Just then, an urgent wail erupted from a canopied cradle near the queen’s chaise. She hurried over and lifted the baby to her breast, shushing her softly. Without turning back to face Holt, she said, “He will never know his child.”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” He paused, then added, “I understand.”
At that she looked at him, clear-eyed, focused, almost as if a spell had broken. “Of course you do,” she said, softening her tone. She walked to the window again and drew back a corner of the drape to peek out at the crowd, still cradling the baby. An ivory silk receiving blanket trailed over her shoulder and down her back. “What shall we do now?” she asked him quietly.
He didn’t respond right away. What could he say? There were never guarantees, especially not in a time of war, and the rebels had been relentless in their pursuit of the royal family, determined to eliminate the rulers as well as any possible heirs. Holt could offer only to do his best to protect her and the child. And his best—a plan he’d been mulling over since the assassination attempt early in the queen’s pregnancy—was something she probably would not want to consider just yet. If ever.
They stood in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds; Holt considered the situation. The Renovian army had returned victorious, but weak. They’d sustained a great many casualties. Their king was dead. Several key Aphrasian leaders had been killed, but the survivors had fled, no doubt taking refuge with supporters, most likely in another kingdom. But which one? Stavin? Argonia? Montrice?
Worse, they’d taken the Deian Scrolls—and all the ancient magical wisdom they contained—along with them.
The queen took a deep breath and glanced out behind the curtain again. In the distance, she spied a merchant selling white mourning ribbons from his cart. People were tying them to sticks and waving them in the air, a traditional symbol of both sorrow and hope, meant to help lead the departed souls home.
“If I cannot address my subjects directly, then you will make the announcement in my stead. The king is dead. We must move forward,” she said. Then added, “Whatever that means now.”
Holt bowed slightly, relieved. “Of course, Your Majesty.” If the queen was finally willing to accept the kingdom’s new, precarious situation, this might be his best opportunity to broach the issue they had been arguing about since first declaring war on the monks. He considered his next words carefully before making his case.
As Holt outlined the shape of his plan, the arrangements he had made, and the precautions he’d already taken, the queen’s visage hardened to match her steely gaze. She didn’t like any of it, of course. But she recognized she had few alternatives now, and little time to waste deliberating.
Queen Lilianna turned her head toward the window, though she couldn’t see out from where she sat. Nevertheless, they could still hear the crowd’s chants growing louder from below: “The king is dead! Long live the queen!”
At last she spoke. “Yes. I will agree to the arrangement,” she said. She looked at Holt just as the shock of her words flickered across his face. He knew his plan was a risky one and had expected more resistance from her.
The queen held up her finger. “One caveat,” she added, emphasizing every word. “I will agree . . . but only by blood vow.”
His face fell. Of course, she would want more than promises and words. While he was duty-bound to protect her, he had dreaded such a demand. But some part of him knew it would come to this, and his position and loyalty meant he had no choice in the matter. His only concern was safeguarding the kingdom’s future. And so he nodded his assent, though doing so sealed his own fate. The vow meant there would be no possibility of escape—not until it was fulfilled, anyway—and a painful sacrifice on his part as well.
After all, magic always requires balance. An eye for an eye—or a son for a daughter.
The queen laid the sleeping infant, tightly bundled so that all Holt could see of her was a bit of golden skin and brown hair, back in her cradle. Then she strode across the room to the table near him and picked up an opaque bottle. She poured a bit of pink wine into a heavy crystal goblet, set it down, and raised a golden knife.
Her eyes fixed on Holt, she began chanting: “Sanguinem reddetur votum. Sanguinem reddetur votum.” The mantra grew louder and faster as she pressed the small dagger across her wrist, drawing a line of blood. As it spread down her arm, Holt saw that it wasn’t red—it was deep blackish blue, like the midnight sky during a full moon. He tried to hide his surprise at the color, but he couldn’t stop himself from staring. She did the same to her other wrist, still repeating the words: “Sanguinem reddetur votum.”
When she was done, Queen Lilianna closed her eyes and held her hands low over the goblet, palms lifted up toward the sky as her royal blood pooled in them, threatening to drip between her fingers. Then she turned them over, allowing her blood to spill into the wine, creating plum-colored swirls that spun as she chanted, “Sanguinem reddetur votum. Sanguinem reddetur votum. Sanguinem reddetur votum.”
Kneeling, Holt offered his open palms to Queen Lilianna, closing his eyes as an image of a motherless one-year-old boy came to mind.
The queen took his rough hands in hers, pressing her thumbs to his wrists to feel the beat of his blood coursing through his veins. The skin on the queen’s wrist had already smoothed over, as if it had never been cut at all. “Say the words after me,” she ordered. “I, Cordyn Holt . . .”
“I, Cordyn Holt, Guardian of Renovia, devoted servant to the House of Dellafiore,” he repeated as she continued, “hereby pledge my life—and that of my heirs—to this promise: Defend the crown and restore the sacred scrolls of Deia to their rightful purpose.”
“Is this your vow?” Queen Lilianna asked.
“This is my vow,” Holt said.
“Until it is done?” she asked.
He paused. Then nodded. “Until it is done.” Holt felt slightly ill as the declaration left his lips, almost as if the words had been removed from him by an unseen hand rather than given freely, a punch in the chest almost—but before he could grasp it, it was gone.
The queen released his hands and handed him the goblet. He accepted it, willing himself not to hesitate, and drank of her royal blood.
With that, he was bound. As was his son.
— I —
RENOVIA
Eighteen Years Later
CHAPTER ONE
Shadow
SOMETHING OR SOMEONE IS FOLLOWING me. I’ve been wandering the woods for quite a while, but now it feels as if something—or someone—is watching. I thought it was one of my aunts at first—it was odd they didn’t chase after me this time. Maybe they didn’t expect me to go very far. But it’s not them.