The Queen's Assassin

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Still, despite private grief and public turmoil, Queen Lilianna managed to remain as poised as always. Her ebony hair remained perfectly wrapped in a high braided bun, and her deep purple satin dressing gown flowed effortlessly from her shoulders to her slippered feet. Only her face betrayed her fatigue: usually traced in smoky kohl, her eyes were bare and swollen from crying; her deep brown skin was wan and dull. Silver trays of food sat untouched on her tea table. She’d only nibbled at the corner of a single slice of bread the night before in order to appease her counselors before banishing them from the room.

  All except one. Known commonly as the King’s Assassin, Cordyn Holt was the crown’s personal advisor and commander of Renovia’s security forces—as well as the king’s dearest and most trusted friend. As such, he’d been tasked with guarding Queen Lilianna while King Esban was away. Holt was the only person the queen had allowed in her presence since news of Esban’s death was delivered by Grand Prince Alast on the evening of the battle.

  The moment Alast left, Holt had positioned his imposing frame near the room’s double door, where he intended to stay as long as his queen needed him.

  “Holt, I must speak to them,” she pressed.

  “Too dangerous,” he said, hands clasped behind his back, strong chin lifted high with authority. “If you step out onto the balcony, you will be exposed. We don’t know who’s out there.”

  Eyes wide, she turned to him. “You told me those wretched rebels had been purged. That the Aphrasians were finished.”

  For the most part, he thought. He kept his expression as neutral as he could. “Yes,” he said carefully. “But there are almost certainly sympathizers remaining. There always are.”

  She snapped the curtain shut, drowning the room in darkness again. “Then my husband died for nothing?”

  Holt sighed, shifted his feet. In a rare moment of weakness, his confidence faltered a bit. “It was not for nothing. The loss we have suffered is a great one. But the realm is secure, at least for now. There is still a kingdom left to inherit. That is far from nothing.”

  She stepped away from the window. “And what of the rest? Where are the scrolls? Were they recovered?”

  He stammered, “We don’t—unfortunately, no, Your Majesty, we don’t have them.” He kept his hands behind his back and his eyes on the ground to avoid agitating her any further. “Yet,” he added.

  “What do you mean you don’t have them?” she shouted. Holt clenched his square jaw. He reminded himself that she was still recovering from a complicated delivery just a few weeks earlier.

  “Without the scrolls these monks aren’t ‘purged.’ They’ve only been set back!” She began pacing the plush cream rug, violet waves of fabric fluttering around her. “They’ll keep coming for me. They’re relentless. As long as I’m alive, I’m in their way. Am I to be a prisoner here forever? What use is living in a kingdom of fear, under constant threat?” Holt had never seen her so out of sorts. He was unsure whether she was even speaking directly to him anymore. “They’ve already attempted to kill me once. That we know of! And there are rumors of other plots . . . They’ll never stop coming. Never. How long until they get to the baby?” She stopped pacing to stare at him, as if she expected an answer. He didn’t have one to give her.

  Just then, an urgent wail erupted from a canopied cradle near the queen’s chaise. She hurried over and lifted the baby to her breast, shushing her softly. Without turning back to face Holt, she said, “He will never know his child.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” He paused, then added, “I understand.”

  At that she looked at him, clear-eyed, focused, almost as if a spell had broken. “Of course you do,” she said, softening her tone. She walked to the window again and drew back a corner of the drape to peek out at the crowd, still cradling the baby. An ivory silk receiving blanket trailed over her shoulder and down her back. “What shall we do now?” she asked him quietly.

  He didn’t respond right away. What could he say? There were never guarantees, especially not in a time of war, and the rebels had been relentless in their pursuit of the royal family, determined to eliminate the rulers as well as any possible heirs. Holt could offer only to do his best to protect her and the child. And his best—a plan he’d been mulling over since the assassination attempt early in the queen’s pregnancy—was something she probably would not want to consider just yet. If ever.

  They stood in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds; Holt considered the situation. The Renovian army had returned victorious, but weak. They’d sustained a great many casualties. Their king was dead. Several key Aphrasian leaders had been killed, but the survivors had fled, no doubt taking refuge with supporters, most likely in another kingdom. But which one? Stavin? Argonia? Montrice?

  Worse, they’d taken the Deian Scrolls—and all the ancient magical wisdom they contained—along with them.

  The queen took a deep breath and glanced out behind the curtain again. In the distance, she spied a merchant selling white mourning ribbons from his cart. People were tying them to sticks and waving them in the air, a traditional symbol of both sorrow and hope, meant to help lead the departed souls home.

  “If I cannot address my subjects directly, then you will make the announcement in my stead. The king is dead. We must move forward,” she said. Then added, “Whatever that means now.”

  Holt bowed slightly, relieved. “Of course, Your Majesty.” If the queen was finally willing to accept the kingdom’s new, precarious situation, this might be his best opportunity to broach the issue they had been arguing about since first declaring war on the monks. He considered his next words carefully before making his case.

  As Holt outlined the shape of his plan, the arrangements he had made, and the precautions he’d already taken, the queen’s visage hardened to match her steely gaze. She didn’t like any of it, of course. But she recognized she had few alternatives now, and little time to waste deliberating.

  Queen Lilianna turned her head toward the window, though she couldn’t see out from where she sat. Nevertheless, they could still hear the crowd’s chants growing louder from below: “The king is dead! Long live the queen!”

  At last she spoke. “Yes. I will agree to the arrangement,” she said. She looked at Holt just as the shock of her words flickered across his face. He knew his plan was a risky one and had expected more resistance from her.

  The queen held up her finger. “One caveat,” she added, emphasizing every word. “I will agree . . . but only by blood vow.”

  His face fell. Of course, she would want more than promises and words. While he was duty-bound to protect her, he had dreaded such a demand. But some part of him knew it would come to this, and his position and loyalty meant he had no choice in the matter. His only concern was safeguarding the kingdom’s future. And so he nodded his assent, though doing so sealed his own fate. The vow meant there would be no possibility of escape—not until it was fulfilled, anyway—and a painful sacrifice on his part as well.

  After all, magic always requires balance. An eye for an eye—or a son for a daughter.

  The queen laid the sleeping infant, tightly bundled so that all Holt could see of her was a bit of golden skin and brown hair, back in her cradle. Then she strode across the room to the table near him and picked up an opaque bottle. She poured a bit of pink wine into a heavy crystal goblet, set it down, and raised a golden knife.

  Her eyes fixed on Holt, she began chanting: “Sanguinem reddetur votum. Sanguinem reddetur votum.” The mantra grew louder and faster as she pressed the small dagger across her wrist, drawing a line of blood. As it spread down her arm, Holt saw that it wasn’t red—it was deep blackish blue, like the midnight sky during a full moon. He tried to hide his surprise at the color, but he couldn’t stop himself from staring. She did the same to her other wrist, still repeating the words: “Sanguinem reddetur votum.”

  Whe
n she was done, Queen Lilianna closed her eyes and held her hands low over the goblet, palms lifted up toward the sky as her royal blood pooled in them, threatening to drip between her fingers. Then she turned them over, allowing her blood to spill into the wine, creating plum-colored swirls that spun as she chanted, “Sanguinem reddetur votum. Sanguinem reddetur votum. Sanguinem reddetur votum.”

  Kneeling, Holt offered his open palms to Queen Lilianna, closing his eyes as an image of a motherless one-year-old boy came to mind.

  The queen took his rough hands in hers, pressing her thumbs to his wrists to feel the beat of his blood coursing through his veins. The skin on the queen’s wrist had already smoothed over, as if it had never been cut at all. “Say the words after me,” she ordered. “I, Cordyn Holt . . .”

  “I, Cordyn Holt, Guardian of Renovia, devoted servant to the House of Dellafiore,” he repeated as she continued, “hereby pledge my life—and that of my heirs—to this promise: Defend the crown and restore the sacred scrolls of Deia to their rightful purpose.”

  “Is this your vow?” Queen Lilianna asked.

  “This is my vow,” Holt said.

  “Until it is done?” she asked.

  He paused. Then nodded. “Until it is done.” Holt felt slightly ill as the declaration left his lips, almost as if the words had been removed from him by an unseen hand rather than given freely, a punch in the chest almost—but before he could grasp it, it was gone.

  The queen released his hands and handed him the goblet. He accepted it, willing himself not to hesitate, and drank of her royal blood.

  With that, he was bound. As was his son.

  — I —

  RENOVIA

  Eighteen Years Later

  CHAPTER ONE

  Shadow

  SOMETHING OR SOMEONE IS FOLLOWING me. I’ve been wandering the woods for quite a while, but now it feels as if something—or someone—is watching. I thought it was one of my aunts at first—it was odd they didn’t chase after me this time. Maybe they didn’t expect me to go very far. But it’s not them.

  I stop and pull my hood back to listen to the forest around me. There is only the wind whistling through the branches and the sound of my own breathing.

  Whoever is following me is very good at hiding. But I am not afraid.

  Slivers of light penetrate the dense foliage in spots, shining streaks onto the blanket of decaying leaves and mud under my boots. As I slice through thick vines and clamber over rotting logs, speckled thrushes take flight from the forest floor before disappearing overhead. I pause to listen to them sing to one another, chirping elegant messages back and forth, a beautiful song carrying warnings, no doubt, about the stranger stomping through their home.

  Being out here helps me clear my head. I feel more peaceful here among the wild creatures, closer to my true self. After this morning’s argument at home, it’s precisely what I need—some peace. Some space. Time to myself.

  My aunts taught me that sometimes when the world is too much, when life starts to feel overwhelming, we must strip away what’s unnecessary, seek out the quiet, and listen to the dirt and trees. “All the answers you seek are there, but only if you are willing to hear them,” Aunt Moriah always says.

  That’s all I’m doing, I tell myself. Following their advice. Perhaps that’s why they allowed me to run off into the woods. Except they’re probably hoping I’ll find their answers here, not my own. That I’ll finally come to my senses.

  Anger bubbles up inside me. All I have ever wanted is to follow in their footsteps and join the ranks of the Hearthstone Guild. It’s the one thing I’ve wanted more than anything. We don’t just sell honey in the market. They’ve practically been training me for the Guild all my life—how can they deny me? I kick the nearest tree as hard as I can, slamming the sole of my boot into its solid trunk. That doesn’t make me feel much better, though, and I freeze, wondering if whatever or whoever is following me has heard.

  I know it is a dangerous path, but what nobler task is there than to continue the Guild’s quest? To recover the Deian Scrolls and exact revenge upon our enemies. They can’t expect me to sit by and watch as others take on the challenge.

  All the women I look up to—Ma, my aunt Moriah, and Moriah’s wife, my aunt Mesha—belong to the Guild; they are trained combatants and wise women. They are devotees of Deia, the One Mother, source of everything in the world of Avantine, from the clouds overhead to the dirt underfoot. Deia worship was common once but not anymore, and those who keep to its beliefs have the Guild to thank for preserving the old ways. Otherwise that knowledge would have disappeared long ago when the Aphrasians confiscated it from the people. The other kingdoms no longer keep to the old ways, even as they conspire to learn our magic.

  As wise women they know how to tap into the world around us, to harness the energy that people have long forgotten but other creatures have not. My mother and aunts taught me how to access the deepest levels of my instincts, the way that animals do, to sense danger and smell fear. To become deeply in tune with the universal language of nature that exists just below the surface of human perception, the parts we have been conditioned not to hear anymore.

  While I call them my aunts, they are not truly related to me, even if Aunt Moriah and my mother grew up as close as sisters. I was fostered here because my mother’s work at the palace is so important that it leaves little time for raising a child.

  A gray squirrel runs across my path and halfway up a nearby tree. It stops and looks at me quizzically. “It’s all right,” I say. “I’m not going to hurt you.” It waits until I start moving again and scampers the rest of the way up the trunk.

  The last time I saw my mother, I told her of my plans to join the Guild. I thought she’d be proud of me. But she’d stiffened and paused before saying, “There are other ways to serve the crown.”

  Naturally, I’d have preferred her to be with me, every day, like other mothers, but I’ve never lacked for love or affection. My aunts had been there for every bedtime tale and scraped knee, and Ma served as a glamorous and heroic figure for a young woman to look up to. She would swoop into my life, almost always under the cover of darkness, cloaked and carrying gifts, like the lovely pair of brocade satin dance slippers I’ll never forget. They were as ill-suited for rural life as a pair of shoes could possibly be, and I treasured them for it. “The best cobbler in Argonia’s capital made these,” she told me. I marveled at that, how far they’d traveled before landing on my feet.

  Yes, I liked the presents well enough. But what made me even happier were the times she stayed long enough to tell me stories. She would sit on the edge of my bed, tuck my worn quilt snugly around me, and tell me tales of Avantine, of the old kingdom.

  Our people are fighters, she’d say. Always were. I took that to mean I would be one too.

  I think about these stories as I whack my way through the brush. Why would my mother tell me tales of heroism, adventure, bravery, and sacrifice, unless I was to train with the Guild as well? As a child, I was taught all the basics—survival and tracking skills, and then as I grew, I began combat training and archery.

  I do know more of the old ways than most, and I’m grateful for that, but it isn’t enough. I want to know as much as they do, or even more. I need to belong to the Guild.

  Now I fear I never will have that chance.

  “Ouch!” I flinch and pull my hand back from the leaves surrounding me. There’s a thin sliver of blood seeping out of my skin. I was so lost in my thoughts that I accidentally cut my hand while hacking through shrubbery. The woods are unfamiliar here, wilder and denser. I’ve never gone out this far. The path ahead is so overgrown it’s hard to believe there was ever anyone here before me, let alone a procession of messengers and traders and visitors traveling between Renovia and the other kingdoms of Avantine. But that was before. Any remnants of its prior purpose are disappearing quickly. Even my blade, cr
afted from Argonian steel—another present from Ma—struggles to sever some of the more stubborn branches that have reclaimed the road for the wilderness.

  I try to quiet my mind and concentrate on my surroundings. Am I lost? Is something following me? “What do I do now?” I say out loud. Then I remember Aunt Mesha’s advice: Be willing to hear.

  I breathe, focus. Re-center. Should I turn back? The answer is so strong, it’s practically a physical shove: No. Continue. I suppose I’ll push through, then. Maybe I’ll discover a forgotten treasure along this path.

  Woodland creatures watch me, silently, from afar. They’re perched in branches and nestled safely in burrows. Sometimes I catch a whiff of newborn fur, of milk; I smell the fear of anxious mothers protecting litters; I feel their heartbeats, their quickened breaths when I pass. I do my best to calm them by closing my eyes and sending them benevolent energy. Just passing through. I’m no threat to you.

  After about an hour of bushwhacking, I realize that I don’t know where I am anymore. The trees look different, older. I hear the trickling of water. Unlike before, there are signs that something, or rather someone, was here not long before me. Cracked sticks have been stepped on—by whom or what, I’m not sure—and branches are too neatly chopped to have been broken naturally. I want to investigate, see if I can feel how long ago they were cut. Maybe days; maybe weeks. Difficult to tell.

  I stop to examine the trampled foliage just as I feel an abrupt change in the air.

  There it is again. Whoever or whatever it is smells foul, rotten. I shudder. I keep going, hoping to shake it off my trail.

  I walk deeper into the forest and pause under a canopy of trees. A breeze blows against a large form in the branches overhead. I sense the weight of its bulk, making the air above me feel heavier, oppressive. It pads quietly. A huge predator. Not human. It’s been biding its time. But now it’s tense, ready to strike.