Page 8 of The War Queen's Daughter

As much as it burns me to admit it, Mother was right.

Very well. I will accept her foresight, all untold, and use it to my advantage. Because their lack of awe means I have time to adapt and adjust while we ride, allowing them to watch over me when I am unable to do it alone.

I’m far from completely without personal protections, however, my ears and eyes as keen as ever, if blunted by the myriad of sights and sounds that dull my focus from simple overwhelm. My ears ache with the sheer volume of noise while my eyes try to take everything in at once, feeling utterly lost in this labyrinth of stone and humanity.

I snap into focus thanks to furtive movement, its very secretive nature a flag waving for my attention. To my left, a small, skinny hand reaches out, snatching a bright red apple from a merchant’s stall. The vendor, a large man with a booming voice, immediately spots the theft and lunges. Misses.

She darts away, a flurry of a grubby brown cloak and flying bare feet.

“Thief!” he bellows, his voice cutting through the market chatter. “Stop her! Get her!”

The girl, no older than ten or twelve, looks terrified as she turns to glance back. Her eyes are wide, darting like a trapped bird’s. She clutches the apple to her thin chest, her dirty tunic clinging to her bony frame. She ducks and weaves through the crowd, desperate, but two burly market guards are already closing in, their faces grim. She stumbles, and they grab her, their hands rough on her small arms.

A sickening jolt goes through me at the sight of her, grasped between them, helpless. The girl’s face is etched with purefear, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she dangles, hefted between them, bare feet swinging desperately as she kicks for freedom. She looks so small, so helpless against their unyielding grip. This isn’t a battlefield, not a matter of war, but it triggers something deep within me, something tied to my sense of honor, my ingrained code of protecting the innocent. This is a violation of something fundamental.

And I need a cause to focus on that isn’t my own unease.

Without thinking, I pull Gorgon to a halt. My guards stop, surprised. The huge warhorse snorts, sensing my tension. “Release her!” I snap, my voice cutting through the market noise, sharp and clear.

The guards, startled, turn to me, their grip on the girl momentarily loosening. Her toes touch the ground, but she’s still contained, wriggling and straining against them. “This is a thief, Lady,” one of them says, his tone annoyed. “Caught red-handed.”

The girl whimpers, burying her face against her shoulder. The apple, a single, perfect red orb, rolls from her grasp and into the dusty street. It feels absurdly important, this one apple, but why?

“She is a child,” I state, my voice firm. “And she is terrified. What crime has she committed that warrants such rough handling? A single apple? Are the people of Winderose so wealthy they would starve a child for a piece of fruit?” Never mind my own mother would have beheaded the child by now, or had her flayed first, more likely. Then again, children of Heald are precious, and even thieves’ offspring know better than to get caught in such a manner. My own early training meant being thrown from the keep for three days on my own, without food, water, shelter, a way to acquire any of those. To prove I could survive.

This child has no castle to return to when, grim and dirty and with new life lessons learned, she returns home to throw an apple in her mother’s face.

Ah, yes. That’s why the apple, then. Have I forgotten so very much of what makes me who I am?

My gaze sweeps over the two guards, then to the merchant, who now looks uncomfortable. The smell of dust and the faint sweetness of the now crushed and oozing dropped fruit fills my nose. Someone’s stepped on it, the white flesh leaking its juice into the street.

I urge Gorgon forward and release his reins. “Retrieve,” I whisper.

Freed from his battle-readiness, the warhorse lowers his lips and helps himself to the fruit, only taking the half undamaged, leaving the mashed bit behind. As he lifts his head, he crunches hard, loud in the quiet that’s fallen over the street.

“She’s stealing, Lady,” the second guard insists, but there’s less conviction in his voice now. He clearly doesn’t want to cross a Heald warrior.

“As has my horse,” I tell him in a flat voice, dismounting. My boots hit the uneven cobbles with a thud. The crowd watches, leaning in, a ripple of curiosity and apprehension passing through them. I feel them more than see their reaction, sense as I’ve been trained to do what’s going on around me. It’s with casual confidence that I stride towards the girl, my leather armor creaking softly with each step. She flinches as I approach, but I keep my face empty, my movements deliberate.

“Arrest my horse,” I say, “or release her.” I’ve learned to shout in battle, but I prefer the quiet authority that allows no argument, taught by my aunt. The general, I think, would be proud of me. One of the two soldiers has stepped back already, hand at his side. My eyes bore into the guard who still holds the girl’s arm. “Now.”

He hesitates for a moment, but with a sigh of resignation, lets go. The girl pulls away, rubbing her arm, her eyes wide as she stares at me, then down at the remains of the fallen apple.

I cross to the vendor, make a careful selection, two more apples in hand, before tossing the merchant a small coin. It’s far more than the fruit is worth, but I’m making a point. I hold out one to the girl, the other already being sniffed by my horse.

“Here,” I say, my voice gentle. “Eat. Hunger is a powerful teacher, but so is a moment of kindness.” Oh, how Mother would scowl at me for that sentiment.

The girl hesitates, then slowly, tremblingly, snatches the apple from my hand. Her fingers brush mine, thin and cold. Her gaze, still wary, holds a flicker of something new, though. Surprise, and perhaps, a tiny spark of hope. It’s a small, almost insignificant connection, but it grounds me, reminds me of the simple code that still guides me, even in this bewildering, opulent city. This, I realize, is the kind of battle I understand.

The girl vanishes, swallowed by the swirling crowd. My hand still tingles from the brush of her cold fingers, the memory of the single, red apple a sharp contrast to the harsh reality of her fear. I watch the spot where she disappeared, a pang of something unidentifiable—disappointment? Frustration?—twisting in my gut. No word of thanks, just a desperate escape.

My battlefield code demands gratitude for a rescue, but the street holds different rules, I realize. Here, survival is thanks enough.

Chapter 6

As I turn back to my horse, Gorgon now happily munching the fresh apple I offer, my gaze sweeps the throngs of people. My gaze, trained to spot the anomaly, the hidden threat, and even more attuned with the girl’s adventure behind me, snag on two figures at the edge of the market. One is massive, a towering man with shoulders like boulders, dressed in dark, unassuming clothes. The other… the other is a man of striking beauty who holds my attention far longer than expected. Dark red hair falls in thick waves around a tanned face that seems carved from perfection. He wears a subtle, almost imperceptible smirk, his eyes, amber and intelligent, fixed on me. They’re so close to the color of mine that I find myself staring into them in wonder. I’ve never met anyone else with that shade of gaze before. His holds a knowing amusement that makes my skin prickle. He sees me. Hetrulysees me, not just the Heald warrior, but something more. I can’t quite decipher the feeling I get from him, threat or otherwise, but here at least is someone who’s been tested himself and came out the victor.

A wave of heat washes over my face, a blush that feels entirely foreign, the flush of warmth stirring down my throat to my chest, between my legs. This man, so effortlessly handsome, so utterly self-possessed, seems to mock my entire presence here.

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