Erida nodded. She’d selected the riders herself, from the ranks of the Lionguard. To look for the corpses of Tyr and the Norths. And the army of ruin, should it exist at all.
“Body or not, they shall be buried in honor, with all the glory they earned in life. Sir Grandel, Sir Raymon, and Sir Edgar will long be in our memories,” she said, and it was the truth. The knights had guarded her since the coronation, and her father before. While she would not weep over their loss, she was upset to lose them still.
Konegin nodded in agreement, but his eyes were sharp. “What of the squire?”
The mention of Andry Trelland sent lightning through the Queen, down her spine and into her fingers. If what he said comes to pass, if what he saw in the hills was real, if a Spindle is torn, if the stories and fairy tales are true . . .
But Erida forced an uninterested shrug. “I’m sure another knight will take him on. He’s a fine young man; it should be no trouble to find a place for him.”
“He said nothing of his plans when he returned? Bloody and alone in the middle of the night?” Konegin pressed. Now it was his turn to lean over the table. “Again, I ask, what did he tell you?”
Though every instinct of etiquette told her to sit back, to make herself small, to smile demurely and placate her cousin with her feminine gentility, Erida did not. Her hand curled into a fist, the grand ring of state difficult to ignore. The rough-cut emerald gleamed sharply.
“Andry Trelland’s words were for my ears and mine alone,” she said. After weeks of questioning, she could recite it in her sleep. “Rambling, mostly. The boy was traumatized by the slaughter of his lord and the others. But the specifics are known. I’ve told you as much.”
“Killed by a horde of Jydi raiders, yes. All butchered but for the squire.” The lie had been an easy one to reach for, and an easy one to believe. “Seeking what we do not know, accompanied by a band of warriors without name, for a purpose we cannot fathom,” Konegin barked, slapping down a hand.
Harrsing jumped in her seat.
“Some decrepit Elder, some Spindlerotten witch calls and you send three knights without question, without even consulting us, without even telling us why. And now we must fill their empty graves!” The lord ran a hand through his hair, setting the golden strands on end.
Erida watched him collect himself with a shrewd eye.
“Your Majesty,” he added softly, an afterthought as much as a warning.
The Queen held her tongue. She felt fire in her throat, and it would not do to loose it here, kindling that could turn into a blaze.
Lady Harrsing was good enough to speak in her queen’s stead. “We have not heard nor seen the Elders in a generation,” she said primly. “Tell me, my lord, would you not have done the same? Would you not have sent men to answer a monarch’s summons?”
Erida narrowed her eyes, knowing her cousin well enough to guess.
He would have gone himself. Taken a retinue of knights and his own men-at-arms, a wagon of gifts, a parade of servants, and a pair of heralds to shout his titles and his bloodline. Make way for Lord Rian Konegin, grandson of Konrad the Great, King of Galland. He would have been a spectacle for commons and immortals alike, as close to an emperor of Old Cor as he could make himself, Erida thought. Her jaw clenched. And if I were not chained to this throne, I would have done it too.
Konegin was undeterred. He glanced at Derrick and Thornwall, looking for support. “I’d like to summon the squire and hear his story for myself.”
After four years of rule, Queen Erida was as skilled an actress as any of the pantomime players on the stages of the Ascal streets. Her strength flagged as she bowed inward, her shoulders drooping as she shut her eyes. She passed a hand over her face.
“Trelland’s agony is my burden to bear, Lord Konegin. Mine alone,” she said wearily. “That is the cost of the crown.”
A crown you will never claim.
It was enough to placate even Konegin, who retreated like a shattered army.
Erida dropped her hand, and her mask of sympathy. Her face turned cold as she stood from the table, dismissing them with her action.
“Konegin still has not presented his son as a suitor.”
Only Harrsing stayed behind. Even Erida’s Lionguard had retreated to the hallway, giving their queen a private audience with the old woman. The two stood by the largest window, watching the river as it carried on to Mirror Bay. Green freshwater swirled with darker salt. On the far bank, the famed Garden of Ascal stretched along its island, its trees and flowers manicured to perfection. Despite the heat, nobles and the wealthy merchants of the capital strolled the lawns and paths of the Garden, their shrieking children in tow.