The Queen's Assassin (The Queen's Secret #1)(4)

Queen Lilianna turned her head toward the window, though she couldn’t see out from where she sat. Nevertheless, they could still hear the crowd’s chants growing louder from below: “The king is dead! Long live the queen!”

At last she spoke. “Yes. I will agree to the arrangement,” she said. She looked at Holt just as the shock of her words flickered across his face. He knew his plan was a risky one and had expected more resistance from her.

The queen held up her finger. “One caveat,” she added, emphasizing every word. “I will agree . . . but only by blood vow.”

His face fell. Of course, she would want more than promises and words. While he was duty-bound to protect her, he had dreaded such a demand. But some part of him knew it would come to this, and his position and loyalty meant he had no choice in the matter. His only concern was safeguarding the kingdom’s future. And so he nodded his assent, though doing so sealed his own fate. The vow meant there would be no possibility of escape—not until it was fulfilled, anyway—and a painful sacrifice on his part as well.

After all, magic always requires balance. An eye for an eye—or a son for a daughter.

The queen laid the sleeping infant, tightly bundled so that all Holt could see of her was a bit of golden skin and brown hair, back in her cradle. Then she strode across the room to the table near him and picked up an opaque bottle. She poured a bit of pink wine into a heavy crystal goblet, set it down, and raised a golden knife.

Her eyes fixed on Holt, she began chanting: “Sanguinem reddetur votum. Sanguinem reddetur votum.” The mantra grew louder and faster as she pressed the small dagger across her wrist, drawing a line of blood. As it spread down her arm, Holt saw that it wasn’t red—it was deep blackish blue, like the midnight sky during a full moon. He tried to hide his surprise at the color, but he couldn’t stop himself from staring. She did the same to her other wrist, still repeating the words: “Sanguinem reddetur votum.”

When she was done, Queen Lilianna closed her eyes and held her hands low over the goblet, palms lifted up toward the sky as her royal blood pooled in them, threatening to drip between her fingers. Then she turned them over, allowing her blood to spill into the wine, creating plum-colored swirls that spun as she chanted, “Sanguinem reddetur votum. Sanguinem reddetur votum. Sanguinem reddetur votum.”

Kneeling, Holt offered his open palms to Queen Lilianna, closing his eyes as an image of a motherless one-year-old boy came to mind.

The queen took his rough hands in hers, pressing her thumbs to his wrists to feel the beat of his blood coursing through his veins. The skin on the queen’s wrist had already smoothed over, as if it had never been cut at all. “Say the words after me,” she ordered. “I, Cordyn Holt . . .”

“I, Cordyn Holt, Guardian of Renovia, devoted servant to the House of Dellafiore,” he repeated as she continued, “hereby pledge my life—and that of my heirs—to this promise: Defend the crown and restore the sacred scrolls of Deia to their rightful purpose.”

“Is this your vow?” Queen Lilianna asked.

“This is my vow,” Holt said.

“Until it is done?” she asked.

He paused. Then nodded. “Until it is done.” Holt felt slightly ill as the declaration left his lips, almost as if the words had been removed from him by an unseen hand rather than given freely, a punch in the chest almost—but before he could grasp it, it was gone.

The queen released his hands and handed him the goblet. He accepted it, willing himself not to hesitate, and drank of her royal blood.

With that, he was bound. As was his son.





— I —





RENOVIA





Eighteen Years Later





CHAPTER ONE

Shadow

SOMETHING OR SOMEONE IS FOLLOWING me. I’ve been wandering the woods for quite a while, but now it feels as if something—or someone—is watching. I thought it was one of my aunts at first—it was odd they didn’t chase after me this time. Maybe they didn’t expect me to go very far. But it’s not them.

I stop and pull my hood back to listen to the forest around me. There is only the wind whistling through the branches and the sound of my own breathing.

Whoever is following me is very good at hiding. But I am not afraid.

Slivers of light penetrate the dense foliage in spots, shining streaks onto the blanket of decaying leaves and mud under my boots. As I slice through thick vines and clamber over rotting logs, speckled thrushes take flight from the forest floor before disappearing overhead. I pause to listen to them sing to one another, chirping elegant messages back and forth, a beautiful song carrying warnings, no doubt, about the stranger stomping through their home.

Being out here helps me clear my head. I feel more peaceful here among the wild creatures, closer to my true self. After this morning’s argument at home, it’s precisely what I need—some peace. Some space. Time to myself.

My aunts taught me that sometimes when the world is too much, when life starts to feel overwhelming, we must strip away what’s unnecessary, seek out the quiet, and listen to the dirt and trees. “All the answers you seek are there, but only if you are willing to hear them,” Aunt Moriah always says.

That’s all I’m doing, I tell myself. Following their advice. Perhaps that’s why they allowed me to run off into the woods. Except they’re probably hoping I’ll find their answers here, not my own. That I’ll finally come to my senses.