Page 147 of Fate Breaker

It was easy to slump against her husband, letting her limbs turn to water. To the ladies, it would seem their queen was overtaken by grief. They all knew Harrsing was as a mother to her, not to mention a valued advisor.

“Oh,” she mumbled against Taristan’s shoulder, her face pressed against him. She felt his arm go around her back, keeping her steady.

“She went in her sleep, it seems. It was peaceful,” the foolish woman kept on. “I cannot tell you how sorry—”

“Leave us,” Taristan snarled.

Confronted with the full weight of the prince’s fury, the lady gave a sound like a mouse being stepped on. Then slammed the door, leaving them both in silence.

Safely alone, Erida swallowed around a lump in her throat. Sighing, she stepped back from Taristan and looked up at him with dry, unyielding eyes. Once more, he studied her, and she let him stare. If he searched for grief, he would not find it.

“At least I am already wearing the colors of mourning,” she said, gesturing down to the gray and silver.

It was admission enough.

“You knew,” he muttered.

“I knew,” she answered, re-lacing her collar over her exposed throat. “What’s done is done.”

Taristan curled his lip. “What’s done is done.”

It was easier than Erida thought, in the end.

She unfurled one of Thornwall’s maps, the one marked with every fortress, every garrison, the legions mapped out in red ink. Her advisors looked on in silence as she traced a line from Ascal across the continent.

Calidon.

There had been opposition. Calidon was a poor kingdom. She would be a small jewel in an already blazing crown. The Gallish legions had just returned. It was still winter, and provisions would be expensive, if not impossible to find. Feeding the armies might empty the royal treasury, let alone seed revolt among the minor lords and their men-at-arms. She heard none of it. Not the state of the mountain passes. Not the danger of traveling by sea.

Nothing was impossible, not for her. Not for Taristan.

Not for the demon god in their veins.

She felt him as she could feel the crown on her head, the jewels on her hands.

Taristan was right.

It was like being a god in human skin, pure power sliding through her veins.

What Waits did not speak as she imagined He would, now that the door was opened, the table set. The feast prepared and waiting to be devoured.Let me in, let me staystill echoed, but only in memory. His whispers were no longer in a language she knew, but something hissing and tangled, punctuated by the click of teeth. She felt His breath on the back of her neck, sometimes hot and humid, sometimes shivering cold. The darkness never changed, though, black and empty as the space between stars. Deeper even than Taristan’s eyes.

To her relief, she understood Him still. His wishes moved in her, prodding, sometimes the lava flow, sometimes the river. She could fight them whenever she liked, letting the water break against her. Digging her feet into the mud, steeling her body against the never-ending pressure.

Sometimes it was easier to be swept along.

The touch of Him was terrible and glorious. And as Taristan said, the only answer was balance.

Erida practiced it every day, safe behind her intricate veils. It was better to wear them, sheer silk studded with gemstones or embroidered with delicate lace. The last thing she needed was a noble to run screaming, telling everyone their queen was possessed, her eyes made of flame.

Let them think I mourn Bella Harrsing, she thought as she donned the veils. Let them think me softhearted, if only for a little while.

The death of Lady Harrsing came and went, old news by the next morning. Her advisors and nobles forgot the loss of a single old woman. There was the business of war to think about.

But Erida did not forget, not in the last untouched corners of her heart.Bella wanted to help me, she told herself.And she has.

The city cheered as they rode out again, Erida and Taristan in all their splendor. They left behind a palace half destroyed, the harbor still in shambles, the smoldering wreck of the pirate attack still shifting on the wind. And somehow, none of it mattered to the commoners, not in the face of another victory. Another kingdom to win, another crown to bring home.

She was the Lioness, the Empress Rising. Her place was on the battlefield, not the throne.