Crush the King (Crown of Shards #3)(6)
“But you don’t even know what she is,” Paloma pointed out. “She could be a magier or a master or a morph. Or she might just be a mutt like you are. It might not even be a woman. Maybe it’s a man.”
I shrugged. “Magic is magic. I can always smell it, no matter what kind it is or who it belongs to. Besides, if there’s even the smallest bit of truth to the rumor . . .”
My voice trailed off, and a hard knot of emotion clogged my throat. That treacherous hope was rising up in me again, but I pushed it back down.
“You still need to be careful,” Paloma continued. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Maeven started this rumor to lure you here so she and the rest of the Bastard Brigade can try to kill you again.”
Maeven was the bastard sister of the Mortan king and the one who had orchestrated the Seven Spire massacre. She was also the leader of the Bastard Brigade, a group of bastard relatives of the king and the other legitimate Mortan royals. Over the past several months, Maeven and her Bastard Brigade had tried to murder me numerous times, although I had managed to thwart most of their schemes and stay alive—so far.
“You might be right,” I admitted. “Maeven is certainly clever and devious enough to float a rumor about another Blair to get me here, but I have to learn for myself whether it’s true. And if it is a plot, then we’ll kill her assassins, just like we have before.”
“And if it’s not another Mortan plot?” Paloma asked.
“Then we’ll find out exactly who this person is, where they’ve been hiding, and how they’ve managed to stay alive. And especially why they didn’t come to Seven Spire after I took the throne and decreed that Blair survivors should return to the palace.”
Part of me was happy that one of my cousins had potentially survived the slaughter, but part of me was also dreading the family reunion. I was only queen because all the other Blairs were dead. What if this mysterious cousin was higher in line for the throne? What if they had a better claim on the crown? What if they had more magic?
And if any of that were true, then came the biggest question of all: Should I step aside?
That was what protocol and tradition would dictate I do. But what was best for Bellona? Because I couldn’t imagine anyone else—Blair or otherwise—who wanted to protect my kingdom and her people more than I did.
I hadn’t wanted to be queen, but now that I had finally secured my position, I didn’t want to give it up just because someone else had had the good fortune to survive the massacre. If I was being brutally honest, I also didn’t want to give up all the power and privileges that came with being queen. It was heady and thrilling to be respected and even feared, especially since I had spent years being the royal standin, the royal puppet, at Seven Spire. Perhaps that made me petty and selfish, just like Vasilia had been.
But most of all, I didn’t want to give up the throne because of how it would impact my chances of finally taking my revenge on Maeven and the Mortan king. I wanted to make them suffer for what they’d done to the Blairs, to my family, to me, and I had a far better chance of getting that revenge as queen, rather than going back to just being Lady Everleigh.
“Well, I hope this person shows up soon,” Paloma grumbled, breaking into my turbulent thoughts. “I don’t want to stand around in the cold all night.”
She stamped her feet and pulled her green cloak a little tighter around her body. Autumn had already come and gone, and winter was quickly taking hold in the Spire Mountains. In addition to the impending snow tonight, the wind had a bitter chill that promised even colder, harsher weather was on its way.
“Don’t worry. Xenia and her spies said to meet at this fountain at six o’clock, and it’s that time now. Someone should show up soon.”
Paloma sighed and stamped her feet again, but the two of us held our position in the alley, and Serilda, Cho, and Sullivan remained in their spots around and above the plaza.
As the sun set, fluorestones flared to life inside the surrounding buildings, as well as in the streetlamps that lined the plaza. The soft golden lights must have made the goods look even more attractive, because the merchants were still doing a brisk business, and it was hard to pick out anyone suspicious, much less a familiar face.
Ever since Xenia had told me that one of my cousins might still be alive, I had been racking my mind trying to figure out who it could be, but I hadn’t come up with any possibilities. So I stared out into the plaza, peering at everyone who walked by.
I was so busy studying the faces of the adults that I almost missed the girl.
She was young, fourteen or so, and dressed in several layers of thin, grubby rags. Her clothes might have been dark blue at one time but were now almost black with grime. Her face wasn’t much better. Dirt streaked across her pale cheeks, and her nose was red from the cold. A gray winter hat covered her head, although her dark brown hair stuck up at odd angles through the gaping holes in the knit fabric.
The girl stopped about twenty feet away from us, next to a bakery cart. Her head snapped back and forth, as if she were looking for someone, although she soon focused on the area around the fountain. She tapped her hand on her thigh in a nervous rhythm and shifted on her feet, like she was ready to run away at any moment. A few red-hot sparks flashed on her fingertips, flickering in time to her uneasy motions, but she quickly curled her hand into a fist, snuffing out the telltale signs of magic.