The Dagger Queen: The Sovereign Blades, #2

By Amy Sanderson

Skye Eskel has taken back her kingdom. Despite opposition from all sides and a prophecy promising her country's destruction, she's fought her way to the throne. Yet threats mount even as she secures her position, from the blood cult led by her own estranged sister, to the vicious ghosts they've unleashed.

 

She has new visitors to contend with, too: a delegation from the Imaldran Empire. Skye must navigate the demands of a prince both charming and dangerous, and the offer he makes. It's one that might finally give her the strength to dismantle her enemies – or end with her crown in the hands of a foreign ruler.

 

And despite all her efforts, the revenants are getting stronger. If Skye can't find a way to defeat both ghosts and Nocturnes, it won't be long before there's nothing left to rule.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Sanderson
• Release date: Dec 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386706380

Amy Sanderson

Amy has been writing for as long as she can remember, inspired by a childhood fascination with books. By the time she was fifteen and confronted with school 'careers guidance', she'd decided being an author was the only profession she could possibly enjoy - which, of course, led to a string of other roles, including Archaeology student, bookseller and library assistant. These days, she lives in the North Yorkshire countryside with her partner, where they run a bed & breakfast business and smallholding. When she's not working or writing, Amy enjoys reading, gaming, photography, and trying to pretend she's a grown-up.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Promises

There were two things, above all, that Skye Eskel hated about being queen. The first was the boredom, because after weeks of struggle to secure her throne, it turned out her Council were rather efficient at ruling the country themselves. Skye attended their meetings, nodded along as decisions were made, and generally felt as useful as a potato in a velvet doublet.

The second, the part she hadn’t anticipated, were the clothes.

She was a trained assassin, a fact she’d lamented to everyone from her dressmaker to her guardians, Auda and Josselyn Kadvalaer. She needed practicality, ease of movement, colours that wouldn’t show blood stains. Somehow, the message wasn’t getting through.

There were now two wooden mannequins in the corner of her bedchamber. The first held her armour, more elaborate than she would have chosen personally, but manageable. The second, newly arrived, was draped in enough crimson velvet to make bed hangings of.

Skye folded her arms as she studied it, resisting the urge to hit something; Auda, who was currently on duty, would only hit back. What, she said eventually, is that?

Auda didn’t trouble to hide her sigh. You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?

Forgotten what? Skye snapped, which was answer enough.

There’s a formal delegation arriving today, Auda said, all patience. From Imaldra.

Skye went cold all over. Of course she’d known the delegation was coming – she couldn’t forget that – but in the frustration of trying to make headway with the Council and prepare for her coronation, she’d completely lost track of days.

This, then, was her dressmaker’s idea of an imposing outfit, so that she might impress the representatives of the most powerful empire in the world; so that she might, in short, look like a queen.

I’m not wearing that, Skye said flatly, mostly so she didn’t have to think about why the outfit was needed in the first place.

You are, Auda replied, even if I have to bundle you into it myself.

The threat didn’t come to fruition, though it did take three maids to strap Skye into the dress, an endeavour only slightly less humiliating than sitting through the Council meeting she’d attended that morning. She’d proved herself to her counsellors, she kept reminding herself. They’d unanimously backed her as queen.

If only she hadn’t had to forcibly – and very painfully – crown herself by the magic of the Sovereign Blade, first. The sword, which couldn’t even be handled by anyone not of royal blood, had made it perfectly clear she was going to be queen. In the end, she hadn’t given her Council much choice.

Despite the struggle to manoeuvre her way into it, the dress proved to be more comfortable than Skye had feared. The skirts were full, but cut a tad shorter than was fashionable, so she wouldn’t trip if she felt the need to run; the bodice had a padded section at the hips, too, just where a sword-belt would rest. There was even, Skye was impressed to discover, a carefully concealed slit in the skirts at both sides, so that she might strap daggers to her thighs and still reach them. With the gown on, her hair neatly braided, and the Sovereign Blade hanging at her side, she perhaps looked like a queen, but an assassin, too.

Your dressmaker knows you better than your Council does, Auda remarked, as Skye yanked the skirts up to her waist and began strapping on the first dagger; the Sovereign Blade might be useful as a reminder of her right to rule, but swords weren’t entirely to her liking.

Skye pulled the straps tight. The Council, it had to be said, weren’t entirely comfortable with having an assassin-queen on the throne, even if she’d never officially passed her Conclave training. She thought they might have insisted she give up her daggers entirely, if she hadn’t saved their sorry arses more than once, and nearly died in the process.

Indeed, there was one last feature to the gown, the only one Skye wasn’t certain of. The back was low, criss-crossed by ribbons to hold it in place, but open enough to show off three of the barely healed slashes her own estranged sister had inflicted. Tawny, once known as Isla, now led the blood cultists that called themselves Nocturnes, the very same faction Skye had spent weeks chasing. Tawny actually wanted her sister to hold the throne, too, though she’d gone about achieving that by slaughtering everyone Skye held dear. A few knife cuts from one of their previous encounters seemed tame by comparison.

Still, the scars looked vicious and livid, even viewed over her shoulder in the watery surface of her copper mirror. All warriors had war-wounds, of course, some a lot more visible than these, but showing off the history of her battles so openly made Skye a little uneasy.

It’s a good idea, Auda said, folding her arms. It’ll remind the Imaldrans you’re not just a pretty face.

Skye grimaced. Auda, dressed head-to-toe in boiled leather and mail, would never be accused of that.

She took a deep breath, testing the tightness of the gown’s bodice. She could still breathe, at least, even if this was a long way from shirts and tunics. Perhaps her dressmaker was right; perhaps this was exactly the impression of strength and regal poise she needed to exude. Perhaps she’d even earned this. Weeks of fighting cultists and ghosts and her own Council had brought her here, to be queen of the only free kingdom left in the north. Perhaps this was exactly what their Imperial visitors needed to see.

The delegation will be here at noon, won’t they? she asked, to which Auda nodded. Then let’s get this over with.

***

The castle’s outer courtyard was buzzing with activity, but a hush fell as Skye arrived. She’d been joined in the corridors by her second guardian and Auda’s brother, Josselyn, and for once, Skye had been too nervous to do more than glance at him. She was starting to wish she’d been more prepared for this day, which had the potential to change the tenor of her official coronation; by the time it was over, she’d know whether the Imaldran Empire supported her as queen or not. It was none of their business, not really, but try telling that to the Empire. Besides, as Eskeleth’s only neighbour, their approbation could make Skye’s job much easier.

Or not. There was every possibility that the promises their ambassador had made only months ago would come to nothing. Then, Eskeleth had seemed besieged, the Nocturnes and their army of elven ghosts pressing in for the attack; when Helida had agreed the Empire would send troops to combat the threat, it had seemed the most sensible option on both sides. Now, with the Nocturnes once again silent, Skye was starting to regret ever having asked for help – and perhaps the Empire was regretting Helida having offered. The ambassador, after all, had been gone for weeks, and had sent no word to Eskeleth since. How her petition to the Emperor had been received remained unknown.

Do you think they’ll keep us waiting? Skye asked her guardians, but neither of them got a chance to reply. There was a trumpet blast from atop the walls, and the distant rattle of carriage wheels. Skye made her way down the castle’s main steps, resisting the urge to fiddle with her skirts.

Chin up, back straight, Auda murmured, which reminded Skye so forcefully of her sister Lunen’s directives at public gatherings that she obeyed without thinking.

On her other side, Josselyn gave a soft laugh, a sound that sent a trickle of warmth down Skye’s spine. You look perfect, Your Majesty, he said. A true queen.

Skye bit her lip. It shouldn’t please her so much, receiving compliments from her guardian, especially when he was obliged to say the same no matter how she looked. She couldn’t quite put from her mind, though, a night weeks before, and a fight between them that had almost turned into something else–

The trumpets blasted again, jolting Skye back to the present. She sucked in a deep breath, just as the carriage rumbled into the courtyard.

The first carriage, anyway. There were four of them, swaying constructions of gilt and lacquered wood. With their accompaniment of Imaldran soldiers, and the Eskelene escort that must have met them at the mountain pass – organised by one of her ministers, Skye supposed, once again reminded of how little they needed her input – even the castle’s main courtyard was barely large enough to hold them all.

Four carriages, Auda grumbled, as they rolled to a stop, and their footmen leapt down to open the doors. Even Helida didn’t need that many.

In all honesty, none of them knew how many dignitaries Imaldra had sent. Courtesy dictated they limit their troops on what was meant to be a friendly visit, but every one of those carriages could be packed with half a dozen ambassadors or ministers. Skye only hoped the castle would have room for them all, lest they end up camping in the Great Hall beneath tents of their own velvet cloaks.

There was a great murmuring from the crowd and a general shuffling around the carriages as the wooden steps were lowered. The first three seemed to contain a single dignitary each, two men and a woman wrapped tight in cloaks and furs. It was barely autumn in Eskeleth yet, but Skye knew that wouldn’t stop them feeling the cold. Helida had spent most of the summer complaining about the lack of sun in this frigid northern clime, though in hindsight perhaps she’d just wanted to be irritating.

The three dignitaries came forwards, offering bows and formal greetings. Skye replied with only half her attention, trying to gauge their mood, their bearing. She wiped her hands surreptitiously on her skirts. She could glean nothing from these three, who could be any minor courtiers, sent north to witness her coronation. Their presence told her nothing more than that the Empire wanted to know what she was up to.

Skye couldn’t help thinking there was more to come, though, because the ambassadors had formed a line with a yawning gap in the middle, and one carriage had yet to open. The identity of that last dignitary, she was sure, held the answer to whether or not the Empire had decided to fulfil Helida’s promises – whether they truly were about to become allies.

Is your colleague unwell? Skye nodded towards the last carriage, interrupting a portly ambassador who’d been in the middle of declaring the Emperor’s fond wishes for Skye’s wellbeing.

The ambassador looked momentarily disgruntled, but Skye didn’t think it was directed at her. Merely a page and a secretary, accompanied by baggage, he said with a sniff.

Skye’s eyes narrowed. You didn’t send a secretary in a conveyance like that one, much less excess baggage. Then why–

It was meant for me. A voice rang over the crowd, and one of the restless horses was suddenly nudged forward. Skye stared at the rider, who added, But horseback suits me better, especially when your kingdom is so congenial.

Skye’s stomach clenched at the familiarity of his tone. No mere courtier would address her like that, not even an Imperial one, and a moment later she placed the rider’s face. It had been a common one in Imaldra, when she’d been training in the Conclave, frequently depicted in posters and handbills for any event the young prince was patron of, and there were a great many of those.

Because prince this was, none other than the Emperor’s younger brother, and Skye had a very good idea why he was here.

***

The Emperor’s brother was in the Granite Keep. Skye could think of nothing else as she stalked along the corridors, velvet skirts swaying. He’d introduced himself merely as Inigo, but Skye knew better. She recognised his face, his manner, the way the other dignitaries deferred to him whether they intended to or not. She also knew there was only one reason he was here, because you didn’t send an Imperial son all this way merely to make smalltalk.

I thought an Imperial marriage was off the table, Auda said, as they turned a corner, Skye’s stride so purposeful that servants went hurrying from their path.

It was, she snapped back. I thought I made that clear to Helida.

Auda grunted. Not clear enough.

Furious as Skye was, though, she knew this might have nothing to do with Ambassador Helida at all. Helida had known how little Skye favoured an Imperial marriage, and had surely conveyed word of that back to the Emperor. Maybe, though, Skye’s displeasure wasn’t enough to faze the Emperor. Maybe he thought placing an Imperial as Skye’s consort would make up for having to honour the promise of military aid.

Or maybe he just really wanted to piss her off.

I’ll send him back, Skye growled. I haven’t got time for this.

Skye, wait. Josselyn’s voice brought her up short, in a mercifully empty corridor. You need to think this through.

Skye swung to face him, folding her arms. Waiting.

Josselyn was, as ever, untroubled by her temper, his grey eyes calm. You’re queen, now. You control the Council. You can raise an army.

Skye pulled a face. In theory, yes. The Council might have been relatively pliable of late, but her attempts to raise troops from every duke in Eskeleth were proving more difficult, men being needed at home for the harvest. This wasn’t the usual time of year for war-making, but then the Nocturnes and revenants didn’t care about the season.

And Josselyn knew all that, of course. You might still need the Imperial army, though, he went on. The Nocturnes won’t stay in hiding forever, nor the revenants. Our own troops might not be enough.

So play nicely with Inigo, is what he’s saying, Auda added. Besides, at least you know the Empire backs your coronation. Nothing says ‘we approve’ like trying to marry you off to the Emperor’s brother.

Skye rolled her eyes. With Inigo here, she could see no way a marriage wouldn’t enter the equation, but maybe she could avoid that topic for now. All she needed to do was keep her guest happy, and when the time came to fight the revenants, she’d have a second army to call on.

With a deep breath, Skye turned on her heel, making not for her chambers, but the plush reception room behind the Great Hall. She’d sent the Imperials on ahead, with a veritable army of servants to see them settled in the richest accommodation the castle could offer, and a promise to the prince to speak with him as soon as he was ready. She’d greeted Helida in the same room, what felt like a lifetime ago, and in anger had made all manner of impolitic accusations. She’d have to try a bit harder this time.

To her surprise, the Imperial prince was already waiting, along with two guards and Minister Varren. No surprise that Varren was buttering up the prince, though it was true he’d been keeping his head down of late. Still, Skye knew how to deal with her minister and focused on Inigo instead. As he swept into a courtly bow, she finally got a good look at him. He was, in every way, the picture of a perfect Imaldran, olive-skinned and dark-eyed, black hair falling in waves to his shoulders, just tousled enough to look effortless. He was also tall, nearly of a height with the Kadvalaers, but far slenderer even than Auda. None of that mattered, though, Skye told herself. He was just another Imperial lackey and she wouldn’t be charmed. She wouldn’t. She would–

Inigo straightened from his bow and shot Skye a smile that made her stomach flip over. It was accompanied by a soft, self-deprecating laugh, as though he knew perfectly well what effect he had on women – and no doubt a fair few men – and that it made him almost as uncomfortable as it made Skye. Suddenly, red velvet gown or not, she felt perfectly ordinary, and for the first time in her life, hated herself for it.

Varren cleared his throat, reminding Skye of the matter at hand, and said, Your Majesty, may I present to you His Imperial Highness, Prince Inigo of Imaldra.

Queen Iskyenna. Inigo bowed only his head this time, but the gesture was deferential enough. My brother sends his most heartfelt greetings. I’m sorry for my sudden appearance on your doorstep, but given the correspondence we’ve received from our ambassador of late, I felt it prudent to come myself.

Skye’s eyes narrowed. Correspondence? That meant the prince and the ambassador must have passed each other on the way north and south, respectively, without ever meeting. What, exactly, had Helida told the Emperor? That Skye was already queen, despite her lack of a formal coronation – but what else?

We’ve had only the briefest of notes from the ambassador, Inigo went on. Helida has, I gather, offered the Empire’s assistance in a matter she deemed most important.

There was a questioning look in the prince’s eyes, and Skye felt all the hairs on her neck stand on end. It was impossible to miss the sudden tension in the room, the way the prince’s jaw tightened even as he tried to smile. Helida, she suspected, was now out of favour with the Emperor; perhaps she’d even deliberately lengthened her journey home, knowing what was coming. And with a sinking feeling, Skye understood why. Helida’s note really must have been brief, if she’d told the Emperor she’d offered Eskeleth the use of his cohorts – but not why.

Skye nodded to Varren. The minister here will explain the matter, I’m sure.

Perhaps she was being cruel, but Skye couldn’t help thinking that letting someone else be the bearer of bad news was the safest tactic she could employ. There was no diplomatic way to describe the mess Eskeleth was in, nor to reiterate the promise Helida had made, but queens didn’t go begging, not even to emperors. Indeed, Varren seemed to have expected as much, and having returned her nod, stepped into the breach.

And so it all came out, whilst Skye could do nothing but listen. The emergence of the Nocturne cult and their attack on Helida. Their awakening of the revenants, ghosts of an ancient elven people who’d inhabited this land long before humans. And then, the attacks that had followed: on the castle and the Council, all intended to put Skye on the throne and fulfil a prophecy they believed would sweep the Imaldran Empire from the continent.

There were details, of course, that Varren tactfully chose not to say; Skye was suddenly glad that Helida had been so economical with the facts. That the spokeswoman of the Nocturnes was Skye’s own estranged sister. That her Council – and the minister himself – had spent weeks trying to keep her off the throne, so that the prophecy and the shadow it spoke of might be averted. That Skye had resorted to failed marriage alliances – with Varren himself, again – to win her crown, and finally the magic of the Sovereign Blade she now wore at her hip. Details, all of them, that carried the utmost weight for Skye, but shouldn’t matter to the prince.

All he needed to know was that Imperial troops had been promised to fight against a flood of angry ghosts wielded by an ancient blood cult. Beside that, everything else paled.

Inigo was very still and very silent by the time Varren was done, though he never took his eyes off Skye. If this was the might of the Imperial royal gaze, it was no wonder Helida had taken the long way home.

For several heartbeats, they all seemed to be holding their breaths. Skye half wondered if the prince would round on her, accusing her of incompetence – an accusation she’d heard inside her own head a dozen times – but he only cleared his throat. I understand, Your Majesty, that you consider these Nocturnes a threat, and their ghosts, too, but…

Skye sucked in a breath. She could see what was coming. You see no reason why any of this should concern the Emperor.

Inigo gave a small, almost apologetic bow. Imaldra had never suffered the ravages of ghosts; the Empire barely seemed to know of their existence. How could she explain to him, to anyone who hadn’t witnessed them, just how dangerous the revenants were? How to describe the fury that rolled off them, the malice and the rage and the desire to cause harm? The prince might understand they were a weapon in the hands of the Nocturnes, but it was impossible to make him see just how significant a weapon they could be.

I understand Ambassador Helida shared your concerns, Inigo went on, and was certain the threat might extend to Imaldra if left unchecked. In many matters, I trust her judgement completely. When it comes to warfare, though, and the defence of a kingdom…

There was something about the way he said ‘kingdom’ that made Skye’s hackles rise. Before she could ask exactly what he was implying – or convince herself questioning the prince might be a terrible idea – Varren put in, Forgive me, Your Highness, but are you truly suggesting that because Ambassador Helida is a woman, she cannot be relied upon to understand anything other than mere frivolities?

The cold in his tone took Skye aback, cutting off her own anger before it could rise. That ice was matched by Inigo. "I suggest no such thing, minister."

I’m very glad to hear it, Your Highness, Varren said smoothly, with a smile that did nothing to disguise the brittleness beneath. "Because to suggest as much about your very own ambassador might rather suggest the same about my queen, a woman who has not only stood steadfast in the face of death and tragedy, but who could slit every throat in this room before any of us could blink."

Skye tried not to snort in laughter at Varren’s exaggeration. For once, finding herself talked about as if she wasn’t there was no hardship at all; she could listen to the two of them snipe at each other all day, and having Varren defend her to an Imperial was an amusing novelty. Still, she couldn’t avoid a prickle of irritation as the two men glared at one another. Inigo was all charm, and he knew it all too well, but she couldn’t help feeling that when he spoke of Helida and his less than complete trust in her judgement, they were getting much closer to his real thoughts – and those included what he thought about her.

Inigo gave a thin smile, finally turning his attention back to Skye. I meant no disrespect, Your Majesty. Your prowess in every matter of statecraft and combat is, after all, very much on display.

Skye stiffened, not entirely sure whether she’d just been insulted. The prince was surely referring to her scars – but was that disdain or admiration he was hiding so seamlessly behind a smile that, now he was no longer facing Varren, fairly lit up the room?

In all truth, she didn’t want to know. It didn’t matter whether Inigo was charming, or insulting, or any variant in between – he was here now, a representative of the Empire, and if she was to defeat the revenants, she needed his help. She just needed to convince him of that fact.

I can assure you, Your Highness, that no-one has exaggerated the threat we’re under, Ambassador Helida least of all. The Nocturnes are committed to their pursuit of the Empire’s destruction, and the revenants might be the one weapon that could accomplish exactly that.

Inigo’s smile faded, just a little. He didn’t want to be reminded, no doubt, that there were those in the world who saw Imaldrans as nothing more than vicious conquerers, and would do anything in their power to bring about the Empire’s downfall. That wasn’t, she suspected, a viewpoint he heard very much at home.

Indeed, the tension in the room was stifling; suddenly, Skye wanted nothing more than to flee. You must be weary. I’m sure we can make time for discussion later, she said, trying to sound gracious. Please, enjoy the castle’s hospitality. I hope you’ll find it to your liking.

I’m sure I will, Inigo replied, his smile just a touch too forced; Skye’s own attempts at charm, she knew, weren’t on a par with his own. If you’ll excuse me then, Your Majesty. It seems prudent that I retire to consider these… matters you have brought to my attention.

He shot a last black look in Varren’s direction, then bowed and swept from the room, his guards following. Varren lingered a moment longer, but Skye dismissed him with a wave of her hand. Perhaps having him a little warier of the prince than he usually was of Imperials was for the best, but if he was going to court confrontation, he could do it when she wasn’t there.

It was Auda who let out an explosive breath when they’d gone. Bloody hell. Do you think he’s always like that?

Alternately charming and terrifying, Skye supposed she meant. He’s an Imperial prince. What do you think?

What are you going to do with him? Josselyn asked, voice soft.

Skye couldn’t bring herself to look at her guardian. Oh, all the possibilities he implied, ones she didn’t even want to consider, yet knew she must. Stay out of his way, for now, she replied. I’ve got a coronation to attend.

CHAPTER TWO

The Weight Of A Crown

It was long before dawn when Skye woke, from a dream in which faceless figures bearing crowns had chased her through the city. She almost laughed to recall it. Some part of her considered running from queenship, did it? She was fairly certain she’d already made her decision on that score.

It seemed that everyone else in the castle had come to that conclusion, too, because a fresh set of blinding white robes were waiting for her. If she didn’t know exactly what rituals would take place before her coronation, at least she knew there were rituals. Apparently, the fun was about to start.

For once, her guardians were nowhere to be seen, replaced by a grim-faced set of six Church matrons, all themselves dressed in white. Skye rose quickly, reaching for a crumpled shirt, a tunic, anything, but there wasn’t another stitch of clothing to be found. Besides, the sisters were implacable. They converged on her like ravens flocking to a corpse, unceremoniously stripping off her nightshirt and pulling the white robes over her head.

I was going to bathe, Skye protested – and then, when that got no response, what about underwear?

It seemed she wasn’t going to get anything of the sort, nor hose or boots, either. Indeed, the sisters were already bundling her towards the door, bare-footed and shivering. Skye almost groaned as she stepped onto the cold stone floor of the corridor. If this was what it took to commune with the Mother of Graces, she’d much rather have stayed in bed.

The sisters were silent for the entire walk, and indeed so was the castle. The Granite Keep appeared to have been cleared, not a guard or servant in sight. Skye was starting to feel rather nervous – though at least she could tell herself any shivers were only from the cold – when they finally arrived at the castle’s sanctuary. Sister Beatriz, counsellor and chief Sister of the Graces, was waiting by the door, a white hood pulled up over her iron-grey hair.

I trust the hour isn’t too early for you, Your Majesty, Beatriz said, by way of greeting.

Skye shook her head. At least the good sisters hadn’t had to wake her; her bizarre dreams had accomplished that.

Beatriz opened the sanctuary door and led the way inside. The chill hit Skye like the blast from a blizzard, and it didn’t get any better when the other sisters, crowding at her back, yanked the white robe over her head again. Skye was left beside the sanctuary’s altar, naked and shivering. She wasn’t much concerned about the lack of clothes, truth be told, but it was cold enough in here to freeze an ice bear’s bollocks.

W-wh-what n-now– she began, but the answer came quick enough. Sister Beatriz dipped a cup into the altar’s pool – which hadn’t frozen over, a miracle in itself – and said a prayer over it. After that, the cup was passed around the waiting sisters, who anointed each of Skye’s limbs in turn, the Mother’s symbol of earth and sky etched into her skin in lines of cold fire. She tried, dearly tried, to summon some shred of faith, some sense of the holiness of the occasion, but all Skye could think about was the draught blowing against her bare arse, and wonder how long you could safely cease to feel your feet before they dropped off.

Finally, though, the ceremony was over and Skye was duly