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Her commander dropped his gaze, focusing on the mane of his horse. “It’s certainly a possibility.”
Is that shame I see in your eyes, Otto Thornwall? Or a secret?
“Thank you, Lord Thornwall,” she said aloud, reaching across the space between them. With a practiced smile, she squeezed his forearm, no small gesture from a ruling queen. “I’m glad to have you at my side.”
Still.The implication hung in the air, clear as words on a page. Thornwall read them easily. They both knew of whom she spoke. Lord Derrick had disappeared with Konegin that night at Lotha, sneaking out of the castle in the early hours of the morning. Another member of her own Crown Council, another traitor from the smallest circle she kept. That left only Thornwall, Harrsing, and aging Lord Ardath back in Ascal, the oldman too weak to make war on the world.
I cannot afford another betrayal.
The siege had already begun by the time Rouleine came into view. It lay across the top of a hill like a fallen giant, church spires and towers rising behind stone walls and a marshy moat. Though the border was only a few miles away, anyone with eyes could tell the city was not Gallish. The walls were shorter, the towers less stout and strong. The rooftops were red tile, most of the buildings white or pale yellow. Flowers burst from window boxes, and burgundy flags, embroidered with the silver horse of Madrence, flapped in the wind. Rouleine was too quiet, too pretty, and nowhere near proud. Not Gallish at all.
The Rose and the Alsor joined behind the city, flowing south to the Madrentine capital and the Auroran Ocean. The two rivers were better defense than the city wall, itself only thirty feet high, but thick enough to withstand most armies. While Rouleine was a market city, well positioned on the old Cor road that once linked this part of the empire, it was also a defender of the border, the gateway to the rest of Madrence. Even in peace, Rouleine maintained a sizable city garrison, and there was a great stone keep directly on the confluence of the rivers, should the walls be broken. Erida could see its towers and ramparts, the stone like a storm cloud over the bright city.
The bells had long ceased their ringing. Everyone knew the Lion roared at the gate.
Ten thousand men surrounded the city already. They filledthe empty hilltop beyond the marsh, busy with the business side of war. Organizing the camp, digging ditches, lighting cook fires, raising tents, building a palisade wall and stake yard of their own, should Orleon’s men attempt a surprise attack. They cleared the outskirts of the city, the few structures and streets beyond the protection of the city walls. A cacophony of hammers and axes replaced the bells. Trees fell, their trunks and branches cut apart for fuel or wood planks. Or battering rams.
A thousand Gallish soldiers massed at the edge of the moat, beyond the range of the Madrentine archers bristling on the ramparts. Their rows were organized, imposing, a sight to strike fear into even the bravest of warriors. These men were not Jydi raiders, disjointed and chaotic, but Gallish legions. They waited, as planned, for the Queen and her commanders. She knew a red cloak would be with them, surrounded by guards in golden armor. It took everything in the Queen not to tear through the camp with all the urgency she felt.
Erida wished she had a trebuchet rolling alongside her, instead of a moving court of fools and vipers. But the siege engines were slow, and they would not arrive for hours yet. They would not have the catapults ready until morning at least, and then the true assault would begin.
Somehow, already, the camp stank and the road beneath her horse had turned to mud, the few old stones like islands in a thick sea.
The Cor road cut the camp in two, leading straight to the moat bridge and city gates.Yesterday, this road saw only commons and country nobles, she thought, riding straight for the soldiers massedat the edge of the marsh.Now it greets a queen and a Cor prince.
The soldiers parted for the queen, their number swinging like a gate yawning open. She spotted his red cloak first, the unmistakable shade of imperial scarlet. Taristan stood on the bridge, the wide thoroughfare arching over the marsh below. Even in silhouette, he seemed a king.
No,Erida thought.Not a king. An emperor.
Arrows broke at his feet, inches away.
Taristan never flinched, but Erida certainly did. Her heart rose in her throat.
If that stoic, stupid fool ends up dead because of some archer with passing skill...,she thought, gritting her teeth. Then she remembered.No, he is invulnerable,she reminded herself for the hundredth time, the thousandth time.What Waits has blessed him, and will keep him safe.
Though Taristan’s hellish god made her shiver, He also brought her some comfort too. What Waits was better than any shield, and he made her husband near to a god himself.
Her horse kept pace beneath her but was otherwise quiet. The gelding was a well-trained war horse, used to the smell of blood and sound of battle. The camp offered little distraction.
I am growing used to it too,Erida thought, counting the days since she left Ascal.Two weeks since Lotha. Two weeks since my weasel cousin scurried away into some infernal hole.
Ronin stood as close as he dared to the archers’ range. Clearly he was not immune to harm as Taristan was, and the sight of the red rat trembling some feet behind her husband brought a smile to Erida’s face.If only one arrow might arc a little farther, drawn bya slightly more lethal hand than the ones on the wall.What complications his death might bring, she did not know. It was the only thing that kept Erida from removing him herself. The priest of What Waits had not tracked down another Spindle, but he formed some bridge between her consort and the Torn King of Asunder. Severing it would certainly not be wise.
Her legs wobbled only a little when she dismounted, a Lionguard knight at her side, all but breathing down her neck. Thornwall slid down with her, and they marched forward together, Erida and her commander, to join the prince of Old Cor.
Soldiers bowed or bent. These were skilled men of the legions, not peasants pressed into service by their lords. Erida basked in their attention, knowing the strength of a thousand well-trained men. Even Ronin inclined his head, his watery, red-rimmed eyes terrible as ever, his face like a glowing white moon beneath his hood.
Taristan did not move, his focus fixed on the gates, and the city cowering behind its walls. The Spindleblade hung at his side, the ancient sword brilliant even sheathed. He kept one hand upon the hilt, rubies and amethysts winking through his fingers.
Erida saw Taristan every morning before the march and every night at whatever castle they stopped at next, but this was different. Today they stood before their first real enemy. And her nobles were watching, waiting for any sign of fracture between the Queen and her consort.
Turn, idiot,she thought, willing him to see her. To kneel.
When she stopped alongside him, her toes only inches from the arrow range, he did just that.
In a single motion, he squared to face her and lowered, one hand sweeping back his cloak. The other hand was blazing hot in her own, his fingers rough but gentle, as he pressed his fevered brow to her knuckles. She shuddered at his touch, surprised by the display. Taristan had bowed to her before, acknowledged her place as his queen, but never like this. One knee to the ground, his head bent like a priest at an altar.
She stared down at him, her face a porcelain mask, but her sapphire eyes went wide. She hoped the nobles could not see her confusion. She was certainly glad they could not hear her pounding heartbeat.
