“The Queen sets a quicker pace than most armies,” Margit Harrsing, one of Lady Bella’s many nieces, chittered to her companions. Fiora Velfi, the daughter of a Siscarian duke, hmm-hmmed in her high voice, in neither agreement nor contradiction. The dark-haired young woman was better suited to intrigue than the rest, raised in the royal villa at Lecorra, a pit of vipers. She very rarely, if ever, gave her true opinion on anything.

The fourteen-year-old Countess Herzer, with ringlet curls as stupid as her instincts, didn’t bother to check her tone. “Her Majesty is eager to see her husband again,” she said, sending a smattering of laughter through the ladies. “I think it’s romantic.”

A tongue of fire went down Erida’s spine. She kept straight and still, but her lips pressed to nothing, her teeth clenched behind them, as she weighed her options. A woman in love is a woman in weakness, not to mention far from the truth, she thought. It won’t do for my ladies, and by extension my court, to think their queen reduced to a simpering, starry-eyed girl trailing after the first man to touch her.

But it is not useless either. Taristan stands in a precarious position. My favor keeps him steady, keeps him important. And that helps me maintain control over him, at the end of it all.

She elected not to answer, in either direction. Countess Herzer meant to be heard and wanted to draw a response. Erida of Galland would not give her the satisfaction. There was too much else at stake to be drawn into small-minded games.

Besides, she had not missed the way the ladies seemed to whisper about Taristan. Their conversations varied, assessing everything from his appearance to his stoic manner, but always returned to the way he had seemingly bewitched the Queen, winning her hand at first sight. For reasons you cannot fathom. It was frustrating, but ultimately, she was glad for their ignorance. And their expectations. It made her endeavors easier, if no one expected them of her.

The border with Madrence loomed, somewhere over the forested hills and down into another river valley. Erida imagined it like the lines on her map, starkly drawn, with a row of Gallish castles built up along the river, her soldiers strung between them like ropes of pearl. Their lines had held for years, the border country precarious, a stack of dry kindling that needed only a few sparks to burst into flame. Erida carried that candle with her now, ready to set all alight.

Madrence was a soft country made strong by flanking mountains and gentle neighbors. Siscaria cared only about its storied history, looking inward for glory, while Calidon kept to itself, hemmed within its own mountains and deep glens. Galland needed only reach out, now that the timing was right. Push south to the sea, storm the castles and the capital with such speed and force that their aging king could not help but surrender. Such a victory had not been won in decades, not since her grandfather’s time. Erida pictured raising the Lion over the Madrentine shores, at every palace and castle. How the people will love me then.

Taristan’s letter rode inside the lacings of her riding habit, the parchment brushing against her bare skin so Erida might not forget it. As if she could ever do such a thing. The jagged writing was like a scar, the ink burning her fingers as his hands had burned her skin.

We ride for your shifting borderlands. Ronin leads us to a hill with a broken castle, its slopes overgrown with thorns. Find me there.

The message had come only two weeks after he left, dispatched with speed.

No wonder my ladies talk, Erida admitted to herself. It took me only hours to follow.

The Queen blamed her haste on the hunger that lived in her, and in every ruler of Galland. The want for conquest, for more.

It rose in her with every mile forward, ravenous and all-

consuming.

Castle Vergon was a ruin, her walls and towers having collapsed two decades prior. Her stones were grown over with moss, and a young forest sprung up in her halls, roots climbing through cellars and dungeons. After weeks on the road, Erida was glad to see the hollow wreck of the castle, her remaining walls black against the blue sky, the hill crowned in thorns. Like the rest of the hulking line of Gallish fortresses, she guarded the valley of the Rose River, called the Riverosse across the border. Erida smiled at the silhouette, knowing that Castle Herlin and Castle Lotha were twin shadows, one at either end of the horizon. Their front was unbroken now, her strength gathered.

With more to be unleashed.

She had seen this border only once, accompanying her father on a campaign when she was a child. He had won a great victory near the Rose’s north branch, claiming a valuable pass into Calidon. Erida remembered that it had been winter, the air freezing on her cheeks as the wind blew sharp off the Watchful, where raiders prowled. This was different, in every respect. The air was crisp but warm enough for light clothing. The army waiting was her own to command. Her father was dead and gone. The battle was not yet won, a victory unseen.

But close enough to taste.

The Third Legion held the border always, ten thousand soldiers honed and perfected by years on tempestuous ground. The First had recently joined them, doubling their number. It was as if a city had sprung up overnight, the tents clustered in the shadows of the castles, hiding most from any spies across the river. While Madrence knew that Erida’s army was amassing its force, they could not know to what extent, not without sneaking across the river and risking Galland’s wrath. A caught scout was cause enough for war, if utilized properly. The smaller country would not give Erida another reason to fight. She had enough already.

Erida thought of Lord Thornwall and his words in the council chamber, when he’d given her his measure of the Madrentine campaign. It felt like looking back across a canyon. As if her life were split in two: before Taristan’s proposal, his promise, her choice—and after.

They turned from Cor road at the last moment they could, maneuvering the Queen’s great procession off the wide, ancient byway and onto rockier ground. The shadow of Vergon fell over them, but Erida did not feel its cold. She smiled up at the ruined castle and slid gracefully from horseback.

Taristan was nowhere in sight at the base of the hill, nor on the narrow path cut through the thorns to Vergon above. His own guard, a detachment of grizzled soldiers from the Ascal garrison, busied themselves with widening the thorn path. They hacked at the bloomless vines with swords and axes, making more of a mess.

When she approached, they jumped to attention, each man freezing in place. Their captain was easy to pick out, a green-edged cloak over his shoulder.

“Your Majesty,” he said, dropping to a knee as best he could in full plate.

Erida nodded. “Captain,” she said. “I assume my husband is in the ruins?”

“He is, Your Majesty,” the captain answered hurriedly. “His Highness requested we wait here,” he added, almost apologetic. His teeth worried at his lip.

She fixed on her brilliant smile, tugging the corners of her mouth toward her ears. “You were good to obey the prince consort,” she said with courtly grace.

The captain heaved a sigh, relieved, as Erida turned to her companions. They hung back on their horses or at the door of the coach, peering out at the landscape with fascination.

“Ladies, there’s no need for all of us to ruin our skirts,” the Queen called to them. “You may wait here with the captain. I’m sure his men will take good care of you all.”

Judging by the captain’s flush and the sly glances passed around her ladies-in-waiting, no one would object.