Page 19 of The War Queen's Daughter

He sighs, a sound of theatrical exasperation. “Indeed. A shame, really. I supported your mother’s request to have you added to the Overprince’s selection. Perhaps I shouldn’t have.” His voice might be laced with false regret, implying that my failure is a personal affront, but he fails to realize that the only person whose use of that tone works on me is many days’ ride away.

Because I may not be my mother, but neither is he.

The sheer audacity of his condescension snaps something inside me. The simmering fury boils over.To the fire with him. To the fire withallof them.My mother’s ambition, her demands, this entire rotten scheme. I will drink their wine and eat their meat, bed who I choose, and show them that I am exactly what they think I am.

And when the time comes and I am free of this place, when the day arrives that I take the throne of Heald, they will regret making an enemy of me.

They think my mother dangerous. They have no idea what I will do to make them pay for this.

It’s a tirade I’m willing to allow to unfold in my head if only to make myself feel better. I have no real illusions about my ability to follow through. Certainly, the allure of the vision that rises, my army behind me, the banner of Heald over Gorgon’s head, as we take the Citadel, the princesses bowing to me, the Overking’s throne my own, is undeniable.

As the Chancellor said, I am a product of Jhanette the Bold. But I’m also too careful to allow such fantasies anything but a fleeting moment to comfort me. Reality must win or I won’t be leaving here anytime soon—if at all.

Unacceptable. Aside from exiling myself, abandoning everything I cherish for a short life as a mercenary, consequences come from regret as much as hasty acts.

And yet, the appeal of Gorgon, his powerful muscles carrying me far from Winderose, is a sudden, desperate longing.

“You need not regret it, Chancellor,” I say, my voice low and dangerous. “As I will regretyourpresence no longer.” I push past him, leaving him standing there, his horrible smile perhaps finally faltering.

I storm down the corridor, the half-boots echoing on the polished marble. Whoever took my armor has vanished, but at least they left me my sword. I found it in my quarters when I returned from dinner, the scabbard polished, the blade unharmed. If they tried to clean or sharpen it, they’d been likely surprised because unlike my person, the sword I carry is always first.

Gorgon second.

Me third. The way of things.

As I turn a corner, heading instinctively towards the palace stables—at least my horse will be good company for a short while—a flicker of movement catches my eye. I stop to focus, stepping back behind a carved plinth and again see motion, someone pausing just inside the light with their face turned toward me.

The sight draws a hiss from between my lips. It’s him. The gorgeous, smirking man from the market. And his hulking companion is with him, their figures melting into the shadows of a less-used corridor. Perhaps I’m wrong in assuming they're misplaced, intruding. Or I could trust my instincts that insist neither of the brash rogues belongs here.

While they might pass if dressed the part, they’ve not donned finery. Their clothes are too plain, their movements too fluid, too careful and practiced. And when a small collective of drunken courtiers staggers out into the open, singing and laughing, the pair disappear into shadow as though made from it.

Thieves, then. How fascinating.

And the kind of adventure that I simply can’t ignore. Of course, I follow. My instincts, honed from years of tracking enemies, kick in, years spent doing as they are doing honed to an edge that would rival the one I’ve polished into my blade. Mother might prefer brute strength after strategy, but I’ve found a bit of creeping and peeping can solve many problems and shorten a task or two when the timing is right.

Like right now.

They move along when the revelers do, silent and skillful. I follow, keeping enough distance but them in my sights. I don’t know the layout or terrain so I’m forced to close in with them a bit more than I’d like, but like them I find it easy to avoid the noisy and oblivious few we encounter as the pair I track wind their way deeper—and higher—into the Citadel until I’m climbing a winding, circular staircase just behind the rogues’ shadows.

I might be grinning. Am I enjoying myself? For the first time in some time, yes. They’ve done nothing of note or threat as of yet, and the thrill of the hunt fires me up like few things do, so I forgive myself the tight smirk that tugs at my lips as I reach the top of the stairs and pause to listen.

They’re very good, I’ll give them that, even the big one. He’s drakonkin, I’m sure of it, though it doesn’t matter to me from what race he hails. It’s their skill that impresses me and has me pushing myself to do better, be better.

We’re in a part of the palace I don’t know at all, this tower as unfamiliar to me as the rest of the place, and were I a lessertracker, I’d be lost completely by now. But I can tell from the lights through the tall, narrow windows we’re on the city facing side, not the mountain and that same light skews left which means we’re somewhere close to the wall. I risk a peek outside and confirm it, the curve of the white stone protections just below. Where are they leading me?

Someone coughs, but I’ve heard the footsteps long before that and find a slip of shadow to hide in as the two guards walk past. Noisy, their breathing irregular, the left boot on the taller of the two squeaking at the heel from lack of oiling. Disappointing when a soldier mishandles his equipment. Which has me scowling over my armor again as I take up my pursuit once again, the guards as oblivious as everyone else has been.

I feel a shift in air pressure, my ears tingling from it. Someone’s opened a door ahead, a door that’s been closed, but the windows lie open. A waft of old parchment and dust carries toward me, a refreshing change from the lilies and beeswax. When I close on the last door in the hallway, a shadow beneath it is the first of only two errors they’ve made.

And only called those because they didn’t know they faced their equal tonight.

The keyhole is blocked, and possibly boobytrapped, so I avoid it, crouching instead and sliding free my dagger. The blade is thin and bright, as polished as my sword, sliding easily beneath the door over the threshold on the floor. A bare tilt catches light inside, the flicker of a flame that sets a lantern aglow. I can just make out the shelves around them, the desk they cross to before they’re out of the limited scope of my makeshift mirror.

A library. What could two thieves possibly seek in an old collection of history?

There’s only one way to discover the truth, and it’s through the door.

They haven’t locked it despite my trepidation, nor set a trap on the handle or keyhole. Not expecting company, perhaps? Still, it’s sloppy follow-through for two this talented, and now I’m tallying their record like I’m planning to break down their weaknesses instead of arresting them.

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