The brandy had burned all the way down, and if it hadn’t settled her nerves, it had at least given her something to focus on besides imagined scenarios of being caught. They rode through the town, casually greeting passersby and talking of a trip north to Blackstone and whether the snow had yet melted from the mountains of Ravenskeep. They did not talk of the stables or of their plan to kill a king. Cass had made Miri detail that plan so often that she wanted to shout that she’d no idea what the words even meant anymore.
Then, when they’d negotiated through the thick forest to the old, broken wall, the words had come back to her again. “And what will you do?” she whispered to Cass.
He shook his head with a rueful grin. Cass would likely be standing as if relieving himself on the wall surrounding the castle, should anyone find him in the thick of the trees.
He put a hand on her shoulder, squeezed it once, then turned to survey the woods. Miri drew a settling breath, repeating the steps in her head. Burrow through beneath the roots, find the crack in the wall, shift the block I was shown as a girl, and slide into the stables in a crawl.
“Don’t break the glass,” Cass warned again.
Miri snorted. The place beneath the roots had grown to a tangled snarl, damp and rank, and she hoped the worst thing in the darkness with her was the salve in that vial. She took shallow breaths, stretching her body in ways it was not meant to stretch, and resisted the urge to grunt when her knuckles scraped against stone and a tree root jammed against her ribs.
She felt blindly for the loose block, carefully slid it across the others, then stopped to listen for footsteps or voices on the other side. Satisfied she was alone, she crawled through the too-narrow space to the packed earth and dusty manure of the disused corridor behind the old stable stalls.
Miri looked behind her but could not see that she’d left much disturbance or any way of being tracked. She listened longer to the goings on outside, the muffled nicker of far-off horses, and the birds in the trees outside the wall. Everything was safe, secure, and going as planned. She crept down the corridor, momentarily disoriented by the passing of years. She had to backtrack twice, but the stable was not so changed that she was entirely unprepared. The kings were about habit, routine, and ritual. They didn’t deviate without due cause.
She found the corridor to the room she needed, one where the king kept his riding gear. Listening, she waited then unlatched the ancient metal and carefully moved the door on its weary hinges.
Miri inched into the room, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. Shelves as old as she was held carved leather bridles, shining bits, and the formal riding gear of the king of Pirn. A shock ran through her at the recognition and the feeling of being so near something so personal to that king—one of the men who’d killed her mother and held her sister captive and sat boldly upon a stolen throne.
Gritting her teeth against her anger, she peered through the space to be certain she would not be detected. Satisfied she was alone, she stepped forward, the mantra of her plan repeating in her mind again. Find his gloves and his mantle then carefully remove the vial.
A bout of laughter sounded outside the room, coming from the entrance that had been more recently put into use. Miri nearly fumbled the sweat-slicked glass. She held painfully still as a muffled voice called down the corridor, then she wiped her palm on the material covering her thigh. Her hand came back slicked with mud from beneath the root mass, and she bit back a curse, trying again with the material that made up the inside of her shirt.
They were not Miri’s clothes. Her pendant waited in her spare garments with Cass, outside the wall.
Miri took the narrow stick of wood from her pocket and dipped it into the poisoned salve. She carefully spread it over the fingers of the right glove. Not wanting to harm whoever might dress the king, she avoided the wide cuffs as best she could. Then she dropped the piece of wood into the vial and returned the stopper.
In the castle at Stormskeep was a great carved map attached to the wall. It had fallen in the attack, the scores that divided the realm splitting the wood into broken chunks, separating the kingdoms from the whole. The image of that shattered carving, the realm split to pieces, had been burned into Miri’s memory as they fled. She was setting that splintered block back into place.
Miri gently set the gloves in their proper position. As she stared at the very implement that would commence her years-old plan, she whispered, “The Lion has come for you. It is time to pay your due.”
Chapter 12
Miri had killed a king—not at the moment, of course, but within the week. Again and again, she reminded herself that she had time as her trembling hands worked to lace up her boots. She and Cass need not run. They had time.
Her fingers slipped on the button of her vest, and she cursed.
Cass came around the horses and took hold of her arms. “Breathe, Miri. It’s done.” He did not wait for her to nod, only made quick work of the rest of the buttons and buckles that adorned her belt and vest. He secured the mantle of her thin cloak before he looked at her again. “Ready?”
She could only manage a trembling nod.
“Right,” he said. “Up you go.” He grabbed Miri’s arm and helped her astride before climbing onto his own horse with a swiftness that belied his apparent lack of concern.
Cass gave her one more quick glance before he kicked up his horse, and they rode through the thick woods at an unsteady pace. They came out of the forest near the church, and their pace finally settled. They rode from Pirn as if heading north, but the moment they’d traversed enough land not to be seen, they turned west. Late morning became midday and early afternoon. The summer sun bore down on the clearings between each patch of trees, and the spicy scent of yarrow was stirred into the still air by the flowers crushed beneath their horses’ hooves. Two flies nagged at Miri’s ear, and two more hovered near Wolf’s.
Then it was evening, and Miri drew the cloak tighter around her shoulders and held her reins closer to hand. At nightfall, Cass finally stopped beneath a copse of close trees. He strung a rope between two of those trees and tied loose slipknots to keep the animals near. He did not start a fire or leave to hunt.
Cass settled a blanket onto the ground and handed Miri a piece of dried meat and a hunk of dark bread. Both felt like pulp in her mouth, and she chewed absently as she stared past the horses into the dark. She should clean the dirt from beneath her fingernails. Miri’s maids had hated it when her play had left her caked in mud. They had fussed away at her with brushes and tools, scraping all of it clean.
She was a princess. It wasn’t proper.
Miri didn’t realize she was crying until Cass’s arm came around her and he pulled her to him. Her chest rose and fell in racking sobs. Cass didn’t speak, only held her tighter, and when she finally settled, he moved his palm in soothing circles over her back.
He shifted to lean against a tree, drawing Miri with him so that her arm and cloak made a pillow against his leg. Long after she’d settled, warm so near him, Cass began a story in a low, steady tone. It was a story of Miri’s mother and how he’d been hurt and humiliated by failing a minor task, and she had set him to rights. The Lion Queen had been kind, her wit as sharp as a blade.
Miri understood why he was telling her. Cass was bloodsworn, the highest of the queensguard and closest to the queen. He knew as well as anyone that she had been a good ruler and did not deserve her fate, even if he didn’t agree with Miri’s plans.