Page 27 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

Anais

It was a three-day ride to the Silver Briars. Despite mid-winter, an almost warm breeze made the journey tolerable. The second half of the third day was spent over a flat, open plains with a few rare trees dotting the landscape. The rebels would have a clear strategic advantage.

Swords loosened and shields raised as they approached the trees. In the lead, Jerome slowed.

An arrow thunked into the grass.

"We said five." A man with a scar across his cheek stepped out from a bush, several other rebels with drawn bows also showing themselves. There would be more archers in the trees; that arrow hadn’t come from the ground.

Jerome responded, "We told your messenger we would be eight."

More archers appeared from behind bushes and trees, then rebels with swords and shields stepped forward and began to surround them. A semicircle of ten fighters, plus fifteen visible archers and an unknown number hidden away—they were clearly outnumbered and outmaneuvered. This was hardly a small gathering. Jerome was likely struggling with his instincts to tell her to turn and ride as fast as she could. She was definitely going to get an earful from Vern when they returned.

The scarred man placed a hand on his sword, scanning the riders. His eyes skipped past her as quickly as the others.

"So where is your Queen? Too much a coward to show her face?"

Jerome countered before she could reveal herself. "Where is Damon? Why send a lackey to greet us? Unless you don't intend us to live."

The man bared his teeth in a humorless grin. "Be glad our leader likes your courtesan. How is Castien?"

"Healing," Jerome replied. "He has been moved out of the palace, to somewhere more peaceful."

"Good. Though he should have been rescued long ago. Does your Queen make a habit of abandoning those close to her?"

"The Queen doesn’t make a habit of sharing her plans. He is safe and cared for."

"So just incompetent then," the man drawled.

"Enough. Will Damon and your captains meet with us, or shall we get on with it?" Jerome’s hand curled around his blade.

The man looked them over again, then lifted a hand. The archers lowered their bows. "We'll see you. Dismount. We’ll take your horses."

Jerome glared. She tapped her boots twice. Comply . Still, his arm flexed before he let go of his sword. The rebels let them keep their weapons as they traversed through a maze of trees until they reached a clearing.

The archers and fighters dispersed. Their camp was small and simple despite their numbers; it was likely a temporary and mobile setup. Three people sitting around the campfire followed their movements, one of them idly spinning a dagger.

The scarred man nodded toward the largest, open-sided tent.

"Wait in there. I’ll find Damon. Don’t wander."

Leather-armored fighters with hands on their swords stood stiffly around the edges of the tent, eyeing them as they entered.

A few minutes of tense silence passed, allowing them to scan the camp and their guards. Their horses were tied to trees across the camp—they’d have to fight through all the rebels to reach their mounts.

While the rebels’ gear appeared haphazard, they themselves were fairly disciplined. They stood without fidgeting, at least two of them watching each of her entourage. Their guards all shared the same intense frown. Probably ordered to gut them if they moved too quickly or suspiciously. Understandable. If she knew Jerome at all, he was on the same knife’s edge.

Finally, she spotted Damon leading a horse toward the camp. His mount nipped at him before he passed it off to the scarred man. Dodging a bite, the rebel leader approached the tents, greeting his people along the way.

Around his neck was a claw hanging from a strip of leather.

The leader of the rebels wore a claw as a trophy.

"Welcome to our humble little camp! My friend tells me Castien isn’t able to join us today. What a disappointment." His eyes roamed over them, catching on her face and wandering over her leather and chainmail.

Jerome spoke. "Our healers determined that a gathering would not help him right now."

"Is that so, my dear?" Damon addressed her, drawing all the rebels' eyes to her. "Where has he been moved to? We want to see him."

She stepped past a scowling Jerome. "He needs time, but you will see and speak with him again. Our healers have never failed."

A few angry murmurs rose, their questions answered as Damon swept a hand through the air.

"You have never lost the game, you mean. Welcome to our camp, O most gracious and brave Queen of Drantar! "

The rebels jeered and laughed. The scarred man's hand moved to his sword, a dark glare on his brow. Damon threw an arm around his companion’s shoulder. "This is my second, Jerrl. My captains will be joining us soon. Sit. Drink." He gestured to the barrels. "Ale purloined from a nearby lord. It’s not bad."

No one moved.

Anais glanced between her guards and the rebels, noting too many hands on weapons. If Castien were here, she imagined he might’ve slipped through the crowd with an easy smile and casual touch, dissipating the tension with little effort. But he was not.

She raised a brow at Damon. This was his camp, his people, his lead.

He smirked, then moved toward the barrels. "Alright, enough. Get on with the lot of you, clear some space. We have business to discuss." He waved at the extra rebel guards.

After some rough shuffling, her entourage traded places with the guards on one side of the tent, and she took a seat at the table. Damon slid her a mug.

As he sat, her eyes drew to his dangling necklace.

His smile widened.

Not only was the claw an insult, it was vile. At best, he defiled a dead woman. More likely, he was a murderer, and he wanted her to know. Demanding he remove it would be met with laughter, disdain, and hostility. Not a good start. Ignoring it would look weak.

She returned the smile, a faintly amused curve of her lips. "To our mutually beneficial alliance." Lifting the mug, she drank.

Jerome’s eyes were likely attempting to pin her mug to the table. Either they would kill her or not; poison seemed a strange way to do it at this point.

Damon raised his mug in mock salute and drank as well. "To the Queen’s everlasting kindness."

His eyes flickered.

That rage again. He’d need to work on his mask if he was going to survive in court.

Damon’s second seemed unable to hold his tongue any longer.

"Hundreds killed every year for your court's sick games—is that kindness? Is that the world you want to build?" Jerrl glared at her, his rage not at all hidden.

A pure anger she could understand; so much of the same simmered in her heart. She glanced at Damon’s crooked smile, then said, "Thousands die in Delia, sacrifices in every village. Akerami’s appetite for slaves grows hungrier by the year. No, any number of cruel deaths is not a kindness, but would you rather whole towns burned as armies march through? I want to build something that cannot exist without the people's active support. Your lives, yes, but not sacrificed to me or anyone. If the sea of hundreds of thousands of commoners rises, they will drown the mere few thousand nobles with little effort."

While she spoke, several other rebels walked into the tent. Two women, one offering a kind smile, a man who sat beside Jerrl, and a taller man who gave her a wary nod of greeting.

The brittle-looking woman spoke, her voice as sharp as her face. "Don't you have an army? And all the landed lords and ladies have guards and militia. Are we supposed to throw our lives against all of that?"

She raised a brow. "The army is loyal to me, yes. We could wipe out the nobility ourselves, but civil war makes us weak. While we fight amongst ourselves, the other Queens would all too happily take pieces of this land in the chaos. We need decisive unity to keep what we gain."

Damon lifted a hand to quiet the angry murmurings .

"Let's say you’re right. Why not slit your throat, rid the world of a sadistic bitch, watch the Queens tear each other apart for pieces of your land, then sweep in to clean up the mess?" Sneers and laughter scattered through the rebels again when he made a sweeping gesture with his arm, as though clearing things off a table. A few of the rebels inched closer, hands wandering to their weapons.

She refrained from a condescending look. "Are you so certain of victory? Perhaps you would only destroy the strongest ally in this world willing and able to help you. Perhaps my steward would serve well, and there would be no war among the Queens, no chaos in which you might rise."

The rebel grinned. "Maybe we’ll just replace you. I've a few sharp-fingered ladies that could be taught to speak prettily."

Those clawed women in his ranks were Laureline’s work. At her lady’s suggestion, the Queen had been purposefully negligent in rounding up bastards—one of the many, small chips in long-held traditions that kept the people complacent. And here was evidence of the foundation cracking—these rebels, this proud, arrogant man, wouldn't dare lift their heads in any other nation.

But she couldn’t mention that.

"Banter gets us nowhere, Damon. I’ve come to you. Do you want an alliance or not?"

He waved a hand. "Paint a picture for us. What would our alliance look like?"

She’d discussed this with her Escorts. "Military conscription. The council won't accept you simply because I tell them to. However, they will accept that you are an overthrown, conquered rebel band that I've forced into joining my army. They will not mistreat you; even sadistic bitches recognize the need for military strength."

He chuckled and nodded, his brazen arrogance seemingly set aside for the moment. "And the excuse for my position of leadership?"

"You can be the fifth son of a distant lord who never comes to court. The rebels were in your father’s land and you want to whip them into shape yourself. Your clawed ladies will help back up the story with made-up titles of their own."

"Staking a claim on my people already?"

"The court will never accept peasants with claws. Do you know what becomes of those who are found after a certain age?"

He scowled. "We know far better than you."

She wondered if any of his clawed women had been forced to murder their own parents. "Then you know they must either stay behind or have a title."

His expression darkened further but his chin dipped. "That’s their choice." His fingers tapped, slower. "Likewise, my people will need to be convinced to surrender themselves into your welcoming arms."

"What do you propose?" She kept the bored amusement out of her words; he clearly had demands prepared.

"There’s a slave camp not far from here, over the eastern border. They took a few of my people a week ago. The traders are still there. We should send a raiding party composed of both our peoples."

Outlawing slavery didn’t prevent other nations’ slavers from poaching on her land. Her army on all borders had standing orders to bring back the victims whenever found. She nodded. "I’ll send a scout first. Should their survey match yours, this is acceptable. What else?"

Damon examined her with a small smile. "You and I will be part of the raid. "

Jerome snarled. Anais made a small gesture with her fingers to quiet his protest, then dropped the hand to the table.

"I must agree with my captain. Impossible."

"Afraid your steward will not do so well, after all?"

The eastern border was four nights away. Vern could easily handle the court for another couple of weeks.

"I have already walked into your territory, accepted your hospitality, let myself be surrounded and outnumbered. Trust must flow in both directions. Come back with me to the palace instead, begin to establish your presence in my court. Unless you intend to sell me to these slavers?"

His smile grew teeth. "A Queen in chains would be a lovely sight. But what are you willing to risk for us, my dear? We risked our people for one of your own, as you call him. What about when it’s only our people on the line? Where do you stand, then?"

"Castien was not your doing alone. That was a mutual effort and a mutual friend. If you insist on this raid—"

"We do."

"Then I will not be accompanying you. If that is insufficient, we should stop wasting time."

Damon stared at her, still and silent. She calmly sipped the ale. Eyes first, she thought. A tiny flick of her wrist would send the burning liquid into his eyes, then she’d be out of her seat with her sword in her hand. There were only two rebel guards, plus the captains. Jerome would distract the captains, then—

Damon leaned back and chuckled. "Just making sure you have a spine, my dear."

Boredom settled into her eyes. She addressed the table when she said, "If I didn’t, the court would have killed me long ago. They don’t suffer weakness."

He shrugged. "If you haven’t noticed, we don’t much care for the opinions of your court." His captains nodded.

Her laugh surprised them. "In that, we agree. Should we find success, you’re welcome to string them up however you please."

The sharp-faced woman gave her an appraising look and a small smile. Jerrl’s anger was still clear in his eyes, but Damon…

She wondered at the hunger mixed with his hate.

Then he blinked and his mask returned.

"What a gracious Queen indeed," he murmured in low tones. "Concessions until then—my people need to be convinced that you will not betray them. If clawed peasants are unacceptable, make a decree—allow anyone to declaw their female children."

She glanced at his necklace, taking another sip of the ale while she attempted to stomach the request. Declawing adults was considered the harshest of punishments, worse than death. Removing the claws on babes or children was an abomination. Any commoners who crippled their children were executed, and the youths taken for the military. In the court, it was unthinkable to declaw one’s own child.

He might hate claws, but he couldn’t expect this concession to be met. Did he want a compromise or for her to propose something entirely different?

Anais tapped her own claws on her mug. "The crown will offer payment for the children taken from commoner families, and the nobles will pay again when the child is adopted." Adoption was required of every titled family—one of them helped make the child, after all. Sadly, there were always more children than families, so the requirement only applied to young girls.

She added, "Furthermore, healers from the palace will regularly distribute calming herbs and teach their usage." Any woman could come to the palace to give birth, but in practice, few were able or willing to make the trip.

His brows flicked up before he controlled his expression into a mocking smile again. "Generous payments. I’m sure we can work out the details later." Something in his eyes said that was not nearly enough, but he didn’t press the issue.

They moved on to other concessions. Reduced taxes were an expected demand and eventually determined for more in-depth, future discussions.

Although he was an inexperienced negotiator, she still found the conversation educational. She could read him with ease, but he was learning quickly. He was intelligent, keen, well-spoken for a commoner, and a fair hand with a sword. Altogether, it became clear why so many followed him.

Her unease grew. She would need to root out the reason for that hate in his eyes before she welcomed a rabid wolf into her home, believing it to be a friendly hound.