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.
Only when the door to her apartments was safely shut behind them did the Queen drop her shoulders, curling inward. She waited another moment, then exhaled a long, slow breath. She seemed to shift back into herself, becoming a woman barely more than a child, not a queen with four years of rule behind her.
For a split second, Andry saw her as she’d been in her youth: a princess born, but still without the burdens of a crown. She loved sailing, he remembered. All the children of the palace, noble cousins and page boys and little maidens, used to accompany her out into Mirror Bay. They would pretend to run the boat, practicing their knots and pushing around sails. But not Erida. She would sit at the helm and point, directing the real crew over the water.
Now she directed the country, and she was pointing at him.
“I answered the Elder call,” she said in a low, raw voice. Her eyes went oddly bright, shimmering with the candles. One of her hands slipped into her robes and drew back out, clutching a roll of parchment.
Andry swallowed hard. He wanted to burn that infernal piece of paper.
She unfurled it with shaking hands, her eyes blazing over the inked message. At the edge of the page, the ancient seal of Iona was still there, stamped in broken green wax. By now the sight of it turned his stomach, and the memory it brought forth was even worse.
Sir Grandel and the Norths knelt before the Queen on her throne. She was resplendent in her court finery and dazzling crown. Andry knelt with them, some yards behind, the only squire to accompany the knights into the audience chamber. For what purpose, he did not know, but he could guess. The Norths were always a bit more . . . self-sufficient than Sir Grandel, who seemed to want a squire’s aid for every task big or small. If the Queen had a command for Sir Grandel Tyr, certainly Andry Trelland would be made to follow on his heels.
The squire kept his head bowed, glimpsing the Queen only from the edges of his vision. She was as green and golden as her knights, with a strange parchment in her hands.
In an instant, Andry saw the seal, the crude image of a stag stamped deep. He racked his memory, sifting through lords and great families, their heraldry well known to even a page boy. But none matched.
“This is a summons,” the Queen said, turning the letter over.
On his knees, Sir Edgar blanched. “Who would dare summon the Queen of Galland, the greatest crown upon the Ward? The glory of Old Cor reborn?”
Queen Erida tipped her head. “What do you know of Elders?”
The knights sputtered, exchanging bewildered glances.
Sir Grandel laughed outright, shaking back brown hair flecked with gray. “A story for children, Your Majesty,” he chortled. “A fairy tale.”
Andry dared to look up. The Queen did not smile, her lips pursed into a grim line.
This was no joke.
“Immortals, my lady,” Andry heard himself answer. His voice trembled. “Born of the Spindles, having passed into Allward from another realm. But they were trapped, the doorway to their home closing not long after they arrived. The Elders are stranded in our realm, if they even still exist here at all.” Impossible beings, rare as unicorns, never to be glimpsed by my own eyes.
“A fairy tale,” Sir Grandel said again, shooting a glare at his squire.