The Queen's Assassin (The Queen's Secret #1)(3)
All except one. Known commonly as the King’s Assassin, Cordyn Holt was the crown’s personal advisor and commander of Renovia’s security forces—as well as the king’s dearest and most trusted friend. As such, he’d been tasked with guarding Queen Lilianna while King Esban was away. Holt was the only person the queen had allowed in her presence since news of Esban’s death was delivered by Grand Prince Alast on the evening of the battle.
The moment Alast left, Holt had positioned his imposing frame near the room’s double door, where he intended to stay as long as his queen needed him.
“Holt, I must speak to them,” she pressed.
“Too dangerous,” he said, hands clasped behind his back, strong chin lifted high with authority. “If you step out onto the balcony, you will be exposed. We don’t know who’s out there.”
Eyes wide, she turned to him. “You told me those wretched rebels had been purged. That the Aphrasians were finished.”
For the most part, he thought. He kept his expression as neutral as he could. “Yes,” he said carefully. “But there are almost certainly sympathizers remaining. There always are.”
She snapped the curtain shut, drowning the room in darkness again. “Then my husband died for nothing?”
Holt sighed, shifted his feet. In a rare moment of weakness, his confidence faltered a bit. “It was not for nothing. The loss we have suffered is a great one. But the realm is secure, at least for now. There is still a kingdom left to inherit. That is far from nothing.”
She stepped away from the window. “And what of the rest? Where are the scrolls? Were they recovered?”
He stammered, “We don’t—unfortunately, no, Your Majesty, we don’t have them.” He kept his hands behind his back and his eyes on the ground to avoid agitating her any further. “Yet,” he added.
“What do you mean you don’t have them?” she shouted. Holt clenched his square jaw. He reminded himself that she was still recovering from a complicated delivery just a few weeks earlier.
“Without the scrolls these monks aren’t ‘purged.’ They’ve only been set back!” She began pacing the plush cream rug, violet waves of fabric fluttering around her. “They’ll keep coming for me. They’re relentless. As long as I’m alive, I’m in their way. Am I to be a prisoner here forever? What use is living in a kingdom of fear, under constant threat?” Holt had never seen her so out of sorts. He was unsure whether she was even speaking directly to him anymore. “They’ve already attempted to kill me once. That we know of! And there are rumors of other plots . . . They’ll never stop coming. Never. How long until they get to the baby?” She stopped pacing to stare at him, as if she expected an answer. He didn’t have one to give her.
Just then, an urgent wail erupted from a canopied cradle near the queen’s chaise. She hurried over and lifted the baby to her breast, shushing her softly. Without turning back to face Holt, she said, “He will never know his child.”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” He paused, then added, “I understand.”
At that she looked at him, clear-eyed, focused, almost as if a spell had broken. “Of course you do,” she said, softening her tone. She walked to the window again and drew back a corner of the drape to peek out at the crowd, still cradling the baby. An ivory silk receiving blanket trailed over her shoulder and down her back. “What shall we do now?” she asked him quietly.
He didn’t respond right away. What could he say? There were never guarantees, especially not in a time of war, and the rebels had been relentless in their pursuit of the royal family, determined to eliminate the rulers as well as any possible heirs. Holt could offer only to do his best to protect her and the child. And his best—a plan he’d been mulling over since the assassination attempt early in the queen’s pregnancy—was something she probably would not want to consider just yet. If ever.
They stood in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds; Holt considered the situation. The Renovian army had returned victorious, but weak. They’d sustained a great many casualties. Their king was dead. Several key Aphrasian leaders had been killed, but the survivors had fled, no doubt taking refuge with supporters, most likely in another kingdom. But which one? Stavin? Argonia? Montrice?
Worse, they’d taken the Deian Scrolls—and all the ancient magical wisdom they contained—along with them.
The queen took a deep breath and glanced out behind the curtain again. In the distance, she spied a merchant selling white mourning ribbons from his cart. People were tying them to sticks and waving them in the air, a traditional symbol of both sorrow and hope, meant to help lead the departed souls home.
“If I cannot address my subjects directly, then you will make the announcement in my stead. The king is dead. We must move forward,” she said. Then added, “Whatever that means now.”
Holt bowed slightly, relieved. “Of course, Your Majesty.” If the queen was finally willing to accept the kingdom’s new, precarious situation, this might be his best opportunity to broach the issue they had been arguing about since first declaring war on the monks. He considered his next words carefully before making his case.
As Holt outlined the shape of his plan, the arrangements he had made, and the precautions he’d already taken, the queen’s visage hardened to match her steely gaze. She didn’t like any of it, of course. But she recognized she had few alternatives now, and little time to waste deliberating.