7 THE QUEEN OF LIONS

7

THE QUEEN OF LIONS

Erida

The list of names never stopped growing. Erida wished she could burn it up or rip it apart, but she sat quietly instead, cursing every suitor asking for her hand. It’s to be expected, she told herself. She was nineteen years old, wealthy, beautiful, well bred, educated, and skilled in all the talents of a proper noblewoman. Not that any of my accomplishments mean much of anything. It’s the crown they want, the crown that draws hopeful proposals. Not my striking blue eyes or sharp wit. I could be a tree stump for all they care.

The Queen of Galland had ruled for four years, since her coronation at fifteen. She was well accustomed to her duties and the expectations that came with her throne. But it does not make them any easier, she thought, adjusting herself in her seat.

Though it had been only an hour in the council chamber, she was already sore, her back kept ramrod straight by an ornately carved chair and the tight lacing of her green velvet gown. The low ceiling of the round tower room did not help matters either, pushing down the oppressive heat of afternoon. At least today her head was bare; she did not have to suffer the weight of heavy gold or silver. Her ash-brown hair lay unbound, falling in waves over pale white shoulders. Behind her stood two knights of the Lionguard, in their ceremonial golden armor and bright green capes. How they stood the heat, she did not know.

Erida always held Crown Council in one of the high towers of the keep, the fortress heart of the New Palace, even in high summer. It was a round room, stern and gray like a grizzled old guard. The windows of the chamber were thrown wide to catch the breeze off the water. The palace was an island in the delta of the Great Lion, surrounded on all sides by river channels and canals. Gates kept the water around the palace clear, but the rest of the delta was jammed with galleys, trade cogs, merchant ships, barges, and ships of the fleet, all coming and going throughout the sprawling capital.

Her councillors listened in rapt attention, seated around their table with Erida at its head. Lord Ardath stood, leaning heavily as he read another letter aloud with a laborious wheeze. He paused every few moments to hack into a handkerchief. The old man lived perched on the cliff edge of death, and had done so for a decade. Erida didn’t bother to fear for his health anymore.

“And so, I am humbled—” He gasped and coughed again. Erida winced, feeling her own throat twinge. “To offer Your Majesty my hand in marriage, to join our lives and futures together. I pray you accept my proposal. May they sing of us from the Gates to the Garden. Yours unto death, Oscovko Trecovik, Lord of the Borders, Blood Prince of Trec . . . and so on with all the other titles that muddy troll likes to trumpet,” Ardath finished, dropping the letter onto the council table.

An apt description,Erida thought. She had met Prince Oscovko only once, and that was enough. Covered in shit after passing out in a military camp latrine ditch. If he was handsome, she could not tell under the layers of fetid grime and wine stink.

Lord Thornwall picked up the letter quickly. He was a small man, thin and shorter than Erida herself, with graying hair and a red beard as furious as the armies he commanded. Even in the council chamber, he insisted on wearing armor, as if a skirmish might break out at the table. He squinted at the untidy scrawl of the letter, then at the seal and signature.

From her seat, Erida could easily see the mark of the crowned white wolf, the sigil of the Treckish royal family. She could also see the varied misspellings and cross-outs marring the page, as well as several inky fingerprints.

“Written in the Prince’s own hand,” Erida surmised, twisting her lips.

“Indeed it is,” Thornwall said gruffly.

He slid the letter to Lady Harrsing, a veteran of many years in the royal court. She sneered at it, deepening the lines on her face. Bella Harrsing was just as old as Ardath, though far better preserved.

At least she can breathe without losing a lung.

“Don’t even bother putting his name on the list,” she said, refusing to touch the paper.

Across the table, the fortress of a man named Lord Derrick scoffed. “You champion that infant still learning his letters in Sapphire Bay but won’t consider a king’s son on our own doorstep?”

Lady Harrsing eyed him, and his flushed, round cheeks, with distaste. “I’d wager Andaliz an-Amsir knows his letters better than this pestering oaf, or you, my lord. And he is a prince too, of a nation far more useful.”

Their bickering was endless and familiar. Though it felt like putting a spike through her own skull, Erida let Harrsing and Derrick carry on like rival siblings. The longer they argue, the longer I can draw out this distasteful process of selling myself like a prize cow, she thought. And the more time I have to think.

It had been weeks since Andry Trelland had returned to Ascal alone, speaking of Spindle doom and a conqueror from nowhere. Taristan of Old Cor. The blood and blade of Spindles, with a rabid army hidden in the mountains, horrific beasts under his will.

She sat in silence, her face still and unreadable. Like a scale, she weighed the squire’s words, as she had every morning and every evening since. Did Trelland speak the truth? Is there a devil on the horizon, meant to swallow us whole?

She could not know for sure.

The lie is the right choice, the better option. For me and my kingdom.

Harrsing and Derrick continued their sniping, weighing their chosen candidates for marriage. Truthfully, Erida despaired of both Oscovko and the Ibalet princeling, as she did every other name on that wretched list.

Lord Konegin remained as silent as the Queen, sprawled in his chair at her right hand. He was a cousin to Erida’s father, and he too had the piercing blue eyes and thoughtful manner of the royal line. The ambition too, Erida thought. While the rest sat on the Crown Council to advise the Queen, hand-selected for their value, she’d chosen Konegin to keep an eye on a potential usurper to the throne.

He watched Harrsing and Derrick as one would a game of rackets played down in the garden. His eyes moved between them while they volleyed jabs back and forth. With his blond hair, striking glare, and strong, bearded jaw, Konegin looked too much like Erida’s father. He even dressed like him, done up in simple but fine green silk, with a gold-and-silver chain hung from shoulder to shoulder, wrought lions roaring its length. It made her heart ache for a man four years gone.

“Put the name on the list,” Konegin eventually said, his voice flat and final.

Derrick shut his mouth at once, an action Erida did not miss. But Harrsing drew herself up to argue, a foolish endeavor where Konegin was concerned.

Erida reluctantly cut her off. “Do as my cousin says.”

Dutiful Ardath dipped his quill in a pot of ink and scratched the Prince of Trec’s name onto the long parchment that would decide her fate. She felt every letter carved into her skin.

“But we must have a care for his position,” she added sternly.

“He is a second son, yes, but this would secure our northern border,” Thornwall began. He was never without his battle maps and was quick to point to the Gates of Trec, a gap in the Mountains of the Ward that cut the northern continent in two.

Erida resisted the urge to tell her military commander that she knew geography better than he did. Instead she stood and walked slowly to the massive, magnificent, painstakingly made map of Allward hung on the wall. It filled her vision, and she stood close enough so that all she could see was Galland, her birthright and her destiny. She looked over the familiar rivers and cities, their detail exquisite in the curved painting. Ascal itself stood at the center, her wall of yellow stone picked out in real gold leaf and chips of amber. Even the trees of the great forests of the Ward were drawn. It was the work of a master cartographer and master artist both, using swirls of paint and flecks of stone to create the realm of Allward.

“Our army is five times the size of their own, by a conservative count. If the butchers of Trec wish to try the Gates, let them. But I will not wed myself to a kingdom that needs me more than I need it. And, you’ll notice,” she said, reaching up to trace her fingers along the map, “Trec has quite an unfortunate border of its own. Wedged between the glory of Galland and the wolves of the Jyd, not to mention the Temur emperor.” She pointed to each nation in turn, gesturing from the frozen wastes to the western steppe.

Thornwall leaned back in his seat, looking thoughtful. “Bhur has not conquered in two decades. The Temurijon lies quiet and flourishing. His armies maintain the borders already drawn, nothing more.”

For now.The peace held across the west by the might of Temurijon was near legendary, stretching for decades. Bought in blood, Erida knew. But such is the price of peace and prosperity.

“The Emperor will not live forever, and I am far younger than he is,” she replied, returning to her chair. “I’m not willing to gamble on his sons, who might hunger for conquest as their father did in his youth. And I will not form an alliance that will send my soldiers across the mountains to fight and die for another throne, to save Treckish throats from Temur blades.”

Harrsing raised her chin. The apple-sized emerald at her neck gleamed. Along with being a shrewd counsellor, Lady Harrsing was the wealthiest woman in Galland. After the Queen, of course. “Well said, Your Majesty.”

“Indeed, you see better than most of my generals,” Thornwall said. His gaze lingered on the smaller map still in hand. “Though I admit, I have wished to test the knights of Galland against the Temurijon’s Countless. What a war that would be.” His tone was wistful, almost dreamlike.

“What a war,” Erida echoed.

She saw it in her mind as clear as day. The Countless, the great army of the Temurijon steppes and Emperor Bhur, had never been defeated in battle. And none had tried them in decades. She wondered if the horse archers were still formidable, if Gallish steel and Gallish castles could weather such a storm if it came to break. And what kind of empire could rise from such a clash. With myself at its head, alone without equal. Without need for any other.

“Our armies are prepared to fight and defeat any kingdom upon the Ward,” Konegin said sharply. “And any conflict with the Temurijon would be long in coming. It does us no use to dwell on it now. We have a different task close at hand.”

“You are good to keep us on track, Cousin,” Erida muttered, feeling the opposite. He offered a false smile in return. “Keep Oscovko in contention. Are there any names to add? Or to remove?” She did her best not to sound hopeful.

“Duke Reccio of Siscaria has offered his son and sent a portrait of his likeness,” Ardath wheezed. “I know you’d prefer not to wed so close a cousin, but I’ve had it put with the others. A Jydi clan leader also sent a bear pelt and her letter of intention.” He drew out a battered page from his folio and passed it to the Queen.

“Her?” Lord Thornwall balked.

Erida took it in stride. While the lower peoples of most kingdoms were free to wed as they chose, man or woman, between or neither, a ruling queen was bound by the possibility of children. “She would not be the first. And the Jyd don’t birth their heirs, they choose them. I cannot say the same.” The letter was not parchment but treated skin. Animal, I hope. There were only three words on it, poked in. You, me, together.

“I see we’re using the word letter lightly,” she muttered before putting it aside. A low chuckle passed around the table. “Have the pelt sent to my residence in the Castlewood, and a letter of thanks sent to the Jyd.”

“The Crown Prince of Madrence, at least, has given up his hopes,” Harrsing offered. She put a hand to her necklace. Her skin was paper thin, near translucent, showing blue veins beneath. “Orleon weds a Siscarian princess at the turn of the month. We can cross him off.”

The small victory was bittersweet. Erida grit her teeth, loath to say what she must. “Can I not dangle myself a bit longer? I’d like to give our soldiers enough time to rally along the Madrentine border. As soon as the pretense of marriage is gone, we begin our push to the ocean. And I’d rather not fight both Madrence and Siscaria if I don’t have to.”

“I can try.” Harrsing bowed her head. “I’ll send word of your . . . renewed interest to the court at Partepalas.”

Thornwall scratched his beard. “I’ll do the same and alert our encampments near Rouleine.”

“Good,” Erida said. The Third Legion was already nearby, stationed among the forts and castles of the tumultuous border. Twenty thousand men will be ready to fight before the autumn sets in. “How long will they need?”

“The First Legion dispatched from the capital forts two weeks ago.” The old soldier leaned back in his chair and blew out a breath, counting out the days on his fingers. “Riding hard, on the Cor roads, without incident, I’d say the knights and cavalry would arrive in less than four weeks’ time. The infantry—swords, pikes, archers, and whatever peasant we press into picking up an ax—another two months.”

The Queen nodded. “Then buy us three, Bella.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I’d rather be bait than a prize,” Erida said. If I am to be dangled on a hook, I’d like to do so under my own terms, for my own ends. “Well, if there are no more suitors to discuss . . .”

“There are plenty,” Konegin ground out.

Talk of war always emboldened her, and Erida put a hand down on the table. She leaned toward her older cousin, careful to keep her temper in check. Though women have more right to anger than men.

“And none who tempt me, or Galland,” she told him. To her delight, he drew back in his seat. “If I am to marry, I will do it for the good of my crown. To strengthen my throne instead of selling it. We are the successors to Old Cor, the rightful empire, the glory of the Ward. Find me a husband worthy of that destiny, of my father’s and grandfather’s dream. Find me a champion.”

A high bar to clear. Impossible, perhaps.And that was her aim. Set a target so small none could hit it. If the Crown Council guessed as to Erida’s true intentions, they did not say so or show it. They would not call their queen a liar, young as she was. Nor am I lying, she thought. If such a man exists, I will marry him, and wield him like the sword I cannot carry. To carve out an empire like the days of old, from one edge of the map to the other, uniting all beneath the Lion. Beneath me.

“There are the funerals to see to,” Ardath said softly, drawing Erida back from her musings. “Though we’ve had no word yet. It’s possible they never find the bodies.”

Erida nodded. She’d selected the riders herself, from the ranks of the Lionguard. To look for the corpses of Tyr and the Norths. And the army of ruin, should it exist at all.

“Body or not, they shall be buried in honor, with all the glory they earned in life. Sir Grandel, Sir Raymon, and Sir Edgar will long be in our memories,” she said, and it was the truth. The knights had guarded her since the coronation, and her father before. While she would not weep over their loss, she was upset to lose them still.

Konegin nodded in agreement, but his eyes were sharp. “What of the squire?”

The mention of Andry Trelland sent lightning through the Queen, down her spine and into her fingers. If what he said comes to pass, if what he saw in the hills was real, if a Spindle is torn, if the stories and fairy tales are true . . .

But Erida forced an uninterested shrug. “I’m sure another knight will take him on. He’s a fine young man; it should be no trouble to find a place for him.”

“He said nothing of his plans when he returned? Bloody and alone in the middle of the night?” Konegin pressed. Now it was his turn to lean over the table. “Again, I ask, what did he tell you?”

Though every instinct of etiquette told her to sit back, to make herself small, to smile demurely and placate her cousin with her feminine gentility, Erida did not. Her hand curled into a fist, the grand ring of state difficult to ignore. The rough-cut emerald gleamed sharply.

“Andry Trelland’s words were for my ears and mine alone,” she said. After weeks of questioning, she could recite it in her sleep. “Rambling, mostly. The boy was traumatized by the slaughter of his lord and the others. But the specifics are known. I’ve told you as much.”

“Killed by a horde of Jydi raiders, yes. All butchered but for the squire.” The lie had been an easy one to reach for, and an easy one to believe. “Seeking what we do not know, accompanied by a band of warriors without name, for a purpose we cannot fathom,” Konegin barked, slapping down a hand.

Harrsing jumped in her seat.

“Some decrepit Elder, some Spindlerotten witch calls and you send three knights without question, without even consulting us, without even telling us why. And now we must fill their empty graves!” The lord ran a hand through his hair, setting the golden strands on end.

Erida watched him collect himself with a shrewd eye.

“Your Majesty,” he added softly, an afterthought as much as a warning.

The Queen held her tongue. She felt fire in her throat, and it would not do to loose it here, kindling that could turn into a blaze.

Lady Harrsing was good enough to speak in her queen’s stead. “We have not heard nor seen the Elders in a generation,” she said primly. “Tell me, my lord, would you not have done the same? Would you not have sent men to answer a monarch’s summons?”

Erida narrowed her eyes, knowing her cousin well enough to guess.

He would have gone himself. Taken a retinue of knights and his own men-at-arms, a wagon of gifts, a parade of servants, and a pair of heralds to shout his titles and his bloodline.Make way for Lord Rian Konegin, grandson of Konrad the Great, King of Galland. He would have been a spectacle for commons and immortals alike, as close to an emperor of Old Cor as he could make himself, Erida thought. Her jaw clenched. And if I were not chained to this throne, I would have done it too.

Konegin was undeterred. He glanced at Derrick and Thornwall, looking for support. “I’d like to summon the squire and hear his story for myself.”

After four years of rule, Queen Erida was as skilled an actress as any of the pantomime players on the stages of the Ascal streets. Her strength flagged as she bowed inward, her shoulders drooping as she shut her eyes. She passed a hand over her face.

“Trelland’s agony is my burden to bear, Lord Konegin. Mine alone,” she said wearily. “That is the cost of the crown.”

A crown you will never claim.

It was enough to placate even Konegin, who retreated like a shattered army.

Erida dropped her hand, and her mask of sympathy. Her face turned cold as she stood from the table, dismissing them with her action.

“Konegin still has not presented his son as a suitor.”

Only Harrsing stayed behind. Even Erida’s Lionguard had retreated to the hallway, giving their queen a private audience with the old woman. The two stood by the largest window, watching the river as it carried on to Mirror Bay. Green freshwater swirled with darker salt. On the far bank, the famed Garden of Ascal stretched along its island, its trees and flowers manicured to perfection. Despite the heat, nobles and the wealthy merchants of the capital strolled the lawns and paths of the Garden, their shrieking children in tow.

Erida contemplated the greenery across the water. She’d played there as a child, surrounded by a circle of knights. As the only heir of the king, her life was more precious than any treasure. I never even skinned my knees. There was always someone to catch me.

With a sigh, she turned to face her advisor. The usual headache thrummed at her temples.

“Because Konegin wants to take my country by force instead of marriage. He’d rather sit the throne himself than put a grandchild upon it peacefully,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “He’ll only push Herry at me when he has no other choice.”

Heralt Konegin, the Prince of Toads.An apt nickname for Erida’s mean, squat, and croaking cousin, who did little but drink and stare, fog-eyed. Her stomach twisted at the thought of having such a person foisted upon her.

“There are still suitable partners,” Harrsing said, gently guiding Erida away from the window. The Queen allowed herself to be led. “Easy to control, rich in land, gold, armies. Good men who will protect you and your throne.”

Protect me.Erida wanted to retch. There is no man upon the Ward who would not take my crown if he could, nor one who is worth the risk of losing it.

“I decide who is suitable, Bella. And so far, I have seen none,” she said. Though the old woman returned her to the table, it was Harrsing who leaned heavily on the Queen’s arm. While her health was certainly better than Ardath’s, there was no denying the age that weighed on Bella. Erida winced at the thought of losing her, and she forced a smile instead. “No, not even your Ibalet princeling,” she said, winking at the old woman. “Who you so often forget to mention is your grandson.”

Harrsing shrugged with a wry smile. “I just assume it’s common knowledge.”

“Indeed,” Erida mused.

The map wall of the council chamber flashed with light rippling off the river. It seemed to dance, the lines of rivers and coasts and kingdoms bending and changing. Erida watched and, for a moment, saw no kingdoms at all. None but her own, in every corner of the Ward. She stopped before the painting, her face raised.

“Before his death, my father made his wishes known,” she said. “They are easy to remember. There were only two.”

Harrsing bowed her head. “Erida of Galland chooses her own husband. None shall be forced upon her.”

Again Erida ached in her chest, and wished her father were still alive. His decrees held weight, even in death, but they would not protect her forever. And while Erida was queen, she was a woman first, in the eyes of most. Untrustworthy, unfit, too weak to rule. History gorges itself on women raised high and then brought low by men grasping for their power. I will not be one of them. I will not lose what my father gave me.

I will make it greater.

On the map, the golden city of Ascal gleamed.

“My father also said Galland is the glory of the Ward, Old Cor reborn, an empire to be remade.” The old Cor roads, straight and true, were stark against the map, inlaid with precious stones. They bound the great cities of the Ward, spreading over the old borders. “I do not intend to disappoint him.”

Harrsing grinned in approval. “The Crown Council is with you.”

Until they aren’t,Erida knew. Until they find someone else they’d rather stand behind. Even Bella Harrsing, who had known her since birth, who had served her father before her—even she would abandon Erida if the need came. If a better opportunity presented itself.

“That poor squire,” Harrsing carried on, pulling them away from the map and the council table. “I can’t get him out of my mind. Having to watch his lords be slaughtered by those northern animals.”

A sour taste filled Erida’s mouth. Usually Harrsing was far less obvious in her needling. Who has the boy been speaking to?

“A tragedy, to be sure,” Erida said demurely, her eyes downcast.

Heroes murdered, Spindles torn, a madman with an army. The entire realm in danger.Erida mulled over his harried ranting again. Truth or madness? Still she could not say.

In the hall, the Lionguard waited, as did Erida’s ladies and handmaidens. All rose to her pleasure, ready to serve their young queen. In their many-colored gowns and flowing skirts, they looked like a school of fish moving as one. Toward food. Away from a predator. Both.

“Send word to Lady Trelland and her son,” Erida said to her maidens. “I would like to visit them and pay my respects for our lost knights.”

Harrsing nudged her shoulder. “After the petitions.”

“Of course.” Erida sighed, already tired.

Would that I could do away with this entire tradition, useless as it is.Petitions day meant hours upon the throne, hearing the complaints and demands of nobles, merchants, soldiers, and peasants alike. Mostly it meant keeping her eyes open, deflecting their troubles as best she could.

“How many present themselves as suitors?” she asked wearily, looping her arm into the old woman’s. The record currently stood at twelve in a day.

“Only one. I’m told he’s quite fetching.”

Erida scoffed low in her throat, unamused. “Tell me something of use.”

All thoughts of Andry Trelland faded, eclipsed by the demands of a crown.

“Well, let’s get on with it.”