The Queen's Assassin Page 28

  I will not be able to come to your aid if you are caught, the queen had warned. He unmasked the Aphrasian conspirator and killed him. But he will die for his duty, and he has failed his father and his friend. Shadow will die as well, because of him.

  Cal cannot even bear to look at her now.

  As they’re led away, the vizier, wringing his hands, approaches them in the hall outside the chamber. “Why? Why did you do it?” he wails. “Now I too am under suspicion!”

  Cal doesn’t answer his question. “When is our actual trial?”

  “Oh dear. Don’t you understand? That was the trial. You live or die at the king’s command. And he is displeased, very displeased, indeed.”

  Cal watches as Shadow is led away. He tried to save her, he tried to save Jander, he tried to save Renovia. He hopes the princess and the queen are safe. He hopes it wasn’t all for naught. But the thought of Shadow hanging because of him is too much to bear.

  Cal lunges against the guards, but there are too many of them. They throw him to the ground and begin kicking and punching him until he’s spitting blood—and a tooth?—and feels himself slipping in and out of consciousness, the world fading.

  He’s dragged back to his cell, barely aware of anything around him. The king announces that they will be executed in the morning, as enemies of the crown. There is no reprieve, no escape.

  There’s nothing he can do to save himself or—even worse—to save Shadow.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Caledon

  DAWN. CAL WAKES SLOWLY. HIS mouth is bone-dry. There’s an aching throb in his neck and head. He looks down at the bruises on his arms and legs—they’re already yellowing. Can’t be from yesterday. He’s disoriented, unsure how many days he’s slept. He must have had a concussion.

  There is very little light in his cell; the only window is a narrow slit near the top of the wall, set deep inside the brick. There’s no slot in the door here, like there was at Deersia. They don’t expect to keep anyone in this place for very long. There’s a water jug on the floor, but the water smells a bit like rotten egg, so he decides not to chance it yet. No use in getting ill on top of everything else.

  He hears loud banging outside, but he looks around the tiny room and finds nothing he can stand on to see out the window. Sounds like hammers hitting wood—something is being built out in the courtyard. Gallows. That’s all it can be. What else?

  He knows now that the last time he’ll ever see Shadow is right before the executioner puts a hood over their heads, right before they swing to their deaths. And that’s if he’s lucky—if he can call it that. They may go to the gallows separately, which means he’ll actually never see her again.

  The duke must have known all along; he was just biding his time. He must have recognized them from the beginning. They had fallen into a trap, and it had just snapped shut.

  Cal has killed him three times already—as the fake Grand Prince, as the Aphrasian monk on the Deersian road, and as the duke, but until his body is burnt, the shapeshifter will return. Cal has wounded the insurgency, but no doubt they will rise again. The Aphrasians have the Deian Scrolls and are mining obsidian at Baer. Soon their army will be unstoppable.

  There is no hope. As she warned, the queen will not come to his aid. There will be no interference from Renovia. He was supposed to be acting on his own, in secret. An acknowledgment that she sent her assassin to Montrice would only spark a war.

  * * *

  CAL LIES ON THE floor, curled up on his side. He aches so much, both from the guard’s rough treatment and the pain of his failure, that even breathing hurts. If he could just tell Shadow he’s sorry. He stays with that thought, imagining what he would say. Shadow, this is all my fault. I’m sorry. I failed. Or, Shadow, please forgive me for what I’ve done, and for not telling you what is in my heart when I had the chance.

  So much remains undone. And he doesn’t leave anything undone. Why is he accepting this? He is Caledon Holt, son of Cordyn Holt, the Queen’s Assassin. He hasn’t come this far to fail.

  He jumps up and goes over to the wall under the window. There’s nowhere to get a decent toehold, but he tries to reach up and grab on to a tiny lip on one of the stones. It’s not enough—his fingertips can’t even get a grip. He tries again, but only manages to scratch his right fingers against the jagged edge. Another stone a bit farther to the left looks more promising, so he tries that one, and this time he actually grasps the rim. He pulls his body weight up, rooting his feet around for a toehold, but finds nothing to support him. Within seconds he falls back to his feet.

  It’s useless.

  Cal has a disturbing thought—the stones are so smooth and poor for climbing because so many in the past have tried that they’ve been worn down.

  Just then the cell door swings open. Cal twists toward it, fists up, ready to take down anyone he has to in order to escape—or at least try. He’s not going to the scaffold willingly, or easily.

  The person standing at the door is not a guard, not even a person of the temple sent to comfort him in his last moments. It’s the vizier, swathed in all his flowing robes and ridiculous furs, a ring squashed onto every stout finger. Why is he here? Cal wonders. Does he want to unburden his conscience about something?

  The vizier bows. “My deepest apologies for the events which transpired yesterday. I pray you will accept my request for forgiveness, as it was an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

  What? What misunderstanding? Cal can’t even speak; words won’t come out of his mouth. He can’t figure out how to respond to that—an apology?

  The vizier stands up straight. “If you will, please, follow me.” He begins to leave the room. Cal doesn’t move. The vizier looks behind him, waiting.

  Is this a trick? A trap? He isn’t sure what to do. What if this is just a way to make me go without a fight?

  “I assure you, there’s been an error since rectified,” the vizier says.

  But Cal can still hear the commotion outside. He closes his eyes. What should I do?

  He hears his father’s voice inside him: “Go.”

  Cal’s eyes snap open. The command was clear, as if he’s standing right next to him. He decides to listen. One way or the other, there is no option but forward. Perhaps following the vizier will lead him to a better opportunity to flee, even.

  He nods at the vizier and follows behind him, but keeps a safe distance in case he’s about to be ambushed. The deeper they walk into the building, the less he can hear, until eventually the sawing and hammering fades away altogether. Now all he hears is their footsteps.

  They are deep in the dungeons. A man screams from somewhere within the lower levels of the catacombs. Cal startles. The vizier, without looking back or pausing, says, “Ignore that.”

  They take winding steps up a tall tower. There are long skinny windows in the tower staircase; he can finally see what’s being built in the courtyard, and it’s not gallows, but something even more puzzling: a stage and rows of seating, as if a joust were to take place. The stands are being decorated with the green of Montrice on one side and purple for Renovia on the other.

  He’d heard of this before, though never outside of Argonia: public combat. That’s what he’s going to have to do. Fight a Montrician knight, probably to the death, for the crowd’s—and King Hansen’s—entertainment.

  Fine with Cal. He is willing to fight for his life, and fight it will be. He has no doubt he can win, and when he does, he is determined to find the Deian Scrolls, and finally, freedom. There is some hope after all. Silently, Cal thanks his father for the message. He’s glad he didn’t try to take the vizier down at the cell, because he might not have made it out, and even if he’d survived an attempt to run, he wouldn’t have this chance again.

  At the top of the steps they enter a tower room. Cal is stunned to see it’s more than just a room; it’s a sumptuous bedchamb
er outfitted for someone of extremely high rank.

  “What is this?” he asks the vizier.

  “A token of our regrets,” he says. “You’ll find new clothing laid out for you on the bed, and a freshly drawn bath.”

  “Where’s my sister?” Cal asks. This unexpected development makes him more suspicious than anything else.

  The vizier’s face changes but he answers. “You’ll see her a bit later, when we return to bring you to the great hall. I pray you like the clothing chosen for you. If the bathwater is too hot, or not hot enough, please call.” He motions to a large silver bell on the bedside table. “In fact, should you need anything at all, please call. A personal servant will hear.” He bows and then says, “Oh! And food is arriving shortly. Again, all my deepest, most sincere apologies.” He bows again. Then he scurries from the room.

  What in the name of Deia is going on around here? No reason to worry about the fight; he’s done that before. As a little boy, when he was first introduced to training through joust, he thought it was great fun. He is worried about Shadow, however. Why must he wait to see her? Where are they keeping her? Is she in another room like this one, or—and this thought chills him deep into his soul—are they making her the prize? Is she a hostage?

  What will happen in the great hall?

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Caledon

  AS PROMISED, THE VIZIER DOES indeed return to the tower chamber to collect Caledon and bring him downstairs to the great hall. As before, he bows, apologizes profusely, and seems afraid to look Cal in the eye. Does he feel guilty for what he’s about to do? Or what he’s already done? Cal can’t tell.

  He was grateful enough for the bath, never mind that the water was tepid; he was not about to ring the bell. Who knows who would come? He’s wary of everything that’s happening. The new clothes fit perfectly, and are nothing like the absurd getup he had to wear to the Small Ball, either—they’d sent him loose black pants, a crisp white shirt, and a fine leather vest and boots, all in the Renovian style and exactly his size, which means they must have consulted the tailor he’d used before. He is happy to have familiar clothes again, but this has strengthened his belief that he’ll be representing his homeland in a joust or duel of some sort. Otherwise, why would they go to the trouble?

  As Cal follows the vizier down the ancient tower stairs, he peeks again at the growing excitement outside. There are bunches of flowers, green and white or purple and white for each kingdom’s colors, being placed along the sides of the stands with the banners. Montrice spares no expense for their tournaments.

  Rather than going back into the dungeons, the vizier takes him through a separate door, down a long corridor, and through yet another door into the great hall. Cal’s heart pounds with the anticipation of seeing Shadow again. He crosses his fingers at his side, hoping that she’s in good care and that he won’t be expected to fight for her life or something equally heinous—he’s heard of such things in far-flung kingdoms, and at this point he isn’t ruling anything out. A Grand Duke of Montrice died at his hand. The only thing that could be worse is if Cal had been caught assassinating the king himself.

  The great hall is packed wall to wall with people, dressed only slightly less formally than they were for the ball. They’re all smiling, laughing, chatting, prepared for a party. Not a solemn event—at least, not for them.

  King Hansen sits in his throne on the dais as he did the day Cal first met him, but instead of looking bored, today he has a weak smile on his face.

  The vizier stops short of the dais and puts his hand up to indicate that Cal should stop as well. Cal scans the crowd for Shadow’s familiar face, but he doesn’t see her anywhere. His stomach turns; this all feels off somehow. Like some kind of sick game.

  Trumpeters step forward; their instruments begin blaring. The noise startles Cal again. He is really on edge. Not good; he has to regain control over himself. This is exactly what gets novice assassins killed—he has to try to stay above his physical feelings, his emotional responses.

  There’s a hush across the room.

  All faces turn toward the grand doors as they glide open, pulled by white-gloved guards in brand-new green-and-purple attire. Cal almost expects lions to emerge, and though he’s wrong about that, it’s not a terrible guess.

  A procession of Renovian aristocrats marches through the open doorway, led by the most important of them all, the Duke of Devan, who walks in with the ambassador and his husband. As they enter, they form two rows, one on each side of the door, creating a kind of path. One by one, Cal recognizes all the nobles arriving from Renovia. Are they here for the show? That’s right—last he knew, he was a traitor to them.

  Finally, they are all inside. There’s a pause. The trumpets blast again. King Hansen stands up.

  Queen Lilianna emerges from the door, head to toe in vibrant purple, the first time she’s been out of mourning garb since King Esban’s death. As she passes through, the Renovians bow to her. Cal does the same. She walks, head high, shoulders back, straight up the steps to stand on the dais next to her young Montrician rival. She hasn’t even glanced in Cal’s direction.

  The vizier stands at the bottom step and bellows through the hall: “Queen Lilianna of Renovia!”

  Those gathered bow or curtsy respectfully, even if she is not their sovereign. Queen Lilianna steps forward and speaks. “From this day until my last day, I am no longer the Queen Regent of Renovia.”

  There is an audible gasp, including from Cal. Regime change. Did the Aphrasians take control of the kingdom even though he killed the duke?

  “I choose to step aside and pass the crown to my daughter, heir to the crown and only child of King Esban the Second of House Dellafiore. She will henceforth be joined in marriage to King Hansen the Third of House Opel. Our two kingdoms will no longer be rivals, but allies, one joint kingdom, vast and prosperous.”

  The crowd applauds.

  Princess Lilac? Why this? Why now?

  The queen sweeps the room with her serene glance. “Your Majesty, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen. This marriage is our thanks to the Kingdom of Montrice for uncovering a terrible conspiracy against my kingdom, and for keeping my daughter safe.”

  Cal is stunned. The queen is thanking Montrice for keeping the princess safe? And marrying her off to the enemy?

  The grand doors open again. Queen Lilianna’s daughter steps into the great hall, veiled and wearing a dazzling lavender gown with a long train. She walks toward the dais as her mother did, and those around her bow. Like her mother, she also keeps her chin up, determined, exuding confidence she may or may not actually be feeling.

  But where is Shadow? Cal strains to search the crowd, but finds her nowhere. And then a thought dawns on him, and he wonders why he did not see it before. Why did he not question it all sooner—the Argonian emeralds, her perfect manners and knowledge of court life? He had buried his suspicions because he did not want them to be true. There was an assassination plot against Princess Lilac, and he had been tasked to keep her safe. And he did. He cannot bear to look at the princess. He knows. He knows.

  For when the princess reaches the queen, Queen Lilianna takes her by the shoulders and turns her to face the crowd. “I present Princess Lilac, soon to be Queen Lilac of Renovia-Montrice.” She steps in front of the princess and pinches the edges of the veil between her fingers, then lifts it, draping it behind her head. Finally, Queen Lilianna steps away, revealing her daughter to the crowd.

  Cal’s heart stops, even if he already knew in his heart what he is now seeing before him.

  It is Shadow. Shadow is Queen Lilianna’s daughter, Princess Lilac. Shadow is heir to the Renovian throne.

  And she is betrothed to King Hansen.

  EXCERPT FROM THE SCROLL OF DELLAFIORE, 2.4:

  A Comprehensive History of Avantine

  The Story of Esban and Lilianna

 
IN RENOVIA IT IS SAID that a young warrior queen and an Otherworldly mage fell in love and founded the Dellafiore dynasty, each eldest child inheriting the mage’s magical blood. [Scroll of Omin, 1.2] It is said that Omin appears to his kin at times of need.

  The Dellafiores ruled peacefully for generations. Until one day when the ruling Dellafiore king was assassinated by his jealous cousin. Phras stole the throne by force, surrounding himself with a mighty army, cementing his position by sending his minions out into the kingdom to collect and destroy all written magical works, making it illegal for commoners to practice magic. His loyal followers, the Aphrasians, were rewarded with Baer Abbey. They hoarded the sacred texts of magical knowledge and the history of Avantine in a document known as the Deian Scrolls, becoming gatekeepers of religious and political power.

  Thereby the Dellafiores vanished. During this time the Hearthstone Guild is formed in order to resist the Aphrasians. Their primary function is to protect the Dellafiores and retain as much of the Old Ways as possible. As such they train as warriors as well as lower mages, both for their own protection and for the inevitable clash with the Aphrasians, which has been foreseen through the Seeing Stones by one of their seers.

  Again, generations pass as the Guild develops into a notorious society of underground assassins and spies.

  One day the Tyrant King’s descendant, Prince Esban, soon-to-be crowned king in the wake of his brother’s untimely death, travels to the neighboring Kingdom of Montrice—Renovia’s perpetual rival—for a royal ball.

  It is there that Prince Esban is introduced to a young noblewoman named Lady Lilianna. Much to the chagrin of the other eligible nobles, after only one dance, he falls madly in love with her. But Lady Lilianna is meant to marry the Crown Prince of Montrice, in a marriage ordained by the king himself.