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“The queen of Eddis collected him personally,” Relius said. “She and her Thief. They evidently picnicked on the way back. They are rumored to be…close.”
Irene ordered them all out of the room, unable to listen to one more word. The queen of Eddis and Eugenides. Picnicking. She wanted to scream. At him, at her, at Relius; at herself for not having anticipated this.
Instead, she picked up her soup bowl and flung it at the wall. The china splintered into fragments. Broth trickled down the wall and puddled on the floor as she sent her plates and goblet after the bowl.
Relius had told her they weren’t speaking to each other. That he never left his rooms. That Eddisians in the court had placed bets on whether he would survive the winter; gossiping about how little he ate and how much weight he’d lost.
Irene hated to be wrong. She picked up an amphora still almost full of wine, cradled it carefully for a moment. Then hurled it at the floor. The terracotta jug smashed open and wine splashed across the floor.
Irene turned away. She paced back and forth across the room, hands clenched into fists. She’d been wrong and Eddis had her thief again. Had everything. And Irene had nothing. Had only her barons, undermining her at every step. Had the Mede ambassador salivating over her throne and seeing her only as a body he could control. And her army, loyal only as long as she could pay them, and wars were expensive.
She’d run out of things to throw; the table was empty. But Irene was still angry. So she flung her chair at the wall too. It was heavier than she thought and merely clattered against the paneling, landing on its side on the floor without breaking.
Irene took a deep breath in through her teeth and let it out though her nose. So, so.
She’d been wrong. And now Relius had been wrong. It was time to figure out what to do next.
She righted the chair and sat down, facing the mess she’d made. Her servants slunk back in, and started cleaning, but she hardly saw them. She was looking at the wine as it pooled into a dark puddle on the floor. It was darker than blood, and she would know.
Irene wished, not for the first time, that she’d killed Eugenides when she had the chance. No matter the risk of potentially offending the ancient peninsular gods. He would have been dead and no longer a danger. And she already felt cursed.
Relius came and stood beside her chair. For one weak moment she wanted to ask him what to do. Wanted him to tell her what she should do now. But she was the queen, so Irene only stiffened her shoulders and gave him instructions.
“We will need more spies in Eddis. If we’ve missed this, there will be other things they’ve kept from us.”
“Yes, my Queen.”
“Send more men to Sounis too,” Irene went on, “I want to know how this changes the tenor of the war for them. If we can take advantage of it.”
She nodded in dismissal, and Relius bowed himself out. He would have liked to throw a few things himself, but now was not the time.
Irene sat in the dining room long after the servants had cleaned up the mess, waving away their offerings of more food and wine. She felt a headache taking hold of the back of her neck, but she didn’t want wine to tame her temper or a poultice to cool her head.
As long as she was angry, she wouldn’t be afraid. As long as she could hold on to her anger, she wouldn’t be sick with regret. And the pain in her head would help.
She knew she deserved the pain.