ALSO BY MELISSA DE LA CRUZ
THE ALEX & ELIZA TRILOGY
Book One: Alex & Eliza
Book Two: Love & War
Book Three: All for One
HEART OF DREAD SERIES (with Michael Johnston)
Book One: Frozen
Book Two: Stolen
Book Three: Golden
WITCHES OF EAST END SERIES
BLUE BLOODS SERIES
BEACH LANE SERIES
THE ASHLEY PROJECT SERIES
THE DESCENDANTS SERIES
The Ring and the Crown
Surviving High School (with Lele Pons)
Something in Between
Someone to Love
29 Dates
Because I Was a Girl: True Stories for Girls of All Ages
(edited by Melissa de la Cruz)
Pride and Prejudice and Mistletoe
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
Copyright © 2020 by Melissa de la Cruz
Map illustration copyright © 2020 by Misty Beee
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: De la Cruz, Melissa, 1971– author.
Title: The Queen’s assassin / Melissa de la Cruz.
Description: New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, [2020]
Summary: “The Queen’s Assassin is forced to take on a mysterious apprentice
on his most dangerous mission yet, pulling them both into a vicious
web of secrets and lies”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019005524 | ISBN 9780525515913 (hardcover) |
ISBN 9780525515920 (ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Assassins—Fiction. | Kings, queens, rulers—Fiction. |
Apprentices—Fiction. | Secrets—Fiction. | Fantasy.
Classification: LCC PZ7.D36967 Que 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019005524
Ebook ISBN 9780525515920
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Jacket stock photography courtesy of Getty Images / Westend61 and Shutterstock
Cover design by Kristie Radwilowicz
Version_1
For Mike and Mattie, always
CONTENTS
Also by Melissa De La Cruz
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Excerpt from the Scroll of Omin, 1.2: A Comprehensive History of Avantine
Prologue: Renovia
I: RenoviaChapter One: Shadow
Chapter Two: Shadow
Chapter Three: Shadow
Chapter Four: Caledon
Chapter Five: Caledon
Chapter Six: Shadow
Chapter Seven: Caledon
Chapter Eight: Shadow
Chapter Nine: Caledon
Chapter Ten: Shadow
Chapter Eleven: Shadow
Chapter Twelve: Shadow
Chapter Thirteen: Shadow
Chapter Fourteen: Shadow
Chapter Fifteen: Caledon
Chapter Sixteen: Shadow
Chapter Seventeen: Caledon
Chapter Eighteen: Shadow
Chapter Nineteen: Caledon
Chapter Twenty: Shadow
Chapter Twenty-One: Caledon
Chapter Twenty-Two: Shadow
Chapter Twenty-Three: Caledon
Chapter Twenty-Four: Shadow
Chapter Twenty-Five: Shadow
Excerpt from the Scroll of Omin, 1.2: A Comprehensive History of Avantine, On the Origins of Omin of Oylahn
II: MontriceChapter Twenty-Six: Caledon
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Shadow
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Caledon
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Caledon
Chapter Thirty: Caledon
Chapter Thirty-One: Shadow
Chapter Thirty-Two: Caledon
Chapter Thirty-Three: Shadow
Chapter Thirty-Four: Caledon
Chapter Thirty-Five: Shadow
Chapter Thirty-Six: Caledon
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Shadow
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Caledon
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Caledon
Chapter Forty: Shadow
Chapter Forty-One: Caledon
Chapter Forty-Two: Caledon
Chapter Forty-Three: Shadow
Chapter Forty-Four: Caledon
Chapter Forty-Five: Caledon
Chapter Forty-Six: Caledon
Chapter Forty-Seven: Caledon
Chapter Forty-Eight: Caledon
Excerpt from the Scroll of Dellafiore, 2.4: A Comprehensive History of Avantine, The Story of Esban and Lilianna
III: Assassin & QueenChapter Forty-Nine: Shadow
Chapter Fifty: Caledon
Chapter Fifty-One: Shadow
Chapter Fifty-Two: Shadow
Chapter Fifty-Three: Caledon
Chapter Fifty-Four: Caledon
Epilogue: Queen Lilac
Acknowledgments
About the Author
EXCERPT FROM THE SCROLL OF OMIN, 1.2:
A Comprehensive History of Avantine
LONG AGO, WHEN ALL THE kingdoms of Avantine were united as one under the great goddess Deia, and the mighty Dellafiore dynasty ruled over the land, there lived a terrible man named Phras.
Though he had some measure of wealth in his own right, Phras was deeply envious of his cousin, the king, who came from the Dellafiore bloodline on his mother’s side and had much stronger magical ability. This envy ate at Phras’s heart and mind until one day it consumed him entirely, and he murdered the king, taking the crown for himself.
Once in power, he erased all records of the Dellafiores so that in the future, the history of Avantine would begin with him, King Phras I.
But instead of winning the people’s hearts, he became known as the Tyrant King, for he was a cruel man, paranoid and consumed by the desire to keep magical power to himself.
With promises of riches and power beyond their ken, the Tyrant King amassed a great and powerful army, which he sent out into the land to collect every scrap of the mystical, sacred texts they could find—from recipes for potions and po
ultices to spell books and arcane tomes filled with dark magic and demonology. A council of his most loyal followers compiled a single document from them. These became known as the Deian Scrolls, the fount of all magical history, information, practice, and use.
No one in the kingdom was allowed access to the scrolls save for the group who had put them together, who called themselves Aphrasians, after their king. Through their efforts, King Phras learned the secrets of the darkest magic in the universe, and ruled as king and sorcerer. The Aphrasian order served as his magical soldiers and were given the castle of Baer to use as they wished. It was there that they founded their abbey.
Meanwhile, magic was decreed forbidden to the common folk, especially for the wise women, who were considered a great threat to the king and his men.
Brave witches saved as much magic as they could, which they passed on secretly. Thus the Hearthstone Guild was formed. In the early days, the Guild was simply an underground organization dedicated to preserving common and household magic; only later did it become a society of assassins and spies.
The surviving Dellafiores went into hiding. Extinct, it was said. The bloodline had died out. They were forgotten, as were the myths about mages and demons.
Over the course of his three-hundred-year rule, numerous revolts broke out against the Tyrant King, and in the wake of the tumult of his death, Avantine fractured into different kingdoms, all vying for power: Renovia to the west; Montrice to the north; Argonia to the south; Stavin to the east.
Baer Abbey lay to the west, and thus the Aphrasian monks fell under Renovia’s rule. While they were subject to their king or queen, over time their power grew so great that their leaders began to disregard the monarch and act on their own accord; after all, many of them were high-ranking aristocrats themselves. The Aphrasians believed they were subservient to no one, collecting tithes and levying taxes as they pleased. There were rumors that they kept Renovia locked in an endless cycle of wars with its neighbors, selling magic to the highest bidder and fanning hostilities while feigning loyalty to the crown.
Thus did the Aphrasian monks maintain control of the Deian Scrolls for centuries, doling out wisdom in bits and pieces as they saw fit, forcing commoners to consult them for all sorts of spiritual and physical ailments, wearing a mask of obedience before royalty as they pulled the strings of the puppet monarchs.
That is until the Tyrant King’s descendant, King Esban, toured his lands and saw the effect that lifetimes of high taxes and spiritual oppression had on his people. He decided enough was enough—magic and knowledge belonged to all. He vowed to end the Aphrasians’ reign of terror once and for all.
So rather than follow in his forefathers’ footsteps, King Esban chose to follow the peace treaty and not to attack Montrice in retaliation for their anger at his Montrician bride, as his advisors counseled. Instead, he declared war on the Aphrasians and descended upon Baer Abbey. After a lengthy battle, the king’s army prevailed, but did so at great cost. In an act of selfless bravery, King Esban gave his life for his kingdom.
Despite his sacrifice, the Deian Scrolls were not found. They disappeared along with the tattered remnants of the Aphrasian order.
King Esban’s widow, Queen Lilianna, has been searching for the scrolls ever since. They are the only remaining collection of Deian magic, aside from knowledge that was passed down from the Guild, and from grandmother to mother to daughter.
However, the Guild’s knowledge is just a fraction of the magic contained in the scrolls, and without them, the Queen, and the Kingdom, of Renovia remain vulnerable to threats lurking outside the country’s borders, as well as those within.
But the queen thinks only of her country. She will stop at nothing to find the scrolls, for they are the key to her family’s protection . . . and her country’s salvation.
PROLOGUE
Renovia
IN THE TIME OF KING ESBAN
AFTER THE BATTLE OF BAER
“THE KING IS DEAD! LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!”
A frail elder from the village of Nhainne began the chant from where she stood, hunched at the back of the crowd, her left hand grasping a worn walking stick. She raised her free hand to point one crooked finger toward the palace and shouted again, louder this time, voice scratchy and breaking from the effort: “The king is dead! Long live the queen!” At first the others gathered were afraid to speak of the sovereign’s death prematurely, as to do so had been a treasonous offense under former monarchs, but the old woman had weathered too many seasons to fear the truth. She lifted her stick and brought it down with a bang as she said it once more, with all the breath she could muster: “The king is dead! Long live the queen!”
A small child joined next, and the crone’s words began to spread the way wind gains force in a storm. Faintly and then all at once, until all the people around her were shouting: “The king is dead! Long live the queen!”
It became a demand. The people of Renovia wanted answers.
Villagers had flocked to meet the Renovian army—what was left of it, at least—as they dragged themselves on the dirt roads toward home the evening prior, ragged and barefoot, shoulders slumped despite their success, often with a fellow soldier in even worse shape hanging on beside them. The soldiers confirmed that, yes, their beloved king, who fought by their side in battle against the Aphrasian monks, had indeed been killed.
* * *
AND SO RENOVIANS BEGAN to gather at the perimeter of Violla Ruza soon after daybreak, a scattered few at first, then more and more, waiting for an announcement. But the sun was already high in the sky and still they heard nothing. Surely, the palace would issue an official statement, as was tradition when a monarch passed, or at least give some indication that the rumors were true—and that the kingdom was secure. A Montrician invasion was a Renovian’s greatest fear, although an attack from Stavin or Argonia was not incomprehensible. Peace treaties were often broken.
But their hopes were met with silence. The white stone palace and its jagged turrets loomed over them, still and eerie, and the royal banner of Renovia flew high over the tallest spire long after the sun dipped behind the building and below the horizon. It was never lowered. Nobody knew quite what to make of this—was King Esban actually alive, or was his queen simply unable to accept his death? Or worse—had the Aphrasians seized the crown?
The next dawn arrived and there was still no word. Yet news of the king’s demise and the Aphrasians’ defeat continued to travel from town to town, swelling the crowds gathered around the palace. The hordes began at the grand iron gates and overflowed into the surrounding fields as the mourners grew by dozens, then hundreds. Some rode in on horseback or on bumpy harvest wagons filled with family and neighbors. Others arrived on foot. They tied scraps of white and purple cloth to the castle gates and carried baskets of freshly cut flowers from their gardens—lilies for the queen and lilacs for the infant princess—which they arranged in bunches along the edge of the grounds. Their king’s sacrifice had given them the dream of a better future, free of the Aphrasian order; all their hope now lay with the regent queen and his heir.
The mood was strangely festive, if solemn. Everyone arrived in their best hats and dress for the occasion, so there were bursts of blues and reds and yellows amid the traditional funereal white. They looked less like mourners than a rich garden in full bloom. Old friends were reunited; children ran between their parents’ legs, chasing one another around in circles. After all, it was rare for so many from so far to gather together, and they had the longed-for defeat of the treacherous Aphrasians to celebrate even though victory had come at a great cost.
Still the survivors reveled in recounting King Esban’s valiant final moments for the crowd, all swearing they’d witnessed it with their very own eyes: how after taking on an entire company of men by himself, their great king was cut straight through with a longsword, at the top of a knoll, a magnificent sunset ushering him int
o the next world. And how, within seconds of the king’s death, the Aphrasian monk who felled him had met his own end, thanks to Grand Prince Alast, the king’s younger brother, who lunged toward the monk, his blade shining in the setting sun, slicing through the traitor’s neck.
When the last of the Aphrasians retreated, fleeing into the woods surrounding the abbey, the strongest of the king’s remaining soldiers gathered their fallen, including the king himself, onto makeshift wagon beds and hitched them to the few horses they could find.
A parade of the departed, led by their slain king, was en route to the capital city’s catacombs. All those they passed could see King Esban was well and truly dead.
Yet the palace remained silent . . .
* * *
ON THE FOURTH DAY after the Battle of Baer, late in the afternoon, Queen Lilianna finally pulled the edge of the curtain aside from one of the high arched windows in her private quarters. Ever since the news reached her of her husband’s death, her place of refuge had become more like a tomb, lit only by a single candle. Even the jangle of the metal curtain rings was jarring. Her head throbbed. Sun spilled into the hushed room, casting a stream of light across the marble floor. The queen flinched, squinting until her eyes adjusted to the bright light, then peeked out at the agitated crowd congregating below. Her gaze settled on a cluster of men near the gate. One of them was shouting. Those surrounding him nodded along in agreement. He gestured wildly toward the castle, punctuating his words with flailing arms and pointed fingers.
“I need to speak to my people, Holt,” the queen said. “Assure them that I am their true queen, even if I am not from Renovia.”
She’d hardly slept since her husband led his army for Baer Abbey to quash the Aphrasian uprising. Nor had she left her lavish rooms. This was precisely what she’d feared when he set out. She’d implored him not to go, but Esban insisted the men needed their king. It was his duty. He was, above all else, a man of honor, a leader in the truest sense. But now he was gone, and she was left behind to pick up the pieces.
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