“If you find that the child was born yet find no trace of the babe, hunt it down.” Satia turned to Iris. “Pursue any information, any hint. Do not stop until it is dead in your hands.”
“We could gather some warriors,” Iris said. “The more eyes—”
“No,” Satia said. “I want no whispers, no gossip. You will hunt, and you alone.”
“We will see it done.” They gathered up their needles and thread and bowed while Nora rose smoothly to her feet, then bowed as well.
“Go then.” Satia smiled as her poison darts left swiftly. She sighed and stretched as the tent flap closed behind them.
“Mira, we must prepare for the King’s return. He will be some time, but we should be ready.” Satia lifted a hand and started to take down her braids. “Stoke the braziers and warm some towels.” Satia looked up at a new sound: a hard rain had begun to strike the tent. “Bring my oils and perfumes. We should prepare hot food and drink as well. His Majesty will be wet and chilled.”
“I’ll mull some wine,” Mira said. “And lace it perhaps? A touch of herbs to aid his Majesty?”
“Yes,” Satia nodded absently. “He will return to bury himself in my arms even as his men work in the rain to clear the field and bury the dead. He will think only on his victory, not on the cost.”
“Or what must be done to keep you safe on the throne.” Mira said.
“Our throne,” Satia said, dropping one hand to her belly. “Our throne.”
Chapter Four
Yfin sat on the hearth stool in the corner, leaned against the warm stone of the fireplace, and tried not to let his eyes close.
It was good, being hearth boy in the Palace, not as good as kitchen boy, but better than cleaning the midden or catching rats. Best an orphan like him could expect. He was fed and warm, better than when he’d been running the streets.
His duty was the hearths and naught else. Normally, this late, he’d be bedded down already, on his own pallet, with a blanket all to himself.
But this night he’d been sent to serve Queen Mother Tithanna. Usually, she took to her bed fair early. The Queen Mother was old, as old a person as Yfin had ever known, wrinkled and tall, with bright white hair she kept in a thick braid. She liked her chambers warm, for her old bones, she’d said.
Footsteps roused him and he glanced up as she paced by, circling the chairs before the hearth, back and forth. She’d been doing that since he’d come on duty, her heavy robes swishing against the floor as she walked.
Yfin yawned and rubbed at his face. He’d already got a good stack of wood, so easy enough to keep the fire bright.
The Queen Mother made a turn and stopped. Yfin heard footsteps, coming towards the door. He rose to answer it.
“No,” she said quietly, picking up a candle. “I’ll see to the door.”
Yfin stayed put, laying in a bit of kindling and blowing on coals. The flames licked at the wood as he heard a sharp sound behind him.
He turned and saw the Queen Mother just standing there, looking all hollowed out. Her face was as pale as the moon, her eyes glittering like dark stars.
Two men had entered. One of them, bloody and filthy, knelt before her. “I broke off when I saw Queen Kara go down, Daughter of Xy.” He coughed and clutched at his ribs, his face gaunt with pain. “Thought it best to bring you word before—”
Yfin inched closer and smelled the iron tang of blood, the sharpness of smoke, and the sourness of sweat. But the Queen Mother’s face was still, as if the smells and the blood did not exist.
“You’ve done well,” she said, her voice oddly strong. She reached out and put her hand on his sweat-soaked head. “May the Lord of the Sun bless you for your service to our House,” she continued. “But you need to go, get away from here. They will come.”
The bloody man nodded and rose with the help of the other man. “I will, Your Majesty.” He bowed his head. “Lady, Xywellan died fighting. Swinging his sword, cursing them to the last—”
“My thanks,” the old lady said gently, looking past him to the other man. “Can you get him out and away?”
“It will be like he was never here,” came the gruff response as the man stepped into the light. Yfin recognized Captain Roth of the Palace Guard. A strong man with a short gray beard and hard eyes, tonight his face was tired and lined. Yfin wanted nothing so much in this world as to be a Guard and carry a sword and be just like Cap’n Roth. But he’d no chance of that.
The wounded man wasn’t done. He reached out his hands, palms up. “My hand to yours. Bless you, Tithanna, Daughter of the Wyvern House of Xy, Daughter of Xyvoth, Wife of Xykahn, Warrior King.”
A thrill passed through Yfin at the words of the old oath.
The Queen Mother reached out and pressed his hands together between hers. “My hand to yours. Blessings upon you, Warrior of the Airion House of Xy.”
