Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
DAHLIA
The parley had been set.
The wind tugged at her cloak as she stood on the blood-soaked battlefield, her black velvet dress inky against the snow. The Asterans had arrived, their orange-and-red banner waving in the air on the other side of the battlefield.
Snowflakes began drifting from the sky.
“It’s time,” Olwen said, giving her a long look. He’d managed to secure the sapphires for her. Perhaps it would be enough to buy them a few more allies.
The Frost King swung down from his mount.
“This is where we leave you,” he said stiffly, his face a mask of indifference.
Her mouth popped open when he pulled a sheathed dagger from his hip and attached it to the wide silver belt at her waist.
“It is tipped in poison,” he muttered. “You only have to scratch your opponent, and the paralytic substance will take effect in seconds. If things are not to your satisfaction with your father, you leave.” He tightened the pauldron strap that crossed her chest. “You come home to your reillov.”
“I will.”
He inhaled, and his nostrils flared, scenting the lie. She had no illusions about what the end of today would look like for her. She planned on causing as much havoc in the Asteran camp as possible. If she did not return, the Loriians would attack. She’d give them the best chance of winning.
But maybe with a little luck, she’d succeed.
But she’d never been lucky.
He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Do not make me hunt you, niliave. Because I will. Mates stick together. Nothing will separate us ever again.”
Except death and her own secrets.
He pulled back and lifted her onto his own war horse. She slipped into the saddle, frowning at the king. “Alastor is your war horse.”
Neve shrugged. “He is the best mount we have.”
Dahlia glanced at the sky, catching a glimpse of the astrylle. “I won’t be alone. Serenity will be with me.”
“He will keep you safe. You will take him.” The Frost King brooked no argument.
Lia blushed and adjusted the heavy onyx crown on her brow. It was a statement piece for the Asterans. She looked like a Loriian queen, not just the Asteran princess. She touched the mizareth pendant at her throat and steeled herself for what was to come.
Neve shortened the stirrups so she could slip her feet into them. He placed a warm hand on her calf, staring up at her for once.
“Be safe, jaivelle.”
Dahlia nodded, not trusting her voice after he used the soft endearment.
She nudged the beast with her heels. Alastor set off.
She tried not to look at the bodies as she crossed the void between the two armies.
Her heart pounded in her ears the closer she drew to the humans.
She scanned the line of Asteran soldiers, picking out the mercenaries but not finding Randa among them.
Anger lit in her chest. The bloody human sovereign hadn’t even deigned to show up.
Because he knows what you are. You are nothing in his eyes.
She pulled on the reins, and the war horse pranced to the side. “Where is my father?” she demanded.
A grizzled soldier bowed from the seat of his mount. “His Majesty awaits you in the camp, my lady.”
“My queen,” she corrected, tone sharp. Don’t let them push you around.
“My queen,” he repeated, his face turning slightly red. “My apologies.”
“Do not trouble yourself over it. I’m sure it is a shock to find your princess alive and well,” she replied smoothly.
One of the Fierran mercenaries snickered. She glanced at the man, who was bundled up, only his burnished face, slightly pointed ears, and red hair visible. Fierrans weren’t quite as large as frost giants, but they were still larger than humans.
He quirked a smile around the small tusks that protruded out of his mouth, his gaze glinting with suppressed humor. “Lae reilleve.”
So, he knew a bit of Loriian. “Fierros,” she murmured back. The title for a highborn Fierran. His tusks were a dead giveaway of his heritage. What was a lord of Fierre doing in Randa’s camp? That was a breach of the treaty with Loriia, no doubt.
“Your father awaits,” the grizzled soldier said.
“By all means, lead the way.”
She urged Alastor after the soldier. The group closed around them, and she felt the gazes of the men upon her. Soon they entered the camp. Her nose wrinkled at the smell. It smelled of sickness and refuse.
As they moved deeper, no soldiers came out of their sagging tents to gawk. It was oddly empty.
For her plan to work, she needed the men to see her. “Where are all the soldiers?”
“Training or eating breakfast.”
“I would like to see them.”
The grizzled warrior sputtered, “The king expects you.”
“And I wish to see my people.” She pulled her horse up short. Alastor stamped the ground with his hooves. “Would you deny me?”
His jaw flexed. “No, my queen.” He huffed and changed direction.
One problem averted.
“That was well done,” the Fierran mercenary commented, sliding up to her on his own horse. He flashed her a wicked grin. “You’re trouble. I can tell already.”
“Is that so?” She arched a brow at him. “And what does that make you?”
“A kindred spirit.”
That could be her in. Mercenaries weren’t loyal to anyone but coin, and he had no clue how poor the Asterans really were.
Lia smiled. “Has your payment arrived yet?” His grin didn’t dim, but something in his gaze changed.
She’d caught his attention. She lowered her voice and batted her lashes.
“Surely, you’ve heard the rumors? Astera is in steep debt.
They were counting on my dowry to save them, but you really think they will receive it after the stunts they’ve pulled with Loriia?
” She leaned a little closer to the mercenary.
“Were you promised part of the mines too?”
His brows arched. “What a devious creature you are. I’m surprised your parents were willing to sell you to the Loriians. Your talent must be wasted so far to the north.”
“It was a mistake on their part, I assure you. Especially since Loriia is so wealthy.” She dangled the bait and waited. The Fierran observed her quietly, turned over her words in his mind. While she had not outright said the Loriians would pay them more, he could read between the lines.
“Our conversation has been enlightening,” the mercenary replied, bowing his head. “Lae reilleve.”
She dipped her chin. “Fierros.”
The tents widened out, revealing an arena of ice and muck.
She could detect the smell of unwashed bodies and campfire smoke.
Human soldiers sat at tables playing cards, eating food, and sparring.
The ringing of swords stopped as she moved through the area.
She smiled at soldiers, who stopped what they were doing and stared.
This was what she’d wanted. They’d been weaponized in her name, but no more. Let them see she was well and alive. Let them see their monarchs had deceived them.
Dahlia waved, giving a soldier who looked far too young a coy smile.
The murmurs started, and then the voices rose, anger palpable.
The head soldier slowed so he was next to her, his gaze shifting over the men, who were quickly turning into a mob. “Enough sightseeing, my queen. The men are becoming overwrought at your beauty. We must meet with the king.”
“As you say,” she murmured. “Lead on.” But the damage had been done. The men had seen their princess alive and well.
They retreated as shouts broke out behind them.
She stifled her smile, but her win was short-lived when they reached an opulent striped gold-and-red tent.
The Asteran flags flew from the top, and she had to hide her disgust. What a vain creature.
Did Randa not realize he was signaling to all the world where he slept at night? Did he really think he was so safe?
Lia pulled her horse to a stop, noting how many guards prowled the area. Notably better fed men than the soldiers they’d just come from, but many were halflings and Fierrans. Did the king not trust his own men to protect him? Were the paid mercenaries his guards? That was a flaw she would exploit.
The haughty solider dismounted at the same time as the Fierran. The troll cut the human off and bowed before her horse. He straightened and held his hands out. “If you’ll permit me.”
She nodded and swung her leg over the wide horse in the most ladylike way possible. He carefully wrapped his large hands around her waist and gently settled Dahlia on the ground.
“Thank you, Fierros . . .” she trailed off, plucking a rare autumn sapphire from the pocket of her dress.
“Draven,” he supplied.
“I hope to meet with you again,” she murmured, setting a hand on his chest, a sapphire pressed between her palm and his tunic.
His lips twitched as he set his hand over hers when she pulled away, the sapphire now hidden in his own hand.
Dahlia ignored the scowling soldier and lifted the hem of her dress, turning her back to the retinue of men. The halflings stationed at the door lifted the gaudy tent fabric so she could step inside. She frowned for a second before schooling her expression. They looked familiar. Odd.
The dimness of the king’s space and the scent of sweet smoke wrapped around her.
Randa sat in an actual throne at the back of the tent with two women sitting at his feet like hounds, collars and all.
Half-dressed women lay on chaise lounges with pipes and glasses dangling from their fingers.
A square table laden with drinks, food, and drugs sat squarely in the middle of the tent.
It was decadent debauchery.
This was what he’d been doing while his men died for his kingdom?
While they starved? More than one man looked thin and gaunt.
Randa smiled at her, and it made her stomach twist. It was the smile of a man who liked what he saw and was used to getting what he wanted. The grizzled soldier stepped inside, and the tent flaps sealed shut.
The soldier knelt. “I have secured your daughter, my liege.”
“I can see that, Lord Brandon. You have done well. Feel free to pick one of my gems for the night.”
“I could not,” Lord Brandon replied, his gaze still on the floor.
“Then leave me with my daughter and take these whores somewhere else while we catch up, would you?” Randa drawled, brushing his loose auburn hair out of his face.
The grizzled soldier hardly spared her a glance as he retreated, the flock of women following in his wake. Dahlia kept her cool facade in place as they filed out until no one was left but herself and the king.
He smiled and waved a hand at the nearest gaudy couch. “Why don’t you sit down, Daughter?”
“I am content where I am, Father.”
He laughed, swirling the contents of his wine before tossing it back.
His gaze was slightly unfocused when he met her eyes.
“What a surprise you are. Allium was sure you would be dead by now, but I knew you were special. I saw the hardness in your gaze. You are a survivor. My dear wife did not factor that into her plans.”
“This has gone on long enough,” she replied. “Let us find peace before it is too late.”
“Us?” he retorted, leaning forward on his gold throne.
“You are nothing but a pawn with no power. The Loriians thought to sway me with my dear daughter, but they don’t know you to be the worthless fraud that you are.
Do you really think you’re any better than the street rats in Florrant who think to challenge us? ”
So the rumors were true. The Asteran people had risen against the monarchy.
He grinned, and it raised the hair at the back of her neck; it was the grin of a predator.
Stay sharp. Don’t let him distract you.
“Don’t worry, darling girl. I’ll make good use of you, and when I am done, I’ll send you back in pieces for your king to put back . . .”
A thin line of red formed along Randa’s throat. The king’s eyes bulged, and he clawed at his neck. Lia just stood there frozen in horror as the Asteran king slumped into his throne, dead.
Her body flashed hot and cold as the Giver stepped from behind the throne, the razor-sharp garrote hanging from his bloody fingers.
Not possible.
He leaned against the throne, an indulgent smile on his light blue face. “Hello, my sweet flower. What a pretty queen you make. Shall we make a bargain?”