Jenna Helland: The Fanged Crown

“Give me something, and I’ll let it lie,” Boult said.

“So much for trust,” Harp said, and he smiled faintly. “I told you that the colonists vanished, Boult. Maybe they got eaten by beasties in the night, or maybe there’s something more sinister happening in the jungle.”

“Like what?” Boult demanded.

“Things that were set in motion a long time before the colonists arrived,” Harp told him. “Avalor didn’t give me all the details. But I trust his instincts. He isn’t the kind of elf to mistake storm clouds for evil spirits. We can trust him.”

“Really?” Boult said, giving the Marigold a significant look. “Who else knew to look for a ship in this cove?”

Neither revolt nor act of state could remove Evonne Linden’s portrait from the wall of the Winter Palace. Despite her husband’s murder at the hands of royalists, the uprising she led in his name, or the decree that declared her to be an enemy of the Queen, Evonne continued to smile at the drafty corridor from inside a mahogany frame. Her likeness was just one among many paintings in the ancient castle that chronicled the bloodline of the royal family of Tethyr.

Painted by a master artist several years before she became notorious, the portrait showed Evonne as a shapely nineteen-year-old in a cornflower blue dress sitting on a bench, before she came into her full magical and political power. A leather-bound journal rested on her knee, and a stand of tulips bloomed riotously in the background. The artist had captured Evonne’s blonde ringlets, but not her feral smile.

A black drape had hung over her portrait during the time of her uprising, but the aristocracy of Tethyr had accepted Evonne back to the Court of the Crimson Leaf with a minimal hand slapping and the loss of a single, paltry estate.

It had been a month since Declan Cardew had seen Evonne, but she was due at the Winter Palace to attend the High Festival of Winter. Cardew’s agenda for the evening revolved around Evonne, the mage who had captured the imagination of the country as she led a hardscrabble array of nobles and warriors to avenge the murder of her husband.

“The queen’s sister,” Cardew said, fully aware that it was the last thing the dwarf wanted to talk about. “Do you know Evonne?”

The dwarf’s eyes widened at the question. “What’s that got to do with the missing groundskeeper?”

“What is your name, soldier?” Cardew asked, trying to keep an amicable tone as he stared down at the glowering dwarf. As a Knight-Confident in the Order of the Dark Sparrow, Cardew knew appearances were crucial. For instance, it gave him an air of gentility to act congenially toward anyone he encountered, no matter the person’s station or birthplace—or how unreasonable they were being.

“Amhar, sir,” the dwarf replied, his dark eyes flashing with contempt.

“And you are stationed in …?” Cardew probed, taking a close look at the dwarf’s regimentals in the hope that there was some irregularity that he could call out. But the dwarf’s quilted acton was perfectly appropriate for guard duty within the castle grounds, his sheathed sword was belted at his hip, and the insignia of his order was displayed proudly on his shoulder. Most infantry carried an ash spear, but certain orders allowed dwarves to carry axes instead.

“In Darromar. I am a member of the Order of the Tempest Stahl. Queen Anais’s Court of the Crimson Leaf,” Amhar recited tonelessly.

“Really? Why aren’t you with your queen?”

“She’s your queen too,” Amhar replied.

Cardew prided himself on his tolerance, but the dwarf was pushing him perilously close to his limit. A caravan of high-ranking dignitaries had arrived just before an abnormally thick fog had settled on the countryside. The guests had requested to see someone, and as ranking officer in the palace, Cardew was the man to talk to. Or he would be if Amhar weren’t blocking his way to the guests’ quarters in the Griffon Wing of the palace. It wasn’t the first time he and the dwarf had crossed paths that night. But if Cardew had anything to say about it, it would be their last.

“I am well aware that Anais is ruler of the realm,” Cardew said tersely. “My question is why are you separated from your regiment?”

“Didn’t you hear?” Amhar asked in disbelief. “A scout arrived with the news a while back. The queen and her entourage were forced to stop in the village of Celleu due to the fog. The horses lay down on the ground and refused to continue blindly.”

“If it’s so bad, how did the scout make it back without peril?” Cardew said testily.

“Listen to me,” the dwarf growled. “There’s something wrong. There’s a plot underway, and you’re too stupid to see it.”

As Cardew looked down at the angry dwarf, he had an unpleasant thought: if Evonne were traveling with the queen’s entourage, she would be delayed as well.

“Your concern has been noted,” Cardew said brusquely. He wanted to be away so he could check on the status of Evonne’s arrival.

“You’re risking everyone’s lives,” Amhar said harshly. “I told you about the groundskeeper—”

Cardew cleared his throat, interrupting Amhar and giving himself time to consider what punishment would be acceptable for a soldier who so brazenly insulted a Knight-Confident. But it would have to wait until morning. The number of soldiers at the palace was unfortunately small. If Cardew locked up the dwarf for insolence, it would mean one fewer soldier on duty. And Cardew intended to dine with the dignitaries, not spend the night on watch.

At that moment, a door behind them burst open, and three young girls barreled out the door. The blonde cousins were nearly identical except for their size and the fact that the youngest, Ysabel—Evonne’s daughter—still toted a grubby poppet.

The redheaded governess followed close on their heels—the same redhead that Cardew had enjoyed in the stable loft earlier that afternoon. The flustered woman barely had time to give Cardew an appreciative glance before hurrying down the corridor after her charges.

“Girls, come here,” she called, waving a pair of silk slippers while Cardew tried to recall the governess’s name. Lilabeth or Lizabeth, or something else entirely. Cardew had never been good at remembering women’s names.

The girls paid no attention and scampered down the hallway like spoiled little brats. Cardew had the same trouble with his own charge Teague, Evonne’s only son.

Cardew turned his attention back to the dwarf, who was gripping the handle of his axe like he was about to chop down a tree. Cardew raised an eyebrow.

“If the night’s festivities will continue without Queen Anais, it’s safe to assume that they will continue despite the mysterious disappearance of your groundskeeper,” Cardew said.

“It’s not just him,” Amhar said. “There’s the load of wood, delivered unexpectedly. In a fog such as that outside—”

“Did you check the wood?” Cardew asked sarcastically. But Amhar took him seriously.

“Yes, I checked it. There was no writ of sale. And there’s the question of the fog itself. In all my years, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Before Cardew could reply, a young soldier hurried around the corner. Unlike Amhar, the soldier wore the hauberk and helm of a guard on perimeter duty. The crest on his shoulder was a white and green diamond, an insignia Cardew didn’t recognize. There were soldiers from too many regiments at the palace that night. It was causing havoc with the lines of authority.