4. Chapter 4
Zadé
Zadé Brightleaf stared into the mug of ale she’d been nursing for who-knew-how-long as she listened to the general hubbub of the barracks she’d requisitioned for the elven troops in the aftermath of King Malkov’s execution.
She sat, as always, far enough to the side to give her a decent view of the entire room, but within reach of the booze.
Someone had the foresight to drag a couple kegs into the corner and tap them. It was entirely too convenient to have a mini bar so close to where she slept. The easy access to alcohol kept the edges of her mind fuzzy so the weight of reality didn’t overpower her.
General.
General Zadé Brightleaf.
Despite her best attempts, she was right back where she’d started—responsible for everyone in the elven army, and still broken in the head. All because she’d been instrumental in defeating the shadow dragon and protecting Princess Tsara’s younger cousin.
She should’ve known better, should’ve anticipated being reinstated at her old rank because of her actions. Not that she would’ve abandoned their forces on the battlefield to die of course, but she might have thought to extract an oath from Tsara to not restore her commission before saving them.
Zadé’s knuckles tightened around the cup as she fought the urge to hurl it against the closest wall, shattering the glass and spilling the frothy drink all over the floor.
But a tantrum wouldn’t accomplish anything, and it wasn’t proper. Not something a general should do. Not in front of her own troops.
The last thing she needed was word getting back to Tsara. Or Elsan and Princess.
Zadé blinked. She’d have to come up with a different nickname for Aliya now. But maybe not. “Princess” had a much nicer ring to it than “Queen,” and it suited Aliya better. Zadé suspected the young woman felt the same.
The weight of a crown was even heavier, if possible, than that of General.
Zadé had never been royalty and, Lord of Light forbid, would never be royal. At least there was one rank Tsara couldn’t force on her.
She sighed, sticking her tongue out at the half-empty mug.
The amber liquid stared back, daring her to do something about it.
Glaring at the concoction, she opened her mouth and poured the dregs down.
Take that.
Her stomach roiled, a sudden burst of nausea rising over the back of her throat with a sour aftertaste. Perhaps she should have had something to eat, even if everything Princess’ new head cook prepared was too rich and spicy for her tastes.
Her gut heaved as she shoved herself to her feet, her eyes snapping to the door. If she hurled in here, her troops might lose their respect for her. A general not respected by their soldiers was dead on the battlefield.
She may not want the title, but she had no desire to be responsible for needless fatalities through her own irresponsibility.
The floor rocked beneath her as she strode to the door, only a little wobble in her gait. Warmth spread through her gut at the accomplishment. As long as no one was watching too closely, they’d never realize how much she’d had.
Her shoulder slammed into the door frame, throwing off her balance as she tumbled outside. She stumbled to the right—the direction she’d been intending to go, anyway—and around the darkened edge of the building out of the sight of prying eyes.
Collapsing to her knees, her stomach heaved. She vomited everything she’d drank that afternoon onto the flagstones in front of her. It was best she hadn’t eaten, after all. Spicy food always burned more coming back up than it did going down.
When her body had calmed, she coughed, spitting out the last dregs of bile. Wiping the back of her hands across her mouth, she glanced over her shoulder.
Good. No one had followed her or been privy to her momentary lack of control.
Her head pounded, the too-familiar pressure between her temples indicating the earliest stages of a hangover.
Next, her vision would go wonky—double, with sparkles of glitter in the periphery.
But the distorted sight was better than what would come afterward—the debilitating headache, muscle aches, dizziness and nausea.
The sun was low enough in the sky that she could safely take a nap and sleep the worst of it off well before fourth bell, when she was scheduled to go on watch.
She’d never fall asleep in the barracks at this time of day, but this little patch of dirt off to the side would be comfortable, and away from her mess. As a soldier, she’d slept on worse.
Crawling to the strip of hardy grass that had forced its way up through a few of the broken cobblestones, she curled onto her side and closed her eyes.
An instant later, the large bell at the top of the gatehouse started clanging, each frantic peal slamming a spike behind her eyes. Heaving herself to her knees, Zadé pressed the palms of her hands into both eyes.
By all that was holy…
She cracked her lids open. Everything was black, like her mood.
Her left shoulder ached, like she’d been sleeping on it incorrectly for hours.
Blast it. Peering at the sky, she blinked at the crescent moon shedding its silvery light on the courtyard. At least there was only one moon—her vision was no longer doubled.
She’d passed out and slept through the rest of the afternoon and sunset. Worse, she was late to her shift.
Rubbing the back of her hand against her lips, she winced at the impression of grass imprinted on the side of her face. The only fix was waiting for the imprints to fade. Hopefully no one would notice in the darkness.
The bell clanged again, shouts rising in every direction.
Her heart skipped a beat, heat exploding through her chest. Something was wrong, and she wasn’t at her post. Valek.
She heaved to her feet. Forget her face, forget the headache. She had to find out what was going on. If Princess’ kingdom was under attack, Zadé was needed at the walls.
She tested her knees, making sure they could hold her weight, then strode into the courtyard as quickly as she could trust her legs to take her.
Snagging a young guard’s arm as he jogged past, she stepped into his path. “What’s going on?”
Swallowing hard enough to be visible, the elf saluted. “General! Prisoners have escaped. They’re armed and dangerous.”
Zadé’s stomach unknotted. It wasn’t an invasion, just a prison break. Something for the rank-and-file to handle. A bit of the guilt from sleeping through her shift evaporated.
At her nod, the soldier turned to continue on his way.
“Wait.”
He froze at her words, halfway through a step. “Yes, General?”
“Who escaped?”
Turning to face her, the male clicked his heels together, his hands clasped behind his back. “King Malkov’s master artificer. If the other prisoners are to be believed, a man with a gemstone in the center of his forehead broke him out. They killed all the guards and disappeared.”
Zadé’s blood iced.
Brooks, the Arcane Inquisitor, was here.
Zadé brushed a few strands of errant hair out of her face as she stared at the open door to what had been Garrik’s cell. The key ring lay just outside, where Brooks had apparently dropped it. She nudged it with her boot.
Curse her dereliction of duty. She didn’t deserve the title of General, and hadn’t since the end of the Human War. Sighing, she rolled her shoulders. Maybe now, Tsara would realize that, too, and reclaim the rank she’d so brashly reinstated.
She crossed her arms and glared at the filth covering the floor as the headache bloomed between her temples, screwing phantom spikes into the space behind both eyes.
Without knowing what the master artificer could do, it was impossible to extrapolate what Brooks’ intentions were, but it couldn’t be good.
Princess’ hold on her kingdom was still fragile, and the last thing Aliya needed was Brooks and his ilk undercutting her every move.
Which meant Zadé had to be smart for once and figure out what the inquisitor and the artificer were up to.
Too bad her Aunt Cressida wasn’t here. Cress would know exactly what the artificer’s limits were, and what magic could be manipulated within those constraints.
An unwelcome blade twisted in Zadé’s gut.
She flinched at the reminder of the two centuries she’d wasted nursing a grudge, only to have Cressida ripped away from her as the promise of reconciliation finally bloomed.
That distance between them had been her fault, too. Cress had only allowed the estrangement out of respect for Zadé’s desires, the time she needed to heal.
Zadé blinked, forcing her thoughts to the present as she willed the distracting sparks in the periphery of her vision to clear. “Who can give me a rundown of the master artificer’s abilities?” she asked the guard standing next to her.
The elf shrugged. “Not sure, general. Perhaps the alchemists? Or the mages?”
Zadé chewed on the corners of her lips as she mulled the possibilities. “Bring me the gnome.” She tapped her forehead with her curled index finger as she wracked her aching brain for his name. “Jalius.” Of all the magic users Princess had at her beck and call, he was the most trustworthy.
Footsteps marched off to carry out her orders.
Zadé’s eyes scoured the walls, as if they held any clue as to what Brooks had planned.
Taking a deep breath, she exhaled. There was nothing to see here. Spinning on her heel, she strode to Brooks’ cell.
The bodies he’d left behind during his escape hadn’t been touched, though Zadé wondered if that was because Aliya’s people had the foresight to preserve the area for her investigation, or if they were just too lazy to attend to the clean up.
Either way, the longer the scene sat, the further head start Brooks got.
She fought the urge to have someone roust Princess.
But Aliya needed her sleep. The dark circles beneath her eyes and the hollowness of her face were evidence aplenty of how the stress of her tenuous position was affecting her.
Zadé wouldn’t be the one to risk waking Princess if she was actually getting some rest.
Besides, Zadé was a general, at least until Tsara came to her senses. If Zadé couldn’t oversee an investigation, she didn’t have any business being an officer.
She frowned at the body lying next to the stairs with the dagger sticking out of its throat.
The edges of her lips curled down in a reluctant frown.
Even she had to admit the throw was impressive.
Because of course someone who packed the magical punch Brooks did would also be a weapons master.
Fates would never consider stacking things a little more fairly.
Zadé chewed on her lower lip, ripping her attention back to the present.
She was nowhere near her best when hungover, and her scattered thoughts reflected that.
But this was important for Princess, so Zadé knitted her forehead and squinted at the congealing pool of blackness beneath the dead jailer.
“General!”
Zadé flinched at the too-bubbly sound of Tsara’s voice.
The princess of the sun elves, with her golden skin and wavy hair bounced into view with entirely too much pep in her step considering how early it was.
“That was quick.” It should've taken at least until midday before someone reported her tardiness to Tsara. Zadé had underestimated the propensity of the elven forces for gossip.
Tsara’s forehead wrinkled as she came to stand in front of Zadé. “What?”
Zadé’s knees locked at the confusion on the woman’s face. Perhaps word hadn’t reached her yet? But then… “What are you doing here?”
Tsara looped her arm through Zadé’s. “It’s almost time for the council meeting!”
She moved to tug Zadé up the stairs, but Zadé untangled herself and stepped back, shaking her head. “No, it’s not. Besides, I belong here. There are things we still need to figure out.”
“Yes, it is.” Tsara raised an eyebrow as she studied Zadé. “The sun’s up. If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss the opening statements.”
Zadé gaped, wide-eyed. “Already?” Had the night passed so quickly? How long had she been staring at the guard’s puddle of blood while her mind wandered?
“Indeed.” Tsara re-secured Zadé’s arm. “Svialto says this should be entertaining.”
“Entertaining?” Zadé scoffed as Tsara tugged her up the stairs.
“Elsan has clearly never sat through a council meeting.” Except he had—he’d been to every single one since King Malkov’s execution, even if the humans had no idea he was there.
If Princess wasn’t careful, she’d end up with a permanent shadow in Elsan for the rest of her reign.
Though, judging from the way Princess ogled him, she didn’t want him just as a sulking bodyguard.
One corner of Zadé’s mouth curled up at the thought of how Aliya’s nobles would react to an elf sharing their throne. That was something even Princess may not be able to pull off, despite her charisma and the full support of the mages.
Zadé stumbled over a loose cobblestone as Tsara led her from the cells into the too-bright courtyard. Blast it—Tsara was right! The sun was long past up and the council meeting would likely start any minute, if it hadn’t already.
The rough step as she caught herself jostled her brain, sending waves of pressure stabbing behind her eyes.
Blasted hangover. What in the nine realms had she been thinking yesterday?
“I really don’t need to be there,” she tried again.
“Nonsense,” Tsara said, tightening her grip on Zadé’s arm. “You’re coming, and that’s an order.”
Zadé scowled as she jogged after the other female, only managing to stifle her protests because, as a royal, Tsara did outrank her. If the sun elf princess ordered her to attend, she had no choice.
But that didn't mean she had to like it, or that she couldn't do everything in her power to make sure Tsara never dragged her to another unwelcome meeting again.