He nods at the vizier and follows behind him, but keeps a safe distance in case he’s about to be ambushed. The deeper they walk into the building, the less he can hear, until eventually the sawing and hammering fades away altogether. Now all he hears is their footsteps.
They are deep in the dungeons. A man screams from somewhere within the lower levels of the catacombs. Cal startles. The vizier, without looking back or pausing, says, “Ignore that.”
They take winding steps up a tall tower. There are long skinny windows in the tower staircase; he can finally see what’s being built in the courtyard, and it’s not gallows, but something even more puzzling: a stage and rows of seating, as if a joust were to take place. The stands are being decorated with the green of Montrice on one side and purple for Renovia on the other.
He’d heard of this before, though never outside of Argonia: public combat. That’s what he’s going to have to do. Fight a Montrician knight, probably to the death, for the crowd’s—and King Hansen’s—entertainment.
Fine with Cal. He is willing to fight for his life, and fight it will be. He has no doubt he can win, and when he does, he is determined to find the Deian Scrolls, and finally, freedom. There is some hope after all. Silently, Cal thanks his father for the message. He’s glad he didn’t try to take the vizier down at the cell, because he might not have made it out, and even if he’d survived an attempt to run, he wouldn’t have this chance again.
At the top of the steps they enter a tower room. Cal is stunned to see it’s more than just a room; it’s a sumptuous bedchamber outfitted for someone of extremely high rank.
“What is this?” he asks the vizier.
“A token of our regrets,” he says. “You’ll find new clothing laid out for you on the bed, and a freshly drawn bath.”
“Where’s my sister?” Cal asks. This unexpected development makes him more suspicious than anything else.
The vizier’s face changes but he answers. “You’ll see her a bit later, when we return to bring you to the great hall. I pray you like the clothing chosen for you. If the bathwater is too hot, or not hot enough, please call.” He motions to a large silver bell on the bedside table. “In fact, should you need anything at all, please call. A personal servant will hear.” He bows and then says, “Oh! And food is arriving shortly. Again, all my deepest, most sincere apologies.” He bows again. Then he scurries from the room.
What in the name of Deia is going on around here? No reason to worry about the fight; he’s done that before. As a little boy, when he was first introduced to training through joust, he thought it was great fun. He is worried about Shadow, however. Why must he wait to see her? Where are they keeping her? Is she in another room like this one, or—and this thought chills him deep into his soul—are they making her the prize? Is she a hostage?
What will happen in the great hall?
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Caledon
AS PROMISED, THE VIZIER DOES indeed return to the tower chamber to collect Caledon and bring him downstairs to the great hall. As before, he bows, apologizes profusely, and seems afraid to look Cal in the eye. Does he feel guilty for what he’s about to do? Or what he’s already done? Cal can’t tell.
He was grateful enough for the bath, never mind that the water was tepid; he was not about to ring the bell. Who knows who would come? He’s wary of everything that’s happening. The new clothes fit perfectly, and are nothing like the absurd getup he had to wear to the Small Ball, either—they’d sent him loose black pants, a crisp white shirt, and a fine leather vest and boots, all in the Renovian style and exactly his size, which means they must have consulted the tailor he’d used before. He is happy to have familiar clothes again, but this has strengthened his belief that he’ll be representing his homeland in a joust or duel of some sort. Otherwise, why would they go to the trouble?
As Cal follows the vizier down the ancient tower stairs, he peeks again at the growing excitement outside. There are bunches of flowers, green and white or purple and white for each kingdom’s colors, being placed along the sides of the stands with the banners. Montrice spares no expense for their tournaments.
Rather than going back into the dungeons, the vizier takes him through a separate door, down a long corridor, and through yet another door into the great hall. Cal’s heart pounds with the anticipation of seeing Shadow again. He crosses his fingers at his side, hoping that she’s in good care and that he won’t be expected to fight for her life or something equally heinous—he’s heard of such things in far-flung kingdoms, and at this point he isn’t ruling anything out. A Grand Duke of Montrice died at his hand. The only thing that could be worse is if Cal had been caught assassinating the king himself.
The great hall is packed wall to wall with people, dressed only slightly less formally than they were for the ball. They’re all smiling, laughing, chatting, prepared for a party. Not a solemn event—at least, not for them.
King Hansen sits in his throne on the dais as he did the day Cal first met him, but instead of looking bored, today he has a weak smile on his face.
The vizier stops short of the dais and puts his hand up to indicate that Cal should stop as well. Cal scans the crowd for Shadow’s familiar face, but he doesn’t see her anywhere. His stomach turns; this all feels off somehow. Like some kind of sick game.
Trumpeters step forward; their instruments begin blaring. The noise startles Cal again. He is really on edge. Not good; he has to regain control over himself. This is exactly what gets novice assassins killed—he has to try to stay above his physical feelings, his emotional responses.
There’s a hush across the room.
All faces turn toward the grand doors as they glide open, pulled by white-gloved guards in brand-new green-and-purple attire. Cal almost expects lions to emerge, and though he’s wrong about that, it’s not a terrible guess.
A procession of Renovian aristocrats marches through the open doorway, led by the most important of them all, the Duke of Devan, who walks in with the ambassador and his husband. As they enter, they form two rows, one on each side of the door, creating a kind of path. One by one, Cal recognizes all the nobles arriving from Renovia. Are they here for the show? That’s right—last he knew, he was a traitor to them.
Finally, they are all inside. There’s a pause. The trumpets blast again. King Hansen stands up.
Queen Lilianna emerges from the door, head to toe in vibrant purple, the first time she’s been out of mourning garb since King Esban’s death. As she passes through, the Renovians bow to her. Cal does the same. She walks, head high, shoulders back, straight up the steps to stand on the dais next to her young Montrician rival. She hasn’t even glanced in Cal’s direction.
The vizier stands at the bottom step and bellows through the hall: “Queen Lilianna of Renovia!”