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With more to be unleashed.

She had seen this border only once, accompanying her father on a campaign when she was a child. He had won a great victory near the Rose’s north branch, claiming a valuable pass into Calidon. Erida remembered that it had been winter, the air freezing on her cheeks as the wind blew sharp off the Watchful, where raiders prowled. This was different, in every respect. The air was crisp but warm enough for light clothing. The army waiting was her own to command. Her father was dead and gone. The battle was not yet won, a victory unseen.

But close enough to taste.

The Third Legion held the border always, ten thousand soldiers honed and perfected by years on tempestuous ground. The First had recently joined them, doubling their number. It was as if a city had sprung up overnight, the tents clustered in the shadows of the castles, hiding most from any spies across the river. While Madrence knew that Erida’s army was amassing its force, they could not know to what extent, not without sneaking across the river and risking Galland’s wrath. A caught scout was cause enough for war, if utilized properly. The smaller country would not give Erida another reason to fight. She had enough already.

Erida thought of Lord Thornwall and his words in the council chamber, when he’d given her his measure of the Madrentine campaign. It felt like looking back across a canyon. As if her life were split in two: before Taristan’s proposal, his promise, her choice—and after.

They turned from Cor road at the last moment they could, maneuvering the Queen’s great procession off the wide, ancient byway and onto rockier ground. The shadow of Vergon fell over them, but Erida did not feel its cold. She smiled up at the ruined castle and slid gracefully from horseback.

Taristan was nowhere in sight at the base of the hill, nor on the narrow path cut through the thorns to Vergon above. His own guard, a detachment of grizzled soldiers from the Ascal garrison, busied themselves with widening the thorn path. They hacked at the bloomless vines with swords and axes, making more of a mess.

When she approached, they jumped to attention, each man freezing in place. Their captain was easy to pick out, a green-edged cloak over his shoulder.

“Your Majesty,” he said, dropping to a knee as best he could in full plate.

Erida nodded. “Captain,” she said. “I assume my husband is in the ruins?”

“He is, Your Majesty,” the captain answered hurriedly. “His Highness requested we wait here,” he added, almost apologetic. His teeth worried at his lip.

She fixed on her brilliant smile, tugging the corners of her mouth toward her ears. “You were good to obey the prince consort,” she said with courtly grace.

The captain heaved a sigh, relieved, as Erida turned to her companions. They hung back on their horses or at the door of the coach, peering out at the landscape with fascination.

“Ladies, there’s no need for all of us to ruin our skirts,” the Queen called to them. “You may wait here with the captain. I’m sure his men will take good care of you all.”

Judging by the captain’s flush and the sly glances passed around her ladies-in-waiting, no one would object.

That left only the Lionguard to accompany her, the six knights in their golden armor, their green cloaks like spring among the dark thorns. More than a few snagged on the climb up the hill.

Again, Erida felt Prevail in her hand, the marriage sword planted between herself and her husband, their defense against the world. And each other.

A vaulted arch remained where the doors to Vergon’s great hall used to be, half choked by an ash tree. Its leaves were tinged yellow, another herald of autumn. She paused, laying a hand against rough bark.

“I’ll call for you if needed,” she said, glancing at her escort.

The knights stared back, stern beneath their helms. They wanted to refuse, she knew. Before the changing of her world, she would have heeded their judgment. But the Lionguard could do little if Taristan and the wizard turned on her. Her husband could not be harmed by weapons of the Ward. His accomplice was Spindletouched, crawling with magic. It made no difference if her knights followed at close range or waited for her screams, to come charging to glory and death.

Sir Emrid made a noise low in his throat when she turned her back, stepping through the archway. He was only a year older than the Queen, the newest recruit to the Lionguard, and the least disciplined. She kindly ignored his attempt to check the Queen of Galland, leaving her knights behind.

The roof of the great hall was gone, broken all over the ruins in ragged piles of stone and mortar. Moss lay across everything in a velvet blanket, the stone blocks like lumps beneath. It was springy under her feet, soft to walk on. Her boots left light indentations. So had his.

She followed the footprints.

Erida felt the all too familiar sensation of being watched. She wondered if the ghosts of the people who used to live here still clung to the stones. Were they following her now, whispering about the Queen of Galland as the rest of the world did?

She imagined what they might say.Married to a nobody. Four years a queen with nothing to show for it. No conquest, no victory.

Just wait,Erida told them.There is steel in me yet.

She found Taristan and the wizard in the old chapel, in front of the single intact window, its glass blue and red and golden. The goddess Adalen wept sapphire tears over the body of her mortal lover, his chest torn open by hounds of Infyrna, a realm of fire and judgment. Their forms retreated in the back of the glass, burning and unholy. Erida knew the scriptures. Adalen’s mortal gave his life to save the goddess from the fiery hounds. Strange, the scriptures never gave him a name.

Red Ronin knelt near the window but did not pray to it. Instead he put his back to the goddess while he whispered, eyes shut, his voice too low to hear. In the shadows of the chapel wall, Taristan prowled, a tiger with naked claws. His courtly attire was abandoned, traded for rough leathers and the same weatherworn cloak he’d first arrived in. He looked as far from queen’s consort as a man could be. The Spindleblade flashed in his hand, drawn from its sheath. The steel was clean, a mirror to the blue-and-white sky.

His eyes met Erida’s like lightning finding the earth.

She stopped walking, holding her ground. The air crackled between them, the work of a Spindle. Torn or close enough to feel. Burning or willing to burn. She sucked in a breath of air, wanting to taste it.