Page 10 of The War Queen's Daughter

The Headservant looks as though he’s swallowed something rotten. His jaw tightens, but he must think better of continuing our little contest of wills. Maybe it’s Gorgon that makes him relent. I give my horse the victory. He’s earned it, many times over.

As for the Headservant, he’s clearly not used to such bluntness or defiance. I’m happy to educate him.

“Very well,” he sighs, his voice heavy with disdain. “Follow me, lady.”

He slipped, and I won’t allow it. “Highness,” I say. And wait.

He hesitates, shrugs. “Apologies, your highness,” he says with an eyeroll that expresses far more than anything else he’s said or done. “His Majesty awaits in the Grand Audience Chamber.” He turns, his silk cloak swishing. “Leave the horse.”

I dismount, handing the reins off to one of the guards who openly admires Gorgon.

“Wait,” I tell my mount. He plants himself, four feet locked to the ground, and I know it will take his death before the massive creature moves a single step.

That silly show of power that not even my own all that I have to bolster my nerve, I follow the simpering little man into the Citadel.

Chapter 7

Does the Headservant know the real reason I don’t want to wait before greeting the Overking? The closer I come, the more anxious I feel, and as I force each foot forward, feeling rigidity take over purpose, fear drying the inside of my mouth to a wasteland, I’m in the most dangerous battle of my life.

I barely notice the black and white marble floors that gleam like ice, the walls sheathed in the same material. Nor do I stop to admire the towering statues of the former and first Overking Ranaslo of Protoris, the courtiers who stroll the halls, stopping to watch as I stride by. The Headservant rushes on quick feet, rapidly leading the way, tsking and muttering to himself as he goes. I’m a conundrum that he’s clearly unprepared for.

I’m fine with that.

It’s not until I glance to my right at last that I realize my guards are not with me and panic hits me hard in the gut. Why didn’t they follow? No doubt, they were told to remain, and I missed their absence out of preoccupation that I can’t afford.

Distracted, unacceptable. I am alone now, truly alone, in this place of bewildering splendor.

The palace interior is even more extravagant than the exterior. Every pillar, every archway, is carved with intricate designs. The air is thick with the scent of lilies and beeswax, so heavy it almost chokes me. My eyes ache from the sheer opulence, my heart beating low and fast, pushing against my ribcage. I stride past the throngs of courtiers lingering in thecorridor, thicker the closer we come to the end of the hall. Their silk robes rustle, their laughter light and tinkling, their whispers a constant, unsettling hum. They part for me, their gazes curious, some disdainful, at the sight of my armor amidst their finery. I am a warrior, not a doll, and I feel the unspoken judgment keenly.

We finally reach a pair of massive, gilded doors. The Headservant glances at my armor one last time, a shudder running through him, before he leans in and addresses an older man all in white silk, with a pointed beard and impressive moustache that twirls up toward his cheeks in fine threads.

“Her highness,” he growls, “the heir of Heald.” With that, he tosses his hands at me and hurries away.

No longer responsible for me, no doubt. I am satisfied with this turn of events, too.

Unlike the others I’ve encountered, the white-haired and clad man at the door simply bows his head to me before gesturing. The doors part as he clears his throat and speaks.

“All make welcome,” he booms, his voice surprisingly loud for his size, “her highness, Princess Remalla of Heald, Blade of Eritoch, Daughter of Jhanette the Bold.”

The fact that he knows my name and title shouldn’t surprise me, but it does, if only because I so rarely hear the full line this way. There are more bits and bobs, I think, acquired along the way, but it seems to suffice as is.

Inhaling, my knees not forsaking me yet, I step across the threshold like I know what I’m doing.

The Grand Audience Chamber looms vast, bathed in the soft glow of light filtering through immense stained-glass windows and the endless banks of candles some poor sot has to light, I realize, hovering overhead in massive chandeliers that glisten and gleam with glass and crystal to reflect the light. The air here hums with a hushed reverence. It’s a long walk pastthe noblemen and women in attendance, lining the long, blue carpet that runs the length of the space. It feels empty here, anticipatory, but what are they waiting for I have no idea. I do my best to simply pick the man on the golden throne and head for him without wavering.

I’ve never met or seen the Overking in person, though I know my mother has many times. In fact, she claims personal friendship with his father, our first Overking and has told me on many occasions that Gyster is nothing like the man his father was.

Whether that’s true or her own opinion, I find the memory irritating, frustrated that she’s in my head, distracting me while I try to focus. I reach the chamber without much effort or issue, though the watchful and whispering folk who observe are already tiresome.

Will I spend the rest of my life being watched and whispered about? Not something I’m looking forward to.

Two thrones sit on a raised dais, the larger of the pair front and center, the smaller to one side and a foot or so reduced in height but still impressive for such a seat. I note a gap between them, as though another should occupy the space. Is that where the Overqueen should sit? Why no throne? It’s empty instead, but the gap not co-opted by the others, either. It looks awkward to me and uncomfortable, like distance stands between the Overking and his heir.

Is that gap an invitation to take that place someday?

I can’t even imagine.

Overking Gyster watches me from his throne, sitting casually, gold crown firmly planted in his graying blond hair, full beard making him harder to read. But he doesn’t seem antagonistic to me, his posture and gesture of welcome seemingly genuine, and I bow to him as I know is proper before speaking.

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