The Queen's Assassin (The Queen's Secret #1)(18)
The road is the only way to access the building. Or leave it alive. Caledon’s heart sinks into his gut. The prison was chosen for the most difficult captives. How long will he be stuck here? When will the queen send for him?
The ride uphill feels longer than the entire trip did up to that point. Parts of the path are so narrow the cart turns slightly on its side. Cal’s stomach lurches each time it sways. He decides to close his eyes the rest of the way.
They come to a stop in front of the entrance, where a shabbily dressed man holding a lantern waits for them. A large iron ring full of keys hangs from his belt. The guard flips down the back of the cart and yanks Cal out, tossing him onto the ground in front of the gates. “Now get up,” the guard says.
Cal doesn’t say what he wants to say; he bites his tongue instead.
“I said get up,” the guard repeats. Cal struggles to stand. His right foot is numb and his legs are wobbly from sitting on them for so many hours. When he begins to rise, the guard pushes him down with his boot. “Try again,” he says.
Would it have been so bad to let the prison guard in on the plan? Cal thinks. It’s going to be a long stay, even if it’s only a few days, as he hopes.
The keeper at the gate steps forward and addresses the guard. “All right, Edmun. Enough. Plenty of time for all that.” They both chuckle.
Once Cal’s finally to his feet, the guard takes out a blindfold and wraps it around his eyes. From there he’s dragged all the way through the fortress, the guard on one side and the keeper on the other. He trips, purposely, to slow down the guards and get some idea of what’s around him, but they just continue to yank him along until he manages to get his feet back under him again. “You know that’s not helping, right?” he says. They don’t respond, just pull harder. He decides it’s better to keep his comments to himself after that. Instead he listens for other prisoners. There’s surprisingly little noise aside from the raspy breath of his captors and their feet shuffling against the floor. He knows he can’t be alone in the fortress. They must be keeping him in an isolated wing.
He concentrates on memorizing how many steps they take before each turn, and whether they turn left or right, to create a crude map of the prison in his head. They go up at least four flights of stairs, the last even steeper than the others. They are so high up that he can feel a slight sway in the building from the wind. The air is thin too; the guard stops to catch his breath. They must be in one of the tall, skinny turrets. At least he’ll have a nice view.
They jerk him to a stop. He hears metal keys clanging together and the creak of rusty hinges, a thick door sliding open against the uneven floor. The guard pulls the scarf down from Cal’s eyes, leaving it dangling around his neck. He’s in a cell with a tiny barred window that looks out beyond the cliff, past the Renovian Sea, all the way into Montrice. “Best room in the house!” the keeper says. “Got a privy and everything!” He whistles.
That’s the last thing Cal hears before the heavy iron door slams shut. The bolts click into place. A bar slides into place across the door.
“You forgot something,” Cal says. He slips off the wrist ties easily—he could have done that from the start if he’d wanted—and removes the scarf they left on his neck. “Don’t worry, I took care of it,” he calls out. There’s no reply, just the jingle of keys and the echo of footsteps as the two men retreat into the depths of the castle, leaving Cal very much alone in the turret, empty aside from a basic sleeping space, a rough wool blanket, and a lone bucket in the corner.
The handkerchief. He pulls it back out of his sleeve and smooths it on the ground in front of him, eyes searching every bit of it for some kind of message. Nothing. He turns it over. Nothing. He picks it up to look closely. There may be tiny writing, or even a code of tiny dots, anything. But there is not. It’s just a handkerchief that smells of a floral perfume.
He stuffs it back up his sleeve in case he missed something or needs it later. Then he balls up the scarf to use as a pillow and lies down on the hay-strewn floor near a stream of moonlight from the tiny window. There’s nothing else to do now. Except wait.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Shadow
WHAT FELT SO RIGHT IN the moment feels more and more foolish as the days go on. I took a big risk approaching Caledon during the prisoner transport like that, and to what end? I’m stuck here, while he’s all the way at Deersia. Even if I could get there, it still wouldn’t do him any good—women are absolutely prohibited from setting foot on the grounds.
From the moment I returned home to the cottage, the plan to ship me off to Violla Ruza continued to move forward. Less than a week. That’s all I have. In six days, my life, as I know it, will be over. All my sensory training will be useless. Nothing will be expected of me once I officially arrive, other than looking pretty and following orders. I know this because I have occasionally accompanied my mother to court, and there is so little to do there I almost die of boredom.
I’m putting breakfast dishes away when I hear a heavy knock at the door. My stomach lurches—was I reported for the handkerchief? Did someone see me slip it to Caledon?
Another knock, more insistent. I wonder if I can get away out the back door.
Aunt Moriah shouts, “On my way!” to whoever’s knocking as she rushes to the door.
“Wait!” I yell, but before I can stop her, she’s already opening it. I take a few steps toward the back door and peek through the window over the kitchen sink. I don’t see anyone out there.