The Queen's Assassin Page 24

  Cal resists, trying to beg the vizier off, make him go away. “Grand Vizier, you are too kind, but I have just arrived and would like to get my bearings.”

  Although if he’s being honest, the only person he wants to dance with is Shadow. The vizier is correct, there are many beautiful young ladies attending the ball, but he only sees one.

  The room feels suffocating, spinning. It’s too hot and there are too many people; too many faces appraising him, ready and willing to pounce. He’s hardly been here a week and he’s overwhelmed with all of it, especially the petty intrigues and social demands. He wishes he were back in the mountains with Shadow. Even when they argued or struggled, at least he felt alive. In control of himself. He doesn’t feel that way now. He feels empty. He needs to finish the task that has been ordered of him: Uncover the conspiracy and continue his search for the scrolls. He’s not here for parties and feasting and social intrigue, and he’s not here to fall in love either.

  But it’s far too late for that.

  He is mad for her, anyone could see that—does she? Does she feel the same way? The way she kissed him in the duke’s study . . . and her jealousy that he had kissed the duchess . . . the way they held each other those cold nights in the mountains, that one night at the inn . . . it gives him a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, she shares his feelings.

  All the more reason to make quick work of why he is in Montrice in the first place. After he uncovers the conspirator and returns the scrolls to the queen, he will be released from his father’s vow. He will be free.

  Free to speak the truth of his heart. Free to be with her, to pledge his troth, free to make a family at last. Perhaps she would reconsider her desires as well. Perhaps he could persuade her to stay with him. The thought is so sweet that he is filled with ache and longing.

  He will do whatever it takes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Caledon

  CAL SENSES AN OPENING AS the music fades to silence. He slides past one of the hopeful suitors and offers his hand to Shadow. “May I have this dance?”

  Smiling, she accepts. The orchestra begins to play again, a fast and merry tune. They twirl across the marble dance floor, looping around all the others in perfect harmony, until finally the rest of the couples begin migrating to the edges, toward the watching crowd, giving Cal and Shadow room to show off their new skills.

  “Keep in mind, you’re my brother,” Shadow whispers to him.

  “Thanks for reminding me. I almost forgot,” he says, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “That would certainly give them something to gossip about, wouldn’t it?”

  Shadow stifles a laugh.

  The sound of it almost makes him want to kiss her again, right then and there, but he is a man of restraint. The song comes to its end. All the guests clap for the orchestra. “I suppose I have to let someone else dance with you now?” he asks, although it’s the last thing he wants to do.

  Shadow shakes her head with a smile. “Let’s not.”

  A footman is making rounds. As he passes, Cal reaches out and takes two glasses of champagne. He hands one to Shadow. “To not.”

  “I don’t want to dance,” she says. “But I would like to see more of the palace.”

  “Let’s promenade,” he decides. “Perhaps we might stumble upon something interesting.”

  Guests are lingering at the grand hallway, admiring the portraits of King Hansen’s ancestors and the suits of armor worn by past monarchs, including a smaller set that Shadow immediately approaches. It’s roughly her size. The portrait behind it shows a girl of about fifteen or sixteen years, looking back directly at the viewer, wearing a simple cream tunic dress under chain mail. Shadow reads the plaque underneath: PRINCESS ALESSIA OF MONTRICE, DAUGHTER OF THE FIRST KING.

  “She looks like trouble,” Cal says.

  “‘Led the king’s troops at the Battle of Caravan, 1000 ED (Era of Deia),’” Shadow reads. “I think she sounds amazing.”

  So are you, Cal wants to say. But he doesn’t. They continue on, stopping at various portraits to read about the nobles who once walked these same halls. Cal is so caught up in it he almost forgets these are Renovia’s long-established enemies.

  “Ready for another?” Cal asks, holding up his empty glass. He wants to leave the exhibit. Nothing of use here, and they need to stay on track.

  Shadow says, “Sure,” even though he knows she’s enjoying the portraits.

  Since they’re so close to the end of the hall, Cal keeps walking rather than go all the way back from where they came. It’s darker that way, fewer candles lit, but he saw some people go in that direction. He’s sure either passage leads back to the ballroom.

  They turn the corner and find a wrinkled elderly woman sitting at a cloth-covered table in the hall. Her frizzy gray hair is tucked under a black cap and she wears a shapeless black cape and sacklike dress, so it looks a bit like her head is emerging from a pile of bedclothes. She is shuffling a deck of cards with long, gnarled fingers tipped with bold red nails. Others are fanned out in front of her, facedown. The cards’ backs are plain black except for the triple eternity circle etched in gold.

  He has the sudden urge to turn back, but his pride won’t allow him to do that. It would look cowardly. He wonders why he finds the old woman so unsettling. Keep walking. Look straight ahead. Don’t make eye contact.

  “My lady,” the old woman says, lowering her head when Shadow passes.

  Shadow stops. “What are you playing?” she asks the old woman. Cal frowns. Why did she have to stop? Nothing good can come of this. Phony fortune-tellers just prey on vulnerabilities and draw out people’s fears, and that’s the last distraction Shadow needs with so much at stake. He’s seen plenty of these women; they target people who seem friendly, malleable. They take advantage of the fervent desire people have to reclaim magic, to control their own fate. Also, he has to admit he’s a bit superstitious, even if he doesn’t believe in it.

  “It is no game, my lady,” the old woman says. “It is destiny.”

  “No, thank you,” Cal says, trying to move them away. He hates hearing that; fate has had its way with him too much already. He’d rather avoid hearing anyone’s destiny, especially Shadow’s.

  The old woman doesn’t acknowledge him. She stares at Shadow. “For others, I charge. For you, nothing. Your soul is calling to me. You have questions. Doubts. I have answers.”

  “Come on, Shadow. Everyone has questions and doubts. We have business to attend to, remember?”

  “My aunts could do this. Or something like it. They used rocks. With symbols.”

  “Ah yes. The Seeing Stones. Come here, my lady,” says the crone.

  Cal stands back, powerless to stop Shadow. He relents. What’s the harm? The crone will give her a vague reading and that will be the end of it. He’d wager a gold coin that as soon as it’s done, she will advise Shadow to meet with her elsewhere, except not for free.

  She hands the deck to Shadow. While she shuffles it, the old woman says, “Let your energy mingle with the cards. The more you think, the more they know.”

  Shadow hands them back to her. She cuts them in three piles. “Stack them,” the fortune-teller orders. Shadow does as she says. Then the woman pulls six cards, placing them facedown in a diamond pattern, with one in the middle. The last one, she lays across the bottom card.

  “Are you ready to see your destiny?” the old woman says.

  Shadow nods.

  She flips over the first card. “Ah. The Empress. This represents you, the fertile young maiden. You find peace in nature, yes. Yet you also hold the crown and the scepter with grace and authority. Let’s see what hovers over you.” She turns the card at the top of the diamond. “The Queen of Wands. An older woman in your life. Your mother? Your aunt? She possesses great power, and believes in peace. And yet . . . the black cat sits at her feet. She hol
ds a secret, a darker side. Something hidden. On either side of you . . .” She turns the cards to the left and right of the Empress. “The King of Pentacles and the Knight of Swords. One holds power and a large gold coin in offering, the other—strength. Protection. Loyalty. A choice. At your feet is the path you walk . . . which will you choose?” She turns the card below the Empress. She gasps.

  “What is it?” Shadow cries out.

  Cal rolls his eyes. Here’s the hook. Though he admits he’s ever so slightly worried about the cards—they seemed strangely . . . accurate. You’re falling for it too, he tells himself. He looks at the card the woman turned over.

  “The Tower,” the old woman says. “A disaster. Crisis.”

  “What does that mean?” Shadow says. “What will happen?”

  “Let’s turn the last card, your destiny.” She turns it, then sits back and crosses her arms. Satisfied. “See? All is well. After the storm, the sun.”

  Cal looks at the calligraphy at the bottom of the card: The Wheel of Fortune.

  “Fate,” the old woman says, “always wins.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Shadow

  WE’RE SITTING AT BREAKFAST THE next morning, back at the duke’s estate, Cal with a strangely foul mood about him. He seems irritated, but I don’t recall having said or done anything to upset him last night, nor do I remember anyone else causing concern.

  A footman arrives to deliver a pot of fresh tea to the table. “Excuse me,” I say to him. “But could you possibly bring me a sprig of peppermint from the kitchen?”

  “Lady Lila, if you require anything, please feel free to come to me first. I am your hostess,” the duchess says. She reaches for a slice of toasted bread, muttering, “Directly addressing the staff, imagine . . .”

  “Maybe that’s your major disaster,” Cal says to me out of the corner of his mouth.

  Ah, so it was the fortune-teller—after that he went from having a wonderful time to wanting to leave and go to bed. Except he didn’t even believe she was a real wise woman, and besides that, nothing she said was terrible—I can’t remember every card exactly, but I do remember she said all would be well in the end. Though I suppose she could say that to anyone? I’m not certain how that type of thing is supposed to go. I’ve only had my fortune read once.

  On my thirteenth birthday, when I was finally old enough to practice some magic, my aunts cast Seeing Stones for me, as they had done when they turned thirteen. At the time I thought they were the most beautiful things I’d ever seen: translucent rose quartz, polished smooth, with carved symbols accented in gold leaf. Moments after they were thrown, from a pouch Aunt Mesha’s great-grandmother had made, into a circle drawn with coal, Aunt Moriah gathered them back up and shoved them in the bag.

  “What happened? Why did you do that?” I asked her.

  “It was a mistake” is all she would say. Whenever I asked them to throw the Seeing Stones for me after that, they made excuses or outright refused. Which is why I was insistent on having my fortune read last night; a part of me was dying to know what the fates had in store.

  A knock at the door. One of the footmen opens it. The butler walks in carrying a silver tray with a single white envelope on it, along with some peppermint leaves on a tiny porcelain plate. “A message arrived for Lady Lila,” he announces.

  “For me?” Who could possibly send something to me here? He lowers the tray next to me so I can take the letter. It’s sealed with a plain, red-wax circle. No royal stamp, no identifying monogram or crest. It’s deceptively simple—exactly why the Guild uses it for secret correspondence. So no matter what’s inside, you know where it truly came from.

  Cal is studying the envelope and I know he knows too.

  I release the wax and take out the folded parchment. Everybody is staring, watching me. “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing,” I say as I scan the paper. My stomach lurches. This shouldn’t surprise me. Of course they would know where I am.

  It’s a short letter. Only a few lines. The less said, the better, they taught me. Always. Because you never know who else might read it.

  Dearest Child,

  The ambassador will send a carriage for you this evening. Make certain you and your brother are on it.

  All my love,

  Mother

  “Bad news?” the duchess asks me.

  “My brother and I have to see to our mother.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, Cal throws his napkin down on the table as if he’s ready to leave this moment. “Not an emergency, brother,” I say, holding up my hand to stop him. “Mother isn’t feeling well, but that could mean anything.”

  The duchess looks as if she’s about to cry or have a tantrum or both. “B-but . . . what about the ball?”

  The duke shakes his head slightly but says nothing to his wife.

  “We just went to the ball?” I say, confused.

  “Not that one, the other one. There’s another. Fine—I wasn’t supposed to say anything. But . . . but we are planning one in your honor.”

  Oh, of course. This is Montrice; there’s always another excuse to throw a party. The never-ending displays of wealth, the competition, the fake friendships and backstabbing and constant nonsense. There’s an entire world outside their door they know nothing about—I haven’t heard a single mention of the general hardship of the townspeople since we arrived at the Girt estate. I think of the destitute children I saw when we first arrived.

  Why has my mother summoned me? How does she know I am here? What is she going to tell me? She is furious, I am sure.

  “When are you planning to host this next ball?” Cal asks the duchess. I want to kick him in the shins. I know he’s being polite, but he doesn’t understand he’s only encouraging her.

  “Next week,” she says hopefully. “It was supposed to be a surprise, but now I’ve gone and ruined it.” She stares down at the table and fixes her mouth into an exaggerated pout. Then she perks up as if something has occurred to her and leans across the table toward us, though really she’s addressing Cal. “But you understand why I had to, don’t you? We can’t exactly have a ball in your honor if you’re not there! Will you be gone long?”

  “We are not sure,” I say, because I am not. I am not certain we will even be allowed to return.

  “I’m sure we will make it back in time,” Cal says smoothly.

  “Oh!” The duchess claps her hands. One of the dogs yelps and jumps off her lap onto the floor. “Of course! And when you return, I dare say you could stay forever if you wanted to!”

  “Calm down, Aggie,” the duke says from behind his newspaper. I start, as all of us have forgotten he is at the table.

  She ignores him. “Promise?” she says to Cal.

  “I can’t make any promises.” He’s already burdened with too many promises.

  With that, she frowns dramatically.

  “But we shall do our best,” he says, ever the consummate guest, the perfect spy.

  * * *

  I TELL CAL THAT my mother has called for us, but has not said why. I’m irritated and upset, so instead of telling him anything of substance, I confront him about what happened at breakfast.

  As soon as he opens the door, I push past him and without waiting for the usual pleasantries, I blurt, “Why do you treat her that way? Like she’s a puppy or a child to indulge.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Telling her we’ll be back. Giving her hope. Leading her on.” I pause. “I’m beginning to think you’ve maybe indulged in more than just her attentions.” The insult leaves me feeling triumphant. Why should I be afraid to say what I feel?

  He looks genuinely shocked. “No!” He shakes his head. “Do you think I would . . . and then . . . never mind. You do understand it is in our best interest to maintain good relations with her in case we require her assistance in the future?
”

  Okay, maybe I should be afraid to say everything I’m feeling. Or at least think it over a little more before I let it fly out of my mouth. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . why did you give in to her tantrum like that?” No matter that we have more pressing issues to discuss.

  “Because I want her to want us to come back, just in case we need to. Neither one of us knows what’s going to happen. You said yourself it’s a Guild missive; it might even have come from the queen.”

  My arms are crossed. “Fair enough.” I know he’s right, which embarrasses me more. I should have left well enough alone. The duchess shouldn’t even have the power to bother me right now. My mother has called for me, and she’s no doubt furious about what I’ve done.

  He looks at me with his head cocked sideways. “And what makes you so certain we aren’t coming back? We haven’t finished here. We know the duke and duchess are imposters, but not who they really are or what they are after. But if you want to go home, nobody is stopping you.”

  Somehow, I had forgotten that he is the Queen’s Assassin and I am merely Shadow from the Honey Glade.

  Cal frowns and rakes a hand through his messy hair. “I’m not holding you here. I can handle this quite well on my own.”

  “Clearly,” I say as I leave the room. “Good luck with the duchess when you return.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Caledon

  AN UNASSUMING BLACK CARRIAGE ARRIVES for Shadow and Cal that evening to take them to a manor outside the city where the ambassador from Renovia has traditionally made his home in Montrice. On the short journey, Cal reflects on the bizarre twists and turns his life has taken in just a few months—prison, escape, the hunt for the conspiracy’s mastermind, all with a beautiful and headstrong girl by his side.