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Around the table, a few of her more hawkish councillors smirked. A few glanced at Taristan, uneasy at the memory of Orleon’s death.

Radolph grimaced and motioned for more wine. A servant jumped to attention, a flagon in hand.

“Murdered beneath a truce flag,” the lord muttered as the servant poured.

Many pairs of eyes widened and Erida fought hard to keep her mask of poise. She forced a smile instead and leaned back in her seat, curling her fingers over the arms as if it were her throne. In her mind, Lord Radolph’s name joined a certain list.

At her side, Taristan barely stirred, his callused fingers drumming a slow rhythm on his leg. She heard the notes in her head, a death march.

“Do you accuse my husband of something?” Erida said, her voice low and icy cold.

Radolph was quick to retreat, scurrying like a rat.

“I only mean to say that the death of Prince Orleon will create complications,” he said, glancing at his fellow nobles for support. Thankfully, he found none. “King Robart, other nations—they will not look upon us kindly.”

Erida raised a slim brow. “Have they ever?” she asked.

A murmur went around the table, and a few heads nodded to her point.

Lady Harrsing even rapped her new cane on the carpeted floor. “Indeed,” she said.

Though her body had grown frail, her voice remained firm as ever. Erida wanted to smile at the older woman, to thank her for such stalwart support, but kept her composure.

“The realm has always been jealous of Galland. Our wealth, our strength,” Erida continued. She closed a fist on the table, her knuckles going white. “We are the successors to Old Cor. We are an empire reborn. They will never love us, but they will certainly fear us.”

Radolph bowed his head, surrendering. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Under the table, Taristan’s fingers ceased their drumming.

“We must be mindful of the winter,” another lord said, raising a finger.

Erida’s smile tightened. She held back a frustrated scream.As soon as one hole is plugged, the bucket springs another leak,she thought, cursing in her head.

Thankfully, Harrsing leaned into the fray with her usual dismissive manner. She chortled and sipped at her wine. “Lord Marger, we’re marching south. You’ll be eating oranges in Partepalas by the time snow falls in Ascal.”

“It was a good harvest, and the supply trains will hold for now,” Thornwall added, shrugging. “The navy will take up the load when the deeper snows set in, and supply us on the coast.”

That at least seemed to satisfy Marger, and Thornwall’s own lieutenants, who nodded in approval. Erida cared little for the economics of war. What it took to feed and water an army, to keep it moving, of this she had little interest. But she knew better than to ignore Thornwall.

And she knew the council meeting was already running long. The food was mostly gone, but the wine and ale still flowed. They wouldn’t make any more progress tonight, at least not in a direction Erida wanted to go.

She stood, extending her hands out to both sides of the long table. Her golden sleeves trailed, edged with a finely embroidered pattern of green vines and ruby-studded roses. Many chairs scraped across packed earth and carpet as everyone else jumped to stand, rising to their feet in deference to their queen. Taristan rose quietly, unfolding his long limbs.

“I plan to celebrate the new year on Robart’s throne with a case of his own wine for each of you,” Erida said, raising her cup in atoast. They mirrored her, holding up tankards of ale and sloshing goblets. “Let the Palace of Pearls ring out with Gallish song.”

They boomed a resounding cheer, even Marger and Radolph, though Erida noted they wouldn’t meet her eye. At least the rest seemed placated, eager to continue their drinking away from the Queen and her wolfish consort.If they want to treat a siege camp like a feasting hall, let them,Erida thought, meeting their raised glasses with her own.They want glory, they want power—and I will give it to them.

So long as they don’t get in my way.

The promise of Madrence was enough to send the nobles chattering out into the night, clutching at each other as they schemed. Some jabbered over castles or treasure, striking bargains for a victory not yet won. Erida tried not to do the same. She had never seen the Palace of Pearls, the seat of the Madrentine kings, but she’d heard enough of its alabaster walls and high towers, every window polished like a jewel, its gates set with real pearl and moonstone. The magnificent castle watched over Vara’s Bay, a gleaming beacon to sailors and the city alike. And within was an even greater prize—the throne of Madrence. Another crown for Erida of Galland. The beginning of her great empire, and her greater destiny.

Harrsing idled by the tent flap, but the Queen shook her head, gesturing for her oldest advisor to go as well. She did as commanded, moving stiffly with her cane. Erida watched her slip into the night, a member of the Lionguard going with her.Bella is growing old before my eyes,she thought with a sharp pang of sadness.

She fell back in her seat, leaning hard against the chair back.The warm air made her tired, and she braced her chin against her hand, too exhausted to hold her own head up.

By now the Lionguard knew to leave their queen when only Taristan and Ronin remained. They swept out, taking up their posts at the entrance to the council tent and the adjoining passage to Erida’s bedchamber. The tent suddenly seemed much larger without them, the long table all but empty, with only Ronin at the far end, and Taristan still standing. It was a rhythm they kept, the strange trio of the queen, her consort, and his pet priest.

Finally Taristan crossed to the sideboard, helping himself to a glass of wine. He drank deeply, licking his lips. Only a little remained, like blood in his cup, thick and dark.