The Witch Queen's Secret by Anna Elliott Page A

She couldn’t stop thinking, though. Not
about Cade—or at least, not just about him—but about how it was
she’d gotten herself here. From bedding soldiers for pay to spying
on behalf of the High King , in less than a month’s time.
    Dera shifted position—slowly, slowly, so she
wouldn’t make any noise—to lean against a prickly-barked fir tree
trunk and let herself remember. Until Lord Marche and the rest of
his traitor warriors arrived, it wasn’t like she’d anything better
to do.

PART II

    Three weeks earlier …

    “ UP,
MAMA! Want up up up now!” Jory’s lip was quivering in the way that
meant the words would soon be turning into tears. Which would turn
into screams before you could turn around three times.
    Dera gritted her teeth against the aching
stab that shot through her ribs and bent to pick him up. “I’m
sorry, my lady. He’s just—”
    But
the Lady Isolde of
Camelerd, widow to the High King Constantine, was there before her,
scooping Jory up into her arms and tickling him.
    Dera watched Jory’s sulky face break into
laughter and thought there had to be something wrong with her.
She’d die for her boy, no question—she didn’t even have to think
about that. But why was it dying for him sounded a lot easier some
days than listening to him whine for one single moment more?
    Now, though, listening to the way his breath
wheezed even when he laughed, and looking at the purplish gray
shadows under his eyes, Dera’s heart felt squeezed tight in her
chest.
    She’d
never been much of a one for praying, but watching Jory laugh she
thought, Just
let him get better. Please, I’ll—
    What? Let
Jory get better and she’d what? Drop some coins or a piece of
jewelry in one of the tithe boxes at a church? Fat chance on her
ever having more than she and Jory needed just to buy bread for the
day. Stop bedding the soldiers in the King’s army —like the nuns at the last holy house
they’d begged shelter at had told her she ought? Take that advice
and she’d not even have enough for her and Jory’s bread.
    It wasn’t all that many men who were willing
to take the chance on lying with a woman who’d a great purple
birthmark all across one side of her face—the kind that marked
someone out for an unlucky life. Especially not these days.
    The Lady Isolde
was talking to Jory. She had a pretty voice—clear and sweet
sounding—and Jory was listening to her with eyes as big as soup
bowls while she talked. Did he like dogs? She’d a dog who was
terribly lonely for some company. She was busy with wounded
soldiers all day long. Would Jory play with Cabal for a
while?
    They were in the infirmary, crowded rows of
sick and injured men lying on beds of straw and the smell of blood
and piss and smoke from the fire thick in the air. But there was a
clear space in one corner of the room, and the Lady Isolde got Jory
set up there with the big brown and white war dog who’d been asleep
by the hearth, and a ball made of tied up rags. Jory was tossing
the ball to the dog and clapping his hands before Dera had even got
her wits together to say, “That’s very kind of you, my lady. He’s a
good lad. It’s just we’ve been on the road walking since dawn and
he’s tired and—”
    She could
feel a whine pushing it s
way up her throat, wanting to creep into her words, and she clamped
her jaw shut. Not that she was above begging now and again if it
got her and Jory a meal or a roof over their heads for a night or
two. But three months ago, the Lady Isolde had risked her own life
just to save Dera, a common army whore. And Dera still didn’t know
why.
    “ And
hungry,” Lady Isolde finished for her. “Both of you are. I’ll get
you food and something to drink in a moment. But first”—her eyes
swept over Dera— “you’re injured, aren’t you?”
    She didn’t look much like a fine lady.
Certainly not like a lady who’d been High Queen until a few short
months ago. Or a lady with the power of magic about