The Queen's Assassin (The Queen's Secret #1)(16)
This isn’t the first time I’ve witnessed a transfer. It never seems to matter who appears in the cart when it emerges, either; the crowd is always ready to condemn. It’s alarming, really, how quickly nice people become ravenous, bloodthirsty. Children young enough to hide in their mother’s skirts throw half-eaten food or handfuls of dirt at the prisoners; they spit toward the rickety cart as it rolls down the main thoroughfare.
The mob prefers to see justice administered swiftly rather than fairly. When I was younger, their furious scowls and screaming frightened me. I would cling to Aunt Mesha and close my eyes. She told me the people want to see someone punished, because order comforts them more than justice. They need to believe that the good are always good and the bad are always bad, and that they themselves err on the side of good. Few understand that there’s a wide space between the two, where nearly all of us fall.
My aunts warned me of this many times—be wary of the sway of others, they told me. Find your own path and stay upon it. Don’t allow yourself to be pulled in another direction, even if you must walk alone. “Do the most good” is their favorite saying. The most good. I like that because it allows for, well, some of the not-so-good too. Sometimes a bit of that is necessary.
But this—the angry horde—is not doing any good at all. Did no one wonder if they could be wrong? Question the lack of public trial? My eyes fall on a tiny girl who can’t be more than three or four years old. She watches silently, wide-eyed, one thumb in her mouth, her other hand grasping her father’s. He’s paying little attention to her; his focus is on the spectacle around him. Raucous laughter drifts through the air, somehow adding an even more sinister edge to the hisses and taunts. She looks terrified. But in a few more years, she’ll likely be throwing dirt alongside all the others.
The cart comes closer. I can see him now.
Like everyone in the crowd, I know who the prisoner is, but I can scarcely believe it.
The official story from the palace is that the grand prince was murdered by a local blacksmith, Caledon Holt. There is no specific mention of where the grand prince was found. It happened during a botched robbery, said one. An evening of high-stakes gambling at an out-of-the-way tavern that led to an argument, or perhaps an ambush, said others. He’s being sent to Deersia to await trial and will surely be executed.
But I know the truth.
Caledon is not a traitor, but a hero.
He should be at the head of a parade, feted and beloved; instead he is being led from the capital of Renovia in chains.
Why did the queen do this? Why?
This is all my fault. Maybe if I hadn’t been at Baer Abbey, he wouldn’t have needed to rescue me or kill the grand prince.
The cart draws nearer. Now I regret buying this ceramic vessel. I can’t carry it right now, and it won’t fit in the cloth bag slung over my shoulder, which is heavy enough already, filled with tiny jars of the salves I was supposed to sell. I see a young girl standing alone just a few paces from me. She carries a basket with a loaf of fresh bread and some fruit.
“Excuse me,” I say.
She looks startled. “I paid for this,” she says. “Ask him.” She points to the fruit vendor.
I hold out the pot. “No, no, I’m to deliver this to your mother. Can you take it to her for me?”
“Oh! Yes,” she says. I hand it to her and she puts it in her basket.
“Enjoy!” I say, already walking away. I pull my hood forward around my face and disappear into the crowd, trying to edge closer to the road. If I stand tiptoe, I can see Caledon in the back of the cart. He sits with his back straight, defiant. I follow his piercing gaze to the palace balcony, where his eyes are locked on the queen. No hint of emotion shows on his face. Hers is much too far away to make out, even if it wasn’t obscured by the drape of her veil, but I can tell she’s holding her usual perfect posture, hands clasped in front of her long white dress. Still as a statue.
I wonder if Caledon is afraid. I would be. Deersia is a dangerous, lonely place. Most who enter are never seen again, even before they make it to trial. Few men are willing to take jobs at the prison—it’s considered a punishment just to work there—so it’s become customary for royal officials to relocate their troublesome staff to the fortress. The threat of a stint boiling linens or flushing pans at Deersia is a useful deterrent. Parents are known to threaten their sons: “Behave, or it’s off to Deersia with you!”
Caledon’s situation is especially precarious. He is charged with murdering a royal. Those who loved Prince Alast will no doubt seek revenge, and there are likely to be a few of them working at the prison. And though Caledon is known only as a local blacksmith, there have to be some, especially at Deersia, who are aware of his true occupation. He’s sure to have enemies in Renovia’s underworld. They’d probably like nothing more than to be the assassin’s own executioner.
The guard notices Caledon looking up at the queen, so he yanks him to the floor of the cart by his chains. The crowd cheers at the spectacle. “Impertinent bastard,” the guard sneers. “Keep your eyes to your filthy feet.” Queen Lilianna disappears behind white curtains in a flurry of fabric. A maid shuts the balcony door after her and draws the drapes.
Seems she can’t even bear to observe what she’s done.
My head pounds with a sudden surge of anger. I don’t know how he can stand it. How can he keep from lashing back at the guard, at the people? I doubt I could be so stoic. Fury boils up in me just from watching it happen.