John smiled at me as I ran my finger over the carving on one of the combs. The wood began to sing. “They belonged to your grandmother. My mother. The last Grand Lady of the Leavenwald. They aren’t the Great Relics of Nerissette,” he said. “But they do have a quiet magic all their own.”
“I—” I went to hand them back, unsure if I had the right to such a family heirloom.
“She would be so proud of the young woman you’ve become,” John said as he brought his hand up to close my fingers around the combs. “So proud of the queen you’ve become. Just like I am.”
“Thank you,” I said quietly as he squeezed my fingers.
Kilvari banged his staff on the floor again, and we both quit staring at each other and turned to look at the goblin. “The Lady Bavasama and Ambassador Eriste have arrived.”
John moved aside to stand on my right as Rhys moved to stand beside Winston on my left. The rest of the ballroom fell silent. I started to stand, but John put a hand on my shoulder, keeping me seated.
“Make her come to you,” he said out of the side of his mouth.
Kilvari stepped to the side again, and I stared at my aunt as she stepped into the doorway, her ambassador behind her. Her red hair was escaping from its elaborate bun, and her face was pale. The emerald-green dress she was wearing was smeared with splotches of dark brown mud, and I could see more than one splatter of red. Even from across the ballroom I could smell the lingering stench of rotting fruit that seemed to cling to her.
Bavasama looked from side to side, watching as the people she had once considered her friends—before my grandmother had banished her to Bathune to rule there and given the throne to my mother instead—all glared at her. She swallowed, and I could see her throat working as she looked around her, obviously searching for even one kind face. Not that she was going to find one—not after she’d declared war on us.
“Lady Bavasama,” I said, trying to keep my voice ice cold. “Come forward.”
“Allie.” She stepped toward me and held her hands out. “My darling—”
“The proper way to address me,” I snarled as I stared at the woman who had tried to murder me all those months ago, who had sent her army to help murder my friends, “is as Her Majesty, Queen Alicia Wilhemina Munroe the First, the Golden Rose of Nerissette.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” she said as she came forward. “But as your aunt, your only remaining family, I had thought—”
“We are here to negotiate your surrender,” I said stiffly. “Not have a family reunion.”
“My surrender?” Her eyes widened. “I thought we had negotiated a truce?”
“We have.” I nodded, trying to act tough so that she wouldn’t realize how weak I truly felt, that I was still making it up as I went along and hoping that no one noticed I had no idea what I was doing. “You surrender, and I promise that we’ll resume trade with Bathune so your people won’t starve to death.”
“You need this treaty as much as we do,” she said quickly.
“You want to bet?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at her.
“Without the fuel from our mines…”
“We’ll get by. At least for as long as it takes for us to starve you out and then take over Bathune.”
“Your Majesty,” John said quietly.
“Right.” I glanced up at him and then back at my aunt. “Enough catching up. Kneel. Beg for forgiveness. Swear that you’ll never try to take over Nerissette again.”
I watched as my aunt’s shoulders tensed and her face twisted with rage. For a second I thought she might walk away. Might tell me to take my peace treaty and stuff it. Not that I would be surprised—I was egging her into losing her temper, after all. I wanted to make her sweat. Make her suffer for all the pain she’d caused me and everyone else here in Nerissette. For all the nights I’d spent worrying about my friends, camped out on her border, waiting for war.
“I’m waiting,” I taunted.
Bavasama dropped to her knees, her back straight and her eyes on mine. Eriste knelt just behind her, his own head lowered. “Please.”
“What?” I raised an eyebrow at her again.
“Please,” she said, louder this time, but her voice trembled. “Please forgive me for my actions, Your Majesty. It was a mistake. I had thought you were in danger.”
“Enough,” I snapped. “I don’t want to hear your lies today. I don’t want to hear about—”
“The Fate Maker told me—”
“The Fate Maker is a liar. A murderer. And if you don’t want to join him in the Bleak, then I suggest you never, ever, try to raise an army against my people again. Because next time? Next time I will march my army across your borders, and I will burn Bathune to the ground. And once I’m done with that, I’ll lock you and every single wizard I find in the Bleak, and we can see how long you last against the nightmares that call the realm between worlds home.”
“I will never raise an army against Nerisette again,” she said quietly.
“And everything else?” I asked. “The money that you’ve agreed to give us to pay for the damages your army caused when it marched through my country?”
“The reparations agreed upon have already arrived in the Leavenwald,” John said. “The wagons will leave for Neris as soon as we send word that the treaty has been signed. Each month a Woodsmen battalion will meet with the lord general of Lady Bavasama’s army to collect the tribute she’ll owe you, as well.”
“Fifteen percent of my taxes and tributes each month,” Bavasama agreed. “And my court will pay the expenses for your ambassador, Tevian, and the two hundred soldiers that will travel to Bathune to act as his personal guard.”
“Good.” I nodded and then glared down at my aunt. “If you ever try to raise an army against me again, there will be no treaties. No peace. Do you understand me?”
“Y—y—yes.” Bavasama nodded once, her eyes never leaving mine.
“And you, Eriste, what do you have to say for yourself?” I asked as I turned my attention to the silver-haired wizard kneeling behind my aunt with his head lowered.
“I apologize,” he said, his voice tight. “For my actions all those months ago.”
“Good. Now, Kilvari.” I motioned to the goblin, and he hurried forward, a large scroll tucked under his arm. When he reached the stairs to the dais, he unrolled the scroll and held his hand out, an elaborate silver quill shimmered into existence on his open palm, and he offered it to my aunt.
“Lady Bavasama.”
She took the quill from him, without saying a word, and quickly scribbled something along the bottom of the scroll.
“Thank you,” Kilvari said and then dipped his head to her once before turning toward me, leaving her holding the quill in her hands.
“Your Majesty.” He started up the stairs toward me and then knelt down less than an inch from my toes. “The Lady Bavasama has formally surrendered by signing the Treaty of Leavenwald. All it awaits to be binding is your signature.”
Kilvari handed me the scroll and then clasped his hands together in front of him, raising them above his forehead. I watched as an even more elaborate golden quill shimmered into existence.
I took the quill from him and then put the scroll on the armrest of my throne, using it as a desk as I scrawled my name on the scroll next to my aunt’s. The second I had finished signing, the scroll began to glow a bright blue, and flames licked along both my and my aunt’s signatures, a spell meant to signify that our peace was binding, even though there was nothing in place to force us to stick to the treaty’s terms.
“And as a gift,” Kilvari said, “to celebrate your newly formed peace, the Lady Bavasama has brought to you the Great Orb of the Nymphiad, which was given to her by your grandmother when her ladyship ascended the throne of Bathune.”