Page 144

When I am old, an empress without equal, I will remember this day. When it all began.

She felt Konegin’s glare, familiar as her own face. He had no cause to be angry. He wanted this war as much as any other good son of Galland. Madrence was weak, unworthy of its lands and wealth. It needed a stronger master.He only wishes he were me, his feet in my shoes, my crown on his head.And what a crown it was this morning: her father’s own, made for battle, a circle of gold hammered into a steel cap. Her hair hung loose beneath it, falling over her shoulders in waves. Erida was not accustomed to steel, but her armor was light, made from precious metal, meant for ceremony rather than war. She had not bothered with a sword, even for show.

“A beautiful morning, Cousin,” she said, drinking down another gasp of crisp autumn air. In the foothills, the leaves were turning, edges going red and gold.

Konegin huffed a noise in his throat, low and wet. “I’ll weigh the morning when evening comes,” he answered, folding his arms over his golden breastplate. It matched his luxurious beard, every hair combed into place. He looked the part of a king.

But so does Taristan,she thought, his hand still supporting her own.

Again he wore blood red beneath his armor, which was crimson and scarlet with a cloak edged in gold. The colors reflected oddly in his eyes, giving them a sheen like rubies. He brushed his hair back, slicking the dark red locks against his scalp. By now she noticed that one of his eyebrows had a split in it, cut by the tiniest white scar.

The cuts were still on his cheek, thin but unmissable, the same blue as the veins in her wrist. She wanted to trace them, one finger to each.

“You’ll lose a thousand men by nightfall,” Taristan muttered, his eyes never leaving the river. His wizard was not with them, cooped up with his own doings back at Castle Lotha. “The Madrentines are dug in between their forts. Their trench lines are as deep as our own. Even if we outnumber them five to one, it will be a killing field.”

His voice was flat, without accusation.

“A thousand men for the border,” Erida answered. “A thousand men for a clear road to Rouleine, and then Partepalas, and then the coast.”

A clear road.

They both knew what that meant.

Though the Spindle was back in the ruins, guarded by an encampment of five hundred men, she could still hear the growl within it, the shuddering cascade of gems and teeth.

“For the glory of Galland,” Konegin rumbled, putting a fist over his heart.

Though she despised him, the Queen didn’t mind echoing his words, the battle cry that had lived in her since birth. “For the glory of Galland.”

The others followed suit, the great generals and lords cheering for their country. Their voices swelled as one, thunderous to meet the first echoing clash of steel at the river.

Only Taristan remained silent and staring, his eyes rimmed in red, his fingers soft in Erida’s own.

The Madrentine campaign headquartered at Lotha, the grander of the two castles close to the first assault. Once the field was won, they would move further downriver, keeping the Rose between themselves and danger. More legions would follow, already marching from the corners of Galland to bolster their conquest through the soft valleys of Madrence.

Erida had never been on campaign before, not truly. The morning began with battle and the night ended with feasting, the great lords toasting each other and their splendid performance on the field. Beer flowed and wine spilled along the tables of the Lotha hall, every head spinning with drink or battle or both. Indeed, a thousand men had been lost through the day, but miles had been gained, the Madrentines driven out of the forests and into their crumbling fortress to await siege. The day had been a rousing success.

And tomorrow will be another,Erida thought, bringing a third glass of wine to her lips. She surveyed the feasting chamber laid out before her, her version of a battlefield.

Lotha was no palace—built to defend the border, not entertain royalty—but it was comfortable enough to pass the days. The hall was tiny compared to Erida’s own back in Ascal, and crammed with Gallish nobility, most of them falling over themselves this late in the evening. Many toasted the Queen, shouting her blessings, praising her boldness and courage. Her kingdom had not conquered in years. She was hungry. She was ready, an eager horse pawing at the gate. Erida felt it in herself, as she felt it in her crown.

Her husband did not enjoy feasts, or most of the posturing required of a royal consort. He sat in silence, eating little, drinking little, speaking to a select few and only when forced. It was the same tonight, his eyes lowered to the plate of wild boar set in front of him.

“Will Ronin be joining us this evening?” she muttered, careful to angle her voice. Konegin was never far from her side, separated by only a few seats, and he often weaseled his way into their conversations, scrabbling for crumbs.

The corners of her husband’s mouth pulled downward into a frown. “He will come in his own time,” he answered. The shadow in his eyes burned red. “Whenever that might be.”

Erida leaned closer, hiding her mouth with the goblet. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” he said, voice flat as his stare. It was the truth, without adornment. Then he raised an eyebrow, his lips curling. “Are you going to scold me again? Tell me to make friends among your simpering nobles?”

The Queen scoffed into her wine, taking another sip. It tasted of cherries. “Allies, not friends. There are no friends to be had here,” she said quickly, almost in singsong. The same creed had been hammered into her since childhood. “Besides, I’m growing accustomed to your taciturn manner.”

“Taciturn.”

“It means—”

“I know what it means,” he said, leaning back in his seat. It put some distance between them, and Erida found herself disliking it. He carried a heat with him, a comfort in the cold stone of an old, dreary castle. She watched, waiting for the telltale flash of red anger in his stare. It never surfaced, his gaze on his plate, his eyes like obsidian. “Orphans can grow to intelligence, even those raised in the mud.”