Luneshale Pass season of the witch

The little blackbird speaks in what may as well have been riddles. Zaahira listens anyway, ears curved, eyes pointed.
Thutmose. Thutmose had appeared kind, studious, and perhaps for all of a minute he could have fooled her; but she thought of their spar, of an innocent fight turned brutal with bloodspill that felt, in some way, targeted. As if she were expected to bow to fragile egos and flaunts of muscle and teeth that meant nothing without a crown.
And then there was Rashepses. Buttering Legend up, he seemed to be doing, and this brought the festering, seething grudge inside her to a growl.
Senmut was, perhaps, the only man truly loyal — humble, thoughtful, devoted to their Queen. Although he was, apparently, not above exerting his power over the women of the palace.
I am glad they have been good to you, and she meant that, for at least there was one woman's head not now pressed under rancid, hairy foot. but I worry about their intentions. I worry for us. The women of Akashingo. Rashepses, in particular; the tyrant. I would like you to keep close eye on them when they are near her. Keep watch of our Queen. Our devotion lies solely with her until a pharaoh is crowned, yes? You understand?