The Queen Will Betray You

by Sarah Henning

  Two of the Warlord’s women moved before him, an escort. He walked between them. In twenty paces, the escort split on either side of the entrance, stepping beside twin torches driven into the soft earth, and pulled open either flap of the curtain, revealing nothing but blinding light and palpable heat.

  The Warrior King stepped into the tent. A figure stood so close to the fire it almost appeared to be formed of smoke. Backlit. Black. Swathed in the blue and white of the hottest flames.

  The figure turned. Stepped forward.

  The king’s knees weakened. Something that could have been fear stabbed straight through his heart.

  Real. She was real.

  “Hello, Sendoa.”

  Under several days of ginger scruff on the Warrior King’s cheeks, all color drained until only the blush of a Torrent sunburn remained atop his nose and cheekbones.

  He stared at her uncovered face, cataloging features mirrored upon his own young daughter. Clear eyes, full lips, tapered chin. What’s more, her frame was commanding though it was slight—his daughter would be this way, too, as she grew.

  Sendoa tried to speak. His tongue shriveled in his mouth. All the moisture in his body seemed to turn to dust. He could only utter a single word.

  “Why?”

  The woman smiled at him, the disdain in it sharp enough to draw blood.

  “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  She began pacing—her steps as powerful and cutting as the edges of her tone.

  “Why did I leave you? Why am I here? Why in the stars would I agree to meet with you and show my true face?” She strode up to him, close enough to reach up, place her palms to his cheeks, and smile into his eyes as she’d used to. She’d always been petite, more than a foot shorter than he, and yet at that moment, Sendoa felt she’d surpassed him in stature. “Or should it be ‘how’? How did I build this? How did I do it under your nose? How did you not know?”

  The Warlord felled the Otxoa eight years before. This woman, the mother of his child, the so-called Runaway Queen, Geneva of Basilica, had left little more than six years before. Voice still strangled, he spit out the question she wanted to hear. “How?”

  “The Warlord is an idea, not a person. A shame you never suspected.” She cocked a brow at him. “You came here to meet with the Warlord. The person who killed your regal black wolf friends and burned their castle to ash. The person who rose up on a wave of support from those sick of monarchy, sick of not having a voice. I am not that person, but I am no less beloved.”

  “Beloved?” It came out as a curse. One word and his full voice returned. The pressure retreated from his eyes. “The Warlord’s rule has made the Torrent uninhabitable to anyone other than bandits, thieves, mercenaries. You are not beloved—you are feared.”

  The Warlord did not blink.

  “Untrue. As you leave, look around this camp, Sendoa. Families live here. Children play and sleep tight. They are free.” She bared her teeth. “I keep them safe with perception and reputation, not unlike yourself, Warrior King. Is your army truly the world’s best, or is that reputation simply armor forged in whispers and not actual battle?”

  The Warrior King did not take the bait.

  “Is it true what you do to maintain your reputation?” he spit, gaining steam fed by righteousness. “Forcing your people to always move, never put down roots? Burning dissenters alive to spark your fire pits? Cultivating a culture where stealing is better than a hard day’s work? You create chaos and purposeful interference—your people can’t sit long enough to realize the faults in their way of life.”

  “‘Purposeful interference’—quite the phrase.” She tilted her head at him and the length of linen tossed over her shoulders—a covering for her face anywhere but this tent—went with it. “Let us go back to the beginning. You are surprised to see me, yes, but there is more than one reason you did not expect my face.”

  Again, Sendoa’s cheeks drained of their color.

  With new eyes, he tried to read this woman she’d become.

  A smile cut across her beautiful face. “Oh yes, Your Highness, I know exactly who you expected to be in this tent. Jericho Talmage, bandit of the red sands, rebel rouser, enigmatic organizer. His reputation, like yours, is one of legend.” Sendoa looked away. “But you know all of that. Because you installed him.”

  The Warrior King did not reply.

  “Why did you need to conscript your men and women into the ‘world’s greatest army’? Not for some altruistic reason that allows your people to feel powerful and safe. No, because you needed bodies. Why did you need bodies? Because you were busy overthrowing a vulnerable kingdom.”

  Sendoa’s jaw worked as the facets and angles and possibilities flashed through his mind. There was no strategy for this. He was behind the curve. Finally, the king asked, “Where is Talmage?”

  The Warlord’s smile twisted. “After Talmage killed your regal black wolf friends, burned their castle to ash, and christened the Torrent on the backs of the citizenry with your support?” He did not reply. This only sparked amusement on the Warlord’s face. “Jericho Talmage needed a recess. And thus he retired.”

  “Retired?”

  “Oh, was that not what he was supposed to do?” She punctuated her false surprise with a coquettish laugh. “Ah, yes, your handshake agreement—you would support him in felling the Otxoa, and then within a few years’ time you would relieve him of the burden of leading and rescue the Torrent for yourself, bringing the headless nation into the fold to expand Ardenia’s borders and influence. Yes?”

  The Warrior King did not deny it.

  “And this was supposed to be that meeting. You are seven years too late for Talmage. Therefore, you get me.” She reached up to pat his colorless cheek. “Lucky you.”

  Sendoa’s molars ground together as he inhaled thinly through his nose, watching this woman who was not the one he married. No, the teenage bride he’d wed had been demure, quiet, solemn—their arranged marriage always seemed to be much more of a duty to her than to him.

  “Do not put this solely on me. There would be no Torrent without you, before all this.” He gestured to the silken drape of her deep blue gown and matching scarf used to cover her face. “Or has power made you completely forget what it was like to be a teenage girl, betrothed to a man whom you’d been ordered to kill?”

  Geneva inhaled deeply, her firelit eyes skipping away. There was no way she’d forgotten—no matter who she was now or how many years stood between them then.

  The plan was pure Domingu. Installing his kin within the walls of each castle, awaiting instruction. He’d handpicked from his brood those who had the best potential. The right age for a possible match. The right temperament. Deep within the Aragonesti, he gave each one the right training, without the knowledge of their parents, siblings, minders.

  Then he waited for the right timing.

  To place one child in each castle.

  Years between them, and each of their doorways into another kingdom different.

  An arranged marriage—Ardenia, Pyrenee.

  A governess for the dowager and her lonely son—Myrcell.

  An unplanned death, and, later, another suggested match—Torrence.

  And, once everyone was in place and no one was prepared: Mass, coordinated regicide. Kingdoms taken by force by a man who’d taken everything that way.

  Domingu had managed to keep it from being too obvious—rather than being the father-in-law to the entire continent, he simply used the most unobtrusive means.

  Sixteen-year-old Geneva had laid it all out to Sendoa on their wedding night. Crying in her chambers. Insisting it was best the king did not see her, know her, spend any time alone with her.

  And so Sendoa did what he must.

  He told his closest friend first—Lotyoa, whose brother was betrothed to one of Domingu’s more distant kin. But Lotyoa didn’t believe such a thing could happen and didn’t want to, joyfully awaiting the arrival of his secon
d child.

  Dowager Queen Tiya was too lonely to listen.

  And Louis-David was too smitten with his wife’s bosom to care.

  “I was the messenger, but you wielded the knife. You supported Talmage. You murdered the royal family.”

  “That was not his order. He was to disrupt—”

  “You cannot give orders to those whose knees do not bend to you.” Her teeth were bared. “And no matter your regrets, that is what happened. The rebellion you sparked burned your dear friend and his kingdom to ash. And though Talmage went too far, you and your fearsome army did not ride in to avenge Lotyoa’s murder because, what? The goal was still achieved? Domingu’s plans of coordinated regicide passed as his fear of a similar people’s rebellion crept in. And so you let the Warlord reign untouched, using that fear to keep the most dangerous person on the continent in check. Funny how little lives are worth when they pay for your success.”

  There was no defense. It was true.

  Once death had taken the Otxoa, the strategy was to keep Domingu from striking until it was time to claim the Torrent for his own. And one day give it to the boy whom he’d hidden in his stables in the chaos. Cushioned with a new name, lies, and love from those who knew the truth.

  But giving Torrence back to him would be much more difficult without the Torrent in his possession until the boy came of age. He’d never told Geneva of Luca’s true identity. Not once. Not even after Amarande’s birth and the connection they’d made in that. And yet she’d inserted herself in his reformed plan anyway.

  And so the Warlord’s lips quirked smugly. Unaware of Sendoa’s end game. Not power for himself, but putting things as right as he could after as wrong as they went.

  “You see,” she said, confident that she held the upper hand. “You came here to execute a deal you made with a man who is no longer here. He entrusted the title of Warlord to his second-in-command—a woman, much like your own.” Of course she knew—he’d always suspected. Still, he said nothing. “And then she entrusted it to me. He told her everything of course, and she told me. But that knowledge does not bind me to the original deal, does it?”

  Sendoa took a deep breath. If he was ever going to atone for his mistake, he must get this right, despite his plan disintegrating. “What are your terms, Geneva?”

  But the Warlord did not answer. Instead, she asked, “She’s here, isn’t she?”

  Geneva didn’t need to say Koldo’s name. And she wouldn’t; Sendoa knew that much. “Yes, of course.”

  “Always by your side, but not at your side.” Geneva’s eyes flashed to his hand, no band of gold to be found. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

  Sendoa didn’t blink—she would expect him to fight back. To relent would be to invite questions he did not want to answer. “Does your heart hurt for our daughter? Or did you cut her out of your heart like you did me? You have not mentioned her once and she’s the bond between us that is unbroken.”

  Geneva bared her teeth. “I left Amarande because I love her.”

  “Love her? You do not even know her—”

  The Warlord moved like a lightning strike.

  A lunging step, a glint of metal, and blood began to bloom in a slash on Sendoa’s cheek.

  The act left the king so stunned, Geneva was able to grip his chin with her blade-free hand, forcing him still and level, with nowhere to look but in her eyes as his cheek wept.

  “Do not question my love. You have no idea what I have done for my daughter.”

  The Warrior King did not answer as her anger washed over him, as fierce as the bear her native kingdom had long ago adopted as a sigil.

  All teeth and anger and ferocity.

  Geneva tapped the knife tip against his skin, just below the cut. “That, Sendoa, is my gift to you. I could have easily slit your throat and let your whore general drag your body back home. And yet I did not. It is also my promise, that if you do not attack me, I will not attack you.”

  In answer, he stared back. Unblinking. Breathing hard. Restrained.

  “Let me operate as I please, keep my identity off your tongue, and the Sand and Sky will not know that you made the first cut in slicing a thousand years of unity apart.”

  Was that truly what she wanted? With all the power he’d let her believe she had over him? That was it? It was a noble but weak combination—there had to be more behind it.

  “That’s your trade? Anonymity and freedom?” he asked, calm. There had to be more. He was just not sure what. And that, like the surprise of her very presence, was unsettling. It was not often that the Warrior King was left in the dark.

  Expression betraying nothing, the Warlord removed the blade from his skin, releasing Sendoa enough so that he could see the dagger full on. His blood glinted in the firelight, the reflection of it in Geneva’s eyes.

  “You keep my secrets, Your Highness, and I shall keep yours.”

  CHAPTER 32

  THE sky was a muted navy when the general arrived at the fire pit nearest to Ardenia.

  Koldo dismounted, wrapped her horse’s reins around the jutting edge of a boulder, and walked to the pit. She climbed over the lip and descended into the ash-filled crevice. She didn’t need to go far—only twenty or thirty feet—before the newest ash line became clear, even in the waning light.

  Yes, five or six days ago—a week at most—the Warlord’s caravan was here. Burning bodies and stars knew what else when the title of Warlord passed to another. Privately, and within the Warlord’s tent, in the utmost secrecy, without any fanfare. The tattoo chiseled on a wrist, perhaps a few ceremonial words, the passing of a flask. And then the emergence of someone new wearing the Warlord’s clothes and title.

  The rules among the Warlord kin were clear—no one within the caravan saw the Warlord’s face uncovered. Security was paramount and only those trusted enough or about to die would see the Warlord’s naked identity. Often it was impossible to know which you were until that very moment.

  Yet those who traveled with the caravan were not blind to change. To Koldo’s knowledge, Geneva had been with the caravan for most, if not all, of Ferdinand’s life and had been Warlord for a great deal of that time, too. The signs of change were obvious—new orders, the consolidation of caravans, and in its most obvious indication: no Ferdinand. The Warlord’s face was unseen, yes, but his face was well known and stood out. At least, that was Koldo’s experience during her yearly investigative trips to the caravan—though, in truth, Ferdinand was always exactly what she was looking for whenever she visited.

  Here and now, Koldo found something she was not expecting from this fire pit. Horse tracks. More than that—evidence of a fight.

  The general stepped closer. She was tempted to light a torch but knew that might actually make it more difficult to see in this sort of twilight.

  The large pit in the ash had all the markings of a horse briefly falling to its side before becoming upright a few feet away. Directly facing the site where the horse had regained its footing was a minefield of hoofprints. Koldo skirted around the edge of them, her keen senses at work as she took in the angles, the pressure of the marks, the positioning.

  A single horseman confronted by more than a dozen opponents.

  The general knew that she’d found the place where Renard and his soldiers had captured Amarande and Luca. The signs matched the timeline and confirmed the princess’s story even if she had not described the encounter to Koldo in detail—not that neither she nor the others had given Amarande the opportunity to do so.

  Koldo saw now how much of a mistake it was.

  The soldiers stationed high in the Ardenian mountains above the valley borderland with Pyrenee had not seen Amarande or Taillefer. Neither had the new contingent of scouts integrated with the military encampments spaced strategically along the border after the death of Prince Renard. No one had news except a tidbit about a lone captain, someone named Nikola, riding alone from the Bellringe with orders to find Taillefer or Amarande.

  Clearly
Taillefer was not working with whoever—likely Inés—gave that order.

  Which meant what?

  Koldo trudged back up the pit and hoisted herself up onto solid ground. Ash clung to her boots and gloves, the wind swirling it back toward the mountains dividing Ardenia and Pyrenee.

  The general sighed and shut her eyes. Picturing Amarande’s face, fierce and determined, her father’s daughter in every way that mattered.

  Loyal. Loving. Brave.

  Koldo knew that given her druthers, Amarande would always go to Luca. Always.

  Yet she had gone with Taillefer. Seemingly willingly, given the evidence. Despite what he had done to Luca. Torture so unspeakable that she had killed Renard in revenge.

  Though—Amarande would never have allowed herself to be taken unwillingly by anyone, let alone someone like Taillefer. It was not possible. He was clever, yes, but not enough to sneak her out of the Itspi with force.

  But what if it was with persuasion?

  The princess had said it herself.

  Taillefer knew that if Luca were to die then I would likely retaliate against his brother. And, though I knew this to be Taillefer’s aim, I still reacted in the way he wanted.

  The general’s eyes flew open.

  “He’s giving her what she wants.”

  And suddenly she knew exactly where to go.

  CHAPTER 33

  THE princess tailed the prince silently through the other tunnel he’d found—winding south and, it appeared, west. They’d stopped running, not just because they were in the clear of the Quemado Scorpions, but because they were too exhausted to do so without stumbling about. Though their bellies were full of food, they had no water, and their bodies were stiff and sore.

  Accordingly, they moved single file at a frustratingly labored pace.

  Given the direction of the tunnels, Amarande hoped they were headed toward the Hand. Not where she’d wanted to go, but it had been a step in her original plan—a natural place for congregation, and therefore answers.