Page 25 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

Anais

The late autumn sun was bright, the winds calm, the air cool but not too chill. The Queen turned in the menagerie, stepping toward her newly procured hawk. She’d set a guard on the bird this time. Every damned thing needed to be guarded these days.

"My Queen. A word, if I may."

Anais glanced toward that voice, changing directions and extending her fingers. "Lady Satryani. Please."

They stepped into an alcove.

The duchess settled on a bench, straight-backed and proper. "I hear we are doing well on the southern border. We should press our advantage."

Her Great-Aunt was never one for meaningless talk. It was one quality Anais appreciated. Possibly the only one.

The Queen stroked the length of her claws, one at a time. "That’s a conversation for the council, my lady."

"Is it? The path is clear. Reinforce our legions, drive into the heart of Nadraken, reunite our two nations into one."

Anais returned the lady’s hard stare. "As usual, you forget the other nations. We have already lost land to the north. If we refocus to the south, do you truly believe Delia would not also press their advantage? Akerami?"

Satryani leaned back, a faint frown on her wrinkled brow. "You and your mother have always been… different. I wonder sometimes how my sister would react to the Drantar you’ve built. "

"Queen Silvana knew only war and chaos. We would be no better than Nadraken if she still ruled. Do you deny the stability, wealth, and strength that we have now?"

She smiled. "Of course not, my Queen. But what purpose all of that if not to conquer? Are we not well-prepared to squash Nadraken, perhaps more?"

"Duchess." Anais’ smile was just as sharp. "If I remember my mother’s tales correctly, your fields once burnt to the ground, hmm, fifty years ago, during one of your sister’s wars. Many of your family were lost. Was it Nadraken or Akerami that managed to reach so far into our nation then?"

The duchess’ fervent love for her family was well-known. She would do anything to protect them. Yet the Gamuth family fell into the duchess’ circle three years ago, as soon as the banishment was announced. Right before her declawing, Crescelia Gamuth had been one of Satryani’s newest sycophants. Anais had no proof of her great-aunt’s involvement, nothing more than suspicion and bias.

The lady’s lips thinned. "Nadraken, as you well know."

"Yes. I understand your desire for vengeance. You will have it."

Satryani glanced away. "Of course, Queen Jana."

Anais raised a brow. "Are you feeling well, my lady?"

She turned back. "Hm? Oh. My apologies. You are so like your mother, I forget sometimes. Like one soul in another body."

Her eyes were strangely intent. Anais had no idea what to make of it. "You must be tired, my lady, to speak of this nonsense."

"Is it nonsense?"

Anais stifled a sigh. "My mother is quite dead, Lady."

"Ah, yes. Goddess rest her soul."

Anais and the Dark Queen were in agreement for once. "Delia’s goddess can rot. I’d not known you to give that useless drivel a moment of your time."

Satryani’s smile was just on the border of mockery. "The Goddess and I have more in common than I knew. Besides, at my age, it seems prudent."

Perhaps her aunt truly was becoming senile. Anais stood. "Good night, Duchess."

As the day passed, the strange conversation weighed on her. Satryani loved power and violence. The lady would never dirty her own claws, but she’d gladly send soldiers to their deaths. She hosted a tournament on her estate every moon, her colosseum’s battlefield often filled with starving and desperate peasants. The Goddess demanded blood and sacrifice. Perhaps that was all it was, a convenient joining of two similar ideals.

However, letting that vile religion take root was not an option. Delia’s appalling ways needed to stay far, far away from Drantar.

Anais summoned Laureline, the lady arriving with a teapot and a cup.

"Sorry," Laureline waved her teacup. "Can’t let this steep for too long. Gets a bit strong. What can I do for you, dear?"

Many years ago, Anais had demanded the lady address her by her title, as all nobles should. Laureline laughed, spilled some tea, and had her dagger at Anais’ nose before the liquid hit the ground. Each and every one of the Escorts knew well how to defend themselves. All except Castien.

"It could have waited a few minutes," Anais said. "Satryani spoke to me today. I’m wondering if she’s just behaving strangely or—"

As Laureline tucked herself into a seat, a guard burst into the study.

"My Queen! My lady." He bowed quickly, panting. "The steward— Lord Vern says to tell you— The back entrance— Your Escort—"

Anais was already out the door when he finally said, "They’re bringing Escort Castien in now!"

The servant’s entrance was quiet. She rushed past soldiers lining the hall, noted Vern and Octavius. It was too quiet.

Anais went still. "Is he…"

Vern murmured, "Almost here. A scout was sent ahead. He’s alive."

She could barely breathe. She wouldn’t quite believe it until he stood before her. Soft clattering and clopping drew closer. Horses, a wagon. The noise stopped.

Thakris ushered in two men carrying a stretcher. Anais stared as they hurried past.

"Octavius…" She couldn't find the words.

"I have him, Anais." The healer shot Vern a glance, who caught her before she knew she was falling.

She closed her eyes and curled into his arms, but the image of the man on the stretcher wouldn't leave her mind.

Gaunt, hollow-cheeked, skin and bones—she'd seen healthier looking corpses. And his skin—crisscrossing, rough white lines on previously smooth and unblemished muscle. Every inch of him was marked, only slightly lighter on his face. Recognizable. Barely. His wrists and ankles held old scars under the new raw redness from straining against his bindings.

He hadn't been cooperative, aware, or sane—struggling and pleading incomprehensibly as they carried him past. Their eyes had met for a half-second, and she’d hoped he’d recognize her, say something, anything—but he had only grinned, cracking dried lips that oozed fresh blood .

She'd seen this too many times, the madness and conditioning of torture. Castien, her beloved Castien, broken, his mind shattered beyond her reach.

She pressed her hand to the cold, rough stone floor. Her mask slid into place. The arms around her tightened. "Anais—"

She twisted out and up, Vern cursing as he grabbed his wrist, flexed his fingers. Sprained, not broken. He would be fine.

"Find me the General," the Queen commanded her guard.

"My Queen." The steward held her eyes but didn’t move from the ground. "Your Escorts wish an audience."

Silence and stillness rang in her ears as she watched the guard walk away. "Do you not trust me, Vern?"

"Hear us. Please."

They were chains, every one of them.

Chains she'd accepted, some of her own making.

It was difficult to let go of the hate and rage, which was more a part of the mask than a part of her. Or so she convinced herself. It had to be, because otherwise the dark court and the bitch Queen who tortured Castien would get what they wanted.

War.

There were pettier reasons for wars, though mostly before her mother took the throne. And a deep, desperate part of her yearned to release that bloodshed, dig her claws into the world and tear it apart. From that darkness rose her mask, making her a convincing Dark Queen. Even that bit sickened and frightened her, that she might one day give in to temptation and become that which she hated.

Her mother had known, had taught her to use and control every part of herself. One day, after Anais returned to the palace enraged at her siblings’ cruelties, Jana had pulled apart a flower, revealing a tiny thorn at its core.

‘My grandmother told me this tale, as her mother told her,’ she’d said, years ago when Anais first asked how to stop hating the cruel children and nobles. ‘Countless eons ago, before Drantar or Nadraken, before Queens and nobles, before humans walked these lands, there were gods and spirits. The gods formed animals from the earth, seas, and air, populating the world with a fantastic variety of life.

‘One of these gods formed humans modeled after this flower. It lures in small insects with a sweet scent, then the prick of its thorn paralyzes its prey so the flower can slowly digest its victim. All of us have a prickly core filled with the desire to hurt others. Some of us are more like cacti, prickly all over and untouchable. You and I, Anais, we have a thorn too.' She had pressed a hand to her chest.

‘Hate is a part of being human. You will hate and you will be angry and you must not suppress those feelings. Don’t poison yourself with your own thorn. Neither should you allow thorns to be all that you are.’

Her mother had given her the flower. ‘Wield those emotions. Cut, when you need to. Attack, if you must. But don't be a prickly cactus. Focus on your single, tiny thorn and let it sharpen your mind.'

Anais snipped the budding thorns and nodded once. "Gather the Escorts."

Nadraken would burn. Eventually.

Vern bowed his head.

—

The faces staring at her in the small side room held varying expressions of worry, sympathy, and anger. Even here, she maintained one vital layer of her mask—she was still the Queen.

She took her seat.

"Is your southern team prepared, Vern? "

He stiffened—the slightest set of his shoulder that no one else may have noticed. "Yes, my Queen."

The others certainly noted his curt reply.

Laureline was the first to catch on. "It’s too soon, we need the rebels—"

"Now," Anais breathed. The time for doubt was past. "The rebels will fall in line. Castien is ours. Damon will want Nadraken destroyed. The court will have a target to focus their restless whispering. We strike now."

Trishve scowled. "And leave ourselves open to Delia? To Akerami? Even Shoni’i might be tempted."

The same arguments as always. "We’re not declaring war. Nadraken’s Queen could have been killed by any of them, perhaps her own foul court."

"It will obviously have been us," Laureline murmured.

Yes. It would.

She smiled. "Let us see where the stones fall."

Bloodthirsty. Ruthless. Her council of snakes would approve. Her Escorts did not.

But neither did they stop her.

After a few moments of silence, Jerome reported, "The guards have been doubled for all vital areas of the palace." To protect against renewed incursions after stealing back Castien.

Vern reluctantly followed the captain’s lead. "Winter solstice would be a good time to invite all the nobles, make them come out of their holes, give them something else to whisper about."

Laureline nodded. "And remind them of our nation's wealth and might. The chamberlain will have a fit, but it'll be worth it."

"Any issue with the treasury?" Anais asked. Lyrroth’s child had been recovered—but not by the crown. Lord Magdus had somehow found the girl. The Queen had decided not to insist on taking the child into her safekeeping. Yet.

Vern shook his head. "No, but you know how she scowls when I tell her to allocate funds for necessities. Any extravagance gives her apoplexy."

Anais didn't smile, but she appreciated the mundane discussion. Castien's return was not a necessary topic. Octavius would refuse her assistance and even her presence as no more than a distraction.

The meeting continued, discussing potential security issues with the influx of unvetted nobles and their retinues, and the upcoming gathering's events. But the underlying message was their support for her.

Vern stayed behind after the others left. When the door closed, he moved to sit close to her, offering his hand. She took it, the last piece of her mask shattering.

"At least he's back," he murmured.

Anais' hand clenched. "Did you not see him? His body may be here, but his mind is gone. I don’t know if he can be saved."

"He’s alive and aware. We will heal him, mind and body. Have faith."

She shot to her feet, started pacing.

"I have anger and hate and fear. Faith? Not yet, Vern. You can’t know the healers will succeed—that they won’t simply put his body together but leave his mind in chaos, or even if they bring him back, that he won’t be irrevocably scarred and never again know joy."

"We've healed them all, every single tortured soul. We'll heal him too."

Against his steadfast patience and confidence, she threw the fear that was gnawing at her .

"Yes, we’ve healed them all. Priscilla can't bear to be alone with a man or in the dark. Nerom jumps at every loud sound. Liara can hardly leave the library. Even those who are fine most days still fall to weeping on occasion, or suddenly can't breathe, or—"

His firm tone interrupted her rapid words. "But they're alive and living their life. They're grateful to you. There might be pieces missing, and maybe those pieces will never be found, but that's not something you should dwell on right now. Castien is here, he will be healed, then we'll see. One step at a time, Anais."

He was always her impenetrable wall of calm, as he had been to her mother. The court thought him incapable of feeling. An unfeeling man wouldn’t be able to pull her back from spiraling chaos. She sighed and sat back down, taking his hand.

"You're right, father. I suppose I should distract myself, prepare for the solstice perhaps."

He rubbed the back of her hand. "Are you going to dance?"

No . The ferocity of that immediate response startled her. She always danced at the larger gatherings, both in a display such as the Panther's Hunt and with potential Consorts or lovers in the court. She replied in a calmer manner.

"I don't know. I don't want to."

"Just dance with Darius. Or a Swords' Dance with Jerome. Haven't done that in a while, it would be fitting."

She smiled faintly. "He hates that thing. Everyone always fawns over him after. Did you see him nearly skewer someone the last time?" Jerome performed well—too well. Most of his irritation came after the dance, when the nobles set upon him like flies to honey. They didn't notice the quiet guardian by her side, not until the dance showed off his efficient control and dangerous skills.

"Ask him. He won't mind being a distraction," Vern said.

He would mind, but he'd do anything for her. Guilt warred with her raw nerves. She'd decide later.