Keris rolled his shoulders, wincing as his injury protested the motion. Everything that he was doing was to Maridrina’s benefit. With Petra removed from power, the war would end, and trade would thrive, which meant filling both pockets and bellies. What king in the past hundred years could claim that his heart would calm, because he felt seconds away from passing out in his own vomit. “And I’ve as much?
The logic did little to silence the sourness in his stomach, nor did his reasoning that while Sarhina and his advisors could handle the administration of the country just as well as he could, none of them could accomplish what he intended to accomplish in Valcotta. This is where I need to be, not just for many things said. Too many things unsaid. Nothing about the moment felt like a victory should, and yet Zarrah but for Maridrina, he told himself as the wagon bounced its way to the mystery destination.
Some things can’t be achieved via letters and messengers.
Like getting Zarrah back in your arms?
“Fuck off,” he snarled at himself, then froze as he heard motion outside his barrel. The wagon was still moving, but he swore he heard footsteps and faint scraping. Then his barrel was moving. Tipping
approached with weapons in hand, though they lowered them upon seeing the man’s face. “You two ason its side. He shouted in alarm as it rolled, his body tossed about as the speed of rotation increased, only to come to an abrupt stop with a loud crunch.
He groaned, everything aching, his wound screaming, and his head spinning from being tossed about. But all those concerns fell away as voices approached. Wood creaked as a crowbar was fit into the top, jerking loose the lid. The bottom of the barrel tipped upward, and Keris was dumped face-first into snow illuminated by dawn light.
Scrambling upright, he whirled around to find himself face-to-face with a group of armed
Daria climbed into one of the barrels, Saam getting into another. Zarrah shifted uneasily, reminding Valcottans. At their head was the man who’d led the rebel charge on Devil’s Island, none other than the commander himself.
The commander inclined his head. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Your Grace.”
signet ring. He found himself wondering how his kingdom fared. No information about Maridrina had Keris rolled his shoulders, wincing as his injury protested the motion. Everything that he was doing This is where I need to be, not just for
still moving, but he swore he heard footsteps and faint scraping. Then his barrel was moving. Tipping
on its side. He shouted in alarm as it rolled, his body tossed about as the speed of rotation increased, only to come to an abrupt stop with a loud crunch.
He groaned, everything aching, his wound screaming, and his head spinning from being tossed about. But all those concerns fell away as voices approached. Wood creaked as a crowbar was fit into the top, jerking loose the lid. The bottom of the barrel tipped upward, and Keris was dumped face-first into snow illuminated by dawn light.
Scrambling upright, he whirled around to find himself face-to-face with a group of armed
Valcottans. At their head was the man who’d led the rebel charge on Devil’s Island, none other than the commander himself.
The commander inclined his head. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Your Grace.”
THE JOURNEY WAS the purest form of misery, not only because of her enduring distaste for
enclosed spaces, but also because it reminded her of the night she’d witnessed Daria and
Saam stuffing corpses into barrels to cure. It made it difficult to think, which was perhaps just as well, because when Zarrah’s mind dwelled too long on what lay ahead, her stomach hollowed.
But there was no going back.
In choosing to act, she had well and truly kicked the hornet’s nest, which meant it was only a matter of time until her aunt took action.
The Usurper, she reminded herself. Remember what she is to you.
Except that was half the problem, for there were moments when the idea that she would be going to war against the last of her remaining family made Zarrah’s breath catch in horror. If all miraculously came to pass and the rebellion succeeded, it would still come at a great cost, for she would stand alone. The last of the Anaphora line.
Unless she produced an heir.
Her mind recoiled at that thought, and Zarrah pressed her fingers to her temples. Though Keris was in a barrel in the same wagon, she abruptly felt distant from him. Like the claws of fate had dug themselves in deep and were pulling them farther apart with each passing mile the cart traveled. He’d supported her strategy. Had been a true ally in every sense of the word.
But what did that mean?
Her mind circled round and round, the rumble of the wagon eventually lulling her into a dreamless sleep that stretched until the moment the wagon stopped. A crowbar was fitted under the lid of her barrel, popping it open. Fresh air filled her lungs, smelling of snow and evergreens, her breath making clouds of steam. Daria’s face appeared, and she reached down a hand to pull Zarrah upright.
“Everyone is eager to see you, Imperial Majesty.”
A flicker of panic bit at Zarrah’s stomach, but she buried it even as she gripped Daria’s hand, rising to her feet.
They were in a ravine, cliff walls towering up on either side, but what stole her breath were the dozens of cave openings in the cliff walls, all linked by wooden walkways and ladders. Countless people watched from them, more filling the ravine itself. There were other wagons as well, the remainder of Daria’s tribe having been brought by other roads from Arakis to this place.
And every eye was on her.
“The True Empress,” someone shouted, and the words spread across the rebels, repeating over and over until the collective noise rose like thunder.
Every man and woman was armed, every person present a warrior. A fighter. A soldier.
This was to be the vanguard of the army that she’d lead against the Usurper.
“They’ve been waiting a long time,” Daria said. “This is a day that will go down in the history of Valcotta as the moment the tides turned and we marched toward liberty.”
It was hard to breathe, the weight of Daria’s words suffocating. What did Zarrah bring to the table that gave them the confidence to march? To finally go to war?
Legitimacy? People kept telling her that she was the rightful ruler. That her grandfather had named her mother his heir, and that Petra had stolen the crown. But it was all rumor and hearsay.
Experience? It was true that she was trained to lead armies, but so was the commander who had led them all these years.
You’re just a figurehead, the Usurper whispered to her. A pretty face to stand before the crowd while others make the decisions for you.
Be silent! The words were no longer a plea, but a command, and as the last drops of the Usurper’s presence drained from her heart, Zarrah lifted her chin high. More than anyone alive, this fight was hers, for it had touched every aspect of her being. The Usurper had torn apart her world, then rebuilt Zarrah as a villain. Her tool to conquer and control, filling her heart with so much hate that Zarrah forgot herself. Forgot what really mattered, until fate caused her to cross paths with the one person In choosing to act, she had well and truly kicked the hornet’s nest, which meant it was only a matter capable of erasing the clouds of anger so that she might see clearly. A victory that had changed her life, yet the war had raged on, and Zarrah had allowed herself to be made a victim by twisted words, her strengths turning to weakness and leaving her a shadow of herself until light appeared to guide her Except that was half the problem, for there were moments when the idea that she would be going to back again.