If the grand prince was involved with the Aphrasians, anyone at court might be. The man has—had—an impeccable reputation. He was well-respected. Trusted. Beloved even. A hero. He had avenged Esban’s death. There wasn’t even a hint that he was the filthy traitor in their midst. By any account he was fiercely loyal to the queen and his niece, dedicated to Renovia. If you’d told Cal yesterday that he’d be killing the grand prince by nightfall, he’d have laughed.
Cal scans his memory, trying to recall anything he’d overlooked before: a conversation, strange behavior from anyone at court—did he ever notice Alast whispering with another courtier during a dinner party or disappearing at a royal event?—anything that would shed light on the prince’s role within the Aphrasian order? Or anything Cal himself might have said that could be twisted, used against him by enemies? He can think of nothing. No one has acted out of character. Which means little.
A terrible thought comes to him: What if Alast had been in the process of fulfilling a secret assignment for the queen—what if the farm girl was actually a spy? And Cal, playing the hero, had killed him in the process.
He gets up and begins pacing. Crumples the summons in his fist. Throws it in the fireplace. What’s done is done, he tells himself. He can’t go back. There’s no way to fix it. His stomach clenches and his headache turns sharper, slicing through his left temple like a knife. When’s the last time he had something to eat or drink? He begins to pour what remains of yesterday’s drinking water into a mug, then decides to finish it off straight from the clay pitcher instead. He grabs a chunk of stale bread and shoves it in his mouth. The chewy texture feels good in his jaw, gives his aggravation a physical release.
The not-knowing makes it all worse. Best to head to Violla Ruza at once, he decides. The sooner he faces the queen, the sooner he can stop worrying. He hates worrying. Worrying is wasteful. He prefers action. So he moves quickly.
Cal’s only furniture is a bed and a simple wardrobe his father built, where he hangs his few items of clothing. The rest of his things—a couple of books, the blades he inherited from his father—are kept in a locked trunk at the foot of the bed.
He could have more if he wanted—the queen pays him well—but Cal believes the fewer possessions he has, the better. As much as he likes it here, he’s never allowed himself to get too comfortable, too settled. He has to live for today, not some uncertain future. Plus, a lot of clutter means a lot of possible evidence lying around, a lot of baggage. He may need to abandon this place with only a few minutes of notice. As the Queen’s Assassin, he never knows where his work may take him, or for how long, or even whether he’ll return. And if he doesn’t, who might rifle through his room after he’s gone?
It’s not as if he has anyone to leave his things to, either.
Perhaps it’s better this way. His father didn’t know that he’d never return when he left to track a conspirator that night five years ago. That he’d never see his son again. Leaving him orphaned and alone.
Growing up without a mother was hard enough, but losing his father, the only parent he ever knew, the one who cared for him, put meals on the table for him, and comforted him when he cried out in the night, who showed him how to lace up his boots and catch a trout, who had to fill two roles—one for Cal and another for his queen—that loss took something out of him that he never expected to recover. It’s something he prefers not to think about.
Cal begins to dress in his finest pants and shirt, but decides humble is better for this meeting. He needs to appear as contrite as possible. He settles on his cleanest day clothes instead—simple brown pants with a matching jacket and a white shirt. He throws on a leather hat the queen gifted him a few years ago when he came of age and was officially hired on as the royal assassin. To remind her that she likes him. That he does his job well.
He leaves out the back door of the building and mounts his sorrel mare, Raine. She neighs, happy to see him. “Sorry, girl, no apples today,” he says, rubbing her forehead. Raine pulls her head away and paws at the ground. Cal laughs. “No tantrums. I’ll get you a treat later. Right now we have places to be.”
The two of them have been inseparable since he rescued her as a foal. Raine is the one thing Cal allowed himself to get attached to over the years. She’d been left tied to a tree on the side of the road one summer evening. He found her there, skittish and afraid, as he rushed back from the palace to his workshop, right as a storm was brewing. Too bad horses can’t talk, he often thought. He wanted to know who her prior owner was and why she was left behind. In any case, it doesn’t matter now, because he believes she was put in his path for a reason. She was meant to be his companion. Two lonely orphans together.
He waves to the milkmaid selling butter out the back of her wagon, and the tailor standing outside his shop on the corner. To them, he’s nothing more than the young blacksmith of Serrone, often commissioned to do work for the palace. In the few years he’s lived there, he’s never had any trouble with his neighbors. Never got mixed up with the local tavern vagrants or chased after anyone’s daughter. He keeps to himself. And intends for things to stay that way.
CHAPTER FIVE
Caledon
WHEN CAL ARRIVES AT THE castle, a footman leads Raine to the stable. He heads to the entrance hall, which is lined with portraits of kings and queens from Renovia’s past. There is one of King Esban with his brothers, Almon and Alast. The three of them were said to be as close as brothers could be, and yet, the youngest, Alast, was an Aphrasian all along. There is another of Esban and his queen, one of the crown princess as a baby, then their ancestors going back all the way to Avantine. There is even one of King Phras: a grim, gray-haired man with a neat beard and hawkish nose and aspect.
At the very end of the hall, near the doorway that leads to the queen’s reception room, is an imposing, full-length portrait of King Esban. Cal takes a seat on a cushioned bench to wait to be called inside, and his gaze keeps drifting back to the portrait of the king. Little wonder the king intimidated people. The man was as large as a bear.
His father talked about the king often. Cordyn Holt’s own father, Cal’s grandfather, was the renowned cook of the royal kitchens, his talents so valued that his lowborn son was given the honor of sharing a tutor with the young princes. Cordyn became closest to Prince Esban. They were playmates, and later, after Esban was crowned king, Cordyn became his personal advisor.
Cal’s father told him that though Esban was fierce and uncompromising in many ways—mostly when it came to causes he believed in—he was far from the unreasonable tyrant the Aphrasian traitors painted him to be. He had no interest in taking the ancient knowledge of the Deian Scrolls for himself, as they claimed. Once they were in his possession, his plan was to share their knowledge with the people, to better their lives after centuries of oppression and suffering. Sadly, he never had the chance.