The Caged Queen

by Kristen Ciccarelli

  “I have an idea,” said Celeste.

  Safire, who’d been at the window, fingering the hilts of her throwing knives as she stared down the crowd, snapped out of her brooding. “What idea?”

  “The queen and I are roughly the same height and build,” Celeste explained, stepping up beside Roa to demonstrate.

  It was true. And while Celeste normally wore her curls loose and free—unlike Roa, who kept hers cropped close to her head—today the girl had plaited her hair.

  Roa took in Celeste’s shirt, which bore the emblem of the dragon king on its sleeve, then her belt, then her polished boots. When she glanced to her face, the guard’s eyes were gleaming.

  “How do you feel about wearing trousers, my queen?”

  The citizens of Firgaard fell for the bait. Dressed in the queen’s saffron gown, with the queen’s sandskarf hooding her face and the royal guard surrounding her, Celeste had passed for Roa. The only difficult part had been convincing Safire to let Roa return to the palace alone, dressed as a soldat, without her guard.

  Roa waited until the last of the mob disappeared down the street, unbolted the assembly doors, and slipped out.

  On her way back to the palace, she thought it strange how quickly Dax acted. As if the new candidates for the council had been determined long before now and not decided overnight when he caught his council members meeting without him.

  As if . . . as if he hadn’t forgotten his treaty promises but had simply been waiting for the right opportunity to set them in motion.

  Roa stepped up to the palace gates. The soldats standing guard stopped her.

  “My queen?” The young man’s eyes widened at the sight of Roa, dressed in the same uniform as him. “But you . . . I swear you just passed this way.”

  “That was Celeste,” she said, explaining what happened.

  His eyes widened further. “Well, she caused quite a stir. She had to be carried inside.”

  “What? Why?”

  “They started throwing rocks, my queen. One hit her in the head.”

  Guilt flooded Roa. She was the reason Celeste was in disguise. If they hadn’t changed clothes . . .

  “Where is she?”

  “We can take you to her.”

  Roa looked up to find four soldats approaching. Three men and a woman, ranging in ages. The one who spoke looked twice her age. He had a wide face and kind eyes partially shadowed by the brim of his morion.

  “I know where they took Celeste.”

  “Show me.”

  He turned and led her into the palace while the other three soldats flanked her. They stood too close though. More than once, their shoulders brushed Roa’s, making her wonder how new they were to their posts.

  They took her down corridors she’d never been before, then led her out onto an unpolished marble terrace, down an old mosaicked staircase, and into one of the palace’s inner orange groves. It was less well kept than any of the palace gardens or orchards.

  As the trees swayed around her, Roa realized she had no idea where she was.

  “This is far enough, I think,” said the soldat to Roa’s right, glancing back over her shoulder. She had a slender, wolfish face and blue-gray eyes.

  Far enough?

  A sudden unease spread through Roa. She looked around them. Except for the sound of birdsong and the wind hushing through the leaves, this part of the palace seemed deserted.

  “Where are we?”

  “Somewhere no one can hear you.” The man with the eyes Roa once thought kind drew both of her sabers—or rather, Celeste’s sabers—and pointed them at her chest. To two of the others, he said, “Go keep watch.”

  It wasn’t fear that swept through Roa as the soldats nodded, jogging back through the grove. It was ire, sharp and honed. She’d had quite enough of being cornered and caged in. Before they could come any closer, she slid her hand into Celeste’s boot, where Essie’s knife was hidden, and drew it out.

  The soldat behind her—the wolfish young woman—moved toward her.

  Roa turned quickly, lifting her sister’s knife. “Take one step closer and it will be the last step you ever take.”

  “Such bravado!” said the first soldat—the older man—from behind her. “Unfortunately, there is only one of you and many of us.” The way he said it made Roa think he didn’t just mean the soldats in this grove, but those beyond it.

  “This is for the safety of the kingdom,” said the woman before Roa with all the confidence of someone convinced their cause was just. “You’re a danger to us—the king most of all.”

  The man behind her took another step. Too close. Roa lifted the knife once more, her grip tightening on the hilt, trying to keep her eyes on both soldats at once.

  “You’re a traitor and a spy,” the woman continued, stepping closer from the other side. “Everyone knows you’re planning to kill the king and take the throne for yourself.”

  Roa kept her knife on the first while looking over her shoulder at the second. It was all she could do against both armed guards.

  “King Dax is just too smitten with you to see it.”

  Smitten? If she wasn’t so terrified, Roa might have laughed.

  “Is that so?” said a familiar voice.

  Roa froze. Both soldats looked up.

  Trying to keep them in her peripheral vision, Roa turned slightly, looking to the owner of the voice.

  The dragon king leaned casually against an orange tree, a full cup of wine in his hand.

  Surprised, the woman said, “King Dax . . .”

  “I’m curious.” Dax sloshed the red wine in his cup, and Roa smelled the sharp tang of it even from here. “What gives you the impression I’m smitten with the queen?”

  Suddenly, strong hands came down on Roa’s arms, pulling her back and trapping her against a solid chest. She struggled, heart pounding, trying to cut and slash with Essie’s knife. But the soldat was stronger. He pinned her to him with one arm. Grabbing her wrist, he twisted hard until a sharp jolt of pain made her let go of the hilt. As soon as the knife fell, he caught it and pressed its cold edge to her throat.

  Roa went immediately still.

  Dax’s brow darkened.

  “Let her go,” he said, pushing away from the tree.

  The wolfish soldat stepped between him and Roa. “I’m afraid we can’t do that. She’s dangerous, my lord.”

  Roa stared in shock. Disobeying her was one thing. But disobeying the king?

  “Dangerous?” Dax growled. “She’s half your size.”

  And then, it happened so fast, Roa almost missed it: Dax threw his wine in the woman’s face and drew her weapon.

  The soldat spluttered.

  Dax lifted the blade, the look in his eyes pure fury. “Move aside.”

  The soldat stared at him. Dax lifted the blade higher, pressing the tip against the woman’s throat. The soldat raised her hands, backing away from the armed king.

  But even from here, Roa could see Dax’s grip was all wrong.

  For the first time, it struck her as strange. Strange that a boy of twenty-one—a boy who’d been trained with weapons even if he was lousy at using them—didn’t know how to properly hold a saber.

  It was too strange.

  “My wife is a great many things.” Dax made slow steps forward. The blade glimmered as he pointed it at the first soldat while staring down the second. “Cold, calculating, unkind . . . but dangerous? Look at her. She’s somehow managed to walk her throat into her own knife.”

  As he said this, a third soldat melted out of the trees, his hilt raised, ready to knock the king unconscious.

  “Dax!” Roa cried out. “Behind you!”

  As he turned, Roa rammed the back of her head into her captor’s teeth. Pain burst behind her eyes. The guard swore, dropping Essie’s knife, and Roa twisted free, snatching it up. The king and queen spun at the same time: Dax toward the two other soldats, Roa toward her captor.

  Their spines hit. Dax’s back was solid and
warm against hers and his peppermint smell enveloped her. He raised his stolen sword, staring down his opponents while Roa stared down hers.

  His voice rumbled through her. “As soon as I say the word, I want you to run. Understood?”

  Before she could answer, something glinted to her right. She looked to find a fourth soldat stepping onto the path, gripping a small throwing knife in his hand.

  From the size of it, Roa knew how fast it would fly, how far in the blade would sink, how deadly it could be if it hit her in just the right spot. She might be able to duck out of the way. But Dax stood directly behind her. If she ducked, if that knife buried itself in Dax’s heart, Roa would never set her sister free.

  Before she could make a choice, the knife flew, hissing through the air—a sharp, gleaming thing aimed straight at Roa’s chest.

  Except it never hit.

  Or rather: it never hit Roa.

  The back of Dax’s blue shirt blurred before her. She heard the sound of the blade sinking into flesh, then the harsh grunt of pain.

  He staggered back into Roa. The knife in her own hand fell to the earth as she reached to steady him.

  “Dax?”

  Her heart beat too loud in her ears.

  Slowly, she turned him to her. Warm brown eyes looked down into hers. Roa’s gaze flickered from his face to the hilt embedded in his left shoulder. The blood was already soaking through his shirt.

  “No . . .” she whispered, her voice shaking. “What have you done?”

  And then, an angry snarl trembled on the air as Safire burst through the circle of soldats, her eyes blazing, defending the king and queen with her slashing, shining blades.

  Roa should have picked up a weapon and joined her.

  But there was so much blood . . .

  So much of Dax’s blood.

  “Go,” said a familiar voice. Roa looked to find Lirabel suddenly beside them: her bow slung, her feet planted, an arrow drawn and nocked. “Get Roa out of here.”

  Me? thought Roa, staring at the knife in the king’s chest. He’s the injured one.

  But Dax’s hand was already sliding into hers, gripping it tight. He tugged Roa through the unkempt grove, away from the clash of metal on metal.

  And then she was running, hand in hand with the wounded king.

  Twenty-Five

  Dax led her back through the palace’s inner courtyards, through its galleries and arcades, down its shadowy corridors. He didn’t stop until halfway down a hall awash in candlelight where he pushed aside a floor-to-ceiling tapestry.

  Roa stood motionless, staring at the dark passageway beyond.

  “In,” he said.

  Roa stepped into the cold passage and a moment later, the tapestry fell back in place, plunging them into darkness.

  Dax didn’t need a lantern. He knew the way by heart, guiding Roa through dust and stone, then up. They climbed a narrow staircase, then stumbled down another pitch-dark corridor. Dax halted, fumbling in the darkness. Roa was just about to ask him what was wrong when there was a soft snick.

  Dax pushed. The wall swung out. Dusky sunlight spilled in.

  When Roa stepped through, she found herself in the king’s chambers.

  The canopied bed, the ornate brass lamps on the walls, the balcony facing the garden . . . they were all a mirror image of hers.

  She spun back to stare at the false wall. Stucco, sea blue, just like the rest of the room, it blended in perfectly.

  There was no time to marvel. Because just then, Dax let out a growl of pain. Roa spun. He was trying to pull out the knife.

  “No. Stop.” She pried his fingers from the hilt, then helped him down to the floor, leaning him against the plaster.

  The blade of the knife was embedded on the left side, in the soft spot just below the edge of his collarbone, missing both his heart and his lung. Lucky, that. But his shirt was soaked with blood, and it was difficult for Roa to tell how much, exactly. That knife needed to come out, but once it did, he would lose even more.

  As if hearing her thoughts, Dax tipped his chin in a direction over her shoulder. “The chest at the foot of the bed.”

  Roa went and opened the lid. Inside she found a needle, thread, and a brown bottle of liquid. When she unstopped it and sniffed, she wrinkled her nose at the bitter-strong smell. Spirits.

  She came back to Dax and knelt.

  After lighting one of the candles, she sterilized the needle in the flame and threaded it.

  “This is what we’re going to do.” Roa looked up into eyes clouded with pain. “I’m going to pull out the knife, and then we’re going to take that shirt off as fast as we can.”

  “Maybe we should wait for—”

  Roa wrapped her fingers against the gilt handle and pulled out the knife.

  Dax sucked in a pained breath. Blood gushed from the wound.

  “Agh! Stars, Roa!”

  She tossed the knife aside and grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling it quickly up over his head. His chest glistened with blood now. Roa bunched up the shirt and pressed it to the wound.

  “Hold this,” she said. “Press hard.”

  He did.

  That black, rusted key still hung from his neck. Roa tugged it off and tossed it on the floor.

  Now for the difficult part . . .

  Once she started sewing up the gash, the pain would make him squirm and buck and pull away. So Roa climbed onto his lap, her knees on either side of his hips, pinning him firmly in place.

  “Don’t fight me,” she warned him.

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. “I would never.”

  Roa reached for the brown bottle. Pressing it to her lips, she tipped it back and took a long swig. The spirits burned as they slid down her throat, warming her. Making her bolder than she felt.

  “Are you ready?” she said, wiping her wrist across her mouth.

  She didn’t wait for him to answer. Just pulled away the shirt and poured the contents of the bottle onto his gaping wound, washing the blood away.

  Dax’s eyes shot open. He cursed her name.

  Roa held him steady.

  His back arched, but instead of fighting her, he grabbed her thighs, using her as an anchor against the onslaught of pain.

  Roa let him. She half emptied the bottle, set it down, and reached for the needle.

  “Almost done,” she said. This was a lie. There was more pain to come. Though not too much. She could see now that the wound was deep but not wide. It would require only a few stitches.

  She met his gaze, silently letting him know what she was about to do. He nodded stiffly.

  Roa pushed the needle in, forcing it through.

  With nothing to bite down on, his grip on her tightened and his fingers dug into her thighs.

  Roa winced. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Yes, well.” He gritted his teeth, throat arching as she pulled the needle free and tugged. “You’re hurting me more.”

  She could feel him begin to fade, his eyes closing. Stronger men than him had fainted at this kind of pain.

  “I’ve never seen a grown man protest so much at such a tiny needle,” she said, trying to provoke him. To keep him conscious.

  His eyes flickered open. “Is that so?” His jaw clenched as she pushed the needle through again. His blood coated her fingers now. “And how many other men have you sewn up?”

  As his eyes clouded over, Roa tied off the last stitch.

  Stay with me.

  She set down the needle and cut a thick strip of silk from his shirt.

  “Dax?”

  He closed his eyes, unresponsive. Roa’s heart thudded painfully.

  She suddenly thought of him in the Assembly. Lifting the sanctions on the scrublands. Being the king they needed.

  “Dax, look at me.”

  When his eyes didn’t open, Roa got desperate. Leaning in, she kissed him hard on the mouth.

  Nothing happened.

  Roa tried again. Pull
ing his lower lip between her teeth, she bit down as hard as she could.

  Dax’s eyes fluttered open. He stared at her, confused. And then his eyes cleared.

  “Ouch,” he murmured.

  Relieved, Roa relaxed and started to wrap the strip of silk tight around his stitches. Dax flinched, then watched in silence as she tied off the makeshift bandage. When she finished, Roa leaned back. She was suddenly very aware of his hands still holding her thighs, pinning her to him.

  She knew he didn’t mean to hurt her. His grip was merely proportionate to his own pain.

  “Dax,” she whispered. “You’re still hurting me.”

  Dax looked to his hands and immediately let go.

  Roa pushed herself off his lap and rose to her feet. The cool air hit, sucking the warmth from her.

  He watched her from the floor, leaning his head against the wall. Sweat shone on his brow, and his hair was damp at the hairline.

  “Are you all right?” he asked softly.

  Roa stared at the blood on her hands. “Am I all right?” She held her hands out for him to see. “This is your blood.”

  He shrugged—or tried to. It came out like more of a wince. “I can’t imagine it’s a nice feeling, being cornered like that in your own home.”

  Roa looked away from his too-soft gaze. It wasn’t nice; it was terrifying. But she didn’t want him to see that. So she said, “This isn’t my home.”

  A look of hurt flashed across his face. And even though the words were true, Roa regretted speaking them.

  Dax took a deadly blow meant for her. And here she was, throwing it in his face.

  Here she was, plotting against him, planning to kill him, so she could save her sister.

  A war raged within her.

  Finally, Roa stepped toward him. “Come on.” Crouching down, she looped his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get you off the floor.”

  Dax winced as he pushed himself up. Roa wrapped her arm around his waist, helping him. She guided him to the bed, where he sat down heavily on the edge.

  “I’ll run a bath . . .”

  He grabbed her wrist to stop her. “There are servants to do that.”

  “I want to.”

  He stared up at her in silence. “Why are you doing this?”