What now? If he didn’t appear with breakfast soon, someone would come find him and our whole plan would be ruined. My supporters would be rooted out and killed.
I could think of no other option. Reaching beneath my sleeve, I closed a fist around the hilt of my dagger. The guard was tired and disoriented—the perfect target.
Across the room, red-haired Jannie stared at me as though expecting me to turn on her next. Thankfully the guard did not glance her way.
I tugged the dagger free of its sheath and raised it behind the man’s back, sweat slicking my palms. With his head bent over his mug, his neck was an obvious mark.
I paused, rigid with fear.
Then I slammed the point of my dagger into his neck, just at the base of his skull.
The man convulsed, blood spraying from his neck.
Jannie shrieked softly, and my stomach heaved. I yanked my dagger free and staggered backward, horrified.
For a moment, I thought he would cry out and raise the alarm, but his head just dropped onto the table, his mug toppling with a clatter.
Blood seeped from his wound, spreading down the fabric of his uniform, droplets spattering to the floor.
“Quick, we’ve got to get him out of here,” Magreeda said in a raspy whisper. Though she looked shaken, her hands were steady as she grabbed the man by his arms and dragged him from his seat. Leaving my dagger on the bench, I took his legs, and we hauled him to a large pantry.
“Get that floor clean enough to eat off,” Magreeda barked over her shoulder at Jannie.
She flinched but hurriedly fetched her bucket and rag. By the time we had deposited the body in the pantry, where the powerful aroma of cinnamon and pepper masked the stench of excrement now rising from the dead man, the blood was mostly gone, mingled, with grey, sudsy water in the wash bucket. I closed the door shakily. A trail of red droplets still marked our path to the pantry, but Jannie was already crawling along beside them, wiping as she went. My dagger on the bench was clean and glistening, a few soap suds clinging to the end.
“Good mornin’!” Tessie’s voice rang from outside.
It must be her signal that someone was approaching.
I lunged for my dagger and hid it behind my back just as the door opened.
It was another Whitish soldier, this one looking far more awake than the other, and already in a foul mood.
Jannie made a strangled sound and sped up her scrubbing.
“Where is Barton?” the soldier demanded. “He’s late with breakfast.”
“He must’ve overslept,” Magreeda said. “I haven’t seen him. But your food is ready, if you’d bring it down for him.”
“You do it, woman. I need to find that lazy bastard and teach him a lesson.” The soldier stomped out of the kitchen.
“Plagues,” Magreeda whispered once we were alone. “Jannie, would you carry this out for me?”
“Who’s Barton?” Jannie asked, her voice higher than usual.
“Not the man we just dumped in the pantry,” Magreeda said. “Someone else must’ve done away with him. A few more casualties like that and we might stand a chance.”
Jannie hiccupped in fear. Still, she did as she was told, disappearing with the pot of hot chocolate in one hand and the tureen of millet porridge balanced on the other arm.
Doors were still banging all around us, footsteps clomping to and fro—I expected an attack at any moment. Surely the soldiers had figured out what was happening by now.
When another Whitish soldier stalked in, I jumped.
“Why is breakfast taking so long?”
“I’m glad you’re here,” Magreeda said. “Can you give this oven a look? It’s not lighting properly.”
The man grunted and stomped over to the far side of the kitchen, where one of the great ovens remained cold.
I picked up a tray of dough rolls ready to bake and skirted around the table toward the other oven, my dagger hidden beneath the tray, but the chef beat me to it.
As the man knelt to examine the inside of the cavernous oven, Magreeda lifted a cast-iron pan over her shoulder.
With a ringing thud, she brought it down on the man’s head.
The Whitish soldier slumped in front of the oven, his head cracking as it thudded against the marble floor.
“Plagues, I didn’t expect that to be so loud,” Magreeda said in a stunned whisper. “Do you reckon he’s dead?”
Abandoning my tray, I dropped to my knees beside the man. I could not see his chest rising and falling, and when I put a finger over his lips, I could not feel any stirring in the air.
“I think so.”
As we dragged him to the pantry to join his fellow, I heard a sudden increase in the volume and pace of clattering footsteps. It sounded like many people were running through the servants’ quarters, and shouts rang out as well, most of them male voices.
Sweat broke out on the chef’s forehead. “Hurry, come on, we don’t have time for this.”
We leaned forward, putting our weight into dragging the man faster than before, and heaved the pantry door closed behind him just as the kitchen door burst open again.
This time it was Jannie.
“Well?” Magreeda demanded.
“A-a few of them drank the cocoa, but then someone started shouting, and they all went running. They must’ve found a body.”
Magreeda swore.
Seconds later, Mellicante hurtled into the kitchen. Her sleeve was soaked with blood—judging from the tear below her shoulder, it was her own—and she was out of breath.
“They know the house is under attack,” she panted. “I think we’ve finished off three of them. But they don’t look like they were poisoned. What’s happened?”
“One of the fools drank his hot chocolate before he could take breakfast to the others,” I said. “Where are they now? We need to join the fight.”
“I think they’re coming here. Brace yourselves.”
I took a step back in shock.
“Either hide yourself in that pantry, or grab a knife,” the chef snapped at Jannie.
She glanced at the closed door and clutched her throat as though she was about to be sick. Hands shaking, she selected a tiny paring knife from the block.
“Tessie?” the chef bellowed. “Get yourself in here!”
The girl darted into the kitchen seconds before six Whitish men barreled through the doorway.
“There he is!” one of them yelled, pointing at Mellicante. “We’re under attack—that bastard smuggled assassins into the governor’s household!”
“What’s going on here?” the chef barked. “I heard shouts—is the governor safe?”
She was stalling, clearly hoping help would come. There was no way the five of us could stand up to six trained soldiers, especially since only Mellicante was properly armed.
“Yes, of course he’s—”
The soldier broke off as more running footsteps approached.
Baridya hurtled into the room, two of the ship-hands just behind her. They stopped short when they saw the Whitish soldiers ranged against Mellicante.
One of the ship-hands kicked the door shut, but it flew open again seconds later as two more Whitish soldiers burst through. They had evidently been pursuing Baridya and the ship-hands.
“You!” one of them howled, spotting me. “I’ve seen her going into the governor’s study every day! She wasn’t here a span ago, I swear. She’s the one behind this.”
The soldiers all turned on me—all but one, who kept his sword trained on Mellicante.
I wished I had something longer than a dagger to defend myself with. But even if I’d been armed with a sword, I had no fighting skills whatsoever. Of everyone in this room, only Mellicante stood a chance against the Whitish.
I edged backward, putting the great wooden table between myself and the Whitish, and Baridya ran to my side.
But there were too many Whitish.
They began edging around both sides of the table, clos
ing in on us.
As one of them lunged for me, sword raised high, Magreeda gave a shout and swung her iron pot with all her strength into the small of the man’s back.
The blow sent the man sprawling onto the ground. I danced out of the way of his falling sword.
When he scrambled to regain his feet, the chef brought her pot down on his head.
This time he did not stir.
I bent and grabbed the sword that he had dropped at my feet, holding it in my right hand while I kept my dagger in the left.
“Traitors and demons!” one of the soldiers yelled. He ran at Magreeda; she clumsily blocked his sword blow with the pot.
But the pot looked heavy and cumbersome. While she was hoisting it back to defend herself once again, the soldier swept his sword beneath her arm and sliced across her ribs.
With a gasp of pain, Magreeda stumbled backward, blood staining her uniform.
The red-haired kitchen hand squealed and fled, but no one took notice of her.
Now the chef was out of the way, the soldier ran at me, two of his fellows close behind.
I raised the sword in front of me, thinking of nothing but blocking the blade that flew at me far too quickly.
I managed to parry two blows, each impact sending a tremor through my wrist.
On the third, the soldier managed to hook his blade around mine.
When he twisted it to one side, it wrenched in my grip and the sword clattered to the ground.
I took a step backward and collided with Baridya.
The soldier lunged again. I jumped to the side, but not fast enough—the sword sank into my arm just below the shoulder.
Agony fiercer than any I had ever known seized hold of me.
For a moment I could see nothing—everything vanished except the screaming pain in my shoulder. I yelled and clutched at my arm, digging my fingernails into my skin as though that would dull the agony, my vision blackened.
Then someone was hauling me back to my feet. I swayed, blinking away dark fog, and realized I had fallen to my knees. It was Baridya who had pulled me up again. She grabbed the fallen sword and stepped between me and my attacker.
More sword blows rang out from around the kitchen, but I couldn’t register who was fighting whom, or who was winning. I managed to stop shouting in pain, but my breath came in sharp gasps.
I heard another heavy thud—the chef was still on her feet and fighting.
Baridya managed to block several strikes from the soldier who had wounded me, but on the opposite side of the table, another Whitish man had slipped past Mellicante and advanced on me, his face hard with hatred.
I raised my dagger, but everything was still moving in slow motion, my head dizzy with pain.
Then a man’s deep voice bellowed, “Help!” Though it was muffled and distant, everyone in the room paused for a fraction of a second.
“Someone help!” the voice yelled again.
It sounded like my father.
Fear cut through the pain. As adrenaline raced through me, my vision cleared and I could suddenly see a clear path to the kitchen door.
Ducking beneath the blade of the soldier who advanced on me, I sprinted to the other side of the kitchen before anyone could react.
The doors hung open, and I hurtled through, the gash in my shoulder throbbing.
I met no one as I skidded through the hallway. I didn’t know where the voice had come from, but it wasn’t the servants’ quarters.
Behind an open door, I glimpsed a wide-open marble floor—the entrance hall.
Footsteps pounded behind me, but I didn’t stop to see who they belonged to.
I skidded into the grand entrance hall.
There was my father, leaning over the rail of the upstairs landing. But he was not in danger.
It was Lord Jofran who knelt between two Whitish guards, his head pulled back and a knife at his throat.
12
Casualties of War
“T hat’s them,” one of the Whitish guards shouted, pointing from me to Mellicante. “They’re the ones behind this. I’ve never seen them before.”
I skidded to a halt, my heart pounding in my throat.
One of the deck-hands, a young woman with tightly-coiled black hair like Saniya’s, careened through the door and ran up to my side. Her sword was slick with blood, and she seemed unharmed.
“Lay down your weapons,” the Whitish guard barked. “Surrender at once, or the governor is dead!”
Before I could respond, a clump of people burst through the door. Seven of them were Whitish guards, and they dashed toward their fellows. Many showed signs of poisoning, from dilated pupils to clumsy, uncoordinated gaits. It seemed a decent handful of soldiers had tasted the hot chocolate after all.
The others were my ragtag army—Mellicante, Baridya, Magreeda, Tessie, Dellik, and two more deck-hands. They arrayed themselves around me, facing the five Whitish soldiers and the governor.
“You’re outmatched,” the Whitish soldier spat. “Surely you value the governor’s life more than whatever you think you’re fighting for. Hand over your weapons and surrender, and we’ll spare your lives.”
Something knocked against my hand—the hilt of a sword. My fingers closed instinctively around the weapon.
I took a step forward, numb with fear.
I could not surrender now. If I handed myself over to the Whitish, our entire country would fall into enemy hands.
But how could I gamble with the governor’s life? If he died, would Larkhaven turn against me?
“Don’t yield,” Lord Jofran choked out. “It’s not worth it. We—we need to fight back.”
The Whitish soldier yanked his head still farther back; Jofran gasped for breath.
I took another half-step forward, wracked with indecision.
Mellicante and Baridya edged forward to flank me, blades at the ready.
I had to put Itrea first.
Though revulsion gripped my stomach, I knew I had no other choice.
I raised my sword, the movement sending a spasm of agony through my injured arm.
Then I surged forward, slashing my sword at the ribs of the soldier gripping the governor.
I was not fast enough.
Before my sword connected with the man’s exposed side, he wrenched his knife across the governor’s throat.
The blade bit deep into his flesh.
Howling, the governor crumpled forward.
A split second later, my sword connected with the soldier’s midriff, just below his ribs. It cut through his uniform, slicing into his flesh.
Though he staggered back, the blow was not fatal.
I drew my sword back and lunged again, this time stabbing the point through his ribs.
He dropped to his knees, and in the momentary stillness, my eyes fell on Lord Jofran.
His yells had given way to choking, and his skin was ashen.
Reeling with shock, I took several clumsy steps backward.
Around me, swords were clanging once again, but the movement was nothing more than a blur.
This powerful man—this brave leader who had once stood firm against the Whitish threat while Baylore succumbed to chaos—was dead because of me.
Gradually the whirl of motion around me subsided, the clanging blows and shouts echoing their way into silence.
The Whitish soldiers were dead.
We had won, yet it did not feel like a victory at all. The poison had changed the outcome for us, but it had not been enough.
Dizzily I turned away from the governor, who was sprawled on the floor, his limbs bent unnaturally.
More staff members were edging through the door into the entrance hall, some looking sick, others staring at the governor with mixed expressions of grief and shock.
Then Magreeda moved. Using the pot she still carried for balance, she got to one knee.
“Your Majesty.”
Now all eyes turned to me.
“I’m sorry.” My voice was cho
ked. “I—I didn’t mean for him to die.”
“You did what you had to,” Magreeda said gruffly. “I’ve got family in Larkhaven, and every day they’re afraid to go out with those Whitish bastards watching the streets. War’s coming. If we didn’t fight back, Itrea would be in Whitish hands by the end of the year. The—the governor knew what he was doing.” Her voice cracked, and she busied herself clambering back to her feet. I thought her eyes looked misty.
The staff seemed to look to Magreeda for guidance now their master was gone. Gradually they began to kneel as well, some with tears in their eyes, others studying me with suspicion.
I had to become the leader they needed. My country depended on me.
Straightening, I let the familiar mask of confidence drop over my features. It was hard this time, with the ache in my arm surging once more and the weight of guilt squeezing my lungs.
“Our fight is just beginning.” My voice rang out through the entrance hall—I thanked the cloudy gods it was steady. “If you have not already guessed, my name is Kalleah, and I am the former queen of Itrea. No matter what comes, I intend to lead our nation to victory against the Whitish. I hope that you will form the beginning of an army greater than Itrea has ever seen.”
“Your Majesty?” Rona asked tentatively. She had still been kneeling, but she pulled herself to her feet with one hand on Quendon’s arm. “How do you intend to send off Lord Jofran?”
I pushed away the guilt and horror that buffeted me. These people were looking to me for direction. I could not be weak, not now. Later I would allow myself to feel the full weight of what I had done.
“Yes,” I managed. “His funeral. Magreeda—I will leave you in charge of arrangements.”
She cleared her throat, and this time tears spilled from her eyes. She rubbed them with the back of a callused hand. “I think a pyre by the cliffs would be suitable. Ordinarily we’d invite the whole town, but as we can’t—”
“That would be good,” Rona said. “It’s what he would have wanted, I think.”
* * *
We held the funeral that afternoon. The rest of the morning was spent scrubbing every spot of blood from the floors, stripping the bloodstained uniforms off the Whitish soldiers before dumping their bodies over the cliffs into the ocean, and picking bucketfuls of flowers to scatter along the path leading to the lawn where Magreeda was personally hauling armload after armload of logs to build the funeral pyre. She would not accept help from any of the staff, though she directed them to other tasks with brusque efficiency.
Renegade Queen : A Court Intrigue Fantasy (The Forbidden Queen Series Book 3) Page 12