The Queen Will Betray You by Sarah Henning

Author:Sarah Henning [Henning, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

Nine Years Prior to Present Day

IT had been said the Warlord’s face reflected back the viewer’s deepest fear.

That when meeting face-to-face, the tyrant shifted forms until he was only recognized by the viewer’s soul, making them see the thing that kept them up at night, leaving claw marks on the darkest parts of the mind.

Sendoa, Warrior King of Ardenia, did not believe this.

It was a myth. It was, like everything else in the Torrent, smoke and mirrors designed to protect the leader. A reputation can often be stronger than a suit of armor. This was something Sendoa believed. He knew it to be true through personal experience.

He was a warrior king, and it didn’t hurt to call himself one.

His army was the best in the world, and it paid to regularly make mention of it.

His kingdom was the richest in the Sand and Sky, and as long as diamonds were mined no one weighed the coffers.

And so Sendoa stood in the middle of the Warlord’s camp. A fire pit large enough to swallow any ship in the Port of Ardenia roared at his back. At his side, General Koldo. They were without their swords, the famed blades left with the Ardenian contingent a mile outside of the Warlord’s camp.

This meeting was not on Sendoa’s terms.

Not his land, not his decision, not his advantage.

It was not ideal, but he’d worked for six years to have this meeting. And he would have it. Unarmed and alone was worth it for a chance at peace. To finally negotiate with this person who had orchestrated the murder of his royal friends. Whose very leadership led to bandits and raiders crossing into Ardenia to steal from people whose peaceful existence made them a target.

“Koldo” He nodded to his general, a lock of sunset hair falling forward, the words both a good-bye and an order. No matter what happened inside that tent, the general would keep Ardenia safe. Keep Amarande safe.

Two of the Warlord’s women moved before him, an escort. He walked between them. In twenty paces, the escort split on either side of the entrance, stepping beside twin torches driven into the soft earth, and pulled open either flap of the curtain, revealing nothing but blinding light and palpable heat.

The Warrior King stepped into the tent. A figure stood so close to the fire it almost appeared to be formed of smoke. Backlit. Black. Swathed in the blue and white of the hottest flames.

The figure turned. Stepped forward.

The king’s knees weakened. Something that could have been fear stabbed straight through his heart.

Real. She was real.

“Hello, Sendoa.”

Under several days of ginger scruff on the Warrior King’s cheeks, all color drained until only the blush of a Torrent sunburn remained atop his nose and cheekbones.

He stared at her uncovered face, cataloging features mirrored upon his own young daughter. Clear eyes, full lips, tapered chin. What’s more, her frame was commanding though it was slight—his daughter would be this way, too, as she grew.

Sendoa tried to speak. His tongue shriveled in his mouth.

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