The Queen's Secret Page 5

  “Stur.”

  “Right. Never heard of it until last week. Anyway, this business with the snow and the black and the pond, and the children dying, and the lilac frost or whatever it is.”

  “We don’t know if that last part is true,” I say. The very mention of it makes me wince.

  “True or not, everyone’s saying it. Everyone. A letter arrived this morning from our ambassador in Argonia, and he knows all about it.”

  I pace before the window, trying to calm myself. “I need to see that letter as well. I am your equal as ruler. It’s time the ambassadors of Montrice—the whole court, in fact—understands this and stops treating me as a mere consort!”

  “But see, that’s the thing.” Hansen steps closer. “That’s what we have to address. And I’m not just saying this because the Duke of Auvigne told me to.”

  I roll my eyes. Clearly the duke told Hansen to visit me and make this incoherent little speech.

  “You can look as cross as you like, Lilac, but we have to face facts. Our marriage won us popularity and united the kingdoms and added gold to the coffers and that was good. You and I agreed . . . well, somehow we agreed to keep our lives separate in private, and in public put on a good show. Smiles and waves and such. And that was working. Until it stopped working. Now we have to put a stop to the things that are being said about you.”

  “Isn’t that why the soldiers are training outside?” I say, waving my hand at the window.

  Hansen twists his face. “Soldiers can’t kill beliefs or rumors. And anyway, from what I hear, these boys are hopeless. They’ll march north and be killed at once by black snow or whatever it is. One crack of lightning and they’ll all fall over. But ten armies won’t change people’s minds about you being in league with the Aphrasians.”

  I hate to admit it, but Hansen is making sense. With one hand I grip the edge of the shutter pulled back from the window, in part to steady myself for whatever he’s going to say next.

  “The Small Council wants to see us,” he tells me.

  “Since when do you care what the Small Council wants?” I snap. Hansen can barely be bothered to attend meetings. I usually go alone. Now he looks hurt.

  “I’m not completely oblivious, whatever you may think. I can listen to sense. My whole life, I’ve lived here, either in Mont or at the summer residence in the mountains. Everywhere I’ve gone in the kingdom—villages, towns, shepherds’ huts, fishermen’s cottages, grand manor houses, you name it!—I’ve been loved. Everyone has always loved me.”

  I believe him. He’s a handsome young man, and was no doubt a handsome boy. He was the heir and then a young king, and for all his dull predictability and obsession with dogs and hunting, Hansen doesn’t have a cruel bone in his body.

  He’s pacing now as well, playing with one of the ornate rings on his fingers. “Now we ride out together and I’m despised.” He shakes his head, as though he can’t believe it.

  “It’s not you they loathe,” I say.

  “No, I suppose not,” he says thoughtfully. “They think you’re still harboring the Aphrasians in that damp, mysterious country of yours.”

  “But that is not true!” I protest.

  “It doesn’t matter what’s true or not. We know that, don’t we? Our marriage hasn’t been ‘true’—not for almost a year now. That’s why the Duke of Auvigne says, and I agree, that it’s time to put the kingdom first.”

  “Kingdoms plural.” I can’t resist correcting him. I’ve never heard Hansen talk like this. Usually he says that the Duke of Auvigne is a bore. This is the longest conversation we’ve ever had.

  “Exactly. We have a duty to our joint kingdoms, however unpleasant it might be. To us.”

  I can’t speak. I don’t want Hansen to say another word. I don’t want to hear what he’s about to say, the thing I’ve always dreaded. And yet I know he must.

  “Lilac, I am as sorry as you are that it has come to this. Perhaps, like you, I had hoped we could continue this way forever. But an heir will tell the world that we’re a real marriage, a real union, and there is nothing to fear from their queen, as she is the mother of my child.”

  He doesn’t look at me when he says this, which is a blessing, as I’m too shocked to reply. I knew this day would come—but not so soon. Not today.

  “It will send a strong message through the kingdom that I support you and that our two kingdoms will be united forever through our heir. Or heirs, if we have more than one child, and it is hoped that we shall. Several children will mean more possible alliances through marriage. We can secure the futures of our kingdoms, and all the kingdoms in Avantine.”

  Deia, give me strength. Hansen is still talking. The Duke of Auvigne must have blasted him for hours about this. I clutch the shutter for strength. No, no, no. This can’t be happening. Hansen can’t be going back on all his promises to me. He said we could wait. He said there was no hurry. He said he would never ask me for something I did not want to give.

  “So that’s why . . . ,” he says, walking to the fireplace and leaning against the mantel. “That’s why . . . I’ve agreed to cast aside Cecilia. Lady Cecilia.”

  His current favorite, the one who giggles too loudly and wears black-feathered masks that scandalize the castle servants. Hansen doesn’t need to say the word mistress for me to understand what he’s saying. I don’t like the way this is going.

  “She shall remain in court, of course,” Hansen continues. His face is even pinker now; he’s too close to the flames. I’d like to think he is ashamed of himself, but that’s probably inferring too much. “However, she will no longer share the rooms next to my own.”

  “I see,” I say. I feel sorry for Lady Cecilia; she no doubt imagines that Hansen is her devoted and adoring lover, but he’s prepared to dispose of her the moment the commoners no longer admire him. “How generous of you.”

  Hansen sniffs, as though my sarcastic comment isn’t worthy of a reply. He thrums his fingers on the mantel, and I wonder if I’ve angered him. But no.

  “The thing is,” he says, hesitant now—sensing, perhaps, that he’s on more dangerous ground—“the thing is, Lilac, you should be, ahem, seen to be alone as well. The Chief Assassin, I think, shall have to vacate the castle.”

  “The Chief Assassin?” I echo. “What does this have to do with him?”

  The thought of Cal leaving my side makes me shudder—with rage and with fear. An instant longing for him, for his touch and his smell, the masculine presence of him near my body and in my bed, ripples through me. I think of his deep olive skin against my white sheets, and my whole body aches for him.

  Hansen looks at me meaningfully. “I believe you know why.”

  “No! We’re not talking about him,” I say, my voice rising even as my blood thunders in my temples. If the king knows—and the king knows—then our lives are forfeit. There is nothing to stop Hansen from ordering our deaths for adultery and treason.

  Instead, Hansen is simply asking me to do what he has done. To cast aside a favorite.

  But Cal is not a diversion like Cecilia. Cal is . . . Cal is . . . What are the words? Cal was right, there are no words for our relationship but those of an illicit nature. He is no one to me; he has to be no one. I am married. I am the queen.

  “And yet we must discuss this!” Hansen smacks his hand on the mantel. “Be reasonable! You know very well that Holt has to be somewhere else if we’re to . . . conceive a child. One that everyone knows is a royal child.”

  Disbelief gives way to something much nastier, something that makes me feel queasy. He knows. The Council knows. Our secret has not been a secret at all, but something the king and his counselors have tolerated until now . . .

  If Cal is sent away and I conceive a child, no one will be able to say the king is not the father of his own royal heir. Hansen gives up his mistress, but she can stay in court; she just can’t live next to him anymore. Meanwhile, I have to give up my lover—the love of my life—and he must be sent away on a mission, just so all the judgmental, gossiping courtiers in Mont can be assured that any child I bear is the king’s.

  My heart is pounding. “Can’t we wait?” I ask, desperate. “We’ve only been married a few months.”

  “Wait for what?” Hansen’s tone is weary. “Wait for people to start loving us again? Wait until we’ve been married more than a year and everyone is talking about us, wondering what’s, uh, going wrong? That the king is . . . un-un-unable? Or the queen is infertile? Rumors flying that you’re a witch or an empire builder, refusing to give me an heir? Think about it.” He looks me square in the face. “Lilac, we should have a child, and the sooner the better.”

  I see now that Hansen isn’t the bored regent I had taken him to be, or a spoiled and vain boy. He is a king, and he must do his duty, as distasteful as it is, and he is being as kind as he can be.

  “I am truly sorry,” he says now, “but we are not children. We must put away our toys.”

  He puts a tentative hand on my shoulder, and I force myself to look him in the eye. “Am I as repulsive as all that?” he asks. “I do not ask you to love me. I only ask that we do what is best for the kingdom.”

  Close my eyes and think of Renovia, is that it?

  And send my lover away.

  But I hold my tongue. I slump into a chair. I have no fight left in me. Rhema exhausted me physically during the training session in the courtyard, but this is far, far worse. It’s a malaise sweeping over me, a feeling of powerlessness that I despise. Intensely I wish that I was still Shadow, the girl who grew up in the forest and meadow glade, rather than the fine lady trapped in a castle, hectored about obligations.

  My pulse is racing, as though my entire body were in rebellion.

  “So,” says Hansen, as though we’d had a chat about new tapestries for the summer residence. “That’s that. The Small Council is planning a special meeting and we should both be there.”

  I have no words, and I just stare at my feet. I suspect I look as defeated as I feel. Cal sent away. Hansen in his stead. A child—a child that isn’t Cal’s. How could I love such a child? Maybe I really am a monster.

  “I know this is difficult to accept, but it is probably for the best. Holt is of much more use to us out in the field than shackled to court. Your assassin is a man of action. He’s not going to be happy to be some glorified guard or training a slew of fresh recruits. His job is to keep you from danger, and the sooner you bear my child, the safer you will be.” He squeezes my shoulder in a sympathetic manner. His kindness just about kills me.

  I stare into the flickering fire, unwilling to meet Hansen’s gaze. “You have said your piece. I shall see you at the council meeting.”

  Hansen leaves without another word, pulling the door open himself rather than tapping and waiting for the pages to open it. I’ve never seen him do that before. I always thought he was too lazy, too pampered. Then I realize he does this so that the pages feel they have done their job. It is a privilege to serve the king.

  Hansen isn’t as detached and oblivious as I thought. He’s capable of politics. He’s capable of manipulation. And to hear him talk, he’s capable of setting his feelings aside in order to have this heir.

  I’ve been deluding myself in these months since our marriage. The rumors are true, after all: My mother’s dream is to unite all four kingdoms of Avantine once more. Hansen and my marrying was the first step. The next step was having children who would grow up to marry the heirs to Argonia and Stavin. A new Dellafiore dynasty, she told me. I listened, but I suppose I didn’t really hear. Or I thought that when the time came, it would be a bearable duty, not something that intruded on my relationship with Cal. My love for Cal, my devotion to him.

  I had promised him that my husband would be no true husband to me. I thought I could keep this promise.

  The crows outside caw, laughing at me. Everyone knows everything here in this cold, miserable castle. Everyone wins. Everyone but me.

  It’s time to grow up, I know. Time to face the Small Council and my husband and accept my fate as queen.

  Chapter Seven

  Caledon

  When Cal is summoned to an emergency meeting of the Small Council, it’s almost dusk, and the day’s training in the yard is winding down. Exhaustion and incompetence have finished off most of the recruits, and Cal can’t help but feel the entire day has been an elaborate waste of time.

  The meeting, he assumes, is about the scribe’s belief that an Aphrasian monk stalks the narrow staircase of the tower. Cal has already set a guard outside, and the evening search of the building will begin soon. After all the scribes—and Father Juniper, Lilac’s personal priest—are in their chambers for the night, the tower will be locked, soldiers standing guard until daybreak. Another search will take place then. The captain of the guard has promised a thorough search of the entire castle, in fact, to make sure no gray monk is harbored in any servant’s chamber, or lives secreted in the catacombs or cellars.

  The captain of the guard, Cal suspects, believes that Daffran’s sightings are the terror-fueled imaginings of a doddering old man. Given the unreliability of the witness, Cal wasn’t expecting the Small Council to take this matter so seriously, but after what happened in Stur, perhaps they feel an incursion by the Aphrasians is a distinct possibility.

  He sprints up the curving stone staircase that links all the floors in the building of royal enclosure. It feels strange to use this grand public thoroughfare, when he’s more accustomed to the narrow stairs from the cellar that lead to the Queen’s Secret.

  The Small Council meets in an impressive chamber, wood-paneled, with a decorated ceiling so high, the room requires two large fireplaces to keep it warm. Darkness is settling outside, and the table is ringed by tapers on ornate stands. The place reminds Cal of some kind of Montrician hunting lodge, particularly as King Hansen’s enormous hounds lie sprawled across the floor, their long tongues lolling.

  The presence of the dogs means that Hansen’s here—that’s the first surprise. The second surprise is that Lilac is here as well, sitting at the opposite end of the table, facing the door. The sight of her face, beautiful but troubled, knots Cal’s stomach. He wishes he could rush to her and kiss her sweet, soft lips. Instead he merely bows and maintains his usual expression, emotionless and staunch. Lilac doesn’t meet his gaze.

  The only member of the Small Council who looks pleased to see him is Daffran. The Duke of Auvigne sprawls in his chair, the usual scowl on his face, his fat fingers twitching because he isn’t holding a tankard of mead. Cal doesn’t trust the duke—not because he suspects him of being an Aphrasian, like Duke Girt before him—he doesn’t believe Duke Auvigne supports or cares about Lilac. She’s a political pawn to him, not a real woman.

  Today even the wheezy old chancellor, Lord Burley, has taken his place at the table, though these days he must find it difficult to climb the stairs. He seems uninterested in Cal’s arrival. Cal stands near the high window, waiting to be addressed or summoned forward. When they want to confer with him or dispense an order, they’ll know he’s there.

  The stairs aren’t the only reason that Lord Burley isn’t often at these meetings. In the tortured Montrician hierarchy, he outranks the entire Small Council and usually advises the king in private, in the royal audience room near the chancellor’s own apartments. Cal rarely sees him. Lilac barely sees him, either, from what she tells Cal, though occasionally Hansen summons her to these private meetings, so he doesn’t have to pay attention himself. Too occasionally, according to Lilac. She’s told Cal that Lord Burley doesn’t—or won’t—remember that she’s a joint ruler, and not a consort. Apparently they still like to do things the old Montrice way.

  But the Montrice way isn’t her way, and it’s not Cal’s way.

  “I’ve told all this to the Chief Assassin,” Daffran is saying, gesturing at Cal with an ink-stained hand. “He knows what’s going on.”

  “What you think you’ve seen,” says the Duke of Auvigne, his mouth settling into a dissatisfied sneer. “You saw a cloak you imagine is gray, but you saw no black mask. You smelled no feral stench. Why would an Aphrasian monk haunt the stairs of the tower, of all places? Nobody important lives there. And there is only one way in and one way out. No cellars or dungeons or passages. And the chapel window on the ground level is too small for a man to get—”

  “Perhaps,” interrupts Lord Burley, “it is one of your scribes playing a merry prank.”

  “I can assure you that the royal scribes do not play pranks.” Daffran sounds mortally offended. Cal has to suppress a smile. “We take our work with the utmost seriousness. We are not jesters or fools!”

  “There’s the priest as well, of course,” says the duke. “Father Berry, or whatever he’s called.”

  “Juniper,” Lilac says, in her most imperious tone. Even in the room’s twilight, Cal can spot the impatient flare of her nostrils. She looks much more distracted and unhappy than she should, he thinks. He thought that this morning’s training would have helped her shake off the doldrums of the aborted ride to the harvest festival, but clearly it wasn’t enough.

  “Aren’t the guards doing everything the guards should do?” It’s Hansen’s turn to be impatient. He seems no happier than Lilac to be here. “I don’t see the point of discussing this over and over. Searches will take place, and whatnot, and anyone threatening will be tortured in the dungeons, in the usual fashion.”

  “Quite right,” the Duke of Auvigne says. “Your Majesty has it. The guards are investigating. They will make sure that the Chief Scribe and his underlings—”

  “And Father Juniper,” Daffran reminds them.

  “Yes, yes. The scribes and the priest—all will be guarded and protected. If a gray monk has managed to infiltrate our stronghold here at a time when we have an unprecedented number of soldiers training in the yard, not to mention various apprentice assassins selected by the Guild, then he will be found.” The duke’s tone makes it clear that he believes no such infiltration has taken place.