The Queen's Assassin (The Queen's Secret #1)(2)

A small child joined next, and the crone’s words began to spread the way wind gains force in a storm. Faintly and then all at once, until all the people around her were shouting: “The king is dead! Long live the queen!”

It became a demand. The people of Renovia wanted answers.

Villagers had flocked to meet the Renovian army—what was left of it, at least—as they dragged themselves on the dirt roads toward home the evening prior, ragged and barefoot, shoulders slumped despite their success, often with a fellow soldier in even worse shape hanging on beside them. The soldiers confirmed that, yes, their beloved king, who fought by their side in battle against the Aphrasian monks, had indeed been killed.



* * *





AND SO RENOVIANS BEGAN to gather at the perimeter of Violla Ruza soon after daybreak, a scattered few at first, then more and more, waiting for an announcement. But the sun was already high in the sky and still they heard nothing. Surely, the palace would issue an official statement, as was tradition when a monarch passed, or at least give some indication that the rumors were true—and that the kingdom was secure. A Montrician invasion was a Renovian’s greatest fear, although an attack from Stavin or Argonia was not incomprehensible. Peace treaties were often broken.

But their hopes were met with silence. The white stone palace and its jagged turrets loomed over them, still and eerie, and the royal banner of Renovia flew high over the tallest spire long after the sun dipped behind the building and below the horizon. It was never lowered. Nobody knew quite what to make of this—was King Esban actually alive, or was his queen simply unable to accept his death? Or worse—had the Aphrasians seized the crown?

The next dawn arrived and there was still no word. Yet news of the king’s demise and the Aphrasians’ defeat continued to travel from town to town, swelling the crowds gathered around the palace. The hordes began at the grand iron gates and overflowed into the surrounding fields as the mourners grew by dozens, then hundreds. Some rode in on horseback or on bumpy harvest wagons filled with family and neighbors. Others arrived on foot. They tied scraps of white and purple cloth to the castle gates and carried baskets of freshly cut flowers from their gardens—lilies for the queen and lilacs for the infant princess—which they arranged in bunches along the edge of the grounds. Their king’s sacrifice had given them the dream of a better future, free of the Aphrasian order; all their hope now lay with the regent queen and his heir.

The mood was strangely festive, if solemn. Everyone arrived in their best hats and dress for the occasion, so there were bursts of blues and reds and yellows amid the traditional funereal white. They looked less like mourners than a rich garden in full bloom. Old friends were reunited; children ran between their parents’ legs, chasing one another around in circles. After all, it was rare for so many from so far to gather together, and they had the longed-for defeat of the treacherous Aphrasians to celebrate even though victory had come at a great cost.

Still the survivors reveled in recounting King Esban’s valiant final moments for the crowd, all swearing they’d witnessed it with their very own eyes: how after taking on an entire company of men by himself, their great king was cut straight through with a longsword, at the top of a knoll, a magnificent sunset ushering him into the next world. And how, within seconds of the king’s death, the Aphrasian monk who felled him had met his own end, thanks to Grand Prince Alast, the king’s younger brother, who lunged toward the monk, his blade shining in the setting sun, slicing through the traitor’s neck.

When the last of the Aphrasians retreated, fleeing into the woods surrounding the abbey, the strongest of the king’s remaining soldiers gathered their fallen, including the king himself, onto makeshift wagon beds and hitched them to the few horses they could find.

A parade of the departed, led by their slain king, was en route to the capital city’s catacombs. All those they passed could see King Esban was well and truly dead.

Yet the palace remained silent . . .



* * *





ON THE FOURTH DAY after the Battle of Baer, late in the afternoon, Queen Lilianna finally pulled the edge of the curtain aside from one of the high arched windows in her private quarters. Ever since the news reached her of her husband’s death, her place of refuge had become more like a tomb, lit only by a single candle. Even the jangle of the metal curtain rings was jarring. Her head throbbed. Sun spilled into the hushed room, casting a stream of light across the marble floor. The queen flinched, squinting until her eyes adjusted to the bright light, then peeked out at the agitated crowd congregating below. Her gaze settled on a cluster of men near the gate. One of them was shouting. Those surrounding him nodded along in agreement. He gestured wildly toward the castle, punctuating his words with flailing arms and pointed fingers.

“I need to speak to my people, Holt,” the queen said. “Assure them that I am their true queen, even if I am not from Renovia.”

She’d hardly slept since her husband led his army for Baer Abbey to quash the Aphrasian uprising. Nor had she left her lavish rooms. This was precisely what she’d feared when he set out. She’d implored him not to go, but Esban insisted the men needed their king. It was his duty. He was, above all else, a man of honor, a leader in the truest sense. But now he was gone, and she was left behind to pick up the pieces.

Still, despite private grief and public turmoil, Queen Lilianna managed to remain as poised as always. Her ebony hair remained perfectly wrapped in a high braided bun, and her deep purple satin dressing gown flowed effortlessly from her shoulders to her slippered feet. Only her face betrayed her fatigue: usually traced in smoky kohl, her eyes were bare and swollen from crying; her deep brown skin was wan and dull. Silver trays of food sat untouched on her tea table. She’d only nibbled at the corner of a single slice of bread the night before in order to appease her counselors before banishing them from the room.