The Queen's Assassin Page 3

  The tree becomes very still. And everything around does the same. I glance to my right and see a spider hanging in the air, frozen, just like I am.

  Leaves rustle, like the fanning pages of a book. Snarling heat of its body getting closer, closer, inch by inch. I can smell its hot breath. Feel its mass as it begins to bear down on me from above. Closer, closer, until at last it launches itself from its hiding place. I feel its energy, aimed straight at me. Intending to kill, to devour.

  But I am ready.

  Just as it attacks, I kick ferociously at its chest, sending it flying. It slams to the ground, knocked out cold. A flock of starlings erupts from their nest in the treetops, chirping furiously.

  My would-be killer is a sleek black scimitar-toothed jaguar. The rest of the wildlife stills, shocked into silence, at my besting the king of the forest.

  I roll back to standing, then hear something else, like shifting or scratching, in the distance. As careful as I’ve been, I’ve managed to cause a commotion and alert every creature in the forest of my presence.

  I crouch behind a wide tree. After waiting a breath or two, I don’t sense any other unusual movement nearby. Perhaps I was wrong about the noise. Or simply heard a falling branch or a startled animal running for cover.

  There’s no reason to remain where I am, and I’m not going back now, in case the jaguar wakes, so I get up and make my way forward again. It looks like there’s a clearing ahead.

  My stomach lurches. After everything—the argument and my big show of defiance—I am gripped with the unexpected desire to return home. I don’t know if the cat’s attack has rattled me—it shouldn’t have; I’ve been in similar situations before—but a deep foreboding comes over me.

  Yet just as strongly, I feel the need to keep going, beyond the edge of the forest, as if something is pulling me forward. I move faster, fumbling a bit over some debris.

  Finally, I step through the soft leafy ground around a few ancient trees, their bark slick with moss, and push aside a branch filled with tiny light green leaves.

  When I emerge from the woods, I discover I was wrong. It’s not just a clearing; I’ve stumbled upon the golden ruins of an old building. A fortress. The tight feeling in my chest intensifies. I should turn back. There’s danger here. Or at least there was danger here—it appears to be long abandoned.

  The building’s intimidating skeletal remains soar toward the clouds, but it’s marred by black soot; it’s been scorched by a fire—or maybe more than one. Most of the windows are cracked or else missing completely. Rosebushes are overgrown with burly thistle weeds, and clumps of dead brown shrubbery dot the property. Vines climb up one side of the structure and crawl into the empty windows.

  Above the frame of one of those windows, I spot a weathered crest, barely visible against the stone. I step closer. There are two initials overlapping each other in an intricate design: BA. In an instant I know exactly where I am.

  Baer Abbey.

  I inhale sharply. How did I walk so far? How long have I been gone?

  This place is forbidden. Dangerous. Yet I was drawn here. Is this a sign, the message I was searching for? And if so, what is it trying to tell me?

  Despite the danger, I’ve always wanted to see the abbey, home of the feared and powerful Aphrasians. I try picturing it as it was long ago, glistening in the blinding midday heat, humming with activity, the steady bustle of cloaked men and women going about their daily routines. I imagine one of them meditating underneath the massive oak to the west; another reading on the carved limestone bench in the now-decrepit gardens.

  I walk around the exterior, looking for the place where King Esban charged into battle with his soldiers.

  I hear something shift again. It’s coming from inside the abbey walls. As if a heavy object is being pushed or dragged—opening a door? Hoisting something with a pulley? I approach the building and melt into its shadow, like the pet name my mother gave me.

  But who could be here? A generation of looters has already stripped anything of value, though the lure of undiscovered treasure might still entice adventurous types. And drifters. Or maybe there’s a hunter, or a hermit who’s made his home close to this desolate place.

  In the distance, the river water slaps against the rocky shore, and I can hear the rustling of leaves and the trilling of birds. All is as it should be, and yet. Something nags at me, like a faraway ringing in my ear. Someone or something is still following me, and it’s not the jaguar. It smells of death and rot.

  I move forward anyway, deciding to run the rest of the way along the wall to an entryway, its door long gone. I just want to peek inside—I may never have this chance again.

  I slide around the corner of the wall and enter the abbey’s interior. Most of the roof is demolished, so there’s plenty of light, even this close to dusk. Tiny specks of dust float in the air. There’s a veneer of grime on every surface, and wet mud in shaded spots. I step forward, leaving footprints behind me. I glance at the rest of the floor—no other prints. Nobody has been here recently, at least not since the last rain.

  I move as lightly as possible. Then I hear something different. I stop, step backward. There it is again. I step forward—solid. Back—yes, an echo. Like a well. There’s something hollow below. Storage? A crypt?

  I should turn back. Nothing good can come from being here, and I know it. The abbey is Aphrasian territory, no matter how long ago they vacated. And yet. There’s no reason to believe anyone is here, and who knows what I might find if I just dig a bit. Perhaps a treasure was hidden here. Maybe even the Deian Scrolls.

  I step on a large square tile, made of heavy charcoal slate, which is stubbornly embedded in the ground. I clear the dirt around it as much as I can and get my fingertips under its lip. With effort, I heave the tile up enough to hoist it over to the side. Centipedes scurry away into the black hole below. I use the heel of my boot to shove the stone the rest of the way, revealing a wooden ladder underneath.

  I press on it carefully, testing its strength, then make my way down. At the last rung I jump down and turn to find a long narrow passageway lined with empty sconces. It smells of mildew, dank and damp. I follow the tunnel, my footsteps echoing around me.

  I hear water lapping gently against stone up ahead. Could there be an underground stream? The passage continues on, dark and quiet aside from the occasional drip of water from the ceiling.

  At the end of the corridor a curved doorway opens into a large cavern. As I suspected, an underground river flows by. A small hole in the ceiling allows light in, revealing sharp stalactites that hang down everywhere, glittering with the river’s reflection. The room is aglow in yellows and oranges and reds, and it feels like standing in the middle of fire. This space was definitely not made by human hands; instead, the tunnel, the abbey, was built up around it. There’s a loading dock installed for small boats, though none are there anymore.

  Then I see something that makes my heart catch. I gasp.

  The Aphrasians have been missing for eighteen years and yet there’s a fresh apple core tossed aside near the doorway.

  That’s when I hear men’s voices approaching from the corridor behind me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Shadow

  “WHO’S THERE?” A GRUFF VOICE calls out from within the tunnel. It echoes: Who’s there? Who’s there? Who’s there?

  Frantically, I search for somewhere to hide. They heard me! But the tunnel appears to be the sole way out and I can’t go back the way I came. There’s only the river below. The voices whisper to one another from inside the tunnel as I slide off the edge of the dock and into the water, trying not to make a splash. I hear clanging as the men run toward the stream, their boots shuffling on the ground as they turn around looking for whoever was there.

  “Got away,” one says. His voice is deep, gravelly. It’s the same man who called out before.

&nbs
p; “Could be you’re hearin’ things again,” says the other. Higher-pitched, scratchy. Younger than the first, I think.

  “Is that so? Then who moved the stone?” the first replies. “More like they jumped in the river.”

  The second scoffs. “Then they’re dead for sure.”

  His words are prescient as the flow of the river drags me along, turns a corner, and slopes down, the current picking up speed. I try to retain control but the water swallows me. I struggle to push myself above the surface and gasp for air. They were right, I won’t make it. The undertow is too strong.

  I kick as hard as I can, barely keeping my head out of the river, which is splashing against my face and into my nose and mouth. I can’t keep the water out and also let air in. Don’t panic, I tell myself. Never panic.

  I spot a heavy branch sticking out of the water. I reach for it and fail, falling back into the current. I should never have come here. I’m going to drown. I’m going to die.

  Also: My aunts are going to kill me.

  No, no! I absolutely refuse to give up! My arms and legs shove me on as if being controlled by an outside force. I manage to propel my body toward another floating branch and grab on to it.

  Water washes over my head again. I keep my eyes closed and hang on to the branch with all my might. When my head emerges, I try to suck in air but immediately begin coughing. Wheezing. There’s water in my lungs. My nose and throat are burning. The men at the abbey can probably hear me splashing now but I hardly care. I just want to make it out of here alive.

  There’s a light ahead. The mouth of the cave. I hear banging noises from behind me, where the men were at the shoreline. It sounds like some kind of battle, as if the men I’d heard back there were suddenly attacked. My breathing is returning to normal, though I still feel the sting in my nose and chest. If I hadn’t come across the branch . . . or if my leg had caught on one under the surface . . .

  I emerge with the river. I look around and see I’m on the other side of the abbey now. Right near the hill I saw in the distance earlier—the site of the great battle. I feel the oppressive weight of death all around me, even within the earth itself.

  The branch runs up against some rocks near the shoreline, beneath an ancient weeping willow. My arms are weak. Shaking. I have to get out of the water. I can take refuge in the tree. Its full, low-hanging branches are spread out around its wide trunk, like curtains. A good place to hang on, stay concealed.

  Please just this one thing, I beg myself. Get out of the water. Gritting my teeth, I lift my upper body until I’m lying across the top of a stone. A horse whinnies from beyond the hill; a man shouts. Another man grunts again and again, as if he’s punching someone. I rest a moment to catch my breath and listen to the brawl beyond the hill. The men are still struggling against some interloper, but it means they’re not coming any nearer to me, so I swing my right leg up onto the rock and hoist myself out. The heavy boots I’m wearing definitely weren’t helping me in the water.

  The sounds of struggle subside abruptly, as if someone’s won. Dripping wet, I crawl over to the willow and hide beneath its curtain of leaves. It’s quiet now. They may have left—or killed one another. Either way, not my concern.

  The sun is already setting; one of my aunts would definitely have started looking for me by now.

  There hasn’t been any other sound from beyond the hill for some time now. I don’t like it here. Unlike the ruins, this place bears the stain of death. Violence. Its energy is an invisible fog. I place my palm against the willow’s sturdy trunk to brace myself so I can stand.

  A powerful shock surges straight through me.

  Suddenly, I can see a soldier wearing the Renovian colors, bleeding out into the earth. Another soldier with a missing arm, leg snapped upward into a terrifying pose, is groaning. I want to go home, he cries. I want to go.

  One man is almost fully submerged in the river, only his legs sticking out. And countless others are strewn about in the same condition, or worse. Everywhere. The dead. This is the Battle of Baer, playing out before my eyes. I can smell the stench in the air and hear the death groans, but it isn’t real. I’m not there; this is just an illusion, a place memory. One so powerful that those with the sight can see it if they try. Even if they don’t try. Aunt Moriah said sometimes such visions find the seeker, rather than the other way around.

  I have been seeing visions since I was ten years old.

  Then I look up. And there he is. King Esban.

  I recognize him from his chiseled profile on Renovian coins. A striking figure, like the fabled shipbuilders of the north countries: tall, broad shouldered, bearded, golden hair flowing from under a dented silver helmet. Noble and brave, just as the stories say, but with kind eyes. They never mention that.

  I feel the urge to go to him but I can’t move. I know what’s about to happen, and I want to call to him, to warn him. But when I try to yell, nothing comes out.

  A man charges toward him, sword raised above his head. He’s wearing a gray Aphrasian robe and their unmistakable black mask. The king is steady. Metal meets metal with a clang. They struggle, the rebel monk pushing the king back; the king shoves him off with equal force. The monk aims his right leg directly at the king’s stomach, but Esban steps away so the kick lands off its mark, barely grazing his hip. He stretches his arm back and swings the sword at the rebel with all his might. The monk dodges the strike. The king is furiously red, chest heaving, teeth bared. He lunges at the monk again.

  They go on like this. It seems that neither can win. The other soldiers haven’t even noticed the skirmish on the mound yet. I try to scream, Help him! But I can’t, because as real as it seems, I’m only watching. Witnessing the past.

  I look back up.

  The rebel is on the ground. The king walks over to him and lifts his sword. For a brief moment I hope King Esban will win this time. That the past can change. But the monk rolls and swipes the king’s leg out from under him. He stumbles, falls. He’s about to get up when it happens.

  The monk drives his sword straight through King Esban’s chest.

  I yank my hand away from the willow. I start gagging, retching. I haven’t eaten all day, so all I bring up is bile. Tears are streaming down my face. This is what my aunts meant when they told me to be careful for what you wish. For the answer might not be the one you seek. I wanted danger and adventure as a Guild apprentice, and alas, I seem to have found it.

  I stand to leave. Based on where the sun hangs in the sky, I’ve a little time left until complete darkness. I’ll dry off as I go, as long as I’m moving. Good thing it’s still warm at night. I won’t freeze to death, at least.

  I walk away, just as something slams into me. I’m knocked straight onto my back, totally winded. For a frenzied second I expect to see the jaguar again—but no, there’s a man standing over me.

  Gray robes. The dreaded black mask of the Aphrasian order covering his face. The mask that’s given children nightmares for centuries. The monk raises his sword.

  This is no vision.

  This is all too real.

  This must be who was following me earlier. The smell is the same—of rot and death. I was right, there was a predator on my trail, one who is intent on killing me. I am too shocked to move.

  I shut my eyes and cross my arms over my face, anticipating the blow.

  But someone comes out of nowhere, swooping over me and knocking the assailant away, running a sword through his belly.

  I open my eyes. A hooded man stands over my attacker, whom he has impaled to the ground.

  As he leans over to inspect the dead man’s pockets, I catch a glimpse of my savior.

  I’d know that face anywhere. It’s Caledon Holt.

  Scruffy beard over deep olive skin, messy brown hair falling over his eyes. He’s nineteen, not much older than me, and already the Queen’s Assassin. Th
e Guild’s golden child. No other commoner in Renovia knows who he is, or exactly what he does, but my mother and aunts are part of the Guild, so they know, and I know what they know.

  I dash away while he searches the monk. I don’t know what he’s doing here. I don’t understand what just happened. But I do not want him to see me; he could remember who I am and drag me back to my aunts, telling them where I’d gone. That I was nearly killed. My mother will hear of it and I will never be allowed to leave the house again.

  So I hide, even though I doubt he’d recognize me. I’d only met him at his father’s funeral, but I’m still well aware of who he is. My aunts keep close tabs on him. They admired his father, Cordyn, greatly.

  I watch him from behind a nearby bush. He turns back to the monk and peels off the mask. The man beneath is golden haired and handsome, with a huge pink scar across his cheek, from when he was attacked years ago while avenging his king.

  I gasp. But when Caledon looks up, I’ve already disappeared into the brush.

  The rebel monk who tried to kill me was Alast, the Grand Prince of Renovia, King Esban’s younger brother.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Shadow

  I COULDN’T STAY. AS SOON as Caledon unmasked the Grand Prince, a group of the queen’s soldiers appeared out of nowhere. When I finally return from Baer long after dark, my mind is awhirl.

  As soon as I step onto the gravel walkway by the herb garden, my legs start to give out beneath me. It’s tempting to just collapse and sleep outside where I fall. But I make it past the apiary yard, with its rows and rows of beehives, and approach the house. It’s dark aside from a pale yellow glow in one window—my aunts’ bedroom. They probably did a locus spell to find my location, and have been following my trek home ever since. Could have sent a horse. I suppose they think making me walk home is a punishment I deserve.