“Was there an accident?”
And on and on it went.
I stood beside Cho and Sullivan, the empty tray and tongs still clutched in my hands. My stomach roiled, and I wanted to vomit up the scone that I had eaten earlier, but I swallowed down the bile rising in my throat. This was perhaps the most dangerous moment, when someone might connect me with the massacre, and I couldn’t afford to attract any attention to myself.
Serilda held her hands up, asking for silence. Slowly, everyone quieted down.
“I’m just as shocked and saddened as you all are. I don’t know what happened, although believe me when I tell you that I will find out.” Her voice was as cold as ice. She meant what she said, although I had no idea how she would get any more information. “The rumor is that assassins snuck into the palace and murdered the queen, along with the royal family and several nobles.”
Everyone sucked in a collective breath as though they were going to start shouting again, but Serilda held her hands up, and everyone remained quiet, except for a few muttered curses.
“There is some other news.” Serilda’s mouth twisted. “Vasilia survived the massacre. She is now queen of Bellona.”
“Princess Vasilia? That is good news!”
“She’s a great warrior!”
“She’ll put things right!”
Disgust filled me. The people had always adored and lauded Vasilia for her beauty and fighting skills. Now they would love her even more for supposedly surviving the massacre. Once again, the bitch had gotten exactly what she wanted.
Serilda waited until everyone had fallen silent before she spoke again. “Vasilia and her guards killed most of the assassins, although she has one of them in the palace dungeon. Auster, the captain of the queen’s guard. Supposedly, he helped plan the massacre.”
She looked at Cho, who rocked back in his seat, his remaining scone forgotten. Like Serilda, his face remained blank, although his nostrils flared, and several soft scrape-scrape-scrape s sounded. Black talons had sprouted on Cho’s fingertips, and he was digging them into the tabletop. I looked at the morph mark on his neck. The dragon’s black eyes were narrowed to slits, and black smoke boiled out of its mouth, telling me how furious Cho and his inner self were.
Why would Cho care about Captain Auster? The answer came to me a moment later. Cho must have been one of the queen’s guards who had gone with Serilda when she had left Seven Spire all those years ago. If that was the case, then he would know Auster well.
“What about the assassins?” Cho growled. “Do you know anything about them?”
“Supposedly, the assassins were from Andvari.” This time, Serilda stared at Sullivan. “The rumor is that they were working for the royal family.”
Sullivan jerked back as though someone had slapped him. Lightning flashed on his fingertips, although he quickly curled his hand into a fist, snuffing out the magic. His lips pressed together, and he ducked his head, as though he was trying to shrink down into his gray coat.
I stared at his coat, which had reminded me of Lord Hans’s jacket. The style, cut, color, and fabric were definitely Andvarian, as were his black shirt, leggings, and boots. So Sullivan was from Andvari. Interesting. Perhaps he was worried that the rest of the troupe would take their anger out on him.
“Training, practice, show prep. Everything is canceled,” Serilda said. “Take the rest of the day to mourn your fallen queen. Dinner will be served as usual, and a candlelight vigil will be held on the plaza tonight for those of you who wish to pay your respects. That is all.”
She nodded to everyone, then turned and strode out of the dining hall.
As soon as the door shut behind her, everyone started talking at once.
“I can’t believe the queen is dead!”
“Assassins in the palace? That captain should be drawn and quartered.”
“Andvarian scum. They’ll pay for this . . .”
And on and on it went, each comment more violent and vicious than the last.
Cho left the dining hall, heading after Serilda, but Sullivan stayed in his seat, staring off into space, a sick look on his face. I wasn’t the only one who noticed him. People at the surrounding tables turned their angry glares to him, and more than one comment cursing Andvarians rang out, although no one was stupid enough to confront him.
Still, in that moment, I felt sorry for him. I knew what it was like to be the subject of other people’s scorn and derision, especially when it wasn’t deserved.
And I decided to do something about it.
I went into the kitchen, grabbed another tray of scones, and stepped back into the dining area. I marched over to where Sullivan was still sitting, leaned down, and dropped two scones onto his empty plate. I wasn’t sure why I did it. He hadn’t exactly been kind to me during my brief time at the Black Swan. Perhaps I had simply seen enough cruelty during the massacre and didn’t want to take part in any myself.
Sullivan reared back in surprise, then looked up at me. I pointedly glanced at his coat, letting him know that I realized that he was from Andvari and that I didn’t blame him for what had happened.
More surprise filled his face, along with a tiny flicker of gratitude. “Thank you,” he murmured.
“You’re welcome.”
I stared at him a moment longer, then walked away to hand out the remaining scones.
* * *
After breakfast, I spent the rest of the day in the barracks. Several of the gladiators, including Paloma and Emilie, huddled around the fireplace, speculating what the queen’s murder would mean for the troupe, the city, and the kingdom.
I perched on the edges of the crowd, nodding when appropriate and speaking when spoken to, but otherwise, I kept quiet. Now that Cordelia’s murder had been made public, my situation was even more precarious, and I didn’t want anyone to connect my arrival here with the queen’s assassination. Then again, why would they? As far as they knew, I was a runaway servant who had escaped from a mean mistress. Still, dread, worry, and paranoia simmered in my stomach, and I tensed every time the door opened, expecting Serilda to storm inside and confront me about who I really was.
But the day passed, and nothing happened.
Dinner that evening was a quiet, somber affair. After the meal, black candles shaped like slender spires were passed out to everyone in the dining hall, and we all headed toward the main gate. A lone torch was burning inside the gate, and everyone stopped to light their candle before streaming out into the plaza.
People clutching lit black candles had crammed into this plaza, just as they would in plazas throughout the city. More candles burned in the windows of the surrounding buildings, and torches blazed on the rooftops, as was the Bellonan custom whenever the queen died. The torches made the spires on the buildings gleam like gold, silver, and bronze stars.
It was beautiful and eerie and heartbreaking.
Everyone was quiet, except for a few sniffles as people held back their sobs. The collective scents of salty grief and ashy heartache hung in the air like thick clouds, the aromas as sharp as swords stabbing into my heart with every breath I took.
I kept to the fringes of the crowd, staying close to the compound gate and cupping my hand in front of my candle to keep the flame from going out. Like everyone else, I stared up at the palace high, high above.
Seven Spire was completely dark.
All the candles, torches, fluorestones, and other lights had been snuffed out or turned off, and the palace was as black as the night itself. I didn’t know how long we stood there, staring up at the palace, but eventually, a series of bells chimed, starting at the palace and booming throughout the entire city as other bells joined in. The bells rang thirty times, one for each year of Queen Cordelia’s rule.
I didn’t think of her rule, though. No, each time the bells rang, I thought of Cordelia herself, and Madelena, and Isobel, and my cousins, and everyone else who had been slaughtered. And then I thought of Alvis, and Lady Xenia, and Gemma, the Andvarian girl. I ho
ped they had escaped, but I would probably never know what had happened to them.
Finally, the echoes of the bells faded away, and everyone looked up at the palace again. Waiting, just waiting, for what they knew was coming next.
A single candle flared to life in the throne-room windows.
Everyone sucked in a breath, and the cheers began, with the crowd chanting Long live the queen! Long live the queen! over and over again.
I found myself roaring with the rest of the crowd. Not because I wished Vasilia any kind of long, happy life. No, I cheered because despite Vasilia and her evil plot, despite the blood, betrayal, pain, and death, despite everything, I had survived the massacre, and I knew that Bellona would too.
The people around me were proof enough of that.
* * *
From the crowd’s gossip, I learned that Cordelia’s and Madelena’s bodies would be displayed in gold caskets in the main plaza that fronted Seven Spire tomorrow morning, as was the custom. People would be able to file by and pay their respects all day before the queen and the princess were laid to rest in the royal Blair crypt deep within the palace at midnight. Well, at least Vasilia was giving her mother and sister and everyone else a proper burial. Then again, I supposed that she had to, in order to keep up appearances.
Many people would stay in the plaza through the night, mourning the old queen and celebrating the new, but ten minutes after the first palace light appeared, I blew out my candle and went back inside the compound. I couldn’t stand to listen to them cheer for Vasilia any longer.
I was almost back to the dining hall when a loud crack sounded, like someone had kicked a stone up against something.
“That bitch,” a voice growled. “That smug, arrogant bitch .”
I froze, wondering where the sound and the voice had come from. I looked around, and I spotted Serilda and Cho standing at the edge of the gardens behind the dining hall. Perhaps it was my paranoia, or perhaps my curiosity got the best of me, but instead of walking on, I darted forward and slipped in between the metal trash bins that stood next to the dining hall. Then I sidled forward and peered through a gap in the bins, watching them.
Serilda was pacing back and forth. Every once in a while, she would stop, lash out with her boot, and kick a stone into a nearby tree or bench. Cho leaned against one of the streetlamps, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her.
“I told Cordelia that this would happen,” Serilda snarled. “I told her. Over and over again. For years . But she didn’t listen to me. And now she’s dead, and Vasilia is queen.”
I frowned. From the rumors I had always heard, Serilda had left Seven Spire in scandal and disgrace. So why would she care that Cordelia was dead? And who was the bitch that she was referring to? Cordelia? Vasilia? Both?
“We should leave,” Cho said. “Pack up the troupe and leave Bellona while we still can. Before Vasilia closes the borders—or worse.”
Serilda whirled around and stabbed her finger at him. “No. I am not leaving. Not again. Not until I find out what happened.”
Cho snorted. “We know what happened. Cordelia is dead, and Vasilia is queen. Nothing else matters.”
A stricken look filled Serilda’s face, but she whipped around and started pacing again. “It matters if someone survived. If a Blair survived. Any one of them would be a better ruler than Vasilia, that smug, treacherous bitch.”
Well, that answered my bitch question, although more rose up to take its place. Why would Serilda care if any of the other royals had survived? Unless . . . she somehow knew that Vasilia was responsible for the massacre. But how could she know that?
“And what about Auster?” Cho asked. “Have you forgotten about him? Because he’s the one who is going to suffer the most at Vasilia’s hands.”
Serilda closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, as though it were aching. Then she dropped her hand, opened her eyes, and looked at Cho again. “No, I haven’t forgotten about Auster. But we can’t get to him. The tunnels are blocked.”
Tunnels? What tunnels? Everything she said only made me more confused.
Sadness filled Cho’s face, but he nodded in agreement. Serilda started pacing again.
“We need to put out feelers and see if any of the Blairs survived,” she said. “Someone, anyone. I don’t care who. I would even take that old drunk Horatio right now.”
Cho nodded. “I’ve already got my contacts in the palace working on it.”
“Good. I want every scrap of information about the massacre that you can get. Every rumor, every innuendo, every damn whisper. I want it all. Some royal had to have survived, and we’re going to find them.”
This was my chance. My big moment. I could get to my feet, step out from behind the trash bins, and tell them who I really was. That I was a Blair, that the queen had sent me here, and that everyone else was dead, except for my few royal cousins who had had the good fortune not to be at the palace. I could have done that. I probably should have done that.
But I didn’t.
Cordelia had told me that I could trust Serilda, and based on Serilda’s own words, it seemed as though she despised Vasilia as much as I did. That was definitely a point in her favor. But she had also said that she wanted to find a survivor—a Blair survivor.
Serilda wanted a royal to use for something, although I wasn’t quite sure what. I had already been used as a figurehead, as the royal stand-in, and I had no desire to become someone else’s puppet, especially since I didn’t know what game Serilda wanted to play. So I held my tongue and stayed hidden.
More voices filled the air, along with footsteps. The other workers were returning to the compound.
Serilda and Cho heard them too, and they both stared in my direction. I froze, scarcely daring to breathe for fear that they would spot me and realize that I’d been eavesdropping.
“Let’s go,” Serilda said. “We can discuss this more at the manor.”
Cho nodded, and the two of them moved deeper into the gardens. I let out a soft, relieved breath. When I was sure that they were gone, I got to my feet and slipped away into the night, my secrets still intact.
For now.
Chapter Fifteen
Despite Cordelia’s death, the next morning was business as usual at the Black Swan.
The troupe, the city, the kingdom, the continent didn’t stop turning just because the queen had been assassinated. There were always meals to cook and eat, chores to be done, sleep to be had. Bellonans were a rather practical people that way.
My days quickly fell into a routine. Up early in the morning to help Theroux and the kitchen staff make breakfast, then off to the ring to train with the other gladiators until late in the afternoon. After that, it was back to the kitchen to make dinner. And finally, off to the barracks for a cold shower before going to bed.
On the weekends, I spent most of my time in the kitchen, helping Theroux and the others make batches of sweet and savory cornucopia, candied fruits, flavored ices, and more for the concession carts outside and inside the arena. On Saturday and Sunday nights, I walked up and down the bleachers, selling the treats before, during, and after the shows.
I wasn’t a skilled enough gladiator to participate in the arena fights yet, although I was making progress. I had all the simple sword and shield drills memorized and could execute them in unison with everyone else.
It was when I actually tried to fight someone that I ran into problems.
On rare occasions, I was able to win a sparring round or two against the weaker gladiators. But most of the time, I fumbled through the bouts until the other warriors finally put me out of my misery. I lost my way somewhere between the drills and the sparring, and I couldn’t put all the moves together with any consistency.
Sullivan didn’t help matters, since he made it his mission to point out my flaws. He singled me out for one-on-one combat during every training session, and every one of our fights ended with me on my back on the ground, and Sullivan’s sword resting aga
inst my throat.
Not satisfying at all, just like I had told the female gladiators.
Afterward, Sullivan would help me up. Then he would shake his head, as if his kicking my ass yet again was somehow a disappointment. “You’re better than this, highness.”
He said that over and over again, until it became like a hated song running through my mind whenever I stepped into the training ring, but I gritted my teeth, picked up my sword, and tried again.
As the days passed, I discovered that my new life at the Black Swan wasn’t all that different from my old one at the palace. I did my job and went where I was told, the same as always. Despite the hard work of the kitchen and the even harder blows in the gladiator ring, I enjoyed life here far more than I ever had at Seven Spire.
For the first time since my parents had died, I felt free .
I didn’t always have to smile and pretend that everything was fine, although I still mostly kept my thoughts and feelings to myself, too schooled in the lifelong habit to break it so easily. But no one was watching me, no one was waiting for me to screw up so that they could spread nasty gossip, and Vasilia wasn’t around to dish out meanness whenever the mood struck her.
And best of all, I didn’t have to take shit off anyone.
If someone made a joke at my expense, I made one at theirs. If someone snapped at me, I snapped right back at them. I didn’t back down from anyone, not even Sullivan. Strength equaled respect here, just like it had at the palace. I didn’t have the physical strength of Paloma and some of the other gladiators, but I quickly made it clear that I would not be cowed, bullied, or intimidated in any way.
At Seven Spire, I had kept my head down and stayed in the background so that I wouldn’t draw attention to myself, so that I wouldn’t be targeted, so that I wouldn’t be hurt. But a gladiator’s life was all about hurting others, and sparring with people, whether it was with swords in the training ring, or sharp words outside it, drew me out of my shell. Even when I lost a fight or someone cracked a better joke than me, I still knew that I had tried my best, and that made me feel stronger and more powerful than I ever had at the palace.
Kill the Queen (Crown of Shards #1) Page 55