“That’s one down,” she
murmured, slipping into darkness.
32
THE ORPHANS
Erida
For a man who could crush diamonds in his fist, his touch was featherlight, his fingers gentle on hers.
Queen Erida let Taristan escort her from her horse to the staging ground at the top of the hill, the
Madrentine border and the Rose River spread out before them. On the banks, the First and Third
Legions formed up like silver beetles in ranks, crawling inexorably forward to the hastily constructed
barge bridges anchored in the current. Despite her husband’s glowering presence beside her, not to
mention her assembled council of generals and war advisors, Erida could not tear her eyes away from
the river. Twenty thousand men marched below, cavalry and infantry and archers, pikemen, knights,
squires, and peasants pressed into service with their feudal lords. Men and boys, enamored of war or
terrified of it. Rich, poor, or somewhere between. Their hearts beat for me this morning. She breathed
deeply, as if she could taste their steel. The moment shimmered in her mind, already a treasured
memory.
When I am old, an empress without equal, I will remember this day. When it all began.
She felt Konegin’s glare, familiar as her own face. He had no cause to be angry. He wanted this war as
much as any other good son of Galland. Madrence was weak, unworthy of its lands and wealth. It
needed a stronger master. He only wishes he were me, his feet in my shoes, my crown on his head.
And what a crown it was this morning: her father’s own, made for battle, a circle of gold hammered into
a steel cap. Her hair hung loose beneath it, falling over her shoulders in waves. Erida was not
accustomed to steel, but her armor was light, made from precious metal, meant for ceremony rather
than war. She had not bothered with a sword, even for show.
“A beautiful morning, Cousin,” she said, drinking down another gasp of crisp autumn air. In the foothills,
the leaves were turning, edges going red and gold.
Konegin huffed a noise in his throat, low and wet. “I’ll weigh the morning when evening comes,” he
answered, folding his arms over his golden breastplate. It matched his luxurious beard, every hair
combed into place. He looked the part of a king.
But so does Taristan, she thought, his hand still supporting her own.
Again he wore blood red beneath his armor, which was crimson and scarlet with a cloak edged in gold.
The colors reflected oddly in his eyes, giving them a sheen like rubies. He brushed his hair back, slicking
the dark red locks against his scalp. By now she noticed that one of his eyebrows had a split in it, cut by
the tiniest white scar.
The cuts were still on his cheek, thin but unmissable, the same blue as the veins in her wrist. She
wanted to trace them, one finger to each.
“You’ll lose a thousand men by nightfall,” Taristan muttered, his eyes never leaving the river. His wizard
was not with them, cooped up with his own doings back at Castle Lotha. “The Madrentines are dug in
between their forts. Their trench lines are as deep as our own. Even if we outnumber them five to one, it
will be a killing field.”
His voice was flat, without accusation.
“A thousand men for the border,” Erida answered. “A thousand men for a clear road to Rouleine, and
then Partepalas, and then the coast.”
A clear road.
They both knew what that meant.
Though the Spindle was back in the ruins, guarded by an encampment of five hundred men, she could
still hear the growl within it, the shuddering cascade of gems and teeth.
“For the glory of Galland,” Konegin rumbled, putting a fist over his heart.
Though she despised him, the Queen didn’t mind echoing his words, the battle cry that had lived in her
since birth. “For the glory of Galland.”
The others followed suit, the great generals and lords cheering for their country. Their voices swelled as
one, thunderous to meet the first echoing clash of steel at the river.
Only Taristan remained silent and staring, his eyes rimmed in red, his fingers soft in Erida’s own.
The Madrentine campaign headquartered at Lotha, the grander of the two castles close to the first
assault. Once the field was won, they would move further downriver, keeping the Rose between
themselves and danger. More legions would follow, already marching from the corners of Galland to
bolster their conquest through the soft valleys of Madrence.
Erida had never been
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