The Queen Will Betray You

by Sarah Henning

  The woman looked to Ula, who had applied another liberal amount of the sagardon to a scrap of linen. “You did these sutures yourself, child?”

  “Yes,” she answered, pressing the sagardon to Luca’s snakebit leg—still flat black, but no longer swollen.

  Mannah nodded. “Ula—Ulara Vidal, yes?”

  Luca’s breath hitched as Ula’s golden eyes crept to the woman’s face. Ula hadn’t mentioned her parents’ names or their positions at the castle, but it was clear that Mannah had been thinking back, paging through the names and faces she’d known all day. “Yes.”

  “I thought so when I first heard your name this morning.” Something about Mannah’s coloring changed, a flush flooding her cheeks. “Your mother was handy with a needle—Lygia would be proud, Ula.”

  Luca’s heart stuttered. It almost felt as if it were on the outside of his body, beating raw and red. “Lygia?” He touched Ula’s shoulder—mostly because it was what he could reach and remain relatively still. “Your mother’s name was Lygia?”

  “Yes…” she replied, unsure.

  “That was my mother’s name—or what she went by at the Itspi. She could not walk around as Queen Elixane, so she went by Lygia.” The color drained from Ula’s face, and Luca’s next words rushed out under their own volition. “My mother must have adored yours to use her name.”

  Luca turned to Mannah, whose dark gold eyes ran between them as if reading the pages in a book. “What can you tell us about Ula’s Lygia? Would she have known my mother?”

  A strange expression flickered across Mannah’s face. Ula, for her part, was still and silent, used linen clutched in her swordswoman’s grip. Luca placed a kind hand on her wrist. “I’ve thought the past few days that perhaps Ula and I were destined to meet and become friends and … if our mothers were that way? That—two orphans could not hope for more, perhaps.”

  “I don’t know,” Urtzi deadpanned from the table, where he sat with his fourth cup of tea, “I’m an orphan who has spent a lifetime hoping for my parents.”

  Osana shoved him on the shoulder. “Well, stop hoping because our parents aren’t coming back. But they do live on in memories, so shut up and let the woman talk.”

  Luca smiled gently at Mannah. “Please. What can you tell us? Were they friends? Lygia and Queen Elixane?”

  After a long moment, the old woman answered, more guarded than before. “I was the head maid. Lygia was among my charges within the castle. I am sorry to say, my Otsakumea, but though they were acquainted, I doubt they were what you would call friends. I conversed more with Queen Elixane in a day than Lygia or any of my other girls would have in an entire year, and yet I would not say we were friends.”

  Luca’s heart dropped. So that’s how it was in the Otxazulo, then. He’d known the environment of King Sendoa’s castle was unusual within the Sand and Sky—less formal, more familial. And it hit him with a sudden sadness that if everything were different and he’d grown up as a stableboy at the Otxazulo, the likelihood of befriending the princess—let alone forming an attachment that turned into love—would’ve been nil.

  Mannah smiled softly at Ula’s crestfallen face, and the disappointment in her Otsakumea’s eyes. When she spoke next, it seemed as if the words had carefully arranged themselves on her tongue. “It is splendid that the two of you found each other. Here, like this—not at odds.”

  Ula and Luca exchanged a confused glance before the pirate drew in a breath and inquired, “Why is that, Mannah?”

  The woman looked between them. “Because the last order I ever gave Lygia was to take the Otsakumea and run.”

  CHAPTER 8

  AMARANDE awoke in yet another secret of the Itspi. A chamber that looked very much like the dungeons, buried diamond deep in the mountainside. But she was not underground—daylight streamed through two windows, higher than her eyeline. They appeared to be stained glass, but the iron bars that crisscrossed the interior of the frame made it clear they were simply a way to disguise the cell from the outside.

  As she sat up, attempting to gather her bearings, the world skewed sideways. A throbbing pain pounded behind her eyes as she blinked into the weak garnet-and-cobalt-filtered illumination. She had no idea if she’d been here hours or days, only that it was daylight now.

  She’d been stripped of her sword and makeshift sheath—no surprise there. Gone too was the stained wedding dress—not that Inés likely would’ve wanted it back anyway—replaced by a nondescript shift, itchy and coarse.

  The metallic tang of Renard’s blood clung to her skin despite her change in clothes. Her stays remained, and, over her heart, she could feel the prickly edges of the ransom note that had precipitated all this—her headlong pursuit of Luca and his kidnappers; their subsequent joyous reunion and heartbreaking surrender at the feet of Renard; and the wedding that ended with the crown prince’s blood on her blade instead of his ring on her finger.

  Marry Renard or you will never see your love again.

  Its presence ensured this was not a dream, detailed how far she’d come and, it seemed, how much had changed.

  She’d met her mother.

  Her brother.

  Stars. She had a brother. Sired by her father with a woman who was his trusted general, forever confidante, and closest friend. Raised by Amarande’s own mother, after she’d stolen him away. She’d always believed the story of the Runaway Queen to be as simple as an act of love or lack thereof, but the truth was so much more complicated. Everything these days seemed to be turning out that way.

  Amarande was right-side up, but her world was upside-down.

  Her value diminished and path to the throne obliterated—the crown princess usurped by a prince—albeit a prince who had no legal claim. The laws were clear. The Kingdom of Ardenia fell to the male line. Ironically, it was easier to elevate a bastard than to allow a legitimate heir to rule on her own.

  And then there was Luca—plowing headfirst into a deadly situation without her by his side. She’d feared war since the moment this all began and had done her best to prevent it, but now Luca was marching into a rebellion that very much could start one. They’d been together their whole lives, she could not be away from him now. Not when he needed her most.

  Their plan was in shambles, but it did not matter as long as she got to Luca as quickly as possible. Amarande stood, testing her legs. The pounding behind her temples escalated to a drumbeat, but the rest of her body seemed workable.

  Amarande’s boot knife was a weight against her ankle. She checked to make sure—fingers brushing the hilt, disguised by her boot shaft. Still there, indeed. An oversight? Perhaps Koldo was human after all and could make mistakes.

  Or perhaps it was left for a reason.

  As she turned over the possibilities in her mind, the princess examined her surroundings more closely. Straw-filled mattress, chamber pot—wooden, and bolted to the floor—and shackles drilled into the wall. The rounded walls were as solid as anything else in the fortified castle of the Itspi, and the door the same heavy wood and iron with extra strips of thick steel crisscrossed over its length for reinforcement.

  Yes, a cell indeed—one it was imperative that she escape. Get to Luca. Keep him safe from the Warlord. Fight for his right to rule in the Torrent and then come back and fight for Ardenia.

  Prove to her mother, her brother, her councilors, and possibly Koldo that she wasn’t a liability. She was an asset. And she wasn’t about to spend her life hiding away, no matter the political ramifications.

  The princess would not be a sacrifice.

  She wasn’t one when they tried to marry her off. She wasn’t one when they tried to bribe her with Luca’s life. She wasn’t one now when they tried to hide her away.

  With her boot knife, she could most definitely hack a hole in a wooden portion of the door, enough to see outside her circular room. But if a guard’s oversight was more than cursory, the hole and the splintered wood would be obvious and her knife would be discovered.

/>   She started with the window. Even on tiptoes, the bars were out of reach. Worse, they were flush with the glass, and not even the slimmest fingerhold was available that would allow her to pull herself up and afford a glimpse of the world outside.

  But Amarande had a plan. Boot knife in hand, she cut a strip of cloth from the hem of her thin, colorless shift. Standing beneath the window, the princess jumped, angling the tip of the strip so that it was flush with the bars each time. After several tries, she successfully threaded it behind the first set of vertical bars and was able to pull it down just enough so that she could tie the ends into a knot. The loop was not strong enough to completely support her weight, but she just might be able to hang on long enough to quickly gauge her location within the castle.

  Amarande stood on the chamber pot, balancing on either edge. In one fluid movement, she pushed off the chamber pot, her fingers caught the loop of cloth, and her arms bent just enough to lever herself above the lip of the window. For one long moment, she held herself there, arms taut and biceps screaming, boot toes digging into the solid stone wall.

  The arena—she could see the lip of the arena.

  Which meant she was still in the north tower, somewhere close to the council room. Just as she came to that realization, snap. The cloth tore and before she could lunge for another grip or pull her feet from the wall, Amarande fell with a resounding thud, the back of her head bashing into the stone floor.

  Amarande lay there for a moment, stars in her eyes. Anger bloomed along with a new pain running from her tailbone to the base of her skull. Faintly, she remembered what the idiot guards at the Warlord’s camp had said about her when they thought she was lying about her name: The princess has never left Ardenia. Locked in a tower the day her mother ran away. Even the spiders crawling the Hand know that.

  Did her mother spark that lie? Or her father? Was it meant to keep her safe or make her father out to be more controlling than he was?

  Amarande squeezed her eyes closed, sucked in a deep breath, and then got to her feet. This time, she grabbed her boot knife and stepped to the door. There was no knob, just a flat lock with all the meaningful parts of it on the other side—except the keyhole.

  She stuck the tip of the dagger inside and jiggled it around. For one minute. Two. Five. Finally, she gave up. There was no way she could unlock it.

  Frustrated, she moved back to the window and began to shear a thicker strip of cloth from the hem of her shift, enough to expose her bruised knees. As she twisted her torso around to hack it off at the back, she heard noises from the other side of the door. Amarande immediately stashed the knife beneath her bed and sat on top of it as if waiting patiently for visitors.

  The door wrenched open, revealing the guardswoman who had escorted her into the castle and to Satordi’s chambers. “Your Highness, you’re awake.”

  “Second Captain, you’re stuck with me, I see. You and your team from the gate in a special rotation so no one else knows of my existence, I presume?”

  Without making eye contact, Pualo swallowed. Cleared her throat. “I am here to remove your boots.”

  “I rather like my boots and would prefer to keep them. Without them, I might get a chill. This shift is inadequate. The mountains of Ardenia grow quite cool at night, even in summer.”

  “My apologies, Your Highness, I will inquire about bringing you appropriate clothing from your wardrobe, but for now unadorned clothing is required.” The guard’s chin dipped as her gaze lifted. “As is the removal of your boots.”

  Amarande narrowed her eyes. “Why? If you want my boots, why did you not remove them before?”

  “General Koldo’s order—you have been known to carry a knife in your boot.” Ah, there it is. “If I don’t return with your boots and the knife, she will come and remove them herself.”

  That was exactly what Amarande wanted. And possibly what Koldo wanted, too—a reason to see Amarande that would not be suspicious.

  Koldo couldn’t truly be in an alliance with the woman who had stolen her child. Or against the girl whom she had personally trained to be a warrior—and loved as a surrogate daughter.

  Could she?

  “Let her come.”

  CHAPTER 9

  IT wasn’t Koldo who came for Amarande.

  No, when sound echoed through the antechamber beyond her cell door and the locking mechanism clicked free, the person who strode into the room wasn’t her surrogate mother.

  It was her brother.

  Amarande’s heart dropped. This could mean many things. That Koldo had ridden out to confront the enemy at the borders; or that her knife was truly an oversight, not a sign; or that this was what the general had intended all along.

  Wearing what looked to be a garnet-and-gold uniform from her father’s wardrobe, Ferdinand shut the door and presented himself with a dagger at his hip and no other visible weapon beyond his utter size. There was something absolutely stunning about him in the daylight, filtered as it was through the stained glass.

  Sunset hair. Green eyes. Body of a bull ox in need of a cart.

  He was in every which way a reproduction of King Sendoa, and yet not. At fifteen he had already reached his father’s height, and still had room to grow. Koldo was taller than most women and some men and broad shouldered besides, therefore this was not a surprise.

  But Ferdinand had not been trained by Koldo. Looks could be deceiving, and if he truly had only size as a defense he would not last long if Amarande fought to make that dagger hers.

  To his credit, Ferdinand did not make pretenses. “You didn’t surrender your boot knife.”

  In the time she’d had since the guard left, Amarande had been busy. She’d freed the chamber pot using her knife to hack away at the bolts that secured it to the wooden base and positioned it directly under the window. She’d heard him coming just as she hopped on the edges of the chamber pot to reach up and attempt to break the glass using the blade’s hilt. She’d had just enough time to hide the evidence—the bolts, the knife—under the mattress and sit down upon it.

  “I wanted to talk to Koldo,” she answered.

  “She has just returned from the Pyrenee border.” Relief swept through Amarande—a return meant they were not actively at war. Though Dowager Queen Inés surely had a plan, and a delay was a strategy in itself. “The general would have come herself if I had not convinced her I could handle the chore.”

  Amarande had so many questions. But she simply asked, “You do not call Koldo ‘Mother’?”

  “I do not know her as my mother.” He tilted his chin upward. “I do not know her at all.”

  The princess arched a brow. “I know her very well and I highly doubt she sent you alone, as valuable as you are. How many guards are behind that door? Two at least. Possibly four?”

  He did not back down. “Sister, please take off your boots or I shall slice through the laces.”

  “You know me less than the woman you do not call Mother. Do not call me Sister.”

  A flicker of something that might have been hurt reflected in his sea-glass eyes. “Amarande, please take off your boots or I shall slice through the laces.”

  She grinned. “I’d love to see you try.”

  Ferdinand drew his dagger. Left-handed. Interesting. That is something Father was not.

  As he took a step forward, the princess unlooped her arms from around her knees. “Do you know how to use that thing?”

  “Of course.”

  “I will be the judge of that.”

  Ignoring her, Ferdinand advanced, and the moment he was in range Amarande’s boot struck out and made jarring contact with his kneecap. He stumbled back but did not fall. His auburn brows pulled together. “Amarande, don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

  “You’ve already locked me away yet you plan to disarm me. What possible harm can my knife do under lock and key?”

  Ferdinand glanced downward for the barest of moments. “We don’t want you to hurt yourself.”<
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  “I would never.” Amarande drew into herself. “And why would that worry you anyway? It would benefit you if I bled out in this room. Much easier to bury the secrets of the dead than manage the imprisonment of a living threat.”

  “Is that really what you think I want?” His voice lowered, thrumming with frustration. Ferdinand took a step forward, fingers tight on the dagger. “My world has opened up. I know of my father, my true mother, my sister. I want to know everything. We have just met, Amarande, but the last thing I see you as is a threat.”

  “That is your mistake.”

  When she kicked out this time, Ferdinand was ready, grabbing her boot and yanking at it, trying to wrest it off with both hands. She pulled back, but he held fast, even managing to keep the dagger in his grip. Amarande’s other foot shot out and clocked his left hand. His grip faltered, he dropped his dagger, and she drove her heel hard into his knee yet again.

  He swore, clutched his knee, and fell backward. Amarande pounced, scooping up the dagger. She landed in a crouch, her front foot bare, her back foot planted behind her, still shod. Ferdinand struggled up, trying to right himself as he grabbed at his battered knee. “I don’t want to hurt you, Amarande; I swear it.”

  “Then why did you bring the dagger?”

  “Your reputation precedes you. I wasn’t going to use it.”

  “You drew it.”

  Ferdinand climbed to his feet, squared his shoulders, and looked directly into her eyes. “Amarande, believe me, when I found out my identity, I was far more interested in family than some title. That is precisely why I told you the truth—that Koldo is my mother, not Geneva—when we met. I do not wish to begin our relationship with a lie.”

  “Or you told me the truth because you believed I would not live long to shout it from the rooftops.” Amarande advanced with the blade. “If you are truly interested in having me as proper family, why not march me straight out of this cell this instant?”