Page 90 of Shadows and Roses

The rebels jeered and laughed. The scarred man's hand moved to his sword, a dark glare on his brow. Damon threw an arm around his companion’s shoulder. "This is my second, Jerrl. My captains will be joining us soon. Sit. Drink." He gestured to the barrels. "Ale purloined from a nearby lord. It’s not bad."

No one moved.

Anais glanced between her guards and the rebels, noting too many hands on weapons. If Castien were here, she imagined he might’ve slipped through the crowd with an easy smile and casual touch, dissipating the tension with little effort. But he was not.

She raised a brow at Damon. This was his camp, his people, his lead.

He smirked, then moved toward the barrels. "Alright, enough. Get on with the lot of you, clear some space. We have business to discuss." He waved at the extra rebel guards.

After some rough shuffling, her entourage traded places with the guards on one side of the tent, and she took a seat at the table. Damon slid her a mug.

As he sat, her eyes drew to his dangling necklace.

His smile widened.

Not only was the claw an insult, it was vile. At best, he defiled a dead woman. More likely, he was a murderer, and he wanted her to know. Demanding he remove it would be met with laughter, disdain, and hostility. Not a good start. Ignoring it would look weak.

She returned the smile, a faintly amused curve of her lips. "To our mutually beneficial alliance." Lifting the mug, she drank.

Jerome’s eyes were likely attempting to pin her mug to the table. Either they would kill her or not; poison seemed a strangeway to do it at this point.

Damon raised his mug in mock salute and drank as well. "To the Queen’s everlasting kindness."

His eyes flickered.

That rage again. He’d need to work on his mask if he was going to survive in court.

Damon’s second seemed unable to hold his tongue any longer.

"Hundreds killed every year for your court's sick games—is that kindness? Is that the world you want to build?" Jerrl glared at her, his rage not at all hidden.

A pure anger she could understand; so much of the same simmered in her heart. She glanced at Damon’s crooked smile, then said, "Thousands die in Delia, sacrifices in every village. Akerami’s appetite for slaves grows hungrier by the year. No, any number of cruel deaths is not a kindness, but would you rather whole towns burned as armies march through? I want to build something that cannot exist without the people's active support. Your lives, yes, but not sacrificed to me or anyone. If the sea of hundreds of thousands of commoners rises, they will drown the mere few thousand nobles with little effort."

While she spoke, several other rebels walked into the tent. Two women, one offering a kind smile, a man who sat beside Jerrl, and a taller man who gave her a wary nod of greeting.

The brittle-looking woman spoke, her voice as sharp as her face. "Don't you have an army? And all the landed lords and ladies have guards and militia. Are we supposed to throw our lives against all of that?"

She raised a brow. "The army is loyal to me, yes. We could wipe out the nobility ourselves, but civil war makes us weak. While we fight amongst ourselves, the other Queens would all too happily take pieces of this land in the chaos. We need decisive unity to keep what we gain."

Damon lifted a hand to quiet the angry murmurings.

"Let's say you’re right. Why not slit your throat, rid the world of a sadistic bitch, watch the Queens tear each other apart for pieces of your land, then sweep in to clean up the mess?" Sneers and laughter scattered through the rebels again when he made a sweeping gesture with his arm, as though clearing things off a table. A few of the rebels inched closer, hands wandering to their weapons.

She refrained from a condescending look. "Are you so certain of victory? Perhaps you would only destroy the strongest ally in this world willing and able to help you. Perhaps my steward would serve well, and there would be no war among the Queens, no chaos in which you might rise."

The rebel grinned. "Maybe we’ll just replace you. I've a few sharp-fingered ladies that could be taught to speak prettily."

Those clawed women in his ranks were Laureline’s work. At her lady’s suggestion, the Queen had been purposefully negligent in rounding up bastards—one of the many, small chips in long-held traditions that kept the people complacent. And here was evidence of the foundation cracking—these rebels, this proud, arrogant man, wouldn't dare lift their heads in any other nation.

But she couldn’t mention that.

"Banter gets us nowhere, Damon. I’ve come to you. Do you want an alliance or not?"

He waved a hand. "Paint a picture for us. What would our alliance look like?"

She’d discussed this with her Escorts. "Military conscription. The council won't accept you simply because I tell them to. However, they will accept that you are an overthrown, conquered rebel band that I've forced into joining my army. They will not mistreat you; even sadistic bitches recognizethe need for military strength."

He chuckled and nodded, his brazen arrogance seemingly set aside for the moment. "And the excuse for my position of leadership?"

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