PROLOGUE
Renovia
IN THE TIME OF KING ESBAN
AFTER THE BATTLE OF BAER
“THE KING IS DEAD! LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!”
A frail elder from the village of Nhainne began the chant from where she stood, hunched at the back of the crowd, her left hand grasping a worn walking stick. She raised her free hand to point one crooked finger toward the palace and shouted again, louder this time, voice scratchy and breaking from the effort: “The king is dead! Long live the queen!” At first the others gathered were afraid to speak of the sovereign’s death prematurely, as to do so had been a treasonous offense under former monarchs, but the old woman had weathered too many seasons to fear the truth. She lifted her stick and brought it down with a bang as she said it once more, with all the breath she could muster: “The king is dead! Long live the queen!”
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.
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.
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.