Was it the bridge? Did her aunt want it for herself? Did she want Ithicana and Maridrina to exhaust themselves in a drawn-out war, which would allow Valcotta to swoop in and take it in the Empress’s name?
That would certainly be a bitter pill for Silas to swallow, but also made no strategic sense, for it would only put Valcotta in the same position Maridrina was in now—in possession of an asset that cost more than it earned. While the Empress was motivated by pride, she was no fool—Zarrah could not see her making that choice.
So what did she intend?
Exiting the gardens and moving into the palace, Zarrah steadied her breath as she approached the gazebo where the royal pair had been left to wait. Her eyes latched on Aren first, the Ithicanian king pacing back and forth, his nerves clearly on display, whereas Lara sat calmly, sipping on a glass of wine. Both had shadows under their eyes, faces lean from hard living, but neither showed any serious injury. A feat, given what she suspected they’d endured since parting ways with Zarrah on the stairwell in Silas’s tower.
At the sound of her steps, Aren stopped pacing, his dark eyes latching on her. Zarrah gave him a wide smile of welcome. “Good to see you alive, Your Majesty.” She touched her hand to her chest, knowing that the Empress would be appraised of her every word by the servants and guards surrounding the gazebo. “I heard you ran into some trouble after we parted ways outside the gates of Vencia.”
That was the lie she’d told, and she needed him to hold to the same story.
Aren’s eyes narrowed, noting how her words were a departure from the truth, and it was a struggle not to hold her breath as he hesitated in his response. Then he said, “Likewise—I’m pleased to see you are well.”
“I didn’t have the opportunity to thank you, so allow me to do so now,” she said. “Perhaps there will come a time when I might repay you.”
“I think we’re even,” he said, though there was no chance he knew she’d fulfilled her promise to him. The ship she’d sent likely hadn’t even arrived in Ithicana yet, much less word of it come back to Pyrinat.
Either way, the last thing she needed was her aunt learning of her little trick, so Zarrah gave a slight shake of her head and a warning gaze, hoping it would silence him on the subject. Praying that he was enough of a politician to realize that her actions were not sanctioned by the Empress. Then she gestured at the guards. “Stand down. His Grace is who he says he is.” She moved her eyes to Lara’s, the woman’s azure gaze so remarkably like Keris’s, not just in color but in their scrutiny, that it made Zarrah’s chest tighten. “As is she.”
The trek across the Red Desert had darkened the Queen of Ithicana’s complexion to a golden brown, which made the many scars marking the woman’s skin more pronounced. A woman of rare and dangerous beauty, and Zarrah thought it little wonder that Aren had fallen for her. “I enjoyed your dance very much, Your Majesty. Though not as much as I enjoyed watching you kick wine into your father’s face.”
Lara inclined her head, her voice soft but strong as she said, “I enjoyed that as well.”
She needed to bring them to the Empress, but Zarrah found herself hesitating. They’d endured so much to reach Pyrinat, and it would be for nothing. It made her sick with guilt. Not only because of what they’d done for her, but because Ithicana didn’t deserve the hand it had been dealt, nothing more than a pawn falling victim in a conflict between rival nations. But that was something they’d need to learn themselves.
“Come, come.” She kept her voice light. “My aunt wishes to know the face behind the name. I expect she’s also looking forward to a chance to berate you for every choice you’ve made in your reign.”
With Aren towering at her elbow, Zarrah led them down the garden paths, feeling Lara’s gaze between her shoulder blades as she told him, “Silas has been spreading rumors of your death, Aren. Up and down the coast, though the story of how you died changes with every telling. We, of course, questioned the veracity of the claims. Silas is a braggart, and no Ithicanian heads adorn Vencia’s gates.”
Turning, she said to Lara, “No women fitting the descriptions of those who assisted you, either. Were they truly all your sisters?”
Lara met her stare, gaze unblinking. “Yes.”
Zarrah felt the woman dissecting her expression, looking for clues and tells of what she and Aren would face with the Empress. Once, it would have unnerved her, but Zarrah only smiled and said, “Fascinating. I wonder if it’s ever dawned on your father that Maridrina might win the war between our two nations if he set aside his foolish notions about a woman’s role.”
“That would require him admitting he was wrong in the first place,” Lara replied. “Which seems unlikely.”
“I’m inclined to agree.” Zarrah lifted her shoulder in a shrug that belied the nerves coursing through her guts. “Your homeland’s misfortune has long been to Valcotta’s benefit, so I cannot honestly admit that I’m sorry.”
Lara didn’t answer, and the conversation died, both the King and Queen of Ithicana eyeing the interior of the palace with curiosity, although their attention focused as she brought them into the Empress’s tower.
Her aunt had changed out of her fighting leathers and wore loose trousers and a blouse, both of gold silk, her arms encircled with dozens of bangles and her greying hair woven with golden wire strung with amethysts. Gold bracelets climbed both arms to her elbows, her ears were cuffed with gold and gems, and her throat was encased with an intricately carved gold necklace. In her hands was a half-finished doll, her fingers lovingly toying with the threads as though she were making it for a beloved child.
Except the Empress of Valcotta did not have time for macrame. This was a scene staged for Aren and Lara’s benefit, her aunt presenting herself in a way that was wholly unfamiliar to Zarrah. And that, more than the lie itself, put her on edge.
But she hid her unease, saying, “Aunt, might I present His Royal Majesty, King Aren of Ithicana, Master of the Bridge—”
“Ah, but you’re not its master anymore, are you, boy?” Her aunt’s gaze did not move from the doll in her hands. “That honor belongs to the Maridrinian rat. I imagine that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Before Aren could answer, she continued. “And you, girl. I assume you’re the rat’s get? You’ll be accorded no titles in this house. Be glad I don’t have you dragged outside and your throat slit.”
Lara was of identical blood to Keris, and it was not lost on Zarrah that if he stood before the Empress, the words might be the same. Might well be worse.
Aren tensed, but Lara only tilted her head, gaze full of challenge as she said, “Why don’t you?”
“Because as much as we might wish it otherwise, your life doesn’t belong to Valcotta. Nor your death.”