The Queen's Mage

Mara led her through a narrower passage lined with glass doors.

Beyond them, a cloister opened into winter.

Serali stopped at the threshold.

The garden waited.

Not the lush, spilling thing it might have been in summer. Winter had pared it down to bones: pale stone paths, dark branches trained over iron frames, empty rose canes tied neatly against trellises, frost silvering the shaded edges of boxwood and clipped bay. Here and there, stubborn green showed through: rosemary, winter thyme, the glossy spears of some plant Serali did not know and did not trust on principle.

Beyond the bare beds stood long glasshouses, their panes fogged with warmth. Gold light glowed inside them. Shapes crowded the misted windows: citrus trees in clay tubs, hanging herbs, climbing vines, broad-leafed plants arranged in practical rows. Useful plants, not pretty ones. Or not only pretty ones.

“The east garden is quieter in winter,” Mara said. “Most of Lia’s herbs are under glass now.”

“Lia has a greenhouse?”

“Several. Officially, they belong to the palace.”

“And unofficially?”

“Everyone knows better than to touch her feverfew.”

Serali glanced at her. “That sounded like experience.”

“I was younger.”

“And survived?”

“Barely.”

The door opened.

Cold air touched Serali’s face.

She almost stepped back.

Not because it hurt.

Because it was real.

It carried salt from the harbor, damp stone, trimmed evergreen, and the faint mineral bite of frost. Not the trapped chill of Naerith’s lower corridors. Not dungeon cold. This was open cold, moving cold, air with somewhere to go.

Mara waited.

The guards waited farther behind.

No one told her to move.

That, too, was becoming a problem.

Serali stepped outside.

Gravel shifted beneath her shoes.

The sound was small.

Enormous.

“The east garden is mostly Lia’s herbs and family walks,” she said. “The formal gardens are south of the throne court. Those are less peaceful.”

“Because of politics?”

“Because of peacocks.”

Serali looked at her. “Peacocks.”

Mara nodded gravely. “They are deeply political birds.”

“I believe that.”

“One bit Lord Merrow last spring.”

Serali’s mouth opened.

Closed.

Mara’s expression remained innocent.

Serali said, “Did he deserve it?”

“I am a maid.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the answer I can give.”

Serali laughed.

Mara led her along the cloister path, past sleeping beds and clipped hedges whose shadows striped the pale stones. Through the nearest greenhouse glass, Serali glimpsed orange trees heavy with green-gold fruit and a forest of labeled pots arranged in rows so precise that Lia’s influence was unmistakable.

“Those are medicinal?” Serali asked.

“Some. Some are culinary. Some are poisonous unless prepared correctly.”

“Lia’s, then.”

Mara’s mouth twitched. “Yes.”

A faint warmth breathed from the greenhouse vents as they passed, carrying the scent of damp soil, crushed mint, rosemary, and something sharp enough to clear the lungs. Serali slowed despite herself.

Inside, winter had been held at bay by glass and discipline. Leaves pressed against the panes. Small white flowers starred one citrus tree. A vine with silver-veined leaves climbed a trellis near the back wall, its stems tied carefully with red thread.

A useful garden.

A hidden one.

One that survived by being tended, shielded, and occasionally dangerous.

Serali looked away before the metaphor could become obvious.

They walked farther.

The guards followed at a distance just long enough to feel almost polite and just short enough to remain guards. Serali knew exactly how many steps separated them. Twelve from the older one. Fourteen from the younger. The garden wall to the right was too high to climb quickly, but the trellis ahead might hold if she were desperate, though the frozen vine on it would probably object.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from NovelFire. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

She counted exits because she was alive.

She admired the frost on the rosemary because, apparently, she was also an idiot.

The path curved around a stand of bare silver-barked trees and opened onto a higher terrace overlooking packed sand and pale stone.

The royal training ground.

Serali knew it before Mara said anything.

Winter had not emptied this place. If anything, it had made it sharper. The sand had been raked clean of frost. Steam rose faintly from the breath of soldiers training in pairs near the far side. Weapon racks lined one wall beneath a striped awning. A brazier burned near the benches, and discarded cloaks hung from pegs beside towels and leather padding.

And at the center, Allandra fought.

Serali stopped walking.

Mara took two more steps before realizing and turned back.

“Oh,” she said softly.

Oh, indeed.

Allandra wore trousers.

That was the first problem.

Not court robes. Not a riding skirt. Not one of those severe long coats buttoned to the throat like an argument. Trousers. Dark, fitted, tucked into high boots, with a sleeveless training tunic belted at the waist and a pale linen shirt beneath, sleeves rolled to the elbow despite the cold.

Her hair was braided back, but not perfectly. Strands had escaped around her temples and at the nape of her neck, damp with sweat. No crown, no jeweled authority. Just a sword in her hand, steam in the winter air around her, and the brutal competence of a woman who had learned to survive people trying to kill her.

The second problem was the sword.

Serali had seen Allandra’s hands on papers. On chair arms. On the edge of a door as she restrained herself from coming closer. She had seen those hands lift light, open locks, hold Everly’s card with absurd care.

She had not seen them like this.

Fast.

Precise.

Decisive.

Allandra moved against two opponents, yielding ground, then taking it back. She turned one blade aside with a ringing sweep, pivoted under the second, and drove the pommel into a soldier’s ribs hard enough that he stumbled back laughing and wheezing.

Laughing.

At being struck by the queen.

Serali had no idea what to do with that either.

Allandra did not smile. Not exactly. But something in her face had loosened. Her attention was clean here, focused entirely on movement, distance, breath. She looked younger. Not soft. Never soft. But unburdened in a way Serali had not seen before.

Then Allandra turned.

Her gaze found Serali immediately.

Of course it did.

Across the training ground, across sunlight and distance and half a dozen people who did not know the air had changed, Allandra went still.

Only for a breath.

Then the soldier to her left, either foolish or committed, lunged.

Allandra caught the attack without looking.

Her blade snapped up, deflected his strike, and slid to his throat in one smooth motion.

The man froze.

Allandra’s eyes remained on Serali.

Serali’s mouth went dry.

And the bond, no longer muffled by iron, opened like a door left too near a fire.

Heat.

Recognition.

Allandra’s surprise striking against Serali’s want and reflecting back sharper.

Serali gripped the terrace rail.

Mara made a very small sound beside her.

The soldier under Allandra’s blade said, carefully, “Majesty?”

Allandra blinked.

The world resumed.

She lowered the sword. “Again.”

The soldier glanced toward the terrace, saw Serali, then looked away with the speed of a man who wished to live.

Serali should have moved.

She did not.

It was research, she told herself.

Royal Mage research.

Important tactical observation of the sovereign’s combat style, should she someday need to advise on defensive matters or insult Allandra accurately.

Allandra fought like sunlight through glass: bright, angular, controlled until suddenly it was everywhere. No wasted flourishes. No ornamental cruelty. She did not toy with her opponents. She read them, moved them, ended exchanges before they became indulgent.

One soldier feinted low.

Allandra kicked his ankle out from under him.

Serali’s eyebrows rose.

Mara, the traitor, glanced at her face.

Serali sensed it and looked sharply at her. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was a very loud nothing.”

Mara’s mouth pressed tight, but the smile escaped anyway.

Serali narrowed her eyes. “Do not.”

“I did not say anything.”

“You thought something.”

“I am allowed.”

“Barely.”

Mara’s eyes flicked back to the training ground.

Serali followed despite herself.

Allandra had crossed closer without Serali noticing, which was unacceptable. She stood below the terrace, sword lowered, sunlight catching in the loose hair around her face and turning it almost white-gold.

“Mara,” she called.

Mara curtsied. “Majesty.”

Allandra’s gaze moved to Serali.

“Royal Mage.”

Serali’s stomach performed a small, humiliating betrayal.

“I am still provisional,” she called down.

Allandra’s mouth curved. “Then provisional Royal Mage.”

“That is worse.”

“I will inform the clerks.”

“Do not.”

One of the soldiers coughed into his fist.

Mara stared very hard at a nearby rosebush.

Allandra shifted the sword to her left hand. “Enjoying the garden?”

“I was,” Serali said, “until it became educational.”

“Most gardens are full of hidden dangers.”

“Peacocks, I hear.”

Allandra’s expression darkened with what might have been genuine memory. “Do not trust the peacocks.”

The soldier nearest Allandra made a strangled sound.

Allandra did not look at him.

The silence that followed was not empty.

It moved between them, warm as the sun on stone.

Allandra’s gaze dropped briefly to Serali’s uncovered wrist. No bandage. No tether. Then to her ankle, hidden under the hem of the brown gown but free of iron at last. Her face changed in that small, careful way that meant too much.

Serali felt it this time.

Not clearly.

Not fully.

But enough.

Relief.

Want.

Fear of both.

She looked away first.

“I am on a tour,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Mara is explaining how your palace functions.”

Allandra’s eyes flicked to Mara. “Should I be concerned?”

Mara, wisely, said, “Only a little, Majesty.”

“She has been honest about the peacocks,” Serali said.

“Then you are in capable hands.”

Something in Serali’s chest warmed.

Not the bond, she decided.

Not everything could be blamed on old magic.

Some betrayals were entirely ordinary.

Allandra lifted her sword slightly. “Do you want to continue?”

The question seemed simple.

It was not.

Did she want to continue walking? Watching? Being seen in daylight by servants and guards and a queen in trousers with sweat at her throat?

Did she want to remain on the terrace until everyone below understood there was a line of tension stretching between her and Allandra bright enough to hang laundry on?

Serali straightened.

“Yes,” she said. “I have not yet inspected the shrubbery for stab-worthiness.”

Allandra’s mouth twitched. “Very important.”

“Mara says I should be thorough.”

“I said no such thing,” Mara murmured.

Serali ignored her.

Allandra inclined her head. “Then I will leave you to your inspection.”

“Try not to kill anyone.”

“It is only practice.”

“That sounded evasive.”

“It was.”

Serali almost smiled.

Allandra did.

Small. Private. Gone almost at once.

But not fast enough.

Serali turned before her own face could betray her and started down the garden path.

Mara fell into step beside her. The guards followed.

For several paces, Serali said nothing.

The warmth of the training ground stayed at her back. She could feel Allandra’s attention like sunlight between her shoulder blades, though she refused to turn and confirm it.

Mara, having developed a deeply unfortunate sense of courage, said, “The south fountain is very pretty this time of day.”

Serali looked straight ahead. “I am sure it is.”

“And the citrus walk.”

“Fascinating.”

“And the view of the harbor from the far wall.”

“Excellent.”

A pause.

Then Mara said, very mildly, “And if we circle back by the training ground in half an hour, we can reach the herb garden by a different path.”

Serali stopped.

Mara stopped too.

The guards nearly collided behind them.

Serali turned her head slowly.

Mara’s face was the picture of innocence.

“You are becoming dangerous,” Serali said.

Mara curtsied.

“Thank you.”

“It was not a compliment.”

“No,” Mara said. “But I choose to receive it as one.”

Serali stared at her.

Then, despite herself, laughed.

This time, she did not try to swallow it.

Ahead, the path curved toward the deeper gardens, where the low winter sun spilled pale gold over frost-edged stone, and the palace, for a little while, did not feel like a cage so much as a place with too many doors still closed.