Page 84 of Shadows and Roses

She pressed her hand to the cold, rough stone floor. Her mask slid into place. The arms around her tightened. "Anais—"

She twisted out and up, Vern cursing as he grabbed his wrist, flexed his fingers. Sprained, not broken. He would be fine.

"Find me the General," the Queen commanded her guard.

"My Queen." The steward held her eyes but didn’t move from the ground. "Your Escorts wish an audience."

Silence and stillness rang in her ears as she watched the guard walk away. "Do you not trust me, Vern?"

"Hear us. Please."

They were chains, every one of them.

Chains she'd accepted, some of her own making.

It was difficult to let go of the hate and rage, which was more a part of the mask than a part of her. Or so she convinced herself. It had to be, because otherwise the dark court and the bitch Queen who tortured Castien would get what they wanted.

War.

There were pettier reasons for wars, though mostly before her mother took the throne. And a deep, desperate part of her yearned to release that bloodshed, dig her claws into the world and tear it apart. From that darkness rose her mask, making her a convincing Dark Queen. Even that bit sickened and frightened her, that she might one day give in to temptation and become that which she hated.

Her mother had known, had taught her to use and control every part of herself. One day, after Anais returned to the palace enraged at her siblings’ cruelties, Jana had pulled apart a flower, revealing a tiny thorn at its core.

‘My grandmother told me this tale, as her mother told her,’ she’d said, years ago when Anais firstasked how to stop hating the cruel children and nobles. ‘Countless eons ago, before Drantar or Nadraken, before Queens and nobles, before humans walked these lands, there were gods and spirits. The gods formed animals from the earth, seas, and air, populating the world with a fantastic variety of life.

‘One of these gods formed humans modeled after this flower. It lures in small insects with a sweet scent, then the prick of its thorn paralyzes its prey so the flower can slowly digest its victim. All of us have a prickly core filled with the desire to hurt others. Some of us are more like cacti, prickly all over and untouchable. You and I, Anais, we have a thorn too.' She had pressed a hand to her chest.

‘Hate is a part of being human. You will hate and you will be angry and you must not suppress those feelings. Don’t poison yourself with your own thorn. Neither should you allow thorns to be all that you are.’

Her mother had given her the flower. ‘Wield those emotions. Cut, when you need to. Attack, if you must. But don't be a prickly cactus. Focus on your single, tiny thorn and let it sharpen your mind.'

Anais snipped the budding thorns and nodded once. "Gather the Escorts."

Nadraken would burn. Eventually.

Vern bowed his head.

—

The faces staring at her in the small side room held varying expressions of worry, sympathy, and anger. Even here, she maintained one vital layer of her mask—she was still the Queen.

She took her seat.

"Is your southern team prepared, Vern?"

He stiffened—the slightest set of his shoulder that no one else may have noticed. "Yes, my Queen."

The others certainly noted his curt reply.

Laureline was the first to catch on. "It’s too soon, we need the rebels—"

"Now," Anais breathed. The time for doubt was past. "The rebels will fall in line. Castien is ours. Damon will want Nadraken destroyed. The court will have a target to focus their restless whispering. We strike now."

Trishve scowled. "And leave ourselves open to Delia? To Akerami? Even Shoni’i might be tempted."

The same arguments as always. "We’re not declaring war. Nadraken’s Queen could have been killed by any of them, perhaps her own foul court."

"It will obviously have been us," Laureline murmured.

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