The Queen's Assassin (The Queen's Secret #1)(8)

The branch runs up against some rocks near the shoreline, beneath an ancient weeping willow. My arms are weak. Shaking. I have to get out of the water. I can take refuge in the tree. Its full, low-hanging branches are spread out around its wide trunk, like curtains. A good place to hang on, stay concealed.

Please just this one thing, I beg myself. Get out of the water. Gritting my teeth, I lift my upper body until I’m lying across the top of a stone. A horse whinnies from beyond the hill; a man shouts. Another man grunts again and again, as if he’s punching someone. I rest a moment to catch my breath and listen to the brawl beyond the hill. The men are still struggling against some interloper, but it means they’re not coming any nearer to me, so I swing my right leg up onto the rock and hoist myself out. The heavy boots I’m wearing definitely weren’t helping me in the water.

The sounds of struggle subside abruptly, as if someone’s won. Dripping wet, I crawl over to the willow and hide beneath its curtain of leaves. It’s quiet now. They may have left—or killed one another. Either way, not my concern.

The sun is already setting; one of my aunts would definitely have started looking for me by now.

There hasn’t been any other sound from beyond the hill for some time now. I don’t like it here. Unlike the ruins, this place bears the stain of death. Violence. Its energy is an invisible fog. I place my palm against the willow’s sturdy trunk to brace myself so I can stand.

A powerful shock surges straight through me.

Suddenly, I can see a soldier wearing the Renovian colors, bleeding out into the earth. Another soldier with a missing arm, leg snapped upward into a terrifying pose, is groaning. I want to go home, he cries. I want to go.

One man is almost fully submerged in the river, only his legs sticking out. And countless others are strewn about in the same condition, or worse. Everywhere. The dead. This is the Battle of Baer, playing out before my eyes. I can smell the stench in the air and hear the death groans, but it isn’t real. I’m not there; this is just an illusion, a place memory. One so powerful that those with the sight can see it if they try. Even if they don’t try. Aunt Moriah said sometimes such visions find the seeker, rather than the other way around.

I have been seeing visions since I was ten years old.

Then I look up. And there he is. King Esban.

I recognize him from his chiseled profile on Renovian coins. A striking figure, like the fabled shipbuilders of the north countries: tall, broad shouldered, bearded, golden hair flowing from under a dented silver helmet. Noble and brave, just as the stories say, but with kind eyes. They never mention that.

I feel the urge to go to him but I can’t move. I know what’s about to happen, and I want to call to him, to warn him. But when I try to yell, nothing comes out.

A man charges toward him, sword raised above his head. He’s wearing a gray Aphrasian robe and their unmistakable black mask. The king is steady. Metal meets metal with a clang. They struggle, the rebel monk pushing the king back; the king shoves him off with equal force. The monk aims his right leg directly at the king’s stomach, but Esban steps away so the kick lands off its mark, barely grazing his hip. He stretches his arm back and swings the sword at the rebel with all his might. The monk dodges the strike. The king is furiously red, chest heaving, teeth bared. He lunges at the monk again.

They go on like this. It seems that neither can win. The other soldiers haven’t even noticed the skirmish on the mound yet. I try to scream, Help him! But I can’t, because as real as it seems, I’m only watching. Witnessing the past.

I look back up.

The rebel is on the ground. The king walks over to him and lifts his sword. For a brief moment I hope King Esban will win this time. That the past can change. But the monk rolls and swipes the king’s leg out from under him. He stumbles, falls. He’s about to get up when it happens.

The monk drives his sword straight through King Esban’s chest.

I yank my hand away from the willow. I start gagging, retching. I haven’t eaten all day, so all I bring up is bile. Tears are streaming down my face. This is what my aunts meant when they told me to be careful for what you wish. For the answer might not be the one you seek. I wanted danger and adventure as a Guild apprentice, and alas, I seem to have found it.

I stand to leave. Based on where the sun hangs in the sky, I’ve a little time left until complete darkness. I’ll dry off as I go, as long as I’m moving. Good thing it’s still warm at night. I won’t freeze to death, at least.

I walk away, just as something slams into me. I’m knocked straight onto my back, totally winded. For a frenzied second I expect to see the jaguar again—but no, there’s a man standing over me.

Gray robes. The dreaded black mask of the Aphrasian order covering his face. The mask that’s given children nightmares for centuries. The monk raises his sword.

This is no vision.

This is all too real.

This must be who was following me earlier. The smell is the same—of rot and death. I was right, there was a predator on my trail, one who is intent on killing me. I am too shocked to move.

I shut my eyes and cross my arms over my face, anticipating the blow.

But someone comes out of nowhere, swooping over me and knocking the assailant away, running a sword through his belly.

I open my eyes. A hooded man stands over my attacker, whom he has impaled to the ground.

As he leans over to inspect the dead man’s pockets, I catch a glimpse of my savior.