The Queen's Assassin Page 10

  Shadow

  THERE ARE ONLY THREE MEN and one boy in the kitchen, but there’s so much going on that it feels like at least twice that many. There are two enormous cooking hearths, each with two massive black pots bubbling, and a bread oven. More pots of various sizes line the walls, though they’re probably rarely used. I’m sure this kitchen hasn’t prepared grand multicourse feasts in quite a long time.

  The cooks are sweaty, their shirtsleeves rolled up past the elbow and white caps holding their hair back. One of them frantically scrubs out bowls, stacking them beside him on the butcher block counter to dry. Some of the bowls still have bits of food left in them. The wheeled cart from the dining hall is next to him, full of dirty dishes. Another cook is peeling potatoes, and the other is chopping them. He fills a bowl, runs it to the pot, dumps it all in, then returns to chopping at the table.

  The head cook notices Jander and I are waiting for orders, so he grabs a mop from the pantry doorway and hands it to me. “There’s another around here somewhere. The hall needs a good wash. Go to it.”

  Jander and I find another mop and pails and begin cleaning the dining hall. The cook wasn’t joking—the floors haven’t been cleaned in a rather long time. The initial swipe of the mop leaves muddy smears, but under those layers of dirt is a gorgeous mosaic tile floor. Were the windows clean, the floors would be glittering in the sunlight. As we uncover more and more of it, I see that the tiles make a giant floral pattern, blue and red blooms with green stems and leaves, against a black background.

  I keep cleaning, and as I do, I begin to doubt this whole scheme. What am I doing here? Why am I at Deersia? Am I even helping Caledon or just hurting myself?

  I jump back and shout, “Ouch!”

  Jander looks at me quizzically. “Just a shock,” I tell him. But that’s not true; it’s the weeping willow at Baer all over again. The feeling of lightning runs up my spine and down my arms. It’s overwhelming, and a bit scary, but curiosity floods me before fear can take hold.

  I hunch down and run my finger along the emerald stem of a bright red rose, admiring the tile’s craftsmanship. I get another shock and press my finger against the flower and hold it there. Maybe a vision will give me information, help me find Caledon.

  The dining hall, except the dining hall from long ago, wavers into focus. The tiles are brand-new, glossy and perfect, not a scratch or chip anywhere. A blurry figure sits at the head of a grand table set with white cloth and gold dishes. The figure . . . is it human? I take a deep breath in and the image gets clearer. Human, yes. With waist-length silver hair, wearing a long-sleeved, full-length white tunic and an emerald gem around his neck. Violet eyes bore into me with a fiery intensity.

  I pull my hand up and the vision disappears. Jander is still mopping the far end of the hall, and everything is dingy and plain again. My mind races. There was something strangely familiar about that figure. Was I imagining that they looked straight into my eyes? When I saw King Esban at Baer, no one there seemed aware of me watching.

  I need to know. I’m not sure if I can make the vision return, but I have to try.

  So I press both my hands against the floor and close my eyes, willing myself, with every bit of my heart and mind, to return to Deersia’s past again. I want to see. I want to see . . .

  It works. In a flash, the entire floor stretches out around me, glistening and new, sparkling in the light coming through the brand-new panes of glass. I’m awed by the beauty of it—a floor, of all things. Though, really, it’s a work of art.

  There’s an eerie silence. Almost a void of sound. Then footsteps approach, thunking, echoey. A gust of air blows my hair and I look up—a silver-haired mage with violet eyes gazes down at me. Omin of Oylahn. The founder of Avantine.

  I hear a voice in my head. Omin is speaking to me.

  Follow your path.

  That’s all I hear before I’m yanked backward to the dirty floor of the dining hall.

  Jander is standing there, looking concerned. “I’m okay,” I say. “Really, I’m okay.” He mimics throwing up. “No, no,” I say. “I’m just tired. I was daydreaming.” He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go.

  Follow your path, Omin said. Does that mean I am on the right one? Is this where I’m meant to be? It was the same message I received from my mother—the one that sent me here.

  It takes all morning and many fresh buckets of water pumped from the kitchen well outside, but we finish the room without incident. I can’t stop thinking about what I saw. Who I saw.

  But I can think more about it later. I need to find Caledon.

  When we’re done, I stand back and admire our work. It’s not quite as stunning as it was in the vision, and we couldn’t get to every nook and cranny with all the tables in the way, but compared to how it looked at breakfast, it’s a dramatic transformation.

  * * *

  JANDER AND I ARE sent to the kitchen to assist the cook. A guard pops his head in while we’re working. “Renold? I was wondering if it’d be possible for me to start my rounds a little earlier tonight. I was hoping to join the card game in a few . . .”

  The cook frowns.

  “I can take the food to the prisoners,” I say. “Then we don’t have to rush to have the food ready, and he can go to the card game.”

  Maybe I might even be able to find Caledon.

  The cook chews the offer over for a second or two. “Well, I suppose I can’t see why not,” he says. He tucks the errant hairs back under his cap.

  The guard claps his large, rough hand against the doorway. “Excellent,” he says, beaming. “The route is easy. I have the east wing and the turret. Takes no time at all. None at all.”

  Not long after, I’m pushing a tall, shelved cart piled with trays through the damp halls. It’s a far walk from the kitchens, so I was worried about the food getting cold, but I’ve learned that the prison staff gets the freshest food and the prisoners get week-old pea soup that’s been simmering for days on end and yesterday’s leftover biscuits. I feel guilty giving it to anyone.

  I’ve also learned that it’s nearly impossible to see who is in each cell. Trying to get a good look inside not only makes me appear suspicious, it slows me down way too much. I’m supposed to deliver food to a row of cells, return to the kitchen to refill the cart, then deliver to another row, and so on. If I gape at every single prisoner, it will take me all night. I’m only to slide a tray under the door and keep moving.

  Still, I do what I can to catch a glimpse. Most prisoners are immediately ruled out—too old, too big, too bald, and in one particularly remarkable case, far too hairy. But a couple of them look like they could possibly be Caledon, around the right age or size. I’ll have to come back later somehow to check them again. Maybe I can do the morning deliveries too. I’ll have to find a way to fill in for the other side of the castle, but I’d locate Caledon within the next few days if I do that.

  Then I have a terrible thought: I haven’t seen the Montrician spy since we arrived. For all I know, Caledon has already been killed.

  Once I finish the ground floor, I return to the kitchen to refill the cart. Mister Renold seems surprised to see me. “Back so soon, huh? Sure you got ’em all?” he says. He stops chopping potatoes to bend down and take a look at the bottom shelf of the cart.

  I shrug. I thought I was moving too slow—I guess I didn’t have to hurry after all. Good to know I can take my time and get a better look inside the cells. Makes me wonder what usually takes the guard so long to finish his rounds.

  “Careful, now. Or we’re gonna have you doin’ this every day,” Mister Renold says with a wink.

  He doesn’t know I wouldn’t mind that at all. But I don’t want to seem too eager, so all I say is, “Yes, sir.”

  As soon as the cart is filled, I push it out the door. In my rush I hit a bump in the stone floor and almost tip the entire cart. Mister Re
nold shakes his head. “Careful there, boy!” But he looks amused, watching me go.

  There’s a ramp leading to the upper-level cells. Before Deersia was a prison, it was a castle fortress, and the ramps were for transporting cannons and other large artillery. Convenient, but a bit steep for this purpose, and I have to go slow or risk bowls of slop sliding off the tray and pouring onto my feet.

  A man with long, straight, dishwater-colored hair sits on the floor of the first cell, rocking back and forth and murmuring. Not Caledon. He looks toward the door when I slide the tray under it, then goes back to his rocking. The second cell isn’t Caledon’s either; it’s an older man asleep on a small, sagging cot. The third and fourth fare no better.

  It’s not until I reach the fifth cell that I get a glimmer of hope. As I slide the tray into the cell, I catch a glimpse of tousled brown hair. Looks like it could be Caledon’s. He’s a bit thinner than I remember but that’s to be expected.

  I try to peer through the food slot for a better look, but I don’t see anyone now.

  The cell’s makeshift bed is empty. I try to see into the corners of the cell, thinking he moved out of sight to protect himself. He won’t know I’m there to help him. I look toward the right side of the room.

  Two huge eyes stare back at me. I let out a yelp and flinch. There’s wild cackling on the other side of the door. I stand, heart racing, and try to look in again. That couldn’t be Cal . . . could it?

  A face pops up in front of mine again. Then disappears. I force myself not to look away until I know whether it’s Caledon. If it is, I have more trouble on my hands than I thought.

  Then I hear the food tray bang against the opposite wall. I look inside the cell, careful not to expose much of my face in the door slot, just in case.

  There’s a boy sitting on his haunches, rocking back and forth. The tray is lying upside down by the wall where I heard it crash. He isn’t looking at me now. But he’s not Cal. He’s barely more than a little boy, maybe thirteen years, or a couple more if he’s small for his age.

  He catches me looking and opens his mouth, letting out a piercing screech. I leap backward and grab the cart, hurrying away as quickly as I can.

  Though I’m frustrated that I can’t find Caledon, I’m relieved that wasn’t him.

  When I return to the kitchen again, only the kitchen boy is there. The cook is in the dining hall setting up for tomorrow’s breakfast. He puts two trays on the cart. “These are the last two. They go up in the east turret,” he says. “You’ll need this.” He hands me an old iron key on a large metal ring. As I walk through the kitchen doorway, he adds, “Try to cover your mouth while you’re up there.”

  I nod. Deia forbid Caledon is there. I take the cart all the way to the end of the east wing. There’s a locked door. I assume that’s the way I’m supposed to go, and sure enough, the key fits. The door opens. Behind it there’s a winding staircase leading up into the turret. I’m going to have to leave the cart and carry the trays.

  Walking up that many stairs, while balancing a soup bowl on a tray with each hand, is exactly as hard as it sounds. I take each step slowly and pause often. Pea soup on my clothes would definitely require a bath and I can’t risk that.

  My feet ache. I’m going to sleep soundly tonight. I wonder where that will be. Not that I care. I could sleep on these stone steps right now.

  I get to the top of the first set of stairs and find a curved hallway with one door. The first room in the turret. I slide the food under the door. I don’t hear anything. I don’t think anybody’s in there. But there’s no way to see inside unless I get down on the floor and I’m not going to do that. I’m not spending any longer here than I absolutely must.

  I keep going. I come to another set of stairs. It’s a lot easier with only one tray to carry. And it’s a shorter climb. But I’m tired and I just want to be done with this. Between looking for Caledon and navigating the Luce issue, not to mention the anxiety of covering up my identity, I’m exhausted.

  The top floor is pretty much identical to the one below it. There’s another door with a food slot. There’s a curved hallway. But unlike the floor below, there’s a wall at the end of the hallway where the stairs would be.

  I slide the tray under the door. As I turn to leave, I hear a noise. Moaning. I wait. There it is again: Ugghhh.

  I go to the door. “Are you all right?” I feel foolish. Of course he’s not all right. But what else could I say?

  No response. The moaning gets louder. He’s in a lot of pain. “Can you hear me?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he squeaks. Then more groans.

  “Are you . . . hurt?”

  “Sick,” he replies. But it comes out as: siiiiickkkk.

  I bend down and try to see through the opening where I slid the tray. I can’t see much, especially with the tray partially blocking my view of the room. I spot some movement on the left. A swatch of brown fabric. A body lying curled up on his side, back to the door.

  “I see you,” I say. “Is there anything I can do to help?” He just moans. “I’m going to send for a doctor,” I tell him.

  “Nooo,” he replies forcefully. Then more weakly: “Water.”

  “Sit tight. I’ll get you a doctor.”

  “Water!” He gets more insistent. Then he goes back to rocking and groaning.

  “I’m sorry . . . I can’t do that. I can’t come in. And you may be contagious. But I can try to get someone who can help you.”

  “Not contagious,” he says. “Happens all the time.”

  “Then you still need help.”

  “Thirsty,” he begs.

  I’m absolutely certain I am not supposed to open any cell door, let alone enter one. But he seems harmless enough—he can’t even get up to reach his water. How can I let this poor man suffer? Who knows how long it’s been since he had anything to eat or drink?

  For all I know, this key only works on the ground-floor entry to the turret anyway. I’ll just try it. If it works, if it unlocks the door, I’ll hand the man his water and head right back out the door. Besides, he’s a human being, a sick human being, not a rabid animal waiting to pounce, and I’m not exactly defenseless either.

  I slide the key in the lock and twist. It clicks. I push the door open. The man is lying on old straw that’s been stacked against the wall, covered up to his ears by a blanket, though his feet and the bottom of his legs stick out. He’s still groaning and rocking back and forth. At this rate it doesn’t seem like he’ll last long enough to see a doctor. But I don’t see any obvious boils or sores on his exposed skin, and he doesn’t look particularly sweaty or flushed, so not feverish. Must have something gnawing away inside him, like one of the countrywomen Aunt Mesha treated years ago. A tumor. She suffered in much the same way at the end. And that’s not contagious.

  I pick up his water mug and carry it to him. “Here you go,” I say, crouching down and holding it out. The prisoner rolls over a bit to take it from me.

  His hand reaches out. I offer the cup. Suddenly, he’s flinging himself toward me and his hands grab my wrists before I’m able to process what’s happening.

  The mug crashes against the ground.

  In a flash, he has my arms pinned behind my back and holds a sharpened stick at my neck. I stifle a scream as I recognize him at last.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Shadow

  “CALEDON HOLT! I’M HERE TO help you!” I try to break free from his grip but he’s too strong. “Stop! You’re hurting me!”

  “You’re not the usual guard,” he says in my ear, pulling my arms tighter. He looks me up and down. “You’re not even a guard. Who are you? Why are you here?”

  “Aren’t you ill?” I ask. He doesn’t show any signs of the disease he was supposedly suffering from minutes ago. He yanks my arms tighter behind my back.

  “Ouch! Ease up a little.” I try
to pull away from him but he only strengthens his grip again. “I’ve been looking for you. I’m here to get you out.”

  He doesn’t respond right away. Or let me go. Seems like he’s trying to understand what I’ve said. This is not the dashing rescue I’d hoped it would be. If anything it’s already a disaster.

  He pulls me with him over to the doorway and looks out into the hall. “Who’s with you?” he asks me.

  “Nobody. I’m alone. The guards are playing cards tonight. That’s why I delivered the food. I was trying to find you. They’re full of ale, totally oblivious. I know where we can get horses.”

  Caledon looks puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “I told you. I’m here to get you out.”

  He laughs. “Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe that she sent you?”

  “She who?”

  “She who?” He laughs. “Who are you working for?”

  “Let me go and I’ll show you.”

  “That’s not going to happen. So either you start talking or . . .”

  “Queen Lilianna sent me,” I finally tell him. That’s the only “she” he would believe.

  “Prove it.”

  A wolf howls off in the distance. We both turn our heads toward the window for a moment. But we’ll worry about the wilderness later; for now I have to manage to leave this cell in one piece. “Let go of me and I can. I have a royal work order.”

  “A work order? Is that how we operate now?”

  I’m unsure whether he’s referring to the palace or the Guild, but either way, simply being included in Caledon’s “we” thrills me. Still, I didn’t expect him to question me this way. I suppose it was foolish to believe my arrival alone would be cause for celebration. Lucky for me, I have the paper. “It’s in my pocket,” I tell him. He squeezes my wrists with his right hand and reaches into my back pocket with his left. My whole body tenses. “Other side,” I say. If he decides to search me for weapons, that could be rather awkward . . .