Page 7 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

Anais

Anais paced the cramped space from wall to wall, the unsatisfactory distance only about five of her short steps in length. This side room next to her chambers was convenient for the informal council with her Escorts, but she wished it was a bit larger.

A wooden, oval table occupied most of the room. Numerous candles lit the windowless space, flickering shadows into shelves full of parchment. Several of those shelves held message scrolls, like the one from three weeks ago. Those scrolls were now a weekly occurrence, announcing skirmishes on the southern border. While small probes at their border were easily rebuffed, this was still an escalation to Nadraken’s usual mild prodding. Additionally, the girl was concerning—such an unexpected direct attack on the palace required a response.

The Nadrakenan knife sat in the center of the table.

"Why now? What’s changed?" Anais asked.

Laureline shrugged. "Our network is weakest in the southern nation. It could be a change in their leadership and little to do with us." The duchess waved her omnipresent cup of tea. Spymaster and hat connoisseur, the lady was rarely seen without both a tea cup in hand and a feathered disaster atop her head. How she managed to spy on anything was a daily marvel.

"We can’t make that assumption," said General Trishve. "Though I agree it’s strange. From the last report, their military is the same—undisciplined, poorly trained, and disorganized. More like local militia than an army." Her armor clanked as her hand cut the air dismissively .

Vern spun the tip of a dagger on the table. "My people could help, if you like?" he asked Laureline. An older man with hair just beginning to gray, he’d turned down a retirement in a safe, distant, comfortable villa. It was for the best; his wisdom was a vital part of her rule. During her latest offer a year ago, she had also threatened him with the position of steward if he continued to stay, and had carried through with that threat. Vern had played the game longer than she; the nobles readily accepted him.

Laureline tilted her head. "One or two, if you can spare them. For information only, please."

Vern nodded.

Anais slipped into her chair, her claws tapping the wood restlessly. "Filter the news to the nobles. Skirmish, victory, the usual nonsense. General, authorize additional raids and send one of the loudest idiots to lead them."

Then she focused on the quiet man to her right. Jerome had been her mother’s captain of the guard. He was on his way to earning his retirement as well, but she doubted he would accept any easier than Vern.

"Captain. What have you learned from the rebel?" she asked.

Last night, a young man had been caught climbing over the palace walls. Luckily for him, he’d chosen a well-guarded wall in the courtyard of the Queen's Wing. Had a noble snatched the boy from the air, he would have been introduced to some rather painful games. Instead, he was simply constrained to a small storage room.

"He’s here to spy, find out anything he can—guard schedules, food deliveries, your routine," Jerome began. The captain had been the one to capture the rebel. It had apparently been effortless—the boy had tumbled over the wall and practically fallen into the captain’s arms. "The boy’s name is Harlen, thirteen years old, a thief before he joined the rebels. And a thief still, but he volunteered for an excuse to see the palace."

"You didn’t hurt the boy too much, I hope?" she asked mildly.

Jerome never responded to her humor. While he’d strike down any threat without hesitation, he’d never hurt a harmless child. Attempts to prod him with jests were simply ignored or occasionally elicited faint disapproval. He’d been no different with her mother, but Jana had made little effort at humor most days. Perhaps he found humor offensive amongst the nobles’ games.

"The boy is unharmed, my Queen," he responded in his normal serious tone. "He spoke openly to Meriana when she brought him food and cleaned his scrapes from the fall, even offered to help her escape."

Ah, Meriana. Gentle and sweet, the girl probably said little while the boy tried to impress her.

Anais nodded. "Send him back with a message. We want to talk."

"Finally," breathed Laureline, feathers dancing as she sat back.

Jerome bowed and left the room. Anais turned her head. "Yes, Duchess. Due to Nadraken’s recent escalation, I agree we should move ahead with the rebels. I hope you’re right, and the commoners are ready to respond."

"That pot just needs stirring, my dear. I’m very sure." She sipped her tea. Laureline had worked with Jana for years on a plan to gain the support of the people. Against the sea, a little pond is nothing— her mother’s hopeful words. Anais was still unconvinced that they could raise this sea, and all their efforts would end in meaningless splashes of their own blood if they couldn’t. But they would need every droplet they could gain before the other nations grew too aggressive.

Vern interjected, "Duchess Satryani is taking the opportunity to rouse her circle, calling for war."

"She can turn a chipped claw into an excuse for war," Laureline scoffed.

"Yes, it doesn't take much to rile the nobles," Vern agreed.

Damn that bitch . Border skirmishes were common enough and the occasional noble sent to lead a raid helped contain their bloodthirst, but not her dear Great-Aunt Satryani. She, and plenty of others like her, wanted to stain the streets red. It was unfortunate that Nadraken was doing the prodding—most nobles were even more eager to retake the land that was supposedly once part of Drantar.

"The usual cries for reunification?" Anais grimaced.

Vern nodded. "What else? Restore the glory of Drantar. One nation, one world."

Centuries ago, their two nations had been one, unified beneath a single Queen. The largest nation in the known world, the other countries had nearly capitulated to its superior strength until a tragedy killed the Queen and split the land apart.

Or so the glorified histories told. Little evidence of it remained today, but facts never stopped the nobles.

Anais snarled. "I'm tempted to take that woman's claws."

"If only we could outcast every snake," Vern agreed. "The Gamuths never miss an opportunity to complain, to remind anyone who’ll listen how harsh and unfair you are."

"Did you tell them I was considering stripping their entire family of their land and titles?"

He shrugged. "Three years ago. Since you didn’t, they like to whine about the fate of their beloved lady."

Three years ago, they’d finally discovered her mother’s murderer: Countess Crescelia Gamuth, a jealous, vain little snake. On the surface, it had been little more than a petty rivalry. The lady was possessive of one of the Queen’s lovers. Crescelia saw an opportunity and took it.

Anais had needed little excuse to strip the countess of her claws and, thereby, her station. But after the brief satisfaction of revenge came the wariness of suspicion. Jana had been too strong, too well-protected to fall to such a pathetic, weak creature.

It would have been so easy to be just like them. Butcher the countess, destroy her family. Torture them until they revealed the truth. Who really murdered my mother?

There were lines Anais would not cross. This one was so very thin.

She turned to Laureline. "Anything new from Magdus?"

The lady grimaced and shook her head. That trip to the count’s estate had been a complete waste of time. Their spy had disappeared—likely caught and killed since they hadn’t reported back yet.

Five years. Five years she’d waited to avenge her mother, and every time they caught the scent of proof, it vanished in the wind. Magdus wasn’t the culprit, at least not alone. He was too dull for that. She had a strong sense of who had done the deed, but motive and proof were still lacking. Without both, she refused to lash out like her careless court. But five years.

"Remind them of the consequences," she snapped at Vern. "Remind the whole damn court. We cannot allow any of them to step out of line." Not now, when war threatened closer than ever.

Vern bowed his head.

Octavius spoke, moving on. "The House of Shadows requested an audience. Several times, in fact. Their persistence has grown in the last week. Specifically, they wish to discuss the courtesan you contracted. "

She was a little too aware of her left hand for a moment. "Castien? How has he been?" As though she didn’t watch him every time he walked into the dining halls. Curiosity, nothing more.

"Well enough. Better than most. I spoke to him the other day. He snapped at me." Octavius’ gruff amusement was a surprise.

Anais paused. "Did you have to hurt him?"

"No, my Queen. We were alone."

"Good. That might have made things more difficult." She sighed.

That courtesan was certainly satisfactory in appearance, and her nobles had been a touch quieter than usual, particularly when he sauntered into any room. No doubt he knew precisely the effect he had on every pair of eyes that followed his every movement. It was amusing that her court was so affected by one person—any of them could cut him down in a moment, but instead, they rubbed against him like a feisty wildcat on their favorite tree. They scratched and marked him, yes, but they hadn’t needed a reminder not to mistreat him.

The man himself seemed almost innocent, despite his profession. Everyone outside the nobility was innocent in comparison, but he felt different. He wasn’t childish or ignorant, and certainly not virginal or at all ashamed of his profession. But he was honest, intelligent, and honorable. His temper combined with his honor was going to get him killed.

Master Iberius had come close to outright refusing a contract. The Night Courts never refused her anything. Not out of loyalty, no, their motivations were much simpler—gold, favor, stature. His reluctance had only piqued her interest more. They’d even insisted on a representative while she signed the document—one final chance to convince her to choose another courtesan, anyone else. The Masters and Mistresses of the Houses knew how her court handled its servants, and this particular courtesan was apparently a prize they didn’t want to see harmed. Perhaps they’d learn to hide future talent.

But this contract was agreed upon and signed, even if she had been a hairsbreadth away from threatening their protection. The Night Courts enjoyed a near-sovereignty that allowed them to enforce rules even the nobles dared not disregard. By providing them with military support, they in turn offered generous gifts to the royal treasury. Even this prestigious courtesan’s services had, in the end, been a gift.

If they regretted their decision, it was too late.

Her claws rapped the table again, fitting into small, worn notches in the wood. "Tell them I’ll meet later tonight. Hmm, in the gardens. It’s a full moon, isn’t it?"

"Yes, my Queen," Octavius confirmed.

The gardens were beautiful in the light of the full moon.

An hour and several minor issues later, the council dispersed. She had just pushed back her chair when Captain Jerome opened the door and slipped inside again. He bowed to her, then cleared his throat.

Strange. If the captain had a message, he would’ve spoken without hesitation. Anais raised a brow.

"My Queen. I have a personal matter," Jerome said.

That was intriguing. "Yes?"

He paused, then spoke as though pronouncing someone’s death, "I wish to request your blessing to pay my respects to Madeline."

Pay his respects? What did he…

Anais blinked. Jerome held himself straight and stiff, as proper as always. A full head taller than her and with a few white hairs mixing in with his light brown, her captain was a comforting, constant rock by her side. A rock that asked for nothing, wanted nothing, cared for nothing—except the safety of her and the Inner Circle. Only he would phrase it quite like that. He'd never courted anyone, as far as she was aware.

"Madeline? My handmaiden?" she confirmed. Madeline was half his age, and like a sister to her. Maddy hadn’t hinted at any interest.

To the altogether too-proper captain, Anais was probably Maddy’s closest family.

"Yes, my Queen." The words he said so often were oddly stilted.

She frowned. "I will speak to her."

He hesitated, still not leaving.

"Captain?"

"She is waiting outside, my Queen. Will you speak to her now?"

The uncertainty on his face was also uncharacteristic. She nodded. "Yes, send her in. Alone."

Jerome bowed and exited, her maid entering a few moments later. Where the captain was hard, the girl was soft. He never laughed and rarely smiled; she gently lit up any room she entered. Imagining them together was like a single candle trying to warm up a deep cave.

Madeline stood at the far end of the table, her hands clasped tightly together but her chin raised and jaw set. The studded bracers of an Escort adorned her wrists, though she did not attend councils. This one Escort was for her , for Anais, not the Queen. Besides, she rarely ventured beyond the Queen's Wing.

"My lady," she greeted, clear and proud.

"Jerome asked for permission to court you." That might have come out with a bit of accusation.

Her eyes widened and a shy smile spread across her lips. "Will you give us your blessing? Please, Anais?"

So the interest wasn’t one-sided, and they’d both hidden this from her. "He is twice your age, Madeline. Jerome is old enough to be your father. You may be fond of him—"

"I love him. Not as a father, brother, or friend. Please. This isn’t a passing fancy and I know my mind."

"He didn’t even argue with me for your hand."

She replied without hesitation. "He always obeys you, no matter what you say. Of course, he wouldn’t argue."

True enough.

"You are young. You never had a father. I don’t want you to rush into this and regret your choice," Anais reasoned.

" You are young, and younger still when you took the crown," her friend ventured, her certainty fading.

"And would that I could have changed my mind. Ask me again in a year, Madeline."

The girl wiped a tear and bowed hastily before leaving even quicker.

Perhaps she had been too harsh. Madeline was like family; Anais couldn't help but be protective. Even though Jerome was the most steadfast man alive. He would not have asked if he was not in earnest. It was a testament to his healed heart that he had asked at all.

Perhaps if she had the time to observe them, this wouldn't have been a surprise. But the Queen had little energy for anything other than the court and the nation. There was never enough time. It felt a poor excuse as she prepared for the nobles’ council, her silent captain falling in by her side.

—

While she wore casual attire with her Escorts, the nobles would expect their Queen in her normal display of wealth tinted by the dark promise of death. This dress tempted eyes to wander down to her partially covered breasts, then further to the slit revealing her thighs where they would find the glint of metal lining her claws. She’d been known to puncture an eye that stared too long. Or those who didn’t look at all.

The council chambers were expansive—tall ceilings, chandeliers, and, behind the throne, large open windows. A long table stretched out before her where her bickering councilors yammered. They had discussed war for the better part of an hour, then couldn’t decide whether wheat taxes should be raised.

"If I may," one of her councilors raised his voice. "Lord Byret, who was executed last week. Some of the nobles found that rather harsh, my Queen."

A few small nods around the table. Anais would rather talk about wheat. She settled on a bored expression.

"Need I remind you all again why we keep our games contained in the palace?" It wasn’t a perfect containment, but there were far fewer deaths than in her grandmother’s time.

"It was only one peasant from the market, my Queen—"

"And next week, will it be just one or two merchants? Perhaps just a few fisherfolk another day? Do you like to eat, councilor? Do you like your silks and comforts, or would you prefer to sleep and feast on rotting corpses? Since that will be all that is left if we destroy our own nation like a wasting disease."

Count Jaysen spoke into the silence, "That's rather extreme, my Queen. You enjoy flesh and blood as much as anyone—sometimes we get carried away. Surely we can overlook a few lapses."

She favored him with a sigh. "That is why we bring commoners into the palace. We don't need to stumble over hundreds of bumbling servants. No, their purpose is much like the stuffed roast pig at a banquet—for our pleasure. Taking more outside the palace only harms the crop. Surely, you can understand that, Lord Jaysen?"

The count’s lands produced much of the nation's meat. If he had not even the basic knowledge of livestock, he had no business being a count.

"I had not considered it that way, my Queen."

"Try, my lord. Good day, councilors." She didn’t wait for their reply, sweeping out of the room.

The council of nobles was only half the problem. She had to make them feel as though their opinions and concerns mattered, that she listened to and was influenced by their words, but also that she was reasonable and fair. Being only capricious would have been almost fun—favoring a different noble every meeting and pitting them against each other. But that would make none of them happy in the end, and they might decide a new Queen was better than a wholly unpredictable one. Neither could she favor any one faction—and of course the nobles had factions—for too long. Favoritism led to expectations led to disappointment and once again the entire court would be up in arms against her.

So far, capriciousness and ruthlessness with a dash of inexperience seemed to be acceptable. The first two years after her mother died had been chaotic, but there hadn't been any serious murmurings of treachery in the last three years. The relative peace would be worrisome if not for her Escorts. Between Vern, Laureline, and Darius, the day-to-day proceedings were almost tolerable. If necessary, an occasional show of the army’s strength usually tilted the fragile balance her way.

However, the years of inactivity bred discontent. The nobles were feeling constrained and stagnant, made worse by the ‘games’ she’d slowly introduced—weekly deaths halved and halved again, entertaining the nobles with their own punishment, going so far as to execute courtiers for breaking petty laws. It made for tedious and tense council sessions. Yet she preferred tedious council meetings to war.

At least the last meeting tonight promised to be interesting.

—

The Night Courts representative sat at a candlelit table within a small garden alcove. Two swan-shaped bushes, their arching necks forming the entrance, provided a semblance of privacy. The representative’s robe of glossy silver shimmered like a waterfall when he stood and bowed. "My Queen. You are as radiant as ever, an embodiment of starlight, and as keen as the winter winds."

The familiar flowery Night Court greeting sounded natural on his tongue. She found it tiresome.

"Master Iberius. I did not expect you, personally." She sat, her guards remaining outside the alcove.

"My deepest regrets for the sudden interruption to your day, Your Majesty. Thank you for receiving me so quickly." He inclined his head, silky strands of night-black hair curtaining his face not unintentionally. "In the effort to minimize my disruption, may I present my concerns?"

Curious. The Night Courts always spent—wasted—a minimum of ten minutes in flattery and idle chatter. Their continued request for an audience and willingness to skip this final piece of propriety meant they truly were worried. She waved her fingers casually.

"Thank you. As you know, we consider Castien to be an asset. We expect he will continue in our service after his bond is complete. In pursuit of that effort, we have a request on his behalf."

This plain speech was refreshing.

"Continue, Master Iberius. Before the night is done, if you will."

"Of course, my Queen. We ask that he be granted a protection equal to that of the Houses—as though he were in a House—while he is in your service. For that protection, he will agree to five more years with the House of Shadows and half his fees to the crown."

She allowed a small frown onto her face and chilled her demeanor substantially. "The purpose of his contract was full and unfettered access. With even the minimal protection of a guard, his value would be substantially decreased. You are asking for more than that."

The Master’s continued charming smile and relaxed posture was impressive to someone who understood masks intimately. She prodded at this one. "Do you not trust the abilities of the greatest courtesan the Night Courts have ever produced? Should he not be able to handle overly passionate clients? I’ve heard no complaints from him yet." The Dark Queen wouldn’t. A servant’s discontent was no concern of hers, and silenced quickly if voiced at all.

He dipped his chin a slightly more subservient degree, but nothing else changed. "I’m glad to hear it, my Queen. But our courtesans have no capabilities in self defense—thus the guards at every room in the Houses. While Castien rarely has need for a guard’s intervention, we understand that the royal court is a livelier place, prone to passions that we of the Houses find… difficult. Particularly after the first moon."

There, a flicker in his eyes. He understood he was treading a dangerous path by even hinting at her court’s proclivities. A servant’s first moon was an adjustment period. Her nobles were encouraged to refrain from their harsher activities, which they turned into a time for engendering fear and anticipation. A different form of entertainment, making the final transition all the sweeter.

Tomorrow was this courtesan's last day of the snakes’ moderate restraint.

Master Iberius couldn’t know that she’d gladly accept any excuse to protect a servant in her court. Yet Castien had been procured for a particular service. The relative peace was sustained by sacrificing people like him—curiosities, distractions, controlled drama of her fashioning.

A pretty toy to dazzle the nobles while she courted rebels.

In truth, she tired of the game. And this one—this man with his arrogant innocence—she loathed to see him broken like so many others before him. She indulged her court often enough. A little of her own indulgence was called for.

But it also couldn’t be an easy thing.

"Has he agreed to the continued service?" she asked idly.

Iberius’ smile widened. "He is not yet aware, but he will happily agree, I assure you, my Queen."

She sipped her wine slowly and extended her hand across the table, palm up, claws straight. His smile faded. A slight hesitation and one quick breath practically screamed fear from this unfaltering man. He placed his larger hand over hers. His aged skin was a contrast to her smooth youthful arm, but the power here was all hers.

The smallest twitch of her fingers could shred his wrist to pieces.

She played with the tender skin of his inner arm. "Have you served, Iberius?"

The faint tension in his muscles was almost a disappointment, but few were unaffected by her reputation. Was he wondering if he could sense her mood and retreat fast enough?

His voice was steady. "More than a dozen years ago, my Queen. Briefly. The Master at the time decided my services were better used elsewhere."

"Hmm. Did you enjoy your service?" His hand was still dry, soft, relaxed—remarkable, considering.

"I did not find it distasteful. My clients were gentle, and I was the one holding the whip."

"Ah. As you still do. Would you have agreed to this, Iberius? Five years for protection."

"Without hesitation," he replied too quickly.

"Why?"

He paused. Her cold smile wasn’t encouraging, but she had to play this as she did with anyone who only knew her as the Dark Queen.

Her claws stroked a little harder. He flinched, though his hand stayed still.

"My Queen. It is no secret that your court harms its servants on a regular basis. Irreparable harm. Castien is far more valuable wholly intact."

She contemplated him with her cold smile for a few moments longer, then began to slide her hand backward. A single claw dragged along his palm as she spoke. "I will consider your request. You’ll have my response by tomorrow. And Iberius? Speak plainly in the future. I do not have time for flattery and games, unless you wish to play mine."

He bowed his head almost to the table as he carefully pulled back his hand. The angry red line on his palm would burn, but she hadn't drawn blood. "Yes, my Queen. Thank you. I would not take more of your time than necessary."

"You may go."

—

Back in her private chambers, Darius lounged on her bed, scrolls spread out on the sheets. "The Night Courts’ dossiers are very thorough. Did you know your new courtesan likes—"

"I read all of it, yes." She’d glanced at the page he was focused on when she entered the room. The dossier was filled with descriptions of his talents, including what he could do to every part of the body. That one page was dedicated to ears. Who knew ears could be so extensively erotic? This courtesan, apparently.

The elegant shoes constricting her feet went flying into a wall before she hopped onto the bed, stretching her toes. Darius swept the scrolls together like a stack of cards, then went to massage her feet.

He grinned. "Is that why you’re considering helping him?"

She leaned back, closing her eyes. "You know I’d save everyone if I could."

Darius pressed again, "But why this one?"

"Jealous?" She half-opened her eyes. Court spy and sometime lover, Darius had been her friend for far longer. She never thought he loved her, not romantically.

He laughed and let her change the subject. "You’re a wonderful dance partner, but I don’t think I really satisfy you."

She shrugged. "Sometimes."

He clutched his heart and collapsed. "Sometimes! You wound me."

She smiled and closed her eyes. "Did you read the section about his friends?"

The bed shifted as he propped himself back up. "I saw the names. Do you think Castien is part of the movement?"

"I’m not sure. But he could be useful, if he trusts us." Another reason to bring him into her circle.

Darius absently massaged her calf. "Fair enough." He paused. "The nobles are going to push for war."

Not over a courtesan, not even this one. The Queen opened her eyes. "They always do."

"They are hiring more mercenaries, training more guards."

Not something the hedonistic fools usually spent their coin on.

"I see. Anything else?"

"Not yet."

"Thank you."

The bright glint returned to his eyes. "Care for my sometimes pleasant company, my Queen?"

She couldn't quite return the warmth. "Not tonight, Darius."

Again. She'd abstained for nearly a moon now. It was frustrating, particularly since she couldn’t understand why. Except that she didn't want Darius or any of her lovers. Whenever her thoughts meandered toward the bedroom, she kept remembering firm fingers on her hand, wondering how that expert touch would feel elsewhere. Pointless daydreaming—the Dark Queen wouldn’t play games with this courtesan, and Anais never played games at all.

Darius waited a beat, then removed himself from the bed, bowing. "As you wish. Good night, Anais."