Page 24 of Queen of Legends and Lies (Dragons of Tirene #4)

Chapter Twenty

I enter the cavernous throne room with Sterling, my heart racing as every head swivels our way and the assembled crowd sinks into curtsies and bows.

Heat rises in my cheeks as we proceed down the long aisle toward the distant pair of thrones, hundreds of eyes tracking our measured steps. Sterling’s hand slips into mine, his fingers interlacing with my own.

A wash of emotions floods through me at his touch.

Relief that he’s here beside me. Gratitude for his steady presence. Certainty that together, we can navigate the treacherous waters of court politics.

He’s my anchor, my partner. United, we’re unshakable.

As we ascend the steps of the dais, I sense the undercurrent of unease rippling through the crowd.

Furtive glances dart between me—their newly crowned and inexperienced queen—and Prince Knox, the man they expected to be their king.

Several council members linger on the fringes, their faces inscrutable masks as they observe.

The steward steps forward to usher in the first petitioner, but I rise to my feet to halt the proceedings. The rustling of my gown stills the restless murmurs.

I stare out at the sea of my people, willing my voice not to tremble.

“I know how strange this must seem. Beside me is your previous crowned prince, and yet I am the queen sitting on the throne. I want you all to understand and be assured this will be made official soon. Prince Knox and I are a team. He will be king, just as I am queen. We will rule together, as co-monarchs. His word carries the same weight as my own.”

Tension bleeds out of the room as I retake my seat.

With the unspoken question answered, the people settle. I release a slow breath. One hurdle cleared, a kingdom’s worth still to go.

I ease into the throne’s plush velvet set as the steward summons the first petitioner.

Sterling leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “Damn, woman?—”

“Woman?” I cut my eyes at him.

A beat passes until he curls his lips at the corners. “Damn, my queen.”

A grin tugs at my mouth as I face forward again, watching as the first supplicant is led to the foot of the dais. That shouldn’t have sounded nearly as sexy as it did. Or warm every inch of my body.

A farmer, his rough-spun tunic threadbare at the elbows, bows low, anxiety etched into the lines of his weathered face.

I nod for him to speak, silently congratulating myself on the morning’s proceedings thus far. The people seem appeased, their fears quelled by my show of unity with Sterling. Perhaps this monarching business won’t be so difficult after?—

The wedding.

The royal wedding.

The enormity of such a task crashes over me.

A thousand details, a hundred traditions, nobles and dignitaries and gods all to appease.

My fingers tighten on the arms of the throne, the gold filigree identical to the one Sterling sits on beside me.

What in the hells have I gotten myself into?

I should abdicate right now, shove the crown at Sterling and let him?—

The farmer clears his throat, dragging me back to the moment.

Right.

The morning’s petitions.

Deep breaths. One task at a time. You can do this, and you’re not alone.

I shake off my spiraling thoughts, determined to give my full attention to my people.

For hours, they come. Peasants in patched woolens, merchants with ink-stained fingers, even a few nobles, their silks whispering across the flagstones. They lay their troubles at the feet of the throne, pleading for aid, for justice, for intervention.

I do my best to answer them, to be the queen they need. I pronounce judgments and dole out rulings, acutely aware of Sterling’s solid presence at my side.

The council members hover in my periphery, their gazes heavy on my skin.

It all seems so straightforward.

Listen, decide, decree.

I allow myself to relax fractionally as the morning wears on. Maybe I have a knack for this being queen business. The supplicants all appear satisfied by my decisions, bowing and scraping as they back away.

Only the pinched expressions on a few councilors’ faces give me pause.

They exchange telling glances as yet another petitioner departs, but I lift my chin and ignore them, inviting the next citizen to approach. The dissenters are in the minority, though surely, they’ll come around given time.

As the next supplicant comes forward, Sterling shifts beside me, one dark brow arching. I tilt my head, trying to decipher his message, but he merely nods toward the man now kneeling before the dais.

A soldier, by his armor and bearing. He launches into an impassioned plea, hands gesturing as he describes a territorial dispute with a neighboring lord. The details fly over me, my mind still on Sterling’s unspoken warning.

I’m opening my mouth, ready to render a decision, when Sterling leans in. “If I may, Your Highness.”

Curious, I chew my lip but give him a nod, keeping my voice low. “What would you do?”

He addresses the knight in measured tones, asking pointed questions that reveal new facets of the conflict. The issue is thornier than I realized.

This land disagreement is not new.

In fact, it’s based on several conflicting land disputes that have been brought to court several times over the years. There are decades-long grudges and shifting borders to consider.

Things I had no idea about, and the man didn’t address them until Sterling’s careful probing.

“So, all this is based off a copy of the original border drawing, which was anchored on the bed of a creek that drifts over time.” Sterling expertly puts together all the fine points of the grievance.

“Uh…yes, Your Majesty. I suppose that’s one way to put it. But I was told?—”

Sterling waves him off, then beckons a guard closer. “What we’re going to do is ask the priest of Rivlan, the God of Water, to find the original creek bed. Then the guard will drive an iron stake into the ground. From that time forth, your border will be based on that marker.”

The petitioner looks at the guard, then back at Sterling, and then at me. I nod, agreeing with the solution.

It’s perfect. And like nothing I would’ve devised.

As the man bows deeply and retreats, I fight to keep my own face impassive. Sterling made that appear effortless. Kingly, even.

“How’d I do?” Sterling pitches his voice low, for my ears only. There’s no mistaking the hint of smugness beneath his words.

“Eh.” I place my hand on the arm of the throne, displaying four fingers. “Maybe three and a half.”

Sterling’s brows snap together. “Three and a half?” His tone drips with affront, though his eyes dance.

I’d never admit this, but something in my chest unclenches at his playfulness. It’s a welcome respite from the morning’s tensions. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

His quiet laughter rumbles through me as the herald signals the next citizen.

I straighten my spine, lifting my chin. “I’ve got this one.” Maybe I’m not trained, but I learn fast. And I’m eager to prove myself.

Sterling settles back in his throne, the picture of easy insolence. He crosses his arms over his broad chest, one corner of his mouth ticking up. “By all means, my queen. Dazzle us.”

I narrow my eyes, but I can’t entirely suppress the grin that’s sprouted.

A farmer limps toward us, face haggard. I grant him my attention, determined to prove myself a worthy ruler, with or without Sterling’s aid. I am the queen, after all.

The farmer sketches a clumsy bow, his work-roughened hands trembling. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty. I come seeking recompense for the loss of my barley crop, on account of the unexpected flooding.”

My stomach clenches with sudden guilt. I fight to maintain my neutral expression. “The flooding only days ago?”

“That’s the one.” The farmer twists his hat between his hands, eyes fixed on the polished marble floor. “The waters rose swift and fierce, with no warning. Ruined the whole of the crop.”

I press my lips together, my mind racing. That flood…was my doing. My loss of control. Sterling’s water magic tangled up with my own elemental fire.

The destructive force of our combined magic still haunts me.

The farmer clears his throat, drawing my wandering thoughts back to the moment.

“I wouldn’t bother you with this usually, Majesty.

But my grandmother, she always told us the old stories.

Said when the fields flood without rain, and black-eyed souls start whispering on the wind, and the Ash Queen takes the throne…

the crops won’t last the season. Not unless the prophecy comes to pass.

I always thought it was just a tale. But now… ”

Ash Queen.

My breath catches in my throat. Black-eyed souls…the corrupted. And the Ash Queen. I chance a glance at Sterling, but his face betrays nothing.

Phoenix borne, my magic burns hot as the pyre. Ash follows in my wake, it seems, no matter how I might wish otherwise. Ash is death, and I am the Ash Queen, whether this man knows it or not.

Dread forms a thousand tiny knots in my stomach.

I’m the Ash Queen.

The farmer regards me expectantly, hope and desperation warring in his weathered face.

Sterling leans forward, his shoulder brushing mine. “The crown recognizes the hardship you and your neighbors face. The royal coffers will provide you with a years’ worth of payment, for you, your family, and those neighbors who share in this struggle.”

The farmer’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open in shock. He drops to his knees, pressing his forehead to the polished marble floor. “Thank you, Your Majesties.” His voice is thick with emotion. “Thank you. My family is so very grateful.”

As the guard gently guides the man to his feet and escorts him from the hall, I turn to Sterling, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The words repeat in my mind, till they spill out of my mouth in a hysterical whisper.

“I am the Ash Queen.” My hand comes to rest over my heart, as if I could somehow hold the truth inside.

“I bring crop destruction. The crops won’t last the season. ”

Sterling’s eyes meet mine, stormy and intense. Beneath the edge of the dais, his hand finds my knee, and his touch grounds me. “You are Lark. My queen, my love. No matter what some ancient tale a farmer’s grandmother told.”

I want to believe him. Want to let his conviction wash away the guilt and sorrow churning in my gut. But the weight of the crown, our people’s expectations, and the farmer’s tale…all press down on me.

I am the Ash Queen, bringer of death and ruin.