The others followed suit, the great generals and lords cheering for their country. Their voices swelled as one, thunderous to meet the first echoing clash of steel at the river.
Only Taristan remained silent and staring, his eyes rimmed in red, his fingers soft in Erida’s own.
The Madrentine campaign headquartered at Lotha, the grander of the two castles close to the first assault. Once the field was won, they would move further downriver, keeping the Rose between themselves and danger. More legions would follow, already marching from the corners of Galland to bolster their conquest through the soft valleys of Madrence.
Erida had never been on campaign before, not truly. The morning began with battle and the night ended with feasting, the great lords toasting each other and their splendid performance on the field. Beer flowed and wine spilled along the tables of the Lotha hall, every head spinning with drink or battle or both. Indeed, a thousand men had been lost through the day, but miles had been gained, the Madrentines driven out of the forests and into their crumbling fortress to await siege. The day had been a rousing success.
And tomorrow will be another, Erida thought, bringing a third glass of wine to her lips. She surveyed the feasting chamber laid out before her, her version of a battlefield.
Lotha was no palace—built to defend the border, not entertain royalty—but it was comfortable enough to pass the days. The hall was tiny compared to Erida’s own back in Ascal, and crammed with Gallish nobility, most of them falling over themselves this late in the evening. Many toasted the Queen, shouting her blessings, praising her boldness and courage. Her kingdom had not conquered in years. She was hungry. She was ready, an eager horse pawing at the gate. Erida felt it in herself, as she felt it in her crown.
Her husband did not enjoy feasts, or most of the posturing required of a royal consort. He sat in silence, eating little, drinking little, speaking to a select few and only when forced. It was the same tonight, his eyes lowered to the plate of wild boar set in front of him.
“Will Ronin be joining us this evening?” she muttered, careful to angle her voice. Konegin was never far from her side, separated by only a few seats, and he often weaseled his way into their conversations, scrabbling for crumbs.
The corners of her husband’s mouth pulled downward into a frown. “He will come in his own time,” he answered. The shadow in his eyes burned red. “Whenever that might be.”
Erida leaned closer, hiding her mouth with the goblet. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know,” he said, voice flat as his stare. It was the truth, without adornment. Then he raised an eyebrow, his lips curling. “Are you going to scold me again? Tell me to make friends among your simpering nobles?”
The Queen scoffed into her wine, taking another sip. It tasted of cherries. “Allies, not friends. There are no friends to be had here,” she said quickly, almost in singsong. The same creed had been hammered into her since childhood. “Besides, I’m growing accustomed to your taciturn manner.”
“Taciturn.”
“It means—”
“I know what it means,” he said, leaning back in his seat. It put some distance between them, and Erida found herself disliking it. He carried a heat with him, a comfort in the cold stone of an old, dreary castle. She watched, waiting for the telltale flash of red anger in his stare. It never surfaced, his gaze on his plate, his eyes like obsidian. “Orphans can grow to intelligence, even those raised in the mud.”
Her hand lay on the wooden table, inches from his fingers. She did not dare move it, either closer or farther away.
“You forget I’m an orphan too,” Erida said hotly, feeling the now-familiar lick of anger Taristan always drew up her spine. Her cheeks warmed and she turned away, hiding her flush. If he noticed, he gave no indication.
She chewed her lip and shifted from one frustrating topic to another. “I received a letter from Bella Harrsing today,” she said, looking at him sidelong.
Though Taristan did his best to remain unbothered by the workings of a royal court, she saw a muscle feather in his cheek. He forced another bite of boar. “And why does that concern me?”
“She asked about our progress. Toward an heir.”
His eyes flashed. This time, the red was there. “That seems rude.”
“She’s an advisor,” Erida offered, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s her job to ask. Just like it’s our job to provide one.” Provide a child, as if they are simply plucked off trees. Yes, it was a queen’s duty to birth children, and a monarch’s duty to solidify the chain of succession. These were facts of life, as real and undeniable as the glass in her hand.