The Queen's Assassin

by Melissa de la Cruz

  The not-knowing makes it all worse. Best to head to Violla Ruza at once, he decides. The sooner he faces the queen, the sooner he can stop worrying. He hates worrying. Worrying is wasteful. He prefers action. So he moves quickly.

  Cal’s only furniture is a bed and a simple wardrobe his father built, where he hangs his few items of clothing. The rest of his things—a couple of books, the blades he inherited from his father—are kept in a locked trunk at the foot of the bed.

  He could have more if he wanted—the queen pays him well—but Cal believes the fewer possessions he has, the better. As much as he likes it here, he’s never allowed himself to get too comfortable, too settled. He has to live for today, not some uncertain future. Plus, a lot of clutter means a lot of possible evidence lying around, a lot of baggage. He may need to abandon this place with only a few minutes of notice. As the Queen’s Assassin, he never knows where his work may take him, or for how long, or even whether he’ll return. And if he doesn’t, who might rifle through his room after he’s gone?

  It’s not as if he has anyone to leave his things to, either.

  Perhaps it’s better this way. His father didn’t know that he’d never return when he left to track a conspirator that night five years ago. That he’d never see his son again. Leaving him orphaned and alone.

  Growing up without a mother was hard enough, but losing his father, the only parent he ever knew, the one who cared for him, put meals on the table for him, and comforted him when he cried out in the night, who showed him how to lace up his boots and catch a trout, who had to fill two roles—one for Cal and another for his queen—that loss took something out of him that he never expected to recover. It’s something he prefers not to think about.

  Cal begins to dress in his finest pants and shirt, but decides humble is better for this meeting. He needs to appear as contrite as possible. He settles on his cleanest day clothes instead—simple brown pants with a matching jacket and a white shirt. He throws on a leather hat the queen gifted him a few years ago when he came of age and was officially hired on as the royal assassin. To remind her that she likes him. That he does his job well.

  He leaves out the back door of the building and mounts his sorrel mare, Raine. She neighs, happy to see him. “Sorry, girl, no apples today,” he says, rubbing her forehead. Raine pulls her head away and paws at the ground. Cal laughs. “No tantrums. I’ll get you a treat later. Right now we have places to be.”

  The two of them have been inseparable since he rescued her as a foal. Raine is the one thing Cal allowed himself to get attached to over the years. She’d been left tied to a tree on the side of the road one summer evening. He found her there, skittish and afraid, as he rushed back from the palace to his workshop, right as a storm was brewing. Too bad horses can’t talk, he often thought. He wanted to know who her prior owner was and why she was left behind. In any case, it doesn’t matter now, because he believes she was put in his path for a reason. She was meant to be his companion. Two lonely orphans together.

  He waves to the milkmaid selling butter out the back of her wagon, and the tailor standing outside his shop on the corner. To them, he’s nothing more than the young blacksmith of Serrone, often commissioned to do work for the palace. In the few years he’s lived there, he’s never had any trouble with his neighbors. Never got mixed up with the local tavern vagrants or chased after anyone’s daughter. He keeps to himself. And intends for things to stay that way.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Caledon

  WHEN CAL ARRIVES AT THE castle, a footman leads Raine to the stable. He heads to the entrance hall, which is lined with portraits of kings and queens from Renovia’s past. There is one of King Esban with his brothers, Almon and Alast. The three of them were said to be as close as brothers could be, and yet, the youngest, Alast, was an Aphrasian all along. There is another of Esban and his queen, one of the crown princess as a baby, then their ancestors going back all the way to Avantine. There is even one of King Phras: a grim, gray-haired man with a neat beard and hawkish nose and aspect.

  At the very end of the hall, near the doorway that leads to the queen’s reception room, is an imposing, full-length portrait of King Esban. Cal takes a seat on a cushioned bench to wait to be called inside, and his gaze keeps drifting back to the portrait of the king. Little wonder the king intimidated people. The man was as large as a bear.

  His father talked about the king often. Cordyn Holt’s own father, Cal’s grandfather, was the renowned cook of the royal kitchens, his talents so valued that his lowborn son was given the honor of sharing a tutor with the young princes. Cordyn became closest to Prince Esban. They were playmates, and later, after Esban was crowned king, Cordyn became his personal advisor.

  Cal’s father told him that though Esban was fierce and uncompromising in many ways—mostly when it came to causes he believed in—he was far from the unreasonable tyrant the Aphrasian traitors painted him to be. He had no interest in taking the ancient knowledge of the Deian Scrolls for himself, as they claimed. Once they were in his possession, his plan was to share their knowledge with the people, to better their lives after centuries of oppression and suffering. Sadly, he never had the chance.

  King Esban was nothing like the monarchs who came before him. He’d only inherited the throne because his elder brother, Almon, died suddenly while visiting a grand duke of Montrice. They’d been out hunting and were on their way back to the duke’s estate when young King Almon fell from his horse in the middle of the field. He was rushed to his room at the manor house, but nothing could be done for him. Other guests at the manor reported that he’d been covered head to toe in a bright red rash; that his face and hands swelled like a melon before he finally suffocated.

  As soon as Esban was crowned, a rumor spread that he had actually poisoned Almon. That he’d plotted to kill his own brother in order to enact a heretical agenda against the Aphrasian monks, the only rightful guardians of the Deian Scrolls. In truth, the monks were terrified of King Esban because he didn’t turn a blind eye to their corruption. As rightful leader of Renovia, he was the one man who still had the authority to convict them of treason; he could also disband the order entirely if he believed their duplicity ran too deep to mend.

  Aphrasian insurgents printed broadsides and spread them throughout the kingdom’s towns and villages, representing King Esban as a dishonest and greedy man with a vendetta against tradition. “The new king demands the scrolls returned as he wishes to hoard the knowledge of Deia for himself,” read one pamphlet Cal’s father had kept. “Once in his control, he will use its magical power against us.”

  Never mind that the opposite was true. Once he was king, Esban and his council had begun working on expanding access to magical training by dismantling Aphrasian monasteries and establishing new centers of learning for the people.

  King Esban wanted Renovia to be more than strong; he wanted it to become the most prosperous, advanced kingdom of all the lands, a beacon of arts and sacred knowledge. But for that to happen, the king understood that the privileged, like himself, had to relinquish some control. By the end of his rule, he had done more to advance equality than any other Renovian leader: He lifted levies; eliminated trade barriers at the borders so that rare spices and textiles became more widely available; instructed monasteries to open their doors to those in need—the sick, the hungry.

  But that hadn’t been enough to quell the public’s suspicions; at least not with Aphrasians spreading unrest through their campaigns of lies. Some people flocked to the sect rather than embrace change, convinced that Esban would soon unleash his true plan. According to them, he would gain the public’s trust, then, with the abbey disintegrated, hoard the scrolls and use his power to tyrannize the kingdom alongside his foreign-born bride.

  If only King Esban had pushed back against the monks from the beginning. But he believed his actions would speak for themselves, that the people would know him through hi
s works and see that the claims about him were false. That he would triumph by deed alone.

  That was his greatest mistake.

  Eventually the Aphrasians weren’t satisfied with simply dethroning Esban. They plotted to assassinate the king and his pregnant queen, overthrow his advisory council, and place one of their own on the throne instead.

  But the king’s spies, led by Cordyn Holt, had infiltrated the sect and warned him before the Aphrasians could strike. Royal military forces descended upon the abbey, taking them by surprise on the eve of their planned attack, and put an end to the plot and the sect.

  Or so they thought. Cal sighs. Now he knows the truth. The Aphrasians are far from finished. If anything, they had been able to turn the grand prince to their cause. A man so loyal to the queen that he never even married or had children of his own. It was said he devoted his life to the protection of the crown princess.

  Cal leans back against the wall. A palace page eventually appears to greet him, and then vanishes again behind a doorway. Within moments the boy returns and leads Cal into the queen’s receiving chamber.

  There is no delay once she is informed of his arrival. This means she has been waiting for him.

  Two guards grab the gold scroll handles on either side of a pair of ten-foot-tall arched mahogany doors. Despite their size they swing outward silently.

  A long plush runner—flawlessly white—stretches from the doorway into the otherwise empty room, stopping just short of the monarch’s dais. Cal removes his shoes in the receiving hall, takes a deep breath, and steps forward into the doorway. He is ready.

  The guard to his left belts out, “Caledon Holt!”

  Cal nods to the guard, who doesn’t look back at him.

  “Step forward.” Queen Lilianna’s steady voice, still lightly accented from a childhood spent in Montrice, fills the entire room.

  She is seated at her throne, flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows on either side, black hair twisted into a thick bun above a simple circlet of intricately carved gold leaves. She almost looks like part of the room’s décor. Her elegant white gown, trim embroidered with leaves of golden thread to match her crown, cascades from her lap and spreads out around her bare feet. She’s been wearing the mourning color for eighteen years, marking herself a permanent widow. Not purely out of mourning, Cal’s certain, but also to ward off potential suitors.

  But today she’s not alone. A girl sits on her right, also clad all in white, with a tall, ornate silvery-white wig propped on her head. She wears a white, feathered eye mask, trimmed in diamonds, over a heavily made-up face. Smoky black kohl is visible under the mask and her lips shine with burgundy gloss. Her mouth is set in a bored expression, slightly pursed—she looks down at her matching nails, long and shining in the light. Cal does his best to hide his surprise to see Lilac, the crown princess.

  Her appearances are rare—she hasn’t been seen much since she was born, except on special royal occasions, like the queen regent’s birthday or the anniversary of the king’s death, and sometimes not even then. Rumor around the palace is that Queen Lilianna is looking for a suitable match for her daughter before she comes of age and takes the throne, in order to unify Renovia with an ally and keep it safe from the growing threat of the queen’s former home, which also happens to be the kingdom’s closest neighbor. It was rumored that before her marriage to Esban, Lilianna was betrothed to the King of Montrice, but eloped with Esban instead. Their marriage disrupted the growing peace between the two kingdoms, and in the nearly two decades since Esban’s death, relations have grown so strained they are at the brink of war once more.

  The princess considers him with her piercing gaze. He slides his gaze elsewhere.

  The queen doesn’t speak right away. Cal tries to appear calm.

  “Leave us,” the queen orders. Her guards bend at the waist and back out of the room, shutting the doors softly.

  “Your Majesty . . . ,” Cal begins.

  The queen holds up a hand. “There is nothing to say,” she tells him. His heart sinks. He knows he’s ruined. “You have slaughtered a prince of the realm.”

  “Yes,” he says. “But—”

  “Silence!” she growls. She pauses before continuing. “Regardless of what he was, first and foremost, he was my husband’s brother. Royal blood.”

  Royal traitor, Cal thinks. He looks at the floor again. Does this mean he will be put to death, or merely imprisoned? Which is worse?

  “Look at me,” the queen commands. He wills himself to obey, though looking directly at her fiery eyes always terrifies him. Today, however, they are hooded, almost sorrowful. She continues. “Despite the sin you have committed, the fact remains . . . Alast was a traitor, an Aphrasian.” She stops speaking. He waits for her to continue.

  “I have been told by the royal guard that you also saved a girl’s life.”

  Cal nods. “The grand prince appeared intent on killing her. Why, I cannot say. She looked like a local farm girl to me.”

  The queen’s hands are shaking. “In your defense of the girl and the murder of the Aphrasian traitor, you have done the kingdom a great service,” she says at last. “You have more than likely also saved your queen from assassination.”

  Relief washes over him. He bows. “It’s my honor to serve, Your Majesty,” he says. He will not be punished after all.

  “However,” she says, “you cannot remain in Renovia. Word is spreading, even into the distant villages, that the grand prince has been murdered, but they do not know that he was a traitor to the crown. We must keep it that way. We cannot let the Aphrasians know what we know. And we cannot reveal to the public the real reason for Alast’s murder. The people are volatile enough as it is.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Unfortunately, you were caught by my soldiers on the scene and so I intend to send you away before anyone finds out the truth about Alast’s loyalties or attempts to retaliate against you,” the queen says. “A mission which will take you far from Renovia as well as benefit the crown. It must be conducted with the utmost secrecy; every precaution must be taken. I will not be able to come to your aid if you are caught. Do you understand?”

  He bows slightly. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He can’t believe how well this day is turning out. As soon as he leaves, he’s going to get a celebratory drink and warm meal at the Brass Crab. Why not? He deserves it.

  “Good. As you know, my advisors have reason to believe that the King of Montrice—or someone near him—may be plotting war against Renovia. And there are whispers that Montrice is involved with the rise of the Aphrasians. An alliance, founded on mutual enmity of Renovia. You must infiltrate the inner circle of the king’s court first, and discover whether this information is accurate.”

  “And if I confirm the king’s involvement?”

  She frowned. “You are the Queen’s Assassin, are you not?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Cal bows, his heart racing.

  Cal reels inwardly. Killing a traitor, a spy, or a criminal is one thing—but killing a king? That’s regicide. If he fails, or if he’s captured, Montrice will have his head, without question. It will be straight to the gallows.

  He had been intent on going back to Baer Abbey, to see if his hunch was correct, if the scrolls were hidden there. This will only delay that attempt, and someone else might stumble upon them or take them to another hiding place. Still, he must do as the queen commands.

  “Who knows?” the queen adds, reading his expression like a book. “Perhaps the scrolls are in Montrice.”

  He doesn’t believe for a moment that they are. But he just bows again. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “One more thing,” the queen says. Cal turns back to face her. As he does, he catches the princess’s eye. She returns his gaze with a level one of her own.

  The queen continues. “In order to provide cover for you, and to app
ease the aristocracy for your crime, you shall begin your mission with imprisonment at Deersia. Meanwhile, the Guild will continue gathering intelligence regarding the situation up north. When ready, I will send a soldier to deliver your weapons and release you to begin your journey to Montrice. But until that time, you will remain at Deersia.”

  The princess whips her head toward the queen in surprise but quickly looks forward again.

  Deersia. The prison no captive ever leaves. He’d rather take his chances locked in a room of Aphrasian aristocrats. Cal opens his mouth as if to speak, but finds no words. Finally, he manages to spit out, “I’m not sure I understand.”

  The queen bangs her staff against the floor. “Guards!” The doors fly open and the two men reappear. The princess turns away. Queen Lilianna points at Cal, all traces of friendliness gone.

  “Escort the traitor to Deersia. Immediately!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Shadow

  NOBODY IS PARTICULARLY INTERESTED IN buying honey or beeswax salves, nor am I interested in selling them today when I arrive at the booth and say hello to Aunt Mesha. There’s far too much on my mind. So I wander off to browse the marketplace flower stands instead, still fuming over what happened earlier that morning with Ma. I’d slipped into the palace to tell her what happened at Baer Abbey, but all we did was argue about the summons. No, of course you must do your duty. You will take your place at court.

  My mother is as unmoving as my aunts, and once I am settled at Violla Ruza, it is clear that I’ll be monitored night and day. There’ll be no running off when there are guards and courtiers—spies—everywhere at all times.