The Witch Queen's Secret by Anna Elliott

PART I

    K NOWING THAT
YOU’D GOTTEN your own self into a mess wasn’t all that much
consolation when you were about to die.
    Stop that. Dera
made herself take a breath to quiet the drumming of her own heart
in her ears. It was pitch-dark here in the forest. So dark it felt
like dirt pressing against her face, and it didn’t matter whether
her eyes were open or closed, Dera couldn’t see a thing either way.
The spring thaw had come—but just now, you couldn’t prove it by
her. Her fingers felt cold enough that she’d not have been
surprised to hear them tinkle together like icicles when she moved.
And the night air felt like knives stabbing her in the
chest.
    But she made herself draw another breath,
then another after that. She wasn’t going to die. Jory needed his
mam. And she needed to see her boy grow up.
    The pounding of her heart kept on getting
mixed up with her thoughts, turning them into a tangled, soggy mess
like wet knitting yarn. But all right, she wasn’t going to die. It
might seem about as likely as having a chat with one of the dragons
that were supposed to live under the ground here—but she was going
to keep Britain’s army from falling to Lord Marche and his traitor
warriors tonight. Then she was going to get back to Jory and find a
way to have a real, proper home for him. Somewhere with real
beds—or at least pallets out of the rain—where she wouldn’t have to
sell herself to soldiers so they could eat. Someplace where she
could plant seeds for a garden, and Jory could have a dog. A boy
should have a dog of his own.
    Maybe she’d even learn how to cook. Miracles
happened—wasn’t that what the Christ-God’s followers were always
saying?
    Somewhere in the trees above her head, an owl
called.
    Lady Isolde would look after Jory if Dera
didn’t make it back to Dinas Emrys alive. Lady Isolde would love
him, keep him safe—let him play with that big dog of hers as much
as he liked. Assuming Dinas Emrys wasn’t burned to the ground, and
Lady Isolde and Jory both lived through the—
    Stop it. Dark or
no, Dera squeezed her eyes tight shut and dug her nails hard into
the palms for good measure. The only sounds were the rustles and
creak of the winter-chilled branches in the night
breeze.
    Think of a joke. That was what her own mam
had always said, when they’d been thrown out of another tavern or
there wasn’t enough food to eat. You can’t laugh and worry at the
same time.
    The only
joke she could remember now, though, was Cade grinning up at her
from his pallet on Lady Isolde’s infirmary floor and saying, when
she asked him how his head felt, “Pretty well. There’s supposed to
be two of you, sort of shimmering round the edges, isn’t that right?”
    Which made her smile, but it also hurt her
chest even more than breathing in breath after breath of freezing
air.
    She’d hours since this made herself stop
picturing Jory—imagining him asleep now in Lady Isolde’s workroom,
flopped over on his belly like usual, with his eyes screwed up
tight shut. Picturing how, if she were there with him—the way she’d
been every night since he’d been born—she could bury her face
against the soft crease at the back of his neck and feel his body
rise and fall as he breathed.
    But now, however hard she tried, she couldn’t
make herself stop seeing Cade: his dark hair and eyes, his firm
chin and square brow, and the mouth that always wanted to quirk up
into a smile even when he was in pain.
    Not that she’d any idea whether he would—or
could—bring her any closer to giving Jory a proper home. Likely
not; he was a fighting man, following High King Madoc’s army all
the year round.
    All the same, if she did somehow come through
tonight alive, she had a feeling she might see something about Cade
that would make this all worthwhile.
    Worthwhile even apart from saving Britain’s
armies, that was.
    Dera
opened her eyes, breathing the chill air, trying not to let leaves
rustle under her feet.