not share their humor. Braxton wondered what the disconnect was about, but couldn’t put his finger on it. In the end, the temperament of two young men did not change anything in his life. So long as they were unopposed and allowed to enter Londër’s streets, he cared little about them.
What remained of the army had returned home before them. The diplomatic happenings of war were of little concern to them, and once the skirmishes were over, his men were of little use. He could see the effects of their arrival now. Women, cheeks rosy and eyes bright. Children, laughing and running and batting at each other with sticks they imagined were swords. Sometimes, he’d catch the eye of one of the men who served him on the field, and they’d bow their heads and pass like ships in the night.
Londër was alive again now that her men were back, and Braxton was the heart of that revival. There was no better feeling in the world than that.
Their horses plodded through the streets at a leisurely pace, cutting through the crowds and winding toward the castle. As they went, Percival chatted about anything that came to mind. They’d traveled together for a week to return home, but it was only now that he chose to let his tongue loose. It was another sign they were home—no longer was he on alert. Life would be fine and easy, at least for the next while.