The Queen Will Betray You

by Sarah Henning

  Even more stunning, the entire thing was made of wood in an almost treeless landscape of nothing but parched earth and open sky for miles around. That made it expensive, permanent, and wholly unbelievable.

  And therefore, very dangerous.

  Something Amarande could confirm personally.

  Still, the princess slid off her horse and tied the gelding to the hitch post beside the sign. “Taillefer, my offer still stands if you’d like to leave.”

  “Despite the sign’s whimsical warning, I’m coming with you.” He dismounted and tied Balkan next to his brother. “That said, if we are not heeding the posted proclamation, I would like to request you return my dagger.”

  The prince fell into step beside her, approaching the main building’s large portico and yawning door. Amarande answered, “I would, but weapons are not allowed.”

  Taillefer jogged ahead to face her as she advanced, walking backward. “Which is exactly why you have that sword strapped to your back and your boot knife thunking against your ankle. Very wise—did you wear your weapons before?”

  Amarande continued her trajectory to the covered porch and sun-worn structure beyond. “I am wearing my weapons precisely because of what happened before.”

  “I feel compelled to ask what happened before.”

  Taillefer caught her wrist. It was not forceful, just a way to get her attention. Maybe he was learning that she did not respond well to physical coercion, but either way she did not want him touching her. She snatched her wrist out of his grasp. He placed his hands on his hips, and glanced at the black hole of an open door and the uncertainty behind. He’d taken her joke about the weapons well, but now the droll nature of his usual expression was gone, his face serious. “Amarande, if my life will be on the line in this building, tell me the whole truth. My neck deserves at least that.”

  In answer, she offered him his bloodied dagger.

  “There is a man inside called the Innkeeper. As you surmised, he is loyal to the Warlord, who allows him to maintain this inn, which would otherwise go against the rules prohibiting stationary congregation. It is allowed because he is paid in many ways that benefit the Warlord, but most importantly is that he is paid in information.”

  Taillefer palmed the dagger and brightened a bit. “Seems like my kind of fellow—bending the rules and gaining knowledge.”

  “You might not want to proclaim that until you meet him … if he is still alive.”

  “Princess,” Taillefer chided, again stepping into her path.

  Amarande pushed past him, sights set on the building. “When I was last here, the Innkeeper’s guard tried to kill me and the aftermath likely injured the Innkeeper. I left before I knew if he survived.”

  Taillefer fell into step beside her. “So, we’re entering an enclosed space, trying to extract information from someone who you may have had a hand in severely maiming or killing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Suddenly my dagger does not seem sufficient.”

  Amarande rolled her eyes. “Taillefer, I witnessed you murder that guard with a single blow of that dagger.”

  He didn’t try to deny it. “That was only because the boy was caught unawares.”

  The more Amarande thought about the technique he’d used on the guard, the more convinced she was that Taillefer could slay several aware men with that dagger and his wits. “You have that fire swamp terror. Use that.”

  Despite the danger they faced, he laughed softly. “I realize you called me evil not long ago, but I’m disturbed that you would suggest I unstopper that, toss it in someone’s face, and watch their flesh melt off the bone.”

  She stared at him. He was exactly that person. If he would use it on Luca or to disarm a guard as he’d suggested at the Itspi, he wouldn’t hesitate here. Amarande drew her sword. “Stay alert. And do not expect me to rescue you.”

  The wooden boards of the porch creaked under their weight as they stepped into the shade of the overhang, blinking into the open maw of the building’s entrance. The doors were missing—nothing left but a black mouth with punched-out windows on either side.

  In silence, the pair entered, weapons at the ready as the change in light briefly wiped out their vision. Listening hard to the kind of silence that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, Amarande held herself in a strong high blocking stance, grip tight on her sword as she blinked into the dim until the haze of blindness lifted.

  The fine vases and plants and specimens of wealth were gone or shattered, the whole place sacked. Where the floor had been charred by the candle during her fight with the Innkeeper’s giant, the boards were splintered. Every door to the building’s interior was off its hinges, the rooms behind littered with debris. Dried blood marred the once-intricate rugs, more evidence of the princess’s previous visit.

  “Is this the aftermath you mentioned?” Taillefer whispered. “If so, I believe you undersold what happened here.”

  “The guard was a giant. Most of the mess is not mine.”

  “That may be but given this nasty array, I highly doubt this Innkeeper person survived.”

  She nodded to the marble desk, in ruins on the floor in the back of the room. “In theory, but also last I saw him he was pinned under that slab of marble.”

  “Perhaps that is why I feel as if we’re being watched.”

  The princess nodded. She felt it, too. They moved together, inching toward the back of the room. As they came upon the desk, Amarande paused, her attention caught on a brilliant sliver of daylight—in what once had looked like a solid, ornate wall. But no, on closer inspection it was actually a hidden door, its hinges and handle designed to melt into the gilded pattern and purposeful shadows of the Innkeeper’s work space.

  “A door,” she whispered, chin tipping toward the light. “Stay behind.”

  Sword in high guard and ready to defend, Amarande inched toward the door, pressing her weak-side shoulder against the wall, eyes pinned to the white light beyond for any movement.

  Nothing.

  With a fingertip, she nudged the door open a little wider and cautiously peered into the sliver of sunlight beyond.

  Still nothing.

  Leading with her weapon, she pushed the door fully open. The effect was blinding, and she stood there in her trusty high guard stance, blinking into the brilliance for one moment.

  One moment too long.

  Amarande felt it before she saw it—a vicious downward blow that cracked her stance as her injured hand struggled to maintain a grip.

  She knew what to do in any swordfight—sweep the blow aside with a turn of her blade, release the pressure, return to a guard stance. But before she could do as she’d been trained, the pressure on her sword increased as something or someone grabbed hold of the edge of her blade—and dragged the princess right through the door and into the light.

  CHAPTER 25

  THE world washed out into a blinding brightness. Amarande’s other senses picked up on what her vision couldn’t—the weight of other bodies surrounding her. And whatever held on to her sword was not about to release it. So the princess did the only thing she could do.

  She let go.

  The sword and attacker fell away and Amarande rolled into a crouch, boot knife immediately in her grip. As dark spots danced between her and the attackers facing her, a noise came from behind, then a rush of air and a battle cry.

  Taillefer.

  Another blink, and the picture sharpened, the edges and reality clear.

  A black wolf. Her sword clasped in its jaws.

  The prince barreled past and tackled the animal to the sandy ground. They rolled across the earth in a smack of bodies and a smear of black, white, and red—the garnet cloak of his pilfered Ardenian uniform caught in the wind and movement.

  A woman ran after the wolf and Taillefer as they tumbled past, wailing in a sob of old Torrentian. A man was in motion behind her, running across the massive space. It was as Luca had described to her—a giant ya
rd, free of grass, only undulating sands in shades ranging from the typical copper to flat white. Edged along the exterior fence were the inn’s open-air “rooms”—small, fenced-in campsites.

  That left two attackers facing Amarande.

  Another man and woman—him balding, and holding a dagger tight in his right hand. Her with both hands wrapped around the hilt of a sword. All four of them were of Torrent, eyes a golden brown and hair dark.

  All teeth bared and bloody, facing her with blades just as deadly as hers.

  Yet they were here. With another impossible black wolf. Stationary and defiant within the Warlord’s domain. Which gave her a sliver of hope that these people were actually exactly whom she needed to find.

  Still crouched and armed with her dagger, Amarande slowly straightened. She held her free hand out, imploring. “Please, we seek the resistance.”

  The balding man burst into mocking laughter. “Says the girl last here with the Warlord’s spy!”

  What in the stars? She’d been here, yes, but with Osana—

  A knife shot out of the man’s hand, and the princess dove to the side. She rolled to her feet, dagger out and ready. His companion immediately rushed at her, sword tip aimed straight at Amarande’s belly. The princess pivoted and flattened, and the woman crashed forward under the weight of her driving weapon. As she fell to the dirt, Amarande immediately smashed the blunt hilt of her dagger down upon the back of her skull, rendering her unconscious.

  “Please! Listen to me!” she pleaded. “We don’t want to hurt you!”

  “Speak for yourself!” Taillefer gasped from somewhere across the open yard. It was a wet sound—blood or saliva marring the tone. Behind it, the clash of metal.

  “Look what you did to my wife!” the balding man bellowed, rushing in a wide arc around Amarande in an attempt to retrieve his dagger, which had clattered to the dirt behind her.

  “I knocked her out so that she wouldn’t get hurt!” Amarande answered, scooping up the dagger he aimed to grab and flinging it straight toward the man. It caught him precisely as she’d hoped—piercing not his skin, but the extra fabric of his tunic, pinning him straight into the wooden wall of the inn’s main building.

  Out of the corner of her eye, the princess saw her next move.

  If Amarande were someone else, she might have left Taillefer to fend for himself while she pried the resistance’s location from this man’s lips. She’d warned the prince not to expect a rescue, after all. But—as much as she hated Taillefer, she’d thrown in her lot with him, and, without his distraction a minute ago, she likely would’ve been injured or worse.

  Satisfied the man was securely detained by the pinned dagger, the princess collected his wife’s sword and her own dagger and raced toward the prince—who was still struggling with the wolf, the woman, and the man who’d given chase.

  They were toward the center of the yard, fumbling in the dirt close to where it faded from stark ochre to sun-bleached white. As Amarande got closer, she saw the man on the ground with a stab wound to the leg, slightly apart from where the woman loomed over Taillefer with a sword an inch from his sternum, the black wolf grinning at her side.

  “So much for that famed Ardenian fighting talent,” the woman taunted.

  Blood mottled the front of Taillefer’s Itspi uniform, dripping from his mouth, purple bruises already forming against his temple and jaw. Cloak holding on by a thread and the uniform shredded by the wolf’s teeth and claws, Taillefer lay warily on his back, eyes fixed on the woman and wolf. His sword had been kicked away, toward the blotch of frost-white sand.

  For once, he didn’t say a word.

  Hoping to provide a distraction before the woman or wolf closed the distance with blade or teeth, Amarande pleaded her case yet again. “We are pro-Otxoa and looking to connect with the resistance!”

  The woman didn’t budge. Behind her, the injured man laughed so hard he coughed, wet and gasping. “Princess Amarande and her guard, pro-Otxoa? That is the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard.”

  Taillefer finally regained his voice, holding out a hand as he tried to get his feet out from under him and stand. “You are mistaken. This is not the princess. My uniform is stolen, and we hail—”

  Whatever lie he’d fabricated died away as the woman spit out a command.

  The black wolf leapt straight for Taillefer’s throat.

  Teeth bared, spittle flying, fur arched along his spine. Its paws connected with Taillefer’s chest and shoved him to the ground. He struggled to push away the animal’s jaws as the whole of the wolf’s weight was on him now, the snarling beast holding all the leverage.

  Amarande cursed and sprinted at them but she was too far away, and the woman and her blade were ready, blocking them. She had two choices—fight the woman and hope to make it to Taillefer in time, or sling her boot knife at their writhing, entwined forms and hope to hit fur instead of skin.

  But then, as the woman came so close into view Amarande could see her teeth ground together, sword held high, the princess realized she had a third option.

  Without the slightest hesitation, Amarande barreled at the woman full-speed, sword out. The woman’s stance stiffened, her eyes squinting over her gritted jaw, bracing for impact.

  Three. Two. One.

  At the very last second, Amarande dodged and slid. Sword flung wide to avoid cutting the woman off at the legs, the princess let the sandy earth and her momentum do the work for her as she skidded past the waiting woman and straight at the combined mass of the prince and black wolf.

  Past the reach of the woman’s blade, Amarande veered into the fray, her only aim to be a human-sized blunt object. Her knees and boots connected with the animal’s side body, giving Taillefer just the momentum he needed to push the wolf away. The combined thrust sent the animal flopping onto its side with a mournful yowl.

  It skidded away in a plume of cinnamon dust all the way to the edge of the flat white sand.

  “That … appeared … to be … a … rescue,” Taillefer bit out, rolling onto all fours in a heaving attempt to right himself.

  “Not over yet.” Amarande coughed and stood, sword out in a single-handed grip of her uninjured hand, up as protection from the woman, who was still there with a blade and a vengeance.

  Yet in that moment, the woman dropped her sword altogether and rushed forward.

  Past Amarande. Past Taillefer.

  The princess and prince whirled around, to see only the black wolf’s snout and ears visible—the rest of it swallowed into the white sand where it had landed in the tussle. It had been swallowed in mere seconds. Slurped down as easily as sagardoa, straight into the earth.

  Behind them, the injured man screamed. “NO! Rena, no!”

  The princess and prince watched in amazement as the woman threw herself down to the sand in a swirl of muslin and dust. She was on her belly, thrusting desperate arms into the sludgy sand, boot heels digging into the terra-cotta earth for purchase.

  Amarande gasped, remembering the Innkeeper’s words from her first visit.

  The compost. Fed by a hot spring. Scorching enough to boil you alive. Spit you back out, dead meat, whether by suffocation or poaching, it mattered not.

  Amarande sprang into motion, sprinting toward them. The woman had somehow managed to get the wolf onto solid ground but in the process, the compost had gotten hold of her, drawing her inexorably into its maw.

  The sludge belched and burbled as it pulled her entire top half into the sand. By the time Amarande and Taillefer reached her, only the woman’s left boot remained above the sandy surface. The wolf whined, panting hard, caked in wet white sand.

  The princess stowed her dagger and sword as she dove for the edge, the fingers of her injured hand brushing the heel of the woman’s boot but no more.

  “Stars,” Taillefer swore, dropping his sword. He ripped the cloak from his uniform and shoved one end into Amarande’s hands. He met her eyes. “Don’t let go.”

  Then Tai
llefer dove headfirst into the sucking sand, holding the opposite end of the cloak tight in his grasp.

  The cloak stretched taut but it was too short. Amarande threw herself onto the sand, stretching, stretching—trying to maintain leverage as the weight shifted beneath the earth. She dug all her pointy pieces—elbows, knees, boot tips—into the sand, and cursed her damaged hand. Grip weak, it was all she could do to hang on. The bandage on her injured hand slipped off completely, exposing the raw, angry wound to the sun.

  Amarande gritted her teeth as the seconds ticked by. A minute.

  But then one gloved hand appeared.

  And another.

  Next the top of Taillefer’s blond head appeared, hair plastered to his skull. With every muscle in her body, Amarande painfully held on to her end of the cloak as Taillefer slowly levered himself out of the sucking sludge, the woman miraculously clinging to his back.

  With every straining muscle in her upper body, Amarande pulled as Taillefer gained enough leverage to swing a leg up and over and deposit both himself and the woman onto the safe red sand.

  Hacking and coughing, all three lay exhausted, trying to catch their breath. The black wolf approached and nosed at the woman’s face, whimpering.

  When her breathing slowed, Amarande hauled herself up, checked her weapons, and extended her uninjured hand to Taillefer. He accepted it and stood, eyes narrowed and lips quirked into something like a smile—and proceeded to prove to her that she’d been wrong about him. “You see, I can be selfless and trusted with a weapon.”

  “I will admit I didn’t expect—”

  “The Warlord shall find you in the stars.”

  The man she’d pinned to the wall.

  Taillefer’s eyes widened, and Amarande dropped the prince’s hand to address this man—to make her case.

  Not a second later his boot connected with her twisting back.

  The blow knocked the princess off-balance and she stumbled forward, her exhausted body lunging for solid ground.

  Where there wasn’t any.

  Amarande’s boot made contact with the white sand and was immediately swallowed, the rest of her body teetering toward it, stretched out, unbidden.