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“Good to see you two are still attached at the hip,” Charlie crowed from the line of riders. He bumbled off his horse but did not fall, thanks to Garion at his back.

With a grin, the fugitive priest squelched toward them through the mud. Andry had never seen the man so happy, or so wonderfully proud.

Charlie plucked at his clothing, brushing away imaginary dust. Then he sighed back at the army, looking them over, and planted his hands on his hips.

“I will be collecting a finder’s fee.”

32

A Gift Fit for a Queen

Erida

The war camp grew, joined by new companies and fresh legions. Annoying as it was, Erida knew she could no longer avoid her more tedious duties as queen. To Thornwall’s relief and her own irritation, she returned to the council tent, feasting with a ragged collection of nobles and officers.

Erida wore her veils still, though she was vastly improving in her ability to balance the beast within.My mind is my own, she thought over and over again, the words like a prayer. It worked mostly, and the veils became a precaution.

But sometimes, the nobles were too frustrating to bear, and the veils gave her a place to hide.

She rolled her eyes behind them now, listening to her bickering lords as they ate. In the war camp or the throne room, the conversation never truly changed. They spoke always of petty rivalries and wealth. They argued over who would control which silver mine or administrate which port city. Back and forth, they carved up the empire, as if they had any true say in what the realm would become.

Erida allowed them their delusions.

None of it interested her in the slightest.

Taristan did not have the benefit of veils to hide behind. He sat white-faced in his chair, his eyes glaring into the tabletop, until Erida thought it might crack beneath the lightning force of his gaze.

“To the Queen,” one of the nobles said, his voice breaking through the low buzz of conversation.

Erida snapped to attention and raised her glass without thought. Red wine rippled behind facets of cut crystal, catching the candlelight. It looked like blood.

She bowed her head as another glass rose, another lord toasting her.

“To the Empress Rising!” he said, louder than the first, as if that proved anything.

Fists banged against wood and wine sloshed as the toasts carried. It was the same every night, near the end of dinner, when her lords swayed in their chairs, and the tent went hazy with the smoke from too many candles.

As always, Taristan drank little, sipping politely at his cup. She understood that now too. He remained clearheaded at all times, and therefore, in better control. In betterbalance.

Erida did the same. The wine sloshed against her closed lips, never touching her tongue.

“To Lady Harrsing,” one of her lords, Morly, muttered, and the cheers fell silent.

Heads turned, looking between the drunken Morly and the Queen. In the corners of the tent, even the servants watched with trepidation.

On her left, Lord Thornwall’s mouth twitched beneath his beard, betraying a frown. He shot a warning look at Morly across the table. The lord only shrugged, slurping at his glass. His face was near purple as his wine.

He is well past drunk, Erida knew, her smile fixed in place, visiblebehind the lace of her veil. She kept her glass high, careful to mask the anger rippling beneath her skin.He means nothing by it.

But her own voice in her head faded, losing strength. She gritted her teeth, trying to hold on to it, even as the edge of her vision flared hot. Beneath the table, her free hand gripped Taristan’s, her knuckles bone-white, her nails digging into his fingers.

His hand clenched back, offering her an anchor against the swirling rage.

“To Lady Harrsing,” Erida forced out, her voice hoarser than she meant it to be.

The table of lords gave a collective sigh of relief. Lord Thornwall shot her a grateful look and Erida took it in stride. Queen though she was, it would not do to start cutting off her lords’ heads. Not now, before a battle for the realm entire.

Even if they deserve it, she thought darkly.Even if they are useless, little jackals feasting on the scraps of my victory.