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Queen Erida looked him over, her gaze piercing. Her eyes snagged on his tunic, reading the stains like she would a book.
“Squire Trelland, please rise,” she said, her voice gentle but echoing in the long, ornate room. Her blue gaze softened as Andry clambered to his feet, shaky on his legs. “The road has not been kind to you. Do you need a moment? A meal, a bath? My doctor can be called.”
“No, Your Majesty.” Andry glanced down at himself. He felt unclean from head to toe, unfit to stand before the Queen of his country. “The blood is not my own.”
The knights shifted, glancing among themselves with wary eyes. Andry could guess as to their thoughts. The blood belonged to their brothers, knights of the Lionguard who would never come home.
Erida did not falter. “Have you seen your mother yet?” she asked, still staring.
The squire shook his head. He looked at his boots, flecked with mud and stinking of horse. “It’s late, she’ll be sleeping, and she sorely needs whatever rest she can find.” He remembered the hacking cough that often woke his mother in the night. “I can wait until morning.”
The Queen nodded. “Are you able to tell me what happened to you?” Andry felt the question like the cut of a knife. “And to our dear friends?”
White faces, red hands, black armor, knives dripping blood, ash and smoke and rot—
His mouth worked but no words came, his lips parting and closing. Andry wished to turn and run. His fingers trembled and he tucked them away, folding his hands behind his back in the typical pose of a courtier. He raised his head and set his jaw, trying to be strong.
The least you can do is hold your ground,he thought again, the admonishment searing.
“Leave us,” Erida said suddenly, looking around at her flanking knights. The young woman went fierce as the lion on her flag, both hands curled on the arms of her throne. She bore the ring of state like a shield.
The Lionguard did not move, stunned.
Andry felt the same. The Queen went very few places without her sworn knights, guardians to the death. His eyes snapped back and forth, weighing the will of the Queen against the will of her warriors.
Sir Hyle sputtered, his pink face going pinker. “Your Majesty—”
“The boy is traumatized. He doesn’t need nine of you looming over him,” she answered swiftly, without so much as a blink. Her focus shifted back to the squire, her sharp eyes pressing into him. A sadness pulled at her pale face. “I’ve known Andry Trelland all his life. He’ll be a knight alongside the rest of you in a few years’ time. Leaving me with him is the same as leaving me with any of you.”
Despite all he had seen and suffered, Andry could not help but feel a swell of pride in his chest, albeit short-lived.Knights do not fail, and I have certainly done that,he thought. The Lionguard must have shared the same opinion. They hesitated as one, unmoving in their golden armor and green cloaks.
Erida was undeterred and undeniable. Her ring hand curled into a fist. “Do as your queen commands,” she said, her countenance stony.
This time, Sir Hyle did not argue. Instead he dropped into a short, stilted bow, and with a twist of his gloved fingers beckoned the other confused knights to follow. They tramped from the room, a cacophony of steel and iron and swishing fabric.
Only when the door to her apartments was safely shut behind them did the Queen drop her shoulders, curling inward. She waited another moment, then exhaled a long, slow breath. She seemed to shift back into herself, becoming a woman barely more than a child, not a queen with four years of rule behind her.
For a split second, Andry saw her as she’d been in her youth: a princess born, but still without the burdens of a crown.She loved sailing,he remembered. All the children of the palace, noble cousins and page boys and little maidens, used to accompany her out into Mirror Bay. They would pretend to run the boat, practicing their knots and pushing around sails. But not Erida. She would sit at the helm and point, directing the real crew over the water.
Now she directed the country, and she was pointing at him.
“I answered the Elder call,” she said in a low, raw voice. Her eyes went oddly bright, shimmering with the candles. One of her hands slipped into her robes and drew back out, clutching a roll of parchment.
Andry swallowed hard. He wanted to burn that infernal piece of paper.
She unfurled it with shaking hands, her eyes blazing over the inked message. At the edge of the page, the ancient seal of Iona was still there, stamped in broken green wax. By now the sight of it turned his stomach, and the memory it brought forth was even worse.
Sir Grandel and the Norths knelt before the Queen on her throne. She was resplendent in her court finery and dazzling crown. Andry knelt with them, some yards behind, the only squire to accompany the knights into the audience chamber. For what purpose, he did not know, but he could guess. The Norths were always a bit more...self- sufficientthan Sir Grandel, who seemed to want a squire’s aid for every task big or small. If the Queen had a command for Sir Grandel Tyr, certainly Andry Trelland would be made to follow on his heels.
The squire kept his head bowed, glimpsing the Queen only from the edges of his vision. She was as green and golden as her knights, with a strange parchment in her hands.
In an instant, Andry saw the seal, the crude image of a stag stamped deep. He racked his memory, sifting through lords and great families, their heraldry well known to even a page boy. But none matched.
“This is a summons,” the Queen said, turning the letter over.
On his knees, Sir Edgar blanched. “Who would dare summon the Queen of Galland, the greatest crown upon the Ward? The glory of Old Cor reborn?”
Queen Erida tipped her head. “What do you know of Elders?”
