The Orphan Queen (The Orphan Queen #1)(82)

“Found her!” shouted my guard. He foiled another strike, then another, not bothering to fight me. All he had to do was wait for help.

I sheathed my daggers and dropped to the ground, braced myself, and kicked his knee. Bone shifted and crunched, and I rolled out of the way just as his sword came down. The tip buried itself in the ground as the man screamed and clutched his broken knee.

There was no reason I should feel bad for defending myself, even if he was just some third-born lord without better options than to join the Indigo Order. Still, I winced with a little sympathy as I kicked him in the face, careful to avoid shoving his nasal bones up and into his brain.

Screaming in pain, he fell aside. I stole his sword.

Dawn caught on the northeastern horizon, shining gold above the mountains like a beacon. If I got over the wall I could escape the city and get back to the old palace.

I peeled away from the garden where I’d been sneaking, and made for the wall. My footfalls were silent as I raced down a street, keeping as close to the shadows as possible. In the distance, other guards shouted and called orders.

Someone demanded a physician; their newly crippled friend had been discovered.

I pinned the stolen sword under my arm and took out my grappling hook and line. Boots thudded on the pavement behind me.

I switched the line to my left hand, grabbed the sword with my right, and swung around just as two men in crisp uniforms ran up.

They reeled back, away from the tip of the blade arcing toward them, and one brought up his weapon to block. Our swords clacked and he pressed hard enough to shift mine back toward me; he was stronger.

I snaked my sword around and slung his from his hand. It landed in a rosebush several feet away, and when he ran to fetch it, I hurled my own sword at the second guard’s face.

When he scrambled away from the flying blade, I caught my grappling line with both hands and hauled myself up as quickly as I could. Hand over hand. Feet planted firmly on the wall.

Arms wrapped around my waist. My muscles burned as I tried to hang on to my weight and the guard’s, but I wasn’t strong enough; neither was the line.

I let go, thudding to the ground as I landed on top of both guards. They grunted and grabbed at me, but I elbowed them each in the face and rolled off, leaving behind my grappling line as I took off farther along the wall. Eventually, I’d reach the gate. I’d just have to be fast.

Lights hung down from the wall, illuminating my path. Shouts and cries from the nearby patrols spurred me onward, and my breath heaved in the cold air as I pushed myself. Mist trailed behind me and I gave up all pretense of stealth as two, four, ten guards joined the chase.

I wove between buildings and statues, ducking and dodging as quickly as I could. The crash of men through brush and evergreens chased me. Their boots thumped on the ground.

All over Hawksbill, lights flared from houses and people peered out from windows and over balconies, their faces pale and frightened. I recognized Chey and a few of her friends as I hurtled past her immense mansion.

Cold wind tore at my face, making tears prickle in the corners of my eyes. Everything blurred, even as dawn began creeping through the Indigo Valley, lighting the city with shards of gold and copper.

The gate to Thornton was just ahead.

My thighs ached as I drove myself faster. My lungs burned. My vision swam.

When I blinked away cold-born tears, dozens of indigo-coated soldiers stood between the gate and me. Dozens more appeared on either side of the road, armed with swords and crossbows.

I thrust out a foot to help me turn without losing momentum—I’d have to go deeper into Hawksbill and hide—but even more men stood behind me.

I staggered to a halt and turned in a slow circle as the men of the Indigo Order began closing in. I was surrounded. Trapped.

There were no tricks or tools in my belt, no surprise escapes. A hundred or more men bore down on me. There was no way I could fight them off.

Heart thrumming, I unhooked my dagger sheaths from my belt and laid them on the ground. With empty hands lifted to my sides, I surrendered.

A young man kicked his horse through the crowd of soldiers, his face red with cold or anger. He dismounted and hopped off, and took several long strides toward me, ahead of the rest of the Order.

Lieutenant James Rayner stood with one hand on his sword, the other fist planted on his hip. When our eyes met, there was no friendliness in him. Only a look of deep disappointment and resignation.

“Lady Julianna Whitman, ward of the kingdom,” said James, “you are under arrest for the impersonation of Liadian nobility, and under suspicion of the assassination of King Terrell Pierce the Fourth. Please don’t resist, or we’ll have no choice but to use deadly force.”

I swallowed back a surge of terror as I offered my wrists and held my ground.

James motioned to one of his men, who unhooked a pair of cuffs from his belt and strode toward me. The guards’ crossbows were all loaded and aimed; they wouldn’t miss if I attacked their comrade.

The cuffs were cold around my wrists, and too tight.


The jail cells beneath the palace reeked of vomit. Rat droppings littered the floor of my cell.

Shortly after being thrown in here hours ago, I’d wiped off the bench so I could sit. Besides a bucket, there was a threadbare blanket and lumpy pillow, and a torch burned on the other side of the bars, throwing in flickering orange light too bright to let me sleep.

Not that I could sleep now anyway.