Free The Born Queen by Greg Keyes

Sefry can sweep the woods around.”
    She shot him a smile that he suddenly suspected was condescending. But then, she had just killed two men without touching them, and it wasn’t the first time.
    “You can still bleed,” he pointed out. “An arrow can still kill you. I can’t quite catch an arrow.”
    “True,” Anne said. “Secure me. I am at your disposal.”
    The monastery Saint Eng stood on a small hill surrounded by wheat fields and pasture, save for one dark finger of forest that prodded up to it from the south. The clock tower of the town of Pale could be seen in the west, near the line of the same forest. It wasn’t a big place, just a few out-buildings and barns scattered around a squat, squarish structure with a single rather inelegant tower rising from the southeast corner.
    Before they had taken ten steps, five of Anne’s cowled Sefry guard were with them, led by their amber-eyed captain, Cauth Versial.
    “Majesty,” Cauth said, taking a knee. “Apologies. They drew us away from you.”
    “It’s nothing,” Anne said. “You see my Cazio was able to handle it.”
    My Cazio?
Why had she phrased it like that?
    “Nevertheless,” the Sefry said, “I shouldn’t have left you with only one guard. But the inside of the monastery is secure now.”
    “Good,” Anne replied. “We’ll go there, then. And I think I’d like to dine.”
    “It’s nearly that hour,” the Sefry said. “I’ll have something fetched.”
             
    By the next bell Cazio was sitting with Anne in a small room on the west side of the building. St. Abulo was driving the sun down the Hesper sky, but he still had a few bells to go this long summer day.
    “I’ll miss this,” Anne sighed, gazing out the window and sipping her wine.
    “Miss what?”
    “These outings.”
    “Outings? You mean our fights with the Church?”
    “Yes,” she replied. “Just sitting on the throne is dull, and the details of war—well, the generals don’t really need me to work those out. This feels
real
to me, Cazio. I can see the faces of those we rescue.”
    Cazio sniffed his wine, then raised it up.
    “Az da Vereo,”
he toasted.
    “Yes,” Anne agreed. “To the real.”
    They drank.
    “This is Vitellian,” he murmured. “From the Tero Vaillamo region if I’m not very wrong.”
    Anne tilted her head. “Why does it matter? Wine is wine, isn’t it?”
    For a moment Cazio had no idea what to say. He’d known Anne for almost a year and been almost constantly at her side during that time. He’d formed a pretty good opinion of her and had certainly never suspected she was capable of what could even charitably only be called a moronic statement.
    “I, ah, you’re kidding with me,” he finally managed.
    “Well, there’s red and white, I suppose,” she went on. “But really, beyond that I’ve never been able to tell the difference.”
    Cazio blinked, then held up his cup. “You can’t tell the difference between this and the frog blood we drank at that inn on the way here? You really can’t?”
    She shrugged and took a large swallow, then looked thoughtful.
    “No,” she said. “I like this, but I liked the ‘frog blood,’ too.”
    “It must be like being blind or deaf,” Cazio said. “I…it’s really absurd.”
    She pointed the index finger of the hand holding the glass at him. “That’s just the sort of comment
some
queens might have your head struck off for,” she said.
    “Yes, well, I’d rather have it struck off if I couldn’t discern
Dacrumi da Pachio
from Piss-of-the-Cat.”
    “But you
can,
” Anne said, “or say you can, so best start walking backward now.”
    “My apologies,” Cazio said. “It’s just that this wine—” He tasted it again and dropped his eyelids. “Close your eyes,” he said, “and taste it again.”
    He heard Anne sigh.
    “It’s five, maybe six years ago,” he began. “The hills in the Tero Vaillamo are purple with the blooms of wild oregano and lavender; the