Page 65 of Crown of the Courtesan

Their combined authority emanates throughout the meeting chamber as it weighs the air down like an anvil. The semicircle of commanders waits for me to move closer, and I oblige them—reluctantly.

By the time Ashland returns with Valora and an armful of maps, the commanders have relentlessly interrogated me, even though I have no adequate answers for them. Still burning from training and now barraged with an endless influx of questions, I can’t prevent the perspiration running under my arms and slithering down my back.

“I already told you everything I know about the food storage and the new mining locations. I’m sorry it’s still unsatisfactory”—my voice cracks—“but please, why won’t you tell me what’s happening in Alexandria, as you promised?”

Lying scum.

Even a hint of news could provide some relief to my churning stomach, and yet they toy with me.

The surliest-looking man follows Ashland’s movements around the room and rasps, “I hope your courtesan isn’t as useless in bed as she is at the war table.”

My eyes grow wide, and my cheeks burn—but what can I possibly say to put him in his place? Especially here in this room…

Ashland calmly places the scrolls on the tabletop before turning to him. “Priapus, be very careful talking about others’ sexual habits. It isn’t wise to be a hypocrite when everyone here knows your dick fails you at every opportunity.” Priapus turns a blotchy purple, and he clamps his nonexistent lips shut.

The eyepatch-wearing general yells over the riotous laughter, “Are we going to get this fucking meeting started or not?”

“Not with her in here,” another says, jerking his head toward me. “We’ve gotten all the information from her that we can… for now.”

Ashland gives me a nod toward the corridor—a dismissal.

I stand and make my way across the room. My hand hesitates over the door handle, my fingers hovering. A wave of doubt surges in my mind about the things left unsaid. I glance up and meet Ashland’s perplexed face.

It’s now or never.

Letting the words tumble, I confess what I know about the missing womenfolk and General Metalla. A chaos of shouting ensues, and I slip out.

Thirty-Two

A knock.

From the door adjoining our chambers.

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and I snap my book shut as I straighten my posture. “Come in.”

Ashland’s broad frame fills the doorway, though he doesn’t fully step inside. He clears his throat and says, “It’s time to depart for dinner. We’re eating in the village tonight.”

The dust-covered clock on the mantel chimes. I’ve lost track of the hour while I’ve been buried in the novels he gave me. “I need a second to change into something more appropriate, and then I’ll be ready to leave.”

“What you’re wearing will do,” he grumbles. “This isn’t the type of night for finery.” He still wears the warrior garb from earlier, along with the same simple black cape.

After smoothing down my hair, I grab a faded crimson wool cloak and follow him through the corridors, out of the castle, and into the bustling courtyard. Courtiers and royal staff chatter somberly, preparing to trek to the village.

My heartbeat quickens as I fall in step behind Valora and Ashland. He has yet to mention the missing womenfolk I revealed at the strategy meeting, but his jaw is tighter, his shoulders seem heavier, and shadows drift from him in immense swaths as we leave the castle grounds.

“It’s a Celebration of Return for the last ships arriving home from battle,” Ashland explains once we’re inside the village square that is lit up with torches and lanterns. Scores of commonfolk mill about with armored soldiers. Long tables are laden with bread, vegetables, fish, and wild game that looks suspiciously like squirrel and rabbit. Lutes play, drowning the atmosphere in bittersweet music.

After leaving me with Valora, Ashland meanders through the crowd, clasping shoulders and shaking hands. He scoops up a small child, tickling him briefly before setting him down. The toddler scrambles happily to his father, who is limping on crutches and appears as if he has come straight off the battlefield.

Valora’s female fighters, Stormwatch, also mingle, but they stay far from where I awkwardly stand. My gaze drops under their probing glances.

Was this the battle that was waged on my authority?

I catch glimpses of other weary and injured warriors among the townspeople, their limbs missing or bandaged and bloodied. Regret pierces me like an arrow, sudden and sharp, lodging beneath my ribs and stealing my breath. Everyone knows that soldiers and knights have families, but seeing them up close makes me wish I’d chosen differently. It makes me wish I’d fought against the council and not allowed them to sway me—but I’ve always been moldable, bendable, and usable to fit my current circumstances. Still am, but my decisions aren’t just hurting me; they’re also hurting innocents. And my heart can’t handle hurting other people anymore.

Valora studies me for a second before she snatches my hand and squeezes it. “Regret can break you, or it can teach you.”

“It’s currently doing both,” I murmur, barely audible.