Renegade Queen : A Court Intrigue Fantasy (The Forbidden Queen Series Book 3)

by R. J. Vickers

  Baridya was standing motionless in the middle of the road. When we drew alongside her, she whispered, “Look.”

  Squinting through the rain, I saw what she was staring at.

  The lantern hanging above the manor door cast just enough light to illuminate eight men standing guard outside. They wore white uniforms, every one of them pale-skinned and light-haired.

  Whitish soldiers.

  9

  The Gardener

  “N o wonder the governor hasn’t been able to help Larkhaven,” Baridya whispered. “It looks like he’s trapped in his own home.”

  “Or dead,” Mellicante said. “Those soldiers might have installed their own leader in his place.”

  “Oh, I hope not.”

  Both turned to me, their faces hidden in the dark.

  “What do we do now?” Baridya asked.

  I wiped rain off my face with one sleeve. “Is there a back entrance? Some way we can speak to the governor without those soldiers seeing us?”

  “We can try sneaking through his gardens,” Mellicante said. “They’re huge—the estate stretches all the way to the sea. I’m fairly sure the garden wall ends before the cliffs, so we don’t have to climb over it.”

  “Then what?” Baridya asked. “If we can get in that way, why hasn’t he escaped?”

  “Where would he go? Everyone on the coast would recognize him, and it sounds like there are Whitish spies all over. Besides, I didn’t say anything about getting into his manor. Once we make it into the gardens, we can figure out if that’s even possible. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there are soldiers watching the back entrance as well.”

  Without waiting for our agreement, Mellicante turned left off the road, cutting through a grassy field toward the sea. We walked with only the distant light from the manor door to orient us, the wind tossing rain directly in our faces. I tugged my hood low over my face and buried my chin in my coat, but the driving rain still stung my cheeks and seeped down my neck. With each step, rocks and uneven clumps of grass sought to trip me, and I had to battle the fear that we were moments away from plunging off a cliff that remained invisible in the dark.

  Eventually the distant light from the manor faded to blackness, and Baridya dared to light her Weavers’ crystal again, holding it inside one flap of her coat so the light did not spill in the direction of the estate. The glow threw the oncoming raindrops into relief, but it also reassured me that the ground stretched many dozens of paces before us. I was not about to fall off a cliff with one misplaced step.

  We quickened our step. I was beginning to shiver, the drenching rain stripping away every shred of warmth trapped beneath my coat; I was tempted to march up to the back entrance and demand shelter, regardless of the consequences. Mellicante cut a path toward the garden wall, which we followed the final distance to the edge of the cliffs. I ran a hand along the stones as I walked, using the wall to guide me when Baridya drew ahead.

  At last the wall tapered off; Baridya and Mellicante stopped a few paces ahead and waited for me and Quendon to catch up. When I drew alongside them, I could see the jagged line where the field underfoot dropped away. I stopped short. I could feel the air gusting up from beyond the cliffs, buffeting me and tossing me off balance. Far below, the faint light from the crystal glinted off dark water. Waves jostled one another like water boiling in a pot, sending up great curtains of spray as they crashed against the cliff face.

  “It’s mesmerizing,” I said in a hushed voice. Compared to this, the harbor was nothing—a mere lake. This was a raw force, a vast, shifting, living creature.

  When I glanced at Baridya, I realized she was grinning, arms hugged over her stomach. “Oh, I’ve missed the ocean so much. Sometimes I feel trapped living inland. If you grow up close to the sea, I think it gets into your blood. You don’t feel alive unless you can smell that sea air.” She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

  I found I was smiling as well.

  “Come on,” Mellicante said impatiently. “I’d like to get out of this blasted rain, if you don’t mind.”

  Past the crumbling edge of the wall, untamed grasses turned to manicured lawn. Neatly-trimmed hedges and trees marched across the lawn, bordered by tidy flowerbeds. The whole garden was tinged grey in the darkness, but I could tell from the way my feet sank into the sodden grass that the place was verdant with spring growth.

  We squished our way across the grass onto a path of irregular flagstones fitted together. The path wound its way through the garden, edged by rosebushes and trees and hedges. I thought suddenly of the rooftop garden Morrisse enjoyed tending—that would have covered a mere scrap of this vast space.

  As we drew nearer to the governor’s manor, I caught sight of a faint glow in the distance.

  “I think we should wait out here until morning,” I called to my friends over the howling wind. “There might be Whitish men guarding this side as well. I don’t want to risk walking into a trap.”

  Mellicante groaned. “Are you intending for us to die of cold? We can’t just sit in the rain all night.”

  “Beg pardon, Your Majesty, but I believe I see a structure ahead.” It was the first time Quendon had spoken in hours, and his voice was tight with pain.

  He was right. Like a patch of mist looming through the rain, I could make out the hazy outline of a white structure.

  As we trudged closer, I recognized it as a gazebo. Rain gusted through the gaps beneath the beams, but near the western side, the floor was dry. We climbed the steps into the shelter of the peaked wooden roof, the rain drumming away at the boards overhead.

  “Thank the gods,” Baridya said, drawing her hands into her sleeves for warmth. “I was beginning to wonder if we would be warmer if we jumped into the ocean.”

  “Is the water actually warm?” My only experience with swimming came from icy snowmelt-fed streams, but I had heard stories of warm coastal waters near King’s Port.

  Baridya laughed. “Not in the slightest. That’s how cold I am right now.”

  “Will you be okay? We can’t light a fire this time.”

  “I have these two for warmth. It’s you I worry about.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Even as I said it, shivers wracked me at the thought of another cold night without anyone to share body warmth with. My power was such a burden at times like this.

  Eventually Mellicante, Baridya, and Quendon curled up on the dry patch of floor, halfway beneath the narrow bench that ran around the outside. Meanwhile, I crawled into a dense bush and hugged my knees, rain dripping steadily through the leaves to soak my coat more thoroughly than ever.

  I couldn’t sleep. The cold dug its way so deep into my bones that I feared I would never wake up if I slipped off now. Huddled in a tight ball, I cast my mind about for distraction, wincing each time rain dripped onto my cheek. I thought about Viko, his life ruined by the demon’s draught, and tried to imagine what it had been like for Mellicante after running away from home. I thought about Leoth and how much I would have loved to snuggle into his warm embrace, and as always, lingering affection warred with disgust. What was happening in Baylore now? Had the Truthbringers begun their campaign to remove the magic races from Itrea?

  The storm blew itself out halfway through the night. When the leaves overhead stopped dripping, I managed at last to fall into a doze and did not wake until the first light of dawn.

  I crawled out from the bush, shivering violently as the movement pressed clammy fabric against previously warm patches of skin. Baridya was already awake, sitting on the gazebo bench with her arms around her knees, while Mellicante and Quendon slept on. I tiptoed up the gazebo steps and sat beside Baridya, following her gaze across the intricately landscaped garden toward the manor. A flight of stone steps climbed to an outdoor platform ringed by balustrades, beyond which lay towering double doors opening to the second floor of the manor.

  “Can you see any other way in?” I whispered.

  “There’s a door on the left side—it lo
oks like a servants’ entrance—but look. We won’t get past them.” She pointed to a pair of men in white uniforms standing on the platform. Whitish soldiers.

  Varse. I let out a sharp breath. “I think that means the governor is still alive, at least. They wouldn’t guard this side of the house unless they were trying to keep someone in.”

  “True. But how are we going to get in?”

  “I have no idea. We can’t fight our way past, and we can’t sneak much closer without them noticing us.”

  “Maybe we should go back to Larkhaven and see if Dellik can help us gather support. If we got enough people together, we could take the place over.”

  “No,” I said softly. “We can’t go back to Larkhaven. The people in town are too scared to do anything, and the Whitish will be watching for us. They’ll take us hostage before we have a chance to raise support.”

  “Then what can we do?”

  “I don’t know.” I wrapped my arms around my legs and rested my chin on one knee, studying the manor in frustration. “We probably should leave the gazebo soon, or the guards might notice us. I wonder if they ever go inside.”

  “Maybe if we get closer, we can sneak in through that side door when they change the guard.”

  “That might be very soon.”

  “Then let’s hurry, shall we?” Baridya said.

  Mellicante and Quendon were already stirring, roused by our voices and the growing light of dawn. Baridya nudged Mellicante’s shoulder with a foot and whispered; she groaned and rubbed her eyes.

  Within a few minutes, we left the gazebo, stooping to avoid the gazes of the two watchmen. All three of my companions looked like drowned rats, their hair still wet and bedraggled, their clothes muddy and drooping from the weight of the rainwater they had absorbed; I was sure I looked no better. Right now, the prospect of a hot bath and dry clothes lured me to the manor more than any thoughts of strategy.

  A tall row of hedges on either side of our path shielded us from view, and we kept our backs to the inner row as we walked, slinking along in the shadows. As we drew nearer, I caught sight of movement near the manor. Pausing, I peered through the leaves of the hedge and saw someone emerging from the servants’ entrance.

  “I think I see a gardener,” I whispered.

  “It’s definitely not a Whitish soldier?” Mellicante asked.

  “No, it’s a woman.” From what I could glimpse, her grey hair was tightly curled about her head, her posture erect. She wore a basket on her back and trimmed leaves from the hedge as she walked, tossing the cuttings over her shoulder into the basket.

  My friends stopped as well, craning their necks to see through the layer of leaves. The gardener appeared to be heading along a hedge-lined path parallel to ours—very soon she would pass us. I stood motionless, trying to quiet my breathing, wondering how we could alert her to our presence without startling her.

  She walked briskly past us, only slowing when she reached a place where her path widened to an enclosed rose garden. I held up a hand to signal my friends to remain where they were and crept after her, peering through the hedge as I went. We were far enough from the house that I hoped the Whitish guards would not overhear us. The smell of damp grass hung heavy over the garden, mingled with the ever-present sea air. I breathed as lightly as possible, not wanting to alert the gardener to my presence prematurely.

  At last she stopped beside a tall, sculpted tree.

  “Hello,” I said softly.

  The gardener yelped and dropped her shears, which she did not retrieve. She scanned the bushes with wide, panicked eyes, body tense.

  “I’m through this hedge,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I mean you no harm—I hoped Lord Jofran might offer shelter to a small group of travelers caught out in the storm last night.”

  “Come around the hedge so I can see you,” the gardener said gruffly. “To your left.”

  I hurried along the path until I reached a gap in the hedge that opened into the back of the rose garden. Stepping into the woman’s view, I wondered what she would think of me. I must look like a vagabond, with my dusty, travel-stained coat and bedraggled hair.

  Now that I could see the gardener properly, I studied her warily. Could we trust her? She looked somewhat foreign, with green eyes and light brown skin, but she was decidedly not Whitish.

  “Closer, girl. You’re young to be out here begging for scraps—or did you lose your job when the forest road closed?”

  “I’m not here to beg. But I need to know if you are loyal to the governor.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? Oh—are you referring to those evil men standing outside our doors?” Her mouth twisted. “I can assure you, I have nothing to do with them. The Whitish soldiers appeared a span or two ago, and threatened to kill us all if we did not comply with their every demand. Now the governor and his staff are prisoners here. I thought someone would have come to rescue us by now, but we haven’t heard word from Larkhaven in all that time.”

  “They don’t know what happened to the governor,” I said. “Someone we spoke to assumed he had retreated here because he was a coward and didn’t care about the city.”

  The gardener’s eyes widened. “That couldn’t be farther from the truth.” She bent to retrieve her shears and stumped over to my side, scrutinizing my face. “But why are you asking these questions? You look like a beggar, pardon my directness. What would someone like you want with Lord Jofran?”

  “It could cost me my life if I reveal who I am,” I said.

  The gardener blinked in surprise.

  “But I can assure you the governor will want to meet with me. I intend to raise support and expel the Whitish from Larkhaven, and I hope to begin by freeing his household.”

  “Who are you, to make such grand claims?”

  I shook my head. I had already revealed too much; anything more would give away my identity. Until I could be assured of the governor’s support and discretion, I could not afford to take chances.

  “Did you say something about a group of travelers, girl? How many of you are there?”

  “Four.”

  “Hmph. I’m not sure how we can sneak you past the soldiers on the back step.”

  “Do they ever go inside?”

  “Only for a few minutes when they trade places with the daytime guards. We’ve got twenty men keeping watch over this place, if you can believe that.”

  “Can we sneak in then?”

  The gardener glanced over her shoulder and then in the direction of the rising sun, which threw golden light across the scraps of storm clouds that remained in the sky. “I’m not sure. It would be a risk. I don’t know what the Whitish soldiers would do if they caught you.”

  “We can assume that would be very bad,” I said drily. “Can we get in at the next changing of the guard?”

  “Nine’s blessing, girl. That’s in just a few minutes.”

  “Shall we hurry, then?”

  Muttering under her breath, the gardener trudged past me and down the path I had just emerged from. Soon we reached my friends, and the gardener put a fist on her hip as she studied them. We certainly made an odd group, three young women traveling with one old man; despite our grimy appearances, I did not think we resembled beggars.

  “Well, you don’t look like much of a threat,” the gardener said after a moment. “I suppose it can’t hurt to let you speak with Lord Jofran and see what he has to say. If you truly can do as you claim, I won’t be the one who turned away the only hope that’s come our way in spans.”

  “What’s happening?” Baridya whispered.

  “The kind gardener—what was your name?”

  “Rona,” the gardener said grudgingly.

  “Rona has agreed to help us get into the manor and speak with Lord Jofran. But we need to hurry closer before the changing of the guard.”

  The gardener brushed past my friends and led the way forward. We followed the maze of hedges in what felt like circles, the sky lightening
around us, seagulls shrieking in the distance over the sound of waves pounding against the cliffs.

  At last we reached the end of the hedges. Trimmed grass covered the final stretch between where we stood and the manor; there were no trees or bushes to hide us. Rona put a finger to her lips, and we remained in the shadow of the hedges while she bustled out and began trimming leaves from the opposite side.

  Only minutes later, she beckoned us to follow her. When I peered around the edge of the wall of hedges, I could no longer see anyone standing on the stone platform behind the manor.

  “Quickly, quickly,” Rona whispered. She led us across the grass at a trot, glancing up toward the second-floor door every few steps. I hastened after her, tense and jumpy, expecting at any moment to be caught.

  Near the base of the wide stone stairs, Rona pulled open the door she had first emerged from. She darted inside and held it open for us to pile in before slamming the door and fastening the bolt.

  “This is the servants’ wing,” she said softly. “The Whitish soldiers don’t usually come here, except to collect food from the kitchen. They live in a guest wing on the ground floor of the manor, so we’re mostly left alone except at mealtimes.”

  Rona removed her leather boots and slid her feet into careworn deerskin slippers. She bade us remove our dirty boots; our sodden socks left wet marks on the floor as we followed her down a narrow hallway.

  “We need to wait until the guards finish breakfast,” she said, pausing beside a cupboard to fetch us three pairs of clumsy wooden shoes that resembled doorstops. “But you ought to clean up in the meantime. You’ll need to wear our uniform in case the guards catch sight of you. And you—” she inclined her head to Quendon— “will need to stay out of sight. The Whitish guards sent away all male staff members, likely because they didn’t want anyone to think of fighting them. If they see you, they’ll immediately know someone has managed to infiltrate the manor.”

  I slipped on the shoes, which were far too large for me, and followed her clumsily as she led us deeper into the manor. As the aroma of cooking eggs and cheese reached me, my stomach churned with hunger.