Page 26 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

Anais

Damon next appeared in the palace as a traveling artist, here for the solstice. A con artist was also called an artist, she supposed.

They sat in the gardens, surrounded by a cacophony of birds from her menagerie. An easel stood between them as he pretended to paint her.

His eyes flicked up, his paintbrush bobbing on the canvas. "I was told you collapsed when Castien arrived. Is he your lover?"

Blunt, as she was coming to expect from him.

The guards had cleared this area, and the birds would muffle sounds for any intrepid eavesdroppers.

"He is an Escort—one of my friends. You would not have been so unaffected had you seen him then," she replied, watching the little birds flit about.

"Such a soft heart," he murmured. He exaggerated a few brush strokes, squinting at his work in appropriate artistic guise. It was almost comical.

"I want to see him," he said.

She shook her head. "The healers insist he not be disturbed. He’ll be moved to a cottage when he’s stable; you can visit him there."

He dipped his brush. "He’s safe because of me. I have a right to see my friend with my own eyes."

All fair and true. She contemplated the birds, then said, "I’ll speak to Octavius. It’s the healers’ decision. Are you ready to discuss the alliance? I would think the movement wants to change things faster, yet you drag your feet."

Damon smiled with a corner of his lips. "My captains want to meet you. Seeing as how I’ve ventured into your welcoming embrace, we extend the same hospitality. Well, not quite the same, but you understand." He glanced at the stone walls.

Her brows flew up. "You can’t be serious. They’re more than welcome to come here."

"That’s not the point. Accept our invitation, my dear, or we go our separate ways. Trust must flow in both directions, and my people do not trust you."

A Queen at the beck and call of a rebel, indeed.

"I’ll discuss this with my Escorts. Jerome hardly lets me travel anywhere without an army; I doubt your people would appreciate soldiers surrounding wherever you’re set up."

"You won’t need any guards. I personally guarantee your safety."

She smiled faintly. "Would you like to try to convince my army of that?"

His brush flew. "I’m sure the Dark Queen can handle her own subjects."

"My captain, at least, will find a way to follow. He’s done it before. I’ll convince them, but I’ll need guards. A minimum of a dozen."

He hummed, painting a corner of the canvas madly. "Too many. Five. We don’t gather in large groups. My people will feel safer if they’re not outnumbered."

Jerome was definitely going to have a fit. "I’ll see what I can do."

A charming, wide smile flashed on his lips. "Wonderful. To a fruitful meeting, then. We’ll send a messenger with the time and place."

With one last twist of his wrist, he stood and turned the painting to her.

She tilted her head. "Passable."

"Truly?" He grinned.

"For a child."

He scowled.

She rose to her feet. "Stay for the solstice if you wish. I don’t recommend it."

—

Winter solstice dawned dark and cold.

This journey was a ritual that began when she left her bed chambers, walking past the quiet rose garden, gathering guards in her wake as she stepped toward the courtyard, then through the wide doors of the Queen's Wing. Layers upon layers like the chiffon dress she wore—diaphanous, obscuring, disguising.

But unlike her mask, the dress was meant to be removed.

The Swords’ Dance—sometimes called the Maiden’s Revenge—told a story. The Maiden walked into the Great Hall, her vast dress billowing as though she floated on clouds. The Knight knelt in reverence and asked for her hand. They danced, sweeping the floor in joy.

The Knight disappeared into the crowd. The Maiden’s dance continued, gathering men all around her, spinning, spinning until they all fell away. Sword drawn, the Knight returned, accusing. Anger underlined the dancers: rushed steps, hurried gestures, sharp movements.

A flash of the blade. He cut her.

She ran, he chased, ribbons of her dress flying in all directions as he sliced again and again.

Until nothing was left of her dress but a pile of scraps, the Maiden kneeling, hugging herself on the ground .

Then, as the room went silent and still, the Knight moments from stabbing her in the heart—the Maiden rose, two slim swords in her hands, her body wrapped in leather.

Ah, she did enjoy this dance.

They fought. Sharpened steel rang out in time with the beat of the drums—louder, faster, whirling, twisting. Her whole body thrummed.

It became more skill than dance. She attacked . Jerome’s face, ever impassive, took on a grim edge. This section of the performance was always improvised, and the chance of a true strike wasn’t nonexistent. It’s what made her feel alive.

Eventually, as always, the Knight fell. His weapon battered aside, his head lowered as he knelt once more. Her sword slid beneath his chin, pricked just a drop of blood from the hollow of his neck.

Dead.

Triumphant music rose in a crescendo. The Queen strapped her swords to her sides and strode to the throne, her dance partner a few paces behind. If the dance made her feel alive, the last moment brought back harsh reality.

Applause and a change of music trailed after them. Lascivious eyes were already following poor Jerome in his metal-reinforced leathers, sweat beading his forehead. She hoped he would restrain himself. Behind that stern exterior, he cared too much.

Anais understood a little better why Madeline never watched this part of the festival.

Whispers of Castien drifted amongst the crowd. They knew he had been stolen back—she’d let that knowledge flow. It was a point of pride for the entire court, after all.

Vern bowed and slipped into the seat beside her. "My Queen. Beautiful, as ever."

She flicked him a faintly irritated glance as she drew on emerald and gold bracelets, raising her chin for the captain to clasp a fur-lined cloak about her neck. "My Lord. If you’ve time to be entertained, then you can give me your report."

"Of course. Nadraken has not yet responded. Delia is no longer reinforcing their efforts, though General Trishve is still working on retaking our fort. Akerami is open to negotiation."

A few more details, and she nodded. The other nations were tentatively backing down after the rescue. This exchange of victims was almost normal, especially if Nadraken didn’t escalate.

"And from the Master Healer?" She kept her voice neutral. It was the usual question, though there was nothing usual about this patient. He still wasn’t stable enough to be moved.

Vern stabbed a cube of cheese with a knife. "Progressing as expected."

Nothing new.

She ate by force of habit.

—

After the exhausting festivities, Anais sat with her Escorts in the primary meeting room. She should have had this meeting sooner. The rebels moved faster than she had anticipated.

The door opened and an unkempt boy stepped in, looking around with wide eyes.

Harlen piped, "Damon says we's ready ta meet. In tha Silva Bria's, in five days. An' 'e says ta rememba only five guards."

Jerome looked as apoplectic as she'd ever seen him. He might raise his voice at her once he heard the next part.

She nodded. "Thank you. We'll be there. Meriana, please help him with provisions for the return journey."

The moment the door closed, Jerome opened his mouth .

Anais raised her hand. "I spoke to Damon and agreed. I will be at the meeting."

"No, you can not—! My Queen, this is…" Jerome looked both embarrassed and angry. He settled on a thin-lipped scowl directed at the table.

Ah, that was the limit. Her life. "I understand the concerns. Five guards are far too few. The risk is too high, particularly without Castien. Their leader has already come here, so should the rest of them. The court will wonder where I've gone." She raised a finger for each point, then proceeded to lower them as she spoke again.

"Vern will handle the court as usual." She nodded at her steward. His brows lowered. If he remained at court, he couldn’t guard her.

"Castien has already served his purpose." Harsh but true. "I doubt his presence would prevent them from killing me, if that were their intention."

At their continued tense expressions, she lowered her hand. "We must build trust. Damon came to me, so I must go to them. None of you are opposed to this meeting. You are opposed to my participation."

She inclined her head at Jerome. "No number of guards will satisfy you, but we need the rebels, and the people, desperately. If we show unity and strength, the other nations will rethink any further aggression. We need time, and these rebels are our best chance."

"And if they slaughter you, everything is lost," Vern commented quietly.

"If I am not there, I show our lack of faith in my people. If the rebels cannot be convinced to join us, we are lost anyhow."

"We can hold," said Trishve. She had returned for this meeting. "Our armies and the nobles' militia can withstand the other Queens until we find a better option."

Anais shook her head. "So we die slowly of attrition while the rebels tear us apart from the inside? No. I am going. That is final."

Rare was the instance she commanded her Inner Circle while not on display. She respected them, preferred discussion and compromise, but sometimes there could be no compromise.

"Then we send a hidden convoy—" Jerome suggested.

"No deceit. But we will tell the messenger to relay that our party will consist of eight. The rebels must be ready to negotiate, not make demands."

Laureline nodded. "Sounds reasonable to me."

Jerome looked only slightly mollified. "You will be fully armored. Swear you'll run if I tell you to. The moment I say it." His eyes had a flinty, hard look that meant he would be difficult about this, inasmuch as he ever was.

"I swear, Jerome."

He nodded, but the look didn't fade.

Vern grumbled, "I dislike the look of a Queen going where she is summoned."

It was a resigned complaint. "If they were nobility or the other rulers, I’d agree, but decorum and protocol mean little to the rebels. A small loss of my dignity is no sacrifice at all."

The progress was too welcome to be overshadowed by her Escorts’ overprotectiveness. Sadly, only Laureline’s calm tea-sipping agreed with her.