Queen of the North (Book 3) (Songs of the Scorpion) Read Free

response, the emissaries quietly conferred with harsh whispers and sharp gestures. When they turned back, they were all oily smiles again.
    “This man, Mitros, was not appointed by our good and generous liege,” they informed her gravely, one picking up where the other left off so smoothly that she had a hard time following the conversation. “Should you accept the king’s offer, you’ll be more than a mere reeve, you’ll also be Lady Erryn, ” they finished as one, speaking as if lady sounded so much finer than queen .
    To Erryn’s mind, they were fools. Anyone could name herself a lady. Look at Nesaea, who had been her mentor for a brief time, if never her friend. She was no more a born noblewoman than Erryn was a born queen. Names and titles meant nothing, unless you could make others believe they were true. At worst, Erryn was halfway to being a queen already—she had named herself, it was true, but held no illusions that she would not have to fight to keep her claim. As such, becoming Lady Erryn was akin to going backward. Still, she decided to hear these men out, because as Nesaea had told her, “Listening to your enemies leads to understanding them, and understanding them will help you defeat them.”
    “Should I accept,” Erryn said, voice neutral, “what recompense will your ‘good and generous liege’ offer me?” She had never been to any court save her own—the common room of the Cracked Flagon, with its ale- and wine-stained wooden floor, and slipshod plank walls covered in hides, antlers, and ten lifetimes of soot—but she felt sure her question had a courtly ring to it.
    A question instead of immediate agreement distressed the emissaries anew. They pushed their heads together yet again, faces twisted into scowls. They recovered quickly and pressed closer to her, their tongues all but wagging in her direction. Erryn decided Breyon was right about highborn arse-licking, and couldn’t help but clench her buttocks under her snug leather leggings.
    One of the bald emissaries, the tallest and most spindly of the lot, swept back his ermine-lined cloak of scarlet wool and stepped forward. “Should you accept, milady, you’ll be expected to resume delivering shipments of gold-ore to the King’s City of Onareth. In return, King Nabar will provide you with enough soldiers to ensure that Valdar is protected from ravening plainsmen, as well as the bandits known to frequent these lands.” His eyes failed to conceal his opinion that Erryn herself was little more than a common brigand. “Assuming your willingness, King Nabar has granted you lands and, of course, a true title.” From the depths of his cloak, he produced a scroll with a blob of blue wax sealing it closed. A moment later, out came a leather sack that clinked when he bounced on his palm.
    “Truly?” Erryn asked, feigning interest. They offered her more every time she showed the barest reluctance, suggesting that they were conniving and untrustworthy—not that she had expected anything less. These fools were the picture of all she hoped to avoid in her own rule.
    “Indeed, milady. King Nabar has even agreed to provide funds necessary to pay for the construction of a fine manse hereabout, one suitable to your station….” Just short of cringing, the emissary’s words trailed off as he looked around at the wide fields beyond the palisade, with their dying grass and wildflowers, the stubble of recently harvested crops gone a dirty yellow within fieldstone hedges, and finally to the dark forests of pine, fir and birch ringing it all about. He cleared his throat, shivered. “Enough gold, I daresay, for you to build a woodland palace , if you wish.”
    “Oh my, a woodland palace?”
    General Aedran leaned in close to Erryn. “If you poke your dagger into his gob, I’ll give you ten woodland palaces.”
    A giggle escaped Erryn. The bald emissary scowled. Before he could waste anymore time, Erryn eased back her wolfskin cloak to caress the