She could not know for sure.
The lie is the right choice, the better option. For me and my kingdom.
Harrsing and Derrick continued their sniping, weighing their chosen candidates for marriage. Truthfully, Erida despaired of both Oscovko and the Ibalet princeling, as she did every other name on that wretched list.
Lord Konegin remained as silent as the Queen, sprawled in his chair at her right hand. He was a cousin to Erida’s father, and he too had the piercing blue eyes and thoughtful manner of the royal line. The ambition too, Erida thought. While the rest sat on the Crown Council to advise the Queen, hand-selected for their value, she’d chosen Konegin to keep an eye on a potential usurper to the throne.
He watched Harrsing and Derrick as one would a game of rackets played down in the garden. His eyes moved between them while they volleyed jabs back and forth. With his blond hair, striking glare, and strong, bearded jaw, Konegin looked too much like Erida’s father. He even dressed like him, done up in simple but fine green silk, with a gold-and-silver chain hung from shoulder to shoulder, wrought lions roaring its length. It made her heart ache for a man four years gone.
“Put the name on the list,” Konegin eventually said, his voice flat and final.
Derrick shut his mouth at once, an action Erida did not miss. But Harrsing drew herself up to argue, a foolish endeavor where Konegin was concerned.
Erida reluctantly cut her off. “Do as my cousin says.”
Dutiful Ardath dipped his quill in a pot of ink and scratched the Prince of Trec’s name onto the long parchment that would decide her fate. She felt every letter carved into her skin.
“But we must have a care for his position,” she added sternly.
“He is a second son, yes, but this would secure our northern border,” Thornwall began. He was never without his battle maps and was quick to point to the Gates of Trec, a gap in the Mountains of the Ward that cut the northern continent in two.
Erida resisted the urge to tell her military commander that she knew geography better than he did. Instead she stood and walked slowly to the massive, magnificent, painstakingly made map of Allward hung on the wall. It filled her vision, and she stood close enough so that all she could see was Galland, her birthright and her destiny. She looked over the familiar rivers and cities, their detail exquisite in the curved painting. Ascal itself stood at the center, her wall of yellow stone picked out in real gold leaf and chips of amber. Even the trees of the great forests of the Ward were drawn. It was the work of a master cartographer and master artist both, using swirls of paint and flecks of stone to create the realm of Allward.
“Our army is five times the size of their own, by a conservative count. If the butchers of Trec wish to try the Gates, let them. But I will not wed myself to a kingdom that needs me more than I need it. And, you’ll notice,” she said, reaching up to trace her fingers along the map, “Trec has quite an unfortunate border of its own. Wedged between the glory of Galland and the wolves of the Jyd, not to mention the Temur emperor.” She pointed to each nation in turn, gesturing from the frozen wastes to the western steppe.
Thornwall leaned back in his seat, looking thoughtful. “Bhur has not conquered in two decades. The Temurijon lies quiet and flourishing. His armies maintain the borders already drawn, nothing more.”
For now. The peace held across the west by the might of Temurijon was near legendary, stretching for decades. Bought in blood, Erida knew. But such is the price of peace and prosperity.
“The Emperor will not live forever, and I am far younger than he is,” she replied, returning to her chair. “I’m not willing to gamble on his sons, who might hunger for conquest as their father did in his youth. And I will not form an alliance that will send my soldiers across the mountains to fight and die for another throne, to save Treckish throats from Temur blades.”
Harrsing raised her chin. The apple-sized emerald at her neck gleamed. Along with being a shrewd counsellor, Lady Harrsing was the wealthiest woman in Galland. After the Queen, of course. “Well said, Your Majesty.”
“Indeed, you see better than most of my generals,” Thornwall said. His gaze lingered on the smaller map still in hand. “Though I admit, I have wished to test the knights of Galland against the Temurijon’s Countless. What a war that would be.” His tone was wistful, almost dreamlike.
“What a war,” Erida echoed.
She saw it in her mind as clear as day. The Countless, the great army of the Temurijon steppes and Emperor Bhur, had never been defeated in battle. And none had tried them in decades. She wondered if the horse archers were still formidable, if Gallish steel and Gallish castles could weather such a storm if it came to break. And what kind of empire could rise from such a clash. With myself at its head, alone without equal. Without need for any other.