“Remind your king that, unlike the Medes, the Attolians have always been good neighbors,” Eugenides told Roa’s ambassador. “Our losses have been steep because of his betrayal, and this small parcel of land is all we seek as compensation.”

When it was clear that he would receive no support from the army of Ghasnuvidas, the king of Roa capitulated. Some historians would have you believe that Roa’s land was seized outright, but I myself watched the treaties being written and know that there were agreements and payments made in exchange for what, in all honesty, was a stretch of empty forest and two small coastal towns.

The stone walls of the new fort were waist-high in places when news came that Attolia had safely delivered twins. All work stopped for three days of celebration. I think the king might have appreciated a quiet moment to reflect on this great change in his life, on what it meant to lose a father and to become one, but he was king, and the momentous birth of not one heir for Attolia, but two, was a public event and not a private one. There was more news, equally momentous. The Charter of the Three States had been drafted, and the king could return home.

Half of the forces remaining were left to garrison the new fort on the Lusimina, and the others marched with the king back along the coast toward Nedus, where the Sapphire was waiting to take him to the capital. On the way, the king detoured to climb up the hill to the temples at Reyatimi, the sanctuary where Costis and Kamet had been watching for the Mede invasion.

In each of the temples, the king made a dedication. At all but two of them, he offered up a gold tablet inscribed with his gratitude for the safe delivery of his children. At the altar of Ula, though, he left a set of gold earrings he’d had cast from the coins in the treasury abandoned in the Mede camp after the death of Bu-seneth. The last temple he visited was that of the Reyatimus, which is what they called the Sky God in that place. The king was met in the forecourt by a priest who eyed him warily.

“Eugenides.” The priest called him by name. “It is rare a Thief comes to our doors.”

“I would make an offering, if it is not unwelcome.”

“Your god and ours have a tempestuous relationship,” the priest demurred, his gaze resting on the object the king held.

“They have their moments of cooperation,” the king reminded him. His smile fading, he indicated the helmet he held under his arm. “This was my father’s. I would dedicate it with a sum sufficient to build a new altar in the temple, if you will accept it.”

The priest nodded. He reached to take the helmet, saying, “No offering from a son to honor his father is unwelcome here.”

We did not have the Etisians to blow us home, and the whole way the king was impatiently pacing the length of the Sapphire or scrambling into the rigging to kick his heels high above her decks. It gave Ion indigestion. As our ship rounded Cape Elydia, they lit the signal fires on the headland, and we saw the beacons catch fire along the coast. By the time we docked, the whole city and most of the population of the nearby countryside had filled the streets.

Standing at the Sapphire’s railing, the king grumbled, “Crowds of people, shouting at me. My least favorite thing.”

The captain appeared surprised by the response to a hero’s welcome. Trokides had spent more time with the king than the captain had. He said something too quiet to be heard above the sound of the crowd.

“What was that?” the king asked him.

“It’s just that you have so many least favorite things, Your Majesty,” said Trokides, in a deliberately bland voice.

Pegistus snickered.

“I can have you both ganched, you know,” said the king over his shoulder as he started down the gangplank.

He walked up from the harbor at a snail’s pace. Everyone wanted to touch the king, to catch his sleeve, to embrace him. With every step he was kissing someone or being kissed, while those who couldn’t squeeze into the streets leaned from the windows above to shower us all with flowers. When at last he reached the steps leading up to Attolia’s palace, the king gently detached the last few grasping hands before he slipped between the ranks of the royal guards. Those of us who had accompanied him that far turned aside to make our way around to a less ostentatious entry into the palace. As Ion tugged me by the hand, lest I be lost in the confusion, the king slowly, solemnly climbed the steps to where Attolia, Sounis, and Eddis awaited him.

Arriving at the top, he said to his queen, “You could have sent a carriage,” and she said back to him, “You could have ridden the horse.”

He had walked right past the horse waiting for him at the dock, draped in silk and velvet, saddle and bridle decorated in gems worth a king’s ransom. Grinding his teeth, Teleus had reordered the guard to convey him on foot, but the crowd had been impossible to control. All of us around the king had received similar treatment, at least as many flower petals and almost as many kisses.

Attolia courtesied to her king, and the people roared with approval. He brushed petals off his shoulders and bowed in return. “My queen,” he said over the noise of the crowd. “You are well?”

“I am well,” she told him. He stepped to kiss her and the cheering grew even louder.

The king and Sounis exchanged bows. When he came to Eddis, the king caught her by the hand.

“Let me spare you the bow or the courtesy, cousin,” he said, and kissed her on the forehead. The noise was deafening.

“Crowds of people, shouting at you!” said Eddis. He could read her lips.

“My least favorite thing!” he shouted back.

For some time they stood, waving to the crowd and listening to the cheers. Then, with one final wave, they retreated through the forecourt and into the palace. When the doors closed behind us, it was blissfully quiet, the sound from outside reduced to no more than a murmur.

“You are well?” said the king, searching Attolia’s face, now that the audience around them was smaller.

“I am,” she reassured him.

“And the children?”

“Come and see,” she said. Leaving Eddis and Sounis to manage the ceremonial expectations of the court, Attolia led the king to the anteroom of the royal nursery.

The king stood, shifting from foot to foot, excited and anxious by turns. Phresine came first, with the prince. Like any nurse, she eyed the king suspiciously. “Lower your arms, I’m not a giant,” she said sharply. “There, now. Your hand under his head, that’s it,” she instructed him before finally releasing the bundle wrapped in Attolian blue and gold. “Your son,” she said as she stepped back, ceremony creeping in again, as if there were any ritual that could further enrich that first moment a man holds his child.

Hesitantly the king cradled the baby in his good arm. “So serious,” he said, looking into the tiny face in awe.

“They do not smile at first, Your Majesty,” said Phresine.

When Attolia cleared her throat, the king dragged his eyes away from the baby. “I thought he should carry your father’s name,” she said.

“Not your father’s?” asked the king. This was a prince of Attolia, and the queen’s father’s name had precedence.

Attolia said softly, “Your father’s name would honor my house.” The king nodded without speaking. Attolia reached to take her son as Luria was bringing out the princess. We’d heard her wailing in the nursery, and she was still fretting as Luria laid her in the king’s arms. Captured by the sight of an unfamiliar face, she fell silent. The king looked into his daughter’s eyes as he had looked into his son’s, and his smile faded.