Page 47 of The War Queen's Daughter

Mother takes a long, slow sip of the wine, her eyes never leaving him. “So many pretty things to play with here in the headland,” she says. He visibly shivers under her intense scrutiny. The server glances up once.

A mistake. She holds his eyes for long enough that when he finally drops his gaze, avoiding her unsettling stare, he’s shaking so much that I’m afraid he might collapse.

“Mother.” It’s a terrible thing to interrupt her when she’s playing with someone. I know it, I’ve borne the brunt of her displeasure before. But I will do so again, if need be. As her weighty anger shifts to me, I gesture to the young man to go. He stumbles away and disappears through the doorway of the tavern.

“Still no fun,” she snaps. “Not even this place has changed you. A pity.” She’s capable of diplomacy. I’ve seen her wield it. But the older she gets, the deeper into her reign, the less my mother seems to care what anyone thinks of her. This Jhanette is a blunt instrument, wielded her power without apology. Whatever her reason for this show of force on a common street, she has her purpose, though. Word will spread. For the warrior queen of Heald, perhaps that is enough.

I will never claim to know my mother’s mind.

For now, she’s stripped back to pure belligerence, lacking pretense, asserting her dominance through sheer will and her terrifying presence fed by reputation but backed by the sheer force of who she is.

I could choose to admire her. Instead, I grit my teeth against the stunned, horrified expressions on the faces of the onlookers, the courtiers who had lingered after the princesses exited aghast.

My only saving grace dismounts and joins us, sweeping forward to embrace me. Aunt Vivenne’s face is unreadable, as always, but her gaze meets mine, a flicker of commiseration passing between us. She carries her own armor with the same effortless grace as my mother, but her presence is a steady anchor, not a disruptive force.

I’ve missed her far more than I’ve ever missed my mother.

“Enough with the hugging,” Mother snaps when we’ve barely had time to embrace. “We’re not here to kiss one another’s cheeks and simper over pleasantries.” She turns her gaze back to me, taking in my armor. She doesn’t comment. That will come later, in private. For now, she lets it go, draining her cup and demanding a refill.

It’s the girl who comes this time, though my aunt is the one to take the decanter, and it is she, too, who fills my mother’s glass.

The queen scowls at her sister but drinks without argument, finally slamming it down on the table, empty. Mother rises as she sat, in one smooth and graceful motion, a mountain of litheness and dangerous with every step. She can’t help but make a spectacle of herself at this point, striding to her horse and swinging into the saddle, no small feat in armor without help or hesitation.

“Come,” she says. “Show us to the Citadel, daughter.”

“She knows the way,” I mutter to my aunt.

“She’s worried about you,” the general whispers back.

I stumble, stare. Honestly, my mouth is agape. That word has never once crossed my mother’s mind connected to me. My aunt reaches out and closes it with a firm touch.

“So cynical,” she says. “Now, hurry before she decides to make another stop.”

I swing up behind my aunt, riding behind Mother, as if there’s anywhere else to position ourselves. The queen’s broad, powerful shoulders sit above all of ours, her horse not needing to cut a path through the crowd, his hoof falls loud enough that even the slowest of folk have time to scramble out of his way. I’ve always loved Mastodon, my mother’s stallion, though it’s soon time he’s put out to pasture and the niggling nervous thought that she might take Gorgon from me is an old fear I only linger over because she’s here.

My mother is here.

The gods help me.

“You’re well?” Aunt’s voice is low and unheard, but to my ears over the ring of steel-clad hooves on stone.

“Mostly,” I say. “I have much to tell you. You received my note?” I didn’t check to see if Lethes was with them.

“We did,” she says. “I was on the road when it was delivered, met up with your mother on my way here.” I nod. I want to ask her what she was doing, where she’s riding from, but she’s already speaking again. “Amber’s updates have left out more than your mother was willing to accept, and yours proved that.” Interesting. “Has she served you well in your time here?”

The terrible idea that the ambassador could be my attempted murderer crosses my mind again, though I’m not willing to say so to my aunt. She might be more level than Mother, but she’ll still cut a traitor’s throat without stopping to check if they're guilty if it means the good of Heald.

Or her family.

“So far,” I say. “She understands the way of things here, while I do not. She’s been a guide, even if I’m not the best follower.” I grimace and exhale against my aunt’s broad back. “It’s complicated.”

She laughs low and soft. “That’s why I prefer battle, Remi,” she says. “Point me at an enemy, tell me to kill them. Orders, and order.” She nods, blonde hair gleaming in her wound, tight braids. “Save me from politics and the consequences of promises broken.”

She sounds sad, regretful. I reach around to squeeze her elbow in the crease of her armor.

“Agreed,” I say. “Though it seems, I’m not to have that option, am I?”

“I’m so sorry,” she says, choking a little. And falls quiet as Mother urges Mastodon forward in a stately trot. It’s a careful, extended strut, trained into our mounts, a measuredand imposing pace meant to intimidate, and does a good job of it. We’ve just entered the wide parade outside the doors of the Citadel in a grand, defiantly aggressive procession, and from the reaction of the armored knights standing there, their sudden scramble to attention immediately follows their stunned gaping.

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