Traitor (A Crown of Lilies Book 1)

by Melissa Ragland

  “That won’t solve anythin’, lass.”

  I sneered at him. “No, but it’ll make me feel better.”

  He refused to budge. It didn’t matter. After that night, I spent the next two weeks drowning myself at the bottom of a barrel. Eleanor recognized me and took little convincing to let me run up a tab at Adrian’s eventual expense. Tommy kept an eye on me but thankfully didn’t interfere as long as I stayed in my hidden corner under the stairs. I didn’t write to Adrian, despite finding paper and ink delivered to my room. He was already on his way, most likely, and if he wasn’t, it was for a good reason.

  The mead didn’t make me feel any better, but it did help me feel less. I drank until I slept, and when I woke, I drank some more. In between, I obsessed over every loss, every face, every shard of my shattered heart. I tormented myself with all the things I might have done, the ways I might have saved them. My parents’ faces, skin charred and split, haunted my dreams, and Shera beside them, taking my place on the pyre. I wondered if they genuinely thought she was me. With her hair dyed, to an unfamiliar eye, we looked similar enough. James’ face, too, followed me. His, I buried deep, unable to confront the truth that I had killed him with my own hands.

  Tommy joined me at the table once in a while, attempting to draw me from my torrent of self-destruction. My response to him was always the same: Go away, Tommy.

  Days and nights blurred together, the passage of time measured by intermittent stretches of unconsciousness. One not particularly remarkable afternoon, he slumped down once again into the chair opposite me. I had my knife out, balancing it on its tip on the table and spinning it. The point carved a slow divot in the wood.

  “Go away, Tommy,” I murmured automatically, not bothering to look at him.

  He leaned forward, arms resting crossed on the tabletop. “No.”

  “Please go away?”

  “No.”

  I did look at him, then. His hard gaze dug into me.

  “Ye can’t spend the rest of your life like this, lass.”

  Why couldn’t he just leave me alone? I gripped the handle and stabbed the dagger into the wood, the tankard and candle rattling at the impact.

  “My father gave me this knife. Did you know that?

  Anger burned in my chest, my ever-present companion to ward me against the grief. He didn’t respond, just stared at me, unimpressed. I leaned forward and pointed my free hand at him, my lip curling with disdain.

  “And you are not him,” I snarled, “so don’t tell me what I can and can’t do with my life.”

  “I didn’t know yer father,” he admitted calmly. “But I’m bettin’ he didn’t give ye that knife for bein’ good at embroidery.”

  That shut me up fast. I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Tommy tilted his head at me. “I spent the better part of my youth trying to save your mother, and when I finally managed to, she hated me for it. I couldn’t fix what broke Aileana, but she found a man who could.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. It hurt to talk about them. Tommy didn’t care.

  “I knew her better than most,” he pressed on. “She lived n’ breathed her web. It was more than just survival to her, it was in her blood. Ana never left a job unfinished.”

  “And that’s what I’m doing, is it?” I bit back.

  “Whatever you lot were about, she died for it. So did a lot of others.”

  “I am not my mother.”

  He shook his head slowly. “No, lass, ye certainly aren’t.”

  Cold hazel eyes watched me and waited for the shame of that barb to sink in. I chewed the inside of my cheek, willing my hate to stay with me. It shielded me from the rest of my misery, numbing it as effectively as the mead did. Despite my best efforts, it bled from me, a wave of guilt taking its place. I dropped my eyes to my dagger, grasping the hilt and wresting it from the wood. His point made, Tommy stood.

  “Whatever this is, your parents saw to it that ye had the tools to see it through. Ye can’t bring back the dead, lass, but ye can make sure they didn’t die for nothin’.”

  With that, he left me to the silent misery of my thoughts. I stared at the blade in my hand for a long time, remembering that day in the garden, my father pressing it against my palm.

  Return with honor, he’d said to me.

  Where was the honor in my pit of despair and self-loathing? There was none, there, in the abyss where I lay. I wondered if I could ever find my way out. A glint of silver caught my eye and I fidgeted with my sapphire ring.

  Adrian.

  He was somewhere, trying to get back to me. I pictured our reunion, him finding me in the alcove under the stairs, wallowing in my grief. Was I waiting to be rescued? That wasn’t the woman he wanted to marry, nor was it the woman I wanted to be. The thought alone made me furious, all my years playing at bravery, only to be proven a farce when the true test came.

  It hurts too much.

  My mother had suffered worse, far worse, and come out the other side.

  I can’t do it alone.

  She had been, nearly from the start of her brutal life.

  I am not her.

  No, but I was her flesh and blood, and she had taught me everything she could; years spent learning at her knee. I might not have her network, but that didn’t matter. I knew the plan. I could see it through if I could find the fortitude to do so.

  You are what you choose to be – what you mold yourself into.

  I stood from the table, leaving my half-full mug behind, and shut myself in my dingy room.

  CHAPTER 39

  Tommy found me the next morning, slowly spooning porridge into my mouth in the alcove under the stairs. After two weeks subsisting on mead alone, my stomach somersaulted angrily at the threat of real food. My head pounded and I would have happily given my left leg for one of Greta’s disgusting concoctions.

  The grizzled brigand slumped into the seat across from me, snatching my mug and giving it a sniff. Water. Mollified, he leaned back in his chair and waited, his unreadable face staring me down across the table.

  “What day is it?” I mumbled.

  “The King’s public announcement is tomorrow,” he said, louder than I think was necessary. “If that’s what yer gettin’ at.” His curt tone told me more than his face would, though his mouth did quirk at the sight of my pained grimace.

  “At the temple?”

  “Where else.”

  I finished my gruel in silence, vaguely aware of him struggling to maintain his dour demeanor in the face of my pitiable state. Eventually, my reticence got to him and he volunteered what news he had from the last two weeks.

  Amenon had declared three days of mourning for my family, myself included. The tragic fire, it was said, was the result of common arson. Two dock workers had been arrested, interrogated, confessed, and hung for it. For his part, the King seemed genuinely grieved at the loss, despite having exiled us rather publicly the day before. Our House was to be turned over to the next closest kin in our bloodline, my father’s cousin Elliot.

  House Briad had fled the city, along with two others from our fragile coalition. With the extermination of my House, that left only six in Litheria to stand against the High Priest. I considered reaching out to them but didn’t dare. One of them had betrayed us to the King, and I still had no clue which one. In the end, a few extra soldiers wouldn’t make any difference and it was too late to call in reinforcements from outside the city, so I left it and focused on what I might accomplish on my own. Tommy didn’t ask what I intended to do. Instead, he simply asked me what I needed.

  I wrote letters for Adrian, Aubrey, and Quintin, should he ever return to the city. I told Tommy what little I knew of my mother’s connections, and gave him the names of the few people I knew he could trust. I left a letter for Lord Reyus, to be delivered if things went badly. In it, I told him what had happened and begged him to take my parents’ place leading t
he effort to secure Selice on the throne. Our assassin was already in place and could not be recalled, especially since I hadn’t the slightest clue as to who or where they were. That piece, we had set in motion long ago. If I failed, there would be one last chance to move against the High Priest. A vague warning was all I could give him. I couldn’t risk putting the assassin’s existence into writing.

  Hardest of all was the letter for Leanne, and I battled over every word. She deserved to know how much James loved her, and that he thought of her at the end. I wanted her to know he died bravely, doing his duty, but the words felt hollow. Dead was dead. Her child would never know his father. Duty be damned.

  I was loath to ask for anything more, but I did entreat Tommy to place a discreet man in the crowd to see Valor safely away. I needed my proud stallion for this, but I wouldn’t risk him falling into the hands of some Persican brute for the rest of his life.

  “Anythin’ else?” Tommy asked me when I handed him the letters that evening.

  “A bath wouldn’t go amiss.” I reeked of two weeks’ stale mead and misery.

  The Greyshor’s matron Eleanor saw to it, sending a few of the lads to haul hot water to the small shared privy. The wooden tub was barely large enough to sit in, but I made the most of it. A shabby lump of lye-soap served well enough to scrub myself clean. There was no oil for my hair, but I had time and a comb. I was working through a particularly stubborn mat when a discreet knock sounded at the door.

  “I’m sending one of the lasses in,” came Tommy’s muffled voice from the other side. One of the barmaids slipped through and set a neatly folded pile of clean clothes on the small table before darting back out.

  “Thank you,” I called to him, and heard him shuffle away down the hall.

  Winter’s chill seeped into the damp room, and I was grateful for the scratchy towel to scrub myself dry. Donning the borrowed breeches and tunic, I made my way back up to my room to finish untangling my long locks. It took the better part of an hour and a few bits had to be cut out with my knife, but eventually I managed to get it into reasonable order. After that, there was nothing left to do but sleep, but my mind was whirring and I knew it would be a futile endeavor. I considered heading downstairs to pass what was likely to be my last night on this earth in company, but the thought of mead turned my stomach.

  Instead, I sat on the lumpy cot and stared out the window at the night sky. The moon hung at half her glory, stars keeping their quiet vigil. Many, I imagine, would pass the eve of their death in prayer, but that was not my way. To be sure, I spent a bit of time entreating my gods, but mostly I talked to the dead. Whispering into the darkness, I chatted with my parents, with Shera, with James, as if they stood before me in that dim room. I thanked Gabe for his patient company, Seth for his bravery, Emmett and Preston for their unwavering loyalty. I told Ellen and Poppy I was sorry they’d not had the chance to become wives and mothers. I fingered the scar on my ribcage and apologized to Greta for causing her so much consternation.

  I imagined their ghosts there with me in the darkness, and felt a little less alone.

  In the morning, I rose with the dawn and wrapped my sword belt and arms into a careful bundle, my Freyjan shield binding it together. My hair, I combed and plaited tightly. Pulling on my boots, I made my way downstairs. Tommy was already seated in the alcove, digging into one of two bowls of porridge before him on the table. He glanced up at me when I sank into the chair opposite him.

  “When?” I asked quietly, picking up my spoon.

  He swallowed, focusing on his breakfast. “Midday.”

  I nodded and we ate in silence.

  Our quiet accord was abruptly interrupted by the thudding of boots racing across the wooden floor toward us.

  “Tommy!” A young man scrambled to a halt beside our table, hands on his knees as he gasped for air.

  “What is it?”

  My stomach dropped at the sight of his obvious fear, at the tight, desperate edge to his tone. What more could possibly go wrong?

  “Spit it out, boy,” Tommy growled as the lad struggled to catch his breath.

  “The priests,” he blurted. “They’re spreading the sickness!”

  We both sagged in our seats and Tommy turned back to his breakfast with an irritated scowl. “That’s our song, lad, and long since abandoned.”

  The boy shook his head vigorously, grasping his boss’s arm in earnest. “No, you don’t understand. It’s Kerrick. Gary’s brother. Does some of the routes in and out of Savern. He saw ‘em, boss.”

  “Saw what.”

  “The priests. Ker was layin’ low in a village near the Darian border. Origin came, offerin’ to cleanse the town and accept new supplicants for Al’Rahim, but the Elder refused. Sent ‘em away.”

  The boy gulped a few breaths of air, both our attention now fixed on him.

  “He was makin’ his exit that night, pickin’ up a few supplies in town, ye know, like the boys sometimes do when coin runs short. He saw the priests in the square, pourin’ a bottle of somethin’ right into the well.”

  My heart sank in my chest.

  “They’re poisoning the people, Tommy!” he pressed, his lean face twisted in dismay.

  Hard hazel eyes met mine. “And then they return once people start gettin’ sick,” Tommy muttered, not needing to hear the rest. “If the people submit, the priests slip in the antidote and call it a divine reward for their devotion to the one true god.”

  That’s why the Caelin physicians couldn’t identify the source. Why no Therian apothecary could find a remedy. Why the children and the elderly died first.

  I burned with hate, hands clenched into fists atop the table. My fragile calm cracked under the weight of this new revelation. I wondered if my parents had known. If they did, they hadn’t told me. I wondered, too, about Selice’s illness and the Queen’s untimely labor. There are countless poisons in the world, with nearly as many varied applications. Persica clearly had no qualms about using them.

  I stood abruptly, every muscle in my body stiff with fury.

  “Where ye goin’, lass?” Tommy asked, his tone a caution.

  “I need to think. Come get me when it’s time.”

  Every piece of leather I owned got a thorough polishing that morning. Seated on a crate in a quiet corner of the warehouse, I replayed the runner’s news over and over again, forcing myself to see it as just another piece on the board, to imagine all the possibilities and find the best way to use it to my advantage.

  Just another weapon. Just another tool.

  Despite my initial flush of fury, that detached calm gradually settled back over me as I rubbed oil into the straps of Valor’s tack, my mind working through the knots of my anger, dismantling it and filing it away.

  In its place, I sought out the words to destroy a king.

  I was sharpening my blades when Tommy finally appeared, his lean frame silhouetted against the light of the distant doorway. Standing, I sheathed my standard-issue sword and wrapped my arms into their bundle once more. My sapphire ring, I buckled onto one of the narrow straps of my Freyjan shield. A pang of regret hit me when I handed them to him.

  “Keep these safe, will you?” They would be useless where I was headed. If my words couldn’t save me, no blade would. “And start spreading the word. Tell anyone who will listen about the poison.”

  He accepted the bundle and nodded. “I’ll ride with you.”

  “No. You’ve done enough.” I met his guarded gaze, seeing an unexpected shadow of my mother’s unflinching resolve in them. “This is mine.”

  I tacked Valor with numb fingers, the task seeming to take only an instant. Before I could blink, I was swinging into the saddle, Tommy stepping up beside me.

  “You’ll see him safe?” I pressed, patting my mount’s neck.

  “I will.” He handed me the emerald banner, my last request of him. I forced myself to meet his gaze, battling to keep my voice strong and even.


  “And my letters?”

  The look in his eyes nearly broke me. “I’ll see it done, lass.”

  Too many words crowded my tongue, all of them insufficient in the face of all he had done for me. I swallowed all but two and pulled my cloak tight against the winter chill.

  “Thank you.”

  Not enough. Not nearly enough, but I was out of time and far too short on courage to risk lingering any longer. I spurred Valor past him and we disappeared into the crowded streets of Dockside.

  It took a long time to reach the temple. The common people were out in force, choking the streets and alleyways as we drew closer to the audience. Valor pressed his way carefully through the crush of bodies. People parted, not eager to be stepped on, a few throwing curses my way. I seemed to be the only one astride.

  When we were finally within sight of the spectacle, I hesitated. There, in the sprawling square before the temple steps, a grand dais had been constructed. Upon it, Amenon sat in a gleaming golden throne. At his side, Selice’s radiant beauty shone, cheeks flushed with pink in the cold. The High Priest lingered at the King’s left. The crowd pressed forward, kept at bay by an intimidating line of King’s Guard in white uniform, plate armor glinting in the midday sun. The Origin’s Persican soldiers lined the steps of the temple opposite them across the square.

  I scanned the crowd for familiar faces, but most had their backs to me, facing the dais as Amenon raised his voice over the crowd. There was nothing for it. If my allies were here, they might act. If not, what did it matter? There was no turning back. I would see it through.

  “Courage,” I murmured to my brave stallion, though it was more for me than him. I shifted my seat and Valor pressed forward into the throng. Pulling back my cowl, I sat straight and proud in the saddle, hefting the standard in my left hand. A few eyes turned, taking in my appearance, my mount, and the hastily-stitched banner. On an emerald field, the Lazerin horse reared, painted in pale yellow by one of Tommy’s more artistically-inclined lads. It fluttered and snapped in the cold breeze, murmurs of recognition rolling through the crowd.