They go on like this. It seems that neither can win. The other soldiers haven’t even noticed the skirmish on the mound yet. I try to scream, Help him! But I can’t, because as real as it seems, I’m only watching. Witnessing the past.
I look back up.
The rebel is on the ground. The king walks over to him and lifts his sword. For a brief moment I hope King Esban will win this time. That the past can change. But the monk rolls and swipes the king’s leg out from under him. He stumbles, falls. He’s about to get up when it happens.
The monk drives his sword straight through King Esban’s chest.
I yank my hand away from the willow. I start gagging, retching. I haven’t eaten all day, so all I bring up is bile. Tears are streaming down my face. This is what my aunts meant when they told me to be careful for what you wish. For the answer might not be the one you seek. I wanted danger and adventure as a Guild apprentice, and alas, I seem to have found it.
I stand to leave. Based on where the sun hangs in the sky, I’ve a little time left until complete darkness. I’ll dry off as I go, as long as I’m moving. Good thing it’s still warm at night. I won’t freeze to death, at least.
I walk away, just as something slams into me. I’m knocked straight onto my back, totally winded. For a frenzied second I expect to see the jaguar again—but no, there’s a man standing over me.
Gray robes. The dreaded black mask of the Aphrasian order covering his face. The mask that’s given children nightmares for centuries. The monk raises his sword.
This is no vision.
This is all too real.
This must be who was following me earlier. The smell is the same—of rot and death. I was right, there was a predator on my trail, one who is intent on killing me. I am too shocked to move.
I shut my eyes and cross my arms over my face, anticipating the blow.
But someone comes out of nowhere, swooping over me and knocking the assailant away, running a sword through his belly.
I open my eyes. A hooded man stands over my attacker, whom he has impaled to the ground.
As he leans over to inspect the dead man’s pockets, I catch a glimpse of my savior.
I’d know that face anywhere. It’s Caledon Holt.
Scruffy beard over deep olive skin, messy brown hair falling over his eyes. He’s nineteen, not much older than me, and already the Queen’s Assassin. The Guild’s golden child. No other commoner in Renovia knows who he is, or exactly what he does, but my mother and aunts are part of the Guild, so they know, and I know what they know.
I dash away while he searches the monk. I don’t know what he’s doing here. I don’t understand what just happened. But I do not want him to see me; he could remember who I am and drag me back to my aunts, telling them where I’d gone. That I was nearly killed. My mother will hear of it and I will never be allowed to leave the house again.
So I hide, even though I doubt he’d recognize me. I’d only met him at his father’s funeral, but I’m still well aware of who he is. My aunts keep close tabs on him. They admired his father, Cordyn, greatly.
I watch him from behind a nearby bush. He turns back to the monk and peels off the mask. The man beneath is golden haired and handsome, with a huge pink scar across his cheek, from when he was attacked years ago while avenging his king.
I gasp. But when Caledon looks up, I’ve already disappeared into the brush.
The rebel monk who tried to kill me was Alast, the Grand Prince of Renovia, King Esban’s younger brother.
CHAPTER THREE
Shadow
I COULDN’T STAY. AS SOON as Caledon unmasked the Grand Prince, a group of the queen’s soldiers appeared out of nowhere. When I finally return from Baer long after dark, my mind is awhirl.
As soon as I step onto the gravel walkway by the herb garden, my legs start to give out beneath me. It’s tempting to just collapse and sleep outside where I fall. But I make it past the apiary yard, with its rows and rows of beehives, and approach the house. It’s dark aside from a pale yellow glow in one window—my aunts’ bedroom. They probably did a locus spell to find my location, and have been following my trek home ever since. Could have sent a horse. I suppose they think making me walk home is a punishment I deserve.
Even though they probably know I’m home, I still slip inside the back door of the cottage and tiptoe through the kitchen. It’s almost the middle of the night.
I climb the stairs to my cozy attic room as quietly as I can, avoiding the seventh step because it creaks loudly enough to wake a bear from hibernation, and finally flop onto my fluffy bed, managing to kick off my boots and nothing else. I’ll regret it in the morning when I have to wash the dirt out of my bedding, but for now, I care about nothing but lying here undisturbed.
But I can’t ignore what happened today. Visions of Caledon and the grand prince flash in my mind. The prince was trying to kill me! And he was wearing an Aphrasian mask. Did that mean he was a traitor to the crown? I owe Caledon a debt of gratitude I could never repay—and yet, I can’t tell anyone he saved me! Still, guilt pulls at me—what if Caledon is punished for killing the prince? I have to do something. I have to say something.
The house is unnaturally silent, which means my aunts are listening to my every move. I tense, waiting to hear their footsteps on the staircase, but they never come.
Finally, I hear them whispering in their bedroom. I try to eavesdrop but I’m too tired to make much of an effort. Besides, the obstruction spell they cast over their room usually keeps me from hearing anything they say in there anyway. I wonder what, if anything, they already know about where I’ve been, and if they think my return means they’ve won our earlier argument. That I’m resigned to give up on the Guild.
As exhausted as I am, sleep will not come now. The events of the day repeat in my mind over and over again: Caledon Holt; the Grand Prince Alast; the argument about my future that led me to venturing off toward Baer Abbey in the first place. The mysterious pull toward it, the visions from the willow tree . . . I wish I could tell my aunts about all of it, except then I’d have to explain that I’d been to the abbey and admit the danger I was in.
Despite the flurry of thoughts crowding my mind, at some point I do drift off, because next thing I know, I’m waking up to the sounds of roosters crowing and pots banging downstairs. Aunt Mesha is making her morning oatmeal. My stomach growls. I hope we have molasses for it, and not just honey. And fresh cream.
I pull a pillow over my head. I’m not sure if my aunts went to bed at all; I hear their voices drift upstairs. They think I’m still sleeping, though—they’re not making much of an effort to cover their words.
I hear Aunt Mesha say, “We can’t let her—”