“Here you are, Lara.”
Shit. It was time for her to move on. How long had she been in this town? Two months? Three? In the haze of alcohol, she’d lost track of days, it feeling both like a lifetime and just yesterday that she’d dragged her battered boat onto a Harendell beach, half-starved and her clothes still red with the blood of the Maridrinian soldiers she’d slaughtered to get herself off Midwatch.
The smell of soup tickled her nose, but her stomach soured, and she shoved the bowl away, drinking from the bottle instead.
The smart thing would be to move inland, north and away from all those who knew and cared about Lara, The Traitor Queen of Ithicana. Her father’s agents would be looking for her—maybe another one of her sisters, for all she knew—and a drunken wreck like her was an easy mark.
But she kept finding excuses not to go. The weather. The ease of stealing coin. The comfort of this shithole of a tap house. Except she knew the reason she stayed was because here, the news from Ithicana was on everyone’s lips. Night after night she sat at the bar, listening to the sailors chatter about this battle and that, hoping and praying that the tides would turn. That, rather than grumbles about the growing dominion of Maridrina, she’d hear that Aren was back in power. That Ithicana held the bridge once more.
Wasted hopes.
With every passing day, the news grew worse. No one in Harendell was particularly pleased that Maridrina now controlled the bridge—already the old men were bemoaning the good old days of Ithicanian efficiency and neutrality—and there was much chatter over the likelihood of the Harendellian King taking action. Except even if he did, Lara knew it wouldn’t be until after storm season, six months from now. And by then . . . by then, it would be too late.
“. . . battle with the Ithicanians . . . the king . . . prisoner.”
Lara’s ears perked, unease pushing aside the haze of the wine. Turning to the table behind her, which was filled with a group of heavyset men with equally heavy mustaches, she asked, “What was that you said about the Ithicanian King?”
One of the men grinned lasciviously at her. “Why don’t you come over here and I’ll tell you everything there is to know about the sorry sot.” He patted one knee, which was coated with grease stains.
Picking up her bottle, Lara swayed over to the table and set it down among their mugs. “Here I am. Now, what was it you were saying?”
The man patted his knee. She shook her head. “I’m fine on my feet, sir.”
“I’d be better with that fine ass of yours on my lap.” His hand swung in a wide arc, cracking against her bottom, where it remained, his meaty fingers digging into her flesh.
Lara reached behind, taking a firm grip on his wrist. The idiot had the nerve to smile. Pulling hard, she twisted, slamming his palm against the table and, a heartbeat later, embedding her dagger in it.
The man squealed and tried to pull away, but the knife blade was stuck in the wood beneath his hand.
One of the others reached for it, but fell back, nose broken.
Another swung his fist at her face, but she dodged easily, the toe of her boot catching him in the groin.
“Now.” She rested one hand on the knife and gave it a gentle twist. “What was it you were saying about the King of Ithicana?”
“That he was captured in a skirmish with the Maridrinians.” The man was sobbing, squirming on his seat. “He’s being held prisoner in Vencia.”
“Are you certain?”
“Ask anyone! The news just came in from Northwatch. Now please!”
Lara eyed him thoughtfully, nothing on her face betraying the terror rising in her guts. Jerking the knife free, she leaned down. “You slap another ass, I’ll personally track you down and cut that hand off.”
Spinning on her heel, she nodded at the barkeep and strode out the door, barely feeling the rain that drove against her face.
Aren had been captured.
Aren was a prisoner.
Aren was her father’s hostage.
The wind ripped and tore at her hair. The last thought replayed endlessly in her mind as Lara strode toward the boarding house, people leaping out of her way as she passed. There was only one reason her father would keep Aren alive: to use him as bait.
Taking the steps two at a time, she unlocked the door to her room, slamming it behind her. Guzzling water straight from a pitcher, she stripped off the simple blue dress she wore and donned her Ithicanian clothes, swiftly packing her meager belongings into a sack. Then, a chip of charcoal in hand, she sat down at the table.
The necklace was warm from resting against her skin, the emeralds and diamonds glittering in the candlelight. She had no right to wear it, but the thought of the necklace being stolen, of it being worn by anyone else, was unbearable, so she never took it off.
She did so now.
Laying the necklace on the paper, Lara traced the jewels with the charcoal, the haze from the wine slowly receding as she worked. When the drawing was complete, she returned the necklace to her throat and held up a complete map of Ithicana, her gaze fixed on the large circle to the west of the rest.
This is madness, the logical part of her mind screamed. You can barely swim, you’re a shit sailor, and it’s the middle of storm season. But her heart, which had been a cold, smoldering thing since she’d run from Aren on Midwatch, now burned with a ferocity that would not be denied.
Tucking the map into her pocket, she belted on her weapons and stepped out into the storm.
It took Lara three weeks to get there, and she nearly died a dozen times or more during the journey. Violent storms chased her onto tiny islands, her screaming into the wind as she dragged her little boat above the storm surge. She fought off snakes who thought to hide under the cover of her boat; freak gusts of wind that tore at her singular sail; and waves that swamped her, stealing away all her supplies.
But she was called the little cockroach for a reason, and here she was.
The skies were crystal clear, which likely meant the worst sort of storm was imminent, and the sun nearly blinded her with the glare off the waves. Her boat, the sail lowered, bobbed just beyond the shadow of the enormous volcano, the only sound the waves crashing against the cliffs.
Lara stood, her knees shaking as she held on to the mast for balance. There was a glint of sunlight hitting glass from the depths of the jungle slopes, but even without it, she knew they were watching.
“Open up,” she shouted.
In answer, a loud crack split the air. Lara swore, watching as the boulder flew through the air toward her. It hit the water a few paces away, soaking her, the waves nearly flipping her boat.
Climbing back to her feet from where she’d been cowering in the bottom, she dug her fingers into the mast, fighting to master her fear of the water all around.
“Hear me out, Ahnna!” The other Ithicanians would’ve hit her on the first shot. Only the princess would bother to terrorize her first. “If you don’t like what I have to say, you can throw me back into the sea.”
Nothing stirred. There was no sound other than the roar of the ocean.
Then, a rattle split the air, the distinctive sound of the gates to Eranahl opening. Picking up her paddle, Lara maneuvered her way inside.
Familiar faces filled with cold fury met her as the boat knocked against the steps. She didn’t fight as Jor jerked her out by the hair, the stone stairs biting into her shins as he dragged her up, snarling, “I’d cut your heart out here and now if not for the fact Ahnna deserves the honor.” He pulled a hood over her head, obscuring her vision.
They took her to the palace, the sounds and smells painfully familiar, and as she counted the steps and turns, Lara knew she was being taken to the council room. Someone, probably Jor, kicked the backs of her knees once they entered, and she fell, palms slapping against the ground.
“You have a lot of nerve coming back, I’ll give you that.”
The hood was ripped from her head. Pushing upright, Lara met Ahnna’s gaze,
her stomach tightening at the cruel scar that now ran from the midpoint of the woman’s forehead down to her cheekbone. That she hadn’t lost her eye was a miracle. Surrounding her were some half a dozen soldiers, all who bore the marks of having barely escaped Southwatch with their lives. And behind them, hanging on the wall, was a large map of Maridrina.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t slit your throat, you traitorous bitch.”
Lara forced a smile onto her face. “It’s not very creative.”
A boot caught her in the ribs, flipping her over. Pressing a hand against her side, Lara cast a dark look at Nana, whose boot it had been, before returning her attention to the woman in power. “You won’t slit my throat because my father has Aren as his prisoner.”
Ahnna’s jaw tightened. “A fact that does not help your cause.”
“We need to get him back.”
“We?” The princess’s voice was incredulous. “Your father has Aren inside his palace in Vencia, which I’m sure you know is a veritable fortress guarded by the elite of the Maridrinian army. My best haven’t been able to so much as get inside. Every one of them has died trying. By all means, humor me with why you will be any help at all. Will you seduce your way in, whore?”
Lara stared her down, the silence hanging in the room stifling.
For fifteen years, she’d been trained how to infiltrate an impenetrable kingdom.
How to discover weaknesses and exploit them.
How to destroy her enemies.
How to be merciless.
She’d been born for this.
Yet Lara said nothing because words would not convince these people who believed—rightly—that she was a liar.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
She moved.
These were battle-hardened warriors, but the element of surprise was hers. And she was what she was. Holding nothing back, she whirled, fists and feet a blur as she disarmed the soldiers around her, knocking them down. Driving them back.
Ahnna launched at her with a scream, but Lara snaked a foot around her leg, and rolled with her, coming up with the tall princess in a chokehold, the other woman’s knife in her free hand.
Silence filled the room, the warriors regaining their feet and eyeing her with a new and healthy respect even as they considered how they could disarm her.
Lara cast her eyes around the room, meeting each gaze individually before releasing Ahnna’s throat. The other woman rolled away, gasping, eyes full of shock. Lara rose to her feet.
“You need me, because I know our enemy. I was raised by them to be their greatest weapon, and you’ve seen firsthand what I can do. What they never considered is that their greatest weapon might turn on them.” And Lara wasn’t the only weapon they’d created: There were ten other young women out there who owed her a life debt, which she fully intended to call due.
“You need me because I am the Queen of Ithicana.” Twisting, she threw the knife in her hand, watching as it embedded in the map, marking Vencia—and Aren—with perfect precision. “And it’s time my father was brought to his knees.”
Thank you for reading! Lara and Aren’s story continues soon in THE TRAITOR QUEEN.
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While waiting for THE TRAITOR QUEEN, read Danielle L. Jensen’s other latest work, DARK SHORES.
High seas adventure, blackmail, and meddling gods meet in DARK SHORES, a thrilling first novel in a fast-paced new YA fantasy series. (You may have to flip the page to see the cover.)
Get your copy: https://danielleljensen.com/dark-shores/
Readers who love THE BRIDGE KINGDOM also love Danielle L. Jensen’s STOLEN SONGBIRD. A young adult fantasy filled with romance and magic. (You may have to flip the page to see the cover.)
Get your copy: https://danielleljensen.com/books-2/stolen-songbird/
About the Author
Danielle L. Jensen is the USA Today bestselling author of The Malediction Novels: Stolen Songbird, Hidden Huntress, Warrior Witch, and The Broken Ones, as well as Dark Shores. She lives with her family in Calgary, Alberta.
Visit her on the web at:
Amazon.com/Danielle-L.-Jensen/e/B00FR5FYIG
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