As she tugged on the reins to turn her horse, one of the guards ahead slowed. On the hope that the rebellion’s contacts in Nadraken could be convinced to aid them, Pelios had joined the travelers.
He called out, “Lady Zara, I’ll help you with your tasks tonight.”
The maid replied, “I’m not a lady. Thank you for the offer, but the duchess won’t let anyone else handle her things.”
He leaned in and smiled. “Then we simply won’t tell her.”
Zara frowned and nudged her horse. “There's no need. Thank you. Excuse me, sir, highness.”
The man watched her rejoin the duchess. To the Queen's raised brow, he said, “She's not a bad sort. Only her lady is a bitch.”
Pelios was always mild-tempered in their brief encounters. After Damon's execution, discontent had rippled through the rebels. Pelios and several other captains had been voices of reason. The captains had handed Damon over. The Queen had upheld her promises so far. She had been fair, only punishing Damon when she could have blamed the rebellion as a whole. They should give her a chance.
He was a good leader, if a quiet one. Quiet leaders couldn't replace Damon’s natural charm. None of the rebel captains, alone, could keep their people united. One fewer certainly wouldn’t help.
She slipped the wooden sheath over the claw of her first finger. She should have come alone.
That night, as Zara carried a bundle of clothes toward a stream, the rebel captain trailed after her. They were camped in an old apple orchard that had been retaken by nature, the fruits small and sour, the undergrowth crowded with bushes. The forest was about halfway to the border.
They were making good time, but even if their horses sprouted wings and flew, she doubted they would be fast enough to catch Castien on the road. He would be in Nadraken by now. Perhaps Yelena had scouts ready to snatch him up. Perhaps she already had her claws in him again.
“If your guard gets my maid with child, I expect him to take the bastard.” The duchess interrupted Anais' wandering mind. Isabel wrinkled her nose as she set down a bowl of broth. “My servants do not have time to nurse a Drantarian mongrel.”
At Anais’ side, the wolf lifted her head and growled. A brush of her fur calmed the beast.
The soup was fine; Jerome was a good cook. The wolf had caught a rabbit, and bits of fresh meat floated in the liquid. Anais drank as she adjusted her posture on the makeshift log bench. It was a small motion, like she was getting comfortable, and then, somehow, a quivering knife was embedded in the dirt at the duchess' feet.
Isabel gasped.
The Queen sipped her soup. “Accidents happen on the road, my lady. If you want to keep your head, I suggest you shut up.”
The lady inched away from the knife as though it might fly into her face of its own accord. Her chest rose and fell as she took a few breaths. Face pale, she lifted a glare to the Queen. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”
Perhaps the lady wasn’t a complete idiot. Anais considered her again. “I'm curious, Isabel – why did Yelena send you? What did you do to antagonize your Queen?”
The lady’s shoulders tensed, and she gripped her bowl harder. “Queen Yelena regards me highly.”
Even Jerome snorted at that. He crouched at the fire, stirring the pot.
Swirling her broth, Anais kept her gaze on the woman. She placed her bowl in her lap. “I wouldn’t send anyone I trust into Nadraken. So, is Yelena stupid, and you would make a good hostage against her, or does she hate you enough to send you to your death?”
The lady brought her bowl to her lips, grimaced, and swallowed. “I… refused to give her something she wanted. Once.”
Jerome had found some mint in the bushes. Maybe Isabel didn't like mint.
“Details, go on. Entertain me. As long as I’m interested, you’re not dead.” Anais smiled with a hint of teeth.
On second thought, it could be something dull like a tax dispute. She hadn't come all the way out here to be reminded of her council.
Her captain moved around the fire to offer Isabel a second helping. She scowled but handed over her bowl. He retrieved Anais’ knife while he was there.
Staring into the fire, the lady began, “I have a son in the militia. He's young, only nineteen. This past New Year’s, I brought him to court. Somehow, he caught the Queen's eye. I think he was trying to show off – he wants to be a general, lead armies, fight for glory.” She waved a hand and sighed. “I knew he'd only end up disgraced. A toy for the Queen, paraded as her pet, then discarded. The military would never respect someone like that. So I told her I needed him to guard my estate.”
The lady had motherly instincts. How unexpected.
“She offered me gold. She said no one had to know. Of course, everyone would know. The Queen's newest toy was always fodder for the rumor mills. Before she took him, I threatened to cut off the supply of slaves to the castle. She hardly remembers to pay for them, anyway.”
Ah, her true priorities. The duchess earned her gold from the slave trade, training them for noble households. There was more to this story than a mother looking after his son.
