32 THE ORPHANS

32

THE ORPHANS

Erida

For a man who could crush diamonds in his fist, his touch was featherlight, his fingers gentle on hers.

Queen Erida let Taristan escort her from her horse to the staging ground at the top of the hill, the Madrentine border and the Rose River spread out before them. On the banks, the First and Third Legions formed up like silver beetles in ranks, crawling inexorably forward to the hastily constructed barge bridges anchored in the current. Despite her husband’s glowering presence beside her, not to mention her assembled council of generals and war advisors, Erida could not tear her eyes away from the river. Twenty thousand men marched below, cavalry and infantry and archers, pikemen, knights, squires, and peasants pressed into service with their feudal lords. Men and boys, enamored of war or terrified of it. Rich, poor, or somewhere between. Their hearts beat for me this morning. She breathed deeply, as if she could taste their steel. The moment shimmered in her mind, already a treasured memory.

When I am old, an empress without equal, I will remember this day. When it all began.

She felt Konegin’s glare, familiar as her own face. He had no cause to be angry. He wanted this war as much as any other good son of Galland. Madrence was weak, unworthy of its lands and wealth. It needed a stronger master. He only wishes he were me, his feet in my shoes, my crown on his head. And what a crown it was this morning: her father’s own, made for battle, a circle of gold hammered into a steel cap. Her hair hung loose beneath it, falling over her shoulders in waves. Erida was not accustomed to steel, but her armor was light, made from precious metal, meant for ceremony rather than war. She had not bothered with a sword, even for show.

“A beautiful morning, Cousin,” she said, drinking down another gasp of crisp autumn air. In the foothills, the leaves were turning, edges going red and gold.

Konegin huffed a noise in his throat, low and wet. “I’ll weigh the morning when evening comes,” he answered, folding his arms over his golden breastplate. It matched his luxurious beard, every hair combed into place. He looked the part of a king.

But so does Taristan,she thought, his hand still supporting her own.

Again he wore blood red beneath his armor, which was crimson and scarlet with a cloak edged in gold. The colors reflected oddly in his eyes, giving them a sheen like rubies. He brushed his hair back, slicking the dark red locks against his scalp. By now she noticed that one of his eyebrows had a split in it, cut by the tiniest white scar.

The cuts were still on his cheek, thin but unmissable, the same blue as the veins in her wrist. She wanted to trace them, one finger to each.

“You’ll lose a thousand men by nightfall,” Taristan muttered, his eyes never leaving the river. His wizard was not with them, cooped up with his own doings back at Castle Lotha. “The Madrentines are dug in between their forts. Their trench lines are as deep as our own. Even if we outnumber them five to one, it will be a killing field.”

His voice was flat, without accusation.

“A thousand men for the border,” Erida answered. “A thousand men for a clear road to Rouleine, and then Partepalas, and then the coast.”

A clear road.

They both knew what that meant.

Though the Spindle was back in the ruins, guarded by an encampment of five hundred men, she could still hear the growl within it, the shuddering cascade of gems and teeth.

“For the glory of Galland,” Konegin rumbled, putting a fist over his heart.

Though she despised him, the Queen didn’t mind echoing his words, the battle cry that had lived in her since birth. “For the glory of Galland.”

The others followed suit, the great generals and lords cheering for their country. Their voices swelled as one, thunderous to meet the first echoing clash of steel at the river.

Only Taristan remained silent and staring, his eyes rimmed in red, his fingers soft in Erida’s own.

The Madrentine campaign headquartered at Lotha, the grander of the two castles close to the first assault. Once the field was won, they would move further downriver, keeping the Rose between themselves and danger. More legions would follow, already marching from the corners of Galland to bolster their conquest through the soft valleys of Madrence.

Erida had never been on campaign before, not truly. The morning began with battle and the night ended with feasting, the great lords toasting each other and their splendid performance on the field. Beer flowed and wine spilled along the tables of the Lotha hall, every head spinning with drink or battle or both. Indeed, a thousand men had been lost through the day, but miles had been gained, the Madrentines driven out of the forests and into their crumbling fortress to await siege. The day had been a rousing success.

And tomorrow will be another,Erida thought, bringing a third glass of wine to her lips. She surveyed the feasting chamber laid out before her, her version of a battlefield.

Lotha was no palace—built to defend the border, not entertain royalty—but it was comfortable enough to pass the days. The hall was tiny compared to Erida’s own back in Ascal, and crammed with Gallish nobility, most of them falling over themselves this late in the evening. Many toasted the Queen, shouting her blessings, praising her boldness and courage. Her kingdom had not conquered in years. She was hungry. She was ready, an eager horse pawing at the gate. Erida felt it in herself, as she felt it in her crown.

Her husband did not enjoy feasts, or most of the posturing required of a royal consort. He sat in silence, eating little, drinking little, speaking to a select few and only when forced. It was the same tonight, his eyes lowered to the plate of wild boar set in front of him.

“Will Ronin be joining us this evening?” she muttered, careful to angle her voice. Konegin was never far from her side, separated by only a few seats, and he often weaseled his way into their conversations, scrabbling for crumbs.

The corners of her husband’s mouth pulled downward into a frown. “He will come in his own time,” he answered. The shadow in his eyes burned red. “Whenever that might be.”

Erida leaned closer, hiding her mouth with the goblet. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” he said, voice flat as his stare. It was the truth, without adornment. Then he raised an eyebrow, his lips curling. “Are you going to scold me again? Tell me to make friends among your simpering nobles?”

The Queen scoffed into her wine, taking another sip. It tasted of cherries. “Allies, not friends. There are no friends to be had here,” she said quickly, almost in singsong. The same creed had been hammered into her since childhood. “Besides, I’m growing accustomed to your taciturn manner.”

“Taciturn.”

“It means—”

“I know what it means,” he said, leaning back in his seat. It put some distance between them, and Erida found herself disliking it. He carried a heat with him, a comfort in the cold stone of an old, dreary castle. She watched, waiting for the telltale flash of red anger in his stare. It never surfaced, his gaze on his plate, his eyes like obsidian. “Orphans can grow to intelligence, even those raised in the mud.”

Her hand lay on the wooden table, inches from his fingers. She did not dare move it, either closer or farther away.

“You forget I’m an orphan too,” Erida said hotly, feeling the now-familiar lick of anger Taristan always drew up her spine. Her cheeks warmed and she turned away, hiding her flush. If he noticed, he gave no indication.

She chewed her lip and shifted from one frustrating topic to another. “I received a letter from Bella Harrsing today,” she said, looking at him sidelong.

Though Taristan did his best to remain unbothered by the workings of a royal court, she saw a muscle feather in his cheek. He forced another bite of boar. “And why does that concern me?”

“She asked about our progress. Toward an heir.”

His eyes flashed. This time, the red was there. “That seems rude.”

“She’s an advisor,” Erida offered, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s her job to ask. Just like it’s our job to provide one.” Provide a child, as if they are simply plucked off trees. Yes, it was a queen’s duty to birth children, and a monarch’s duty to solidify the chain of succession. These were facts of life, as real and undeniable as the glass in her hand.

Taristan said nothing, his own goblet undisturbed and filled to the brim. He contemplated it but did not drink. Erida wished she could crack his head open and peer inside. An impossible want, largely because any blow would probably glance right off his skull, thanks to the blessings of his demon lord. She would have to be direct instead. It made her skin crawl.

“Will you visit tonight?” she asked quietly, hating herself for being so blatant. It’s not like me to maneuver so poorly.

And it was not like Taristan to flinch. His eyes snapped to hers, his teeth parted to draw a surprised breath.

“I prefer to go where I am wanted,” he finally said, searching her face.

Erida nearly laughed. She had never heard anything so strange. And yet . . . it made her wonder. She could still feel his hands in her hair, his nails along her scalp. The drag of his fingers over her collarbone as he disheveled her shift, pushing her to sit on a rumpled bed. The heat in her cheeks burned again and words escaped her, any response dying in her throat. This time, she found she could not turn away, hooked to his gaze as though a Spindle burned within it, gold and glimmering, undeniable.

The Queen of Galland drew a fortifying breath, settling her mind.

“The sea fills with monsters, the hills with skeletons, the river with blood. Our strength is growing, Taristan,” she said, imagining each. Taristan did the same, his brow furrowing as he licked his lips. “An empire is within our grasp.”

“For Him,” her husband answered. Suddenly their fingers were closer on the tabletop, though her hand had not moved. “And for us.”

When the wizard slunk into the hall, Erida wanted to hurl her goblet at his little white head. He festered in his red robes, hands wringing as he hastened past the crowded tables.

Taristan broke their stare, sensing Ronin, and moved to stand.

Only to look up at Konegin instead, looming over them. Her royal cousin motioned for two more goblets of wine, the smile beneath his mustache weak and forced. He dipped his head. For once there was no circlet, not even a jeweled chain hanging from shoulder to shoulder. He seemed smaller than his usual self.

Perhaps, for all his blustering, war does not agree with him,Erida thought, relishing the idea. It agrees with me fine.

“Your Majesty,” he said, easing into a shallow but steady bow. “So many of our noble friends have made toasts here tonight, in honor of the Queen and her army, as well as our victory today.”

A cheer went up among the tables as men jumped to their feet, banging their cups. They swallowed up Ronin, obscuring his red robes and white face.

“I thought it fitting I make another, to His Royal Highness, the prince consort,” Konegin continued, his hand extended. A servant in reversed livery, green lion on gold, pressed an ornate chalice into his hand, the brim spilling with deep, red wine.

The servant then offered the same to Taristan, who took it with an obliging scowl, his lips curled over his teeth in a frightful attempt at a smile. A woman with less restraint would have howled with laughter, but Erida contained herself.

“To Prince Taristan of Old Cor, husband to our beloved queen, father to the future of Galland. The son and sire of empires!” Konegin shouted, raising his cup to the room. Then, with a leering grin, he looked back at Erida’s consort, blue eyes sparkling. Like a man dying of thirst, he gulped at his wine.

“To Taristan!” rippled out among the crowd, Ronin still livid among them.

Erida reached for her own glass, tipping it to her husband in amusement. “To Taristan,” she echoed, drinking deeply.

The Corborn man kept his grasp tight on the chalice, his fingers working up the stem of the intricate metalwork.

Erida’s smile weakened, her delight dulled by exasperation. Is he really going to embarrass us both? Now? Over nothing? She almost kicked him under the table. Drink, you fool.

To her relief, Taristan relented, as if this were some battle to be sacrificed.

Lord Konegin beamed, showing wine-stained teeth, the liquid still dripping in his mustache.

Taristan forced down a healthy swallow and pushed back his chair, rising to his full height. They were nearly the same size, though Konegin was older, gone to fat around his middle. They glared at each other, like a pair of archers trading arrows.

Her instincts flared. Something was not right.

In the crowd, Ronin shoved his way forward, knocking noblemen aside. A few balked while the rest watched the scene at the high table, their voices falling into silence.

“Taristan?” the Queen said, putting down her glass. It echoed too loudly for a feasting hall.

Her husband didn’t react. Instead he put out his hand, the chalice gripped in his fingers. “Share in this with me, my lord,” he said. Torchlight gleamed on the cup and in the wine, shining a dim and syrupy red.

Konegin snorted, shoving his own cup back to his servant. The one in the reversed livery. His own man, Erida knew, feeling a wave of cold settle over her limbs.

“I’ve had my fill, Taristan,” he answered, still smiling with red teeth. “So have you.”

“Very well,” Taristan answered, knocking back the rest of the chalice, the wine running over his chin and chest, never blinking, never breaking his gaze on Konegin’s face.

Beneath his mustache, her cousin’s smile fell.

“What are you?” hissed from his mouth.

Erida leapt to her feet, the pieces snapping together in her head. Treason. Betrayal. Poison. She knocked the cup from her husband’s hands and pointed to her royal cousin, her fingers shaking. “Arrest him,” she blurted out, nearly a scream. “Take Lord Konegin into custody—put him in chains.”

The lord quivered, still watching Taristan, his face torn between confusion and dread. “What are you?” he said again, stepping off the dais.

“Arrest him!” Erida shouted, and the hall exploded into noise. “He has tried to poison the prince!”

Her knights surged, eager to obey, even if the orders bewildered them. Konegin was beloved by many, a potential king to a young, untested queen. He had supporters among the nobles, many in the hall. Many in the army. Erida felt her knees tremble as he plunged into the crowd, his own entourage following him quickly. Even his idiot son managed to flee, scurrying after his father as quickly as his legs would carry him.

Poison,she thought again, coming back to herself.

There was a warmth beneath her hand, another around her back. She tore herself from the disarray of the feasting hall to look down, to her own fingers flush against Taristan’s coat, pressing firmly into his chest. She blinked, dumbfounded. It was his arm around her waist, keeping her close.

He looked down at her, his lips and chin red. She imagined him like a beast, a predator feasting on prey.

“Poison,” she said aloud, raising a shaking finger.

He caught it before she could touch his lips, pushing her away.

“I am immune,” he ground out. “You are not.”

The Lionguard moved in pursuit, most of them charging after Konegin and his men. They disappeared through the doors at the far end of the hall, streaking for the courtyard and the gates of Castle Lotha. Erida wanted to gather her skirts and follow. To pin Konegin down herself and cut his throat for his treachery.

Instead she remained at the high table, a statue to all who saw her, though her bones were shaking.

I’ll need to explain,she thought idly, eyeing the room. Her loyal subjects were in a frenzy, too drunk to understand or too confused to do anything more than shout. Her remaining knights bristled at the base of the dais, pushing back any who attempted to pass.

All but Ronin.

They knew better than to cross the wizard.

He glowered, his body twitching in an odd manner, his face whiter than Erida could ever remember it being. Like fresh snow, like a corpse drained of blood. The whites of his eyes were lined with blood vessels, some broken.

Taristan wiped at his face with his sleeve, scrubbing the poison away. “What is it?” he snarled, looking down on his wizard.

Ronin dropped his head, his hands raised like a priest begging forgiveness. “We’ve lost Meer,” he murmured. “We’ve lost a Spindle.”

The chalice, made of pure silver, cracked apart in Taristan’s hands.

Erida felt his rage. It mirrored her own.

“Lost,” she breathed. As if someone has simply misplaced it. Blood roared in her ears and she met Taristan’s eye, catching his wrists before he could tear the table into pieces. “Lost,” she said again, snarling.

He glared, the fire burning in his eyes, a dull red edged in gold. Somewhere, Erida smelled smoke. “I’ll kill her,” he hissed.

“I’ll help you,” she answered.

If you loved Realm Breaker, don’t miss the first breath-taking instalment in Mare’s story, Red Queen.

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