The Orphan Queen (The Orphan Queen #1)(11)

“Right.” I picked up the tattered wool shawl and threw it over my shoulders. “Unfortunately, the war will interrupt our new life of luxury. When we march to Aecor, it will be all dirt, hunger, and walks through bloody battlefields. That’s assuming we’re not immediately discovered as impostors at the castle and sentenced to death.” I winked so she’d know I wasn’t scolding.

“Well, now I’m not smiling.” She hitched her bag onto her shoulder and together we headed down to the bailey where Patrick and Oscar met us with grim nods.

Day broke at our backs, sending liquid light cascading into the valley ahead of us. Glass windows on the palace and mansions winked in the reflected sunlight.

“We’ll walk all the way around,” Patrick said. “So we appear to come from the west.”

When at last we emerged from the woods on the western edge of Skyvale, the sun was directly overhead, and the famous mirrors were just beginning to reflect its glow.

“Refugees are saying they can see the mirrors’ shine from across the valley,” Melanie said. “That it leads them to safety. Some even say they can see it from across the western mountains, as far as the wraithland.”

“That seems unlikely. The valley is huge, and Skyvale is hidden behind the Midvale Ridge.” The long mountain cut lengthwise through the northern half of the valley, splitting the path of the Indigo River in two. Skyvale huddled between the eastern side of the valley and the lower end of the Midvale Ridge, which looked as though someone had scooped off a chunk of the southern face.

“That’s true, I guess.”

“It’s just a refugee story. They’re almost never accurate.” I kept my gaze ahead as we approached White Flag, the poorest, westernmost district of Skyvale. “No more out-of-character talking. We’re refugees from Liadia. We’ve been through a great trauma and terrible journey.”

Melanie’s cheeks darkened, but she nodded. A few minutes later, we entered the refugee camp just outside the city wall.

It looked like every other camp, with people huddling inside dingy tents or under lean-tos. The stench of unwashed bodies permeated the air, along with rotting refuse. Chickens clucked and a pig hurtled across the road. A few children played, though their clapping and hopping games all bore a weary note. Under the tendrils of filthy hair, their cheeks were sunken in from hunger.

In the spirit of authenticity, Patrick and Oscar moved closer to Melanie and me, protecting us as we slipped through the noisy refugee camp.

Above us loomed a pair of guard towers, the dragon standards and Pierce family crests flying above the bright mirrors. Nervousness shuddered through me.

“This way, my lady.” Patrick guided me to the gate and the soldier on duty. Sweat streaked his stubbled face as he slouched and spoke in a Liadian accent, “May I present Lady Julianna Whitman, Duchess of Liadia, and her companion, Lady Melanie Cole. My friend and I have traveled across the wraithland to bring them to the safety of Skyvale.” Patrick dropped to one knee, head bowed low. His shoulders curled inward as Oscar knelt, too.

The guards eyed me, my dress, and the almost-empty bag I carried. “Do you have papers?” one asked from behind a heavy mustache.

My bag slipped from my shaking hand and landed with a shallow whump. “Y-yes.” Trembling all over, I started to retrieve the leather envelope with our forged papers, but Melanie touched my shoulder.

“I’ll get them.” She spoke gently and, although she appeared as exhausted as I, she knelt and drew the envelope from a side pocket.

The guards glanced over the papers, held them up to the light to check the watermark, and slipped them back into the envelope. “You ladies are welcome to enter Skyvale. We’ll send for a carriage. I’m afraid the two of you . . .” His mustache twitched at Patrick and Oscar.

Patrick and Oscar glanced at each other, my supposed loyal escorts. “We’d like to wait until the carriage comes,” Patrick said. “Just to make sure. We’ve seen our ladies this far.”

Mustache Guard considered a moment, then nodded. “Very well.”

The second guard ran for chairs for Melanie and me, then sent a message up to the top of the guard tower to signal for a carriage.

Seated and pretending I was trying not to slouch, I watched a trio of boys racing through the camp. Two in front carried battered sacks that leaked pebbles, while the third wore a black mask and threatened to bring his friends to justice.

Mustache Guard followed my gaze. “They’re playing Black Knife.”

“What is that?” I asked, though I knew the answer.

“Black Knife is a vigilante,” he said, pointing to a tattered poster that offered a hefty bounty for the menace. “We try to discourage Skyvale children from this game, but we aren’t allowed to do much with the refugees.”

Besides keep them out of the city, of course.

“And this Black Knife does what?” I made obvious glances between the bounty poster and the children.

“He catches thieves, glowmen, and flashers. He’s been at it for about two years, since the Hensley scandal.”

“It sounds like he’s doing good work. Shouldn’t you send a thank-you note?”

Mustache Guard shook his head. “Some think so, but no one is allowed to subvert justice. If he wants to stop flashers, he needs to join the police.”