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 enough 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.