Mind racing, Eve spun on her heel back to the table, and Wes’s and Roric’s half-empty tankards. She emptied the contents of one into the other to form an approximation of a full drink. At a whim, she grabbed her own tankard from the table as well before once again addressing the foppish Steward. “Alright, I’m ready.”
Preston rubbed his temples. Wes stared openmouthed in both shock and anger at his stolen beverage. Charles looked down his nose at her in distaste but was either polite enough or adequately speechless to remain silent.
Eve took a step towards the door. “Well? I thought we were in a hurry.”
The Steward took a moment to collect himself before muttering, “Ah, um, of course. Right this way,” and leading her through the tavern and out onto the street.
Eve, of course, knew how to get back to the palace—she’d been living there over a week, after all—but Charles nonetheless walked in front as if navigating. Perhaps it was his way of keeping what little control he could over the situation, or just to pretend he wasn’t leading an eighteen-year-old girl in peasant clothes and two beers to meet the gods-damned queen of Leshk.
For her part, Eve deeply regretted choosing to spend the evening at a tavern instead of celebrating at her suite. Perhaps then she would’ve had time to change into one of the gorgeous dresses she’d bought for exactly occasions such as this. At least she had her ale.
She took a swig as they walked, caring less and less about her common state of dress as the alcohol slowly overwhelmed her Ethereal Metabolism’s ability to digest it.
It wasn’t until they reached the palace doors that Eve grew thankful for Charles’s guidance. Well as she might’ve memorized the various ways to travel between her suite, the building’s assorted entrances, and, most importantly, the kitchens, the Defiant had no way of finding pretty much anything else, let alone figuring out in which of the three throne rooms the queen wished to meet.
Eve took another sip from her rapidly diminishing supply of ale, her mounting nerves at the impending encounter engaged in a fierce battle with the liquid confidence she imbibed. For fuck’s sake, she thought in response to her pounding heart, I’m more nervous for this than I was for the leviathan. Then again, she’d known what the leviathan wanted: primarily its egg back and secondarily to eat her. Eve couldn’t have even guessed the queen’s purpose for arranging this meeting, especially at such a late hour.
She assumed Queen Elric had no intention of eating her, but royals were an eccentric bunch.
By the time Charles finally stopped at an elaborate set of double doors at the end of a hallway, Eve’s nerves had begun to calm. She flashed a smile at the two guards who opened the doors for them before stepping through into the throne room.
It was empty.
No trumpets blasted fanfare, no haughty nobles milled about the gallery beneath the gilded marble pillars, no advisor announced her presence.
No queen sat upon the crystal throne.
“Right this way,” Charles’s voice echoed hollowly through the vacant chamber, resonating from the vaulted ceilings to the glimmering dais. He took her directly behind the gorgeously translucent seat of power and into a tight hallway obscured by a velvet curtain. A brief walk later, the Defiant and the Steward emerged in a sitting room equipped with plush chairs and sofas, a well-stocked table of refreshments, and a roaring hearth radiating cozy warmth throughout the space.
Charles bowed. “Your Majesty, I present to you Her Excellency Evelia Greene, Emissary to the kingdom of New Burendia.”
For an embarrassingly long moment, Eve simply stared at the woman before her, taking in her thin yet sturdy frame, elegantly embroidered light blue dress, and silky hair so gold it bordered on white. Eve could only marvel at how long it must’ve taken to arrange it into such complicated decorative braids.
And then she remembered herself and fell into as low a bow as she could manage without spilling too much ale on the ornate carpet. Instead, it splashed only onto her hand.
“Thank you, Charles.” Soft and gentle as it was, the queen’s voice carried a commanding tone to it. “You may leave.”
Eve didn’t look up, tracking the Steward’s departure by the sound of his feet scurrying from the room. They were alone. Alone, that is, except for the two guards with enchanted golden armor and glowing swords that stood by each entrance. Eve doubted they would be of any help to her.
A shuffling of fabric reached her ears, followed by a simple command of, “You may rise.”
Eve straightened to find the queen standing before her. The two took a mutual moment to Appraise the other, both in skill and in normal sight.
Level 41 Fledgling Monarch
Epic Tier 3 Class
The queen was young for her level, no older than Eve herself, though the Defiant supposed she wasn’t a good point of comparison. She knew that nobles brought in caged beasts to raise the levels of their children, a practice especially prudent for someone whose bloodline unlocked all the classes they’d ever need.
How come she gets a gender-neutral class and I had to be a Messenger Girl? Eve thought to herself. Then again, nothing even tangentially connected to nobility, let alone royalty, could ever be considered remotely fair, so Eve let that idea fall by the wayside. Instead, she found herself wondering what conclusions the queen drew from Eve’s own presentation. Probably not good ones.
If Queen Elric thought ill of Eve’s appearance, she hid it well. “Your Excellency, I apologize that my Steward failed to reach you in time to properly join this afternoon’s court, but I get the impression you’d prefer a more intimate meeting.”
“Don’t blame Charles,” Eve jumped to the Steward’s defense, not realizing she’d just given a direct order to the fucking queen. “He works remarkably hard.”
“I’m aware. Just this week I promoted him for being the only staff member with the initiative to go into town for my morning bread on the day our ovens failed.”
Eve snorted, prompting a curious look from the young royal. In an effort to change the subject, she held out the mostly-full tankard she’d brought. “I brought you this, as a—um—thank you for your hospitality.” Eve was pretty sure that’s what the customary gift was supposed to be for.
The queen accepted the proffered cup gracefully, raising it to her nose to smell the brew within. “Is this a product of New Burendia? I’ll admit I know little of your culture and exports, a dilemma I hope to remedy if you’ll so humor me.”
“No, it’s—um—from a tavern down the street. Siren’s Call or something like that. I didn’t really have a chance to put together a proper gift after Charles found me.” Eve decided to risk the truth rather than outright lying to the pretty queen. Charles had seen her grab the tankard, and she didn’t expect him to back her lie if she told it.
Without prompt, Queen Elric threw her head back, chugging the tankard’s entire contents in a matter of seconds. Upon lowering the empty mug, she daintily dabbed at her lips with a handkerchief. “Delicious, if a bit warm. I’ll have to see about purchasing a cask for the palace.”
Eve gaped.
The queen grinned. “I can tell from your expression you’ve never negotiated a mining treaty with a party of dwarves.”
“I… can’t say I have.”
“The dwarves believe ale is essential to any good-faith negotiation; they say it makes you honest.”
Eve blinked. “Then—um… to honesty.” She emptied her own tankard, a task made easier by the fact she’d already drank most of it on the way to the palace.
“Now, why don’t we sit? I’ve been on my feet far too much today.” The queen stepped around the wide sofa to sit comfortably in one of the armchairs.
Eve followed. “Oh, sure.” She plopped herself down onto the sofa before uttering a hurried, “Your Majesty,” upon realizing she’d forgotten the proper honorific several times.
“Please, call me Emily. If we’re going to follow dwarven negotiation protocol, we may as well follow it all the way.�
�� She casually waved, prompting a valet that Eve hadn’t even known was there to deposit two glasses of brandy on the knee-high table between them.
“If you say so.” Eve grabbed her glass, taking a sip of the sweet yet burning liquid. “I’m Eve.”
Emily leaned back in her chair, swirling her own glass of brandy in her hand. “So tell me, Eve, what can I do for the kingdom of New Burendia?”
Eve shrugged. “Hells if I know. I’m here for the tournament. Wasn’t even planning on visiting the palace until Charles found me.” She held off on mentioning that she hadn’t been planning on inventing a fake kingdom to represent either.
The queen laughed. It was a sharp, sudden thing, distinctly apart from the put-together demeanor she kept. “You aren’t the first Emissary I’ve met that claimed to be here without a clear political motive, but you might be the first I actually believe.”
“Really?” Eve exhaled sharply. “Why is that?”
“Because you’re actually competing. Because you came in here dressed as a peasant and handed me a mug of ale from down the street like all you wanted from me was to share a drink.”
“Oh, I want more than that,” Eve said, taking another large sip of brandy. “Two or three drinks at least.”
Emily smiled. “I think that could be arranged.” With a wave of her hand, the valet returned, this time with the entire bottle in lieu of pre-filled glasses. The queen leaned in, topping off Eve’s cup. “So what does one do, in New Burendia, while drinking brandy?”
“Oh, um, the same things as everywhere else, I suppose. Play games, make jokes, tell stories.” Eve toed the line of building upon her great lie.
“Is that so?” Emily raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any good stories?”
Eve gulped down the contents of her glass, setting it down on the table. Emily refilled it as Eve spoke. “You have no idea. This one time, back in Ilvia, I found myself in possession of this terrible goat…”
The queen listened raptly as Eve detailed her tertiary quest with Archibald the goat, giggling girlishly or gasping in surprise as the story demanded. When that tale ended, another took its place. And another.
The hours flew by as the Defiant and the queen, bound together only in the depth of their experiences for two women so young, swapped stories of grand adventures and courtly faux pas over altogether too much brandy. Eve, despite her shorter stature and greater intake, remained the more coherent of the pair thanks to her Ethereal Metabolism, but even she found herself slurring her words and giggling like a fool at Emily’s accounting of Lord Montegoonery’s ill-planned antics.
When the hour grew late enough that not even the energetic company could keep the young queen’s eyes open, Eve clumsily thanked her for the delicious brandy and engaging conversation before escorting herself out of the comfy sitting room.
Throughout her walk—using the term generously for Eve’s haphazard motion—back to her suite, the wide grin stayed plastered to Eve’s face. She paused once on her trek, leaning against the pristine wall to stabilize herself as the words spilled out to nobody in particular. “When I said I needed more female friends, I didn’t mean the fucking queen of Leshk.” She laughed.
The meeting had gone as well as she could’ve hoped—better, even. Oh, she was sure that come morning she wouldn’t hear the end of it from Wes and Preston, but that was tomorrow Eve’s problem. Instead, she kept that smile on her face as she stumbled the rest of the way through the winding palace halls back to her suite and the comfortably warm, if spinning, embrace of her bed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Re-reenter the Arena
EVE AWOKE TO the sound of voices outside her room, clearly trying and failing to keep quiet. She groaned. “I’m up. You might as well come in.”
Wes and Preston stepped into the luxurious bedchamber, the latter carrying a silver tray that had once been stacked high with various meats, fruits, and pastries but had since had its contents diminished by two adventurers, a trellac, and a hungry drake.
“A page brought this this morning,” Preston explained. “Apparently you were spotted drunkenly stumbling through the palace in the early hours of the morning, and the staff took pity on you.”
Eve sat up in bed, rubbing her temples. “Yeah—uh—that sounds about right. Leading off by handing her a tankard of ale definitely sent the night in an… interesting direction.”
“So—I—um…” Preston coughed. “I take it your meeting with the queen went well?”
Eve reached across her gargantuan bed to grab the pitcher of water on her bedside table, lifting the whole thing to her mouth to wet her arid throat. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “We had fun. Drank brandy, shared stories, told jokes, drank more brandy… I think we managed to go the whole time without talking business.”
Wes raised an eyebrow. “You think?”
“There was a lot of brandy.”
Preston, understanding her meaning, grabbed a muffin from the breakfast tray and crossed the room to stand at her bedside. One uncomfortable flash of golden light later, and Eve was using her newly hangover-free mind to inspect the oatmeal pastry for any traces of poppyseeds. Only when she was satisfied did she take a bite.
“Thanks,” she said through a mouthful of muffin.
Wes and Preston stared at her from the breakfast table across the room while she ate, flashing hesitant looks at each other but otherwise keeping silent. Eve could practically feel the weight of their gaze.
“What?” she eventually asked.
They didn’t answer.
Eve swallowed the last of her muffin. “Whatever it is you want to say, just spit it out.”
Preston opened his mouth but closed it before saying anything.
Wes actually managed to speak. “You didn’t sleep with her, did you?”
“What? No. We just had a few drinks and sat by the hearth and talked and…” The color drained from Eve’s face. “Ayla’s tits. When you put it like that—”
“It’s not Ayla’s tits I’m worried about,” Preston said. “Don’t fuck the queen.”
“Would it really be that bad if she had?” Wes asked. “That’s gotta at least be worth a quest milestone, right?”
“Our position here is precarious as it is,” Preston argued. “The last thing we need is more complications and more attention. Getting entangled with Queen Elric means both of those in spades.”
“Or it could mean a powerful ally that could help protect us from being exposed,” Wes replied.
“Guys!” Eve interrupted. “I didn’t sleep with her. And you both seem to be running under the assumption that I’m going to, or that it would be any of your business if I did.”
Preston exhaled. “But you admit it’s a possibility?”
“No! Maybe. I don’t know.” Eve sighed. “If you’d asked me when I left last night, I would’ve definitely said no, because that’s not how last night felt. Looking back at it now, especially when you frame it like this…” She groaned. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think she just needs a friend her age that isn’t a servant or trying to manipulate her. She opened up to me really quickly.”
“Well, you did get her drunk.”
“It might be more accurate to say she got me drunk. Or maybe we got each other drunk. I brought the ale but she said something about dwarven diplomacy and kept pouring brandy.”
“Maybe she thought you’d spill secrets if you got drunk enough?” Preston offered.
“Or that you’d make an advance,” Wes added.
Preston blinked. “Would you?”
“No,” Eve put it flatly.
The healer pressed. “And if she were to make an advance on you?”
“I don’t—maybe? Again, it’s none of your business.”
“It’s my business if we all get thrown in prison because some court gossip wants to look into the queen’s new beau and finds out you’re no Emissary.” Preston sighed. “Look, you can do whatever you want, but at least think about whet
her or not that kind of attention is worth it. You have a bad habit of charging in without considering the consequences.”
“Hey!” Eve protested. “I always consider the consequences. It’s the risks I don’t evaluate.”
Wes and Preston rolled their eyes so in sync Eve might’ve thought they’d practiced.
Growing tired of this line of questioning, Eve tossed away the covers and got out of bed. “As far as I’m concerned, I had a fun time with a new friend last night. I don’t think she’d ever offer to be anything more, and I don’t know that I’d even say yes if she did. Happy?”
“Just be careful,” Preston said gently. “That’s all I ask.”
“Great. Okay.” Eve crossed the room to re-don her discarded armor. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get back to practicing. I’m sure Roric is already waiting for me downstairs.”
“Perfect.” Wes grinned. “Go spend more time with the shirtless berserker. Keep your mind off your new friend.”
“Please,” Eve scoffed as her hands deftly maneuvered the clasps on the back of her leather chest piece, “after what’s happened to him, I doubt Roric wants a woman to so much as look at him. Besides, he has a wife, remember?”
“A wife he hasn’t seen in how long?” Wes asked.
It was Eve’s turn to roll her eyes. “Let me generalize. I’m not making advances on anyone, and if anyone tries…” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It seems silly to make these kinds of decisions ahead of time.”
Preston nodded. “Again, just be careful.”
Eve finished strapping on her armor, grabbing her club from the floor and stepping towards the door. “C’mon, when am I ever not careful?” With a quiet smirk, she stepped out into the antechamber and then the hallway before Preston could have a chance to list off the many, many times she’d been less than completely cautious.
This Class is Bonkers! (This Trilogy is Broken (A Comedy Litrpg Adventure) Book 2) Page 24
