Page 55 of Never the Roses

She was not, however, taking him up on his offer to strengthen her wards either. She snorted at the audacity of the suggestion, not for the first time. Oh yes, have your nemesis “improve” your defenses. What a brilliant idea.

Her wards pinged yet again, and she strolled into view around the bend, the messenger officiously tapping a gilded cane against the invisible wall. He spotted her, his eyes going wide, possibly atthe sight of her animal companions, though his gaze remained fixed on her. “Your Eminence, Sorceress Oneira,” he gasped, going to one knee and bowing his head.

Thiswas why she’d made Tristan stay behind. “You have a message for me?” she inquired coolly, refusing to give any sort of welcome.

“Yes, Your Eminence. I could not pass the wards.”

“Nor will you. Her Majesty promised to leave me undisturbed.” Fat lot of goodthatpromise had been, as happened with most promises the mundane made.

“Begging your pardon, Your Eminence”—the man’s throat squinched nervously around the words—“but Her Majesty advised me to ask Your Eminence to recall the terms of the agreement between Her Majesty and Your Eminence and that—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she interrupted impatiently. This was one of the many reasons she’d hated court. The endless repetition of titles made every conversation excruciatingly long. Technically she’d shed that title when she retired, but she didn’t bother saying so to the messenger. He’d never comply with calling her anything less.

“I’m aware of all the agreements I’ve made,” she added with asperity. In those agreements were the only two reasons for the queen to have violated Oneira’s solitude. “You may leave the missive and depart.”

“With deepest apologies, Your Eminence, I’m to see that you receive the missive, then await a reply.”

Score one for Tristan. “Set it there and draw back twenty paces,” she advised the messenger. Not that the thoroughly mundane gent could do anything to her, but it pleased her to be difficult. It salved her irritation—and exacerbated her concern over just what the queen wanted. It couldn’t possibly have to do with incipient conquest from the north, spearheaded by Oneira’s archnemesis, could it? Oh no, who could think it?

With a show of reluctance, the messenger laid the ornate scroll on the ground before her wards, then led his horse back the required twenty paces before turning to watch. Oneira dissolved a small patch of the wards, took hold of the scroll, and brought it through, holding it up in demonstration as she mentally knitted the hole together again. “I’ll be back with a reply. You may wait or return later.”

“I’ll wait, Your Eminence,” the man replied, somewhat glumly.

Tempted to ask Bunny to remain at the road to glare at the hapless messenger through the transparent wards, Oneira acknowledged that she was being petty. It burned that the queen had dared to breach her privacy, and Oneira was taking out her frustration on everyone but the deserving target. She trudged up the path, all of her animal friends with her, and focused her ire on the one person whose fault this undeniably was: Stearanos.

Oneira took the missive to her private study, the one she’d prevented Tristan from noticing by spinning an illusion out of the Dream. That was far easier for her than warding it against him. There she could relax and perform magic without being concerned that he’d see more than was good for him.

She spent some time checking the scroll for hidden traps or compulsions, more out of a reluctance to read the contents than any real concern. Paranoia belonged to Stearanos, and besides, Zarja wanted something. Her Majesty wouldn’t do anything to anger Oneira, now that she couldn’t force her obedience. Unable to procrastinate any longer, Oneira unrolled the scroll.

Adsila, still on her shoulder, peered at the ornate script also. Oneira scanned the document, then read it a second time more carefully. The third read gave her nothing more and she sat with her head in her hands for a very long time.

28

Stearanos should’ve had little time to stew over Oneira. Not her obstinate refusal to acknowledge the connection between them, not her precipitous departure that evening of her visit, and not the fact that she hadn’t visited him again.

She’d said she could find him anywhere, but she hadn’t done so. He hadn’t been surprised that she didn’t show while he was at His Majesty’s court, meeting with the war council, though her frank and wry intelligence would’ve been a welcome breath of fresh air in the stultifying atmosphere of posturing and power wrangling. Much as he longed to be in her company again, for her to visit him under Uhtric’s nose wouldn’t be wise. And Stearanos had been busy from waking to sleeping, so he shouldn’t have had time to think about her.

Which made no difference at all.

Even as Crown Prince Mirza paced the council room—the king had yet to put in an appearance, apparently sincere in his resolve to completely hand over the campaign to his son—uttering grandiose ponderings on how best to celebrate the victory of the war they’d not yet begun, Stearanos imagined Oneira in her gardens. The spring blooms would be giving way to the more robust blossoms of full summer. Although, he supposed, on her cliff over the sea it would remain cooler most of the year. She wouldn’t get the weight of summer heat as he did at his castle. Even being on the coast, his place was too low and too sheltered for all but the most vigorous ocean breezes.

She’d be working in her garden, perhaps reading books in the shade, surrounded by her animal companions. Hopefully she’d gotten rid of that puppy, Tristan, by now and—

“Don’t you agree, Your Eminence?”

Stearanos jerked himself out of his musings to find Crown Prince Mirza looking down his imperious nose with impatient expectation. Though Stearanos hadn’t been paying attention closely enough to know exactly what the prince was asking, he could be fairly certain that, whatever it was, he didnotagree. All the other men around the council table watched him expectantly, most with expressions of doubt and trepidation.Aha—no one agrees.

Stearanos made a show of gravely considering—always advisable for stroking the prince’s ego, regardless—and quickly reviewed the conversation in his head. Right, yes, they’d been discussing where Mirza would receive the queen’s surrender. Stearanos should have been able to take pleasure in the universally lavish praise for his plan. Everyone had declared his strategy nothing short of genius. Yet, he only chafed at every well-meant compliment. He knew his strategy was brilliant. He only wished he could shake the feeling that he should have thrown the thing into the fire.

But the deed was done and no taking it back. The only way forward was through, so no foot-dragging.

“According to my strategic plan, Your Highness,” Stearanos said, “the last battle will ideally take place on this plain.” He rose from his chair to indicate the location on the map. “Regardless of the actual location, we can only tie up these final conflicts after the citadel has fallen. We need to be certain that they cannot resupply from these locations.” He tapped them in turn. “Or they’ll be able to outlast any siege we—”

“Yes, yes, we’ve been over that,” the prince interrupted. “I don’t need to revisit the tedious details. Follow your strategic plan. I don’t care. I simply want to have the victory celebration at the citadel, so all the populace there can see me with their former queen kneeling at my feet while their nobles pledge fealty to me. Perhaps we could add a victory parade! March our soldiers through their streets, perhaps with their chained queen on display. Naked, and weeping.” Mirza paused, enjoying the imagined spectacle with a decidedly unsavory expression on his narrow face. “Serves her right for daring to take a man’s role in the world.”

Stearanos couldn’t help thinking of Oneira—as usual, but especially then—and how she would deal with the loathsome Mirza. Turn his nightmares against him, no doubt.

“Your Highness,” General Khanpasha put in, nodding to Stearanos, “it’s a stirring vision, and a well-deserved celebration of your sweeping victory, but if His Eminence’s strategy succeeds, we’ll have destroyed the city long before the final battle.”

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