"Damn!" Bitterblue flung the letter down and hurled herself into her chair, digging her fingers into her scalp.
She should have expected this. She had expected this, she just hadn't prepared for it. She had been so sure that if she was challenged, she would emerge triumphant.
The worst part was, she probably would. No, she was certain she would. This collection of unseated Estillian nobles, with their hastily assembled private armies, was no match for the wealth and power of Monsea. Bitterblue would hold her throne, but people— people with no voice or choice in any of this—were going to die for her.
It's not like it's the first time, she thought bitterly. How many soldiers had Katsa killed for her, as snow fell around them in the Monsean forests? But that had been different, she had been a child then, swept up in the tide of adult violence.
This time she was the adult, and the tide was one of her own making. And when the waters had come and gone, she would stand victorious among the bodies of the drowned.
Oh hills, she would have to tell Ror. Would he leave her his navy? He'd meant it only as a threat, a bluff to deter potential attackers. But now that war was imminent, would he defend her? Or would he stay neutral, and save Lienid lives?
Damn!
She had how many ships of her own? A hundred? Half that? Building a navy had been one of many underattended projects, more an employment scheme than a military endeavor.
And that was because a military shouldn't have been necessary. Only a madman would attack Monsea. No army could cross the mountains that cradled it on three sides; Katsa had barely done it, and she was Graced with every blasted skill in the seven kingdoms. An attack could only be from the sea, and Estill had no coastline.
But Sunder had a coastline. Sunder's coast slid seamlessly into Monsea's, without passing through hostile Lienid waters, as a Nanderan or Westeran navy would have to do. And King Murgon, watching his fellow monarchs topple like dominoes, had decided to take action.
It was an Estillian army that threatened her, but the ships were Sunderan. King Thigpen's supporters—no, that was a stupid way to talk about it, no one had shed any real tears for Thigpen. Estill was divided into warring factions, and Thigpen's onetime cronies—yes, that was the right word for them, nobles whose power had depended on Thigpen's power—had been cast out of their castles by the Council in the initial rebellion. They had fled, with as much wealth as they could carry and as many embittered soldiers as they could hire, to Murgon City, where they had been welcomed with open arms.
Bitterblue snorted. The Sons of Old Estill, as they called themselves, had at first sought shelter in the Middluns, but Randa had all but chased them out with pitchforks. Katsa's logical next step, when the Council either solved or surrendered Estill, was Sunder. She would avoid attacking Raffin's father as long as she reasonably could. Randa knew that, and he had no intention of drawing the Council's fire by aiding its enemies.
The trouble was, Murgon knew it too. And he also knew—Bitterblue would take lives to know how he knew— that the Council's operations in Estill were based out of Monsea.
What all this meant was that within the month, Sunderan ships would pour Estillian soldiers onto Monsean soil, and an army of Katsa's dethroned enemies would wreak their vengeance on Bitterblue's subjects.
"Damn!" She slammed her hand onto her desk. "Helda!"
"Well, excuse me for breathing, I'm sure," said an affronted voice from the next room. Helda appeared in the doorway. "What is it now, Lady Queen?"
"We're at war," said Bitterblue grimly.
"But it's not even lunchtime," Helda protested, taken aback. Bitterblue didn't crack a smile.
"I need to know how many Lienid ships are in my harbor, and how many Monsean ones. I need someone to find out where Katsa is, and I need to get a message to my uncle that will not be intercepted."
"None of your messages to King Ror are intercepted, as you ought to know without me telling you. Katsa's somewhere in Estill, and I can find out about the ships."
"Someone has intercepted something, and I will find out who and what if I have to burn Sunder's forest to do it. And 'somewhere in Estill' won't do, I need to talk to her, now. Or Po. Or Giddon. Or Oll. Actually, find me Giddon if you can, I won't be able to yell properly if it's Katsa."
"And yet you're perfectly capable of yelling at me," Helda remarked drily. "Am I allowed to know precisely who we're fighting?"
"Not until I do," Bitterblue said darkly. "Find out about the ships. I have to write a letter to my uncle."
Helda seemed about to reply, but thought better of it. As she slipped out of the room, Bitterblue dropped her head into her arms.
I did this, she thought hopelessly. It was her idea, that the Council should be based in Estill. Had she been a Katsa, a crusader for rightness in the world as a whole, it would have been the right choice. But she was no warrior, she was a queen, and it was given to her to protect only one nation. The safety of Monsea was her sole objective, and she had failed.
Bitterblue took a deep breath and straightened up. She did not have the luxury of surrender, or of regret. The safety of Monsea was still her charge.
Drawing out a quill and a fresh sheet of parchment, she set herself calmly to the business of war.