Sighing inwardly, Corayne began to count the coins left in her satchel and wondered if enough could be swept together to appease Galeri’s curiosity.
Her mother’s smile only widened. “I thought that odd as well.”
Corayne had seen her mother flirt many times. This is not that.
Galeri’s face fell, the workings of his mind easy to read. His soldiers were few, unready, and mostly useless. Captain an-Amarat had her entire crew behind her, and her own sword at her hip. She could kill him and be off with the current before the officers on the next dock even noticed he was dead. Or he could simply move on with the coin already earned, with more to be earned again after the next voyage. His eyes trembled, just for a second, to pass over Corayne herself. The only thing in the world he could hold over Meliz an-Amarat, should things go ill.
Corayne curled a fist, though she had no clue what to do with it.
“Good to have you back in port, Hell Mel,” Galeri forced out, matching her grin. A bead of sweat rolled down his scalp as he stepped aside, bowing to the pair of them.
Meliz watched him go, her teeth bared and lips curled into a frightful smile. Who she was on the waves never stood on land, not for long. Corayne rarely saw that woman, the fierce captain of a fiercer crew, who crossed the waters without regard for law or danger. That woman was not her mother, not Meliz an-Amarat. That was Hell Mel.
That name held little meaning here, in the home port of the Tempestborn, where the galley glided in on soft winds with little trouble but curious officers. But on the waters, across the Ward, the ship was aptly named, and so was her captain.
Corayne heard those stories too.
Sailors talk.
And Mother lies.
2
A VOICE LIKE WINTER
Andry
He’d traded away his chain mail for food a week ago. His green-and-gold tunic was little more than a rag, torn and crusted with blood, dirt, and dust from the long journey home. Andry Trelland knelt as best he could without collapsing, every limb trembling with exhaustion. It was well past midnight in the capital, and weeks of riding had more than taken their toll. A stone floor had never looked so inviting.
Only fear of sleep kept his eyes open.
The nightmares wait for me, he thought. The nightmares and the whispers both. They had haunted him since the temple, since the slaughter that left him alive and so many heroes dead. Red hands, white faces, the smell of burning flesh. He blinked, trying to force away the memory. And now a voice like winter stabbing me through.
Two knights of the Lionguard flanked the empty throne, their golden armor glowing with candlelight. Andry knew them both. Sir Eiros Edverg and Sir Hyle of Gilded Hill. They were compatriots to the knights fallen, whose corpses were somewhere in the foothills, lost to the mud. They stared at him but did not speak, though Andry saw concern on both their faces. He looked at the stone beneath him, tracing the patterns of tile while he waited in blistering silence.
Andry knew the sound of men in armor. They clanked and stamped in their steel, marching toward the throne room from the Queen’s own residence. When the door to her apartments swung open, spitting out a diamond formation of knights, Andry clenched his teeth so tightly they nearly shattered. His eyes stung; his heart sank. He braced himself for a fresh wash of pain.
The others died and died poorly. The least you can do is hold your ground.
It was no wonder so many vied for the Queen of Galland’s hand in marriage. She was young and beautiful, nineteen years old with fine bones, porcelain skin, ash-brown hair, and the silver-blue eyes of her late father, Konrad III. She had his steel spine too. Even though she seemed small in her robe and nightclothes, without a crown or majestic jewels, her presence was dominating. She peered sharply at Andry between the gaps in her Lionguard, never taking her eyes off him as she sank onto her throne.
Her velvety green robe pooled around her, falling like a beautiful gown. She leaned forward on her elbows, fingers clasped together. She only wore the ring of state, a dark emerald set in gold, rough-cut and hundreds of years old. In the dim light, it seemed black as the creatures’ eyes, yawning like an abyss.
“Your Majesty,” Andry murmured, bowing his head.
Queen Erida looked him over, her gaze piercing. Her eyes snagged on his tunic, reading the stains like she would a book.
“Squire Trelland, please rise,” she said, her voice gentle but echoing in the long, ornate room. Her blue gaze softened as Andry clambered to his feet, shaky on his legs. “The road has not been kind to you. Do you need a moment? A meal, a bath? My doctor can be called.”
“No, Your Majesty.” Andry glanced down at himself. He felt unclean from head to toe, unfit to stand before the Queen of his country. “The blood is not my own.”
The knights shifted, glancing among themselves with wary eyes. Andry could guess as to their thoughts. The blood belonged to their brothers, knights of the Lionguard who would never come home.
Erida did not falter. “Have you seen your mother yet?” she asked, still staring.
The squire shook his head. He looked at his boots, flecked with mud and stinking of horse. “It’s late, she’ll be sleeping, and she sorely needs whatever rest she can find.” He remembered the hacking cough that often woke his mother in the night. “I can wait until morning.”
The Queen nodded. “Are you able to tell me what happened to you?” Andry felt the question like the cut of a knife. “And to our dear friends?”
White faces, red hands, black armor, knives dripping blood, ash and smoke and rot—
His mouth worked but no words came, his lips parting and closing. Andry wished to turn and run. His fingers trembled and he tucked them away, folding his hands behind his back in the typical pose of a courtier. He raised his head and set his jaw, trying to be strong.
The least you can do is hold your ground, he thought again, the admonishment searing.
“Leave us,” Erida said suddenly, looking around at her flanking knights. The young woman went fierce as the lion on her flag, both hands curled on the arms of her throne. She bore the ring of state like a shield.
The Lionguard did not move, stunned.
Andry felt the same. The Queen went very few places without her sworn knights, guardians to the death. His eyes snapped back and forth, weighing the will of the Queen against the will of her warriors.
Sir Hyle sputtered, his pink face going pinker. “Your Majesty—”
“The boy is traumatized. He doesn’t need nine of you looming over him,” she answered swiftly, without so much as a blink. Her focus shifted back to the squire, her sharp eyes pressing into him. A sadness pulled at her pale face. “I’ve known Andry Trelland all his life. He’ll be a knight alongside the rest of you in a few years’ time. Leaving me with him is the same as leaving me with any of you.”
Despite all he had seen and suffered, Andry could not help but feel a swell of pride in his chest, albeit short-lived. Knights do not fail, and I have certainly done that, he thought. The Lionguard must have shared the same opinion. They hesitated as one, unmoving in their golden armor and green cloaks.
Erida was undeterred and undeniable. Her ring hand curled into a fist. “Do as your queen commands,” she said, her countenance stony.
This time, Sir Hyle did not argue. Instead he dropped into a short, stilted bow, and with a twist of his gloved fingers beckoned the other confused knights to follow. They tramped from the room, a cacophony of steel and iron and swishing fabric.