Page 57 of Queen of Legends and Lies
A farmer, his rough-spun tunic threadbare at the elbows, bows low, anxiety etched into the lines of his weathered face.
I nod for him to speak, silently congratulating myself on the morning’s proceedings thus far. The people seem appeased, their fears quelled by my show of unity with Sterling. Perhaps this monarching business won’t be so difficult after?—
The wedding.
The royal wedding.
The enormity of such a task crashes over me.
A thousand details, a hundred traditions, nobles and dignitaries and gods all to appease. My fingers tighten on thearms of the throne, the gold filigree identical to the one Sterling sits on beside me. What in the hells have I gotten myself into? I should abdicate right now, shove the crown at Sterling and let him?—
The farmer clears his throat, dragging me back to the moment.
Right.
The morning’s petitions.
Deep breaths. One task at a time. You can do this, and you’re not alone.
I shake off my spiraling thoughts, determined to give my full attention to my people.
For hours, they come. Peasants in patched woolens, merchants with ink-stained fingers, even a few nobles, their silks whispering across the flagstones. They lay their troubles at the feet of the throne, pleading for aid, for justice, for intervention.
I do my best to answer them, to be the queen they need. I pronounce judgments and dole out rulings, acutely aware of Sterling’s solid presence at my side.
The council members hover in my periphery, their gazes heavy on my skin.
It all seems so straightforward.
Listen, decide, decree.
I allow myself to relax fractionally as the morning wears on. Maybe I have a knack for this being queen business. The supplicants all appear satisfied by my decisions, bowing and scraping as they back away.
Only the pinched expressions on a few councilors’ faces give me pause.
They exchange telling glances as yet another petitioner departs, but I lift my chin and ignore them, inviting the nextcitizen to approach. The dissenters are in the minority, though surely, they’ll come around given time.
As the next supplicant comes forward, Sterling shifts beside me, one dark brow arching. I tilt my head, trying to decipher his message, but he merely nods toward the man now kneeling before the dais.
A soldier, by his armor and bearing. He launches into an impassioned plea, hands gesturing as he describes a territorial dispute with a neighboring lord. The details fly over me, my mind still on Sterling’s unspoken warning.
I’m opening my mouth, ready to render a decision, when Sterling leans in. “If I may, Your Highness.”
Curious, I chew my lip but give him a nod, keeping my voice low. “What would you do?”
He addresses the knight in measured tones, asking pointed questions that reveal new facets of the conflict. The issue is thornier than I realized.
This land disagreement is not new.
In fact, it’s based on several conflicting land disputes that have been brought to court several times over the years. There are decades-long grudges and shifting borders to consider.
Things I had no idea about, and the man didn’t address them until Sterling’s careful probing.
“So, all this is based off a copy of the original border drawing, which was anchored on the bed of a creek that drifts over time.” Sterling expertly puts together all the fine points of the grievance.
“Uh…yes, Your Majesty. I suppose that’s one way to put it. But I was told?—”
Sterling waves him off, then beckons a guard closer. “What we’re going to do is ask the priest of Rivlan, the God of Water, to find the original creek bed. Then the guard will drive an ironstake into the ground. From that time forth, your border will be based on that marker.”
