“Please,” Shadow says to the room. “Let us explain—”
“Silence!” the king roars. His lips twist into a snarl. “You trespassed in my country, gained entry under false pretenses, and murdered a man of noble birth who was a member of my court. What else is there to understand?”
I will not be able to come to your aid if you are caught, the queen had warned. He unmasked the Aphrasian conspirator and killed him. But he will die for his duty, and he has failed his father and his friend. Shadow will die as well, because of him.
Cal cannot even bear to look at her now.
As they’re led away, the vizier, wringing his hands, approaches them in the hall outside the chamber. “Why? Why did you do it?” he wails. “Now I too am under suspicion!”
Cal doesn’t answer his question. “When is our actual trial?”
“Oh dear. Don’t you understand? That was the trial. You live or die at the king’s command. And he is displeased, very displeased, indeed.”
Cal watches as Shadow is led away. He tried to save her, he tried to save Jander, he tried to save Renovia. He hopes the princess and the queen are safe. He hopes it wasn’t all for naught. But the thought of Shadow hanging because of him is too much to bear.
Cal lunges against the guards, but there are too many of them. They throw him to the ground and begin kicking and punching him until he’s spitting blood—and a tooth?—and feels himself slipping in and out of consciousness, the world fading.
He’s dragged back to his cell, barely aware of anything around him. The king announces that they will be executed in the morning, as enemies of the crown. There is no reprieve, no escape.
There’s nothing he can do to save himself or—even worse—to save Shadow.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Caledon
DAWN. CAL WAKES SLOWLY. HIS mouth is bone-dry. There’s an aching throb in his neck and head. He looks down at the bruises on his arms and legs—they’re already yellowing. Can’t be from yesterday. He’s disoriented, unsure how many days he’s slept. He must have had a concussion.
There is very little light in his cell; the only window is a narrow slit near the top of the wall, set deep inside the brick. There’s no slot in the door here, like there was at Deersia. They don’t expect to keep anyone in this place for very long. There’s a water jug on the floor, but the water smells a bit like rotten egg, so he decides not to chance it yet. No use in getting ill on top of everything else.
He hears loud banging outside, but he looks around the tiny room and finds nothing he can stand on to see out the window. Sounds like hammers hitting wood—something is being built out in the courtyard. Gallows. That’s all it can be. What else?
He knows now that the last time he’ll ever see Shadow is right before the executioner puts a hood over their heads, right before they swing to their deaths. And that’s if he’s lucky—if he can call it that. They may go to the gallows separately, which means he’ll actually never see her again.
The duke must have known all along; he was just biding his time. He must have recognized them from the beginning. They had fallen into a trap, and it had just snapped shut.
Cal has killed him three times already—as the fake Grand Prince, as the Aphrasian monk on the Deersian road, and as the duke, but until his body is burnt, the shapeshifter will return. Cal has wounded the insurgency, but no doubt they will rise again. The Aphrasians have the Deian Scrolls and are mining obsidian at Baer. Soon their army will be unstoppable.
There is no hope. As she warned, the queen will not come to his aid. There will be no interference from Renovia. He was supposed to be acting on his own, in secret. An acknowledgment that she sent her assassin to Montrice would only spark a war.
* * *
CAL LIES ON THE floor, curled up on his side. He aches so much, both from the guard’s rough treatment and the pain of his failure, that even breathing hurts. If he could just tell Shadow he’s sorry. He stays with that thought, imagining what he would say. Shadow, this is all my fault. I’m sorry. I failed. Or, Shadow, please forgive me for what I’ve done, and for not telling you what is in my heart when I had the chance.
So much remains undone. And he doesn’t leave anything undone. Why is he accepting this? He is Caledon Holt, son of Cordyn Holt, the Queen’s Assassin. He hasn’t come this far to fail.
He jumps up and goes over to the wall under the window. There’s nowhere to get a decent toehold, but he tries to reach up and grab on to a tiny lip on one of the stones. It’s not enough—his fingertips can’t even get a grip. He tries again, but only manages to scratch his right fingers against the jagged edge. Another stone a bit farther to the left looks more promising, so he tries that one, and this time he actually grasps the rim. He pulls his body weight up, rooting his feet around for a toehold, but finds nothing to support him. Within seconds he falls back to his feet.
It’s useless.
Cal has a disturbing thought—the stones are so smooth and poor for climbing because so many in the past have tried that they’ve been worn down.
Just then the cell door swings open. Cal twists toward it, fists up, ready to take down anyone he has to in order to escape—or at least try. He’s not going to the scaffold willingly, or easily.
The person standing at the door is not a guard, not even a person of the temple sent to comfort him in his last moments. It’s the vizier, swathed in all his flowing robes and ridiculous furs, a ring squashed onto every stout finger. Why is he here? Cal wonders. Does he want to unburden his conscience about something?
The vizier bows. “My deepest apologies for the events which transpired yesterday. I pray you will accept my request for forgiveness, as it was an unfortunate misunderstanding.”
What? What misunderstanding? Cal can’t even speak; words won’t come out of his mouth. He can’t figure out how to respond to that—an apology?
The vizier stands up straight. “If you will, please, follow me.” He begins to leave the room. Cal doesn’t move. The vizier looks behind him, waiting.
Is this a trick? A trap? He isn’t sure what to do. What if this is just a way to make me go without a fight?
“I assure you, there’s been an error since rectified,” the vizier says.
But Cal can still hear the commotion outside. He closes his eyes. What should I do?
He hears his father’s voice inside him: “Go.”
Cal’s eyes snap open. The command was clear, as if he’s standing right next to him. He decides to listen. One way or the other, there is no option but forward. Perhaps following the vizier will lead him to a better opportunity to flee, even.