The Queen Will Betray You

by Sarah Henning

  He could not. Luca pushed to standing, shaking off her protective hand. “We have to follow them.”

  “That is not brave; that is insane. If Taillefer sees you, he will out you.”

  “If Taillefer sees me, our disguises were not good enough and we’d be dead anyway,” Luca whispered. “We’re here to watch. I need to watch.”

  “Miguel, we shall have the others go.” She motioned toward Tala’s carriage, ten or so down the line. “I will flag down—”

  “No, Sera.” He was already on the move. Straightening the hat he wore as part of his disguise. It was dirty, the brim snakebit from the elements, and so caked with dust that it was impossible to gauge the original color. He wore Ula’s sword as his own, and she had his dagger on her hip, her own hair tied in the twin braids popular in the Isilean Caravan, rather than the single one and handkerchief she usually wore. The disguises weren’t much, but the subtlety was the key anyway.

  “Please don’t,” Ula pleaded, though she obliged as she fell in step beside him. Amarande and Taillefer were up ahead, but they were plodding—the guards proud of their work, showing off. And the people gave them what they wanted.

  “Everyone is watching them,” he argued. “Not us. If thousands of people are gawking, no one will notice us.”

  Ula sighed at her own logic, tossed back in her face. “We should tell the others.”

  “If they are any good at their jobs, they have already observed us leaving.”

  “Miguel, I do not agree with any of this.”

  “You know it is the right thing to do. If you were alone, Sera, you would have followed them without hesitation.”

  Ula was silent. That was enough of a confirmation.

  Heads down, they swept past the healer’s carriage—Luca hoped they’d rushed away. Someone would want to trace the first murmur of his name.

  Next, they slipped past the crowd, still bunching around the lane of packed earth where the fight went down. Blood spattered black against the russet dust, boot marks etched in a sweep of lunging steps and countermeasures.

  “This could ruin everything,” Ula whispered at his side. “Change everything.”

  “It already has.”

  They skirted along the edges of the path, gaining ground. Two guards buffered Amarande’s back from the crowd. She was shorter than her captors, but with every few steps the rising sun hit just right, and the fall of her reddish hair flashed through the space between bodies.

  A beacon. A flame in the dark.

  It was one thing to know the direction of the final goal—to envision it on the back of one’s eyelids and flesh it out in dreams. It was quite another to see the end goal right before you, in danger, being delivered to the person who had every reason to kill you on the spot.

  The line of gawkers grew—word of the princess’s capture making it around the camp. Luca and Ula let the newcomers—stacked a dozen deep watching the procession—provide cover as they made up enough time that they were quickly in line with Amarande.

  Her chin jutted proudly forward, one guard holding her bound hands, the other leading the procession. Luca wished she would catch his eye through the distance. As she had during her father’s funeral. Amarande always seemed to know where he was at all times.

  Look here.

  See me.

  I’m here for you, Ama. Always, Princess.

  Luca did not know if her sixth sense would work when she believed him miles away and not simply yards.

  “Why is she with him?” Ula whispered. “Not exactly discreet in that uniform. Even with the outer cloak. He’s too clever to ruin her disguise with his own—unless he wanted to.”

  “Your questions are my own. And they are important. But none of it matters if the Warlord slits her throat on sight.”

  The blue-and-gold spire of the Warlord’s grand tent was only a few rows of campsites away. Everything this close to the fire pit lived in a plume and haze, the air stinging as it hit the lungs, even with the flames extinguished.

  “For a prisoner like her it will be a spectacle. And a spectacle takes time to produce.”

  Luca hoped she was correct. Though the march through the camp was much more of a spectacle than the actual delivery of the prisoners. Without a public word from the Warlord, the guards simply pulled back the fabric entrance to the tent and shoved Amarande and Taillefer within. A moment later and the guards reemerged to bracket the entrance, hands firmly on the pommels of their stowed swords.

  Luca’s pounding heart stuttered in his chest. No. He had to see. He had to know what the Warlord would do to her. Could do to her.

  “There.” Ula knocked his cheek with her knuckles, redirecting his gaze to the back side of the tent, nestled against the body of the Warlord’s carriage. Without hesitation, Ula skirted through the long shadow thrown by the dawn and sank to her stomach, sweeping herself beneath the carriage. Luca followed her lead, and they scooted and shuffled until their bodies were completely covered by the carriage, the wheels and shadows welling between the tent structures, keeping their cover.

  From there, they could peer into the Warlord’s tent, the edge of the blue fabric within arm’s reach. The back exit was tied closed, but the wind had caused it to sag in the night. And though what they could see was slim and suspect, if they held their breath and faced their ears so they were just beside the edge of the shadow, Luca and Ula could hear every word from within the tent as clear as day.

  CHAPTER 39

  AMARANDE’S jaw tightened as the gilded tentpole of the Warlord’s home came into view, smoke curling around it, reaching for the brightening sky.

  The princess spit grit from her fight back to the earth.

  Fear, blood, loyalty—not a one should be owed to a person who would poison her own and corral them in their encampment under penalty of death if noncompliant. This Warlord, this person who shared Amarande’s mother’s legacy, who was threatened most by Luca’s every breath, was everything a leader should not be.

  The Warlord was not a monarch. The people did not kneel. But they were on their knees no less, “free” as they were from the shackles of royalty.

  And now that Amarande knew the Warlord and caravan knew of not only the resistance’s plans but also Luca’s name—there was but one way to solve that.

  Her father’s saying—Survive the battle, see the war—rang in Amarande’s ears as they made their final approach, but at that very moment in time she could see nothing else other than running a blade straight through this person’s heart.

  Killing the Warlord was the war.

  For the people, for Luca, for the future of the Torrent.

  There was no way around it.

  Their captors brought them straight into the entrance of the large blue tent, no introduction. It was not a surprise that the Warlord expected them.

  Amarande and Taillefer were deposited on their knees in front of a roaring fire.

  The tent seemed empty save for the silhouettes of the finer things in life, positioned around the corners that were not burned from view by the fire before them. Beneath them was a rug, finely woven, and softer than anything either of them had touched since the wedding night.

  Without a word, the guards swept out back the way they came, surely within striking distance at the first sign of distress. Still, Amarande’s mind was already running through ways to get free despite her arms tied behind her back and her legs lashed together at the thighs.

  Head butt, shoulder strike, hip thrust—any could push this person off-balance enough to send them into the fire, where the flames could do the rest. A combination that stole consciousness before the flames hit would be best—one scream would ruin any chance she had to clear the binds at her legs that sapped the possibility of a speedy escape in the chaos that was sure to follow.

  Taillefer would likely be no good to help, even if he wanted to.

  Shoulders shaking in their binds next to her, he wheezed and coughed, blood in it splattering onto the fine wea
ve of the rug. That cracked rib of his had caught the base of a lung—Amarande was sure of it. And, given his affinity for the natural arts, Taillefer likely knew it, too.

  The slightest dark movement wrenched Amarande from her thoughts.

  “The Warrior King’s daughter, in the flesh.”

  The Warlord’s voice stretched across the space, from somewhere beyond the flames. It was feminine—and Amarande wasn’t surprised that her mother had passed along the title to another woman, too. Somehow, the voice seemed familiar, though it was not one Amarande recognized.

  After a long moment of carrying the weight of a stare she could not see, Amarande blinked as the Warlord stepped out of the shadows and into view.

  Though in the private confines of her tent, the Warlord’s face was covered, muslin draped about her head the same shade as her flowing robes of sea blue. The secretive identity was meant to intimidate, as all masks were. But Amarande felt an immediate sense of relief that this Warlord did not share her face because it might mean they would live long enough to attack.

  The Warlord’s chin dipped, as she made a show of inspecting the princess. The filthy trousers and tunic, caked in a paste of blood, sweat, cinnamon dirt, quicksand, and creek water; hair a tangled and muddied mass at her shoulders; her face—obviously recognizable despite a layer of grime and wear of sleepless nights. “I’ll admit, you’re much smaller than I expected.”

  Unblinking, Amarande addressed her faceless opponent with a strike disguised as the truth. “I am told I take after my mother.”

  She watched the muslin, hoping this successor might stumble into an admission. But Geneva had trained her to avoid the truth much better than she’d taught Ferdinand.

  “Indeed.” The Warlord’s voice gave no hint of understanding. “I was hoping we would meet in person, as I’ve only previously met the ghost of your presence, bloodying up our guards and setting the whole line of captives free—quite the performance.”

  Amarande said nothing.

  “I’ll admit I initially did not believe it could be you. But when you convinced my sister to abandon us, I knew it could only be this myth of a girl—the Warrior King’s daughter.”

  A drop of recognition buzzed in the princess’s throat. It could be a lie, of course, but it felt like a boast. And a confirmation. “Osana.”

  “As intelligent as you are violent. Of course.” The way this girl said it did not seem to be a compliment. “She spied for us, of course. My men would take her out and ‘capture’ her every few days. Then she would sit in our pen for a day or two—eavesdropping on the girls as they rotated through. She was not my only trusted hostage, but she was the only one who took her role too seriously when she escaped with you.”

  That was it, then. The loyalty Amarande had worried over now out in the light, a truth. A danger. Osana was with Luca—the Warlord’s spy and the Warlord’s target, together—and the princess was the one who had allowed it. Encouraged it. Vouched for it.

  Amarande was going to be sick. Bile rose from her gut, the stench cutting through her nostrils as she swallowed. She couldn’t show weakness to this girl, not like that.

  “Do not look so betrayed, Princess. Osana has always been good at telling tales, and the best tales have some truth to them, from what I understand.” The Warlord swirled a hand in the air, moving on. “Anyhow, today was nicely done as well. Not nearly as successful, I’m afraid.”

  The Warlord gestured to their bound bodies and forced postures. Taillefer coughed, punctuated by a pained wheeze and a dribble of blood on the fine rugs. The Warlord sighed at the sight of yet another ruined carpet and set her shoulders at a haughty angle.

  “And one might wonder, knowing as gifted as you are…” Amarande felt an eyebrow lift. “Why, after escaping the Warlord’s caravan, would you come back here? With a guard in Ardenian colors, no less?” She let those questions hang, lilt mocking. “Is it pure ego? Stupidity? Or perhaps motivated by something more palatable yet still idiotic in its pure form—love?”

  Though she’d braced for it, it took everything Amarande had not to look away as Luca’s presence barreled into the room.

  It didn’t matter, though; the Warlord’s voice veered from lilting to joyfully cruel. “Tell me, Princess, you wouldn’t happen to know much of the pro-Otxoa rebels, would you?”

  Again, Amarande said nothing. Though the first rolling drip of fear slid down her spine.

  The Warlord swept closer, but not in range for a head butt, shoulder strike, or hip thrust. Her voice warmed with her guest’s cold shoulder. “Come now; surely you have something to say on the matter.”

  Amarande glared ahead. Giving nothing. She would be stone until the end of time, or until this girl dared to come within striking distance.

  “Perhaps your guard can help persuade you to answer.” The Warlord drew a blade from her hip—a dagger with a slight curve. Grabbing a fistful of short blond hair, she wrenched Taillefer’s head back, exposing the length of his neck. She placed the sharpest arc of the knife edge against the pulse beneath Taillefer’s chin.

  A move like that was meant to garner a visceral reaction.

  Amarande did not flinch.

  Focus unbroken, Amarande gave Taillefer the only leverage he might get in this situation, though she was not convinced it would keep him from turning on her. “That is not my guard—he is worth more to you alive than dead in the name of persuasion. This is Prince Taillefer, the heir to the throne of Pyrenee.”

  The Warlord did not remove her blade. “Interesting. I thought you would lie.”

  “I do not lie.”

  The tyrant laughed. “Yes you do. We all do. Even if you are untruthful because you want to protect someone, it is still a lie.”

  When Amarande said nothing, the Warlord pressed harder and red slashed across the knife edge, his skin nicked. That is when the prince started to laugh, the sharp edge catching his skin more with the movement.

  “Warlord, you misunderstand our relationship,” Taillefer clarified. “The princess has been wishing me dead for days now. She isn’t protecting me; she’s simply alerting you to the fact that you do not have the leverage you think you have. Slit my throat and she won’t blink an eye.”

  “From what I have heard about you, Princeling, I am surprised you have lived long enough to face my blade.” Again, her attention turned to Amarande. “But I suppose perhaps even the Warrior King’s daughter might spare the greedy prince who rescued her.”

  She knew of the rescue?

  Amarande ground her teeth together. She would not be baited.

  The Warlord removed her dagger only to use its tip to lift Amarande’s chin so that the princess had no choice but to look her in the eye. The Warlord knew what she was doing. The pressure was enough that any sudden movement from the princess—even a careful attack—would drive the point into her windpipe. Amarande’s pulse bucked against the cold steel, Taillefer’s blood marring her skin, but she did not glance away.

  “Princeling, I did not think she was protecting you. Rather, she is protecting her love—lying by omission.”

  Amarande’s skin throbbed against the blade, blood thundering past, under pressure. “If you do not lie, Your Highness, you must tell me what you know of the resistance and their newfound leader. Luca, the lowly stableboy with an auspicious tattoo, who moved a certain princess to abandon her kingdom, and now is asking the foolish to die with him as he tries to build a throne of his own.”

  Defiant, Amarande did not look away as hot tears whispered in her eyes, first as a gleam, then enough to well.

  The Warlord’s face covering shifted—a definite smile.

  “Yes, I know all about Luca, the much-awaited Otsakumea. I know of his great height, golden eyes, handsome dimples. I know of the wolf over his heart. And I know he seeks his destiny not for himself but for you. To be the prince you can marry to gain your crown, besting those inconvenient laws that stand in the way.”

  The blade pressed harder, forcing Am
arande to arch her back along with her neck, the Warlord purposefully setting her at an impossibly uncomfortable angle. “I can only assume he expected you to join him. But you arrived home to a welcoming committee that did not appreciate the sight of your face. I know that this princeling rescued you for his own gain. And that he is too late.”

  “You know nothing,” Taillefer answered, lips curving into his fox grin.

  “Really? Princeling, I assume you know that your mother has wed?”

  “Yes. To Domingu.” He sounded purposefully bored, repeating what Renard had feared as if it were old news. “They plan to have an heir to displace me before I come of age.”

  “Not quite.” The Warlord straightened, blade nicking the soft skin under Amarande’s chin as it withdrew, sharp as it was. “That may have been the plan once, but it is not what happened. The doors were barred during the wedding reception, and when the hall was open again, two-thirds of the attendees were dead, including Domingu and all of his kin, and standing tall was Inés, proclaiming herself leader of Pyrenee, Basilica, and Myrcell, too—King Akil also perished.”

  Amarande gasped.

  Domingu—the most ruthless of them all—gone? At his own wedding reception?

  Taillefer coughed again—blood now dribbling down one corner of his lips—and shook his head. For once, he was not smiling. “No, that can’t be. She doesn’t even have rights. I am the heir to Pyrenee. She can’t make claim to any of that by way of regency to my crown; she cannot—”

  “She did. The councilors of Pyrenee confirmed you disowned ahead of the marriage proceedings. Power by conquest does not have to be taken with war. Sometimes all it takes are a few ink strokes and cups full of poison.” The Warlord made it a point to catch eyes with Amarande. “We can only assume the same one killed your father.”

  The princess thought back to her only true audience with Inés, when the Dowager Queen had snuck into her chambers at the Bellringe before the wedding. She’d told Amarande then that she did not kill Sendoa. Amarande had believed her then. But now? Inés was suspect number one. Perhaps she’d also poisoned the watering hole—a warning shot to both the Warlord and the resistance.