Consequences lurked in the hospital tent, hungry and violent.
When Mars lay on his mat to sleep and his mind raged with possibilities, with shifting roads ahead, with history and borders and numbers and supply trains, with political operations and flag signals, all the complex trappings of running a campaign, the king of Aremoria knew how to hold it all in hand. It would build from a collection of pieces, as if each were a star scattered in its shifting—but accurate—place in the sky, and the work of a leader was to draw connections and patterns. The sky was a maze, and he must find, for his people, the way through. Consequences were only myriad pinpricks of light, distant and maneuverable.
And as Mars charged into battle, every soldier, every horse and spear, every shield and boot and arrow, the muddy, churning ground, the rain or blinding sun, the pain and sudden gutting surprises, the glint of swords, the splash of blood, the battle rage singing in his ears—that was what mattered most. He was a sword himself, a spear of light driving at the fore of his army to slice apart the enemy. Battle was a fork in the branches of the tree of war, and the options Mars saw meant only one thing or the other. Success or retreat, life or death—for himself, for the soldiers, for Aremoria. Consequences were immediate, dreadful, echoing, triumphant.
Then, home in his capital, Lionis, everything was words and plans, elaborate banquets and scheming with friends against enemies, marriages and lines of succession and blood knotting into ropes of generational manipulation. It was family and keeping them safe. Consequences linked together and spread out in spokes through cities, towns, farms, like a living system of royal roads. Mars could see the turns and breaks, the bridges that needed repair or would need it soon. His mission then became balance: strength and nurturing, losses and gains.
In most every aspect of his life, consequences were a map that Mars could manipulate. He could change things, make choices to improve the outcome, reach for the good, better, best results. There was always hope: Aremoria will be better for this step I take, for this word I pronounce, for this path I lead us down.
But in the hospital tent, Mars could affect nothing.
Change nothing.
Here the consequences begged, wept, died in simple rows, inside a blood-spattered tent, and it was too late for any king to make a difference.
And so Mars had allowed himself to avoid it, pretended his importance overshadowed his cowardice: Morimaros of Aremoria was needed in a great many other places, and because he could not help the dying, he shouldn’t prioritize them.
They’d been at war with the neighboring kingdom of Diota since his father had died three years ago, and Diota pressed its advantage against the possibility of internal Aremore divisiveness. But Mars had brought his country to heel quickly and hoped soon to earn the Diotan king’s surrender. This most recent battle had cost Aremoria, though, and Mars was uncertain how to attack next.
The morning had dawned clear, despite the great billowing clouds of smoke rising still off the stony valley where the dead of both sides smoldered after the midnight burn. Now, Mars stood several paces back from the flap of the hospital tent, wishing the sun shone brighter. Knees locked, arms at his sides. He was a man of nearly twenty-five years, a successful soldier, and a king. This should not have been a struggle. He was stronger, better than this. No coward. But the tent’s entrance was a black maw, a triangle of shadows that promised only angst in the shape of soft moans and clipped voices, the stench of rotting men and the tang of blood. It would’ve been worse last night, worse with desperation and bone saws. Screams, running healers, everyone giving orders or obeying them, staunching blood, stuffing poultices into gaping wounds, setting bones. Prayer.
He’d had his own injuries tended to inside his tent while he took reports from staggering, tired captains.
Novanos’s boots crunched the gravel as Mars’s second approached the tent. For a fleeting moment, Mars was relieved, carried off by a shameful hope that the other man had some urgent business to distract the king from this unpleasant duty. But Novanos stopped at Mars’s shoulder and only took a deep, gentle breath, held it for three counts, and let it slowly free.
Mars allowed the ghost of a smile to appear and drew in a similar breath, forcing his shoulders to relax under the heavy mail and leather coat he wore. He tapped the side of his fist against Novanos’s. The man was exactly his age, and related through a series of cousins, though had no official claim to royal lineage because of complicated marriage contracts. Watery blond hair kept long enough to tie back, now dark and slick from bathing, and Novanos’s orange uniform was clean. This was not the one he’d worn to battle yesterday, as Mars’s was: still tarnished and muddy and smeared with browning blood.
“Over here,” Novanos said quietly, leading Mars down the side aisle. The
