The Dark Lord by Thomas Harlan

Queen saw he was near complete exhaustion. His hands could not stop trembling, yet he showed no signs of losing his focus. "Last week, one of your... friends... came down into the high pasture and took four good sheep. We are a poor community! Such a loss..."
    The Queen raised a hand and Shemuel found his tongue cloven to his mouth. His eyes widened, unable to speak. Herrule entered, shouldering through the door, and laid a wooden board, polished and carved with interlocking designs of leaves and flowers and running dogs on the end of the stone bench. There was wine and fruit and fresh bread. Steam curled away from the golden loaf. At a motion from the Queen, the Walach left again. When he was well gone, the Queen's fingers tightened into a fist and Shemuel blurted out "—cannot be borne!"
    He stopped, rubbing his jaw and glared at the thin woman. The Queen laughed, delighted by the outrage in his face and the way his eyes bulged out when he was angry. She had not intended to laugh, covering her mouth with a hand. Shemuel looked away, blushing furiously, and the Queen schooled her face back to impassivity. A little irritated with herself, she dampened the slowly rising glow around her, and banished the subtle scents of rose, coriander, myrrh beginning to pervade the air. Silly girl! How much trouble has this brought you before? Ages of strife are on your head! Leave this tired old man alone.
    "Rev Shemuel, I will make good your loss, and be assured, I will restrain my children. They will not bother your herds or dwellings again. Will you say the same, for your people?" She bent her attention upon him, expression intent, watching the twitch of his eyes and marking the pattern of his breath. Shemuel recoiled from her scrutiny, but mastered himself and shook his head.
    "They call you a queen. What is your name? Who do I treat with?"
    "A fair question." The woman brushed a fingertip along the line of her jaw, beetle-red enamel bright against pale flawless skin. "If a name will ease your mind, then you may call me Aia, which is long familiar to me." She almost laughed again, thinking of distant youth, but then her face shadowed and became grim, thinking of what had come after.
    "Aia..." Shemuel's face also turned, and she saw he was thinking furiously, dredging old memories. Then he looked up, gaze fierce and he tried to stand. His legs betrayed him, weak and depleted by the long climb through rocks, mud and slippery pine. "That is not a name to inspire confidence in me," the rev gasped, "but if it is your name, then you are a Queen and I will treat with you as such. I have never heard you broke an oath, when given."
    "Are you a king?" The Queen tilted her head to one side, looking upon him with bright eyes. "Do you rule, with a scepter, with laurel, holly and gold in your hair?"
    "I speak for my people, lady Aia, but I am not a... king. We have no king, not now."
    The Queen's nostrils flared slightly, intrigued, and she stepped closer. Shemuel froze, remaining quite still, and the woman—hair hanging long around her face—circled him, tasting the air.
    "You are lying." Her voice was intimate and he shuddered involuntarily. The Queen stepped away to the window. She looked down, upon the white clouds and the pine-clad slopes, her arms spread wide, hands resting on the chipped, dark gray stone. "We could strike a bargain, rev Shemuel. My aegis could watch over your people, my children could run in the woods, watching and listening for your enemies. Would that ease your mind? Make you feel safe?"
    The man laughed, though it cost him carefully husbanded breath to do so. "As safe as any baker's pie! No, Queen of Aia, we will look after our own business and let you to yours. Let us say this—the people of the valleys will say nothing of what they might see on the peaks, and those living among the clouds will say nothing of what transpires below."
    One of the Queen's eyebrows inched up, an alizarin wing on a white unwrinkled forehead.