Aunt Moriah shouts, “On my way!” to whoever’s knocking as she rushes to the door.
“Wait!” I yell, but before I can stop her, she’s already opening it. I take a few steps toward the back door and peek through the window over the kitchen sink. I don’t see anyone out there.
“It’s Missus Kingstone, dears.” I look toward the front door and see her drop into a quick curtsy.
“Good morning,” Aunt Moriah says, bobbing down as well. “Please, come right in.” She calls into the kitchen. “Shadow, time for your fitting.”
Missus Kingstone has been coming to the cottage for four years, to give me lessons in court life and outfit me for the times when I am called to join my mother. I’m not surprised she’s here since I’m supposed to leave for the palace so soon.
I wipe off my hands and reluctantly join them in the sitting room.
Missus Kingstone is plump, with a plain, but kind, face and frizzy gray hair tucked under a white cap. She wears simple clothing of high quality. The stitching is immaculate. Her skirt falls almost to the floor, neither too long nor too short, swishing perfectly as she walks, and her sleeves gather into small stiff ruffles at the wrist without any drooping. If anyone needed proof of her skill or her exacting standards, it’s evident in her own clothing.
“Hello, Shadow! How are you, my sweet? Let’s get to it, shall we?” she says to me, clapping her hands together. “We don’t have a moment to waste!” She puts her large basket on the floor and begins taking various instruments out of it, including a small square of wood.
“Missus Kingstone is going to make your new gowns,” Aunt Moriah tells me. “For the palace.”
“Of course,” I say.
“Stand on this, would you?” the seamstress orders, pointing to the wood block. I step onto it, feeling somewhat ridiculous, as I do every time I am called for a fitting.
But time passes quickly. Missus Kingstone is swift and efficient. Maybe a bit too efficient. She pushes and tugs at me like I’m a doll. Measurements are taken for every single part of my body, even my fingers, to make new gowns and precisely fitted elbow-length gloves.
Every piece of clothing she puts on me—samples that she pins and re-pins endlessly—starts to feel like another layer of confinement, piling on top of me to weigh me down and keep me from being able to flee. She stuffs me into a mock-up corset as well.
“A satin one, lined in whalebone, was ordered for you,” she says.
“I hope it’s not like this one. It’s laced far too tight,” I tell her as I attempt to pull it away from my body in order to breathe. She looks at me as if I’ve spoken utter nonsense and doesn’t reply or loosen it.
Fabric swatches are brought in too. They’re pinned onto parchment pages in a heavy massive book: red like a shiny apple, a matte mauve taffeta, deep blues, and light pinks.
“Which colors do you prefer, dear?” Missus Kingstone asks me, holding up the book. From her friendly tone, I know she assumes I must be thrilled about the silks and laces, but I can barely muster an opinion. Mostly I give her a tight smile, point at one or the other. She pats my leg. “Nervous, are you, dearie? Don’t be, you’ll be perfect,” she says, more to my aunts than to me.
My aunts match the woman’s cheer and fuss over the beautiful material, but I can tell it’s forced. Their exclamations are high-pitched and overdone; a show. “Oh!” they coo. “Would you look at this one, Shadow? Absolutely exquisite!” They never speak that way. It’s as if they’re lying to my face. I’d rather they say, “Shadow, we know this isn’t what you wanted, but there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s out of our hands. So just pick the fabrics and get this over and done.”
When the seamstress finally packs up her cart and heads back into town to begin making my fancy, unwanted finery, I help my aunts clear the table. Aunt Moriah tries to initiate conversation. “I adore that blue on the tea gown. It was a good choice. Reminds me of winter nights, when the moon is full—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I snap. From the corner of my eye, I see her exchange a knowing look with Aunt Mesha, who opens her mouth to speak but shuts it when Aunt Moriah shakes her head slightly.
“I’m going outside,” I tell them. Neither responds.
I stomp down the pebble path away from the cottage. I sense a hare chewing on bark before he sees me coming. They’re always out here trying to get into the vegetable garden. Usually, I slow down so as not to scare them, but at the moment I don’t care. He freezes, then hops off toward the field.
I clench my fists so hard my nails dig into my skin. I’m going to miss all this. The gardens, the beehives, even selling honey at the marketplace and bickering with my aunts.
But my future is no longer mine to decide. Resignation washes over me in a wave, so I start back toward the cottage. Everything— from the cozy house itself, with its patchy roof and the peeling picket fence around it, to the lanterns lit in the kitchen, and all the grounds surrounding it—seems shrouded in my sadness. I’m reminded of something I overheard my mother say to my aunts when I was younger: A dramatic little thing, isn’t she. I remember it exactly that way: a statement, not a question. Over what, I don’t recall, though I believe it was about a meal I didn’t want to eat. Something so simple, so common that children do, and my mother’s response was, “A dramatic little thing, isn’t she.”
The memory fuels my indignation for the next minute or so as I walk up the cobblestone path to the house. I’m snapped out of my self-pity when Aunt Moriah’s voice drifts out of the kitchen: “If the boy can’t do it, then what?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know,” Aunt Mesha says. “I wish I could say otherwise.” And then something muffled.
“ . . . not what Cordyn wanted. Not at all,” Aunt Moriah is saying. They’re talking about Caledon’s father, the former Queen’s Assassin. I hear cupboards opening, closing. Dishes being put away.
“It would come down to Montrice, wouldn’t it?” Aunt Mesha says. “But who?”
More muffled talking. But clearly, no blocking spell. Maybe they didn’t want to take the time. Or forgot. Ever since they announced my departure, my aunts have seemed more and more distracted. I stop walking and listen more carefully.
“ . . . another Montrician spy has been discovered . . . sent up to Deersia this week . . .” Tidbits of their hushed conversation float on the air and I can feel my heart start to race.
Another prisoner is being sent to Deersia. That means another prison transport will be traveling up there very soon.
“It's all much too dangerous,” Aunt Mesha agrees. “And we’re supposed to send her anyway, as if none of this is happening? We could be dealing with anything. Anything! There’s no knowing what evil the Aphrasians are capable of unleashing. Shapeshifters, demons even.”
I can’t see inside the house, but I can picture Aunt Moriah’s frustrated hands emphasizing her words, and then smoothing back her blond hair when she’s finished speaking. I’m certain she is closing her eyes and shaking her head at that very moment. “Oh, Mesha. This again? The king is dead and has been for centuries!” says Moriah. “Those are just fairy tales meant to scare children.”
“We can agree to disagree,” Mesha says. “Until I’m proven right, of course.”
“Well, for our sakes, I hope not,” Moriah says, putting an end to the conversation. “Shadow should be back any minute anyhow.”
After that all I hear is the sound of pots being put away and water from the kitchen pump filling the sink. I’ve never heard them speak this way before—I always thought such creatures were old wives’ tales—myths born from whispers and shadows in the forest. I wait, hoping they say more about monsters, or about the prisoner. My mind races. There will be another prison cart headed to Deersia . . . where they are keeping Caledon. Suddenly, a plan begins to form in my mind . . .
I stay outside long en
ough to keep them from knowing I eavesdropped, and then walk up the porch steps loudly and open the back door.
“Feeling any better?” Aunt Mesha asks me.
I just shrug. I don’t want the energy buzzing through my veins to be mistaken for newfound willingness.
“Maybe we all need a good night’s sleep,” Aunt Moriah says. She sets a cup of chamomile and cream in front of me. “What do you say we all turn in early and start fresh again in the morning?”
I just nod and sip the tea.
* * *
I TOSS AND TURN well into the early hours of morning, thinking about what I overheard. At some point I must fall asleep, though, because the next thing I know, my mother is standing over me at the side of my bed. Her back is to the open window so that the moon glows in a vibrant yellow ring around her. She is dressed in Guild black, her face obscured in the darkness of her hooded cloak. Before I can react, I feel her gaze lock on me. I can’t see her eyes, but their intensity sears my soul. When she finally speaks, her words settle into me like the warmth of a hearth. “Follow your path and fulfill your destiny, Shadow.”
After that it’s morning. My eyes flutter open; the sun is shining through the window. And I decide that this time I will follow my mother’s command.
CHAPTER NINE
Caledon
NIGHT TURNS TO DAY, AND then to night again. And again. Soon enough Cal’s imprisonment has lasted nearly a week. To him it feels more like a year. The days drag on and on endlessly. Mornings are spent doing push-ups and pacing the perimeter of his round cell, what he has come to assume is a converted bedchamber in the fortress’s east turret. He considers stuffing his wool blanket with hay to create a fighting dummy so he can keep in shape, but he’s reluctant to make his sleeping conditions any worse than they already are, especially since he’s no longer so certain this will be a short stay.
There are no books to read, and no letters arrive in the post. He has no idea what’s happening outside the prison walls, no way of knowing when he will be released. It’s maddening.
He examines the handkerchief over and over again. Holds it up to the bit of sunlight that streams in the tiny cell window every morning, in case there’s something he missed, perhaps a secret message written in milk or lemon juice—but there’s nothing.
Maybe the handkerchief itself was the code, and her words: You’re not alone. He may be reading too much into the encounter—she could have merely been a sympathetic bystander. But there was something familiar about her . . . When—if—he finishes the task in Montrice, he decides he’s going to find her.
In his isolation, he tries to keep his mind nimble. He runs over the list of courtiers at the palace. It’s impossible that the grand prince was acting alone. There are surely other traitors at court, and what good is Cal if he’s trapped behind bars? He can’t do his job here. There aren’t even other prisoners nearby he can extract information from. That may be for his protection; but it could also mean Queen Lilianna is keeping him isolated to protect others. He doesn’t want to believe that, but under duress his mind is going to dark places.
Cal scratches a mark into the wall for every night he sleeps on the cold floor, on top of the increasingly filthy hay. Good thing I didn’t wear my best clothes to Violla Ruza.
Though he tries to keep the thoughts away, at night Cal’s mind wanders to his father. When sleep finally comes, Cal dreams of him. They’re usually sitting in front of the hearth back home together. Sometimes Cordyn speaks to Cal, though when he wakes he can’t remember anything the man said. Sometimes all Cal sees is the back of his head, looking up at it, like he’s a child again, following him on a crowded street, scared they’ll be separated and he’ll be lost.
Cal wakes and sighs. If he wasn’t bound to Queen Lilianna, he wonders what his life would be like now. It certainly wouldn’t include a stint at Deersia. But there is no escape from a blood vow; he’s learned that the hard way.
It first happened after his father was killed. He was only thirteen. Rash and angry, old enough to desire freedom but young enough to feel orphaned, abandoned. He knew about the vow by then, of course, but he figured he could flee from it; perhaps, if he hid from it long enough, it would die with him instead of being passed on. At least, that’s what he thought.
He’d packed up a few necessities, or what he considered necessities at the time, laughable to him now, the perishable food and inadequate footwear. But he’d made it pretty far, farther than he’d ever gone away before. Then the headaches began.
He shook it off at first, faulted hunger and the long days of walking, but they grew more intense with every mile he traveled from Renovia. He stole fresh meat off a butcher’s slab and cooked it up in the woods, drank fresh water from a crystal stream, spent an entire day resting his feet, and still, the piercing throb in his head would not cease. Next came the nightmares. Those were vague enough when they started, visions that vanished from his mind as soon as he startled awake, but soon became worse—something chasing him, and he’d run and run, but no matter how much he ran it was always right on his heels, ready to grab him. He’d wake up drenched in a cold sweat. After the worst dreams he’d find himself far from camp, disoriented from sleepwalking. When he didn’t heed these warnings, the shapeless threat on his heels turned into an actual monster, and then one night he was visited by an angry vision of Queen Lilianna herself. When he woke, he found himself perched on a cliff—ready to dive into the inky depths below.
He returned that very morning. The blinding pain, the visions—it all subsided as he drew closer to Renovia. Cal had learned his lesson. He never attempted to abandon the vow again.
Cal’s silent days at Deersia are punctuated by three meals shoved quickly through the doorway. He has no human interaction aside from the gruff words—“Breakfast!” “Dinner!” “Supper!”—yelled through a narrow slot in the door.
The food at Deersia is terrible—typically some kind of gruel, or if he’s lucky, a porridge of peas with a hard square biscuit made of crudely milled, cheap flour and a bit of salt—and on more than one occasion, a few grubs—but he eats most of it anyway, to keep up his strength. He’s eaten worse to survive. The trick is not to look at it or think about it much. Consider it a sort of medicine, awful but necessary.
He draws a simple map of the prison interior on the floor so he can push hay on top to hide it. He’s not sure he’ll need to use it, but it gives him something else to focus on. Makes him feel like he has some control.
He does his best not to think of the momentous task that lies beyond his release.
And if I confirm the king’s involvement?
You are the Queen’s Assassin, are you not?
Regicide. The thought chills him more than his current imprisonment, though his circumstances are already enough to drive a man mad. How long must he wait? The queen promised that she would send for him, but if she does not, he will take matters into his own hands.
Cal spends hours at the barred window, observing the mountains and tracking travelers as they pass through roads in the distance, making note of any who have a routine. He scratches a crude calendar of sorts low on the wall where he sleeps and uses symbols to mark patterns, a D for the local draper who delivers flour and ale and other kitchen necessities at the beginning of every week, G1 and G2 to mark the various guards and their shifts, and so on. Far off in the distance Cal can see townspeople on their way back and forth from the marketplace and to worship.
From each meal he saves half the biscuit, when he gets one; if the porridge is fresh and filling enough, he’ll save the entire thing. He stores them in a pouch he fashioned from the blindfold scarf. He’ll need hardtack on the road should he have the chance to flee. A bit of water is all it takes to make them palatable, and palatable is all it takes to ward off starvation when decent meals or fresh meat are difficult to find.
Each day he tears a bit of the wool blanket
, rolls squares of the rough fabric into tubes. He stuffs handfuls of hay inside. Since he has no needle or thread, he ties them closed with thin strips of the fabric. These can be set on fire easily, which might be useful for many reasons.
At night Cal wraps the remains of his blanket around his shoulders like a shawl and curls up in the corner with his knees against his chest to retain body warmth. Not ideal, but it works well enough. The smaller the blanket gets, the colder the nights feel, functioning as a sort of countdown. He decides that once he’s run out of blanket, it’s time to go.
He puts himself to sleep recalling tales from his childhood. His favorite was the one his father used to tell him about Omin of Oylahn, the origin of all magic, blessed by Mother Deia Herself. According to legend, Omin was the most powerful mage who ever lived, a master of both the physical and ethereal arts, and served the ancient Queen Alphonia during the time when Renovia was still a tiny, weak dominion of Avantine.
Nobody knows who Omin’s parents were—if they were even human. At that time, people still spoke of the fae folk, before their kind either went into hiding or became extinct. Omin was found as an infant in the woods, so some stories said the great mage simply sprang from the dirt itself, a creature too divine to be human and too human to be a spirit.
“Of course,” Cal’s father would say, “this is just a story, and stories are always a little bit true and a little bit false; we just don’t know which is which.”
Young Cal chose to combine them all and believe that Omin was both human and fae—a being part heaven and earth—and that version satisfied him.
He can still hear his father’s deep, melodic voice, recounting the same scenes over and over from memory. Omin was an unknown orphan, a nobody, and grew up to establish a mighty kingdom, to become a great monarch with a loving family, loyal liege lords and knights, adored by thousands. Cal closes his eyes in his prison cell and pretends he’s six years old, when life was simple, before he knew what the future held for him and before he was left adrift and alone in the world. Those days, his father would tuck him in under his mother’s faded quilt and Cal would listen to the story, picturing each heroic character as he drifted off to sleep.
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