“Whitfield is loyal, and he understands the stakes.” Sabine held her breath, as surely as Azaleen did.
Exhaling slowly, Azaleen read from the curled paper. “Clearwater can’t stand without Stonevale. My forces are on their way to back up Calder. Heaven help us all.”
Tension tugged at her shoulders. The queen ignored it. Let Luther Irons come and yank a noose around her neck—for the first time in years, Azaleen was in love.
“I knew he’d come through,” said Sabine. “Azaleen, it’s good to see you like this. I’m very happy for you.”
She smiled and picked up the next letter, this one in a sealed envelope from Cassandra Cade. “Thanks, dear, but, if we don’t solve our current dilemma, I’m afraid my romance—and my life—will quickly come to a searing end. We need ideas, options, a backup plan.”
She opened Lady Cassandra’s letter and read it aloud as well. “Dear Queen Frost,” it began. “The Red River Republic Army has arrived, and this might be the last communication I can send before General Garcia concludes that a siege is his only recourse. While we might have disagreed on some national priorities, and you may consider me a free agent, now, with our backs against the wall, I only wish to say, I am proud to call you queen. Once I envied you; older and wiser, I now respect and admire you. The Cade family will not abandon Marchland. I will not betray you. Sending my hopes, prayers, and all the luck I can spare, Cassandra.”
“This is inspiring news,” said Sabine. “Verdancia’s three most prominent houses have all thrown their full support behind you.”
Azaleen set the letter atop her book. “What other choice do they have—surrender?” She shook her head. “Still, it’s nice to hear. I’d rather one of them propose a brilliant strategy.”
“Whitfield is sending his troops to Stonevale, and the AlgonCree Navy is moving upriver to support Marchland,” Sabine pointed out. “All might not be lost.”
“You’re a good friend, Sabine. Have I ever told you that?”
She smiled, rose blooming in her cheeks. “Many times, as you are to me.”
Azaleen moved on to the next pigeon tube. “Mayor Hawkins of Troy,” she read. “There’s Iron Army goons crawling all over. Do something.” She pursed her lips, lifting a brow. “Well, Mayor Hawkins, welcome to Verdancia.”
Sabine snickered.
As the queen lifted the next envelope, someone pounded at the door hard enough to rattle their teacups. “Queen Frost, are you in there?” It was Desmond Shaw. No point expecting proper decorum from him.
“Come in, Secretary Shaw,” she replied with irritation.
“I know, we have a meeting later, but this can’t wait.” The tall man, still wearing his hat and yesterday’s clothes, waved scraps of paper at her. “You’re not going to believe this!”
Azaleen sent runners to every cabinet member’s home and to fetch Captain Moreau. Her stomach coiled like a spring wound too far, every nerve frayed. It was impossible, yet three separate reports gave the news credibility. She had no idea what it meant. Worst of all, she realized she’d have to send Lark away again, into an extremely volatile situation none of them had faced before.
She sent the Capitol staff away, dispensing with pleasantries like tea and pastries, and ordered the guards to wait outside the war room. When the door closed, puzzled faces all around—Silas Beaudean and Reuben Stark, unshaven—she strode to the map table and slapped down a new marker.
“Shaw, tell them,” she instructed, clutching the edge of the wood to keep from shaking. She gritted her teeth, still not knowing what to believe.
“I have associates up in the borderlands,” he began. “We keep in touch, do each other favors now and then. I woke up to three pigeons arriving with three individual reports claiming the same thing. Now that ain’t no accident.”
“The borderlands?” General Stark rose, pinning Shaw with a puzzled expression as he motioned to the pages in his hand. “What do they say?”
“Let me read them.”
All eyes were on Shaw, except for Azaleen’s. She studied the map, listening to be sure what she heard and read hadn’t been a dream.
“Des, white and silver metal soldiers without faces, marching toward Stonevale. Craziest thing I ever seen. Figured you should know.” He flipped to the next one. “Shaw, you better get up here. These robots’ guns spit fire, not bullets. And this one is from a fella I met when Jamila and I first crossed the border from Appalachia twenty-two years ago.”
He held up the missive. “Des, that crazy Core Cult built a mechanical army, and it’s headed for Stonevale. Maybe a few days away. Hell, what’s the world coming to?”
“Oh my God,” gasped Camille. The others sat or stood in stunned silence for several seconds.
“Our estimates,” Azaleen said, pointing to the map, “based on where Shaw says these people live, put them here. We don’t know how many, what their purpose is, or who specifically is operating them. We don’t even really know what ‘they’ are.”
“How reliable are these sources, Desmond?” asked Beaudean. He rubbed his stubbled face, eyes still rounded.
“Mountain folk. Keep to themselves, but honest. Not the hysterical type,” he answered. “And they live pretty far apart. They wouldn’t just make this up.”
“Who could?” asked Rosalind, her dark face pale with fright. “Science fiction. Could they really have done it?”