Tierran Military Camp,
Ishalem Wall

For much of the next week, Anjine remained in the Saedran medical tent, praying at Mateo’s side. He hovered between life and death, his skin chalky, his respiration fluttery and weak. Field commanders came to deliver their reports to her, and she forced herself to listen, despite her preoccupation; the main attack would begin in less than two weeks.

The intermittent bouts of nausea from her pregnancy often grew severe enough that she vomited into a basin. Sometimes she gave the excuse that the blood and stench made her queasy, or she mentioned a slight fever she had picked up from the rugged conditions in the camp. Observers construed her illness as signs of grief and worry.

Surrounded by patients, the other Saedran physicians had more serious concerns, but they were not fools, and she was sure that the truth would eventually dawn on them. She couldn’t believe soldiers hadn’t already started rumors…or maybe they had.

Sen Ola offered strong herbal remedies from her pharmacopeia and urged Anjine to retire to her tent and rest, but the queen refused to leave Mateo’s side. Her symptoms seemed to be getting worse day by day, and she knew the difficulties were just beginning.

Subcomdar Hist presented his cool summary to her, standing at Mateo’s bedside. “Majesty, of the seventy-five soldiers who rode out to strike the Ishalem wall, twenty-one were killed in the raid. Another sixteen were wounded but made it back to camp. Three of those later died.”

Around them the physicians continued to change dressings, feed broth to the wounded, bathe feverish foreheads with cool cloths. “And all to what purpose, Mateo?” She stared down at him and whispered, “You didn’t need to do this for me.”

The subcomdar cleared his throat delicately. “Also, the Urabans have sent scouts in increasing numbers, and several have clashed with our soldiers. The raid on the wall threw them into turmoil.”

“Why? Did our men kill an inordinate number of the enemy?”

“Possibly, but it’s more likely the Curlies are baffled and suspect there was more to our plan. They don’t know what we intended to accomplish.”

Anjine inhaled deeply. “I don’t know what they intended to accomplish. Increase the catapult bombardment on the wall, keep them busy. Unfortunately, the enemy is now alerted.”

Hist heaved a sigh, but his anger was clear. “Destrar Shenro is uninjured, Majesty. In fact, he seems rather embarrassed that he returned home without a scratch. Would you like me to send for him?”

“Yes, send him to me,” Anjine said fiercely. “Let him explain himself to his queen.” She would find it easy to blame the Alamont destrar for Mateo’s injury, make him responsible for her own pain right now…but she knew she was as much at fault as he. Her reluctance to admit the truth had driven Mateo to such a desperate, foolish act.

“I will take care of it, my Queen.” Hist bowed briefly and left.

Anjine could not defend Mateo or his ill-advised raid, but Hist’s words brought her back to a reality that she needed to hear. As queen of Tierra, her absolute priority was to win this war, to defeat the followers of Urec and drive them from the holy city. She had to punish them in the name of Ondun, break the back of their army, defeat them so utterly that her own people would be safe from their attacks. She had gambled everything on this.

Anjine realized that she could no longer afford to expend all of her time and emotions on Mateo. He would live or he would die. Her frailties as a woman, as a human, were subordinate to her duty as a ruler. She had to be the queen of Tierra now, with no other distractions. There would be time enough for love later—if she succeeded here. Everything came down to the next few weeks.

Destrar Shenro appeared before her, stepping gingerly into the medical tent. He wore leather breeches and a clean linen shirt; his brown hair was disheveled, and he kept his gaze down. Unlike all the other soldiers in the tent, Shenro had no wound dressings, no bruises, no scrapes. “You called for me, my Queen?”

She stiffened and held his gaze without speaking a word for a long moment, as if he were a fish caught on a hook. He squirmed, but remained at attention. “I see you are well, Destrar. Unfortunately, many of your soldiers are not. Subcomdar Bornan is not. They were injured or killed because of your impetuous action!” Her voice rose at the end.

When she paused to take a breath, he said, “I offer my apologies, Majesty—but only an apology for our failure to capture the soldan-shah. If we had seized him as planned, we would have ended the war without further bloodshed. I told no one of our plans because I am convinced that many ra’virs still hide among our soldiers, and I didn’t want to give them the chance to betray us.”

He looked down at Mateo. “I am sorry for those injuries, truly I am. But I’m not sorry for wanting to kill the Curlies. All of the men wounded or killed during that raid were soldiers loyal to Aiden. They fought the enemy, and took down as many as they could.” He sniffed. “You can blame me for brash planning, Majesty, but Urecari blades caused those cuts, Urecari arrows made those wounds, and Urecari fighters tried to kill us.” He blinked at her, his eyes blazing. “I know that you haven’t forgotten who our real enemy is, and I—along with all your loyal subjects—will fight them until our dying breath.”

“But at what cost?” she said in a whisper. “Until we are all dead?”

“Or until we are victorious. If we don’t win this battle, maybe we’ll win the next one. Or the next. It may take a year, ten years, a hundred! But we will not back down.”

Anjine felt deflated rather than galvanized by his anger. “Leave me,” she said, and Shenro turned smartly and left the tent. She did not get up.

Her thoughts seemed to be on fire. Her responses were volatile, and her decisions were no longer so clear to her. A baby grew inside her, an unexpected complication to Tierra’s plans, a trick that love had played on her. She could never be a mere woman with a happy life—Anjine had to be mother to all of Tierra, not to one child. The queen could not be seen as weak, not now. The soldan-shah and his armies would laugh if an enormously pregnant woman challenged them on the battlefield.

King Korastine had left too much weight on his daughter’s shoulders, and she had been asked to be many things. Back in Calay, in a time of relative peace, her mother had numerous nursemaids, teachers, and castle staff to help her raise Anjine, only one child. How could Anjine do that herself in a rugged military camp? What if this war lasted another twenty years? She could not be a nurturing mother; all she wanted was to slaughter the enemy. If Mateo recovered, she could not make him a babysitter while she sat on the throne. And if he should die…

No. This was the worst possible time for the queen of Tierra to have a child—especially an illegitimate one. She must not even consider it. Anjine couldn’t afford to be sick, or distracted, or weak. Tierra itself was at stake. She had to make her decision—and quickly, before anyone else knew. Every day of delay only posed an increased risk to her own health.

Anjine summoned Sen Ola na-Ten and told the doctor to meet her in the royal tent.

The Saedran physician was a long time coming, and Anjine knotted her hands together. Her anxiety had nothing to do with the nausea of her pregnancy. When the gruff old woman finally entered her tent, her expression told Anjine that Sen Ola already knew what she would ask.

The Saedran spoke first, as if trying to prevent Anjine’s unutterable words. “I have talked with Subcomdar Bornan’s physicians, looked at his wounds myself. He has survived, though he is still weak. The next few days will decide. Any change could send him down, or he could rally and recover. They say your bloodline is directly descended from Aiden, my Queen. Now would be a good time to pray—and not make rash decisions.”

“I have already prayed, and pondered much. But the decision is mine alone.”

Sen Ola nodded slowly. Anjine sat heavily on a stool and looked at her for a long moment. “I will require your chemical draught. I must take it now, before anyone else knows, so that I can recover before the final assault. In less than two weeks I need to be healthy and…undistracted. If we defeat the enemy, there will be time for children later.”

The Saedran’s expression fell. “But not for this child.”

Another wave of nausea washed over Anjine, and she fought it down with difficulty. “No, not for this child. But who can count one unborn child among the countless parents and children who have already been slain in this war?”

Anjine had seen the look of joy on the Gremurr refugees when they were reunited with their families, and she had also seen the crushing despair in those who did not, and never would, find their loved ones. Such bright hope followed by such crushing disappointment seemed more cruel than the news itself.

“It’s for the best,” she said. “I cannot be a mere woman now. I need to be Tierra’s ruler.”