Page 5 of The War Queen's Daughter

She dismisses me with a wave of her hand, already turning her attention back to the flap to the main tent, discarding her robe as she goes. It falls behind her, a roar as the celebratory crowd greets her, making my aunt grimace.

I linger, a puppet whose strings have just been released.

Vivenne won’t leave me to hang myself with them. “Your mother’s ambition, Remi, is a fearsome thing. It makes her a powerful queen, yes. One of the best warriors I know. But it can also be a blindness.” She looks at me, her dark eyes filled with a quiet wisdom. “You have a good heart, dear one. A true heart. Jhanette relies on that, uses it.”

I feel a pang of something akin to despair. “Do you think I’ve made a mistake?”

Vivenne shakes her head. “No. You have made a choice for Heald, as is your way. But there is much you don’t know, that she’s sheltered you from, that I fear won’t serve you in the days to come.” She flinches like she’s said too much while my insides crawl with doubt. “The court at Winderose… it is nothing like Heald. Here, strength is measured in steel and honesty. There, itis measured in whispers and smiles that hide daggers.” Her gaze is solemn. “Be careful, my little warrior. Very, very careful.” She throws me a smile, then, rueful and resolved. “Now go,” my aunt says, her calloused palms catching my hands, squeezing hard before she turns me physically and pushes me gently toward the back of the tent and the exit. “Before your mother changes her mind and insists you join her.”

That has me moving like nothing else can. I step out of the tent, the cool night air a blessed relief against my hot skin. The chill of Aunt’s words sinks into my bones, colder even than the breeze that’s risen in the falling dark. The remembered warmth of her hands is a small comfort against the vast uncertainty that now stretches before me.

I am going to Winderose. I am going to marry a stranger, the Overprince. And I am going to try and conquer a realm not with my sword, but with my mind, what a novelty for a soldier like me. My aunt’s warning remains as much as the scent of blood and sweat, sticks to me, and I fear I’ll need the constant reminder that this new battlefield will be far more treacherous than any I have known.

I fetch Gorgon, who dozes in his gear, and retreat to my camp and my soldiers there. They undress me, already done so for themselves, bathe me and that night, I celebrate in my own way. Quietly. Away from the heat and the wine and the constant motion of limbs. My personal guards gather, hand-picked men and women both, who know what I need without words.

The bed is low, scattered with furs and cushions, and their bodies are strong, warm and eager. Clever hands and mouths make me moan. Fingers thread through my hair as I take a heated shaft between my lips, savoring the groans that can’t be held back.

Then it’s my turn. They take their time with me. Lips and tongues and hands and slow, hard thrusts that make me achedeep inside. I let it all crash over me. Not because of lust or need—though there is plenty of that—but because I have to remember who I am. To wash away the sting of my mother’s command with sweat and satisfaction.

I lie there in the spent glow of orgasm and release, sprawled and panting, someone curled against my side, another at my feet.

Tomorrow, I prepare for a future I did not choose.

But tonight, I remain Remalla of Heald.

Chapter 4

The days that follow my mother’s command are a blur of restless preparation, though I struggle to take interest in the minutia. My usual leather armor feels both a comfort and a mockery, a familiar weight against a future that now feels entirely like a contested fight I’m not sure I can win.

That’s not a feeling I’m accustomed to anymore.

I strap on my sword, its weight a comfort, cold steel against my hip, and try to find solace in its unwavering presence. At least this much remains mine and will, Overprince or no. Because if he or his father want to take my blade from me, they’ll be doing so over their own corpses.

My personal assurance isn’t spoken out loud, and though I know it’s just bravado ahead of a battle, it comforts me as well.

On the appointed morning, the air bites with the crisp promise of autumn, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of fading summer that crushed its punishing grip on the plainlands of Heald. This far north, we get to watch the trees turn their colors, though the capital to the south barely feels the relief of season’s change until far later. While Heald is small, it’s long and narrow, running the length of the River Duranthis to the desert that swallows the water in a massive waterfall that vanishes into a cavern that’s taken many lives.

I’ll miss this year’s return, the winter spent plotting and planning and feasting, diving from the slick rocks to the depths of the pool below. I try not to think about Isthan’s yellow stonegates or the rich flavor of ruddy wine that comes from the hardy berries that thrive on the banks of the river’s ending.

Home is home no longer. Had I known I’d not be returning to the winter castle, I’d have said my goodbyes when we rode out late spring, months ago. It’s not mourning, precisely, but something akin to it, that lies heavily on my heart.

I can’t afford such weakness.

The daze I’ve been in ends abruptly as I enter the small courtyard, Mother waiting for my exit with her court around her, as always. She’s donned the heavy purple silk she so adores, over thin black leather that shows every curve of muscle, each twist of sinew. The sunlight sparkles from the threads of silver in her long hair, hanging free around her, as much a cloak as the silk she wears. That and the lines she’s made from squinting into the distance that cradle her dark eyes are the only signs she shows of her age.

It's not Mother’s presence that has me pausing, nor the sign of Gorgon pawing the ground, tacked and ready for travel. It’s the sight of three riders of the queen’s livery that made me scowl back at her as she spreads her arms and speaks in a loud, joyous voice.

“Ride hence, dearest daughter and heir of Heald,” she says. “Bring glory and greatness to the land you call home.”

I close the distance, looking up at her, barely masking my anger. “Where are my riders?” I’d already told her who I’d chosen to join me.

“You need those befitting a princess,” she hisses back. “Get on your horse and go do your duty before I spank you in public like I used to when you were a babe.”

She’s not joking. She would do it. And though it hurts me deeply, and this ache I know is grief tries to win, I bow my head to her, spin, and march to my steed.

At least she’s left me Gorgon, if nothing and no one else. His broad back is a steady anchor beneath me, warm and solid beneath my thighs. Her small contingent of Heald guards forms up behind me, their expressions stoic. I don’t search the crowd for the sight of friends or acknowledge the riders who fall in behind me. They are all my mother’s people, two men and one woman of the queen’s guard, not my own command.

She already knows how much that stings. As I turn and urge Gorgon into a canter, racing for the gates, forgoing any regal air, I have to accept that Mother intends for me to succeed. And will not have me return. That’s the reason she has seen to it that I have no familiar faces, no trusted voices, on this journey into the unknown. To some, a petty move, perhaps, but one that drives home the chilling reality of my new role.

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