Page 115 of The Iron Flower

“And Alcippe. What about her?”

Valasca motions toward Alcippe with her mug, as if she’s toasting her. “She’s a member of the Queen’s Guard.”

“The Queen’s Guard?”

“Our most elite fighting force.”

“And you thinkyoucan protect me fromher?”

Valasca nods and takes another sip from her mug, smiling, as if she’s enjoying my discomfiture.

“I don’t want to offend you,” I say, gesturing with my chin toward Alcippe, “but she looks a great deal stronger than you.”

“She is.”

“Then how could you possibly protect me from her?”

The side of Valasca’s mouth curls up, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief.

“You may find, Gardnerian, that I have a large number of hidden talents.” She laughs and glances down at the full bowl that’s in front of me. “You should eat something. You’ll need all the fortification you can get.”

I look down at the food, as if noticing it for the first time, and tentatively pick up a piece of the herb-flecked flatbread. The food is rich with unfamiliar spices and vegetables, but very good—some type of chicken stew in a rich, reddish curry mixed with dried berries topped with roasted squash and goat cheese, along with a cup of warm, spiced mare’s milk, which is sweeter than the cow’s and goat’s milk I’m accustomed to.

I look around the room as I eat, and my eyes fall on a group of teenage Uuril girls, all bunched together against the far wall. Unlike most of the women here, they’re unmarked by tattoos and hunched down, their expressions stressed. Three older Urisk women with Amaz rune-tattoos on their faces hover maternally around them.

“Recent arrivals,” Valasca says, noticing my stare. “Refugees. More every day.”

“I’m surprised there aren’t a flood of Urisk women here,” I say, looking around the room and finding only a scattering of tattoo-free Urisk women who seem like recent arrivals.

“Well, Queen Alkaia only lets in a certain number of refugees each month,” Valasca explains. “And the Urisk aren’t allowed to bring their sons.” She frowns. “I think there’d be more of them if they could.” Something about the way she says this leads me to believe that she might not approve of this rigidity.

I realize what an impossible situation it must be for any Urisk woman with a son in the Western Realm—the Gardnerians and Alfsigr intent on killing all Urisk boys because of their potentially powerful geosorcery.

A black-haired, green-eyed woman dressed in turquoise woven garb catches my eye. Her face is marked with Amaz tattoos, and she has skin that shimmers Gardnerian emerald. She’s gesturing as she speaks to another woman, and her hands are covered in bloody slash marks.

“That woman there,” I say. “She must have broken her fasting.” I turn to Valasca. “My friend, Sage Gaffney...her hands are like that.”

Valasca eyes me speculatively. “That woman,” she tells me, glancing toward her, “she’s in pain all the time, but she says it’s nothing compared to the pain she endured being with the man they fasted her to—the abuse, the insults, watching her three children being beaten. She left her baby son in Gardneria and escaped with her daughters. That’s them, over there.”

Valasca gestures across the room with her chin, and I follow her gaze toward two raven-haired girls with skin that shimmers emerald, Amaz tattoos on their faces. They look to be around six and fourteen. The younger girl is sitting on the lap of an elderly woman with long, snow-white hair, giggling as the woman bounces her on her knees, a large rune-axe strapped to the old woman’s back. The older girl has a confident stance and is deep in conversation with three other girls around her own age, all of them dressed in the scarlet rune-marked garb of Amaz soldiers, bows and quivers strapped to their backs.

“When they first came here,” Valasca tells me, “the younger one wouldn’t even speak. The two of them wouldn’t make eye contact. They would only cower and tremble, waiting for blows. Now look at them. The eldest is a talented archer and has the makings of a fine soldier. And the younger girl is full of life and joy.”

“And the son?” I ask.

Valasca’s face darkens and she shrugs, watching the two girls. “Their mother made a sacrifice.”

My mind is instantly cast into conflict. Not allowing the woman to bring her baby son—it’s too cruel. What if Trystan or Rafe were in a situation like that and left behind with a violent monster? It’s unthinkable.

“And you think this is right?” I challenge. “Not letting the son come with them?”

Valasca hesitates before answering. “I honestly don’t know.”

“My friend Andras,” I say to her, “he’s one of your rare male infants grown up.”

“He was with you today,” she says, remembering. “I know of him. He was Sorcha’s lover for a time. That’s her over there.” Valasca points at two young women who stand off to the side, engaged in private conversation. “The one with the blue hair. That’s Sorcha.”

I watch as Sorcha laughs at something her companion says. She’s wearing the scarlet uniform of the Amaz soldier, her face rune-tattooed, black metallic hoops lining her pointed ears. Her skin is a deep lake blue and her hair a deeper, rippling sapphire, but her eyes shimmer gold like sunlight. I remember how Andras described her beauty, lost in the memory of her.

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