How can you not want this? she asked. My mother assumes I am like other girls. She doesn’t know me. Even if she did, it’s clear she doesn’t particularly care what my wishes are. I don’t want to be a courtier, no matter how prestigious the position. I want to hone my magical powers, become as deadly and dangerous as she used to be, before she settled down to oversee and placate the nest of vipers at court. I want to train. If I go to the palace, it will be as an assassin. Not as a doll. Or a pawn.
The justice bell begins to toll from the palace tower and the sudden clang jolts me from my thoughts. I turn to look up the road. All around me townsfolk are abandoning their wares, their shops, their friendly chatter, and they swarm into the streets. Even though I’m as curious as they are, I roll my eyes. They’re vying for a glimpse of the prison transport so they can be one of the first to view the offender. They’ll exchange stories about it for days: Oh yes, I was there. I saw the murderer with my own eyes. I was shocked. Well, I wasn’t surprised whatsoever. Even the kindly shopkeeper, who just moments before was carefully arranging fresh-cut blooms in his wife’s elaborately hand-painted ceramic pots and vases, turns his attention toward the main thoroughfare instead. I purchase one from the old woman, a small plant pot in white, decorated with lush grapevines, purposely trying to seem indifferent to the commotion around me.
This isn’t the first time I’ve witnessed a transfer. It never seems to matter who appears in the cart when it emerges, either; the crowd is always ready to condemn. It’s alarming, really, how quickly nice people become ravenous, bloodthirsty. Children young enough to hide in their mother’s skirts throw half-eaten food or handfuls of dirt at the prisoners; they spit toward the rickety cart as it rolls down the main thoroughfare.
The mob prefers to see justice administered swiftly rather than fairly. When I was younger, their furious scowls and screaming frightened me. I would cling to Aunt Mesha and close my eyes. She told me the people want to see someone punished, because order comforts them more than justice. They need to believe that the good are always good and the bad are always bad, and that they themselves err on the side of good. Few understand that there’s a wide space between the two, where nearly all of us fall.
My aunts warned me of this many times—be wary of the sway of others, they told me. Find your own path and stay upon it. Don’t allow yourself to be pulled in another direction, even if you must walk alone. “Do the most good” is their favorite saying. The most good. I like that because it allows for, well, some of the not-so-good too. Sometimes a bit of that is necessary.
But this—the angry horde—is not doing any good at all. Did no one wonder if they could be wrong? Question the lack of public trial? My eyes fall on a tiny girl who can’t be more than three or four years old. She watches silently, wide-eyed, one thumb in her mouth, her other hand grasping her father’s. He’s paying little attention to her; his focus is on the spectacle around him. Raucous laughter drifts through the air, somehow adding an even more sinister edge to the hisses and taunts. She looks terrified. But in a few more years, she’ll likely be throwing dirt alongside all the others.
The cart comes closer. I can see him now.
Like everyone in the crowd, I know who the prisoner is, but I can scarcely believe it.
The official story from the palace is that the grand prince was murdered by a local blacksmith, Caledon Holt. There is no specific mention of where the grand prince was found. It happened during a botched robbery, said one. An evening of high-stakes gambling at an out-of-the-way tavern that led to an argument, or perhaps an ambush, said others. He’s being sent to Deersia to await trial and will surely be executed.
But I know the truth.
Caledon is not a traitor, but a hero.
He should be at the head of a parade, feted and beloved; instead he is being led from the capital of Renovia in chains.
Why did the queen do this? Why?
This is all my fault. Maybe if I hadn’t been at Baer Abbey, he wouldn’t have needed to rescue me or kill the grand prince.
The cart draws nearer. Now I regret buying this ceramic vessel. I can’t carry it right now, and it won’t fit in the cloth bag slung over my shoulder, which is heavy enough already, filled with tiny jars of the salves I was supposed to sell. I see a young girl standing alone just a few paces from me. She carries a basket with a loaf of fresh bread and some fruit.
“Excuse me,” I say.
She looks startled. “I paid for this,” she says. “Ask him.” She points to the fruit vendor.
I hold out the pot. “No, no, I’m to deliver this to your mother. Can you take it to her for me?”
“Oh! Yes,” she says. I hand it to her and she puts it in her basket.
“Enjoy!” I say, already walking away. I pull my hood forward around my face and disappear into the crowd, trying to edge closer to the road. If I stand tiptoe, I can see Caledon in the back of the cart. He sits with his back straight, defiant. I follow his piercing gaze to the palace balcony, where his eyes are locked on the queen. No hint of emotion shows on his face. Hers is much too far away to make out, even if it wasn’t obscured by the drape of her veil, but I can tell she’s holding her usual perfect posture, hands clasped in front of her long white dress. Still as a statue.
I wonder if Caledon is afraid. I would be. Deersia is a dangerous, lonely place. Most who enter are never seen again, even before they make it to trial. Few men are willing to take jobs at the prison—it’s considered a punishment just to work there—so it’s become customary for royal officials to relocate their troublesome staff to the fortress. The threat of a stint boiling linens or flushing pans at Deersia is a useful deterrent. Parents are known to threaten their sons: “Behave, or it’s off to Deersia with you!”
Caledon’s situation is especially precarious. He is charged with murdering a royal. Those who loved Prince Alast will no doubt seek revenge, and there are likely to be a few of them working at the prison. And though Caledon is known only as a local blacksmith, there have to be some, especially at Deersia, who are aware of his true occupation. He’s sure to have enemies in Renovia’s underworld. They’d probably like nothing more than to be the assassin’s own executioner.
The guard notices Caledon looking up at the queen, so he yanks him to the floor of the cart by his chains. The crowd cheers at the spectacle. “Impertinent bastard,” the guard sneers. “Keep your eyes to your filthy feet.” Queen Lilianna disappears behind white curtains in a flurry of fabric. A maid shuts the balcony door after her and draws the drapes.
Seems she can’t even bear to observe what she’s done.
My head pounds with a sudden surge of anger. I don’t know how he can stand it. How can he keep from lashing back at the guard, at the people? I doubt I could be so stoic. Fury boils up in me just from watching it happen.
Caledon saved my life, without the slightest hesitation or consideration for his own well-being. For that, I am eternally in his debt. And he’s in desperate need of a friend right now.
Then, the spark of an idea comes to me. Maybe, if I help him, if I prove myself worthy, he’ll train me himself. I won’t even need to join the Guild if he can teach me what he knows. My mother and aunts will be angry, at least at first, but once they see how well I do and on my own, they’ll be proud.
The cart approaches. It’s about to be directly in front of me, and in that moment I decide.
I push through the crowd, elbowing people aside. One woman jabs me back and curses, but I just rush to the side of the cart and grab on to the wood slats. Caledon and I make eye contact, but he looks away quickly, probably thinking that I’m about to spit at him like the rest.
I have to think fast. I wish I had time for a note, but obviously that’s not an option. I reach into my bag and root around for something. A jar of salve won’t do—he’ll have nowhere to put it.
At the bottom of my bag I come upon crushe
d flowers wrapped inside a handkerchief. My mother gave it to me during her last visit a few years ago, when I turned fourteen, but it will have to do. I shake the dried flowers into the bag and thrust the handkerchief through the bars. “Take it.”
Caledon glances down at the handkerchief, then scoots back and opens his hands, which are tied behind his back. His fingers close around the fabric before he slides it up his sleeve. “You’re not alone,” I add impulsively, letting go of the bars just as the guard looks in my direction. I’m not sure what I’m going to do or how I’m going to do it, but I have to help him.
I back away, holding my hood across the bottom of my face, and slip through the back of the crowd. I walk a few yards, following the road, then stand on the front step of the Brass Crab to watch the cart move on. Caledon stares at me as it goes, eyebrows knit together in confusion. I can’t tell for sure whether he knows I’m the girl from the abbey.
His gaze roots me to the spot, and the world around me drifts away into the background; there’s only the road ahead, and Caledon. We remain this way—watching each other—for a long, long time, until the cart finally disappears over the hill.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Caledon
THE JOURNEY TO DEERSIA IS grueling—and painfully slow. The brittle cart bumps relentlessly over deeply rutted roads as it winds its way into the foothills of the border mountains. Before they’ve even reached the halfway point, Cal’s legs are already sore and bruised, his arms and shoulders ache from being held behind his back, his wrists chafe raw against the rough restraints.
For the first part of the trip he resists the urge to fight or flee. Even if it wouldn’t be difficult to escape from the tightly (but poorly, he notes) knotted ropes and overtake the guard and the driver, he cannot. He has been given an assignment and he must see it out.
The two men don’t speak to him. They hardly speak to each other, either, and when they do, it’s about nothing useful—just boasts about women, gambling, more women. So Cal has plenty of time to consider what happened with the strange girl in town. Who is she? Why did she give him . . . ? What did she give him? He struggles to grasp it in his fingers again. Just a scrap of cloth? Or is it a message from the Guild? He tries not to curse aloud; he’s pushed whatever it is even farther up his sleeve.
Is she his replacement? Could the Guild have already chosen the new assassin? He feels a burst of irritation at the thought. He hadn’t considered the possibility of someone taking his position so soon. And then immediately: No, he is not so easily replaced. More likely she was simply a messenger. Finally, he manages to get ahold of the edge and yanks the fabric down into a ball in his hand. He doesn’t want the guards to see that he has it. He squeezes it but doesn’t feel anything sewn into the material.
Maybe he’d seen her around town before? He tries to remember. She looked so familiar, and yet he couldn’t quite place her. Had she been selling sunflowers in front of the haberdashery last week? No, that girl had lighter hair, pinker skin, a bright yellow shawl. This one wore a merchant’s dress in muted colors, tans and browns, and a hooded linen cape. With a long, thick chestnut braid over her shoulder, woven with a lavender ribbon. Cowlicky curls framing her forehead. Big brown eyes, skin the color of amber honey.
The girl at the abbey. She also had dark hair, he thinks, though he can’t exactly remember seeing it. Maybe it’s her black hood that he remembers, not her hair? He didn’t get a good look at her face that day. She was gone almost as soon as he showed up to save her life. And look where that got him.
The fortress of Deersia—formerly Castle Deersia, used by the earliest members of the Dellafiore dynasty—looms in the fog up ahead. The tall gray structure, as ragged and menacing as the mountains around it, sits on the highest point for a mile in any direction, with sheer cliffs on three sides. It appears to grow naturally from the rock itself, and that’s by design; the base of the castle was carved out of the very mountain on which it sits, making it as indestructible as its surroundings. The Dellafiores intended this to be a reminder of their power—as natural and awe-inspiring as the earthly creations of Deia Herself. Only the upper levels were constructed by human hands, with stone quarried at the foot of the mountains and dragged up the skinny road or hoisted up the sides with pulleys. It cost a fortune, in coin, years, and labor, not to mention lives. Almost every family in Renovia has stories of ancestors who died while building Deersia.
The road is the only way to access the building. Or leave it alive. Caledon’s heart sinks into his gut. The prison was chosen for the most difficult captives. How long will he be stuck here? When will the queen send for him?
The ride uphill feels longer than the entire trip did up to that point. Parts of the path are so narrow the cart turns slightly on its side. Cal’s stomach lurches each time it sways. He decides to close his eyes the rest of the way.
They come to a stop in front of the entrance, where a shabbily dressed man holding a lantern waits for them. A large iron ring full of keys hangs from his belt. The guard flips down the back of the cart and yanks Cal out, tossing him onto the ground in front of the gates. “Now get up,” the guard says.
Cal doesn’t say what he wants to say; he bites his tongue instead.
“I said get up,” the guard repeats. Cal struggles to stand. His right foot is numb and his legs are wobbly from sitting on them for so many hours. When he begins to rise, the guard pushes him down with his boot. “Try again,” he says.
Would it have been so bad to let the prison guard in on the plan? Cal thinks. It’s going to be a long stay, even if it’s only a few days, as he hopes.
The keeper at the gate steps forward and addresses the guard. “All right, Edmun. Enough. Plenty of time for all that.” They both chuckle.
Once Cal’s finally to his feet, the guard takes out a blindfold and wraps it around his eyes. From there he’s dragged all the way through the fortress, the guard on one side and the keeper on the other. He trips, purposely, to slow down the guards and get some idea of what’s around him, but they just continue to yank him along until he manages to get his feet back under him again. “You know that’s not helping, right?” he says. They don’t respond, just pull harder. He decides it’s better to keep his comments to himself after that. Instead he listens for other prisoners. There’s surprisingly little noise aside from the raspy breath of his captors and their feet shuffling against the floor. He knows he can’t be alone in the fortress. They must be keeping him in an isolated wing.
He concentrates on memorizing how many steps they take before each turn, and whether they turn left or right, to create a crude map of the prison in his head. They go up at least four flights of stairs, the last even steeper than the others. They are so high up that he can feel a slight sway in the building from the wind. The air is thin too; the guard stops to catch his breath. They must be in one of the tall, skinny turrets. At least he’ll have a nice view.
They jerk him to a stop. He hears metal keys clanging together and the creak of rusty hinges, a thick door sliding open against the uneven floor. The guard pulls the scarf down from Cal’s eyes, leaving it dangling around his neck. He’s in a cell with a tiny barred window that looks out beyond the cliff, past the Renovian Sea, all the way into Montrice. “Best room in the house!” the keeper says. “Got a privy and everything!” He whistles.
That’s the last thing Cal hears before the heavy iron door slams shut. The bolts click into place. A bar slides into place across the door.
“You forgot something,” Cal says. He slips off the wrist ties easily—he could have done that from the start if he’d wanted—and removes the scarf they left on his neck. “Don’t worry, I took care of it,” he calls out. There’s no reply, just the jingle of keys and the echo of footsteps as the two men retreat into the depths of the castle, leaving Cal very much alone in the turret, empty aside from a basic sleeping space, a rough wool blanket, and a lone bucket in the corner.
The handkerchief. He pulls it back out of his sleeve and smooths it on the ground in front of him, eyes searching every bit of it for some kind of message. Nothing. He turns it over. Nothing. He picks it up to look closely. There may be tiny writing, or even a code of tiny dots, anything. But there is not. It’s just a handkerchief that smells of a floral perfume.
He stuffs it back up his sleeve in case he missed something or needs it later. Then he balls up the scarf to use as a pillow and lies down on the hay-strewn floor near a stream of moonlight from the tiny window. There’s nothing else to do now. Except wait.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Shadow
WHAT FELT SO RIGHT IN the moment feels more and more foolish as the days go on. I took a big risk approaching Caledon during the prisoner transport like that, and to what end? I’m stuck here, while he’s all the way at Deersia. Even if I could get there, it still wouldn’t do him any good—women are absolutely prohibited from setting foot on the grounds.
From the moment I returned home to the cottage, the plan to ship me off to Violla Ruza continued to move forward. Less than a week. That’s all I have. In six days, my life, as I know it, will be over. All my sensory training will be useless. Nothing will be expected of me once I officially arrive, other than looking pretty and following orders. I know this because I have occasionally accompanied my mother to court, and there is so little to do there I almost die of boredom.
I’m putting breakfast dishes away when I hear a heavy knock at the door. My stomach lurches—was I reported for the handkerchief? Did someone see me slip it to Caledon?
Another knock, more insistent. I wonder if I can get away out the back door.
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