The Born Queen - J. Gregory Keyes [67]
“It’s all very grand,” Emily said. “Thank you for showing me this.” Her eyes sparkled.
Anne nodded. “Well, you came a long way to see it.”
She turned to her brother. “Why did you bring her here, Cape Chavel? I’m sure she was safer in Virgenya.”
“No, I don’t think she was,” the earl said. “There she might be taken hostage and used to persuade me to return. Here I can keep an eye on her.”
“Anyway,” Emily said, “I’d rather be here than safe. It’s all very exciting.”
“What will you do when your brother goes to war?”
“I was hoping for a favor there, Majesty,” the earl said.
“What is that, Cape Chavel?”
“If some lady could be found who needs a maid…” He trailed off, looking a bit embarrassed.
“What’s this?” Emily said. “Why can’t I ride with you?” She turned to Anne. “I’m really not much good at sewing.”
“I might be able to manage to please you both,” Anne said. “I am presently in need of a maid, and your brother, for a time at least, will ride with me. I want to see personally how his men perform.”
“Majesty,” the earl said, “that is very generous.”
“It is also very dangerous, Cape Chavel. Any maid of mine is in constant peril.”
“I can handle a knife and sword as well as a bow,” Emily said.
The earl pursed his lips and shot his sister a look probably meant to silence her.
“It’s true,” he conceded after a moment. “She can handle herself. There’s peril everywhere, Your Majesty. You may attract danger, but from what I’ve heard, you’re also good at repelling it. And to have my sister near me—it really is more than I could have hoped for.”
“Well, I promise nothing, but we shall try it out for a few days and see how we get along.”
Emily clapped her hands together but did not giggle. That in itself was promising.
A few bells later, in the Warhearth, the fresh air of the sunlit Sleeve seemed very far away. It wasn’t just the lack of windows but the heaviness of the room itself and the massive paintings of her family’s martial past. One picture in particular seemed to have singled her out. It depicted from behind the first few ranks of an army on some sort of rise, so near the bottom of the frame of the painting that only the tops of helms were visible, and in the next rank full heads, then down to shoulders. At the crest of the hill stood a woman in armor, also showing her back, but with her head turned back to her men. Her hair was flame, twisting about her in coruscating strands, and her eyes were incandescent, inhuman. Her lips were parted and her neck was taut, as if she were shouting.
Before the warriors loomed a massive, mist-shrouded citadel of dark red stone, and in the mists gigantic shadows seemed to move.
Genya Dare, at that last terrible battle, had fought right here, where Eslen now stood.
Genya Dare, who had let one Skaslos live to be the secret captive of the kings of Crotheny—until Anne let him go.
Follow me, she was saying. Follow me, daughter-queen.
“Majesty, if you would like to do this another time—”
Artwair.
“No,” she said, shaking herself back to the moment. “I’m fine. I was just wondering how the artist knew what Genya Dare looked like.”
“He didn’t,” Artwair said. “The model was Elyoner Dare.”
“Aunt Elyoner?”
“No, your father’s grandmother. A Merimoth, originally, but her mother was a Dare from the Minster-on-Sea branch of the family.”
“That’s her?”
“Well, she didn’t look exactly like that when I knew her. She was a good deal older. Why do you ask?”
Because I almost lost my virginity in her crypt.
“No reason,” she said.
He shrugged, then pointed at the map he had spread out on the table. “Sir Fail will blockade Copenwis to prevent more reinforcements by sea. They will expect an attack by land because it’s the best and quickest way to take the city. The city isn’t really built for siege, and the highlands around it make it too easy to bombard with engines. That means they’ll try to meet us somewhere