Page 28 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

Anais

A rearing horse caught her attention.

Damon slowly approached his mount. Its tail flicked back and forth while its ears flattened. He snatched the reins and hopped on, firmly holding the animal as it pawed the ground and settled beneath him.

Glancing to the side, he met Anais’ amused gaze.

"Animals don't particularly like me." He shrugged.

She moved her mount closer. "Perhaps their instincts are sharper than our poor human senses."

His smile was tight. "The depth of your trust is overwhelming."

The group started moving, her eight guards and four other rebels. They’d decided that a minor lord’s fifth son wouldn’t have a large entourage.

"Trust begins in understanding. Tell me of yourself, Damon. Help me understand you."

He jerked the reins of his stubborn horse. "I'm no mystery. Born a peasant, orphaned young, raised by my village—not far from the palace city. Fairly decent youth, I suppose. What do you want to know?"

"Do you remember your parents?"

A pause. "My parents…" His eyes stayed on the road, his expression didn't change. But his hands gripped the reins tighter. Then loosened.

"Not my father. He passed before I was born, a sickness, my mother said. She passed when I was seven. She'd given birth to my sister a year before. My sister's father must've been a noble. He was no more than seed planted in fertile, if unwilling, soil." The light tone of his voice carried a hint of bitterness. "Her tiny claws ripped my mother apart from the inside out until the midwife was holding a screaming baby dripping with blood. My mother never recovered."

He tossed a crooked smile. "Does that help you understand me?"

It was a common story. The birth of a clawed girl almost always required the aid of an experienced midwife and an exact amount of an herb to soothe the babe in the belly. By the time the child was ripping the womb apart to get out, it was too late.

"Is that why you hate us? Because a noble raped and killed your mother."

The slight frown on his brows smoothed into thoughtfulness. Tight shoulders and jaws relaxed.

"I’ll admit I’m angry. I wouldn’t mind tearing his throat out, but I have no idea who or where he is, if he’s even alive. So here I am, doing everything I can to prevent dead mothers and orphaned children. A lofty goal, yes?"

His words rang true yet she sensed there was more that he wasn’t saying. Perhaps something about his sister. And he hadn’t denied his hatred, but maybe she was too suspicious.

Anais nodded. "Lofty and worthy of a true noble, Lord Damon. Best start familiarizing yourself with the title."

"And their habits?" he asked wryly.

"Indeed. Little a lord wants is not his to take. We may as well begin your lessons in court protocol. First of all, never fail to address me as Queen."

His cocky smile faltered at her cold, emerald gaze. Turning back to the road, she began a lecture on bracers, expected behavior, and his supposed lord father’s lands and household. It was a substantial amount to understand but he again proved to be a quick study.

After a summary of his supposed father’s estate, Damon extended his arm. "There—how’s that?"

Around his wrist was a silk handkerchief. Twisted with the plain cream-colored fabric was a silver chain with a small, half-moon charm.

She examined the chain. It looked like a necklace. Glancing at his chest, she was relieved to see the claw was gone. "The silk is fine, but the silver will have to go. You're a baron’s forgotten son, remember. Silver—any precious metal or gem—is a claim to the throne."

He admired his own arm for a moment, then shrugged. "Ah, of course, wouldn’t want to get above myself. Just the silk as you say, my lady."

"Sorry, Damon."

"No, no, it was careless." He smiled and tucked away the necklace. "I'll pay better attention now, go on."

They continued talking until the group made camp for the night.

They’d traveled east for half the day to make it appear as though they’d come from the village closest to Baron Caemarn’s estate. The baron rarely visited court, and a few casual inquiries had made it clear that none of her usual courtiers knew much about him or cared. Still, too many discrepancies would be noticed by someone eventually.

Forests dotted the landscape with a single, small, poorly maintained road to this part of the nation that few journeyed in or out of. As the sunlight dimmed, they found a clearing in the forest and began setting up tents. Horses were tied to trees, a fire swiftly struck, and a few people began foraging the woods. By the time the stars appeared, a cautious camaraderie had emerged between the rebels and the Queen’s guards. She retired to her tent, trusting in her better-trained and loyal entourage. The only question on her mind as she drifted off was if Jerome would sleep.

—

Something stirred. It was still dark, with only a vague hint of moonlight and hazy smudges where the torches were set on the boundaries of the camp. The quiet was unsettling; shockingly loud insects had made for restless sleep the first few nights of the trip. A soft whimper nearby startled her into reaching for the small blade under her pillow.

Silence fell again. Too quiet.

Wrapping a fur around herself and with the blade in her hand, she slipped out of the tent, taking soft, slow steps.

A wolf pup lay on the ground a few feet away. The partial moonlight shone off its eyes as it stared at her and whimpered once more.

She didn’t know much of wolves except to keep her distance, but where there was a pup—

"Wolf!" The distant shout came from her right, an unfamiliar voice. One of the rebels.

The ringing of swords sliding from sheaths, growling snarls, and scrabbling feet suddenly erupted all around her. Her fur fell to the ground—modesty and warmth were the least of her concerns, especially as large canine jaws followed by a gleaming grey-white furred body padded out of the trees. The wolf spotted the pup and let out a long, low growl, lips drawing back from sharp teeth. Yipping, the pup limped toward the larger creature, only to stumble and fall; one of its legs appeared injured.

The distant commotion sounded closer but the guard that should be by her tent was nowhere in sight. Jerome must’ve decided to sleep, she thought with exasperated amusement.

The wolf leaned back.

"Watch out!"

Someone shoved her. The wolf leaped. The motion that was intended to save her only placed her closer to the animal’s attack, sharp teeth catching moonlight as they both launched into the air. Anais twisted, kicked off the ground, threw herself to the side, and raised her blade. Long, sharp teeth caught a few strands of her hair as her weapon sliced through the creature’s belly.

Anais landed awkwardly on her left arm and rolled to her feet, claws and knife extended. Turning precisely, she found Kevam engaging the wolf, his blade finishing what she’d started.

"My Queen! Are you hurt?" Jerome rushed to her side, his blade smeared red and a cut down his left leg oozing blood.

"No, Jerome. Tend to yourself." She brushed the forest floor off of her skin.

"I’m fine—"

"Captain Jerome." Her voice snapped with ice. It had been a while since she was in danger. Still, he should know better.

He froze for a moment, then bowed his head. "Yes, my Queen."

The fighting seemed to be over as a few voices called out to check on each other. Everyone seemed accounted for with no major injuries.

Kevam was eyeing the large wolf. "Looks like the mother. I’d like the pelts, if that’s alright with you, lady."

She nodded. Jerrl, who appeared unharmed, came over and hauled off the wolf.

The pup whimpered again. It had dragged itself over to her tent, hiding around the corner. Snapping and snarling, it inched backward as Kevam approached. He grabbed it by the scruff and held it still to examine its foot .

"Twisted. Should heal fine if it's set. Poor pup. She must’ve made her way into our camp, the smell of food probably. Not sure how she got here with that foot," Kevam mumbled while petting the soft furry head. He sighed and drew a knife. "Pity. It looks old enough to be weaned, but since we killed the whole pack, she probably won’t survive long by herself."

Anais extended her hand. "Wait. I’ll keep her. Set her foot, please, Kevam."

The rebel raised a brow, then shrugged and sheathed his knife. Those who had gathered to check on each other dispersed, tending to wounds, weapons, or other tasks.

"Collecting a ragged band of lost souls?" Damon smiled at her while wiping his blade.

"It seems so."

His eyes wandered down her nearly naked body, the cold night air finally settling into her as the excitement wore off.

"It’s a good thing our Queen is so capable," he murmured.

She narrowed her eyes. "The only nobles who dare look at me that way are in my bed or under my whip. Sometimes both."

Damon grinned. "Are you inviting me into your bed, my dear?"

She pointed her blade at him. "Only if you’re interested in bedding a knife. Shouldn’t you check on your friends?"

He eyed her blade and bowed, still smiling. "Of course. Good night, brave lady."

—

The palace became visible as they exited the last forest.

A rope around the pup’s neck served as a leash. The Queen kept the small creature by her side, acclimating it to her scent. With its leg hurt and bound, the pup didn’t wander much and became agreeable after it was fed a few meals. It sat on the Queen’s horse, aware but docile as they approached the palace gates.

They rode up to the stables, Damon’s horse trotting a few steps ahead and stopping first. Damon swept off his mount and approached her with a charming smile, extending his hand. "May I, my lady?"

The guards all stared at him.

Anais nodded slightly at one of them. He took a few quick steps forward and brought the wooden pole of his spear behind Damon’s knees, forcing the rebel to the ground with a shout. The spear tip hovered a few inches from his head when the Queen turned her cold, sharp, emerald gaze down.

Rage twisted his features.

"Queen, Lord Damon. You are new to court, but do not forget again." She waved away the guard.

Damon’s face turned red and he lowered his eyes. "My apologies, my Queen," he managed.

She dismounted and glided through the palace doors, the wolf pup in her arms and her retinue trailing behind. Damon and his friends joined the end of her train, passing by sneering guards.

Meeting with her Inner Circle was the first order of business after she breezed through the halls, putting herself on display and settling the pup in the kennels. The newly minted Lord Damon would need to find his own way in court, with hopefully less mishap after her reminder at the gates.

Vern’s sigh of irritation and relief greeted her as she walked into the small council chamber.

"I’m alive," she said defensively, taking her seat. She hadn’t even taken the time to change out of her travel leathers, though her bed chambers were so close. The bath had been tempting. Ah, well.

"Yes. Despite a wolf that nearly bit off your head. Our captain already made his report to the steward." Vern’s eyes followed her.

"Thank you," she nodded at Jerome, who sat a bit more straight and stiff than usual, if possible. "And thank you for watching over the nest of snakes in my absence, Steward. Any issues I should be aware of?"

Vern’s lips thinned but he shook his head. "No, my Queen. They were fairly mild." He sat back, hard eyes indicating a private conversation later.

She gave him a small nod, then addressed the room.

"The meeting went well. The rebel leader, our new Lord Damon Caemarn, is settling in at court." Hopefully. "He has pledged a thousand of his people to join our army once our raiding party returns." She glanced at Jerome to confirm that he also mentioned the raid. He nodded.

"Only a thousand?" Trishve frowned.

"A show of good faith on both our parts. Five thousand more will join for each of the terms that we agreed upon. They are reasonable terms." She outlined what had been discussed at the rebel camp.

The council wouldn't like most of the concessions, even disguised.

Officially presented as a tax increase on the commoners, soldiers would accompany tax collectors to make sure the goods ended up with the military—and also that no more than could be spared was taken. She didn't have much hope for actually reducing the burden on the people, but it was a start.

A healer would also accompany the tax collectors. Previously, the collector or a guard would check on households for any clawed girls. The nobles, if they noticed this change at all, would be told that the healers were there to better find and identify the girls. Their actual purpose was to distribute calming herbs and teach local women how to administer them properly.

She couldn't stop the rape or starvation, but they could make things a bit better.

"Some of these will take time, but training commoners and finding a place for the sudden influx of troops will also take time. Once this is truly begun, and we have earned the people’s trust, there will be more. For now, a few thousand will be enough to give the other nations pause."

And the nobles as well. The army and the crown had always been one unit—the primary reason the nobles fell in line.

The Escorts took notes and commands; nothing from the negotiations was unexpected. Jerome was quiet. He’d likely said all he needed to in his report. With only a bit of guilt, Anais hoped Madeline would be more forthcoming about her captain’s thoughts.

An hour, and they let her rest, dispersing to their duties.

Vern stayed behind. Once the door closed and they were alone, he crossed his arms.

She sighed. "Father—"

"Yes, I am your father, and I am entitled to be thoroughly enraged with you right now."

"Yes, father." She bit back her smile.

His glare turned into exasperation. "Anais. You are going to be the death of me."

"Probably," she mumbled, looking down. "Have you heard from Octavius?" Castien had been moved to a small cottage a few days' ride away with Octavius as his healer. All she’d been able to think about for the last day was Castien—if he was eating, how glad he’d be to see his friends in the palace, when she could visit .

If he was still alive.

"The weekly reports are arriving on time. He is regaining awareness."

Her heart rose, then dropped even lower. At this stage, he’d be drowning in memories, in tears, and fighting Octavius’ care.

Vern reached over to cover her right hand, his voice gentle. "Perhaps it’s best if we let him go."

Her eyes shot up. "You said he would be fine. You were so optimistic. What has Octavius reported?"

He shook his head. "Nothing unusual. It’s only that his condition is markedly worse than I imagined, and it affects you too much."

"So you mean I should execute him. Do you think my mother would have done that to you? To me?"

"You're not your mother. And no, not to you at least. That would have broken her."

She pulled her hand back. "Then don't ask it of me. If Castien dies, I will burn this world and every last one of the snakes. Even if everything else burns too."

"He wouldn't want that," Vern replied quietly.

"Dead people don't get a say," she snapped.

"Like your mother?"

She flinched, then lifted her chin.

"Don't be cruel. He'll get better. I'll be fine."

Vern smiled, his eyes sad. "Your mother was stubborn too."

The ice melted from her emerald gaze. "She was." She reached back to his hand. "I’ll be fine, father. Don’t worry."

He brought her callused hand to his lips. "It’s a father’s duty and honor to worry, Anais."

Tears burned her eyes.

She wasn’t fine.

—

The royal council was suspiciously accommodating. She wanted to believe their easy acceptance of her announcements, but that would be letting exhaustion make a fool of her. Instead, she gave more work to Laureline and Vern, and hoped nothing came from it. Perhaps the new year’s festivities were distracting them. She had no interest in celebrating.

What took up most of her attention was Octavius’ reports. They were brief but thorough, and didn’t arrive nearly often enough. Castien was physically healed though still too thin, but at least he was eating and taking care of himself.

The next week, he suggested she visit, that it might do them both good.

If she kept this up, she'd be riding in and out of the palace for the rest of the winter. Her nobles were restless in the cold, but most preferred the comforts of their home when there was little to amuse them here. Other than the occasional fete, activities were restrained to small, easily heated rooms. Watching servants freeze to death was only briefly entertaining, and only so long as they didn't feel the chill themselves.

They'd notice her absence and find it curious. Perhaps she'd spread a rumor about a lover. It wouldn't be far from the truth.

Octavius bowed as she approached the cottage, her guards waiting a short distance away with the horses. "My Queen. Castien is inside."

"I hope you are well, Octavius." She glanced at the door. "He wants to see me… alone?"

His charges usually asked him to stay with visitors this early in the healing process—they were more comfortable with him.

"He insisted." The man frowned in disapproval but said nothing more.

"How is he?"

Hesitation. "As well as can be expected. Better than I’d thought possible at this stage."

Anais nodded and gently pushed the door open.

She barely noticed the inside of the cottage, her eyes unerringly finding Castien seated at the lone table. He sat stiff and straight, shoulders tense. His cheeks were hollow, his hair short, and those thin fingers clasped too tightly together on the tabletop.

But he was alive.

Two moons ago, he’d looked… She pushed aside those horrible images and memorized his face as it was now—sickly, but healing. He was healing.

"Castien," she breathed.

For a moment, hot anger burned her pity to ash, even her joy at seeing him alive going up in flames. She swallowed a scream at the cruel, sadistic bitch who had done this, knowing too many just like the Queen of Nadraken existed in her own court, barely if at all contained.

Her fingers flexed.

His eyes flicked to her gloved hands, then back to the table, never rising to her face. His mouth opened. He took a slow breath. "My Queen," he said, his voice almost normal for those two words.

Anais took a step forward. He flinched, and she realized the cost of that small piece of normalcy. Fear flashed across his eyes, his breathing suddenly shallow and too-controlled, his posture gone terribly still. This visit was too soon, and he should not be alone with her. Not with a Queen, a woman with claws the same as those that had made wounds only recently healed, left scars that might never be erased .

She would not let her selfishness cost him his sanity.

"I’m sorry. I’ll summon Octav—"

"Please sit," he whispered at the same time she lifted her foot to back out the door. The effort to say those words, the hint of begging in his tone… She couldn’t refuse him. She moved forward, taking small, slow, cautious steps, then sliding into the chair across from him. Uncertain whether to hide her hands or keep them in his sight, she settled them on the table with her fingers curled inward.

His gaze started at her hands, traveled up her arms, skittered over her eyes but examined her face closely. The silence stretched while she returned the scrutiny. White scars stood out on his bony wrists and crisscrossed his gaunt arms. At least his skin had a healthier hue.

By the time he finally spoke, she’d steeled herself for rejection, depression, anger, hate, fear—any response she’d heard before from others similarly tormented.

His voice rasped. "I didn’t tell Octavius this. I didn’t— I wanted to see you— to tell you myself."

She nodded silently, patiently.

The words fell out of him like heavy stones. "I told her everything." He went on, detailing all he’d learned about her court—the Queen's Wing, her Escorts, the children that weren’t really hostages, her plan for a better world, the meetings with the rebels. His fingers twisted tighter and harder as he spoke, forming hard fists on the table toward the end.

Self-control was always difficult at these visitations. He wouldn’t want her claws near his skin, wouldn’t find her proximity a comfort.

His flat, dead eyes stared unseeing. "I betrayed you."

Never .

She didn’t use a gentle tone. She didn’t treat him like a child. He needed honesty— he had always wanted honesty.

"You were tortured. And you don't know enough to betray me. So you think I'm soft—maybe I coddle my new toys. So I'm kind to the children—or so I convinced you, to make you feel safe. You couldn't give them anything substantial. Even the rebels—that should just make them wary."

He shivered. "Do you? Were you just… playing with me? The Queen—" His words cut off, a frown flickering across his brow.

His doubt burned her heart, tears fighting to rise from her chest. Her mask was a temptation that would only hurt him more. She swallowed.

"No. But I can't answer that for you. I can't just tell you to trust me."

After a few moments, he nodded, relaxing his arms.

She asked, "Is there anything I—we can get for you? From your House, perhaps?" No doubt Octavius had already asked, but sometimes it mattered who did the asking.

"I… I’d like a garden." A quiet, soft few words, hardly louder than a whisper.

Tilting her head up against her blurring sight, she murmured, "Of course. I'll have tools and seeds brought." Octavius would make sure he… didn’t harm himself. She wanted to hope, but hope was dangerous.

He nodded again, absently rubbing his wrist with a slightly shaking hand.

There were a thousand things she wanted to say. I miss you . Did he? How could he? He hadn’t asked to see her—this was Octavius’ idea. Come back to court. She wouldn’t subject him to the snakes, no matter how close she wanted him. I love you . That one felt like cruelty. Would he see it as pity, even if he felt the same, or just be horrified at the thought?

As long as you’ll have me.

Had he meant those words? She remembered his voice, the caution that she’d ignored at the time. She should have known better. Doubt had suppressed his joy, uncertainty of their newly formed bond. They hardly knew one another. He doubted everything now.

In the end, she said nothing and he was just as silent.

"Good evening, Castien," she murmured softly before leaving the cottage.

A cold, dry breeze met her outside. The cold was a familiar, comforting feeling against her skin. She gestured to a guard by the mounts, who quickly approached with a package.

After removing a box from the leather bag and handing it over to the Queen, the guard trotted back to his post.

Octavius eyed the ornamental wooden box with a raised brow.

"Give this to him when you feel he is ready." She removed the lid.

Octavius stared, eyes widening. "Are you sure you want me to present this to him?"

Smiling briefly, she replaced the lid and handed it over.

"You’ll know better than I when he’s ready. And I don’t know how often I’ll be able to visit, with the events at court."

Octavius held the box as though it was fragile. "This could wait until he returns."

She shook her head. "I want him to know as soon as possible."

No more waiting. Never again.

He bowed his head over the box. "My Queen."

She hesitated. "If you eventually conclude that he’ll never be ready, send the box back."

"I’ll do everything I can, my Queen."

"I know. Thank you, Octavius."

She glanced at the closed door, then walked away.

—

Octavius’ reports continued, arriving every other week.

Spring broke the cold, flowers bloomed. Castien worked on his garden every day.

He read books.

And he very hesitantly, very subtly suggested that he missed music.

Her heart soared every time he asked for something more and bled every time he didn’t ask for her. But he was healing, and she was familiar with patience.

This latest request was a dangerous one: knives. Octavius watched him carefully. At first, Castien used the blades to carve wood. Octavius sent her a few of the discards—beautiful birds with detailed feathers, flowers almost life-like. She marveled at the soft appearance on the hard surface.

Then Castien asked to be taught to use the knives as weapons. A strange weapon. Not daggers—knives, specifically. Small, thin, single-edged blades. Octavius didn't share his theories about the reason for this particular weapon. Healer’s confidentiality, he said. She had her own terrible suppositions.