“Are they here?”
“Yes,” she answered with a reassuring smile. “Captain Moreau took the young man, Nathan Frye, to freshen up for an audience with the queen.”
“Round up Beaudean, Stark, and Shaw,” she instructed, “and seat them in the upstairs lounge. Then ask the captain to bring Mr. Frye in.” Keeping her gaze on Sabine, Azaleen hesitated. She felt a sudden urge to ask about Lark. It was silly. If anything had happened, her chief of staff would have reported that first.
“Is there anything else?” Sabine asked, a teasing twinkle in her eyes.
Azaleen shook her head and strode toward the door. “No, thank you. Just lost in thought. Care to join me in my office to listen in?”
“I’d be honored.”
Dressed in a more formal blue and white kaftan embroidered with larger-than-life butterflies, belted at the waist, and wearing her silver circlet, Queen Azaleen Frost received the Appalachian defector. He bowed, looking more awkward than afraid, probably having never been in the company of royalty before. She noticed the genuine nature of his courage.
Captain Moreau made the introductions and excused himself. Lou passed around cold drinks and finger biscuits, exiting once everyone was comfortable.
Seated by a lofty window, sunlight haloing her platinum hair, Azaleen assessed Nathan Frye. He was tall, brimming with lean muscle, not unlike Luke, with interesting eyes and tousled dark blond hair. His accent reminded her of Desmond Shaw’s. They chatted for a few minutes before she departed.
“Mr. Frye, please feel at ease speaking with my advisors,” she encouraged. “I have other matters to attend to, but I wanted to welcome you to Verdancia personally. Mr. Beaudean, our agriculture secretary, can help place you in a suitable work environment, help you choose where you want to live, and what kind of farming you prefer. Mr. Shaw,” she motioned to the lanky man with dark skin and a foot propped over his knee, “also came to Verdancia from your homeland. I’m sure you will have much to discuss. And General Stark is here to assess whether you’re a spy.”
Alarm shot into his gaze. “I’m no spy—I assure you of that,” he declared, at which Azaleen gave him a cheeky smile.
“It’s the general you must convince. Gentlemen.” With a nod, she sashayed from the room.
In her office next door, employing the copper bell and tubing running from a small hole obscured by a plant in the lounge, she and Sabine listened to his stories. She found his insights and descriptions enlightening—far more detail than she’d learned before. But it was this boyfriend of his, Soren Delacroix, who’d be the stronger asset—if they could facilitate his defection. Still, Frye’s tales filled in gaps from what Shaw had shared. For an hour, they compared how Appalachia had changed since Shaw’s escape.
When their conversation turned to agriculture, Azaleen set the listening bell down.
“Here,” Sabine said, handing her two envelopes. “I meant to give these to you, but there hasn’t been an opportunity.”
“Lord Whitfield’s replies?” Hope radiated from within as she took the correspondence.
“Yes. I didn’t open them,” Sabine said, glancing at the wax seals.
“I appreciate your courtesy,” Azaleen responded with a soft smile. “But I don’t have any secrets from you.” She opened the first one. “Rowan is delighted to bring his entire family to the celebration.” She met Sabine’s gaze. “They’ll be a fabulous foil to Calder and his clan.”
“Indeed,” Sabine agreed while Azaleen opened the next seal.
“Oh, thank all the gods and angels,” she exhaled, slapping a hand to her heart. “Lord Whitfield has promised us five thousand militia troops with rudimentary training—says he can have them here in four weeks.”
“That’s fabulous!” Sabine exclaimed, a bright smile blossoming on her face.
“That means I can use them to reinforce the coast forts without pulling anyone off the western and northern borders.” Relief crashed over her as she clutched the letter to her chest. “I can’t wait to tell General Stark the good news,” she bubbled. “But I don’t want to interrupt the meeting with Frye. Do you think you can find Captain Moreau?”
“I believe he’s still downstairs.” Sabine rose from her seat. “I’ll go see.”
“If he’s there, bring him in, will you? Thanks.” The joy she felt must have radiated from her face as she saw it reflected in Sabine’s.
“You bet.”
Azaleen’s brain shifted into overdrive. She pulled out her troop count sheets, reviewing the numbers. Verdancia commanded five major military bases and several smaller outposts, the largest being Marchland, ten thousand soldiers strong. Next came Stonevale, Lord Calder’s seven thousand troops, still loyal to the crown as long as his conditions were met. Nelanta maintained a national guard of five thousand to send out in cases of emergency and provide a last line of defense in a blitzkrieg.
Clearwater had a standing force of thirty-five hundred, and New Charleston boasted two thousand sailors and marines. The kingdom’s thousand mobile units were scattered around, going where they were needed, like her personal VERT squad. Fort Hammond, built where the Mother River met the flooded Gulf, was home to the rest of Verdancia’s navy—such that it was—with a complement of twenty-five hundred. Fort Jasper was smaller, but still significant. Each town had its own militia, and there were a few smaller forts scattered about.
“Now, where to station these troops?” she pondered.
“You wanted to see me?” Captain Moreau stood at attention in her office doorway. “Did everything with Frye go all right? I didn’t take him to be a spy.”
“Yes, he seems harmless,” Azaleen replied. “I’m putting together a new shipment for Marchland, and we can’t suffer any more losses. It will have ammunition, ethanol, replacement uniforms, beer, and other comfort supplies, but, most importantly, medicine—malaria pills especially, after the recent outbreak. I need your team to guard that caravan and do a much better job of it than last time. Understood?” She pinned the powerful man with her most intimidating stare.
