Page 4 of Queen of Legends and Lies
With his dark hair and pale blue eyes that dart around above his simpering smile, Serle has the appearance and mannerisms of a bullied squire. His tucked arms and stiff back convey unease. The vicar, on the other hand, has a classic manly sort of beauty going for him, with high cheekbones and dimples. They both, however, seem startled to see me.
Did they miss the unprecedented gathering of dragons that just landed?
Maps sprawl across the table between them, smothering the surface in miniature mountain ranges and rivers of ink. Platters of drinks and nibbles sit nearby, indicating they’ve been up for a while. Moise’s calculating green eyes flick past my shoulder as if hoping I’m not alone.
Oh. I get it. They’re shocked that it’s me and not Sterling.
My gut twists.
Explaining my failure won’t be easy. Hopefully, though, doing so will convince them to rally the military for another rescue attempt. Sobbing while laying out the shitty situation isn’t an option, so I’ll need to remember to breathe slow and swallow my emotions.
Like a mouthful of broken glass and whiskey.
“Your Highness!” Serle rushes forward with enough eagerness to churn my stomach. “You look dreadful. We must call for Healer Luci immediately. Will Crown Prince Knox be joining us?”
I shake my head.
“Well then.” Vicar Moise isn’t far behind, though his concern seems as forced as his smile. He’s a follower of the gods and always acts as if the foibles of man are beneath him. I have no idea why someone like him would even want to be on the council. “We should summon the Lady of the Bedchamber to tend to you and see to your comfort, Your Highness.”
I flinch at the address. These men have taken one look at the situation and have already shifted to embrace the change that my solo return has set in place.
Sterling—better known in Tirene as Crown Prince Knox Barda—is the last of the late king’s children. The law decrees that, without a direct royal heir who’s of sound mind, the throne defers to a dragoncaller, if one exists.
Sterling’s corruption disqualifies him from contention, and I happen to be the only dragoncaller.
“Stop.” I hold up a mud-caked hand, dried blood wedged beneath every nail. Curling both hands into tight fists, I tuck them behind my back to halt the trembling. “Healers and ladies can wait. We have a lot to discuss.”
They share a glance. And I don’t miss the flicker of doubt or the uncertain shuffle of feet. They might not say so out loud, but they’re questioning my abilities, wondering if I’m truly capable of leading Tirene through the trials ahead.
I can’t even blame them.
Straightening my spine, I shake off the exhaustion clinging to my limbs like cobwebs. I won’t let them see me stagger. Not now. Not when so many lives depend on me.
If they’re savvy enough to already be calling me by my new station, maybe they won’t pick a fight.
“Please, sit down, Your Highness.” Serle gestures to one of the cushioned chairs like a sycophant eager to please. “I’ll summon the rest of the council.” After writing a few quick notes, he hands them to the nearby servants.
I drink in the pristine room, the high ceiling, the intimidating expanse of that circular table, already burdened by the weight of the crown that’ll soon rest upon my head. It’s heavy, laden with the expectations of a kingdom on the brink of war.
The messengers practically trip over their own feet to scurry out the door, but Serle’s voice cuts through the hustle like a sword through silk. “Your Highness, shall we wake Queen Alannah?”
I pause, thinking of the frail dowager queen. We could wake her, yes. But what would I say? That I’ve returned without her son? “Let her rest.”
Silent relief spreads across the middle-aged earl’s features. “Very wise.” He guides me toward a chair that seems too soft and welcoming for someone covered in grime and failure.
My legs beg for mercy, and I collapse into the seat with an embarrassing lack of grace.
He fusses at a side table, pouring drinks and offering food. It’s a strange sort of dance, him with his solicitous hovering, me trying not to react like a coddled child.
Vicar Moise watches from his spot by the window, the moonlight casting shadows that highlight his cheekbones, his thin lower lip, and his growing disapproval. I can’t quite meet his green-eyed gaze, so I focus on the goblet in my hands instead, the cool liquid grounding me to the here and now.
One by one, council members file in, their faces etched with expectation and weariness. Duchess Breann Farlow—a grandmotherly woman who once kindly offered to help me adjust to my wings—gives me a sweet smile before sitting. Nira Vipert shoots me a questioning glance before easing into a chair, her shiny brown hair cascading over her royal blue gown.
Bron Dolf and Fenton Wick are a stark contrast to each other as they saunter in together, with the young duke being fair and blond and Fenton being grandfatherly and gray.
Next, Dalya Ungar enters while calmly scanning the space. Roughly ten years my senior, the magenta-haired woman looks like she’d be more at home on the training fields than in the Royal Council Tower.
The merchant guild master, Rafe Bennett, is the last to join us. His well-shaped brows draw together before he sinks into the closest empty chair. Unlike the others, his wings—dark brown like his hair—are out. The rest of the Tirenese have their wings tucked away out of sight.
