The carriage arrived at the capital after almost three weeks of travel.
By Silvania's direct order, the coachman was to proceed to the palace without detours. There was no room for negotiation or the possibility of taking another route: the destination had been sealed from day one.
During the journey, two thoughts had accompanied him like a persistent shadow: Will they send me to the Chinsonite border? and Is Lena okay out there?
Although both concerns seemed like a single thread, the first was tied to his role in the war, and the second to a growing, almost painful, worry for her.
He couldn't deny that the journey had been exhausting, not because of the distance, but because of what he carried in his heart. He had gotten into that carriage with an open and bleeding wound in his heart. Three weeks had been enough to meditate... but not to heal. There was no remedy for that ache.
The palace guards, seeing the royal seal on the carriage, let him pass without question. There was no other place in the entire kingdom where the gardens were so lavish. The main path was lined with flowering almond trees; the white and pink petals fell like soft snowflakes, creating a melancholy that mixed with the dread Dyan felt in his stomach.
The carriage stopped at the main entrance, where two maidservants were waiting for him. As he got out, he had the strange sensation of entering a foreign world. The white pillars, the carved stone, and the sculptures of birds that watched over the entrance seemed to offer an impeccable beauty... but also a silent message: perfection was a mask that hid a world to which he did not belong.
One of the maidservants offered her hand to help him down; the other, with an automatic gesture, looked for luggage that didn't exist. The only thing he carried was the staff his comrades in battle had given him: almond wood, with long grain that gave it a sober and warm air.
"Young Dyan, Your Majesty is waiting for you. Please follow me," said the first maidservant, with impeccable courtesy.
"Of course."
As he climbed the steps, he wondered if the queen would receive him with the same warmth as her letters or if, on the contrary, she would judge him for what he couldn't do: for exposing himself to serious injuries, for being away from his duties for so long. Although only a season had passed, his absence as the Archmage's assistant could be seen as a serious offense. And although he had her authorization, deep down he feared it would be interpreted as weakness... or even worse, as a sentimental distraction that led him astray from the path he had sworn to follow and of which he now felt a prisoner.
They walked down the wide corridors. It wasn't the first time he had seen the palace, but it always impressed him: plush carpets, solemn portraits of the Wilfrost queens lined up in the main hall, glass chandeliers that trapped and multiplied every ray of light. They went up the grand staircase and proceeded to the East wing, Silvania's personal bastion.
Despite the beauty, everything felt distant, like returning to a house where you know you are nothing more than a temporary guest. Unintentionally, he remembered Lena's house: small, but warm. A brazier in a corner, a family painting hanging in the modest living room, the wood-burning stove, the table for four used almost always on only one side, the grapevine in the yard, as old as the house itself, which seemed to have been built around it. Humble, yes... but with a warmth that no luxury could imitate.
He missed her. He shouldn't admit it, but he did.
They stopped in front of a huge door, carved with flowers so finely worked that it looked as if their petals and leaves wanted to escape the wood to take root on the carpet.
"Young Dyan, Your Majesty is waiting," said the maidservant, stepping aside.
Upon entering, he found himself in a large room, with walls lined with full bookshelves, armchairs near the shelves, and, at the back, a large table. At the head of it sat Silvania Wilfrost. The light coming through the large window behind her lit up her coppery hair like living flames.
The maidservants entered behind him. Silvania gestured for him to approach. A seat awaited him next to the queen. Dyan walked, keeping his back straight, making sure his steps didn't betray weakness. As he was about to kneel, her clear voice stopped him.
"There's no need, Dyan. Please, take a seat next to me."
He looked up. One of the maidservants took his staff and the other pulled out his chair as if he were an distinguished guest.
"Eat in peace," Silvania said. "I just wanted to welcome you. It's been a long journey, and you deserve something to restore your strength."
Dyan nodded, although the tightness in his chest did not ease.
"Your Majesty..." he began, not knowing if his words would be heard as gratitude or as an excuse.
He swallowed.
"Forgive my delay." He lowered his head. "I don't want to make excuses. I know I took longer than was reasonable, but..."
Silvania interrupted him, her gaze fixed on his bandaged hand. The bandages, worn and reused more than was prudent, were nonetheless clean.
"You don't need to apologize. Please, lift your head."
Dyan obeyed, and as soon as their eyes met, he knew: in her eyes was sadness... the same kind he had seen so many times before arriving at the Tower, that poisoned compassion he hated with all his soul. Pity.
His face hardened. He wouldn't allow anyone, not even her, to look at him like that.
"Your Majesty... may I ask you for something?"
"Tell me, with confidence. If it is within my power, I will make it happen."
He didn't hesitate, because he had made that promise to himself during the darkest days of his life.
"Don't ever look at me with pity again. I appreciate your feelings, but I was only doing my duty. And this..." he held up his bandaged hand, "...is only proof that I am not yet as good as I should be."
Silvania felt a heaviness in her chest, but she softened her expression, complying with his request.
"I'm sorry," she said, in a voice as faint as the morning dew.
"Oh, no, Your Majesty, I don't mean for you to apologize. I just wanted to make it clear that my wounds are not your fault. He who goes to war must bear his own wounds, his weaknesses... and his victories."
The queen settled into her seat and, with a slight gesture, signaled for the maidservants to serve the guest. She elegantly picked up her teacup, taking a brief but sufficient sip to collect her thoughts. In the young man's silver eyes, the same determination she had seen in their first meeting still burned, although now it was covered by layers of sadness and pain.
"From your letters, it seems Captain Caldrim took great care of you."
A sudden blush crept across Dyan's face.
"Yes, Your Majesty. She treated me with a care that I believe was undeserved. Someday... I will repay her kindness."
"I see," Silvania said, with a barely perceptible smile. She recognized that mix of shyness and affection well. Youth rarely knew how to hide it. "Perhaps you will see her soon."
A maidservant filled Dyan's cup and placed a plate with biscuits in front of him.
The mage tried to maintain his composure.
"What do you mean, my queen? I understand she left for the western border the day after I left Glacius."
Silvania looked away toward the gardens, as if contemplating the calm of the flowering almond trees could soften what she was about to say.
"It is no secret that our borders have been at their limits these past few years. I understand Edictus took you with him on more than one occasion."
"That's right, Your Majesty. I was trained in part for that."
"If the situation at the border becomes complicated, you will have to go there." Her tone didn't seek to sugarcoat the words, although something in her gaze seemed to be asking for his forgiveness. "I would like you to stay at the palace. Here you could receive medical attention and learn the necessary etiquette. Someday you will take Edictus's place and..."
"It is a shame, Your Majesty, but I must decline. To serve you better, I need to return to the Tower and hone my skills."
"Are you disobeying your queen?"
Dyan looked at his reflection in the amber surface of the tea.
"On the contrary. What happened to me taught me that I don't yet have what it takes to fulfill my purpose. I will return to the Tower, and I will come here to learn what I deem necessary... but staying would be counterproductive, especially if my goal is to serve in the war for the greater glory of Your Majesty and the kingdom."
Silvania gestured for the maidservants to withdraw. When they were alone, the room seemed even vaster. She stood up with a sure step and approached the young man.
"How old are you? Fifteen?"
"Sixteen, Your Majesty. I turned sixteen during the journey back."
She made him stand up.
"Behind that eloquence so uncharacteristic of a boy your age... tell me, do you really want to fulfill that purpose you were trained for?" Her hand rose cautiously, fearing he would pull away, and stroked his face. "Tell me the truth... what you feel, not what you were taught to say."
She gently slid her thumb across his cheek. Dyan didn't pull away, but his brow furrowed slightly, a fleeting reflection of a fear he didn't dare to name.