Then I’m inside, the lack of light abruptly plunging me into a moment of disorientation. A lantern gleams within the tent, platters of sweetmeats and figs spread across a black and white lacquered table. The scent reminds me of summer days and fields of golden grain whispering in the wind.
Not the musky perfume of a well-lit brazier that my mother prefers.
Curse it. I knew this was a fucking trap.
“Your Highness,” Thiago says, recovering from the surprise well. “You appear to have shrunk.”
A tall, straight-backed figure reclines before us, her long, lean legs laced over each other and both hands resting negligently on the arms of the throne. Every inch of her is poise, from the braided coronet of hair that settles like a crown on her head, to the slick golden silk of her cloak, pinned at one shoulder with a ruby as big as my palm.
“Hello, Sister,” says Andraste, meeting my eyes.
“Andraste.” The word trips over my tongue.
The last time I faced my sister, I’d felt alone. The revelation of the truth—that I was Thiago’s wife with my memories stolen away from me—had been a recent blow, and I’d been trying to find my feet in this new world.
I’m no longer alone.
A hand comes to rest on my shoulder, Thiago’s thumb stroking there with gentle reassurance.
I stare into her face, and I see a little girl lying in the grass of the meadows with me as we slice our palms and press them together.
“I will always protect you,” Andraste had whispered. “You’re my little sister. We will always watch each other’s backs.”
I don’t know where that girl vanished to, or even why.
My stepbrother, Edain, reclines at her feet in silken robes the color of a night sky, that reveal a healthy expanse of his chest. Rings glitter on his fingers and his cheekbones are sharp enough to cut as he reaches for a grape. It’s rather like having a leopard at her feet. Edain might be mother’s little trinket, but I’m one of the few who knows the truth of what else he is.
My mother’s knife.
A blade she wields from the shadows.
In public he’s the queen’s pet, but they say that if you meet him in the dark of night, then he’s the last thing you’ll ever see.
“Dearest stepsister,” he purrs, “it’s lovely to see you again. Married life must be agreeing with you.”
“It’s all that fresh air,” I bite back, “and freedom. You should try it.”
Bottling my rage, I turn to Andraste. She’s no longer my sister. She made her choice. “Your Highness. The Queen of Asturia’s message claimed you had a gift for us.”
She waves magnanimously at the laden table before her. “Should we not take repast and discuss—”
“We’re not here for your fucking figs and cheese.” I smile. “And who knows what drug the wine is laced with. You always were good at providing such sweet poison.”
A flash of guilt dances fleetingly through her eyes—so fleetingly it might even be imagined. “Our countries are at war, but that doesn’t mean that our negotiations—”
I step toward her. “These are not negotiations. You have something of ours and you will give him back.”
“Or?” Edain stretches with a yawn.
Even I feel the coldness in my smile. “Or I will show you what drove my mother back at the Queensmoot.”
Thiago remains conspicuously quiet at my side, letting me lead, though his hand comes to rest on the small of my back. A warning. They’ve got me off-balance, which was precisely what they wanted.
But Edain’s no longer entirely at ease either. He wasn’t there when I drove my mother back, but no doubt he’s aware of it.
“You’ve grown bolder, dearest stepsister,” Edain says, pushing to his knees. “I always wondered how you would flourish once your mother stopped turning your brain to mush every spring.”
“Remarkably well, now that those I trusted aren’t stealing a year of life from me.”
“Don’t blame me,” he says. “I was merely a spectator.”
“Oh, did you think I included you on the list of people I trusted?”
“Edain,” Andraste warns.
“What?” He spreads his hands with a boyish smile. “We’re just having fun. Vi and I always were like oil and water.”
I ignore him and focus on her. “Well? Why bother with this affair if all we’re going to do is insult each other?”
“First strike,” she whispers.
What?
Our eyes meet as memory assaults me. My mother sitting across a fari board from me as she moves her last piece into place.
“First strike,” Mother murmurs with a smile as her knight decapitates my king. Three of her little metallic warriors abruptly turn on my general. “Second strike.”
And the third.
The third will always come.
My prince abruptly steps behind my gold queen and drives a knife through her back.
“Third strike,” Mother says, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes as she sits back in her chair with her hands folded neatly in her lap. “You failed to see the plays, Daughter. You have lost.”
And the fari board devolves into a melee as her pieces cut mine down to the last man, until only my little golden prince remains, bowing at the feet of her Red Queen.
Lysander is the first strike.
Andraste’s warning me.
Thiago slowly removes his gloves as he stalks forward. “You brought us here for a reason. Let us hear it.”
“It’s easy,” Andraste replies with a small shrug. “There doesn’t have to be war between our kingdoms.”
“I think it’s far too late for that, Princess. Your mother murdered a queen and tried to have me executed. She attacked a sacrosanct meeting—”
“And she is prepared to make amends.”
“I don’t see her here,” he snarls, “on her knees, begging for mercy. Or is that why she sent you? Did she think I might be somewhat more lenient if my wife’s sister pleaded her cause?”
My eyes narrow. “It’s more that Andraste is meant to be the distraction while Mother slips around behind our backs.”
“So trusting, little sister.” Edain laughs. “We are here because your Mother doesn’t trust him to contain his daemons if he saw her.”
“Of the two of them, Thiago’s shown remarkable restraint,” I grind out.
“Has he?” Edain offers Thiago a little smile that seems to suggest otherwise. “Indeed, he does seem to have himself well in hand. Far more so than I was warned to expect.”
What does that mean?
“Oh.” Edain feigns surprise. “He hasn’t told you….”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Thiago replies.
“Mmm.” Edain sips his wine with nonchalant grace. “We shall see.”
I don’t look at my husband.
I can’t.
Because I won’t give Edain the satisfaction of knowing his arrow hit its target.
Instead, I rest a hand on Thiago’s sleeve. “You always did like to hear the sound of your own voice, Edain. Even though your conversational skills are terribly boring.”