But their hopes were met with silence. The white stone palace and its jagged turrets loomed over them, still and eerie, and the royal banner of Renovia flew high over the tallest spire long after the sun dipped behind the building and below the horizon. It was never lowered. Nobody knew quite what to make of this—was King Esban actually alive, or was his queen simply unable to accept his death? Or worse—had the Aphrasians seized the crown?
The next dawn arrived and there was still no word. Yet news of the king’s demise and the Aphrasians’ defeat continued to travel from town to town, swelling the crowds gathered around the palace. The hordes began at the grand iron gates and overflowed into the surrounding fields as the mourners grew by dozens, then hundreds. Some rode in on horseback or on bumpy harvest wagons filled with family and neighbors. Others arrived on foot. They tied scraps of white and purple cloth to the castle gates and carried baskets of freshly cut flowers from their gardens—lilies for the queen and lilacs for the infant princess—which they arranged in bunches along the edge of the grounds. Their king’s sacrifice had given them the dream of a better future, free of the Aphrasian order; all their hope now lay with the regent queen and his heir.
The mood was strangely festive, if solemn. Everyone arrived in their best hats and dress for the occasion, so there were bursts of blues and reds and yellows amid the traditional funereal white. They looked less like mourners than a rich garden in full bloom. Old friends were reunited; children ran between their parents’ legs, chasing one another around in circles. After all, it was rare for so many from so far to gather together, and they had the longed-for defeat of the treacherous Aphrasians to celebrate even though victory had come at a great cost.
Still the survivors reveled in recounting King Esban’s valiant final moments for the crowd, all swearing they’d witnessed it with their very own eyes: how after taking on an entire company of men by himself, their great king was cut straight through with a longsword, at the top of a knoll, a magnificent sunset ushering him into the next world. And how, within seconds of the king’s death, the Aphrasian monk who felled him had met his own end, thanks to Grand Prince Alast, the king’s younger brother, who lunged toward the monk, his blade shining in the setting sun, slicing through the traitor’s neck.
When the last of the Aphrasians retreated, fleeing into the woods surrounding the abbey, the strongest of the king’s remaining soldiers gathered their fallen, including the king himself, onto makeshift wagon beds and hitched them to the few horses they could find.
A parade of the departed, led by their slain king, was en route to the capital city’s catacombs. All those they passed could see King Esban was well and truly dead.
Yet the palace remained silent . . .
* * *
ON THE FOURTH DAY after the Battle of Baer, late in the afternoon, Queen Lilianna finally pulled the edge of the curtain aside from one of the high arched windows in her private quarters. Ever since the news reached her of her husband’s death, her place of refuge had become more like a tomb, lit only by a single candle. Even the jangle of the metal curtain rings was jarring. Her head throbbed. Sun spilled into the hushed room, casting a stream of light across the marble floor. The queen flinched, squinting until her eyes adjusted to the bright light, then peeked out at the agitated crowd congregating below. Her gaze settled on a cluster of men near the gate. One of them was shouting. Those surrounding him nodded along in agreement. He gestured wildly toward the castle, punctuating his words with flailing arms and pointed fingers.
“I need to speak to my people, Holt,” the queen said. “Assure them that I am their true queen, even if I am not from Renovia.”
She’d hardly slept since her husband led his army for Baer Abbey to quash the Aphrasian uprising. Nor had she left her lavish rooms. This was precisely what she’d feared when he set out. She’d implored him not to go, but Esban insisted the men needed their king. It was his duty. He was, above all else, a man of honor, a leader in the truest sense. But now he was gone, and she was left behind to pick up the pieces.
Still, despite private grief and public turmoil, Queen Lilianna managed to remain as poised as always. Her ebony hair remained perfectly wrapped in a high braided bun, and her deep purple satin dressing gown flowed effortlessly from her shoulders to her slippered feet. Only her face betrayed her fatigue: usually traced in smoky kohl, her eyes were bare and swollen from crying; her deep brown skin was wan and dull. Silver trays of food sat untouched on her tea table. She’d only nibbled at the corner of a single slice of bread the night before in order to appease her counselors before banishing them from the room.
All except one. Known commonly as the King’s Assassin, Cordyn Holt was the crown’s personal advisor and commander of Renovia’s security forces—as well as the king’s dearest and most trusted friend. As such, he’d been tasked with guarding Queen Lilianna while King Esban was away. Holt was the only person the queen had allowed in her presence since news of Esban’s death was delivered by Grand Prince Alast on the evening of the battle.
The moment Alast left, Holt had positioned his imposing frame near the room’s double door, where he intended to stay as long as his queen needed him.
“Holt, I must speak to them,” she pressed.
“Too dangerous,” he said, hands clasped behind his back, strong chin lifted high with authority. “If you step out onto the balcony, you will be exposed. We don’t know who’s out there.”
Eyes wide, she turned to him. “You told me those wretched rebels had been purged. That the Aphrasians were finished.”
For the most part, he thought. He kept his expression as neutral as he could. “Yes,” he said carefully. “But there are almost certainly sympathizers remaining. There always are.”
She snapped the curtain shut, drowning the room in darkness again. “Then my husband died for nothing?”
Holt sighed, shifted his feet. In a rare moment of weakness, his confidence faltered a bit. “It was not for nothing. The loss we have suffered is a great one. But the realm is secure, at least for now. There is still a kingdom left to inherit. That is far from nothing.”
She stepped away from the window. “And what of the rest? Where are the scrolls? Were they recovered?”
He stammered, “We don’t—unfortunately, no, Your Majesty, we don’t have them.” He kept his hands behind his back and his eyes on the ground to avoid agitating her any further. “Yet,” he added.
“What do you mean you don’t have them?” she shouted. Holt clenched his square jaw. He reminded himself that she was still recovering from a complicated delivery just a few weeks earlier.
“Without the scrolls these monks aren’t ‘purged.’ They’ve only been set back!” She began pacing the plush cream rug, violet waves of fabric fluttering around her. “They’ll keep coming for me. They’re relentless. As long as I’m alive, I’m in their way. Am I to be a prisoner here forever? What use is living in a kingdom of fear, under constant threat?” Holt had never seen her so out of sorts. He was unsure whether she was even speaking directly to him anymore. “They’ve already attempted to kill me once. That we know of! And there are rumors of other plots . . . They’ll never stop coming. Never. How long until they get to the baby?” She stopped pacing to stare at him, as if she expected an answer. He didn’t have one to give her.