The Queen's Assassin

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “I still have biscuits,” Cal says.

  “I’ll consider one of those stale biscuits once we’re on the verge of starvation. I don’t even know where those things have been, nor do I want to.” He doesn’t respond to me. He continues picking up sticks, and sets to work rekindling the fire.

  I want to say more, but I know I shouldn’t pick a fight. As much as I hate to admit it, I need him until I’m recovered and there may be things I can learn from him. “I’m going to go wash up,” I say, turning to walk down to the spring.

  It’s a short distance before I find a semi-secluded spot where the pool cuts behind some trees. I’m glad for the privacy, but before I can dip a toe in, my aunts’ faces appear in my mind, distorted as if they’re watching me through glass.

  They’re using the orb to look for me.

  I quickly blink them away and the vision of them scatters. Though they saw me, I doubt they can pinpoint where I am. I don’t want them to catch up with me and drag me back home, or worse, to the palace, but I can’t help being pleased that they’re searching for me. As guilty as I feel for the worry I’m sure I’ve caused, it’s nice to remember they care so much.

  When I’m certain they’re gone from my mind, I finally strip off my dirty clothes. The shirt is tricky, though, and unfortunately I can’t ask Cal to help me. I slip out my good arm first, carefully peeling the garment over my head, then down the injured arm. It’s still sore, but the wound has become more pink than blue, so it’s healing well. I wrap my arms around myself until I get all the way into the water, just in case Cal is watching.

  The water is cold. I shiver but force myself to walk in up to my chest. It’s bracing at first, but soon the clear water feels amazing. I lean my head back and soak my hair. I reach up to touch it, expecting to find long hair spread out around my head. I almost forgot it’s so short. No soap, so I just scrub my scalp as best I can. That alone makes it feel better.

  I put my head back in the water and listen to the muffled sounds below, water running gently in my ears, the soft swaying of aquatic plant life and small trout, turtles zipping through mazes of their vines.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spy Cal to my left, sitting on a rock near the shore, fashioning a long, thin stick into a fishing pole. At first he isn’t paying any attention to me—he seems determined to find us a decent meal. But then he glances up and catches my eye. Though we are frozen for a mere moment, the warmth of his gaze washes over me like a wave. He raises an eyebrow, a challenge, and I decide I don’t care. Let him look.

  I slowly make my way back behind the trees and drag my clothes into the water and scrub those off too, laying them out on a few large rocks. Hopefully they’ll dry in the sun while I swim for a while longer.

  When I put my damp clothes back on, they’re cold, and stick uncomfortably to my thighs and torso. Cal is still fishing; I can hear splashing noises as he wades deeper into the water. I walk back to camp and add wood to the fire so I can crouch close to it to get warm. Cal returns a few minutes later holding up a good catch, several shiny silver fish hooked on his line.

  I can’t help but smile.

  He roasts them over the fire and we eat them with the biscuits from his bag. “They’re fine. A little crunchy, but fine.” He shrugs.

  I hate to admit it, but he’s right. The biscuit is awfully hard, but not too bad if I let it dissolve in my mouth a bit before chewing. With the smoky flavor of fresh-caught fish, it’s practically a feast.

  After we finish eating, Cal picks up a stick and begins using it to trace a circle in the dirt. He stands back and looks at it, then tosses the stick aside. “Grab your sword, Lady Shadow.”

  “Why?” I ask, suspicious. Even though it’s amusing to be called that, I’m not quite sure what to make of the invitation.

  “Time for practice,” he says.

  I laugh. “I don’t need practice.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be my apprentice?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then you need practice. You’ve been lucky so far, but you can’t rely on throwing rocks and hiding in trees.”

  “You forget you’re speaking to a mage. And what about the dire emergency of letting my arm heal?” I say, teasing.

  “If you knew anything about sword fighting,” Cal says, “you’d know that in a situation like this”—he tosses me a sword—“you’re supposed to use the other arm.” I catch it in my left hand.

  I suppose I asked for this.

  “Now, when using your nondominant arm, you want to . . .” He comes at me, swinging the sword. An attempt to take me off guard. But I come right back at him, holding him off. His eyes widen when I do.

  “Clever,” he says, stepping away. “I thought you hurt your dominant arm.”

  “I did.” I grin.

  He narrows his eyes.

  “I’m trained to use both.” I shrug, though it hurts my arm a bit.

  We skirmish for a while, and he teaches me a few moves and counterattacks, and even with my injured arm, I’m able to pick up the lessons. He’s a good teacher, surprisingly patient, and takes the time to explain the thinking behind each parry. “Once you have a foundation, it will come naturally,” he says.

  He proposes a duel to show him what I’ve learned, and even though I fight my hardest, he disarms me in a flash, and holds two swords at my chin. He is quick, deadly, and merciless. I saw it during our escape, but his arrogance these past few days has distracted me. It’s been too easy to forget the man I am dealing with. I can’t help but tremble at sword point.

  “Hey,” he says, drawing them back quickly. “It’s just a game.”

  I take a deep, shaky breath. I thought I was good enough for the Guild, but if this duel is any indication, the truth is maybe I’m not. Maybe I’ll never be the fighter that he is.

  He throws the swords down. “That’s all for today.”

  His weapon hits the ground and I find I can suddenly breathe again. I’ve come back to myself. “Okay. Your turn.”

  “My turn? For what?”

  “Lessons. If we’re going to be posing as aristocrats from Argonia, then you have to learn how to behave at a royal court.”

  “As I’ve already explained, Lady Shadow, I’ve spent a lot of time at court. I’m already well-versed in the art of bowing and keeping my mouth shut.”

  “Ha! But have you read Crumpets and Cravats?”

  “Sorry, no, my missions for the queen don’t leave much time for novels.”

  “Well, when you’re an aristocrat, nobody expects you to keep your mouth shut. Quite the opposite. The more interesting you are, the more they’ll like you. But the art of communication is about so much more than talking. For example: What does it mean when someone bows to you, but they only bend at the waist?” All those lessons with Missus Kingstone are turning out to be useful after all.

  “Easy. You outrank them but you’re only titled, not a royal.”

  He’s right. “That was just to get you warmed up. How about . . . ? Oh, I know. You’re invited to a masked ball. A woman—a countess, let’s say—is standing across from you. She flicks her fan open, twice, then puts it away. What does that mean?”

  “What does that mean?” he echoes. He thinks for a moment and then shrugs. “That she has no use for her fan.”

  “It means she’s irritated with your presence and wants you to go away.” I want to enjoy my victory, but the smile on his face is perplexing.

  “Excellent!” he says, and begins to laugh.

  I rap his knuckles, as learning the complicated language of a woman’s fan is a serious endeavor. “Here’s another. I’ll keep it simple. Same woman. But this time, she takes out her fan, flicks it open once, fans herself briefly, then closes it in her right hand.”

  “She’s saying, ‘Bring me a glass of water, peasant.’”

  �
�No, of course not! That’s two flicks and a twist.”

  “You don’t say!”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “I was joking!”

  He blinks.

  “Actually it means she’s open to conducting an affair with you.” I wiggle my eyebrows for comic effect. “Probably happens to you often.”

  “So you admit you find me handsome, then?” He smiles, and the sun hits his dark eyes so I see there are gold flecks in them. He knows how handsome he is; he must. It is one of the qualities that make him so good at his trade. No one could suspect that someone so handsome would also be so merciless.

  I turn to put away the remains of our meal so he won’t see me blushing. “No, of course not. I mean, not that you aren’t. I’m sure a lot of people think so.”

  “Do they now,” he says. I can feel him smirking.

  “You’re pretty fair yourself,” he says as he walks away. I pretend I didn’t hear, but I’m smiling anyway.

  * * *

  CAL’S HERBAL PASTE IS like magic on my arm—it’s almost back to normal in a single day—but we decide to spend one last night before continuing our journey. It’s safe here, and we both need the rest. We use the morning to continue our sword-fighting lessons, and in the afternoon we catch a few more fish. Cal goes off to bathe at the spring while I stay back at camp and prepare our meal. He returns with his hair wet and his skin glowing, and I can only imagine how the courtiers will swoon when he arrives at the court of Montrice.

  Today he hasn’t been half as irritating, which I find rather irritating.

  Once it’s dark, I curl up near the fire, drowsy and content, wishing we could spend a few more days here just like this, with nothing to worry about but training and catching fish.

  Cal settles in across from me, his gaze trained on the fire. I haven’t had a chance to study him like this before, without worrying about being caught staring. He has a small scar near his left eyebrow, and a dimple in his right cheek that only appears when he smiles.

  We watch the fire in silence, the two of us sprawled in our makeshift beds of leaves, next to each other. “Do you know any stories?” he asks. The expression on his face is so earnest, I know he can’t be teasing me.

  “Do I know any stories,” I repeat, and pull my knees to my chest. My mind begins to wander, and before I know it, I’m telling him the story of Renovia, the one my aunts used to tell me at bedtime, when we were warm and safe in our cottage in the Honey Glade. It’s their favorite story, about the mage Omin and a queen and the love between them that established the ancient kingdom of Avantine, glorious and grand and full of magic and light.

  I let myself get lost in the story, imagining my aunts gathered around me in bed. They seemed so big when I was so little and the way they spun this tale always left me in awe. At the end of it, Cal looks up at me. He is studying me the way I had studied him. “I know that story too,” he says. “You tell it well.”

  Then without saying another word, he lies back and turns away so I can no longer see his face.

  “Good night,” I say softly.

  A moment passes before he responds. “Good night.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Shadow

  WHEN I OPEN MY EYES in the morning, I find myself curled up against Cal, my head on his chest while his arm is wrapped around my shoulder. I must have rolled over in my sleep. I don’t move for a moment; he’s so incredibly warm, and I’m so comfortable. Eventually I try to shift away without waking him, but when I look up at his face I see that his eyes are open. How long has he been awake, knowing I was in his arms? He doesn’t appear to be perturbed by the situation. The thought bristles—perhaps he assumes I am just like any lady who waves her fan at him. Or maybe he was just being kind. It is very cold on the rocky cave floor.

  “Look,” he says, and motions to his hand on my arm. His voice is as warm as the rest of him, still deep and scratchy from sleep.

  “What is it?” I ask, looking down.

  “The wound is nearly gone,” he says, turning it over. He runs his finger down the length of my arm where it was sliced open when I fell. His touch is so gentle that it sends shivers all over my skin.

  We look at the wound together. There’s still a pink line where the cut was, but it’s almost completely healed over, and the bruises have faded away as well. “You were right,” I say. “Your father’s salve is miraculous. It’s even better than Aunt Mesha’s. Don’t tell her I said so.”

  “Never,” Cal says, raising his hand as if he’s swearing an oath.

  “I suppose that means we’re ready to move on now,” I say, getting up from his embrace. I wrap my arms around myself, but they are not even half as warm as his.

  He doesn’t seem to notice my absence; he’s already intent on what lies ahead. “Yes, breakfast first and then we can discuss what to do once we get into Montrice.”

  Fish was never my favorite, but somehow it has become one. Freshly caught as before, it is divine, even without seasoning. We eat five between the two of us, barely speaking until we’ve consumed every last morsel.

  Cal works a stick between his teeth after eating. “We need a plan. The problem is, I don’t know exactly what I’m planning for, so we will have to change course as we come upon obstacles.”

  I nod, thinking of the forged work order and how I chopped my hair off before running away from home. Running away from home—that’s exactly what I did, so of course they used the orb to try to find me, and they cast a locus right away, no doubt. Except that spell couldn’t reach as far as Deersia, let alone beyond it. Has Ma been informed of my disappearance? I wonder. If only I could communicate with them somehow, let them know I am safe. After all, if I am with Caledon Holt, it’s probably the safest place to be in all the kingdoms.

  “I’ve only been to Montrice once, and that was some time ago. The people are friendly enough, but false words mask true intentions. Don’t forget that.”

  I assure him that I’m naturally distrustful and he smiles once more, his dimple winking at me. I try not to look directly at his face; it’s too distracting. I remember what he told me earlier, that the queen believes someone in Montrice—someone powerful—is working with the Aphrasians to overthrow the Renovian monarchy.

  “What I don’t understand is how the grand prince was an Aphrasian. He was so devoted to the royal family,” I say.

  “A loyal façade hides the worst kind of traitor,” Cal says.

  I shift uncomfortably. “And I thought we were at peace with Montrice.”

  “Well, it has been about eighteen years since they last tried to assassinate the queen. I suppose that means we’re due for another conflict.”

  “I’ll never understand that. Why can’t people be satisfied with peace? It’s as if they do everything possible to avoid harmony between the kingdoms.” The thought of another war with Montrice infuriates me. Such a useless loss of life. Innocent people used as pawns to carry out the whims of the aristocracy.

  “You know that and I know that, but we aren’t the ones who benefit from war. We’re the ones who suffer so that others gain,” Cal says darkly.

  “Why do what you do, then? Why work for the crown at all? You have the smithy. Couldn’t you do that instead of being in the queen’s service?”

  Cal doesn’t speak. Then he sighs and rubs his face with his hands. “Because I have to.”

  I can tell he has more to say, so I let him talk.

  “My father made a blood vow to the queen. But he died before it was satisfied. So it passed on to me. Now I must satisfy it.” A blood vow? I’ve only heard of them from the old tales my aunts read to me. It seems so . . . barbaric. Evil even. The blood in my veins runs cold at the thought.

  “Why did he do that? What do you have to do?” I think of the path my mother and aunts set for me. I veered off it on my own, with no consequence so far. But a blood vow�
��if the stories are right, then Cal’s very life has barely been his own.

  “After the Battle of Baer, the queen fell apart. She wouldn’t govern. She wouldn’t leave her rooms. She wouldn’t even lower the palace flag to confirm the king’s death. My father was there to protect her, but he couldn’t do that for long if she wasn’t able to perform the most basic duties. The kingdom would look weak, it would be invaded, and that would be the end of us. There’d already been an attempt on the queen’s life soon after her pregnancy with Princess Lilac was announced, which sparked the Aphrasian Rebellion in the first place.

  “The only way he could rouse her from her grief was by promising her the Deian Scrolls. She insisted on a blood vow, so he made it. He was foolish and shortsighted, I guess, but the kingdom was on the verge of collapse. One victorious battle meant nothing if the queen let it all fall to pieces. He intended to return the Deian Scrolls to her long before I came of age, but that never happened. So now I must.”

  “And if you don’t?” I ask, my heart in my throat.

  “If I don’t, it passes on to my children and theirs . . . until it is finally done. Until the scrolls are returned to their rightful place. But I refuse to pass it down to my children. I will have no children.” His jaw is set and his eyes are stormy.

  “You can’t abandon the vow?”

  At that, a rueful smile. “A blood vow is deep magic. There is no escape from it. Not that I haven’t tried.”

  Of course he has. I would. “Is that what you were doing in Baer Abbey that day?” It suddenly dawns on me that we’ve never spoken of the first time we met.

  He nods. “I thought there might be a chance they were hidden there, that my father had missed something. And what were you doing at Baer that day?”

  “Nothing, really. I was exploring, I guess.”

  “Did the queen send you? Because I wasn’t even supposed to be there.”