Page 87 of Shadows and Roses

She rose to her feet. "Stay for the solstice if you wish. I don’t recommend it."

—

Winter solstice dawned dark and cold.

This journey was a ritual that began when she left her bed chambers, walking past the quiet rose garden, gathering guards in her wake as she stepped toward the courtyard, then through the wide doors of the Queen's Wing. Layers upon layers like the chiffon dress she wore—diaphanous, obscuring, disguising.

But unlike her mask, the dress was meant to be removed.

The Swords’ Dance—sometimes called the Maiden’s Revenge—told a story. The Maiden walked into the Great Hall, her vast dress billowing as though she floated on clouds. The Knight knelt in reverence and asked for her hand. They danced, sweeping the floor in joy.

The Knight disappeared into the crowd. The Maiden’s dance continued, gathering men all around her, spinning, spinning until they all fell away. Sword drawn, the Knight returned, accusing. Anger underlined the dancers: rushed steps, hurried gestures, sharp movements.

A flash of the blade. He cut her.

She ran, he chased, ribbons of her dress flying in all directions as he sliced again and again.

Until nothing was left of her dress but a pile of scraps, the Maiden kneeling, hugging herself on the ground.

Then, as the room went silent and still, the Knight moments from stabbing her in the heart—the Maiden rose, two slim swords in her hands, her body wrapped in leather.

Ah, she did enjoy this dance.

They fought. Sharpened steel rang out in time with the beat of the drums—louder, faster, whirling, twisting. Her whole body thrummed.

It became more skill than dance. Sheattacked. Jerome’s face, ever impassive, took on a grim edge. This section of the performance was always improvised, and the chance of a true strike wasn’t nonexistent. It’s what made her feel alive.

Eventually, as always, the Knight fell. His weapon battered aside, his head lowered as he knelt once more. Her sword slid beneath his chin, pricked just a drop of blood from the hollow of his neck.

Dead.

Triumphant music rose in a crescendo. The Queen strapped her swords to her sides and strode to the throne, her dance partner a few paces behind. If the dance made her feel alive, the last moment brought back harsh reality.

Applause and a change of music trailed after them. Lascivious eyes were already following poor Jerome in his metal-reinforced leathers, sweat beading his forehead. She hoped he would restrain himself. Behind that stern exterior, he cared too much.

Anais understood a little better why Madeline never watched this part of the festival.

Whispers of Castien drifted amongst the crowd. They knew he had been stolen back—she’d let that knowledge flow. It was a point of pride for the entire court, after all.

Vern bowed and slipped into the seat besideher. "My Queen. Beautiful, as ever."

She flicked him a faintly irritated glance as she drew on emerald and gold bracelets, raising her chin for the captain to clasp a fur-lined cloak about her neck. "My Lord. If you’ve time to be entertained, then you can give me your report."

"Of course. Nadraken has not yet responded. Delia is no longer reinforcing their efforts, though General Trishve is still working on retaking our fort. Akerami is open to negotiation."

A few more details, and she nodded. The other nations were tentatively backing down after the rescue. This exchange of victims was almost normal, especially if Nadraken didn’t escalate.

"And from the Master Healer?" She kept her voice neutral. It was the usual question, though there was nothing usual about this patient. He still wasn’t stable enough to be moved.

Vern stabbed a cube of cheese with a knife. "Progressing as expected."

Nothing new.

She ate by force of habit.

—

After the exhausting festivities, Anais sat with her Escorts in the primary meeting room. She should have had this meeting sooner. The rebels moved faster than she had anticipated.

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