Tal’s sermon followed Elodie all the way back to the castle, his impassioned words circling her like a bird of prey. While the queen spent all her energy attempting to protect her people from Edgar’s threats, Tal had been snipping the stitches of her delicate work, inciting in the hearts of her populace the exact panic and fear she had been trying to prevent.
Worst of all, he had used Elodie’s failures to blame the New Maiden for every poor decision the queen herself had made. Tal had twisted Elodie’s trust into a blade, then plunged it into her back.
When finally she arrived home, exhausted and furious, she could not bear to attend to her royal duties. Instead, Elodie retreated to her chambers, instructed Marguerite to ensure no one disturbed her, and buried herself beneath the down feather duvet draped across her bed. She could not face the day now that she had heard the Second Son’s threat straight from His prophet’s mouth. Her anxiety sent her into a fitful sleep where she dreamed of being suffocated by a snake, awaking in the early evening covered in sweat. Elodie kicked off the comforter and covered her head with a pile of pillows.
When next she woke, the sun was soft in the sky, the morning naked and new. The uncertain outline of her younger sister hovered above her.
“Lady above, Cleo,” Elodie said, clutching her pillow to her chest, “you gave me a fright.”
“I was worried about you,” Cleo sniffed, pulling back the curtains to let the light in. “Had to strong-arm my way past Marguerite to get in. I’m glad you’re safe.”
Elodie rolled over. “Told you I’d be all right.” But the words were bitter on her tongue. She wasn’t all right, not after the scene she had witnessed in the Whispering Willow. The shouting and sweat clung to her even now.
“You don’t look well,” Cleo said, sniffing. “Nor do you smell it. I’ll have Marguerite draw you a bath.”
She wandered off to find the queen’s handmaid, returning a moment later with a silver tray and a grimace. “Letter for you,” Cleo said, looking just as nervous as her sister felt.
With trepidation, Elodie rose to retrieve the letter. She turned the envelope over and was flooded with relief when she found it sealed with a sword rather than a snake. It was only correspondence from General Garvey and his troops at the border. But the queen’s solace was short-lived.
Your Majesty, wrote the general in a shaky hand, our numbers are dwindling at an insurmountable rate.
Elodie frowned. Velle’s army was a commanding presence, one of the country’s biggest assets and most important resources. Only a disaster of the highest magnitude could have wiped out all of their patrolling troops.
Our soldiers are not dying, the letter continued, but they have been converted by zealots from the Republics. These soldiers have defected, crossing the border to join an army of a different kind.
It was just as Rob had told her: The Republics worshipped the Second Son. But what Elodie had not considered was that while Edgar had distracted Velle’s crown with his grand gestures and ineptitude, a more compelling poison had been brewing among its people.
My recommendation now, the general had written, is to abandon this operation. For without an army, I have nothing to command.
Elodie sank down onto the bench at the foot of her bed. Without the threat of physical altercation, Velle could not intimidate the Republics into reassessing their embargo. Alone, there was no way to save her people from starvation.
But the Second Son—already a figure of influence in the Republics—could. If Elodie pledged her loyalty to Him, perhaps He would assist. She would be forced to betray Sabine, but surely the New Maiden would understand that Elodie had only done what was necessary for the good of her people.
She would go to Tal, would beg him to ingratiate her with the Second Son, and soon the threat of Edgar and the Republics would be forgotten.
The queen got to her feet. But she had taken only a few steps when she remembered: Tal had already witnessed Edgar DeVos’s every correspondence. He had even dismissed Elodie’s fears as unfounded.
As the voice of the Second Son, Tal could have stopped Edgar with a single word. He could have lifted the Republics’ embargo in seconds. Instead, Tal had let Elodie worry herself sick. He had offered her empty encouragement while he pulled the strings from the other side.
“Where are you going?” Cleo was looking at the queen with concern. “El, sit back down. The bath is almost ready.”
But Elodie was too consumed with betrayal. Velle’s daily hardships were directly connected to the campaign to discredit the New Maiden. And Tal, the person she’d once trusted most in the world, had used the queen as a pawn. “I’ll be right back.”
“Ellie!”
The queen ignored the curious looks she received as she stormed through the castle’s corridors to the Loyalists’ quarters. The space in the west wing was small—one long hallway with doors tucked tightly side by side, like soldiers on the front lines. A thick must of sweat and leather permeated everything, making her gag.
“Are you lost?”
The queen turned to locate the owner of the bitter voice. Maxine had abandoned her braid, her long hair falling like a wave down her back. While her hair was different, the guard wore her usual disaffected expression.
“I’m busy, Maxine,” Elodie said, battling the urge to sigh. “Where’s Tal?”
Maxine rolled her eyes. “I imagine he is busy, too.”
“Oh, bite a blade, Maxine,” Elodie snapped, unable to hide her irritation. “I know you have no love for me, but if you care at all about your country, you will tell me which room is his.”
The guard pursed her lips. “You cannot ask me to pick between my country and my comrades. It is an impossible choice.”
The queen sighed. “Very well. If anyone complains about the extraordinary lengths I am about to go to, I will tell them it is entirely your fault.”
Maxine frowned. “I don’t underst—”
Elodie began flinging open doors, much to the horror of those inside. Grumbles and shouts filled the hallway as she passed half-dressed, half-awake guards in search of the boy who had betrayed her.
“Tal!” She pounded on the doors that were locked, screaming the prophet’s name. Her hurt was a fresh wound, the adrenaline stronger than the pain. “Show yourself!”
Guards had gathered in the corridor to watch the queen’s outburst. Once she had reached the end of the hall, the final door opened mid-knock.
“Lo, what are you—” Elodie’s momentum sent her fist crashing into Tal’s face. “Elodie,” Tal yelped, blood spurting from his nose. “What in His name has gotten into you?”
The queen’s knuckles ached from the awkward angle of impact. She felt none of the thrill of violence, only deep, impossible sorrow.
“I should ask you the same thing,” she said, pushing him backward into his room and slamming the door behind them. His chambers were modest, containing nothing but a bed, neatly made with a fitted white sheet, and a chair, currently occupied by a pair of polished boots.
“If you wanted to see my bedroom,” Tal said, pinching his nose to stanch the blood, “you could have just asked.”
“This isn’t funny,” Elodie spat, shoving the general’s letter into Tal’s chest. “None of this is the least bit amusing.”
