by Raye Wagner
Evzan shook his head and pointed at Adaline. “She is your sovereign, not me, Sir Duglig. Best get used to answering to her now. It won’t get easier the longer you wait.”
“Evzan,” Adaline said sharply. She turned her attention to the general and said, “Lead on, Duglig. Apparently, we all have etiquette that needs improvement.”
The general blushed and, with a sigh, took the lead of their party as they approached the gate.
Adaline couldn’t help but stare at the metal structure. The sides of the arched portcullis remained intact a couple feet on either side, but the edges of the metal curled outward as if a massive explosion blew the gate open from inside. The top of the gate cut off, except for half a dozen jagged metal rods hanging down from the arch like broken teeth.
“Was anyone hurt?” she asked, looking first at Evzan and then to Tredak and Gunhild. “When the gate was destroyed, did anyone die?”
Gunhild held the princess’s gaze and said, “This is war, Highness. Yes, when you wrecked the gate, we lost men.”
Adaline’s heart sank in her chest with guilt.
“But far more survived because you tore it down,” Evzan said, his voice low. “If we’d had to continue the siege, we would’ve lost many more men before we’d won Orikrod.”
She studied his face, wanting to know if his words were empty comfort, but Evzan’s eyes shone with sincerity.
“Your guard speaks truth, but it won’t always be such. If you wage war, men will die, both fighting for and against you. You knew your cause was just, Highness,” Gunhild said, her expression serious. “Remember that when doubt’s tentacles creep in to squeeze your heart. A man who dies fighting for justice and honor will always be considered a hero.”
But as Adaline and her party marched through the roads of Orikrod, she saw the people of Beloch were not all ruthless, lascivious men bent on satisfying their wanton greed. Children laughed in the streets, carrying dolls and balls and brightly colored flags. There were women holding babies, chatting at stoops and handing out bread. Men drank ale, yelling at kids and leaning in to talk to their comrades. Most drew silent as Adaline and her party approached, their gazes hardening or shifting nervously.
“If it bothers you, stop looking, Princess,” Sir Tredak said matter-of-factly. “You don’t win anything by making yourself or them uncomfortable.”
Adaline blinked, shifting her gaze to two children sword fighting with sticks.
One of them shouted in Belochian, “I’ll blow you up with my magic.”
The other one laughed and yelled back. “I’ll go invisible and disappear. You can’t get me.”
The rest of their conversation dropped out of earshot as Adaline rode past, but she wouldn’t have heard it anyway. Her mind froze, stuck on their words, on the meaning behind them. They were talking about her, only it was obvious they didn’t know the first bit about her magic.
The manor at Orikrod was a modest stone building untouched by the battle the night before. But many hooves recently trampled the grounds, the foliage crushed in the dry dirt, a testament to hurried callers more intent on delivering a message than where their horses tread.
A short, gray-haired man stood in the open doorway, dressed in a simple dark tunic and hose, the shadows masking his face. His only adornment was a thick leather belt, but no scabbard or sword waited at his side. He held his hands up and stepped into the light, his lips pursed in a thin, grim line. Dark circles ringed his light-blue eyes, and he had enough wrinkles to be much more than his stated age.
“I greet you the morning,” he said in broken Cervenish. His gaze went from Sir Tredak to Evzan, to Gunhild, and back to Evzan. “We will speak for peace, yes?”
“Yes,” Adaline said in Belochian. “We’ve come to negotiate peace with you, Duke of Orikrod.”
“Ah, he brought a translator,” the duke said, giving Adaline a genuine smile. “You will make this easier for us both, I’m sure.”
Adaline met Lord Wilkin’s tired gaze and held it. “I don’t need a translator, sir. I’ve brought my guards and generals for counsel, should the need arise.”
Lord Wilkin’s eyes widened and jaw dropped. He sputtered incoherently for a moment and then fanned himself and sagged against the doorframe. “I beg your pardon. War is not usually a child’s game.” He stepped back and waved them into the house. “Please, come in. I’ve instructed my chef to prepare a light brunch for us while we discuss the terms of your conquest. Your men are just inside.”
As they approached, Adaline could hear her men talking in Cervenish common.
“Sorry sod will be tossed out, and I’ll be living in his castle when the war is over,” one of the generals said.
Adaline reached for her dagger, but Evzan grabbed her hand before she could yank the blade free. She glared. “Which one is that?”
He shook his head and mouthed the word later.
She’d find out which one of her generals was acting like a pig and make sure he got put out to pasture before he could take over anyone’s castle.
Adaline followed Tredak, who was following their host, into a spacious parlor occupied by a large dining table and her two generals. The table was laden with a ham, roasted potatoes, sautéed greens, fresh bread, and various pastries.
General Behorig stood as tall as Sir Tredak but had golden features like Evzan, only not nearly so handsome as her guard. Behorig was well passed his youth, but his blue eyes burned bright with intensity and energy. The table in front of him sat empty, save for his brown-leather gloves.
General Zana was a few inches taller than Adaline but weighed at least three times as much. The seams of his garments stretched taut, and a jam stain on the front of his tunic clearly indicated that he’d ignored protocol and already partook of the biscuits. A half-filled plate sat before him, and a mixture of sauces on the empty half laid evidence that the entire plate had recently overflowed with food. His smile faltered when Adaline’s party filed in, but he shoved another bite of ham into his mouth before setting down his fork.
Evzan led Adaline to the head of the table and pulled out her chair. “Highness.”
Adaline suspected that this was less about courtesy and more about Evzan publicly showing deference to her. Adaline steadied herself and nodded at him. “Thank you, Evzan. You will sit here.” She indicated the chair to her right. “And General Gunhild, I would like you on my left. General Zana, would you please move down two spots. Lord Wilkin, if you’ll indulge me, I’d like you to sit next to General Gunhild, and, Sir Tredak, will you please sit on the other side?”
General Zana huffed and grumbled as he grabbed his plate, scraped his chair across the floor, and lumbered over to a new seat, but the rest of the party silently followed her directions.
“Now, I think if we delay our luncheon until after we settle negotiations, we’ll be much more motivated to conclude quickly.”
General Zana blushed the color of a tomato and pushed his plate away. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I rushed here this morning and hadn’t broken my fast.”
As he spoke, Adaline recognized his voice as the one who pronounced the intention of taking Orikrod after the war. What an ass.
Before she could say or do anything, Evzan stood, scooting his chair over the stones in a grating sound and leaned over the table. “Princess Adaline or Your Highness, Zana, unless you’d like to have me or Tredak take you outside to have a lesson on gentility and decorum. Her father was your king only a few months ago, and I know you addressed him properly, so don’t pretend you’ve forgotten how, now.”
Zana said nothing, but his color deepened almost as dark as an eggplant. The silence stretched until Evzan stepped around his chair, and the middle-aged robust man sputtered, “Yes, sorry, Highness. I beg your pardon.”
Adaline stared at General Zana for several moments as she contemplated the best action. His apology was born of fear not sincerity. Adaline watched the entirety of the general’s actions unfold his character. His play at demeaning her was him vyi
ng for power, meaning that he thought she held little. At a time when the throne was claimed by a regent, he, and possibly several of the other generals, felt the leadership of the army was theirs for the taking. Adaline knew how she managed both Zana’s offense and these negotiations would spread through the entire camp.
She had no idea what her mother would do. Mari would forgive the man and let it go. Evzan clearly wanted to beat Zana senseless; her guard had yet to take his seat and was still leaning over the table menacingly. Adaline thought of her father, his kindness to her had been limitless, except when it came to the rule of his kingdom. He’d been willing to hurt her feelings to keep one of the royal family in Cervene. Just in case.
Adaline nodded at General Zana, Sir Sadon Zana, a chevalier from the crown. As he sagged into his chair, his lip curled, and Adaline was confident of his disloyalty to her, regardless of his service to her father. She debated the timing, but decided the show of force couldn’t hurt negotiations that much. Out to pasture . . .
“I understand. The pressures of war have been trying for us all, Sir Sadon. I know of your service to my father, and I’m sure he appreciated your loyalty.”
The man’s grin faltered when she said his name without the military title, but the expression solidified by the end of her sentence.
Idiot.
Almost as if Evzan knew what she would say, he took his seat.
“However,” Adaline said, pursing her lips for a moment before continuing. “Carelessness and impulsivity will not serve Cervene well in this war.” She turned her attention to Sir Tredak. “Sir Tredak, please escort Sir Sadon to his tents, and help him pack. He will be returning to Burdad. Find loyal men to accompany him—”
“I’ll have two of the Malas go, Princess,” Gunhild said in Cervenean common.
Adaline shook her head. “I need the Malas here with the rest of the army, General.”
Sir Sadon’s chair toppled to the floor as he stood, sputtering, “You-you can’t d-do that.”
Tredak grabbed his sleeve. “I’ll accompany him myself, Your Highness.”
She nodded at Tredak. “Thank you.” Adaline schooled her expression and nodded once at Sadon. “You’re dismissed. Thank you for your service to the crown.”
The red-faced man glared at her, but as he opened his mouth, Adaline cut him off.
“Sir Sadon, in one month’s time, I am to be ordained Queen. I hope you are loyal because if for one second you show yourself a traitor, I’ll personally request that my regent execute you. We are at war, and you are either for or against Cervene. There is nothing else.”
He shut his mouth though his body still quivered with rage, and then Tredak led him from the room.
Adaline turned to their host, finding him watching her closely. Her heart pounded in her chest, but her voice remained steady when she said in Belochian, “I beg your pardon, Lord Wilkin. Now let’s be quick, shall we?”
The older man folded his hands on the table before him and nodded. “What do you want, Your Highness?”
28
Adaline stared at a point just above Lord Wilkin’s head as she briefly outlined the murder of her parents and sister. She spoke as dispassionately as she could manage, though her rage laced her final words.
“I have come to destroy your Tsar and his entire family if they are as vile as he is. After that, I only want a treaty of peace. As far as Orikrod, you’ll need to swear an oath of surrender and provide sufficient provisions for my army. Other than our occupation, your people can go back to their daily lives.” She glanced at Evzan, grateful they’d had time to talk about her plan before leaving camp.
He nodded ever so slightly, encouraging her to move forward. In truth, the hard part was nearly complete.
“I believe we’ve collected enough to advance without taking more from your stores here, however, if moving forward we were to require sustenance, I would have one of my loyal generals return for promised aid.” Adaline waited for the conquered man’s response.
“And?” The older man sat with his hands clasped in his lap as he studied her. When she said nothing for several seconds, he asked, “What else?”
His persistent questions caught her off-guard. She hadn’t believed the defeated ruler would cheer with her proposal, but to have him disbelieve her . . . Adaline glanced at Evzan. Had she expressed herself clearly? Had she missed something the two of them discussed?
Evzan raised one sandy eyebrow, and Adaline wasn’t certain what was behind the gesture. She looked to Gunhild and asked in Mal-mal, “Did I forget anything?”
Gunhild nodded and turned her attention to the gray-haired man. In thickly accented Belochian, she said, “If you betray Princess Adaline, the Malas will come back. We will destroy and burn your estate to the ground. All of it. We’ll kill every living thing in your lands, including your animals and pets. And for you . . . We will gut you alive and hang you from the tallest tree for the vultures to pick at your carrion. It will be a warning to those who betray their oath to our sovereign.”
General Gunhild turned to Adaline and said, “There. That is all.”
Adaline looked at her general, cleared her throat, and managed to say, “You speak Belochian very well.”
In heavily accented, but perfect Cervenish common, she said, “I’m fluent in ten languages, Princess. I just don’t tell everyone I meet.”
Adaline turned back to Lord Wilkin. “What say you? Will you give me your word of allegiance that you’ll never take hostile action against Cervene. I do not aspire to rule Beloch. My intention is to have this occupation last only the length of the war, unless there is no one of the Baine royal lineage honorable enough to rule.”
The duke nodded, his skin taking a sickly hue and gaze darting back to Gunhild. “Our tsar is a selfish man as is his beloved nephew and trusted advisor, Lord Baine,” he said cautiously, “However, the crown prince, Nikolai, was an honorable young man before he left for his military tour. I’ve only seen him once since his return, but people say he does not partake in his father’s lewd indulgences, and he treats his subjects with respect.”
A lackluster endorsement. Perhaps Adaline would meet this Prince Nikolai when she took Rizy, or possibly sooner if he met her attack with Belochian forces. Although, she was inclined to hate him. It was his party that had led to the death of her family.
Three hours later, Adaline and Evzan left with Gunhild and Behorig in tow. The rest of the negotiations went smoothly, likely because Lord Wilkin looked ready to soil his drawers every time his gaze flicked to Gunhild. The group quickly came to an agreement. A small contingency of men, including three of Gunhild’s most trusted Mala warriors, would remain behind while the rest of the army pushed forward.
Considering the three fortified citadels en route to Rizy, the march could take anywhere between another week or a month’s journey. Lord Wilkin agreed to send missives to two of the other Dukes in hopes of smoothing the transition of power. He assured Adaline and her party that both Lord Remont and Lord Garner were far more loyal to their own people than the tsar.
The third dukedom belonged to Lord Emeroi Baine, nephew of the tsar. Lord Wilkin informed them that the Duke of Strasny was as arrogant as his uncle, and the duke’s passion for cruelty made him greatly feared. “He is not good to his subjects, and if you could free the people of Strasny, they will rally against their master.”
While the party of five dined on cold ham and potatoes, Lord Wilkin sent out several servants to advise the people of their safety and that Orikrod would remain under the duke’s limited power. As Adaline and Evzan rode back toward the gate, the people stared; their looks carried a new spark of hopeful curiosity.
“You did well, Highness,” Evzan said, riding beside her. “You’ll make a just and fair ruler.”
Adaline waited for the reproof that she was sure would follow. When it didn’t come, she said, “But?”
Evzan glanced at her, his brow furrowing in a look of perplexity. Shaking his head, he said
, “There was no but, Princess. You did well. Your father and mother would be proud.”
All the tension of the morning seemed to hit her at once, and the adrenaline that had kept her going waned. She let out a loud sigh and gave her guard a tired smile. “Thank you, Evzan. That means a lot coming from you.”
They turned down an avenue to find stalls overflowing with bright colorful bolts of cloth, painted dolls, steaming fresh baked rolls. Vats of soup weighed down cracking wooden tables. The smells of spices wafted down the road on the warm breeze. Women and men haggled, laughed, and gossiped, whether they ran the stalls or sought their wares.
Ages had passed since Adaline had gone to a bazaar, and the idea of there being one at the end of the street was like smelling hot apple tartlet. She just needed a bite. She pulled Thunder to a halt and inclined her head toward the open air market. “Please, can we go?”
Evzan glanced down the road, and then his gaze settled on Adaline.
She felt so much lighter now, lighter than she had in weeks, and she just wanted to enjoy the feeling for a little longer before she had to shoulder more responsibility with their next advance. She grinned at Evzan, her eyes wide, and mimicked what Mari had done when she flirted with the guards by batting her eyelashes. “Please come with me, Evzan. I need a moment of lightness after so many days of death. I promise I’ll stay with you the entire time and protect you.”
Evzan sighed as if what she was asking was a burden, but a smile played at the corners of his mouth. “We’ll have to give the horses to Gunhild and Behorig.”
Adaline nodded and slid from her horse. She fastened her scabbard in place while Evzan spoke with the generals.
“You’ll probably want to leave your sword with Thunder,” Evzan said with a chuckle. “If you go like that into the market, everyone will know you’re the conquering hero.”
Adaline blinked. “But don’t we want our weapons? At least . . . one of them, right?”
Evzan laughed as he nodded. “Strap on your knives. They’ll know we’re Cervenean because of our attire anyway, but let’s not go looking for a fight.”