Personalisation

By now Winston could sleep through most of the construction.

The hammering beyond the manor walls had acquired its own place in the household rhythm, beginning somewhere after breakfast and continuing until the light began to fail. New stonework rose beyond the southern garden, scaffolding climbed another section of the palace almost every week, and covered passages had begun extending outward from the residence he had already learned well enough to cross in darkness. The manor itself had changed much less. Saruka still knew where he had abandoned a book before he did, Gugamia still appeared in rooms with information nobody remembered giving her, and somewhere between breakfast and noon somebody would inevitably decide he had failed to eat enough.

Winston had stopped asking how they knew.

What stopped him was the pair crossing the inner court.

Both helms were gold and open, the faces under them bare to the morning. Red hair on the nearer one, drawn high and left loose down her back. Beside her, a blonde braid lay over one shoulder, gold rings at her ears, her skin a deeper brown. Scale-mail covered their breasts and stopped. Gold circled their throats, capped their shoulders, and sheathed their forearms, and a small engraved plate sat at the front of each hip, with only a narrow fall of blue cloth beneath it. Stomach, hip, and thigh stayed bare between that cloth and the gold at their knees. Blue cloaks hung from their shoulders. A dark sleeve ran to the wrist under the redhead’s cloak; the blonde’s arm was bare from pauldron to vambrace. Swords rode low in their hands. They crossed the stone without adjusting a strap or a fold, and went through the manor doors without breaking stride.

Winston watched the cloaks disappear, then looked to Xanthibarqa.

“That appears to be new,” he noted.

The tall guard looked toward the two as they appeared in the hcambers without any sign of apology. “Penthascara and I vetted them yesterday. They’re the first we’ve cleared to join us on your personal guard.” Her attention returned to the approaching pair, practical as ever. “The old armour is for the line. This is for women expected to move inside your rooms, react quickly, and avoid breaking furniture every time they turn around.”

That explained the design. It did not, however, explain all of it. Winston let his eyes travel once more over the altered balance between protection and display, then looked back toward Xanthibarqa with enough skepticism that the red-haired woman caught it before he could decide how diplomatic to be.

By then both newcomers had reached the steps. The darker-haired of the two—red ponytail spilling from beneath her helm, blue eyes bright with immediate amusement—rested one hand on the hilt of her sword and gave him the sort of look that suggested she had been enjoying his inspection for several paces already. Beside her, the blonde with the long braid and hoop earrings carried herself with the steadier confidence of a woman who needed no invitation to be looked at and had no objection when it happened anyway.

Winston folded his arms. “The personal guard are usually better equipped than this,” he said. “More of it, at any rate. I am not certain when that stopped being the aim.”

He recognized one from the household guard assembled below the balcony several days earlier. A Corinthian helmet had hidden her face then. It was bare now beneath an open golden headpiece, and the red ponytail spilled free behind it, bright against the blue of her cape. The heavy shoulder plates and long vambraces were still there. The cuirass was not. Fitted gold scales cupped her breasts and stopped, so the soft weight of them rose and settled with each stride, and below that nothing but skin: the long bare plane of her stomach, muscle shifting as she walked, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips where a scrap of blue cloth and a small gold plate did very little to pretend at modesty. Winston’s mouth had gone dry before he managed to look at her companion.

The blonde was no kinder to whatever composure he had left. A thick braid lay over one shoulder, gold hoops bright at her ears, and the same scaled gold held her breasts high and close, the lower curves bare where the metal ended. Her stomach was ridged and bare all the way to the blue cloth slung low on her hips. Sun caught the sheen on her skin and on the gold at her throat, and Winston felt the heat of it settle low in him, insistent, while he stood there trying to remember that these women were supposed to be on duty.

She saw where his attention had gone. Colour rose along her throat, and the smile that followed was slow, respectful, and plainly pleased.

"You have been looking rather carefully, my king," she said. She settled her weight onto one leg, hip shifting under the blue cloth, and did not pretend she had missed the effect. Her voice dropped, still even, still a guard addressing her king. "I find I do not mind. If anything, I would rather you look your fill."

Xanthibarqa made no effort to rescue him. If anything, the corner of her mouth threatened the beginning of a smirk.

Winston looked from one woman to the other and discovered that protesting too strongly would only condemn him, while agreeing would do the same thing faster. “I was trying,” he said, with as much dignity as the situation permitted, “to determine whether this is armor or conspiracy.”

A soft laugh escaped the redhead. She inclined her head, courtesy intact, though her eyes stayed on his mouth a moment longer than rank required. “It can be both, my king. If the conspiracy is that we hoped you would look, then I will confess to it.” Colour had risen under the edge of her helm. She did not retreat from it. “A guard should want her king’s eyes on her. I do.”

The blonde’s laugh came lower, and she did not bother to hide where her own gaze traveled before she brought it back to his face. “Penthascara approved what will keep a blade off you,” she said. “The rest was chosen for women meant to stay close enough to touch you, should you wish it. I would consider that closeness an honour.” Her voice remained even, formal, and unmistakably warm. “Command how near, my king. I am already inclined to come nearer than caution would advise.”

Winston glanced once at Xanthibarqa. “You allowed this.”

“I approved women who can fight in a room without wrecking it,” she said. The corner of her mouth had stopped pretending. “The lighter armor was suggested for the indoor posts. The ones who stand in your rooms, not on the wall. Penthascara and I looked for guards who wanted that duty more than they wanted a place in the line. There was no shortage of them.”

The two new guards looked altogether too pleased by that answer. So, Winston suspected, was Penthascara somewhere nearby. He looked back at the altered armor one more time, then at the women wearing it with such unembarrassed satisfaction, and gave up on pretending the design had not been meant to produce exactly this conversation.

The redhead’s smile lost some of its sharpness, though her hand remained comfortably on the sword at her hip. “Yes, my king. I would be a poor servant if I pretended the sword was all I brought you. I asked for these rooms because they keep me where you are, and if you have noticed that, if it pleases you, then I am happier than rank probably ought to let me admit.” There was still amusement in her eyes, but the teasing had given way to something more exposed now, as though having started the game she had decided there was little point hiding what sat beneath it.

Winston held her gaze longer than was sensible, aware that the answer she wanted from him was no longer part of the joke. “It pleases me.” The warmth that crossed her face made the admission feel considerably less casual than he had intended, and the blonde beside her noticed it too, colour already rising along her throat as she watched him.

Her own confidence survived the blush. “Then I am glad she asked first, because I wanted much the same thing. We are yours to look upon, my king, and if you call us closer than caution would prefer, I doubt either of us will complain. I wanted this posting because it meant being near you. I have wanted your attention since they told me I might stand in your rooms, and I have very little talent for pretending otherwise where you are concerned.” The plainness of it seemed to embarrass her only after the words were already out, though she made no attempt to retreat from them.

Somewhere in the middle of being told, with unnerving sincerity, that both women had specifically wanted proximity to him, Winston became aware of a much more practical problem. “You have told me a remarkable amount about what you want from this assignment, and I still have nothing to call either of you.”

That brought the redhead’s amusement back without restoring the earlier distance. She inclined her head, lifting her eyes to his as though she wanted to see what the name did when he heard it. “Penthevia, my king. I should probably have given you that before admitting I asked to be kept near you.” A quiet laugh touched the end of the confession. “A woman does not usually tell a man how much she wants his company and leave him wondering who, exactly, has just said it.”

“Zarithra.” The blonde did not hurry it. Her voice stayed low, the courtesy careful, colour still high along her throat where the gold sat. She held his gaze while she spoke, and the pleasure of being asked showed in the slight part of her mouth, in the way she did not look away even when the name made the moment feel suddenly more personal than the armor had. “If it pleases you to use them. I would like to hear mine from you.”

“It does.” He looked from Penthevia to Zarithra, and the names settled more easily than the design of what they were wearing. Penthevia’s smile had gone soft at the edges. Zarithra’s attention had sharpened, bright and intent, as though the sound of her own name in his mouth was already something she meant to keep. “Both of them.”

Behind him, somewhere inside the residence, construction thudded again through the stone. Bu then something caught wintson's eye for a second the look of a woman peering at him before she vanished.

Who was that?