“My son is unwed,” he ground out.
The Prince of Toads, Lord Troll, a thirty-year-old boy with his father’s temper, his mother’s weak constitution, and a walrus’s gut. I’d just as soon marry a corpse. It would smell better.
Even so, it was a consideration. If only to keep the crown from her cousin’s head. I would not be the first woman to wed for spite.
“Your son is a valued member of my family, a beloved cousin as you are.” Both the Queen and the lord nearly laughed at the bold, bare-naked lie. They shared a smirk, like adversaries smiling over crossed blades. “I would think he has an embarrassment of princesses and wealthy heiresses clamoring for his hand.” To their detriment, poor women.
“He does indeed,” the lord said, offering nothing else. “But Heralt would put them aside to serve Galland, to serve our noble and majestic blood.”
Ahead, her knights flanked the double oak doors, and then wrenched them open to show a passage of antechambers. They were all dark wood, lacquered and polished, carved to intricate perfection. Each archway was the mouth of a lion, fanged and snarling. Erida imagined them snapping shut as she passed, barring Konegin’s way. Or biting him in two.
“It’s good he doesn’t have to make such a sacrifice,” she said as she stepped into the passage. Her knights pressed in, their armor jangling in the closer quarters. All of them were broad and muscular, chosen for their strength and skill. Not to mention their tact. Shoulder to shoulder, the knights kept formation, effectively pushing her cousin away.
Lord Rian Konegin settled back on his heels, his cloak spilling over one shoulder. Framed by the doorway, by the passing flutter of her ladies, he seemed a rock in the sea, unmoving as the waves crashed all around. The Queen turned away, satisfied with her own performance. The sea will conquer even mountains, given the time. And you will grow old long before I do, your power dying as mine blooms.
Her voice was light, musical, girlish, a costume as much as her scarlet gown.
“Enjoy the feast, Cousin.”
13
THE NOOSE
Corayne
Dom brushed dust and dirt from his cloak, cleaning himself off after the debacle with the tunnel gate. Even though his appearance should be far, far down his list of priorities, Corayne thought, watching him rework the braid at the back of his head, gathering half his hair into a severely neat plait as he walked the now-dry tunnel. At least he’s effective. The cracked gate far behind them was testament of that.
Though it felt like an eternity, winding through the heavy darkness, barely twenty more minutes passed before Sorasa’s torch illuminated the bottom of a spiraling staircase.
“Finally,” Corayne said. She drank in a gasp of fresher air, tasting the difference.
Dom glared at the steps. “You first, Sarn,” he growled low in his throat.
The assassin sneered, ascending the steps. “An immortal Elder, hiding behind a woman and a child. How noble.”
He didn’t rise to her needling, but a muscle feathered in his cheek.
“I’m seventeen, hardly a child,” Corayne muttered under her breath, frowning at the stairs.
Her legs were still sore from their days in the saddle. Just the prospect of the climb already had her thighs burning. And burn they did, after only a few minutes’ time. Her breath echoed, growing heavier by the second. Though she had run the cliffs of Lemarta since she was a child, mounting the steps of the port town without blinking an eye, this felt infinitely more difficult.
She tried counting the steps, to pass the time and to keep her nerves level. Every step brings us closer to the palace above, to a sword that might not be there, to a queen who might not listen. Marching into the black unknown was like carrying a log across her shoulders. It weighted down every step, even the easy ones.
“You said your squire is a lady’s son,” Sorasa said, her voice echoing down “He’ll be in the east wing, where the courtiers keep their apartments.”
Corayne tried to check her labored breathing. She gulped down wet air. “Is that far?”
“Not particularly.”
That isn’t an answer.
“You’ll go first. You can pass for a kitchen maid,” Sorasa added, looking over her shoulder. Without breaking stride, she ran her eyes over Corayne’s clothing. “Ask for his rooms. Simple.”
Corayne looked down at her boots, her leggings, and a tunic dried stiff with salt spray. “I don’t look much like a maid.”
Sorasa rolled her eyes so strongly Corayne nearly felt it. “You’re within the walls already,” she sighed. “Just keep your chin up, seem bored, speak plainly. And you’re a girl. Harmless. No one will bother looking at you twice.”