Chapter 13
After dinner, Cass sat quietly spinning an unadorned short-handled knife in his hand. Miri had a full stomach and was drowsy but could not seem to draw her eyes away from the dance of the blade as the flicker of firelight caught on it. How many hours he must have done so, likely in the streets of Stormskeep while on his watch, mindlessly twirling a dagger, as if it were not an implement capable of inflicting death.
The light brushed his knuckle, and she reached over to still his hand and traced a finger across a faint mark.
“Not from a dagger,” he said. “I slipped from a balustrade I’d climbed on a dare.”
Miri snorted. “I hope you won something for the trouble.”
“Only repute.”
She smiled, shifting to rest her head on an elbow with a yawn. “I’m surprised you’re not covered in scars by now.”
Cass ran his finger across a faint line on Miri’s temple. His touch was gentle enough that she shivered. “And what of you, Princess? How did you come by this scar?”
Miri pressed her lips together, fighting her desire to run from the memory. “My sister and I got into a tussle over a silver brush.” Miri could remember the heft of it, the delicate carved roses that vined up the handle, and the molded silver lion that stood out in relief. The lion’s long and sharp claws had wrapped around the edges of the paddle. “She took hold of it, trying to wrest it away while she screamed.” Miri wanted to shake her head but only nestled closer into the warmth of her arm. “I was so stubborn. The more she fought, the less I gave. I saw it in her eyes, that look, and I knew I’d taken it too far. She let go with a shove, swift enough that I wasn’t able to regain my balance from our tug of war, and it cracked my scalp just as I turned my head.”
Miri had fallen on her rear and stared up at her sister through the blood that streamed from her temple. Lettie had not been sorry.
She sighed. “Momma found us and ordered every single mirror out of our rooms. Apparently, one of the lords had been taunting Lettie, telling her that the younger Lion outpaced her in beauty as well as wit. I hadn’t known.” Miri wasn’t sure it would have mattered—she couldn’t say she would have let up if she’d known.
Miri’s mother had been furious that the lord’s taunting had worked and appalled that Lettie had drawn her own sister’s blood. The queen had taken Miri aside to tend her wound. Her assurances were as soft as her touch. “Beauty is everywhere in you, my child. It can never be erased with something as simple as the slice of a blade or a layer of mud. Remember that, my little bean. Remember that your heart is that of a lion.”
Their mother hadn’t understood Lettie’s fears the way Miri had. The queen didn’t know that Lettie was afraid she might never earn a true name like the Storm Queen or like the Lion Queen herself had, barely two years past her coronation.
Lettie had been afraid she would only be known as the Lion Queen’s daughter, as a princess who’d had a great and powerful mother, one who had not truly earned the throne. What had happened instead was far worse than any of them could have imagined.
Cass’s gaze weighed on Miri. His silence said something she didn’t particularly like and that dug into the comfort she’d managed like an ill-placed burr. She shook it off, only offering a final “We were just girls. Children,” before she drew her cloak over her shoulder.
Miri recalled something she’d heard from Henry the very next day. “Scars are only proof that a person has experience in battle and that they’ve earned a victory and survived to fight again.”
Miri didn’t know if that was true. Sometimes scars were earned by battles lost.
The news of the king’s death arrived at the inn near Stormhold well before Miri and Cass. They heard the chatter of men from the trail, travelers standing idle with the locals for news they deemed too important to wait for a decent setting. It only grew louder as they neared the inn. Horse-drawn carts were stopped in the road as a young boy in short trousers retold the tale. By the time they reached the stable, Miri had heard it again and again.
“The king has been killed. Fallen from his horse. His neck broken so that he couldn’t even speak. Blood bubbled from his lips, no words. A terrible accident.”
The whispers followed. “The man was such a fool for his riding. Never skilled but a braggart, constantly on that he took his stallion out to hunt every week. A second cousin had a boy who was a groom there, said they’d pushed him onto the beast every single time. Trotted him through the courtyard and into the woods on parade. His knights would shoot a fox for him and lay it in the weeds the morning of. Fool of a thing. It’s a wonder he lasted this long at all.”
Miri met Cass’s gaze, but when he was approached by the stable hand, Cass only shook his head sadly, as if dismayed by the unfortunate news. “No, of course we’ve not heard. We’ve been traveling for weeks. Yes, traders from Kirkwall. On our way home to replenish our stock.”
She was grateful he’d gone along with her plan. A time to implement the spread of rumors would come but not yet. Too soon, and the kings might raise their guard—before their suspicions had been triggered by Miri’s actions. She had one more kill, maybe two, then things would get exponentially harder—one more before the risks became higher still.
“My lady.”
Cass offered his hand, but Miri didn’t flinch. She took it gratefully and let him settle her onto the ground. She had two feet, and she could use them to get to the inn—she hoped, anyway.
“Terrible news,” the stable hand said. “And no son to bear his throne.”
Miri’s teeth pressed together so hard that she feared they might crack.
“We’ve ridden such a long way,” Cass said. “Please excuse the lady. I fear we both need a hot meal and a long rest.”
The stable hand smiled. “To be sure. You’ve come to the right place, I tell you. Mags has on a beast of a stew. Sure to be a busy one tonight. Even a bard or two, I’ll wager.”
Cass took Miri by the elbow to lead her away from the stables, through the milling travelers, and into the inn. The exterior was large and unadorned, made of wattle and daub despite being so near the town at Stormhold. It was an older establishment, and though Stormhold was rich in trade, the inn was far enough out to see less traffic. No one would bother trading there when it was only a day’s ride to the central trading spot of Stormhold, situated between two rivers with the port to its south and the wealthy kingdom of Stormskeep to its north.
They walked into the inn to find it lit by a dozen hammered-iron chandeliers and wall sconces and smelling strongly of the promised stew. Few patrons waited at the tables, but the staff was busy milling about in what was undoubtedly preparation for what would have been a previously unexpected crowd. One of the servers glanced up at Cass, and something like recognition flashed in her eyes. It was gone a moment later.
“Is it too early for dinner?” Cass asked.
“No, to be sure.” She smiled. “Have yourselves a sit down, and I’ll be back in a wink with plenty for you both.”
Cass settled onto a bench across from Miri, giving her a look that asked how she was. She managed a nod, but if she were being honest, she didn’t feel like a criminal about to be caught. She felt almost relieved. The waiting was over. The first king was dead. It was an accident, they’d said. Everyone thought him a fool.
“He’ll be replaced by one of his advisers, a cousin, I’m told…” The words echoed from across the massive room, a space filled with rough-hewn lumber, pottery, and trenchers on every table.
The rumors were true—those of succession, at least. King Casper had no heir. His fool of a cousin would be no threat, should the true queen be raised again to her throne—should Miri make it to Lettie in time.
“Ale for the lady,” Cass said. “Cider for me.”
The server, younger than the first, smirked at Cass’s order, which did not bode well for the quality of his choice. He thanked her, anyway, and when she returned a moment later with two mugs, the olde
r woman followed after. She was the aforementioned Mags, Miri guessed.
The woman settled their stew onto the table, her gaze lingering on Cass’s placid face before she straightened to place a hand on her hip. “Will you be having a room then?”
“If we’re lucky.” Cass gave her a grin, but it was not the lopsided one that surfaced when he really meant it.
“Aye,” she said. “You do look like the lucky sort.”
Miri bit her lip at the color that crossed Cass’s cheeks. She was feeling more than a little unbalanced, but she picked up the ale anyway and drank heavily.
The woman nodded. “I’ll set you up with a room and bring back another helping. You both look like you could use some fattening up for the trail.”
Cass thanked her then took a draw from his mug. He choked loudly and set the cup on the table, his eyes watering. Miri slid her ale toward him, and he took it with a grateful look once he was able to draw a solid breath. “Gods,” he muttered. “Remind me never to try that again.”
Miri chuckled, but it was only half-hearted. She knew Cass would not sleep easily with so many about at the inn. He would stay awake and listen from his spot on the floor. He would be close enough to protect Miri but always kept an ear to the crowd.
The stew was warm and salty with large chunks of vegetables and a hearty portion of meat. Miri hadn’t realized how hungry she was and was quickly feeling settled and steadier by the warmth and the food. By the end of the second bowl, they’d finished three glasses of ale, and Miri was comfortable enough to entertain sleeping on the bench right there in the dining room.
“Another ale, I think,” she said lazily before Cass slid the mug to his side of the table.
“That’ll do,” he said.
Miri quirked a brow at him when she realized he wasn’t drinking it, only moving it away from her. She wondered a bit vaguely how long that had been going on. Surely, he’d helped her drain the previous mugs.
The room had filled with an early-supper crowd, and over the chatter of scuttlebutt and jest, Miri could hear the patter of rain. It would be dark and wet and maybe warmer in the stable near a dozing horse. She could certainly picture herself sleeping out there as well.
Laughter erupted from across the room, deep bellows from broad-chested men and the cackling crows of the serving women. It had been something the bard had said, she thought, but Miri’s gaze caught on the fire in the massive stone hearth. There, it would be warm. There, she could sleep.
“Well enough,” Cass said. “Time we retire.”
“No, I’m fine. Very well, in fact,” Miri answered. There was no need to rush on her part. Cass the queensguard could listen all he wanted.
Cass frowned, stood, and came around to bow toward Miri. “My lady.”
Miri snorted a laugh but stood to meet him. “Good sir.” She put her elbow out and let Cass lead her toward the stairs.
As they crossed in front of the door, a large man came in, shaking rain from his hat and rolling his shoulders like a dog shedding water. He had brass rings braided into his beard and boots fit for the sea. He was from Smithsport, then. Cass leaned into Miri, his face nearly brushing her neck as he swept her toward the stairs. They were only a young couple, traders newly wed, not the harbormaster’s spy from Smithsport and the daughter of a dead queen.
They climbed the narrow stair toward their room, and Miri glanced at the space below. Not a single man seemed disheartened. Not a tear was shed in Casper’s name. It was nothing like the loss of her mother but still the same.
“You’ve had too much to drink,” Cass said. The door had only just shut behind them, closing them into the room. A small window looked out into the darkness, and rain pattered against the thick and bumpy glass.
“Pshaw.” Miri flopped onto the bed, boots and all. “I would never.”
Cass paced the room once, which didn’t take long, given the space, then was back at the door, listening to the goings-on outside. A woman gave a low and sultry laugh. Then came the muffled sound of a door closing down the hall.
Miri’s head spun. She’d definitely had too much to drink. She should probably unlace her boots, but it didn’t seem entirely worth the effort. Cass poured water from a carafe into a short cup and offered it to her. She waved it away.
He paced in front of the door. After a long while leaning beside the entrance, Cass finally moved toward the bed to unroll his cloak and settle it over the plank floor. He lay on it, his back flat and eyes closed. Miri’s gaze turned from him to stare at the ceiling, a very low affair that was heavily spotted with evidence of leaks and patches. Minutes passed to the steady sound of their breathing and the rain outside.
Miri had killed a king.
Her fingers found the lump of metal beneath her layers of clothes. The small trinket was all that was left of her mother. Eyes to the ceiling, Miri whispered, “Do you think it will work—that we’ll actually get away with it?”
Cass let the silence stretch before he answered. “No,” he said, voice tinged with sadness. “I think you’ll die.”
Miri sighed. She had imagined the killing of each king as long as she could remember and had felt the hate in her heart and the pressure of her vow. She’d dreamed of the day she might meet Lettie again and what she would say and how they would cry. But Miri had never thought past that moment or devised a plan on how to escape the kingsmen and the sorcerers and restore Lettie to her throne. It didn’t seem conceivable, because it was too much to hope.
Cass did not argue with her again or tell her it was not too late to stop. He understood. She could not give up or let them win, even though he thought she was going to die.
Miri closed her eyes to whisper into the darkness, “I think I will too.”
Chapter 14
The ride to Kirkwall had taken two full weeks. The rain had been relentless, and Cass had managed to find inns only four of those nights. Miri was soaked through and should have been in foul spirits, but she had never been more eager to carry out her murderous plot. The map on the wall was being pieced back together. She was one step closer to Lettie and to being free.
The sky had cleared to a hazy gray, and the air had finally stilled as they approached the top of a ridge looking down toward Kirkwall. Miri groaned at the sight of smoke rising over the bordering wall. She could imagine the smell of roasting meat. The idea of warmth and a dry bed conquered any guilt over manners.
Cass shook his head and pushed back the hood of his cloak, which had long since been sodden with what felt like endless rain. “It’s market day,” he said. “Well timed, if I do say so myself.”
“Finally, a bit of luck,” Miri agreed. She gave him a playful glance. “I suppose Mags was right about you after all.”
He returned her glance sidelong, not quite as playful. “Yes. Lucky.”
Miri’s cheeks stung when she broke into a grin. “Let’s get to it, then. I’m ready to be off with the lot of this sodden linen and wool.”
Cass kicked up Milo as they came over the ridge. The ground gently sloped and was covered in soft, short meadow grass dotted with wild summer flowers. The horses nickered at travelers in the distance, and Miri gave a small tug on Wolf’s reins to bring him back on task. The animals were tired of the trail as well, and sloppy ground made the work of stepping through forests and mucky trails more laborious.
The land eventually leveled off. The grass trodden by traffic funneled into muddy, wagon-tracked patches before reaching the packed roads that led to the wall. They followed a horse-drawn cart toward the gate, which was open for market day and posted with several guards. The guards were not dressed in the standard wardrobe of kingsmen but appeared to be hired hands. One had a pike, another had a sword, and two more were armed with apparently no more than their knives and wits.
But no one would have reason to attack the town of Kirkwall. Besides, the king was safe within his castle at the center of it all. That, Miri thought, was where the kingsmen waited. She couldn’t know for c
ertain whether the castle housed a sorcerer, but her hope was that he still resided in the church tower, away from the king and Miri’s ploy.
The gate guards were quite distracted by the cart, which appeared to be well stocked with pottery jugs that smelled heavily of wine, but Miri kept her head down as they passed through the gateway in the massive stone walls.
Miri didn’t believe King Simon had any real concerns regarding his soul, but his people—the people who lived in Kirkwall and had once been ruled by the Lion Queen—did not abide by magic and the dark arts. They’d been prone to wearing charms and warding hexes, the last time Miri had visited with her mother, but when times were hard, sometimes faith was difficult to uphold. And Kirkwall had suffered mightily at the hands of its king.
Regardless, the town had been given a sorcerer, and by rule of local law and to protect from uprising, Simon had installed that sorcerer in the proposed safety of the tower. The tower was a massive stone affair, its base carved with signs of the maiden and reportedly mounded with offerings—to the maiden, not the sorcerer.
Miri had considered, long ago, letting rumors stoke the people of Kirkwall to incite a riot against their king. But she had learned of uprisings in her studies as a child and knew that more would be killed by such tactics than if she did so alone.
“There,” Cass said, gesturing toward a path away from the market. “Lodgings will likely be full after the rain and during market, but it’ll be our best place to ask.”
She nodded, leading Wolf over the winding stone paths and away from the smell of food. The crowd became thinner the farther they rode. Most were on foot or hauling handcarts toward the market square. When they finally reached the lodge, stacked tall and towering above them, Cass glanced at the street before stepping down from his horse and handing her the reins.
His gaze was severe. “Should I be too long, please don’t wait.” He gave her a smile, in case anyone heard, but Miri understood it was a warning. Apparently, Kirkwall was not as friendly or filled with benefactors who were loyal to the rightful queen.
Seven Ways to Kill a King Page 9