Kill the Queen (Crown of Shards #1)

by Jennifer Estep

  It took me several minutes to dig the thorns out of my shirt and skin, but I managed it, although I got long, stinging scrapes in return. I also managed to untangle the bracelet and the bag from the thorns.

  The water ebbed to shallows, before giving way to mud and rocks, and I slogged through it all until I reached the grassy shore.

  Sweat slid down my face, mixing with the water, and my breath came in ragged gasps. For a long time, all I could do was sit there, sucking down gulp after gulp of air, not quite believing that I was still alive. That Vasilia’s lightning, the fall off the cliffs, and the wild ride through the river hadn’t killed me. But eventually, my fear and panic faded, and I looked around, trying to figure out where I was.

  Woods surrounded both sides of the river, the trees and branches blocking out everything else. No boats or people appeared, no voices sounded, and nothing moved except the river as it rushed by. All I could smell was water and mud, telling me that I was completely alone.

  But I could still see Seven Spire in the distance.

  The palace jutted out of the side of the mountain like always, although the longer I stared at it, the more the balconies, steps, and especially the gladiators and creatures on the massive columns seemed to move, writhe, and twist themselves into grotesque shapes. I felt like I was staring at the dark, gaping maw of some horrible monster that was about to break free of the mountain and gobble me up, along with everything else.

  Memories of the massacre rose up in my mind. The screams tearing through the air. The solid thunk s of swords hitting bones. The disgusting stench of blood covering everything. Isobel, Madelena, Cordelia, and all the others lying broken, battered, beaten, and dead on the lawn.

  I shuddered and dropped my gaze from the palace. I couldn’t stand to look at it right now, much less think about what had happened.

  I didn’t know how long I sat there, my arms wrapped around my knees, hugging myself into a little ball, and rocking back and forth, as if that would protect me from my memories or anything else. But my shock slowly receded, and I realized how cold and wet I was, not to mention the way my stomach kept rumbling, demanding food. Like it or not, I had survived, and I couldn’t sit here and pretend that the rest of the world didn’t exist, no matter how much I wanted to.

  But where could I go? My cousins were dead, and I didn’t have any friends. I felt like I was twelve years old again. For the second time in my life, everything that I loved had been ripped away. Isobel, Alvis, all my hopes, dreams, and plans for the future. They were all gone, and this time, no one was going to help me.

  Even if I did know someone who might take me in, I couldn’t trust them not to betray me to Vasilia. After all, what better way to gain the new queen’s favor than by handing me over to her? As far as Vasilia knew, her cousin Everleigh was dead, and it needed to stay that way if I had any hope of surviving for any length of time.

  I couldn’t tell anyone who I was, which meant that I couldn’t access my bank accounts. No accounts meant no savings and no money. My clothes were ruined, and the only things that I had of value were my silver bracelet and the black velvet bag on my wrist—

  My eyes widened, and I fumbled for the bag, untangling the drawstrings and sliding it off my wrist. I opened the strings, then tipped the bag upside down.

  The memory stone dropped into my hand with a whisper.

  I held the stone up, examining it, but the opal was smooth, whole, and unbroken, and I could feel the magic pulsing inside it. The stone had recorded every single second of the massacre, right up until I’d grabbed it from the grass.

  It was proof of Vasilia’s crimes, which made it powerful, valuable, and extremely dangerous. Favors, blackmail, another coup. The memory stone could be used for all that and more. If anyone—anyone —knew about the stone, they would kill me for it.

  I was tempted to hurl the opal into the river and let the water drown it the same way that Vasilia had tried to drown me. I even went so far as to rear back my hand. But I let out a breath, lowered my hand, and dropped the memory stone back into its black velvet bag. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it, but I couldn’t get rid of it either.

  I set the bag on the ground, then undid the clasp on my bracelet. I examined it the same way I had the memory stone, but the bracelet had also survived unscathed. Not so much as a scratch marred the silver, and the tearstone shards were all intact and as blue as ever, since the river had washed all the blood off them.

  Staring at it made my heart ache again, so I dropped the bracelet into the bag as well, then pulled the drawstrings together, hiding it and the memory stone. I started to hook the strings back around my wrist, but I thought better of it, lifted up my tunic, and slid the strings through one of my belt loops before tying them together. Then I pulled my tunic back down into place, hiding the bag.

  But that still didn’t solve the problem of where I should go, and I stared up at Seven Spire again, as though all those gladiators battling each other in the columns would give me some brilliant inspiration—

  Serilda Swanson’s come back to the capital. Her gladiator troupe moved into that new arena along the river last week.

  That bit of gossip that I’d overheard during the luncheon popped into my mind, along with Cordelia’s voice.

  Find Serilda Swanson. She’ll . . . protect you, help you, train you. Tell her . . . that you’re the last Winter queen. She’ll understand.

  I still had no idea what Cordelia had meant about my being a Winter queen or why she thought that was so important, and I couldn’t trust Serilda Swanson any more than I could trust anyone else. But I couldn’t come up with a better idea. At least I knew where Serilda was and what she did for a living.

  Everyone else I knew was dead.

  My heart squeezed tight again, but I forced myself to keep thinking, and I came to two sad, inescapable conclusions—I couldn’t sit here forever, and I didn’t have anywhere else to go. Besides, a gladiator troupe would be large, crowded, and the last place that anyone would look for me, on the slim chance that anyone realized that I was still alive.

  So I sighed, pushed myself to my feet, and started walking, heading back toward the city.

  Part Two

  The Black Swan

  Chapter Ten

  I hadn’t gone as far down the river as I’d thought, and I reached the city just as the sun was setting behind the palace. The towering spires looked like daggers stabbing into the sun, with red rays of blood oozing everywhere. My lips curled with disgust, but I kept walking, finally reaching the slums on the outskirts of the city.

  I stepped out of the trees and onto a hard-packed dirt road that split off in a dozen different directions. I picked the path that stayed the closest to the river and trudged on.

  Bellona was a prosperous kingdom with its mining, timber, and other industries, but not everyone shared in the wealth. Shacks made of rotten wood lashed together with equally rotten ropes jutted up like crooked teeth, topped with flimsy tin roofs that glinted like dull fillings in this mouth of squalor.

  Through the open doors, I spotted women feeding fires and stirring pots of bubbling stews inside the tiny, cramped quarters. Children with bare feet and dirty faces chased each other through the maze of shacks, hopscotching over broken boards, shattered glass, and other odds and ends. A few thin, mangy dogs barked and nipped at their heels, joining in the fun, while equally thin, scruffy cats perched on the roofs, blinking sleepily and soaking up the evening sun.

  This wasn’t the first time I had been to the slums. Vasilia and the rest of my Blair cousins wouldn’t have been caught dead here, so I had been the royal stand-in at more than one soup kitchen and other charity. Coming here always made my own problems seem so insignificant. Sorrow filled my heart that people lived like this, that my people lived like this, but I couldn’t help them. I was so tired, battered, and bruised that I could barely help myself right now.

  I rounded a shack and passed a group of men huddled around a fir
e, passing a brown bottle back and forth. They stared at me, their gazes sharpening with predatory interest, and I hurried on. Sorrow or not, I had to be careful. I might only have my torn clothes and muddy boots, but that was still enough to make me a target.

  The closer I got to the city proper, the nicer the shacks became, with straighter walls and fewer spaces in between the boards. Some were whitewashed, and a few boasted small metal spires at the corners, as though they were trying to emulate the larger homes in the distance.

  Wire lines stretched from one shack to another, and the clothes on them snapped like flags in the breeze. Women chatted with each other as they hung out their wet laundry and checked to see if their other clothes had dried yet. I walked past them and slipped behind one of the shacks. Then I crept up and peered around the corner, watching the women. It seemed to take forever, although it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but the women said their goodbyes, gathered up their laundry baskets, and disappeared back inside their homes.

  When I was sure that they were all inside, I darted over and snatched a blue tunic and a pair of black leggings off one of the wires. I ducked my head, balled the clothes up under my arm, and hurried on. My heart pounded, and I expected someone to yell at me to stop, but no cries sounded.

  I hated stealing, especially from people who had so little, but I didn’t have a choice. My own clothes were ruined, and I didn’t dare ask anyone for anything. I didn’t want anyone remembering me, the waterlogged woman who had come from downriver the day of the royal massacre. Oh, I doubted that anyone would connect me with what happened and realize that I had survived, but it wasn’t a risk that I was willing to take.

  When I was a safe distance away, I stopped behind one of the shacks, stripped off my clothes, and shimmied into my stolen ones. They were still damp, and they didn’t fit well, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and I was lower than the lowest beggar right now. I tied the bag with the memory stone and my bracelet to one of the belt loops on my new leggings, made sure that my new tunic covered the bulge, and pulled my muddy boots back on. Then I shoved my ruined clothes under a pile of wood and scurried away.

  Eventually, the hard-packed dirt gave way to cobblestone streets, and the shacks were replaced by small homes made of wood that actually fit together. The streets opened up into large plazas with fountains bubbling in the center and wooden carts selling everything from fruits and vegetables to loaves of fresh-baked bread. Wisps of steam curled up, bringing the delicious scent of the bread with it. My stomach grumbled again, but I didn’t dare swipe so much as an apple from the carts. The last thing I needed was for the city guards to arrest me for stealing.

  I wasn’t familiar with this part of Svalin, and all I knew was that Serilda Swanson’s gladiator troupe was located in the arena by the river, but it was easier to find than I’d expected.

  I just followed the crowd.

  “Free show! Free show tonight!” a boy bellowed at one of the street corners, waving a stack of flyers. “Straight ahead at the new Black Swan arena!”

  Black Swan? That must be Serilda’s name for her troupe. They all had colorful names and crests like that, all the better to help them sell tunics, flags, jewelry, replica weapons, and more to their adoring fans. I’d never been to a gladiator show, but I had still heard the names—the Scarlet Knights, the Blue Thorns, the Coral Vipers, and dozens more.

  The boy shoved a flyer into my hand. The paper said the same things that he already had, but my gaze focused on the crest at the top—several shards fitted together to form an elegant black swan with a bright blue eye and a matching beak.

  The longer I stared at the crest, the more familiar it seemed. I traced my finger over the symbol, and I remembered something else about Serilda. When she had been the queen’s personal guard, she had been called the Black Swan because she had been so graceful in battle and had brought death to so many of Cordelia’s enemies.

  “See gladiators battle for the glory of your applause!” the boy yelled. “Free show! Free food! Over at the Black Swan arena!”

  Free food? My stomach grumbled again. That alone was enough reason to keep going.

  I folded up the flyer, slid it into my pocket, and headed toward the arena. People of all shapes, sizes, and stations walked along the streets, everyone from poor, bedraggled bums to miners in blue coveralls coated with gray fluorestone dust to lords and ladies in expensive, flashy, fashionable garb. Everyone loved a free show.

  Several folks glanced curiously at me. At first, I wondered why, but then I caught a glimpse of my reflection in one of the store windows. A fist-shaped bruise darkened my right cheek from where the turncoat guard had punched me, and several other cuts and bruises dotted my face as well. I grimaced, ducked my head, and hurried on.

  Eventually, the street opened up into another plaza. More vendors and carts lined the area, selling everything from clothes to flags to silver medallion necklaces, all of which were embroidered, embellished, or stamped with the black swan crest. Even the stone fountain in the center of the plaza was shaped like a large black swan with jets of water rising and falling all around it. The swan’s blue beak looked as sharp as an arrow, while its two fluorestone eyes burned a bright, steady blue, giving it a fierce, combative look, like it was about to rise up out of the water and attack anyone who came near it.

  A twelve-foot stone wall cordoned off the plaza from the domed arena, and I got in line, heading toward the open iron gate. A girl on the far side was passing out free bags of cornucopia from a wooden cart. My stomach grumbled again, and I snatched the last two bags off her cart.

  “Hey!” she called out. “You’re only supposed to take one!”

  I ignored her and kept going, already shoving my hand into one of the paper bags and then the cornucopia into my mouth. The rich flavor of the buttery popped corn, covered with sticky salted caramel, exploded on my tongue, along with toasted almonds, crunchy sunflower seeds, and bits of sweet dried bloodcrisp apples.

  Cornucopia had never been my favorite treat, but this was fantastic. I was so hungry that I could have upended the entire bag into my mouth, then the second one, but I forced myself to only chew a few clusters at a time, trying to make it last as long as possible.

  The line of people in front of me slowed, giving me plenty of time to nibble on my food and look around. The enormous arena with its round dome took up much of the space behind the wall, but gladiator troupes didn’t just have arenas. Oh, no. They had entire compounds devoted to their training, feeding, housing, and everything else that went into putting on their shows.

  Several buildings squatted around the arena. A dining hall, barracks for the gladiators and other workers, stables for the gargoyles, strixes, and other creatures used in the shows. The Black Swan complex was a city unto itself, like Seven Spire was.

  I glanced up at the palace in the distance. The sun had set more than an hour ago, and blackness cloaked the mountain. Lights burned in the palace windows, but they did little to drive back the darkness, although the tearstone spires gleamed with a soft, silvery light, thanks to the moon and stars high above.

  I wondered what Vasilia was doing right now. Probably still enjoying her bloody triumph over her mother and the rest of the Blairs. I wondered what she had done with Cordelia’s body, and Madelena’s, and Isobel’s, and all the others. My stomach churned, and I almost vomited up the cornucopia. I forced the bile down, dropped my gaze from the palace, and shuffled forward.

  There was no going back.

  By the time I got inside the arena, all the good seats down front had been taken, and I had to climb up to the top of the stone bleachers. I didn’t mind too much, though, as it gave me a bird’s-eye view of the entire arena.

  A stone wall cordoned off the bleachers from the arena floor. Down below, three enormous wooden rings, each one only about a foot high, stood on the hard-packed dirt. The two outer rings were white, but the center one was painted a bright, glossy red, indicating that tonight’s bo
ut would only be to first blood. Of course. You had to pay big money to see gladiators battle to the death. Serilda Swanson was no fool. Tonight’s free show was just a taste, just a tease of bloodier, deadlier things to come.

  But the action wasn’t just going to be on the ground. Thick cables crisscrossed the open air above the rings and connected to stone platforms that jutted out from the arena walls. Some of the cables and platforms were fairly low, only about ten feet off the ground, but others were much higher, twenty, fifty, and even a hundred feet up.

  I scanned the crowd, and I realized that a large box had been built into the middle of the bleachers. Us common folk were sitting on hard slabs of stone, but cushioned chairs lined the box, along with carts filled with food and drinks. That must be where Serilda Swanson would sit and entertain wealthy and important guests. I stared at the box, but no one approached it. Perhaps Serilda took part in the show instead of watching it from on high.

  I was among the last people to snag a seat, and a few minutes later, the white fluorestones embedded in the ceiling slowly dimmed, and a hush fell over the crowd.

  Showtime.

  A lone spotlight snapped on and focused on the red ring in the center of the arena, and a man wearing a short, tight bloodred tailcoat trimmed with silver buttons stepped into the light. His leggings were black, and his black boots had been polished to a high gloss. His black hair gleamed under the spotlight, as did his black eyes and light brown skin. A morph mark peeked up above the collar on his white ruffled shirt, although from this distance, I couldn’t tell what creature he could shift into.

  “Lords and ladies, high and low,” he called out in a deep, booming voice. “Welcome to the Black Swan arena. My name is Cho Yamato, and we are here to entertain you.”