A Red-Rose Chain

“I will come with you,” said Tybalt.

“No.” The word was out before I was even fully aware that I was thinking it. I turned to find Tybalt staring at me. “I want you there. I want you there more than anything. But you can’t be. Having the monarch of a political structure completely outside our own standing next to me is actually a political weakness. It implies that I can’t take care of myself. I’m taking Quentin, because he reinforces my place in this political structure, and because I want witnesses. But I can’t take you. I’m sorry.”

Tybalt looked at me flatly for several seconds. Then, seemingly against his will, he smiled. It wasn’t a big thing: his lips barely moved, and while the smile touched his eyes, they remained sad, too dark with all the troubles of the past few days to ever lighten. “You are learning, and I can’t fault you for that,” he said. “If anything, it will keep you with me longer. But be careful, and don’t be afraid to run. Do you understand? If your safety is threatened, run. I refuse to wait a hundred years to be married.”

“You won’t have to,” I said. I looked down at my tank top and jeans, and shook my head. Rhys no longer got to make me dress up for him, and if the false Queen wanted to transform my clothes again, she could go right ahead. Every spell she cast sapped a little of her power. Let her exhaust herself on things that didn’t matter.

But only on the things that didn’t matter. I shrugged out of my leather jacket, draping it over the foot of the bed. “I’ll be back. Quentin, you’re with me.”

I didn’t wait to see what Tybalt would say to that. I just turned and stalked toward the exit, Quentin dogging my heels like he was afraid letting me out of his sight for a second would mean letting me out of his sight forever. I didn’t blame him for feeling that way. I sort of shared the sentiment.

Leaving Tybalt behind to protect Walther and strengthen my own position might have been the smart thing to do, but as we stalked along the empty, echoing halls, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rising and my muscles tensing, every inch of me preparing for an attack. There was a time when all my grand confrontations involved me and me alone. That time was in the past. I had grown accustomed to having backup when I went to bait my metaphorical dragons, people who would fight with me, rather than against me. I still had Quentin, but that was almost worse, because even if he tried to jump between me and someone’s sword, I wouldn’t let him. I could never let him. He was my squire. He was my friend. He was my semi-adopted son, and I loved him too much to be the cause of his suffering.

Almost as if he could read my thoughts, Quentin said quietly, “You can order me to go back if you want, but I’m not going to listen.” I shot him a surprised look. He shook his head. “I know you. This is about where you start realizing you left your big guns behind, and start thinking I’d be better off if I was somewhere safer. That usually means you’re forgetting that I’m your squire.”

“I never forget that,” I protested.

“No, you never forget that you’re my knight, and that it’s your responsibility to protect me and stuff,” said Quentin. “But me being your squire means it’s also my responsibility to protect you. I’ll never be a knight if I let you run off and get yourself killed without at least trying to keep you in one piece.”

“I’m hard to kill,” I said.

“So am I,” said Quentin, in a voice that made it clear he didn’t want to argue about this anymore.