Her brother had much to learn.
“The laws of succession in Pyrenee are clear. To obtain his power before his eighteenth birthday he must wed. What’s more, Renard believed his mother to be making moves in a concerted effort to prevent his ascension to the throne.”
“Sounds like Inés,” her mother muttered and the cords in Geneva’s neck tensed between heavy curtains of dark waves.
“Thus, he was eager for us to marry.” The princess swallowed. “We arrived at the Bellringe in the afternoon and he demanded that we be wed before the evening meal. In the hours between, while I was being prepared for a wedding I knew the people of Ardenia did not know was occurring, I believed Luca to have died at the hands of Taillefer, who had been ordered to hold Luca hostage for my compliance. Taillefer knew that if Luca were to die then I would likely retaliate against his brother.”
Just saying Luca’s name seemed to thrust her heart on display—repeatedly—though she had not once admitted her true feelings to these people. “And, though I knew this to be Taillefer’s aim, I still reacted in the way he wanted.”
“Princess, you didn’t…” Satordi’s face had gone flat white, the weight of what she’d been trying to get across to him over the last several minutes now fully registering.
With an unsteady hand, Amarande lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip. The water tasted too warm on her tongue. Suddenly her whole face felt hot.
“They did not properly search me before the wedding.” Koldo’s eyes met hers and in them Amarande saw the choreography of what went down running through the general’s mind. The princess had indeed done exactly as her surrogate mother would have done in the same position.
“During our vows I stabbed Renard. It is his blood on this wedding dress. I attempted to kill Taillefer as well, but failed before I fled with my life and Renard’s blood on my hands. I have no doubt, though, Dowager Queen Inés wants the crown for her own; she is mounting an attack on us now and will twist what happens next to her advantage.”
Amarande did not mention Luca or the pirates in her escape. The princess didn’t know why, but she couldn’t reveal the full story. Not to her mother, not out into the open. Not to the unsettling-yet-familiar form of her brother, deep in thought, lounging in a pose very much like that of a man whom he’d never met. Not to Satordi, who never seemed to see it her way.
She didn’t trust them.
For as unsteady as Amarande was, she felt comfort in Koldo’s sturdy presence and even demeanor. “Councilor Satordi, advise the rest of the Royal Council of what the princess has learned. I must warn my soldiers.”
The general’s hand left Amarande’s as the older woman stood. She reached across the space and, to the princess’s surprise, put a hand to Ferdinand’s shoulder. Just one gentle touch and she was headed toward the door. The princess was floored—that was a good-bye. A wordless one, yes, but one with more emotion than she had received.
Something was not right.
“Koldo, why … why are you here and not the front? You’d been headed to the southern kingdoms before I left,” Amarande ventured. Then she added, so that her interest didn’t seem so pointed, “Did Myrcell and Basilica relent?”
The general’s face was all tight angles. “No, they did not relent. They escalated.”
Amarande stilled, mind racing. When battle called, Koldo was never one to be anywhere but the front lines. That had not changed with her regency.
“But why—”
“The general must go attend to what you have started, Your Highness,” Satordi insisted, steering the conversation away.
“Yes, but—”
“The general is here because she is my natural mother.” Ferdinand cut her off with an answer that took her breath away, his voice loud and clear and unwavering. As the weight of his admission settled between them, he looked Amarande in the eye, so much like her father she almost had to glance away.
Geneva’s lips parted, and Satordi pinched the bridge of his nose. Their reactions were enough to confirm two things: that it was true, and they had decided she should not know.
Ferdinand’s defiance was quiet and stiff and suddenly she saw Koldo within him.
A bastard. A half brother. A secret.
“She deserves to know all of it,” Ferdinand announced in answer to the silent rebuke. “I do not want to lie to my sister. I do not care if it is stupid for me to think so, but if everyone in this room knows the truth, she should, too.”
The princess’s stomach plummeted so low it felt as if it might tap the knife in her boot. Amarande looked from the general to the boy, skipping over her mother in between. Heat licked at her throat as her voice found hold. “Koldo? You … and Father…?”
Words failed her as Koldo nodded once. This was more outlandish than her original guess.
“It is as long a story as the one you’ve just told,” the general answered, direct enough, as always, to look Amarande in the eye. “I will explain it all one day. But now, you are right—I must warn my soldiers. I am sorry, Princess. Another time.”
Again, Koldo turned for the door, Satordi on her heels to alert the other councilors to Amarande’s tale. When they were gone, Amarande stared at her newfound family as her insides lurched—she might never feel upon solid ground again.
Swallowing hard, the princess speared her mother with a look. “Why did you present Ferdinand as your son?”
The woman did not bat an eye. “Because he is.”
Fair enough. Blood was not the only bond. “Koldo may not have had time to tell her story, but you do not have the excuse. What happened? I deserve to know.”
“I would not prefer to renew our relationship this way,” her mother replied, looking away, “but … the simple truth of the matter is this: I learned of Ferdinand’s birth and stole him away in a moment of weakness.”
Bile rose in the princess’s throat. “You stole Koldo’s baby?”
“He was a day old—a threat to your station and mine.” Geneva’s words could etch diamonds. “And after what I’d done … I fell in love with him. I raised him. I made him mine.”
Mine.
Amarande had always pictured her mother as someone so sad that she gave up on her enchanted life. On her father. On her. Someone who had married for position and who yearned for love to the point of such desperation that she had no choice but to take action. To steal into the night and on to another adventure. But this—Amarande could barely envision the truth as her mother told it. How could she? Who would steal a baby and leave her own?
And then there was Koldo. Did she know? All this time? How could she stand it?
No matter which answer, something about the way the general stood in the same room with her mother and the history between them made Amarande’s stomach lurch. Koldo was the strongest woman she knew, and yet the general hadn’t run Geneva through with a sword the second she’d learned of this startling deception.
Was that weakness or was it strength?
Amarande stared at the Runaway Queen. “And you brought him here to claim the crown in my stead.”
Her mother did not look away. “This kingdom deserves a steady-handed ruler who will not put it in danger or leave it in a precarious spot wedged between law and convenience. And though Ferdinand is not of my blood, I have no doubt he is the best choice for Ardenia.”
A shiver ran across her spine. Amarande swallowed.
“He is only the best choice if I am out of the way.”
“Amarande, you just committed regicide in a neighboring kingdom, bringing war to Ardenia’s door. This after you shirked your duties in the name of chasing after a boy like a hen tails a rooster. Ardenia is on a precipice and you, my darling daughter, are willing to toss it over the edge.”
No. It wasn’t like that. Was it?
“I am your daughter. I am not a danger.”
Her mother tilted her chin. “My dear, I am afraid you are both.”
“And so I am to be out of the way, then
.” The princess shot to her feet and drew the sword at her back. She wasn’t sure why—she did not plan to attack—and yet the blade was in her grip as she fought back against her mother’s assertions and obvious machinations. “And so the plan is what? To lie? To tell everyone I’m dead until I reappear like you, years later and in perfect health?”
A hand clenched her neck. Squeezing precisely on the artery that supplies oxygen to the brain. An arm gripped around her middle—an arm clad in garnet-and-gold regalia.
Koldo.
Amarande’s heart slowed, vision going black, limbs losing strength. She had mere seconds of consciousness left. The princess’s sword fell, clanging to the marble tabletop.
“Yes, exactly that, clever girl,” the Runaway Queen answered as she bent to pick up the fallen sword—Maite, it was Maite, “love” in old Torrentian. “It is not a lie if we tell them the truth eventually. After the kingdom is safe, you can return. With your stableboy, if you like. But for now, Princess Amarande of Ardenia, your presence is too much of a risk.”
Just as Amarande’s consciousness fled and her body went slack, the general whispered, “I am sorry, Ama.”
CHAPTER 6
LUCA and his crew arrived at the next point in the resistance constellation in the black hour before dawn. It appeared to be a sheep farm, snuggled between steep grades of rock, the Torrent a hard pass and descent away.
“This is it?” Luca confirmed as they stared at the squat juniper-wood cabin. Within, candles burned with the promise of daybreak chores. Even if the sheep were for show, the chores would be real.
Ula nodded. “All of us must approach together. Follow my lead.”
The pirate had indeed gotten exactly what they needed back at the market to make contact. Information on where to go next, the necessary purchases for offering, and, for Luca, a jug of antiseptic sagardon—medicinal-grade sagardoa ideal to treat his wounds and any more injuries that might come.
They stowed their horses within the farm’s meager stable, then collected their saddlebags and the sack Ula had used at the market, and approached the house. Ula steadied herself and knocked five times in a certain rhythm, as she’d been instructed.
“What is your intent at this hour?” A man’s voice.
Ula answered, “We come to feed the missing.”
“What do they eat?” he asked.
Without skipping a beat, Ula switched into old Torrentian. “Hitz ematen dizut.”
I give you my word of honor, Luca translated. His found Ardenian family of Maialen, Abene, and old Zuzen had taken pride in teaching him the ancient language, though he only ever used it with them. Until this moment he didn’t know Ula knew any of it at all.
The door opened a crack and a candle shone between themselves and the darkness of the interior. Ula knew this was coming, too, and was ready—she leaned forward and pulled down the neck of her tunic, revealing her paw print.
The door opened wider, revealing the man—and a woman. Both were of Torrent, and gray with age, their skin worn from the sun and work, but their eyes brilliant and bold. Without another word, they ushered the group inside and closed the door tightly. Then they revealed tattoos of their own—more paw prints.
Luca swallowed, his heart beating fast as he read the faces of these hardy people. His people. Truly. It was all so dizzying.
“We have obtained the items requested by the resistance,” Ula continued, and gestured to Urtzi, who held the sack aloft.
The man nodded. “They are in need. I shall leave at once.”
Ula had explained this before their approach. This was an operation that ran on a phased set of expectations—it was as crucial as it was high risk and high reward. The basic system was simple, not efficient. If a person or persons wanted to connect with the main line of rebels based in the Torrent, they first must fulfill a list of supplies. Next, a verified rider would deliver those supplies to the last known location of the resistance—which seemed to be as nomadic as the rest of the Torrent. Then, once the supplies were accepted, the request for a meeting was either confirmed or denied. If confirmed, the rider would then return and escort the new rebels to the resistance.
Luca could barely believe the operation had remained intact so long without the Warlord’s disruption. The previous outpost had been turned to ash in a raid, and thus it was easy to believe the Warlord knew of the system, yet the rebels claimed the renewed system had worked without disruption since then—two years running.
By luck or design, only the Warlord really knew.
The man immediately began donning clothing that served to protect travelers in the Torrent—hat, bandana, double-dagger belt—all in the faded fabrics that blended into the sand-scoured landscape and with the people who lived there. When he was finished, he looked exactly like any of the men Luca had seen in his travels with the pirates and Amarande.
It made him wonder exactly how to tell friend from foe.
“I will return under the cover of night—less than a day.” He accepted the sack from Urtzi and a kiss from his wife.
“Before you go, we have one more crucial piece of information for you to bring them.” The man and woman paused, caught on Ula’s tone.
Ula nudged Luca forward, her golden eyes alight. “Come now, don’t be shy.”
Luca’s heart began to pound again, as he looked into the faces of people who had put everything on the line each day of their lives the past seventeen years to help keep the resistance alive.
As the Otxazulo burned, his mother had escaped to Ardenia, told them her name was Lygia, and hidden him away. Surely King Sendoa knew who was hiding in his stable. Surely he had a plan to help them win it back—the Warrior King always had a plan.
Maybe the plan had died with Luca’s mother. With Sendoa gone, too, he would never know.
All Luca knew was it was now up to him.
And after this, there would be no going back.
Breathing deeply, he came forward, unlashed the laces at the breast of his black tunic, and yanked down the fabric to reveal the entirety of the wolf tattoo on his chest.
Five points. Snout, ears. Unmistakable.
The woman dropped whatever was in her hand with a crash and a gasp. The man rushed forward, candle held aloft. Suddenly, Luca felt more exposed than he had ever been—his blood on the outside, rendered in thick black streaks.
“Hitz ematen dizut,” Luca said. I give you my word of honor.
The man took a step back, lips hanging open, gaze lifting from Luca’s tattoo to his face. The woman clung to her husband’s elbow, her own eyes wide. They exchanged a long look and then the man addressed Luca with a voice glazed in shock.
“My Otsakumea, we have been waiting for you.”
CHAPTER 7
SEVENTEEN years they had been waiting.
Mannah and Erfu were their names, and both had been within the Otxazulo when Luca was born. They were among the few in the resistance who had personally seen him—alive and tattooed—before the Warlord’s attack left the castle in ash, the royal family’s heads on pikes, and the Otxoa’s supporters fleeing in every direction.
Luca hadn’t expected this. A lifetime of hiding out without knowing he was doing so, only to find the truth and, in short order, people like these, who’d kept memories and hope for seventeen years. Even after Ula’s admission—which they still had barely discussed—it was stunning.
Luca’s mind spun with all he wanted to ask them—about their hardships, the resistance, castle life. His parents, too—he’d been too young to remember what his mother had been like when she passed.
Instead, because they’d asked, he’d quickly told them where he’d been all this time—at the Itspi, raised by castle staff after his mother’s death from a lung infection—and how he’d come to know of his identity. And then Erfu had to leave before the darkness lifted, and it was necessary that Mannah spent the day exactly as she would any other to throw anyone watching off the scent.
And so, the Otsakume
a was left with his questions, his crew, and the weight of his name for the daylight hours. By nightfall, the cabin felt even smaller as the stars crowded in, too.
“Time to clean your wounds, Luca,” Ula announced, pushing away from the table after supper. She’d made it clear he should be on a schedule—an infection in his chest from Taillefer’s work or in his leg from the Harea Asp ordeal would surely put a damper on any chances of rebellion.
Luca followed without complaint, pushing away from the table too, as Osana and Urtzi remained, sipping nettle tea. Sinking to his bedroll, he discarded his tunic and began removing the dressing as Ula gathered the jug of sagardon she’d procured at the market along with a new length of linen gauze.
The sting of the process was one of a thousand bees under the skin, but the pain was minor in comparison with what he’d felt in the past week. And the wound looked only a little better, the skin bruised and raw with inflammation that ran down the whole hand-length gash in the middle of his chest, just beside his wolf tattoo. The flat black sutures were tight, straining to keep the swollen edges of flesh together. In time, his skin and muscles would heal. Just not soon enough.
Across the room, Mannah inhaled sharply. Luca’s head snapped up to find her staring at him, her body frozen over her kettle, where water was boiling yet again, for another round of tea.
Mannah had not heard the story of Taillefer’s torture chamber. She knew he had injuries but not what they were or how he received them. Or why.
The curse of being in love with a princess.
Actually, the old woman hadn’t heard much of anything—spending the day doing chores as if she had no guests at all, as was the ruse. He’d yet to ask her the questions building within him—not wanting to burden her further.
The old woman put down the kettle and came toward Luca, fingers bent with work pressed against her gaping mouth. Her face was pale, but she did not shy away from directly examining the wound. “But what has happened to your heart, my Otsakumea?”
Luca swallowed back a shuddering breath as Ula pressed another round of sagardon to the mess of stitches. “My heart is well, thank you.” And it was, though he knew that was not exactly what this woman meant. “It’s a long story, but what is important is that Ula has been better than the best medikua at nursing me back to health.”
The Queen Will Betray You Page 4
