Page 24 of The War Queen's Daughter

The bustling hallway outside the Chancellor’s door has filled with hurrying pages and servants, all of them giving me a wide berth as I emerge. It’s a contemplative walk to the dining hall, where I find the other princesses already eating, the Overprince obviously not expected to make an appearance.

My choice to join them is deliberate as every move I make will be from now on, and I continue with my aggressive and unrefined eating style. Do they care that I’m well aware of the purpose of each and every utensil or that I could dance through the plates and platters on the tabletop with a grace and care that wouldn’t send a single dish rattling? They assume I’m uncouth, and I let them, grabbing a chair and dragging it loudly across the floor, seating myself at the far end of the table. My view of the princesses now flanks the empty chair that Altar used the night. My not-so-subtle message? They are subordinate to me, no matter how close they sit to the Overprince’s chair.

Their shocked and hateful expressions are divine and add spice to my delicious breakfast.

I arrive last and leave first, still chewing as I exit. It would almost be amusing if I weren’t so aware of the danger that I’m in. Instead of returning to my quiet, empty quarters to wait and see if Amber’s plan bears fruit, I seek out my mother’s soldiers.

They’re easy enough to find, bivouacked near the stables where Gorgon lounges like the king he is. Only to find my horse squealing, furious, and the stablemaster holding a whip.

“The beast bit me!” He seems to think twice about his tone, but only after I shrug, uncaring, patting Gorgon’s shoulder as he settles.

I ignore the man for a moment, soothing my warhorse, noting the welts he’s acquired from the whip. He’s suffered worse, as scarred as I am, though fury at his harm has me fighting for patience.

“He didn’t draw blood,” I tell the unhappy horsemaster, jerking the offending weapon from his hands and breaking it over my knee before tossing it in the straw at my feet. “The next time you try to bully him, he will.” I stare the man down. “If you value your limbs, you’ll give him space.”

“This is my domain,” he growls. Then grumbles, “highness.”

“And Gorgon cares less for your position,” I tell him. “He’s warned you once. He will kill you if you persist.” I shrug again, smiling at the giant black horse who’s carried me through so many battles. “If I return and find he’s done so, I won’t mourn you. But know this.” I face off with the small, angry man again, “if I find he’s been harmed in any way, I will personally make sure your life is forfeit if he fails to do it himself.”

The stablemaster stalks away, his young assistant bobbing a nod to me.

“I’ll care for him personally, highness,” the boy says. Gorgon sniffs his fingers when they’re offered. “No harm will come.”

He seems to mean it. “This one,” I point at the young man. “Behave.”

The warhorse snorts and sighs before nudging me.

That task complete, I carry on, finding that the soldiers of Heald have come to watch the interaction, all of them grinning.

“We would have stepped in,” grizzled Tundor says, his deep voice graveled with good humor, “but Gorgon had things well in hoof.” They all snicker. “One more whip stroke and that arrogant sot would have been throat-torn and bled out.”

While justified, I would have preferred they’d stepped in and let them see my frown. That cuts off their grins and has them focusing.

I turn to Lethes, the youngest of the group, and the only woman assigned to me. “Come.” I turn and walk away from the others, giving us distance before I stop and address her. She’s my only real choice, the men, while good soldiers, are far from thinkers. Lethes, I’ve observed in the past, is quiet and efficient, and I’ve previously considered poaching her from my mother’s service. While perhaps I’d be better served keeping her here, I need someone who will follow through with my orders and not debate me.

“I have a message I need carried to my mother.” I wait for her to nod before slipping her the coded script on the scrap of parchment I carefully constructed between Vae’s reveal and my visit to Amber. Even if intercepted, unless the thief has access to the code my aunt and I developed during our border campaigns, the contents will remain private. “You will hand this personally to the queen,” I say, before hesitating. “Or General Vivenne. You understand?”

Lethes nods again, secreting the message away inside her gauntlet without any change of expression. “Highness,” she says and turns, heading for the stable and her own horse.

I watch her go, not bothering to inform the others. They know better than to ask, and their speculation can remain. It’s not their business that I’ve chosen to share my displeasure with my mother or my interpretation of her requirements. It’s a petulant effort that will be wasted, but just in case Amber is somehow misinforming the queen, I must make that effort.

At the very least, my mother will know that I understand my assignment now, no matter how angry I am at her deception, and that, as always, Heald’s safety comes first.

It’s time to return to the Citadel interior and be myself. I have an Overprince to seduce.

My first instinct is to prowl the perfumed halls and corridors, but I argue with myself until I acquiesce to my second thoughts and instead return to my quarters. The princesses seem to spend a lot of their time in the wing, the sound of their chatter in the garden, the bathing pools, laughter carrying and filling the halls with ghostly sounds of friendship and amusement their willful sport at my expense as I’m left out of such engagement for obvious reasons.

Hours pass, and though I manage some meditation to refresh myself without the risk of sleep when others are awake, I’m pacing again before long. Each tick of the ornate clock in my room irritates me and drives me out. I have the bathing room to myself again, those who are present when I arrive exiting with tossed heads at my appearance. That suits me. I take full advantage of the heated soaking pool, my fingers and toes wrinkled deeply by the time I emerge, and I allow the young woman who offers to scrub me down to do her job this time.

“My armor,” I say as she attacks my back with a mitt covered in foam scented with the same spicy fragrance I used the night before.

“Highness?” She stammers a little, the small, stout thing surprised I’ve spoken to her.

“You took it from me last night,” I say, trying not to threaten her but still irritated. “My boots.”

She nods, stammering before returning to her work. “Being cleaned,” she says. “They will be returned to you, I was assured.”

As I feared. “I would have preferred to be asked.”

---