Shortly after, two transport guards stomp across the grounds, heavy leather boots squelching in the damp lawn. The birds scatter. The men disappear into the stable building, likely to check on the horses and the transport wagon. Stable hands will feed the animals first, then check their shoes and prepare their bridles and reins before hitching them to the wagon. Only when everything’s in order and the wagon pulls out onto the gravel path will the guards board the prisoner. He’ll take the same route through town as Caledon.
I have to time my appearance exactly right. If I approach them too soon, they may expect me to do work I don’t know how to do, or they might want to check up on my story before departing. They’re more likely to accept it if they don’t have much time to think about it.
My hands are dirty, so I smear some of the grime on my face. That will help disguise me. One of the guards shouts out to the other and my stomach feels as if it’s leapt into my throat. I take a few deep breaths. Slow, deliberate, like my aunts always tell me to when I’m upset or scared.
Once they’ve inspected the transportation, the guards return to the castle, following the winding garden path rather than cutting across the lawn. They turn left and enter a creaky back entrance that leads down into the cellar dungeons.
A whip cracks. Hooves clop. Two chestnut horses come out of the stable, dragging the wagon behind them. A stable boy pulls the wagon up on the path to pick up the prisoner, as predicted. He jumps down and walks over to the horses, strokes their backs.
Minutes later the guards reemerge, holding the prisoner between them, the Montrician spy. The guards load him into the cart—or rather, they shove him onto it.
The driver snaps the reins. “Hyah!” The cart lurches forward.
I hesitate for half a breath before running out of the garden toward the cart, yelling, “Sir! Sir!” and waving.
The cart slows and the driver scowls at me. “What is it, boy?”
“Sorry I’m late, sir,” I say, my voice raspy. I should be pretending to be out of breath from running, but the truth is that I’m simply terrified. “I’ve just received this.” I’m brandishing the forged work order.
“What’s this?” the older and heftier of the guards says.
I hold the paper up to him. I hope that he will read it from a distance since he’s in a rush.
No such luck. He snatches the paper from me and opens it, spends a moment glancing it over. My entire body tenses. If he questions me, should I run away, or take my chances on answering and defend the order? After what feels like forever, he sighs. “All right, then,” he says to me, and then to the other guard, “Looks like this one’s comin’ with us.” He mutters, “Not that anyone bothered to tell me before today.”
Relieved, I climb onto the back of the wagon and settle on a crude bench, grasping a wood slat for balance.
“What do we need with another stable boy? All’s they do out there is make trouble,” the second guard says.
The other shrugs. “How about I go in there and ask somebody, then?” he says, motioning toward the tower.
My pulse quickens. I know he’s just being sarcastic, but still. Every minute we stall is another minute I could be exposed. The faster we leave, the better. Go, go, go, I repeat over and over in my head.
“Bah,” the second guard says, waving him off. “We’re behind as it is. Let’s go.”
As we start moving, I can’t help but smile a bit. My disguise—and my forgery—are a success. So far.
* * *
I MANAGE TO FALL asleep for a while, sitting up against the side of the wagon with my arms folded across my chest. When I wake up, we’re far from Serrone. Far from the rolling green fields. The terrain is much rockier now. The sickly sweetness is gone; the air is dull with dirt and dust.
It’s late afternoon, almost evening. I shift my body, trying to find a more comfortable way to sit, which is, of course, near impossible. The prisoner is talking with the guards. He’s facing the front of the wagon with his back to me. Their voices are low, so at first it’s hard to make out what they’re saying over the clip-clop of hooves and rattle of wheels.
“Maybe you’ll get lucky,” one of the guards says. “Plenty of vacancies up there, I hear.”
“Yeah. I’m sure that can be worked out,” the other says, nudging the first guard with his elbow.
What are they talking about? Work what out? Then the prisoner says: “If he’s anything like his old man . . .”
A chill races up my spine. They’re talking about Caledon. I lie back again and cover my face, pretend to sleep. They continue their conversation, seemingly oblivious to my presence. Most of it is garbled by the time it reaches me, but if I concentrate I can hear their words under the rumble of the wagon and the rutted road: Queen Lilianna, Aphrasians, Prince Alast, hotheaded kid. And then, Wasn’t expecting the boy, though. Certainly complicates matters.
It hits me—this is all coming together perfectly. The spy is going to Deersia to kill Cal. And the guards are in on it. A conspiracy. Nothing else makes sense. Prisoners are prohibited from addressing the guards, especially in such a casual manner. Why else would they have this hushed conversation? They’re delivering an enemy spy directly to the Queen’s Assassin while he’s a sitting duck. No better way to eliminate him—when he’s less able to defend himself.
Well, I’m not going to let that happen. Little do they know, reinforcements are on the way.
* * *
BY THE TIME WE make it all the way up the mountainside road to Deersia, it’s dusk. The fortress looms above me, dark and foreboding. Its highest towers are shrouded in fog. Now that I’m here, I’m not sure what to feel. From a distance it looked, well, regal, elegant—but up close, I see the crumbling mossy stone for what it is. A neglected structure housing neglected human beings.
I expected to feel nothing; this is just another building after all, like so many others I’ve visited. But I don’t. Maybe it’s the castle’s history. People locked up, treated worse than animals. Executed. It leaves an ominous cloud around the place. I fear the return of my visions.
A wave of goose bumps sweeps my spine when I set my feet on the ground. My response must show on my face because one of the guards says, “Impressed, are ya?” I ignore his comment.
The guards take the condemned man out of the wagon. They lead him to the front gate by each arm. I start to follow them inside, but then one turns to me and says, “Where’d you think you’re going, boy?”
While I search for a believable reason to go inside the fortress, he says, “The stables are across the yard.” And points.