Page 5 of A Crown of Tears and Treason
The one with the eagle tattoo on his wrist, who’d hauled me inside the carriage.
The one who was tall enough to loom, had one blue eye, the other black, who’d told me what lies to spew to my family. Orelse.
My gaze swept the Serpent side three times. No trace of eyebrow scars, eagle tattoos, and no dual-colored eyes. Gold, silver, and green shined in every dress, accessory, and feathered hat that rose to the heavens.
I’d find out who those three assassins were, one way or another, and Fabrian was my closest lead to them. What I’d do after was up for debate. I wasn’t a killer–at heart or in skills.
Grandpa Constantine would be furious if he saw me like this. And so disappointed. During the five short years I’d had with him, he’d tried his best to raise me well enough to handle the responsibilities I’d been born to shoulder.
“What do you say to those Blood Brotherhood bastards if any of them have the guts to say you don’t belong on their golden throne?” he used to ask me.
“That they should be scared my grandpa will kick their asses,” I’d reply with a toothy grin.
Then grandpa Constantine would laugh in that rich baritone voice of his so hard, his white beard would tremble.
“Yes, that’s exactly what you tell them. And after I’m dead–” He’d groan as he crouched on one knee, to look me in the eyes, like I was already his equal. “–you don’t sayanything. You show them you’re the best damn queen they’ve ever had and that they’re lucky to have you protecting them. Words don’t matter unless you back them up with actions. Make them fear you at first, then make them love you. You’ll sleep better and safer at night. Always remember who you are. And survive, whatever it takes. Understood?”
I’d nodded, even though I didn’t understand much of anything back then.
“Good. Now let’s get you some cake.” Grandpa Constantine had taken my small hand in his. “Don’t tell your mother I taught you to say asses. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Yet here I was, dangerously close to a Clan throne. Exactly where my parents had prayed I wouldn’t end up.
I walked as slowly as possible toward the altar, Fabrian, and the priest. One small act of defiance.
But I felt small.
I’d always kind of felt that way after I vanished with my parents, Falor, the great First Son of the Protectorate, Constantine’s heir that wanted nothing to do with the steel throne, and Mara, the best rider the Protectorate had ever seen. They said she could shoot her magicked arrows standing up on her galloping horse and not lose her seat. Formidable, both of them.
They’d raised me to be kind and honest–and afraid.
Of magic.
Of power.
Of the outside world.
They’d wanted obedience masquerading as respect.
I went from grandpa Constantine carrying me on his broad shoulders and calling me his precious princess, to thawing ice to bathe myself in the winter, and learning the basics of mathematics and reading from two parents who didn’t have the patience for a child’s curiosity and moods.
I hated it there.
“Please take me home,” I’d cried my little five-year-old heart out in that cold, barren cabin. “Grandpa Constantine gave me cake. He read with me and gave me hugs. Take me back to him!”
My father had raised his mighty eyebrows, which made him look more like grandpa Constantine than he’d ever liked to admit. “You’re not going back. Not now, not ever. Constantine can’t protect you. He can’t even protect his own home.”
“I don’t like it here.” I’d hiccupped between the tears. “I’m cold and hungry and the dark scares me. Take me back. I’ll be good, I promise. Please take me back! Please!”
My mother had sent me one of those looks that instilled the fear of old gods in me. “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll send you to get the firewood at night. For a whole month.”
I shut up after that. I hated going outside at night; the forest groaned loudest after sunset, as if something waited to clamp its jaws around my neck. My parents knew I was afraid of the dark, too–a terror that had followed me to this day–that’s why they used to threaten me with it.
Fear was their most effective weapon and they used it each chance they got.
Fabrian was using it today, too. But he’d stumbled upon another great weapon against me. Guilt.
That I would make another wrong move, one more mistake, and I’d lose people I loved.
