The Sweetest Betrayal

Also by Natalie Mae

Copyright © 2023 by Natalie Mae

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2022922297

ISBN 9781088005309

ASIN B0BKR2HPRQ

Cover design by Theresa Evangelista

Skull illustration: Zachary Berenbaum

Dagger image: Adobestock, Shutterstock

Interior bird skull illustration: Desertsands, Adobe Stock

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

Epilogue

Epilogue II

Glossary

Acknowledgements

For my readers

This one is just for you.

I

IT’S far too peaceful a night to start a war.

I stand atop one of the desert’s many low plateaus in the darkness, my white Mestrah’s cloak snapping in the wind, orange sand twining around my sandals like rattlesnakes. Crystalline stars glitter between bladed clouds. Crickets sing in the shadowed reeds of the river below, though no cranes line the shore, the only ripples in the dark water stirred by crocodiles, as if anticipating a feast.

On the horizon, the torches of the enemy warships grow closer, brightening like the start of a wildfire.

I flex my hands, gooseflesh working up my arms despite the lingering heat.

How long do we have? I ask.

Marcus lowers his brass telescope, his towering silhouette blocking me from the moon. Maybe a quarter of an hour. They’re at full speed.

Zahru . . . Jet shifts on my other side, the wind tugging the ends of his blue night cloak. I still don’t see them.

I don’t follow his gaze toward the northern desert, where Greka and Amian’s reinforcements were supposed to have arrived this morning. Or toward the east, over the hundreds of dark, hexagonal tents that make up my army, where Nadessa’s soldiers should be appearing between the plateaus. I can’t look and see the desert empty again.

We’re going to stop this war before it starts. We spent weeks on every detail.

Mestrah, Marcus says, quieter. The moon is at half. Oka’s Scythe is directly beneath it. He gestures to the constellation. We gave our allies the right time. If help was coming . . .

I don’t want him to finish that sentence. I turn on my heel. They’ll come. The blood contracts are still intact, they must be near.

I push through the golden-edged flap and into my tent. Light potions string between the spacious white walls, casting a silver-blue glow over the feather mattress, the polished stone desk where the blood contracts and listening scrolls throw shadows, the claw-footed chair where Melia sits, a little jar of tonic glowing as she infuses it with Healers’ magic. Jade, the size of a large jackal now and in training to protect me, raises her spotted head from a woven sleeping pad.

Worried? she thinks, her golden leopard eyes soft. Zar? Need me?

My stomach twists as my Whisperer magic translates her thoughts. What I need is a miracle. An army of thousands will be on us in minutes, their armor imbued with forsvine that can neutralize all magic within three meters, rendering useless every one of our close-range fighters, like our many Dominators with their superior strength and all six of the army’s Shifters. My seventh Shifter, whose identity I’m still keeping secret from the world, would remind me he’s just as deadly without his magic and that he should be here. But despite the tentative new truce between us, I’m still working out just how much I can trust Kasta, and so he’s at the palace.

My soldiers are only a backup anyway. If all goes to plan, there will be no battle, just us marching out to join our allies with their warships and calvaries and legions, wherein the Wyri queen will realize she’s hopelessly outnumbered and finally yield to a negotiation. She never needs to know only half of my soldiers can attack from a distance. She never needs to know that without our allies, we are the ones hopelessly outnumbered.

Still no one? Melia asks, her surprise making the glow fade from the tonic. An icy breath of her dread knifes my skin, and I wish, not for the first time, that I could turn my Influence off. My nerves are electric enough already without everyone else adding to them.

I round the desk with a smile. Maybe there was a sandstorm. I’m sure it’s just a temporary delay.

Melia rises to join me, her platinum armor reflecting daggers of light along her ebony skin. Marcus and Jet stop on the other side of the table. Marcus snatches up the listening scrolls one by one to check for responses, but Jet watches me, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

His gaze searching, anxious as it is now when he looks at me, like he’s always on the verge of a question. It’s been three weeks since I kissed Kasta in a very public setting right before blackmailing him into abdicating. Three weeks that Jet and I have pretended that kiss never happened, letting the war distract us, happily and silently agreeing that if we ignore it long enough, everything will go back to normal. That I will remember what we gave up for each other; that he’s the one I’m supposed to need.

If I keep avoiding Kasta as I have, I can make it true.

Jet thumbs the silver advisor’s band on his bicep. We need to start assembling the soldiers. Hopefully Nadessa will be here soon.

All right, I say. Marcus?

Mestrah. He bows with his fingertips to his pale forehead, even though I’ve told him a thousand times he doesn’t need to, and goes to alert the commanders.

Armor clanks as Melia shakes her head. I don’t understand. A moon ago they rushed to sign these contracts. Do you think Wyrim has promised them something greater?

They can’t have. I smooth the corners of the first contract, all three of them laid before me, each ruler’s signature sharp and red with their blood. We would know. The contracts would bleed. They’re just late.

But even I hear the uncertainty in my voice. More and more time has been passing between my letters and our allies’ responses, though always their replies have been favorable, apologetic. I wrote them last week that Wyrim had started their march on us. They would be here, they said.

Something has changed.

Melia lets out an uneasy breath. We may need a new strategy.

No, I say, while outside, armor clinks and captains shout, and soldiers heft shields and weapons they’ve had only a few moons to train with. I’m not plunging us into a war when I could have stopped it with a conversation. I have to try.

But the Wyri have not answered even one of your letters. Her voice softens. They have bombed your hometown. They have tried to assassinate you. I’m not sure—

I’m going out there, I snap, though my anger is for their queen, for the disbelief that this night is even happening, not for Melia. I’m asking the queen to talk. I look to Jet. You still think I should try, right?

He doesn’t miss a beat. Absolutely. Whatever you think is best, we’ll support in full.

Melia opens her mouth, green eyes narrowing, and purses her lips around words she doesn’t say. Jet hasn’t once disagreed with me since he accused me of going to the same extremes as Kasta during our debut party last moon. And his agreeability has been a relief, really, with all the stress of the war, and especially since I’ve decided it means he regrets that accusation and realizes I only did what had to be done. But it’s getting harder to tell whether he actually agrees with me or if this is just more of the careful dance we’re doing around each other.

I wouldn’t have to wonder with Kasta. Kasta would tell me if this was a terrible idea, and thoroughly.

Zahru, look! Jet’s excitement jerks me back to the table. Amian is answering!

He shoves the scroll at me so fast that I nearly drop it. Melia slides closer, and even Jet forgets the space he usually leaves between us, both of them crowding my shoulders. My pulse ticks up as the Amian king’s sharp, tight script fills the parchment. My reading ability has vastly improved with another three weeks of lessons, but it still takes me awhile to finish a paragraph and I don’t recognize all the words, especially with rougher handwriting like this.

I’ve only gotten as far as Esteemed Mestrah, I apologize for the delay when a flash of Jet’s anger and Melia’s shock jab my arms.

No, Jet says, leaving my side to sort through the other listening scrolls.

I grip Melia’s elbow. What does it say?

She raises a trembling finger to the letter. ‘Esteemed Mestrah, I apologize for the delay in answering. But after coming across a troubling new witness account that Prince Kasta’s abdication was not voluntary, which I have discussed at length with Greka and Nadessa . . .’ She swallows. ‘The three of us have decided that until these claims are properly investigated, we no longer feel confident in the promises made to us for this alliance. Or in the type of leadership we might expect from you, considering the intimate nature of your and Prince Kasta’s relationship. Thus it is with much regret that I inform you we’ve decided to remain neutral—’

Oh my gods, I say, dropping the scroll.

Witness account? Jet looks to Melia. But that’s not possible. No one outside of us and Marcus and Hen know that we made Kasta step down.

Melia angrily clucks her tongue. It has to be the Wyri. Someone spreading lies to separate us from our allies, and they happened to make a lucky guess. But whatever evidence they have, it can’t be real . . .

I don’t hear the rest of what she says. I know exactly who this witness is, and suddenly I’m back in the armory three weeks ago, one of the palace’s top Runemasters chaining me to that table, saying he knew what I’d done. That he’d verified the animal pelts I’d brought him were fake. That he knew I was trying to frame Kasta as a Shifter so I could rule alone. That was adamantly not the reason I was doing it, not that the Runemaster would believe me at that point.

I still see him marching out like a hero, handing Kasta the controlling collar that he was supposed to make for me.

My advisors don’t know about that part. And especially not what I did to Kasta after.

"Oh my gods," I groan again, sinking on my elbows over the letter.

No, no, none of that. Jet’s touch is light—and brief—on my arm. We’ll get this worked out. That witness won’t have anything we can’t disprove. But right now we need to focus on what we can do, and that’s calling for a retreat.

Yes, I say, numbly. Yes, I guess we should.

Melia squeezes my shoulder beneath the armored plate. This is still much better than meeting them with Kasta’s war knives. You did the right thing, Mestrah.

I can only return a small, uneasy smile as she follows Jet out. Leaving me with the sound of soldiers packing. With Jade nudging my hand. With the contracts I can only stare at with a gathering sense of dread. I can’t even begin to count the hours I’ve poured into these. All the sleepless nights I’ve spent stressing and negotiating but always knowing that as long as I had these, we would survive this war.

And I would be able to prove Kasta wrong.

The wind tears at the tent flaps.

My throat tightens as Amian’s words thicken in front of me, and the scrolls begin to bleed.

II

"THE Wyri will be here in three weeks. A commander’s deep voice echoes across the war room, snaking into the dark corridor where I stand out of sight. We can only delay them for so long. Eventually we have to fight . . ."

I rest my head against the cold stone wall, steeling myself to go inside. It’s been four days since our allies abandoned us. Four days that I’ve spent racing back here on a warship, sending out orders to evacuate every Orkenian city south of the capital, writing to our allies in vain, insisting this new rumor was planted by the Wyri.

Four days without a response.

I’ve been back for an hour. I haven’t been to my room. I still smell like the desert and river sage and the enchanted lacquer that fireproofs the warships. I can’t remember if I had dinner, and the thought of being in yet another stuffy room, of going over the same suggestions we’ve been considering for weeks and facing this new rumor about Kasta makes me want to scream.

So, just another day as Mestrah.

It’s going to be another very long night.

A torch pops on the wall, and I wish I could follow the sparks into the darkness, away from this meeting, out of this tomb-like corridor and its many murals of ancient Mestrahs looming over broken cities.

The underwater magnets will hold longer than that, remarks another soldier. One of my Metalsmiths, her voice light and certain. The Wraithguard confirmed the Wyri’s steel boats crossed over them that first night, or tried to, and it could take weeks more to figure out how to dislodge each one. And we still have the second barrier.

Yes, and that’s it, says the first commander. And then what?

Then . . . The Metalsmith hesitates. Well, then I’m sure our Mestrah will have a new solution. The gods have led her well thus far.

Jet’s lovely voice follows. Of course she will. The Mestrah is committed to a peaceful end of this war. But that takes patience.

A grunt from the commander. "Yes, and we have all agreed patience to be the best first strategy. But are we even sure this is what the gods intend? They marked two rulers. Two people to guide Orkena through this unprecedented war. How do we know they’re able to do what they need with Prince Kasta abandoning his duty, which he seems content to continue doing even now? Is he not an advisor? Can he not take an hour to attend even one meeting?"

My brother has his own reasons and his own way of contributing, Jet says, sharper.

"Of course. I meant no disrespect, aera. My only point being, the Mestrah was never meant to do this alone."

My nails dig into the stone wall. This is not the first time my soldiers have questioned what the gods mean by Kasta stepping down, and I press back the sliver of doubt itching under my skin. I had to stop Kasta. The gods wouldn’t have let me if I wasn’t meant to. Everything has happened as it should, and this war and its increasing failures are absolutely not punishments for me disobeying them.

At least we can agree on one thing, the Metalsmith says. These new claims are absurd. As she has shown in this conflict, the Mestrah is fair and merciful. She would never go against the gods like that. Least of all against someone she’s in love with.

My stomach drops. I can imagine exactly how rigid Jet has gone at this, and I wish I was in there to reassure him, for the fiftieth time, that me being in love with Kasta is definitely just a rumor.

"What is going on with them, anyway? says another captain. He’s just burying himself in research? Isn’t she angry with him for stepping down?"

The commander sighs. Livid, I’ve heard. But then, what can she say? He’s still mourning his father and clearly not focused enough to handle a war right now. I wonder if they’ll still get married . . .

"They are not engaged," Jet snaps.

And the deep dive into this uncomfortable territory is my cue. I push off the wall and eye the gleaming red runes that surround the archway as I enter the enchanted chill of the war room.

Thirty chairs scrape in hurried unison. Thirty of Orkena’s finest commanders and captains bow at the waist, fingertips to their foreheads as is customary in greeting a Mestrah, some even going so far as to drop to one knee. War honors decorate biceps of all skin tones. Some have little silver wings on strings of leather, one for each kill; others Sabil’s balancing scales for wisdom; and some tiny lanterns cut from bone, depicting the light that Rie, the god of death, uses to guide souls to the Afterlife. They’re an intimidating group, and I used to dread these meetings before I was crowned, when these soldiers considered me a naive peasant girl and had understandable concerns about my veterinary skills translating into ruling a kingdom.

Then I knocked out an entire room full of assassins at Kasta’s and my debut party with a single burst of Influence: the god-power I received from the sacrificial knife at the end of the Crossing that gives me control over everything from people’s emotions and words to their very consciousness. And though I haven’t used Influence in that way since, now no one dares speak against me, and no one scoffs when I make suggestions that people who’ve trained a lifetime in war know not to make. And no one worries I’ll fail, because they just glance with coy smiles at the war room murals, at the last Mestrahs who had my power and manipulated entire countries into destroying themselves.

Jet straightens first at the head of the table, his smile small. I pass the rich orange tunics of the captains, the silver of the commanders. The General waits at the front in green, her steady gaze a more serious version of Jet’s, and then I catch Melia’s guarded eyes and Marcus’s gentle ones and Hen’s guilty ones—which might have been alarming if that wasn’t always how she looked—and take my place before the frosted glass throne. Fervently ignoring that the new table, commissioned before my last confrontation with Kasta, is wide enough for a second throne.

The soldiers drop their hands, waiting for me to sit.

This is like a repeating nightmare.

How long can we delay them? I say, not sitting.

At least three weeks, says the Metalsmith, a slender girl two years my elder with a light beige complexion and long strawberry-blonde hair. Maybe more if we can import another ton of Steelstone.

The commander who’d been speaking earlier shakes his bald head. We should save our gold for tributes. We have ten times Wyrim’s wealth, we can buy allies.

No. The General steps forward. We need to save every bit of that gold for armor and weaponry, not for courting uncertainty. Tiny, decorative swords flash in her brown afro as she looks to me. If I may, Mestrah. We have offered Wyrim reparations and new treaties. We have offered land in southern Orkena, sent generous gifts of food and gemstones and crystal, and suggested reopening trade for our most coveted charms and spells. We’ve offered free use of our river and access to our schools. Her grip tightens on her cane. They return our gift boats in ashes. They sent our first and only messenger’s head back in a box. Their queen is not interested in peace. And especially with our allies going neutral, it is time to change tactics.

Gasps and whispers flit around the room. Since my first day as queen, I’ve made it clear that I don’t want to fight the Wyri and that we will end this war civilly, and my officers glanced at my gods’ mark and haven’t challenged me on it since. And even though the suggestion of battle is still terrifying, it’s been so long since anyone’s contradicted me that my first reaction is honestly relief.

But we still have time, I say, watching the General, anxious for more. There must be something we haven’t tried?

The General shakes her head. You know as well as I how deep the queen’s anger goes. She was ten during the Ending Drought raids, and Kasta’s grandmother spared none who stood in our army’s way. We needed food or we died. Wyrim’s king at the time knew that and denied our diplomatic requests for rations in the hopes that our casualties would make us vulnerable for takeover. Thus we began and ended the most one-sided war in ages. Fifty years later, and even the knowledge of her father’s part in it has not changed Andira’s thirst for revenge. She will not be cowed without losses on her side.

But then this just goes on forever. But I’m still waiting, hoping the General will have another counterpoint and we’ll find a middle ground. "And then it’s the same war for generations. I can’t send us in again to take more from them. Or for the reverse to happen, especially when we still have no answer for forsvine."

The General looks ready to argue. I can see her frustration growing in the thinning set of her mouth, what she truly wants to say, and hope catches in my chest—and then Jet clears his throat.

The General lets out a long breath. "Of course not, gudina."

My heart sinks. A new kind of panic is wrapping my throat, but the soldiers must mistake whatever they see on my face for displeasure at being crossed, because they leap in with new suggestions.

Here’s an idea you’ll like, says the Metalsmith. We wouldn’t want to invite questionable diplomats at this time into our home, but we could send our own to visit our allies.

You could send Prince Kasta, suggests the commander. His testimony would be very powerful.

No, I say, choking. The last thing I’ll be doing is sending Kasta to give whatever story he likes to foreign leaders. "He’s needed here to study forsvine."

Lesser taxes for our allies, then? pipes a captain in the back. A new treaty?

The Grekan queen has sons, muses another. A royal marriage would certainly secure us at least one unquestioning ally.

And my panic level has just tripled. That is not the first strategy I’d like to go for—

Maybe we need to appeal farther, another captain suggests. To countries beyond the borders of our neighbors?

Or hold a festival on neutral ground! Something to boost positive feelings.

Or a public trial?

Or a courtship event for the Mestrah’s hand in marriage!

Stop! I press my hands to my aching head. I don’t know what I wanted to hear, but none of these are it, and I’m exhausted and I need food and it’s really sinking in now that we’ve lost our allies—we’ve lost them, maybe for good—and I’m determined to make this work, but I can’t think right now, and gods I just want a full night’s sleep, I just want someone to shake me and tell me exactly what I’m supposed to do—

Mestrah? Melia says, her concern sparking through my elbow when she grabs it.

I breathe out, slowly lowering my hands, remembering how my fara tells me to handle stress: to recenter on the immediate problem and not let my worries splinter out more than they need to. I’m fine. I was chosen to do this, I’ll feel better about it tomorrow. I’m fine.

Sorry. I smile. Are any of these sounding good to—

But Melia jerks her chin meaningfully at the war room table. Behind her, Hen bounces on her toes, and Jet and Marcus back away, the normal steadiness of their emotions going cold.

All the other soldiers in the room, including the General, have gone still.

Eyes open but vacant. Eerie grins on their faces, like blank parchment waiting for a quill. Ethereal black ribbons curl my fingers like smoke and flicker in the whites of their eyes.

Just like in the murals.

Oh, gods. I pull back hard on my magic. The darkness vanishes in an instant, and the soldiers blink awake, first in confusion, and then they start up again on suggestions as if nothing happened.

I took control of them. I took control of all of them, and they don’t even know.

I will think on these, I say quickly. We’ll meet again at dawn. Take the night off.

Real, grateful smiles cross faces, except from the General, who gives Jet a long look. The rest of the soldiers head out with mutters of Mestrah, with the brush of fingertips to their foreheads, with yawns and new, easier conversations about things far more mundane. At ease, because that’s how confident they are that I’ll save us. I look down at my shaking hands, half expecting to see the shadows again. I’ve never lost control like that before. I’ve been practicing Influence more this moon, perfecting how to ease stress and worry in small groups versus individuals, hopeful for even the smallest chance to meet with the Wyri queen. But never has my will just—

That was exciting, Hen says, sounding far too impressed. You really are taking this lead-the-people thing to the next level.

I didn’t mean to do that, I say.

Jet finally looks more torn than agreeable. Maybe . . . maybe you need a break. Take the night off, too? Reschedule tomorrow’s meeting for highest sun instead?

Yes, I agree. Though a break is the last thing on my mind. Yes, let’s do that.

Mestrah? Melia calls, because I’m already leaving. Do you want company? It’s been so long since all of us have just relaxed together. We could bring some games to your room, forget about everything for a few hours?

My chest pinches. Oh, how I wish I could. I wish I could allow myself even a slice of that time, for Numet knows I’ve given all the rest of it to this war. But the sour aftertaste of magic lingers in my throat, and my shoulders drop.

I force myself to keep walking. Maybe next time. I’m just going to get some air and turn in for the night.

Of course. But Melia sighs, and her voice goes quiet. That’s all it is anymore.

Marcus’s words are just as murmured. We knew we’d lose her, a little. It’s just this war . . .

I’m busy anyway, Hen blurts.

It’s an hour from midnight, Jet says. What could you possibly have to do?

A pause. Laundry?

You’re saying that like a question. Why are you saying that like a question?

But then I step over the threshold, and their voices go even lower.

That was thirty people, Marcus mutters, sounding awed.

That was thirty people, Jet echoes, sounding much less so.

III

I WALK to the top of the palace wall without seeing the alabaster halls or the elite who call to me, my mind spinning with the other way this evening could have gone. Smiling and saying yes to Melia. Gathering games from the extensive collection in the Mestrah’s suite. Lounging by the giant indoor pool in my room, Jade biting the ties on my sandals, cards in my hand, crystals laid in bets before us. The war buried far beneath glasses of sparkling juice and laughter. Melia would tell me about her attractive new apprentice, Marcus about his wedding plans, Hen about the latest palace gossip that is, gods willing, not about me, and finally, finally Jet would say that he’s truly fine with everything that’s happened, and I’d laugh and admit how worried I’ve been, and we’d hug and he’d stop looking at me in that questioning way and at least in one small corner of my life, things would be right again.

Instead I’m standing outside on the palace wall, alone in the darkness, in a black cloak meant to blend with the shadows.

Cybil’s tower stretches high behind me, the enormous goddess of war reaching deep into the night sky for her loyal falcon, pale golden silk billowing down her stone limbs. Her arm casts a long, sword-like shadow into the interior gardens that makes it hard to see anyone standing immediately below her. In the courtyard, silvery Light potions drape the branches of olive trees, and marble benches follow a path of white sand between bushes dusted with red flowers. Even this late at night with the start of the harvest season chilling the air, it’s a popular place to be. Couples wander the paths with their arms linked; groups of soldiers gather around the fountain. Other elite lounge in cream-colored cloaks in the soft grass.

I drum my fingers on the stone railing.

This is admittedly one of my more questionable ideas, but in comparison to what I almost did instead, it’s far, far better.

A girl laughs beneath one of the trees. Her partner kisses her, and she kisses him shamelessly back, and I’m perhaps suppressing a little more bitterness overall than I’m willing to admit, because it’s at this point that I decide to start.

Influence answers me in a second. It’s as effortless as Whispering now, and as the sleepy thoughts of nearby songbirds vanish from my head, the emotions in the courtyard leap to replace them: joy, anticipation, affection, desire. Each of them like ethereal strings I can pull, quietly visible around my fingers. Purer emotions like these appear as little ribbons of gold. Only one thread of jealousy coils black around my wrist from a boy watching the couple across the