Page 58 of Queen of Legends and Lies
The petitioner looks at the guard, then back at Sterling, and then at me. I nod, agreeing with the solution.
It’s perfect. And like nothing I would’ve devised.
As the man bows deeply and retreats, I fight to keep my own face impassive. Sterling made that appear effortless. Kingly, even.
“How’d I do?” Sterling pitches his voice low, for my ears only. There’s no mistaking the hint of smugness beneath his words.
“Eh.” I place my hand on the arm of the throne, displaying four fingers. “Maybe three and a half.”
Sterling’s brows snap together. “Three and a half?” His tone drips with affront, though his eyes dance.
I’d never admit this, but something in my chest unclenches at his playfulness. It’s a welcome respite from the morning’s tensions. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
His quiet laughter rumbles through me as the herald signals the next citizen.
I straighten my spine, lifting my chin. “I’ve got this one.” Maybe I’m not trained, but I learn fast. And I’m eager to prove myself.
Sterling settles back in his throne, the picture of easy insolence. He crosses his arms over his broad chest, one corner of his mouth ticking up. “By all means, my queen. Dazzle us.”
I narrow my eyes, but I can’t entirely suppress the grin that’s sprouted.
A farmer limps toward us, face haggard. I grant him my attention, determined to prove myself a worthy ruler, with or without Sterling’s aid. I am the queen, after all.
The farmer sketches a clumsy bow, his work-roughened hands trembling. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty. I comeseeking recompense for the loss of my barley crop, on account of the unexpected flooding.”
My stomach clenches with sudden guilt. I fight to maintain my neutral expression. “The flooding only days ago?”
“That’s the one.” The farmer twists his hat between his hands, eyes fixed on the polished marble floor. “The waters rose swift and fierce, with no warning. Ruined the whole of the crop.”
I press my lips together, my mind racing. That flood…was my doing. My loss of control. Sterling’s water magic tangled up with my own elemental fire.
The destructive force of our combined magic still haunts me.
The farmer clears his throat, drawing my wandering thoughts back to the moment. “I wouldn’t bother you with this usually, Majesty. But my grandmother, she always told us the old stories. Said when the fields flood without rain, and black-eyed souls start whispering on the wind, and the Ash Queen takes the throne…the crops won’t last the season. Not unless the prophecy comes to pass. I always thought it was just a tale. But now…”
Ash Queen.
My breath catches in my throat. Black-eyed souls…the corrupted. And the Ash Queen. I chance a glance at Sterling, but his face betrays nothing.
Phoenix borne, my magic burns hot as the pyre. Ash follows in my wake, it seems, no matter how I might wish otherwise. Ash is death, and I am the Ash Queen, whether this man knows it or not.
Dread forms a thousand tiny knots in my stomach.
I’m the Ash Queen.
The farmer regards me expectantly, hope and desperation warring in his weathered face.
Sterling leans forward, his shoulder brushing mine. “The crown recognizes the hardship you and your neighbors face. Theroyal coffers will provide you with a years’ worth of payment, for you, your family, and those neighbors who share in this struggle.”
The farmer’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open in shock. He drops to his knees, pressing his forehead to the polished marble floor. “Thank you, Your Majesties.” His voice is thick with emotion. “Thank you. My family is so very grateful.”
As the guard gently guides the man to his feet and escorts him from the hall, I turn to Sterling, my heart hammering against my ribs. The words repeat in my mind, till they spill out of my mouth in a hysterical whisper. “I am the Ash Queen.” My hand comes to rest over my heart, as if I could somehow hold the truth inside. “I bring crop destruction. The crops won’t last the season.”
Sterling’s eyes meet mine, stormy and intense. Beneath the edge of the dais, his hand finds my knee, and his touch grounds me. “You are Lark. My queen, my love. No matter what some ancient tale a farmer’s grandmother told.”
I want to believe him. Want to let his conviction wash away the guilt and sorrow churning in my gut. But the weight of the crown, our people’s expectations, and the farmer’s tale…all press down on me.
I am the Ash Queen, bringer of death and ruin.
