Home > The Bridge Kingdom (The Bridge Kingdom #1)(2)

The Bridge Kingdom (The Bridge Kingdom #1)(2)
Author: Danielle L. Jensen

Lara didn’t blink. None of her sisters did, and she wondered for a breath whether he realized that every one of them was considering stabbing him in the heart over the insult of his words. He should know well that every one of them was capable of doing it.

Her father continued, “Fifteen years ago, the King of Ithicana demanded a bride for his son and heir as tribute. As payment.” His lip curled up in a sneer. “The bastard is a year dead, but his son has called in his due. And Maridrina is ready.” His eyes went to Marylyn, then to the servants moving to clear the salad plates.

In the shadows of the growing night, Lara sensed movement. Felt the presence of the mass of soldiers her father had brought with him. The servants reappeared with steaming bowls of soup, the scent of cinnamon and leeks drifting ahead of them.

“Ithicana’s greed, its hubris, its contempt for you, will be its downfall.”

Lara allowed her eyes to leave her father’s face, taking in each one of her sisters. With all their training, all their knowledge of his plans, he never intended for any of them, save his chosen one, to live an hour past this dinner.

The soups were placed before them, and every one of her sisters waited for their father’s taster to take the first mouthful and nod. Then they picked up their spoons and dutifully began to eat.

Lara did the same.

Their father believed that brilliance and beauty were the most important attributes in the daughter he’d select. That she be the girl who’d shown the most acumen for combat and strategy. The girl who’d shown the most talent in the arts of the bedroom. He’d thought he’d known which traits mattered most—but he’d forgotten one.

Sarhina stiffened next to her.

I’m sorry, Lara silently whispered to her sisters.

Then Sarhina’s body began to spasm.

I pray that you’ll all find the freedom you deserve.

The soupspoon in Sarhina’s hand went flying across the table, but none of the other girls noticed. None of them cared. Because all of them were choking, foam rising to their lips as they twitched and gasped, one by one falling forward or backward or to the side. Then all of them were resting motionless.

Lara set her spoon next to her empty bowl, looking once to Marylyn, who was facedown in her dish. Rising, she rounded the table, lifting her sister’s head from the bowl and carefully cleaning away the soup before resting Marylyn’s cheek against the table. When Lara looked up again, her father was pale and on his feet, sword half drawn. The soldiers who’d been lurking in the wings rushed forward, corralling the panicked servants into place. But everyone, everyone, was staring at her.

“You were mistaken in your choice, Father.” Lara stood tall as she addressed her king. She stared him down, allowing the dark, grasping, and selfish part of her soul to climb to the surface and stare out at him. “I will be the next Queen of Ithicana. And I will bring the Bridge Kingdom to its knees.”

 

 

2

 

 

Lara

 

 

Lara had known what would come next, but it seemed to happen so very quickly. And yet she was certain every detail would be burned into her mind until the day she died. Her father slammed his sword back into its sheath, then reached down to press his fingers against the throat of the nearest girl, holding them there for several moments while Lara watched impassively. Then he nodded once at the soldiers surrounding them.

The men who’d been intended to dispatch Lara and her sisters turned their swords instead on the servants, whose tongueless mouths uttered wordless screams as they tried to flee the massacre. The musicians were cut down, as were the cooks in the distant kitchens and the maids turning down sheets on beds that would never be slept in again. Soon, all who remained were the king’s loyal cadre of soldiers, their hands coated with the blood of their victims.

Through this, Lara remained still. Only the knowledge that she was the sole remaining daughter—that she was the last horse left to bet on—kept her from fighting her way free of the carnage and fleeing into the desert beyond.

Erik, the Master of Arms, approached through the palms, blade glistening in his hand. His eyes went from Lara to her sisters’ still forms, and he gave her a sad smile. “I’m not surprised to find you still standing, little cockroach.”

It was the endearment he’d bestowed upon her when she’d arrived, five years old and barely alive, thanks to a sandstorm that had befallen her party on their trek to the compound. “Ice and fire might ravage the world, but still the cockroach survives,” he’d said. “Just like you.”

Cockroach she might be, but that she still breathed was thanks to him. Erik had dispatched her to the training yard as punishment for a minor transgression two nights prior, and she’d overheard members of her father’s cadre plotting the deaths of her and her sisters. A conversation led by Erik himself. Her eyes burned as she regarded him—the man who’d been more a father to her than the silver-haired monarch to her right—but she said nothing, gave him not so much as a smile in return.

“Is it done?” her father asked.

Erik nodded. “All have been silenced, Your Majesty. Save myself.” Then his eyes flicked to the shadows not touched by the table’s lamps. “And the Magpie.”

From those shadows stepped her Master of Intrigue, and Lara coolly regarded the wisp of a man who had orchestrated every aspect of the evening.

And in the nasal voice she’d always loathed, the Magpie said, “The girl did most of the dirty work for you.”

“Lara should have been your choice all along.” Erik’s voice was toneless, but grief filled his eyes as they passed over the fallen girls before returning to Lara’s face.

Lara wanted to reach for her knife—how dare he grieve them when he’d done nothing to save them—but a thousand hours of training commanded her not to move. He bowed low to his king. “For Maridrina.” Then he pulled his knife across his own throat.

Lara clenched her teeth, the contents of her stomach rising, bitter and foul and full of the same poison she’d given her sisters. Yet she didn’t look away, forcing herself to watch as Erik slumped to the ground, blood pulsing from his throat in great gouts until his heart went still.

The Magpie stepped around the pool of blood and coming fully into the light. “Such dramatics.”

Magpie wasn’t his real name, of course. It was Serin, and of all the men and women who’d trained the sisters over the years, he was the only one who’d come and gone from the compound at his leisure, managing the king’s network of spies and plots.

“He was a good man. A loyal subject.” There was no inflection in her father’s voice, and Lara wondered if he meant the words, or if they were for the benefit of the soldiers watching the proceedings. Even the most stalwart loyalty had its limits, and her father was no fool.

The Magpie’s narrow eyes turned on her. “Lara, as you know, Majesty, was not my first choice. She scored close to the bottom in nearly all things, with the lone exception of combat. Her temper continually gets the better of her. Marylyn”—he gestured to her sister—“was the obvious choice. Brilliant and beautiful. Masterfully in control of her emotions, as she clearly demonstrated over the past several days.” He made a noise of disgust.

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