The Queen leads me through an archway into gardens that make everything I've seen so far look like a wasteland weed patch. Paths wind between fountains with crystal clear water that tinkles like music, flowers in every color imaginable perfume the air, and trees heavy with ripe fruit provide glorious shade from the late afternoon sun.
It's paradise.
Or as close to it as this fucked-up world gets.
Once we're far enough from the throne room that I'm sure we won't be overheard, guilt starts gnawing at my insides. I might despise no less than two of her sons, but the Queen has been nothing but gracious to all of us. "Your Majesty, I need you to understand something. I don't want you thinking this is something it isn't. That I'm someone I'm not."
She turns to me with a knowing look that reminds me so much of my own mother it hurts. "You love my son."
It's not a question.
"A mother knows," she adds gently when I don't immediately respond.
The truth burns its way up my throat. "I do. At least, I love the version of him I thought I knew."
Understanding softens her noble features. "My sons have always kept parts of themselves compartmentalized. Hamsa and Azarel especially." She sighs, looking out contemplatively over a bed ofwhite roses. "I can't say I'm surprised, given the way their father was."
The opening is too tempting to ignore. "Their father... is he...?"
"Passed," she says simply. When I automatically start to say I'm sorry, she cuts me off with a gentle laugh. "I'm not."
At my shocked expression, she laughs again, though this time it's tinged with something darker. "That sounds terrible, doesn't it? I loved my husband, in a way, but he was not an easy man to love. And he wasfarmore difficult as a father."
"I understand better than you might think," I admit, thinking of Arthur Maybrecht and his particular brand of paternal manipulation and brutality. It sounds like that's one thing Azarel and I have in common, after all.
Not that he ever shared that with me.
Somehow, that hurts more than all the other omissions.
"Tell me about yourself, Cosima," she says, linking our arms together as we walk deeper into the gardens. "I'm curious about everything. Your life, your family, how you met my son."
"There's… not much to tell, really," I say with a shrug. "Like Plague said, my father is Arthur Maybrecht. I grew up in Reinmich under the old regime. My mother was Vrissian," I add, the words coming out quieter than intended.
"Ah, our neighbors to the north," she muses. "A beautiful land."
"I never got to see it," I admit. "She died when I was young."
The Queen's arms tightens slightly around mine. "That must be so painful, not knowing that part of who you are. Where you came from."
The words hit something deep I didn't even know was there. There's been so much overt violence over the years that I've never really thought about that deeper, quieter wound, but the ache her words stir makes it clear it's there. The loss of heritage, of connection to half of what makes me who I am.
"It is," I murmur, surprised by the admission. "My mother told me stories. Tried to keep our traditions alive. But it was… difficult."
Her eyes darken in a way that says she understands perfectly why, without my having to clarify. Guess even an omega of royal birth is still an omega.
"As for how I met Azarel," I continue, too uncomfortable with the vulnerability to linger in it with a stranger, however kind she may be. "He was one of my father's soldiers. He worked his way up quickly. I don't know how my father found out he was an agent of Surhiira, but he saw too much potential in Azarel to deal with traitors the way Reinmich usually does."
The Queen's gaze sharpens, and I regret speaking so candidly.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I shouldn't have?—"
"No," she says, giving my arm a pat. "No, I appreciate the honesty. I knew the mission was dangerous when Azarel insisted on it, but he's never been one to shy away from difficult things."
Except conversations with me, apparently. But I keep that to myself.
"It's been so long," she continues softly. "When we didn't hear from him, we assumed he'd been… well…" She trails off, and I can imagine how many nights she's laid awake being tortured by the very thing she can't even bring herself to speak out loud.
Even if I wasn't already furious with Azarel for lying to me, I would hate him for doing what he's done to his mother. For letting her go so long not even knowing if he's alive or dead.
