Hedgelands should an invasion occur at the castle. Damn her father for never telling her anything! She was almost twenty, the future queen, yet voiceless when it came to matters of importance.
Angry power surged around her like a whirlwind. She was trapped in this secluded camp with her guards, just as she was trapped at the castle. A slave to the will of her father, a pathetic princess to be protected under the command of others. The tent felt like a cage. Bayla pointed her hand at the plate of food sitting on the ground and splayed her fingers wide.
“Baylova.” She spoke her formal name with a mix of pride and pain. “Queen of Willovia, sovereign of the people, supreme commander of the military, unquestioned leader.”
The plate shook. Her hand clenched into a fist, and the plate cracked in twain with a loud crunch. Food scattered across the tent.
“Someday,” she whispered.
“Rega?” Men gathered outside her tent. “Are you all right?”
Commander Gy barged in, followed by three others. They saw the broken plate and food strewn across the ground, the canvas walls, and Bayla’s boots.
“What happened?” Gy said.
“I dropped my plate.”
He looked around at the mess. “Dropped?”
“It slipped from my hand.” Bayla pulled her shoulders back as she had been trained to do since she was a child. How many hours had her governess made her walk around with a book on her head, teaching her never to lower her face to others?
“You’re bleeding, Rega.” Commander Gy pointed to her hand.
Blood trickled down her fingers from a cut in her palm—the price for using her power. “Oh.” Her shoulders hunched in surprise. She hadn’t noticed the pain until now.
“Where’s Commander Shanti?” Gy asked one of the soldiers with him.
“She’s setting up the guard posts.”
“Rega Bayla,” Gy said, “see Commander Shanti when she returns. She should have some bandages.” Commander Gy and the others left as abruptly as they had entered.
Bayla could hear the men’s conversation through the cloth walls of her tent.
“Not even here a day, and the princess is already having tantrums.”
“Really! Throwing plates of food around . . .”
She strained to hear more, but the soldiers had moved too far away. Using her unbloodied hand, she wiped the food off her boots and riding pants. She removed a sheet from the mound of bedding and ripped a strip of cloth off the end. Taking the improvised bandage to the stream near camp, she washed the blood from her hand in the cold water, exposing a shallow cut. She wrapped the wound with the cloth but had trouble securing it with only one free hand.
She wouldn’t lower herself to ask Shanti for a bandage, but she did have an order in mind. Shanti was her guard, after all—her servant. It was time to start exerting her authority.
*
“Do you know how much this cost?” Commander Jun inspected the torn map on a table inside the pavilion. Dinner was being prepared in the fading light, and oil lamps hung low from the rafters.
“I’ll pay for the replacement.” Shanti pretended to look down at the map. Instead, she looked at his hands: strong, with clean fingernails and a small scar between the left index and middle fingers.
“This is one of a kind.” He rolled up the damaged map and returned it to its leather pouch. “I hope you’re a good artist.”
“What do you mean?”
Bayla entered the pavilion. “Commander Jun,” she said.
“Rega.”
“Shanti, my tent needs to be cleaned. I want you to see that the bed is made every morning and the storage cabinet organized.”
“What’s wrong with your hand?” Shanti said.
“It’s just a scratch.” Spots of blood darkened the bandage.
“Let me see,” Shanti said.
Bayla moved her hand behind her back. “It’s nothing. I expect my tent to be taken care of in the manner I’m accustomed to.” And with that, she left the pavilion.
“And I expect you to make me a new map,” Jun said.
Angry power surged around her like a whirlwind. She was trapped in this secluded camp with her guards, just as she was trapped at the castle. A slave to the will of her father, a pathetic princess to be protected under the command of others. The tent felt like a cage. Bayla pointed her hand at the plate of food sitting on the ground and splayed her fingers wide.
“Baylova.” She spoke her formal name with a mix of pride and pain. “Queen of Willovia, sovereign of the people, supreme commander of the military, unquestioned leader.”
The plate shook. Her hand clenched into a fist, and the plate cracked in twain with a loud crunch. Food scattered across the tent.
“Someday,” she whispered.
“Rega?” Men gathered outside her tent. “Are you all right?”
Commander Gy barged in, followed by three others. They saw the broken plate and food strewn across the ground, the canvas walls, and Bayla’s boots.
“What happened?” Gy said.
“I dropped my plate.”
He looked around at the mess. “Dropped?”
“It slipped from my hand.” Bayla pulled her shoulders back as she had been trained to do since she was a child. How many hours had her governess made her walk around with a book on her head, teaching her never to lower her face to others?
“You’re bleeding, Rega.” Commander Gy pointed to her hand.
Blood trickled down her fingers from a cut in her palm—the price for using her power. “Oh.” Her shoulders hunched in surprise. She hadn’t noticed the pain until now.
“Where’s Commander Shanti?” Gy asked one of the soldiers with him.
“She’s setting up the guard posts.”
“Rega Bayla,” Gy said, “see Commander Shanti when she returns. She should have some bandages.” Commander Gy and the others left as abruptly as they had entered.
Bayla could hear the men’s conversation through the cloth walls of her tent.
“Not even here a day, and the princess is already having tantrums.”
“Really! Throwing plates of food around . . .”
She strained to hear more, but the soldiers had moved too far away. Using her unbloodied hand, she wiped the food off her boots and riding pants. She removed a sheet from the mound of bedding and ripped a strip of cloth off the end. Taking the improvised bandage to the stream near camp, she washed the blood from her hand in the cold water, exposing a shallow cut. She wrapped the wound with the cloth but had trouble securing it with only one free hand.
She wouldn’t lower herself to ask Shanti for a bandage, but she did have an order in mind. Shanti was her guard, after all—her servant. It was time to start exerting her authority.
*
“Do you know how much this cost?” Commander Jun inspected the torn map on a table inside the pavilion. Dinner was being prepared in the fading light, and oil lamps hung low from the rafters.
“I’ll pay for the replacement.” Shanti pretended to look down at the map. Instead, she looked at his hands: strong, with clean fingernails and a small scar between the left index and middle fingers.
“This is one of a kind.” He rolled up the damaged map and returned it to its leather pouch. “I hope you’re a good artist.”
“What do you mean?”
Bayla entered the pavilion. “Commander Jun,” she said.
“Rega.”
“Shanti, my tent needs to be cleaned. I want you to see that the bed is made every morning and the storage cabinet organized.”
“What’s wrong with your hand?” Shanti said.
“It’s just a scratch.” Spots of blood darkened the bandage.
“Let me see,” Shanti said.
Bayla moved her hand behind her back. “It’s nothing. I expect my tent to be taken care of in the manner I’m accustomed to.” And with that, she left the pavilion.
“And I expect you to make me a new map,” Jun said.
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