“Your Majesty,” she says, “I believe the men are training to march north. To the border with Stavin, and also to our own northern lands where . . .”
She trails off, and I nod. Around me, nobody likes to talk about what happened in Stur.
“They seem so young,” I say. Most of the recruits look like farm lads, pulled from working the harvest. They have ruddy faces and broad shoulders, but they’re sure to be more adept at handling a pitchfork than a sword.
“Many soldiers are required for the two missions,” Lady Marguerite says. “And we must maintain a strong guard here, of course, to protect Your Majesties.”
“It’s a fine day for marching about,” one of the other ladies says. “Isn’t it?”
The speaker may be a dull woman who only ever trots out platitudes, but on this occasion, she’s quite right. I can’t spend another day sitting indoors. It’s fine outside, despite the chill of late autumn. Who knows how soon the snows of winter will fall?
“Ladies,” I say, standing up. “I’ve decided that I need some fresh air.”
“You wish to promenade around the courtyard?” Lady Marguerite sounds alarmed.
“Tell the Guild master I wish to train this morning. Outside,” I correct her. “Please convey my request to the assassins’ quarters and tell them I will be ready soon.”
“But the courtyard is so crowded,” one of the other ladies protests. “All these country oafs! You don’t wish to be on display, Your Majesty.”
Actually, I do. But I’m not telling them that. It’s not a bad thing for the people of Mont—the people inside the castle, at least—to see me in fighting mode, and remember that I’m more than some ornamental prize Hansen has won from Renovia. I’m a trained Guild member, and anyone who seeks to harm me will find a fighter, not a spoiled pet. In the Guild we learn how to fight, track, and live by our wits, as well as to understand the natural world—its rhythms, its hidden messages. Being a member of the Guild means staying active in mind and body. I’m not going to rot in this castle while dark magic swirls through the kingdom, implicating me in its evil.
While one lady hurries away to find me a Guild trainer for an impromptu session, the others deal with peeling back the layers of my clothing and fetching more suitable garments from the heavy oak chest under the window. It’s a relief to replace the flowing yards of embroidered wool with hide leggings and a tunic. My ladies wrap leather protectors around my forearms and help me lace my favorite deerskin boots. I feel a crackle of pleasure, a happy anticipation about being outside again and moving freely.
“Are you sure?” my ladies keep asking me. What they mean is, are you sure about appearing this way in public, dressed as a fighter rather than the queen? I ignore such concerns. How can I explain to them that the only time I feel alive is when I’m not acting like the queen?
There’s so much I can’t say to them. They’re not my friends, or even my allies. At least one of them, I suspect, is paid by the Duke of Auvigne to relay information.
“If His Majesty should visit?” Lady Marguerite says, lifting my jerkin from the chest. It’s not really a question. She’s formulating a plan about what Hansen should be told.
“The king knows full well that I train every afternoon with a Guild member. He will be pleased that I am getting fresh air, instead of cowering up here like a ninny.”
Firstly, I don’t think for a moment that Hansen will visit me. He’s too busy cowering in his own chambers. And the longer I sit here, the more my fevered imagination will start conjuring unhelpful scenarios. What is Hansen being told—and by whom? Does he believe this story of the lilac frost in Stur? Does he think I might actually be involved in the black magic there? What if he’s persuaded to renounce me and annul our marriage? This could throw our countries into war. But what if he feels he has no choice, because Stavin threatens to invade unless these alleged dark forces are dispatched, along with me? Montrice could be facing down another war, even if he stands by me and this sham marriage of ours.
A breathless lady of the bedchamber returns, wheezing that a Guild member awaits me downstairs. I wave away the loden-green cloak someone is trying to fasten around my neck.
“It is true,” Lady Marguerite says to the others, “that His Majesty wants our queen to be happy and fit. If she is to bear royal children, she must not be weak or in ill health.”
Royal children. If I’m honest—with myself and no one else—that is the thing that has scared me most since my engagement to Hansen. And I can’t discuss it with Cal, although he is well aware that the throne demands an heir. What if Hansen insists that we consummate our marriage? I cannot refuse him, as much as I would want to.
I am married to the king, and yet I have chosen to follow my heart. Oh, Cal. The path has never been a straightforward one for us, and time makes everything more complicated. I need to get outside. Training will do me good.
Down in the courtyard, it’s noisy in an invigorating way, with the trainees on drill, the stable boys leading horses in and out of the blacksmith’s yard, and fencing practice for the best men of the guard at the eastern end. This is more like it. Even with the queen’s guard around me, there’s still enough room for my work. And in this gear I don’t draw much attention. I don’t look like the queen. I don’t look that different, in fact, from my trainer today, a Guild member I’ve never met before. She’s a young woman, slight and tense as a wild cat. She bounds up and gives a deep, awkward bow rather than a curtsy.
“Your name?” I ask her. She can’t be any older than seventeen, with thick auburn hair tied back from a heart-shaped face.
“Rhema, Your Majesty,” she replies. Her eyes are dark and there’s a glint in them that appeals to me. She’s come ready to fight, and she’s not intimidated by working with the queen.
“You’re new here?”
“It’s my third week, ma’am. I’m an apprentice assassin. From the mountains.”
“I’m rusty,” I tell her, twirling a spear to warm up my hands. Strange that Cal has never mentioned that one of the new assassins is a young woman. He’s told me all about training them, and about sending several of the less able back home. Nothing about a red-headed girl from the mountains.
“Do you want me to go easy on you, ma’am?” Her voice is neutral, but I can see the disdain in her expression. She reminds me of the old me, of Shadow. I would have seen a grand lady like Queen Lilac as an amateur, too coddled to be a real fighter.
“No,” I say, trying not to snap. I’m only two years older than her! I’m still twirling the spear when she leaps at me, feet high in the air. So impressed am I with the height she reaches that I’m a moment late with the spear block, and end up flat on my backside on the cold cobbles.