Nienna knelt among the beds, her soft blue dress stained with sod. Her hands plunged into a raised bed, weeds piled at her feet, a perennial my mother had planted now dormant. Dirt streaked her face, the darkest smear crossing her nose.
Tsunami rose behind her, settling into a sitting posture. Her neck bore scabbed gashes, black dots where Gyrak’s teeth had struck. She rumbled, nostrils flaring wide, searching for my scent.
“I’m not sure I trust that dragon more than a Thresher,” I murmured, approaching.
“She’s eaten a man before. That’s better odds than the rest.” Nienna flicked her sleeve across her face, swiping hair from her eyes.
I perched on the stone edge of the flowerbed, idly rolling a leaf between my fingers. “She is chaos incarnate.”
The dragon snorted, trilling in agreement.
“Destruction seems to follow her.”
The trill snapped into a chomp, teeth clashing with audible force.
Nienna laughed, rising to her feet. “I needed to get away. She’s finer company than anyone else.”
“And did you also feel the need to garden?” I plucked another leaf, rolling it with care. Mint had seeded itself through the beds. It would take a lifetime to be rid of it.
“Better to rip out weeds than heads,” she muttered, frowning as she resumed her frantic tug. No mercy. She yanked and tossed each culprit.
“Who has offended you? Surely not the lavender?”
Her eyes narrowed at the stalks in her grip. She released them and poked at their stems. “Lavender?”
“Or perhaps the fault lies with the lupine.” I gestured to the tangled root balls at her feet.
Her lips pressed together, gaze lifting to mine. “That’s not a weed, is it?”
“Depends on your perspective. Farmers pull it from fields where wheat alone holds value.” I brushed a finger over a lone stalk of wheat, tilting my head. “A florist might discard wheat and cherish lupine.”
She groaned a heavy sigh, then leaned back to survey the overgrown beds. “I don’t know these plants, just as I don’t know this court.”
“Nienna, what happened?”
“Nothing.”
I blinked. “When a woman says that, it is never nothing.”
“It is!” she growled. “No one was hurt. No danger came to anyone. Yet I am furious. I know the feeling and cannot abide it—but acting on it would not be queenly. Punishing people for what I suspect? That’s unfair.”
“Which is exactly why we consult advisors and seek the counsel of our partners.”
“They told me nothing could be done.”
“And you’re writing your husband off?” I arched an eyebrow. If she wouldn’t share, I would not force it—but Iwouldask Alma.
“Is Bac’phares loyal to Takal?” Her blue eyes searched mine, desperation leaking from every pore.
“I’ve never made it my business to track who the nobles bring to their beds. Many take mistresses. If you must know, Fallione could answer.”
“Don’t bother,” she sighed. “Ish’neer says nothing happened.”
She was all of fourteen—heir of Geralt and Muareen, both frail. Maureen had come to retrieve Ish, Geralt being bedridden. She had no one to protect her if advances were made.
“You think Bac brought her to his bed while I was gone?”
“I may be overreading it. A comment at tea…” She pressed a palm to her belly, bracing herself. “Mother warned me when I carried a child, instincts would overrule reason. They could turn me into a dragon if I let them.”
