I have to slip through his fingers before he tightens his grip.
Chapter 8
QUEEN MALINA
Crickets. That’s what my advisors remind me of.
Wilcox, Barthal, and Uwen, all noblemen from once flourishing Highbell houses. They’re pests who hop at my feet, only daring to make noise when nothing else rises to challenge them.
“We cannot take away farming rights of House Bansgot,” Barthal says, the frown fitting perfectly into his aging face, since it’s one of his most-used expressions when he’s in my presence.
“He’s right, Your Majesty,” Uwen agrees from my left. “They have had those rights for generations.”
My fingers rise one after another, then my nails tap down in sequence on the table in front of me. It still smells of new paint. The palace carpenter looked at me like I was mad when I bid him to cover every gold piece of furniture in the meeting chamber, but he did as he was told.
It took five coats of white paint to completely cover the gaudy metal, and five days for it to fully dry.
Of course, that was the day my spies informed me that Fourth Kingdom did not wage war on Fifth like I hoped they would. Instead, it seems King Rot and Tyndall have struck some sort of tentative truce. That alone put me in a foul mood, but then I heard about her. The golden cunt is still alive, and back in Tyndall’s possession.
My lips pull into a sneer.
I handed her and the other whores to the Red Raids on a silver platter, and the pirates ruined it, gave the saddles up and then fled like the cowards they are. Just thinking about it makes my temper frost over, ice burning in my gut.
Men ruin all of women’s best laid plans.
Drawing myself back into the conversation, I give a terse shake of my head. “I don’t care how long they’ve had it. House Bansgot declared that they will only pay their taxes directly to Tyndall, which is treason,” I reply.
“The king—”
I cut Uwen off. “Tyndall,” I stress pointedly, “is not ruling Sixth anymore. I am.” Their chirping goes quiet, as it always does. “Taxes are due, and everyone will pay or reap the consequences. The Bansgots are three weeks late in their payment and have thus ignored all attempts at collection. So, they will lose their farming rights, and I will bestow it on a House who is loyal to their Colier queen.”
All three men gape at me while I suppress an irritated sigh.
My grip on Highbell is tentative at best. Every day, I attempt to make strides, to solidify my rule and to vilify Tyndall, but the pushback only seems to worsen. The nobles are split down the middle. Houses that were once loyal to my father and his father before him now spit in their faces by rejecting me. All because Tyndall has dazzled them with wealth.
Which is why I have dried up their taps by cutting off their monthly gifts of gold.
Yet for every countermove I make, I seem to still lose ground, and it infuriates me. First the peasants, and now the nobles.
But I will bring them to heel. I must.
“Give the farming rights to House Shurin. They can hold the contract to supply Highbell with its crops, and we’ll also send them a cart of gold to thank them for their loyalty,” I say, fingers fiddling with the furred collar of my gown.
Uwen presses his lips together, though he writes it all down dutifully.
“Now—” I’m cut off when a knock sounds on the door. “Enter.”
My guard pops his head inside. “Pardon, my queen, but a messenger has arrived for you.”
“A messenger from where?”
“Fifth Kingdom.”
I feel my advisors go tense, anxious air stilling in their throats. “Ah, Tyndall has at last come to the conclusion that I’m ignoring him,” I say. “Show the messenger in. I’ll receive him here.”
A few tense minutes tick by while my nails continue to drum on the table. My dear husband has finally deigned to realize that his hold on Highbell is being challenged. I feel both excitement and anticipation to see what his response will be.
This is what I’ve been waiting for. The chess game of kings and queens is never dull, and I’ve been wanting to go up against Tyndall for a long time.
When footsteps sound down the hall, my thrumming fingers hit a little too hard. My eyes dart down to where the white paint has scraped off, now buried beneath my nail. Frustration blooms in my chest when I note the sliver of gold now showing through the scratch on the tabletop. One slip, and five coats of paint are ruined, just like that. The damning metal mocks me, a taunting crescent smile to meet my glare.
“Your Majesty?”