that role. I raised you as I would have raised the boy I should have borne: to rule.”
The boy I should have borne. What did her mother think of when she spoke those words? Did her heart ache for the lizard child she had cradled in her arms? Or the other stillborn boys she’d whelped each spring before the Piper banished her from his bed and palace? Beneath all her furies, did some tenderness linger? Perhaps Berenice gave Tryphaena too much credit for feeling. Her mother raged on, unperturbed, as though that reference to the sons that she might have had held no more weight than any other. “After all my years of sacrifice, I won’t pale with meekness.”
Berenice stoked herself with a deep breath. Even as queen, she remained subject to her mother’s rages. Her eyes caught on the faience goblet on the ivory table to her left. How she longed to pick it up and toss the wine in Tryphaena’s face, to watch shock widen the woman’s eyes. Instead, she lifted the chalice to her lips; its sticky sweetness eased her anger. When she spoke, her voice was calm and collected. “I never ask for your meekness, Mother, nor your lies. And I haven’t believed the many that you’ve offered up so eagerly.”
“Believe this truth, then: Arsinoe must die. Or else one day you’ll wake to find her allied with her father. You have enough traitors in your midst; you don’t need to court another.”
“I know I have enemies, Mother. I don’t need you to name them for me.”
The two stared at each other in silence. Tryphaena, for once, had run out of words, and so they had reached a draw of sorts. Berenice would not back down. As queen, she could at last take on this woman who’d never found her worthy of her love. From the corner of her eye, she saw a door creak open, and her eunuch stepped into the atrium.
“What’s he doing here?” her mother spat.
“Apologies, my queen,” Pieton replied coolly. “I didn’t intend to disturb a familial parley.”
A familial parley. The thought that Pieton wouldn’t be included there was strange in and of itself. After all, he’d paid more heed to her than her mother ever had. It was Pieton—not Tryphaena—who’d taught her lessons and comforted her when she was sad. Wasn’t that what family was—what other people’s families were?
“That was precisely your intent,” Tryphaena barked. “The guards told you I was within.” She returned her fury to Berenice. “Watch your companions, my dear. This one’s every word stinks of deceit.”
“The two who stand watch told me they couldn’t speak of the queen’s business,” the eunuch answered. “I’d no idea who attended you here.”
Berenice ignored her mother’s glares. “What brings you to me, Pieton?”
“There are matters we must discuss involving Inundation in the Upper Lands.”
Berenice pursed her lips. Inundation and the Upper Lands—business that concerned her and the double kingdom both. She’d already wasted too much time, mired in this feud.
“Do his lies blind you?” Tryphaena hissed. Her mother hated nothing more than being ignored. “Don’t you see what he’s doing? How he begrudges you all private counsel?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Mother. You’re not my councilor—only a shrieking harpy upon whom I take pity in my weaker moments.”
She didn’t meet her mother’s eye; she looked to the door instead.
“Guards,” she cried out. “My mother requires an escort.”
Tryphaena flailed against callous hands that gripped her shoulders and dragged her across the floor.
“Don’t pretend I didn’t warn you. Remember this day, child. Remember it. Perhaps you were right: the nearest threat isn’t Arsinoe after all.”
Hacking blocked Tryphaena’s tongue as the guards pulled her away. Legs splayed before her, she looked not a hellhound but an aging mother, long past her prime, shielding her last living child. Her knees knocked; her flesh hung loose about her arms and throat. Berenice’s
The boy I should have borne. What did her mother think of when she spoke those words? Did her heart ache for the lizard child she had cradled in her arms? Or the other stillborn boys she’d whelped each spring before the Piper banished her from his bed and palace? Beneath all her furies, did some tenderness linger? Perhaps Berenice gave Tryphaena too much credit for feeling. Her mother raged on, unperturbed, as though that reference to the sons that she might have had held no more weight than any other. “After all my years of sacrifice, I won’t pale with meekness.”
Berenice stoked herself with a deep breath. Even as queen, she remained subject to her mother’s rages. Her eyes caught on the faience goblet on the ivory table to her left. How she longed to pick it up and toss the wine in Tryphaena’s face, to watch shock widen the woman’s eyes. Instead, she lifted the chalice to her lips; its sticky sweetness eased her anger. When she spoke, her voice was calm and collected. “I never ask for your meekness, Mother, nor your lies. And I haven’t believed the many that you’ve offered up so eagerly.”
“Believe this truth, then: Arsinoe must die. Or else one day you’ll wake to find her allied with her father. You have enough traitors in your midst; you don’t need to court another.”
“I know I have enemies, Mother. I don’t need you to name them for me.”
The two stared at each other in silence. Tryphaena, for once, had run out of words, and so they had reached a draw of sorts. Berenice would not back down. As queen, she could at last take on this woman who’d never found her worthy of her love. From the corner of her eye, she saw a door creak open, and her eunuch stepped into the atrium.
“What’s he doing here?” her mother spat.
“Apologies, my queen,” Pieton replied coolly. “I didn’t intend to disturb a familial parley.”
A familial parley. The thought that Pieton wouldn’t be included there was strange in and of itself. After all, he’d paid more heed to her than her mother ever had. It was Pieton—not Tryphaena—who’d taught her lessons and comforted her when she was sad. Wasn’t that what family was—what other people’s families were?
“That was precisely your intent,” Tryphaena barked. “The guards told you I was within.” She returned her fury to Berenice. “Watch your companions, my dear. This one’s every word stinks of deceit.”
“The two who stand watch told me they couldn’t speak of the queen’s business,” the eunuch answered. “I’d no idea who attended you here.”
Berenice ignored her mother’s glares. “What brings you to me, Pieton?”
“There are matters we must discuss involving Inundation in the Upper Lands.”
Berenice pursed her lips. Inundation and the Upper Lands—business that concerned her and the double kingdom both. She’d already wasted too much time, mired in this feud.
“Do his lies blind you?” Tryphaena hissed. Her mother hated nothing more than being ignored. “Don’t you see what he’s doing? How he begrudges you all private counsel?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Mother. You’re not my councilor—only a shrieking harpy upon whom I take pity in my weaker moments.”
She didn’t meet her mother’s eye; she looked to the door instead.
“Guards,” she cried out. “My mother requires an escort.”
Tryphaena flailed against callous hands that gripped her shoulders and dragged her across the floor.
“Don’t pretend I didn’t warn you. Remember this day, child. Remember it. Perhaps you were right: the nearest threat isn’t Arsinoe after all.”
Hacking blocked Tryphaena’s tongue as the guards pulled her away. Legs splayed before her, she looked not a hellhound but an aging mother, long past her prime, shielding her last living child. Her knees knocked; her flesh hung loose about her arms and throat. Berenice’s
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