The Fell Queen (As Cold As Glass #1)

1. One

one

Neira hated her father's throne.

Hated the smooth, hard alabaster granite it was carved from, the high back that reached towards the vaulted ceiling and fell just short of touching it – that used to drive her to madness when she was younger. Hated how the white stone, marbled with thin, reddish veins, reminded her of eyeballs.

Hated, even more, when her father sat there, decreeing and judging and deciding with his precious heir, little Ramin, right there upon his lap while Neira stood to the side, a woman grown and taught and capable and yet discarded.

Hated, too, how small it made her feel to sit here now, her hands resting on cold armrests too far apart to be any source of comfort or support, while two of her father's regiars bickered in front of her.

"The prince should be the one to make this decision," one argued, his face flushed with anger. "The princess has no right to sit the throne!"

"The princess is the princess and your king's firstborn," the other rebutted firmly. "Regardless of your feelings on the matter, Lord Merryn, you will show her the respect she is due."

Even as he defended her, he spoke about her as if she wasn’t even present. Fury rose in the back of Neira's throat like bile, her nails biting into her palms to keep herself from doing anything rash, to keep composure firmly in place. These men could shout at each other until the sun burned to ash but she would sit the throne, decreeing and judging and deciding.

For once.

"Prince Ramin–"

"Prince Ramin is six years old," Neira cut in, her voice as cold as the stone she sat on. "Surely you are not suggesting we wake my brother at this late hour to satisfy your nonsensical whims, Lord Merryn."

"But still–"

"No. You will speak to me in my father's absence, and if I deign your concerns of value, I will bring them before the crown prince." Neira gripped the throne's armrests as if she could hold on to the damn thing with sheer willpower.

Let them try to move her. It would not end well.

Lord Merryn seemed to sense that. He swallowed, averting his eyes, his face turning grey with dread. Neira kept her gaze firmly on him, daring him to meet her eyes again. He did not.

"Your Highness," the other regiar addressed her in the same soothing tone one would use on a child. It made her hackles rise again. Not even Ramin was subjected to this placating tone. Would that their births had been switched, Neira often thought – a younger daughter was cherished, an older son's birthright never challenged. But a Ramin her age would have ridden out with their father, to meet the aggressor on the battlefield.

And then the throne would have been hers to keep regardless, if these vultures wouldn't have taken it from her the second it seemed convenient.

To think that a seat of power was easier taken from a grown woman of almost thirty than a boychild of six.

She would have to do something about these regiars. Neira didn't trust any man to think further than their own self-interests, and they most certainly did not have the kingdom’s best interests in mind; once she was queen, their influence would diminish greatly. The realm would be better for it.

"Your Highness?"

Neira focused on the regiar, her dark eyes as cutting as the lash of a whip. The man even recoiled. It gave Neira more satisfaction than she cared to admit. But she had allowed her thoughts to wander; as unimportant as these people were to her, distraction was not something a queen allowed herself when it came to matters of ruling. "Repeat yourself, if you believe your words important."

A challenge, an invitation and a threat all rolled into one. Challenge me, if you believe you can bear the punishment . Lord Arwess recognised it as such and bowed, deeply.

"Apologies, Princess. It's late. We should reconvene in the morning."

"Indeed."

Only when the hall was empty, with just the sound of her own breath for company, did Neira allow herself to relax. One of her nails had cracked from digging it against the unforgiving throne, the cold of the stone had seeped into her thighs, and her spine had been held so straight that every muscle protested when she finally rose. Without granting the throne a second glance, she descended the three steps of the dais it stood on and wandered down the long, thick carpet that ran through the throne hall like a dried river of old blood.

A bath was in order, as hot as she could have it without boiling.

Neira's suite of rooms were on the far side of the stronghold that was her childhood home, just high enough for her windows to sit above the wall surrounding the castle grounds and to allow a view over the moors. Her suite was as far away from the front gates as possible, and between there and the front gates were several more heavy, stone gates, all of which could be moved only by the magic of someone keyed to the locking mechanism. With an aggressor, a would-be conqueror on their lands, Neira felt all the safer for them. They'd shut tight, and the brutes could ravage the front of the castle, throw themselves against their defences until they broke their bodies or grew weary of their useless assault. And when they were gone, Neira and the staff and the handful of nobles who served her father as regiars would emerge, safe and sound and whole, and resume life as normal.

It was only a minor inconvenience. They'd persevere.

The only door that shut tight behind her now was the engraved one that led into her chambers within the royal family's wing. She passed her father's, and Ramin's, considering for a moment to look in on her little brother, but eventually decided against it. It was late, after all, and the boy would be fast asleep. There was no reason to rouse him.

Still, something heavy had settled in her belly. Worry, perhaps. Neira wouldn't go so far as to call it dread not yet, but something wasn't entirely right.

"Mother?"

"She has retired, Majesty." The soft voice of her maid came from the cracked door to her right, followed by the rustle of bedding as the girl rose, the quiet steps of her feet. In her wake, the lights caught in their glass crystals high on the walls flickered to life, filling the room with their pale glow.

Neira sighed. "It must be later than I realised. I apologise, Safir. Will you run me a bath?"

"Of course."

Neira stepped out of her shoes as the sound of rushing water filtered in from her bathing chamber, her dress in a careless heap in the doorway. By the marble bath large enough to hold three people stood Safir, her fingers weaving water from magic in a steady torrent. It would be just the right temperature, Neira knew; she had chosen the Farn girl as her personal maid for this talent, and her competence and efficiency, as much as for her discretion and sweet nature.

Safir must have heard her approach, or was otherwise so tuned in to her mistress' needs that she had sensed her coming. She turned her head, a sympathy in her smile that Neira didn't begrudge her as the water reflected in the gloss of her horns.

"Long day?"

"You have no idea," Neira groaned. Her smallclothes were thrown with some force, landing far beyond her discarded dress to be collected later. "I wish there was a spell to take the regiars' voices so the only way they could bother me was by letter."

"Or by glaring at you from across the room!" Safir giggled.

"They already do that! Perhaps I'll ask father for that spell when he returns." The princess lacked her maid's natural connection to elemental sorcery – the Farn were privy to that specific type of innate magic. But the king of Brightmere was a powerful sorcerer in ways that went beyond the mere stirring of storms and crackling of flame. There was nothing Neira couldn't conjure with a careful recital of the old runes and sigils he had drilled into her from early childhood, meticulously assembled for her to achieve what she desired.

"Can you imagine, today Merryn suggested Ramin take the reins instead." Neira stepped into the basin before it was even half-filled, gingerly sitting down. Her toes, half-frozen, stung in the hot water but she pushed through it.

"Lord Merryn does realise the prince is six years old? How would he lead a realm when he can barely read?"

"That's what I told him!" Neira sank back against the still chilly marble lip of the tub. The water had risen to her waist, and her behind felt like it needed to be thawed. "I shouldn't have to tell any of them. They should use their heads for more than just wearing ugly hats. You can barely pull Ramin away from his silly string game long enough for a meal, let alone hours of boring discussions with those bumbling fools."

Safir clicked her tongue and shook her head. "Absolute nonsense. They mean to unsettle you. Imagine! If the prince was in their grasp, they'd speak with his voice. They could implement all kinds of hogwash while his Majesty was away."

"And Father would heed it when he returns, thinking his precious heir had shown considerable talent despite his tender age, no matter how unlikely a story it is." The words escaped her more bitter than she had intended.

Neira filled her palms with hot water and held them to her face for a long moment. Just closing her eyes, knowing she was safe and out from under the court's gaze was enough to drain the tension from her shoulders. A moment passed before Safir's fingers delved into her hair, carefully unravelling the set of intricate braids piled on her head.

"I don't even remember what they asked in the first place. The entire evening is a blur." She pressed her fingertips into the inner corners of her eyes, fighting the steady throb behind her brows. "I don't know what to do."

"You must stay strong," Safir urged, her voice low and intense. "You can not loosen your grip. If you show even a hint of weakness, they will pounce on it."

"You're not wrong." A band of silence coiled between them, comfortable and familiar. Safir used her fingertips to rub her scalp and, little by little, the growing ache within Neira's skull subsided. "When did Mother turn in?"

"Shortly after sundown. A full turn of the glass earlier than yesterday."

"Hmm." Her father had left five days ago. Neira supposed it wasn't an unreasonable time frame for his magic to begin waning. "I wonder what is happening at the front."

"Don't worry about that. If anything had happened, you would have been sent word."

Neira hoped Safir was right about that.