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“Taristan,” she said again, barely a whisper.
He glared above, lips pressed together as his expression wavered between fear and fury.
“This path is mine to walk,” he said. “My danger to face.”
Erida raised her chin. “And victory? Is that only yours too?”
His answer was swift.
“It is not.”
With a will, she raised her bandaged hand, holding it up for him to see. It stung beneath the dressing but she kept a strong face, letting her resolve overtake the injury.
“If this is the cost of empire, I accept the payment,” she said firmly. “And I will not allow my own blood to be spilled in vain. Is that understood?”
Without hesitation, Taristan sank to one knee, his wrist still in her grasp. Slowly, he bent his fevered forehead to her knuckles, pressing skinagainst skin for a long moment.
“Yes, my queen,” he murmured.
To her surprise, he did not move. Over his shoulder, the eyes of their many attendants went round, watching the rare display of affection between queen and consort.
Erida bent her head, close enough to press her cheek to his own. “What is it?”
“A king of ashes is still a king,” he hissed.
Her grip tightened on his wrist, the bones beneath her fingers.
“Don’t dwell on anything that foolish Elder has to say.”
“I said it first,” he growled. His skin flamed hotter, his cheek flushing against her face.
In spite of the heat of him, Erida went cold. Fear was rare in Taristan of Old Cor. Embarrassment rarer still.
“At the temple, in the foothills. When I was just a mercenary with a wizard and a stolen blade,” he pressed on, the whisper spilling from his lips like blood from her hand. “I do not want to rule over ashes, Erida. And I certainly don’t want you to burn so I may claim my fate.”
Something flared at the edge of her mind, an anger that was not Erida’s own. But she understood it. It mirrored her frustration.We’ve done too much to turn away now, afraid of our own triumph.
She released Taristan’s wrist and took his chin sharply, raising his eyes to face her.
“Then I won’t,” she answered, her voice iron, unyielding.
Erida of Galland refused to burn.
The Gallish court was massive, and most courtiers made it out of the palace safely, taking refuge through the city. Erida sent out her advisors to placate her noble lords, while Lord Thornwall and his men went backto inspect the damage by dawn’s light. As for the servants, the many hundreds who worked and lived within the palace walls, Erida did not know. She hoped they were good enough to fill a few buckets of water and slow the destruction through the night.
That left the Konrada to serve as Erida’s refuge, surrounded by her Lionguard knights and half the city garrison. They lined the cathedral island and the cathedral itself, ensuring no one could access the Queen. Not even an Amhara assassin.
Dawn broke red through the stained-glass windows, spilling shafts of light across the cathedral. Erida paced the floor, too restless to sit any longer. With the guards around the room, she felt like an animal caged, even if it was for her own protection.
Taristan prowled as she did, still in his bloody nightshirt, boots, and breeches.
“I should be hunting with the rest of the garrison,” he muttered, casting another glance at the arched doorway.
It was an empty threat. Erida knew he would not leave her side, not with the Amhara still loose.
“Peace, Taristan.”
The wizard’s hiss stung worse than Erida’s hand. She winced as she passed him, now lounging on the divan like a cat on a windowsill. She half expected him to produce a bowl of grapes from his sleeve.
