The Blacksmith Queen (The Scarred Earth Saga, #1) - G.A Aiken Page 0,64
and continued to move around the group. He reached the end of the first line, stood at the foot of Keeley’s pallet, and gazed down at her prone form.
“Gods, look at those shoulders.”
“She’s a blacksmith,” Caid said.
“A woman blacksmith. How progressive for the humans.”
He moved on, reaching Keran. Stopped. Stared. “Keran the Unforgiving . . . yes?”
Keran’s grin was wide. It wasn’t every day that someone remembered her fight name.
“It is.”
“I lost a thousand pieces of gold because of you.”
“Foolish to bet against me.”
“I know that now.”
Quinn passed Samuel, barely glanced at him. “A virgin trainee monk. How odd.”
He stopped next to Gemma and said to his sister, “A War Monk. You really brought a War Monk into our territories. Father’s going to love that.”
“She’s the queen’s sister.”
“And probably ready to sacrifice all of us to appease her angry, war-loving gods.”
“I don’t want to hear it, Quinn. She’s as welcome as the dogs.”
“Wolves,” Caid corrected again.
Quinn, so big in his centaur form, leaned down and whispered to Gemma, “I haven’t seen War Monks in an age. Not since I killed three of them when they tried to burn a healer woman as a demon witch.”
“That is an unfortunate tale,” Gemma replied before rubbing her nose. Once. Twice. Then she sneezed, her head going forward hard so that her forehead collided with Quinn’s smug face.
Gemma heard his nose crack, but she didn’t think she’d broken it. And he didn’t cry out. He simply held his nose as he moved past her, ignoring the blood that poured from it . . . Okay, maybe she had broken it.
“Oh,” she said, “sorry about that. Maybe I’m allergic to horse hair.”
Caid snorted, quickly turned his head, but Laila laughed out loud, punching Quinn’s shoulder when he reached her.
“War Monk she may be,” Laila told her brother, “but she’s funny.”
He motioned toward the camp. “Take your queen to the healer. Tell the guards you have my permission.”
“Thank you, Brother.” She put her hand on his shoulder to lower him a bit and kiss his cheek.
As their little group moved on, Gemma glanced back at the massive and clearly insane Quinn. He was putting his own nose back into place, his light gold eyes watering as he did so. But his gaze was locked on her and did not waver.
“Your brother watches me,” Gemma said to Laila. “Is he a vengeful sort?”
“Very!” she tossed back with a smile. “But don’t worry. You’re with me.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“That he’ll give you ample warning before he has you killed.”
“Oh . . . that’s . . . lovely.”
* * *
Beatrix moved through the remnants of the witches’ fortress, annoyed but silent.
How did they manage it? All the books were gone. All of them. Not burned by the prince’s ridiculous use of fireballs flung at the mountain walls—she had recommended a raid instead, but Marius had refused to risk his substantial troops—they were simply gone.
That frustrated her. She wanted those books. Wanted to absorb their knowledge. But if that wasn’t possible, she definitely didn’t want the bloody witches to have them. Who knew what they could do with all that information at the ready?
Now she’d have to make a contingency plan.
“There are none here, my lord,” one of the officers told Marius.
“They’re all gone? There are no bodies at all?”
“We’ve only found a few.”
He shook his head. “How is that possible?”
Beatrix wondered the same thing. Those witches with their “math, science, and logic” horseshit. They must have some magick skills if they could move so many books and women away from the site of the onslaught so quickly.
Marius glared down at her. “This was a waste of my precious resources. Now we don’t even know where the bitches are!”
He stormed off as he liked to do. Like a petulant child. Already she bored of the petty tyrant.
“They’ll make themselves known in due course,” she said to Maila, who stood nearby. “No need to worry.”
Maila motioned to the soldiers lurking close, sending them after Marius.
When they were alone, the Dowager Queen grabbed her arm. Her nails bit through Beatrix’s dress and into her flesh. It took all of Beatrix’s will not to slash the old bitch’s throat.
“Yes, mistress?”
“We had an agreement,” she whispered.
“We still do, my lady.” Beatrix did not bother lowering her voice.
“What you did to the generals . . . that was not planned. And the situation could have easily turned very badly, very quickly. For both of us.”