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“Blood and battle,” Edrick said. “The country is drowning in it again, Rowan. Pirates have been raiding along the coast like we haven’t seen in years.”
“And we have another problem. Perhaps a larger one.” Rowan withdrew a scroll of parchment from inside his cloak. He’d broken the seal an hour earlier when the bird first arrived. He stared at the goat-head wax sigil. His advisers fell quiet and seemed to hold their breath while he unrolled the parchment and flattened it on the table. He covered the engraved map and etchings of Winslowe’s ravens.
“His name is Peter Huntley. He’s the son of the renowned admiral. His fleet commands the sea and coasts and has for hundreds of years. And Huntley just so happens to be betrothed to Blanchette. The Huntleys were kings once upon a time. I’d helped King Bartholomew crush their rebellion. In fact, I’d led the campaign against them and killed King Lothar myself.” Rowan held up the parchment, his gaze slinking across the neat red writing. It looks like blood. “Huntley means to take back what’s his and not by asking nicely. I reckon he’s to blame for some of the pillaging. He’s trying to cause unrest.”
Edrick’s eyes were like ice. He gestured to the letter. “Are you planning to share his demands?”
Rowan gave him a cutting look. “It was addressed to me and me alone. But since you asked nicely, yes, I shall.” His gaze ran across his advisers’ anxious faces, and then he read from the parchment:
“My dear Black Wolf:
You have ravaged Norland for far too long. You’ve fashioned yourself as the people’s champion, but my lord father and I see you for what you are. Just more of the same. A different shade of tyranny.
Now, you sit in the capital on a throne meant to be mine. You may not be a king in name, but a king you are all the same, Your Grace. You might remember my grandfather, Lothar Huntley. And you might remember how easily kings fall.
As it so happens, it’s not a crown I seek from you but the key to Norland. Her name is Blanchette Winslowe, and she was promised to me three years ago. Give her back to me, Black Wolf. Give her back, or I shall take everything from you and more.
Yours sincerely, P. Huntley”
* * *
“You might have shown me that letter when the bird first arrived,” Edrick said to Rowan once the chamber was empty. Only the fire in the hearth broke the silence as the logs crackled and split. It reminded Rowan of crunching bones. He leaned against the mantel and stared into those wavering flames. Smoke had returned from his hunt and lay at Rowan’s feet. His eyes, however, were fixed on Edrick.
Rowan observed Smoke’s unwavering stare. “Aye, I might have.”
Edrick swung before him, and his eyes burned as hot as the fire. “This is not a game,” he seethed. “You’re making mistakes again. Dire mistakes. Remember what they cost you last time? They had cost me, too, and I don’t intend to suffer again on your behalf, Rowan. Please. I am trying to help you.”
Rowan calmly lifted his gaze from the hearth and searched Edrick’s face. Madness. Anger. He saw it all there, plain as day. It seemed to build every time they spoke as of late. And something else, too, just below the surface.
Grief.
“No, it’s not a game,” he agreed. Rowan pushed away from the mantel and stepped toward his comrade, bringing them face-to-face. “But our swordplay in the yard was. Yet you tried to kill me. And I want to know why.”
Edrick shook his head. He returned Smoke’s penetrating stare. The wolf gave a low warning growl and rose to his feet. He lifted a front paw, his eyes fixed on Edrick. Gently, Rowan placed a hand on the black scruff of his neck to calm him. The wolf settled down and sniffed the air, his teeth still half-bared and paw raised.
“One day you shall,” Edrick scoffed. “But not today, Black Wolf.” Without another word, he stormed from the room.
But he halted just as he was about to leave. “Are you going to meet Huntley’s demand? About the girl? It’s an easy way to get him off our backs. Even on our side.”
Rowan stared at him for a long silence. The hearth continued to crackle and split. His eyes rose to the sigil that was carved into the wood. He traced it with his finger, outlining the fine details of the raven’s wings. “She’s not mine to give away.”
She’s not mine at all...
* * *
Back in my chamber. Seated next to my dear governess. It’s almost like nothing has changed.
Except everything has.
It felt bittersweet to Blanchette—like she was home again for the first time in months.
She and Governess Agnes had spent the better part of the dawn pouring over the ledgers and approximating spring’s upcoming harvest. It’d shocked them both, learning just how much food her father had kept under guard. He’d starved half the country. And for what? For his feasts and tourneys and private pleasure?
“All of this… this horror,” Governess Agnes had said, her brow furrowed. “I can’t help but feel it’s a godsend. How many lives shall be saved now? Where death once lay shall be hope.” She crossed herself after that, then picked up her needles and began darning some woolen socks.
Afterward, they’d summed the harvest, and Blanchette ordered Rowan’s soldiers to deliver enough wheat and barley to last the village an entire year. She’d sent wagons of blankets and woolen coats too. “So long as I live, no man, woman, or child in Norland shall ever starve or freeze to death again.” The soldiers had surprised her with genuine smiles and gratitude.
Queen Blanchette Winslowe. I may not be so in name yet, but I’m the Queen of Norland all the same. And my people are starting to feel it too.
