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Jonathan had grown up learning the names of good kings: Tortall was built on the prosperity of peace, formed from those who were able to close conflict and open borders, to make friends that outlasted their lifetimes. The Peacemaker was a heavy title to bear, and one he never understood until he was grown himself.
War had haunted all of them. Generations of Conté men, kings, fathers, sons, siblings consigned to a long march from cradle to grave, through war and war again.
Jon had hoped, in the way that all young people do, that maybe, perhaps, he was going to grow up and not have to go to war, and could have a peaceful rule where he tried to fix some of the messes that Tortall had put itself into.
Instead, some cosmic practical joke had loosed the entire Realms of the Gods onto his metaphorical picnic. Not for nothing but—
“I’m tired,” Jon said, to nobody in particular. He was alone in his office, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, trying and failing to fit himself spread-eagled onto the fainting couch. His ankles hung unattractively over the end. Perhaps the gods would hear him and see fit to grant some form of reprieve. A small earthquake that swallowed some of the immortals up, perhaps. Or a Stormwing-only plague. Or a bolt of lightning that struck only him and erased him from the face of the continent.
Footsteps approached the half-open door to his office, the door creaking on its hinges as Thayet pushed it open. Jon looked at her beseechingly over the arm of the chair, twisting his head upside-down. She gave him a look, something perhaps halfway between pity and amusement, and came over to stand next to him, hands on her hips. Her hair was down, black curls falling around her neck and shoulders, grown frizzy from a day’s worth of wear and evening humidity.
Thayet bent over and none-too-gently shoved him over so that she could sit down on the couch beside him, and Jon took the opportunity to squeeze her butt as she did, draping his arm around her waist. He sighed. “I’m tired,” he said, this time to Thayet in particular, because he was. “I’m tired of every time the old things stop going wrong, new things start going wrong. Is it so much to ask that we have perhaps five normal, boring years where nothing dramatic happens and nobody tries to play god?”
Thayet leaned back against him. “Why? What would you do if you weren't constantly dealing with the end of the world?”
“Pick up a hobby. Sewing, or making my own saddles, or bookbinding. Practice taking naps. I’m not sure. Anything but do something interesting, stressful, or dangerous.”
Thayet laughed at him, set her hand on his chest. “You’d be bored senseless.”
“I would happily be bored out of my wits if it meant that people wouldn’t have to die. I can deal with being bored; I find it harder and harder to deal with our people dying. At least if it was another normal war I could put a stop to it if I really wanted to.” Jon stared up at the ceiling, studying the stones. “I never thought to plan for if everyone I loved suddenly started to die because of a griffon attack.”
“I hear it’s a popular way to go. At least Roger isn’t putting in an order for you.”
Well. At least there was that.