Page 22 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

Anais

Anais flipped a knife, blade to handle to blade. She considered shredding a few of the scrolls piled on the table. They all said the same thing—skirmish lost, battle won, casualties minimal, raid successful.

Nothing about Castien.

The scrolls arrived daily now. Both she and Yelena refused to declare outright war or commit too many forces. Any more troop movement could tip the balance. Regardless, the other nations were not blind. All borders across the continent were seeing escalated activities. If winter were not approaching, war would already have erupted.

As it stood, they needed as much time as possible. The rebels had finally sent their messenger today. The boy only waited for the end of this meeting.

Anais looked to Laureline, who shook her head. "Castien has been moved to Queen Yelena’s private wing. We don’t have eyes there. But he’s still alive—she references him openly."

A taunting tactic. It would stir her court of snakes, at least.

Vern spoke. "We could use our team…"

She understood Vern’s hesitation. That team was part of a plan years in the making. Revealing them now would ruin all their work. Nonetheless, she considered it for a moment longer than she should have. "No. We can’t risk them. Is anyone else nearby? Not to kill. Retrieval only. "

Laureline shared a look with Vern, then said, "They are all in the field. We may need to wait. Nadraken is likely to return him, as they have all the others."

Anais ran her finger along the edge of her knife. "It’s been two moons. He’s an Escort. They may not return him."

All the nations participated in this terrible game—kidnap, break, return. The goal of one side was to heal the damage, the other to push the victim beyond sanity’s edge forever. Every one of their people had been brought back from madness, but sometimes it was a close thing, and few of them were unchanged. None of them had been high-ranking nobles. None had been held for more than a moon.

She stabbed the knife into the table. There was nothing she could do. Still. "Update me on any changes. Captain, send for the messenger."

The rebel messenger came in through the servant's entrance this time. A young boy, his worn clothes covered in dirt, but there was meat on his bones. He looked around curiously. "Daym’n wants ta meet naow."

"Now? Today?" She raised a brow.

He nodded. "Righ’ naow. ‘E’s waitin’ wi’ tha soljers."

The urgency was strange after their reluctance so far, but the timing was fortunate.

She addressed Jerome. "Take the boy and bring Damon here."

Vern frowned as soon as they left. "A Queen at the beck and call of a rebel? And we’re allowing him here ? I don’t like this."

"He’s Castien’s friend—they must have heard about his capture," she reasoned. "We can use that. Besides, he wouldn’t have come without a very good offer." While Vern referred to the Queen's Wing, she indicated the palace itself. The rebel leader was either very brave or very foolish to walk into what could easily be his death.

Laureline waved her teacup. "I think it's a fantastic opportunity for an alliance. A pity it involves the suffering of one of our own, of course, but we all understand that the nation's needs are above our own."

Anais closed her eyes briefly. Castien hadn't volunteered for any of this. Each of her Escorts understood the court and their purpose before joining. They knew what they were getting into.

Vern glanced at her with a raised brow. She shook her head slightly. Laureline meant well.

"We shall see what he says," she agreed.

The man that strode through the study's doors was tall, broad, and ruggedly handsome. She would have estimated him to be a decade older than Castien, though she knew him to be about the same age. The difference between a luxurious life, and a life lived in poverty and constant struggle. He wore the likely stolen uniform well, though he displayed more arrogance than discipline.

He lazily took in the room, then swept his eyes over her. "You're smaller than I thought you'd be. Practically tiny."

Jerome stiffened. "She's the Queen."

Damon raised a brow. "Does he always state the obvious, or is that just for me?"

"Banter is a waste of breath. You are here to help us rescue Castien. Is that correct?" Anais said.

His eyes dipped to her chest. "Pity. Pretty but boring. Yes, my dear, I want to help my friend. I'd hoped you'd have managed it by now, seeing as how you have the army and the gold and the spies. I'm not sure how you think an alliance will work if you can't save one person. "

Jerome's hand gripped his sword, glaring at the rebel's back.

"Captain, have a seat. Damon, please." She gestured toward a chair. "We can discuss everything while you're here."

Jerome complied, but Damon sneered. "Not until Castien is safe. We have people in both courts. If your lackluster efforts match your priorities, then we have nothing to discuss."

"Bluster is even more useless than banter. What do you want?" she demanded.

His smile widened. "A straightforward royal, what a miracle. What do I want? Simple. Step down from your throne."

She offered him a bored, incredulous look. "Stop wasting my time."

He shrugged. "You asked what I wanted. Fine. How do I know his kidnapping wasn't set up? That you didn't throw him to the wolves for a convenient excuse for us to work together? Is that why you haven't saved him yet?"

Jerome shot to his feet, sword half-drawn before she snapped, "Escort." She turned to Damon. "I understand your lack of trust, but do not question our loyalty to our people. Castien is mine ." If he knew her better, the sharp possession in her tone would mean something. She carefully ignored Vern’s scowl.

Damon held her gaze, then shrugged and changed his tune. "Why don’t we get all this tension out of the air with a good spar? I’ve heard stories of the beautiful and deadly Queen, and I’ve always wondered how true they are."

She scoffed at his unexpected suggestion. "Kill me later. We need to work together for Castien’s sake."

He smirked. "Oh, I’ve no intention of killing you today. My friend should be here to see you fall."

After what Castien had suffered, the chances were good that he’d like that. Her lips thinned. "If you want to spar, pick your weapon. Otherwise—"

"Sword." The man's smile disappeared. His expression and his word were both serious and intense. He wanted a fight. Was that truly what he was here for? To kill her?

Best disabuse him of the notion quickly. She rapped her claws on the table. "You cannot kill me, if that's what you're hoping for. The rumors are more than true."

His teeth bared in a wolf's grin. "I thought you had no use for bluster. Fight me, or we are done here. I have information you need if you truly want to save Castien. One of my people brings him meals every day."

He had access.

"The Queen does not spar with rebels," Jerome growled.

"Your dog needs a muzzle."

Jerome’s expression shuttered, displaying cold disdain as though Damon were a noble. Yes, this man would be difficult to work with, but he had access.

She stood, drawing sharp looks from her Escorts. "Swords it is."

Damon laughed. "I'm eager to see how a Queen fights! Give me my sword, dog."

Jerome spoke through clenched teeth. "You will be using our practice blades—"

"Live blades are fine, Captain. Return his weapon." Her Escorts could have a fit later. This proud man needed her to prove something.

Jerome hesitated. It was a rare sight, and this rebel wouldn't recognize it for anything other than a slightly extended glare. Her captain never disobeyed, but these moments made her wonder what it would take.

Then he walked out and returned with a sheathed sword. "The weapon will be given to you in the practice yard."

She allowed Jerome his caution. Gesturing at the door, she said, "After you, Damon."

He turned without bowing and followed Jerome.

Vern stopped her. "Why are you doing this? This could just be a bluff so he can attempt to kill you."

"Then he dies and we waste a little time. He can't hurt me." Arrogance wasn’t why she assumed victory without even watching the man fight. Besides lifelong training, she had survived multiple assassination attempts, and led plenty of border skirmishes. From Castien’s brief description, Damon had less than a half dozen years of experience with a sword. Enough to be good, but she’d practically been born with a weapon in her hand.

As she continued past Vern, she noted, "And I don't think he's bluffing. He has something we need and he knows it."

She quickly changed into basic leathers. Assassinations and skill aside, it would be arrogance to ignore all preparation.

Damon was stretching when she entered the yard. The rebel eyed her form-fitting armor, pausing at every feminine curve. He smirked, his eyes dragging up her body to rest on her full lips.

Anais' hand curled on the sword at her hip, loosening the strap. "First blood?" she offered mildly.

Damon's smile spread. "Till surrender. Let's have some fun."

She nodded curtly, ignoring their glaring audience.

"What does a Queen use her blade for, anyway?" Damon asked idly when she stepped into a flattened circle of dirt. "Chopping off heads? Slicing up insolent servants?"

Cold settled into her eyes. She had done that and worse, but the rebel wouldn’t understand. Steel shone in the sunlight as she idly spun the blade. This wasn’t the jeweled pommel and gold-threaded hilt with a needle-thin blade that she wore in court. A practical guard’s weapon was heavier, dull in appearance but the edge no less sharp. Both were familiar in her hands, though this sword was preferable; it didn’t always mean cruelty.

"Are we dueling with swords or words?" She took a ready stance.

"Why not both? Are they really that different?" Nonetheless, he lunged into a probing, short feint.

She didn’t move. "What does a peasant know of either? Tell me, who were your tutors?" Her feet barely shifted while he circled her.

"Oh, none as illustrious as yours, I’m sure." Another test strike, followed by an upstroke across her chest. She parried, shifted sideways, then slid her blade inside his reach but he leaped aside. Quick. Not a bad swordsman.

"Skills and titles have little in common. Was your father a knight?" she asked.

"A few knights helped me refine my technique before they died on my blade. Necessity and survival were my tutors."

"Raise your forearm a touch, your angle lets me reach—yes, good." She smiled slightly as his expression darkened. "My tutors were knights and generals. My tutors were also equally skilled children my age and older, who wanted nothing more than to embarrass, hurt, or kill me." She struck, increasing her speed with every few words.

"My mother put a blade in my hand before I could walk."

He was keeping up but sweating, while her movements remained swift and efficient, her eyes cold.

"I made my first kill when I was nine."

He stumbled, fell backward out of her reach, but bounced to his feet quickly.

"A few years after that, the adults began noticing me. When they realized they couldn’t overpower me without a blade or claw finding their throat, they tried less direct means." He lunged again, flinging sand and dirt at her face. Her eyes closed and she parried blindly but perfectly. This time, she stepped into his reach with her blade pressed to his throat.

Her eyes opened, free of dust. "Only one lord caught me. I cut off his wandering hands," she whispered, coldly analyzing his shocked, momentarily doubt-filled eyes.

A princess didn’t have the luxury of being hidden in safety.

"Do you surrender?" she asked louder.

Damon's eyes flashed with hate and anger. A few seconds later, he unclenched his jaw and dropped his sword, smiling. "I surrender, fair lady."

She stepped back. The rage was gone, but now she knew it was there, underlining every word he spoke.

He bowed. "Well fought, my lady. So the rumors are true. I'm glad to see you're no weak puppet."

Jerome closed in to pick up the rebel's weapon. She waved him away. "Keep your sword, Damon. Let's talk about the alliance and what you can do in Nadraken."

He picked up his sword while her Escorts surrounded her. A mocking smile graced his lips as he stepped back. "Castien first. If he comes out of this alive, we'll see about the rest. So, what has prevented his rescue?"

Her newest Escort would likely be alive, despite her fears. It was his sanity she truly doubted. The mask that slid over that thought was too natural.

"We do not have eyes on him. He was moved out of the dungeons by the time we were ready, and they have increased security in the halls we believe he's being held in. Going in blind could get him and my people killed." She paused. "Why have you not made the attempt? "

He chuckled. "I’m flattered you think I have that kind of reach. One or two spies in Nadraken does not a rebellion make. Or a rescue."

They returned to the study, where the fire had been lit and warm drinks waited. Damon chose a cushioned chair off to the side.

"As for you… I thought it was something like that. Or ineptitude," he smirked. "Our inside man is a long-established servant in their court. A eunuch and a mute, they think he's harmless. No one will suspect him."

He paused. The arrogance melted from his face, replaced by a touch of the anger she'd seen earlier.

"Castien is in their Queen's… playroom, she calls it. Our spy only sees him once a day, in the evening. His last report said that our friend has many scars, is very thin, and doesn't talk." The hot rage in his eyes blinked away. A mask like her own, if less well refined.

She glanced at Thakris to take over. Vern’s protégé would handle this undertaking.

The Escort asked, "He's in the same room every evening? Is it locked? Heavily guarded?"

Damon answered efficiently. Not so difficult to work with, once they got past the bluster.

Eventually, Thakris turned to her. "I'll accompany our new friend out of the palace, and sort through the details. We will bring Castien back, my Queen."

Doable without too much risk. Hope was a fragile spark that could kindle the raging flames of war. The Queen nodded her permission.

"See you soon, my dear." Damon's eyes wandered over her again before they left.

Jerome barely waited for the door to close. "Can we trust an insolent, crude rebel?"

"Without Damon's help, the risk would be too high," Thakris replied.

The captain frowned. "Do we need to rely on a dangerous criminal to rescue the most expendable one of us? An Escort with no purpose."

"Like Madeline?" Anais asked quietly.

Jerome flinched, his cheeks coloring.

She touched his arm. "You know I don't mean that she's useless. She is one of us, and she is my friend. Castien is one of us as well. I brought him into this, and I will not abandon him."

He bowed his head.

Her lips thinned. She wasn’t unhappy with the rebel developments; things were progressing as expected. Laureline had done exceptional work, the policy changes just enough to wake the people but not too much as to anger the nobles. Everything was a balance, a scale they could only guess at.

No, Anais wasn't worried about the rebels. But Castien… Every day he spent in Nadraken made it more likely they'd receive his corpse as a gift. She'd seen plenty of death, had caused an abundance of it herself, but this body—this particular corpse—might just break her.

—

Another barely-tolerable council session scraped at her patience. As always, Duchess Satryani pushed for war, her sycophants supporting her cause. Anais was finding it more difficult by the day not to agree with her. Even the opposing voices of the council were weak. Nadraken had pushed them all too far, and none of her nobles were truly opposed to war. They liked to bicker and banter and curry favor, but the idea of blood and death lightened their moods.

Fools .

The moment one nation declared war, all of them would take the opportunity. Drantar’s legions would never be capable of taking on every other nation at once. It was always a risk. Situated at the center of the land and surrounded by enemies, Drantar served as bait and buffer for all.

Thankfully, the heavy rains and coming cold weather forced Nadraken to stay on their side of the border. For now.

The Queen managed to sit through the pointless bickering. Best to let them vent and think she was listening than ignore them entirely.

—

When evening finally came around, she relaxed on a large, cushioned seat with her feet propped on a soft stool. Her outer chambers, public bedroom, dark playroom—whichever name they called it—was its usual dimly lit self. Most of her toys were put away, setting a simple scene of luxury and comfort. The intention wasn’t to frighten the Master of Shadows, just intimidate.

Today would have marked the last day of Castien’s bond. His birthday, spent in Nadraken’s dungeons. The Queen ruthlessly shut down that line of thought, buried it behind every single layer of her masks.

The Night Courts had made inquiries toward their lost courtesan. Their letters only asked after his well-being since Castien no longer belonged to the Houses, but they clearly still considered him an asset.

A knock and Master Iberius entered, pausing in the dark entryway .

Her door closed with a firm thud.

He bowed low, doing himself credit by not flinching. "My Queen. Your elegance and grace shines even brighter in darkness."

Stretching her feet, she beckoned. "Come. Sit. And be of use, will you, dear Iberius?" she purred.

The Master was not easily cowed, gliding forward to settle on the chair and casually take one of her feet into his skilled hands. "My Queen. You wished brevity last we spoke. If I may, has Castien been recovered?"

She considered him silently, watching his fingers apply the perfect pressure. Leaning back, she sighed. "Oh, Iberius. Your hands are a delight. Have you ever pleasured a client just by touching their feet?"

"Not yet, my Queen. I would be honored to be of service, though I am far from experienced these days."

She closed her eyes and let his not-at-all inexperienced fingers wander, first relaxing both feet, then slowly, firmly rubbing and brushing the sensitive skin of her calves. After a few minutes of enjoying his work, she spoke idly. "It occurs to me that the Night Courts could hire their own guards. There’s a veritable legion of my troops at your doors—it must be oppressive. I should recall them—they would be more useful in the war games with Nadraken."

He replied with ease, "An unnecessary burden on both our coffers, my Queen. We have always greatly appreciated the military and crown's support. And I cannot speak for the other Houses."

That was a lie—the others followed where Shadows led. Though she wondered how much of that was Castien’s influence. She let it go.

"If I remember correctly, Castien’s stipend is available for his use today?" An impressive amount, even by her nobles’ standards .

Iberius’ fingers continued without pause. "Yes, my Queen. Is he available to sign for the transfer of funds?"

"I’ll take care of it."

His massage hesitated for a heartbeat. "Of course, my Queen."

The Master knew of Castien’s kidnap. It wasn’t a secret; all the nobles were aware.

She contemplated him. "Is that the second or third time you’ve lied to me today?"

Iberius met her eyes. "My Queen? I would never lie to you."

"What do you want, Iberius?" she snapped, her voice crackling with ice. "Why are you here, asking questions of my Escort?"

The Master’s calm exterior was betrayed by the slight tension of two fingers on his left hand. He quickly disguised the reaction, ruminating silently as he massaged her feet for a few breaths. But he responded as though he had already thought this over. "When you made him an Escort, I knew he was lost to us. So the only question remains is his life. If he is dead, his stipend is forfeit. You believe he is still alive. If he lives, then Nadraken has been holding him for two moons. He will need extensive healing."

Facts that she did not need to be reminded of. She waited.

He inhaled slowly, his hands falling as he met her gaze.

"Does he still live?" he asked softly. That look in his eyes…

She didn’t need to hide her surprise. "You care for this courtesan."

"My Queen. I raised him from childhood."

Her surprise smoothed into casual disdain—the Queen’s for weakness, hers for his twisted love. He cared, but not enough to remove Castien from a life of servitude, where rape was the punishment for disobedience.

"By last report, yes. He lives."

"Will he… I apologize, but I must ask. Will he return to Drantar?"

A Master of the Night Courts had no business asking the Queen about court problems.

She gave him the same answer as her council. "I do not allow my property to be stolen. My Escorts always return to my side, Master Iberius. I suggest you unburden yourself of any lingering… fondness you may have for this courtesan."

Iberius bowed. "Yes, my Queen. My apologies for overstepping. Thank you for seeing me."

The Dark Queen wouldn’t let him go so easily. She shouldn’t.

"Good night, Master Iberius."

If only the other Queens had a drop of empathy.