The Queen's Assassin

by Melissa de la Cruz

  He does this now and recalls the words he always heard last:

  The lesson, my son, is that we alone, no matter how skilled or how smart or how rich, are but spokes, and cannot move the wheel alone; only together can we do that.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Shadow

  BY MID-MORNING TOMORROW I’M SUPPOSED to be officially on my way to Violla Ruza in a carriage provided by the queen. Supposed to be.

  I have my own plans for transportation, my own destination—the prison transport to Deersia. If only I were a boy, then maybe I’d have a better chance of carrying it out. Or if I could just get my hands on an official work order from the palace . . . If I think about the obstacles ahead, what seemed so promising at first will begin to feel close to impossible.

  Missus Kingstone visits with two of the completed gowns for a final fitting, a regular day dress and one for my first evening at the palace. She’s had her whole team of apprentice seamstresses working around the clock this entire week. The rest, she tells me, will be delivered to the palace ahead of my arrival.

  One of the gowns is pale pink and frothy, full of frills and lace and bunches of fabric, with round puffy short sleeves. “Stunning!” Missus Kingstone claps her hands with delight when I model it for her and my aunts.

  I turn to the full-length looking glass she brought for the fitting. I look absurd. Like a feral cat forced into a wedding gown.

  My aunts don’t look convinced either, but they play along. “Yes, stunning. Quite a sight indeed,” Aunt Mesha says, holding her hand to the side of her face. Aunt Moriah has a similar reaction: “I agree—can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

  The other dress isn’t much better, but at least it doesn’t make me look like a bowl of strawberry mousse. I like the color, which is a pale, almost silvery, blue, and the long draping sleeves make it sleeker—and a little less reminiscent of a noblewoman’s overly manicured poodle.

  Regardless, I don’t intend to wear any of these gowns if I can help it. But I’m quickly running out of time, and no matter which way I look at it, I still don’t know how I’m going to make my plan work.

  When the seamstress finally says goodbye late in the afternoon, my aunts begin saying things like, “You know, we will still see you, and you can write, and if there’s any problem . . .” All the assurances seem to be more for them than me, though. They can’t complete a single sentence without getting teary-eyed, though they try to conceal it. I’m pleased to see that they don’t want me to go. That they’re nervous about it.

  After a light dinner (none of us have much of an appetite), they begin testing my knowledge of palace etiquette while we wash up the soup bowls and put them away. I’m subjected to an endless stream of pointless questions with even more pointless answers. “When does a formal meal end?” and so on. (Answer: when the queen is finished eating—whether the rest of the dinner guests are finished or not.)

  We’ve gone over palace etiquette this way every night, such as who is obligated to bow to whom and which of your dinner neighbors you should turn and speak to first, or when you shouldn’t speak to anyone at all. I’d learned of many of these confusing rules before, in training manuscripts from my aunts’ library (three small shelves in the sitting room, and another of my own in the attic), so I am already familiar with much of it, though judging by how many I answer incorrectly, a refresher is sorely needed. Even if it is a waste of time. I should be learning something useful—combat, magical energy management—anything other than which fork is for seafood and which is for salad.

  “I don’t want to spend tonight being torture—er, tutored,” I tell them. Though I don’t say “my last night here,” the words hang in the air.

  Aunt Mesha places her apron over the back of a chair. “I have an idea,” she says.

  A few minutes later we’re all crowded onto my bed, the way we used to when I was a little girl and had trouble getting to sleep on my own. Aunt Moriah and Aunt Mesha take turns voicing characters from my favorite childhood storybook, a collection of legends from all the different lands of Avantine. Most are said to date from the Deian era, before the kingdoms fractured. Instead of tales about great kings and battles and enemies, they are about people, even animals, and how they sometimes do good things and sometimes do bad things, but in the end they always do the right thing.

  My aunts read the entire book, cover to cover. By the time they’re done with “The Adventures of Landy,” about a girl who pretends to be a boy and sails a great ship across the sea to save the prince, I’m half asleep. I feel each of them kiss me on the forehead before slipping out the door and down the stairs.

  I close my eyes for a few minutes but sleep won’t come. This is it. I have no time left.

  I can’t stop thinking about what’s coming, so I climb out of bed.

  My new gowns are hanging from hooks on the attic wall. They look strange and out of place in my simple room. The same way they look on me, I think.

  Beneath the dresses is a small trunk that holds matching pairs of satin slippers for each outfit and a variety of underthings designed to squeeze my body into an unnatural shape. A for-all-intents-and-purposes immobile, unnatural shape. One can hardly sit in these clothes, let alone run or kick or, well, breathe. I suppose that’s the privilege of the rich.

  There’s a box in the trunk as well, but I didn’t have an opportunity to look at its contents until now. I retrieve it and sit cross-legged on the wood floor, placing it in front of me. Inside I find a smaller, hinged rectangular box, nearly flat, lined in velvet. It contains a set of gold and diamond jewelry I’m to wear when I go tomorrow: a pair of diamond stud earrings, each gem the size of a large pearl, and a glittering multi-strand collar necklace to match, as well as a wide diamond bracelet to wear over my arm-length white gloves, and two diamond rings—one designed in the shape of a flower, with emeralds as petals, and the other set with a huge square Argonian emerald, the rarest sort, surrounded by more flawless round diamonds.

  I try the necklace on in front of the mirror. The weight of it chokes me. How will I wear this? It feels like it’s clinging to my throat. I unclasp it quickly and place it back in the velvet box.

  The only other thing in the small box, aside from the jewelry case, is a black leather pouch filled with gold coins. Presumably this is mine to spend as I wish, since there are no instructions included.

  I spill the coins out on the floor. I hold a bunch in my hand, just to feel the weight of them. All are fresh-minted, shiny. Generic profiles of the late king and his widow are etched on one side; the royal seal—a Renovian rose surrounded by three circles to symbolize eternity—is on the other.

  The idea arrives as swiftly as a bolt of lightning.

  Heart pounding, I bring one of the coins to my desk and take out a stick of sealing wax. I warm it over the fire and when it melts enough, I drip some on a torn bit of paper. Then I smash the coin onto the wax, carefully lifting it out with my fingernails. It leaves a perfect mark.

  The order I received from the queen is in the trunk. I rush to grab it and carry it back to the desk so I can compare the official seal with this one.

  They’re nearly identical. Sure, the official seal is cleaner and a touch bigger, but at a glance, the average person would not notice. A sloppy seal could simply be the result of a hasty hand. A distracted guard wouldn’t take the time or effort to worry about it, not for this.

  The only difference is that my wax is red. The royal wax is purple. Only the royal wax is purple.

  I look around, trying to find a solution. My eyes land on the inkstand. I drip some wax onto paper again, then open the top of the jar and dip the end of my pen into the dark bluish-black ink, then let a drop fall onto the melted red wax. I swirl the ink into the wax, quickly, so it doesn’t set, and as it blends together, it becomes purple.

  My heartbeat quickens and happiness bubbles into my throat. I want
to scream. I want to dance around my room. It worked. It worked!

  I place a fresh sheet of paper over the queen’s order. Dip the end of my pen into the ink again. Carefully, I trace the letters: HRM LILIANNA, QUEEN REGENT OF RENOVIA. Then the next line: REQUIRES YOUR PRESENCE. Under that, in my best formal cursive: as Stable Hand at Deersia.

  After I make more purple wax in as close a hue as I can, I use a gold coin to forge the royal seal. This is a serious crime, and I know it. But then that vision of Mother flashes in my mind, the one I had in my dream the other night, and determination crystallizes in my veins. I must live my own way . . . or not at all. Follow your path, she had said.

  I intend to do just that.

  Next problem: Women are prohibited from the prison grounds. In “The Adventures of Landy,” the heroine figures out ways to disguise herself. I glance around the room, chewing on my thumbnail. Gowns and frippery everywhere. I have black pants and something that could pass as a boy’s jacket well enough, but I don’t think that will suffice.

  My eyes fall on the bedsheet.

  I pull it off the bed and tear a long strip from the bottom so that I have a generous length of soft linen. I stand in front of the mirror and tie that around my chest to flatten it, turning sideways to consider my new shape. With the right shirt, I think it will work fine. I use an even longer one to thicken my waist so I look less curvy, which also helps me shift my walk from my hips to my shoulders. My voice and face could probably pass for those of a young boy, but my hair might be a problem. It isn’t unusual for boys to have long hair, but mine is longer than any stable hand’s I’ve ever seen, and thick. I also have a habit of twisting it with my fingers and fussing with it in ways that could give me away.

  A heavy pair of silver shears sticks out of my sewing basket. My heart skips a beat as I glare at them.

  I take a deep breath. I don’t think of myself as a vain person, but my long, thick hair is as much a part of me as my brown eyes or the trio of freckles on my left hand. I pick up the scissors. I set them down again. But I know I have no choice—I have to do this.

  I yank my hair back into a ponytail, pick up the shears, close my eyes, and chop it off in one swoop. I open both eyes and run my hands through what’s left. I’m a little shocked, and a little saddened.

  But the worst is done, so I trim the rest. Closer to my head, but still a little shaggy, leaving some curl at the nape of my neck and at the top. Like a boy who needs a haircut.

  I get dressed in black pants and a loose tunic with a tighter shirt underneath and put my sturdiest boots at the side of the bed, ready to go. I have the forged work order and all the coins in a pouch at my hip. I’d leave now but I don’t want to spend too much time out in the dark. If I wait a few more hours, the rising sun will provide enough light for a journey.

  All the potential problems with my plan repeat in my mind over and over again, endlessly. It’s impossible to quiet my nerves. I review my preparations, certain I’m forgetting something, though everything seems to be in order. As soon as I get to Deersia, I’ll find a way to help Caledon escape, and he’ll be so grateful, so impressed with my bravery and cunning, that of course he will take me on as his apprentice.

  At the first sign of golden light at the horizon, I jump up and lace my boots. When I get to my bedroom door, I stop to take one last look at the dresses hanging on their hooks, at the girl I could have been. It may be my imagination but they look a little forlorn.

  I creep down the stairs, edging as close to the wall as I can to avoid those creaks. I hear Aunt Mesha snoring. Moriah is a quiet sleeper. They’re going to be absolutely furious when they wake up. In the end I hope they’ll be proud of me, though.

  Before I slip out the back door, I leave ten gold coins and a short note on the kitchen table: You know that I need to do this. Tell my mother I am safe. I love you both.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Shadow

  I MAKE IT TO SERRONE—TORSO bound, hair shorn, clad in stable hand’s garb—just after the sun rises. The crisp morning air chills the back of my bare neck. I hadn’t thought to bring a scarf.

  The palace looms over the village. I feel as though it’s watching me. Like it knows I am escaping, and does not approve.

  The Brass Crab is closed and won’t open for hours, which is a good thing. The proprietor buys honey for mead all the time. I’m certain he would recognize me. Otherwise there are few people up and about. I see the baker through his shop window; he doesn’t look up or notice when I walk by. The glove-maker’s wife sweeps the walk in front of his workshop and though I pass less than a yard from her, she offers no more than a polite nod of the head.

  I was nervous coming into town, but it turns out young men don’t garner much attention at all. It occurs to me they probably believe I’m a page or errand boy, the background of their daily routine and nothing more.

  After the row of shops, there is the town square, where I set up our market stand a few times a week. From there the main road forks left toward merchants’ homes and farms beyond; it forks right toward other towns in northeast Renovia. And it continues straight to the palace. The stables, along with the prison tower—a temporary holding cell for housing the accused before they go to trial—are situated on the west end of the property. That’s where I need to go.

  Before stepping any closer to the castle grounds, I pause. If I go back right now, I can fix everything. My hair can be covered with a wig. I won’t miss the royal carriage that has been sent for me. It’s not too late to change my mind.

  Except, it is. My decision has been made, and I know that this is what I have to do, risks and all.

  I follow the ancient stone wall, once tall, now a ruin barely to my waist, that runs through the grassy field toward the stables. Once there, I linger alongside the building, collecting piles of hay. I need to look like I belong.

  A couple of boys show up for work, their breath steaming puffs in the frigid morning air. One of them shoves the other, both laughing. Birds land in the grass searching for their breakfast. A mourning dove sits on a fence post; it coos back and forth with others hiding in the trees of the garden.

  Shortly after, two transport guards stomp across the grounds, heavy leather boots squelching in the damp lawn. The birds scatter. The men disappear into the stable building, likely to check on the horses and the transport wagon. Stable hands will feed the animals first, then check their shoes and prepare their bridles and reins before hitching them to the wagon. Only when everything’s in order and the wagon pulls out onto the gravel path will the guards board the prisoner. He’ll take the same route through town as Caledon.

  I have to time my appearance exactly right. If I approach them too soon, they may expect me to do work I don’t know how to do, or they might want to check up on my story before departing. They’re more likely to accept it if they don’t have much time to think about it.

  My hands are dirty, so I smear some of the grime on my face. That will help disguise me. One of the guards shouts out to the other and my stomach feels as if it’s leapt into my throat. I take a few deep breaths. Slow, deliberate, like my aunts always tell me to when I’m upset or scared.

  Once they’ve inspected the transportation, the guards return to the castle, following the winding garden path rather than cutting across the lawn. They turn left and enter a creaky back entrance that leads down into the cellar dungeons.

  A whip cracks. Hooves clop. Two chestnut horses come out of the stable, dragging the wagon behind them. A stable boy pulls the wagon up on the path to pick up the prisoner, as predicted. He jumps down and walks over to the horses, strokes their backs.

  Minutes later the guards reemerge, holding the prisoner between them, the Montrician spy. The guards load him into the cart—or rather, they shove him onto it.

  The driver snaps the reins. “Hyah!” The cart lurches forward.

  I hesitate for hal
f a breath before running out of the garden toward the cart, yelling, “Sir! Sir!” and waving.

  The cart slows and the driver scowls at me. “What is it, boy?”

  “Sorry I’m late, sir,” I say, my voice raspy. I should be pretending to be out of breath from running, but the truth is that I’m simply terrified. “I’ve just received this.” I’m brandishing the forged work order.

  “What’s this?” the older and heftier of the guards says.

  I hold the paper up to him. I hope that he will read it from a distance since he’s in a rush.

  No such luck. He snatches the paper from me and opens it, spends a moment glancing it over. My entire body tenses. If he questions me, should I run away, or take my chances on answering and defend the order? After what feels like forever, he sighs. “All right, then,” he says to me, and then to the other guard, “Looks like this one’s comin’ with us.” He mutters, “Not that anyone bothered to tell me before today.”

  Relieved, I climb onto the back of the wagon and settle on a crude bench, grasping a wood slat for balance.

  “What do we need with another stable boy? All’s they do out there is make trouble,” the second guard says.

  The other shrugs. “How about I go in there and ask somebody, then?” he says, motioning toward the tower.

  My pulse quickens. I know he’s just being sarcastic, but still. Every minute we stall is another minute I could be exposed. The faster we leave, the better. Go, go, go, I repeat over and over in my head.

  “Bah,” the second guard says, waving him off. “We’re behind as it is. Let’s go.”