“Apologies, Highness,” Lord Nortah offered as they set off. “They’re not easy to control at the best of times. And it’s not like I can flog any.”
“No, my lord,” Lyrna replied. “You certainly cannot.” She found it strange that they rode in silence for much of the morning; the boy she remembered as the son of her father’s First Minister had rarely been quiet, a braggart and sometimes a bully, quick to taunt and even quicker to cry when his taunts were returned. She saw none of that boy in the bearded warrior at her side, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched his great cat bounding alongside.
“I intended to offer you restoration of your father’s lands and titles,” she told him when the silence became trying. “However, Lord Vaelin advised you had no interest in such honours.”
“Never did my father much good, did they, Highness?” he replied, affably enough but with a slight edge to his tone.
“I was not privy to the King’s decision in that matter,” she said. “I believe it to have been . . . regrettable.”
“I harbour no bitterness, Highness. Time has dimmed my memory of a man I recall I loved almost as much as I hated. In any case, without his death I would not have been set on the course that led me to my wife, my children and the home I hunger for. And the Faith teaches us to accept the gifts brought by fate.”
“You still hold to the Faith?”
“I left the Order, Highness, not the Faith. My brother may have lost his in the desert somewhere but mine still lingers on. Though my wife longs for me to abandon it in favour of the sun and the moon.” He gave a soft laugh and she could hear his homesickness in it. “The only thing we ever quarrel about, in truth.”
They rested at midday, Lyrna climbing down from Arrow’s back and drawing up in alarm as a woman rushed from the ranks of the Free Company with a dagger in both hands. Iltis’s sword came free of its scabbard in a blur but, rather than launching herself at Lyrna, the woman sank to her knees, head bowed with her twin daggers raised high.
“My Queen!” she said in a tremulous gasp. “I beg you to bless these blades so they might do your work.”
The rest of the freed fighters immediately dropped to their knees, all drawing weapons and holding them aloft. This was clearly a ceremony planned on the march, one she judged Lord Nortah knew nothing of from his weary and slightly disgusted expression.
Never be afraid of a little theatre. Lyrna took a breath and placed a kindly smile on her lips as she moved to the kneeling woman, recognising her as the slight figure who had been first to take up the cry at Alltor. “What is your name?” she asked her.
“F-Furelah, my Queen,” the woman stammered, not looking up.
Lyrna gently took hold of the woman’s trembling hands. “Lower your blades, sister,” she told her. “Stand up, look at me.”
Furelah slowly looked up, eyes wide as they drank in the sight of her face, coming to her feet as Lyrna kept hold of her hands. “Who did you lose?” she asked her.
“M-my daughter,” the slight woman breathed, tears flowing from her eyes. “Born out of wedlock, shunned and called a bastard her whole life, but always so sweet. They d-dashed her brains out with a rock.” She sagged as the sobs took her, sinking to her knees. Lyrna pulled her close as she wept, her daggers still gripped tight.
“I cannot bless this woman’s blades,” she told the fighters, many now weeping openly. “For she blesses me. You all do. I am your blade, and you are mine.” She raised the still-sobbing Furelah to her feet, leading her back to the company’s ranks. “Accordingly I hereby name you as the Realm Guard’s Sixtieth Regiment of Foot, to be known hereafter as the Queen’s Daggers.” They parted before her as she released Furelah, the woman instantly falling to her knees once more, her comrades all reaching out to touch tentative hands to Lyrna’s gown as she moved among them, fierce devotion on every face. I cannot become drunk on this, she thought, smiling and touching her hands to heads lowered in supplication. The lure of it is too great.
“Toil, blood and justice!” the cry began unbidden, a spontaneous shout from a faceless voice in the kneeling ranks, repeated over and over as they stabbed the air with their assorted weapons. “Toil! Blood! And justice!”
Lyrna felt the seduction of it sweep through her, the power of it, the knowledge that these few hundred wounded souls would die for her in an instant. She was on the verge of surrendering to it completely when something gave her pause, a single face not stricken in adoration. Lord Nortah stood beside his horse, running a hand over the head of the great cat crouched at his side, his faint look of disgust now replaced with one of deep and obvious disapproval.