CHAPTER SIX

Shadow

NOBODY IS PARTICULARLY INTERESTED IN buying honey or beeswax salves, nor am I interested in selling them today when I arrive at the booth and say hello to Aunt Mesha. There’s far too much on my mind. So I wander off to browse the marketplace flower stands instead, still fuming over what happened earlier that morning with Ma. I’d slipped into the palace to tell her what happened at Baer Abbey, but all we did was argue about the summons. No, of course you must do your duty. You will take your place at court.

My mother is as unmoving as my aunts, and once I am settled at Violla Ruza, it is clear that I’ll be monitored night and day. There’ll be no running off when there are guards and courtiers—spies—everywhere at all times.

How can you not want this? she asked. My mother assumes I am like other girls. She doesn’t know me. Even if she did, it’s clear she doesn’t particularly care what my wishes are. I don’t want to be a courtier, no matter how prestigious the position. I want to hone my magical powers, become as deadly and dangerous as she used to be, before she settled down to oversee and placate the nest of vipers at court. I want to train. If I go to the palace, it will be as an assassin. Not as a doll. Or a pawn.

The justice bell begins to toll from the palace tower and the sudden clang jolts me from my thoughts. I turn to look up the road. All around me townsfolk are abandoning their wares, their shops, their friendly chatter, and they swarm into the streets. Even though I’m as curious as they are, I roll my eyes. They’re vying for a glimpse of the prison transport so they can be one of the first to view the offender. They’ll exchange stories about it for days: Oh yes, I was there. I saw the murderer with my own eyes. I was shocked. Well, I wasn’t surprised whatsoever. Even the kindly shopkeeper, who just moments before was carefully arranging fresh-cut blooms in his wife’s elaborately hand-painted ceramic pots and vases, turns his attention toward the main thoroughfare instead. I purchase one from the old woman, a small plant pot in white, decorated with lush grapevines, purposely trying to seem indifferent to the commotion around me.

This isn’t the first time I’ve witnessed a transfer. It never seems to matter who appears in the cart when it emerges, either; the crowd is always ready to condemn. It’s alarming, really, how quickly nice people become ravenous, bloodthirsty. Children young enough to hide in their mother’s skirts throw half-eaten food or handfuls of dirt at the prisoners; they spit toward the rickety cart as it rolls down the main thoroughfare.

The mob prefers to see justice administered swiftly rather than fairly. When I was younger, their furious scowls and screaming frightened me. I would cling to Aunt Mesha and close my eyes. She told me the people want to see someone punished, because order comforts them more than justice. They need to believe that the good are always good and the bad are always bad, and that they themselves err on the side of good. Few understand that there’s a wide space between the two, where nearly all of us fall.

My aunts warned me of this many times—be wary of the sway of others, they told me. Find your own path and stay upon it. Don’t allow yourself to be pulled in another direction, even if you must walk alone. “Do the most good” is their favorite saying. The most good. I like that because it allows for, well, some of the not-so-good too. Sometimes a bit of that is necessary.

But this—the angry horde—is not doing any good at all. Did no one wonder if they could be wrong? Question the lack of public trial? My eyes fall on a tiny girl who can’t be more than three or four years old. She watches silently, wide-eyed, one thumb in her mouth, her other hand grasping her father’s. He’s paying little attention to her; his focus is on the spectacle around him. Raucous laughter drifts through the air, somehow adding an even more sinister edge to the hisses and taunts. She looks terrified. But in a few more years, she’ll likely be throwing dirt alongside all the others.

The cart comes closer. I can see him now.

Like everyone in the crowd, I know who the prisoner is, but I can scarcely believe it.

The official story from the palace is that the grand prince was murdered by a local blacksmith, Caledon Holt. There is no specific mention of where the grand prince was found. It happened during a botched robbery, said one. An evening of high-stakes gambling at an out-of-the-way tavern that led to an argument, or perhaps an ambush, said others. He’s being sent to Deersia to await trial and will surely be executed.

But I know the truth.

Caledon is not a traitor, but a hero.

He should be at the head of a parade, feted and beloved; instead he is being led from the capital of Renovia in chains.

Why did the queen do this? Why?

This is all my fault. Maybe if I hadn’t been at Baer Abbey, he wouldn’t have needed to rescue me or kill the grand prince.

The cart draws nearer. Now I regret buying this ceramic vessel. I can’t carry it right now, and it won’t fit in the cloth bag slung over my shoulder, which is heavy enough already, filled with tiny jars of the salves I was supposed to sell. I see a young girl standing alone just a few paces from me. She carries a basket with a loaf of fresh bread and some fruit.

“Excuse me,” I say.

She looks startled. “I paid for this,” she says. “Ask him.” She points to the fruit vendor.

I hold out the pot. “No, no, I’m to deliver this to your mother. Can you take it to her for me?”

“Oh! Yes,” she says. I hand it to her and she puts it in her basket.

“Enjoy!” I say, already walking away. I pull my hood forward around my face and disappear into the crowd, trying to edge closer to the road. If I stand tiptoe, I can see Caledon in the back of the cart. He sits with his back straight, defiant. I follow his piercing gaze to the palace balcony, where his eyes are locked on the queen. No hint of emotion shows on his face. Hers is much too far away to make out, even if it wasn’t obscured by the drape of her veil, but I can tell she’s holding her usual perfect posture, hands clasped in front of her long white dress. Still as a statue.

I wonder if Caledon is afraid. I would be. Deersia is a dangerous, lonely place. Most who enter are never seen again, even before they make it to trial. Few men are willing to take jobs at the prison—it’s considered a punishment just to work there—so it’s become customary for royal officials to relocate their troublesome staff to the fortress. The threat of a stint boiling linens or flushing pans at Deersia is a useful deterrent. Parents are known to threaten their sons: “Behave, or it’s off to Deersia with you!”

Caledon’s situation is especially precarious. He is charged with murdering a royal. Those who loved Prince Alast will no doubt seek revenge, and there are likely to be a few of them working at the prison. And though Caledon is known only as a local blacksmith, there have to be some, especially at Deersia, who are aware of his true occupation. He’s sure to have enemies in Renovia’s underworld. They’d probably like nothing more than to be the assassin’s own executioner.

The guard notices Caledon looking up at the queen, so he yanks him to the floor of the cart by his chains. The crowd cheers at the spectacle. “Impertinent bastard,” the guard sneers. “Keep your eyes to your filthy feet.” Queen Lilianna disappears behind white curtains in a flurry of fabric. A maid shuts the balcony door after her and draws the drapes.

Seems she can’t even bear to observe what she’s done.

My head pounds with a sudden surge of anger. I don’t know how he can stand it. How can he keep from lashing back at the guard, at the people? I doubt I could be so stoic. Fury boils up in me just from watching it happen.

Caledon saved my life, without the slightest hesitation or consideration for his own well-being. For that, I am eternally in his debt. And he’s in desperate need of a friend right now.

Then, the spark of an idea comes to me. Maybe, if I help him, if I prove myself worthy, he’ll train me himself. I won’t even need to join the Guild if he can teach me what he knows. My mother and aunts will be angry, at least at first, but once they see how well I do and on my own, they’ll be proud.

The cart approaches. It’s about to be directly in front of me, and in that moment I decide.

I push through the crowd, elbowing people aside. One woman jabs me back and curses, but I just rush to the side of the cart and grab on to the wood slats. Caledon and I make eye contact, but he looks away quickly, probably thinking that I’m about to spit at him like the rest.

I have to think fast. I wish I had time for a note, but obviously that’s not an option. I reach into my bag and root around for something. A jar of salve won’t do—he’ll have nowhere to put it.

At the bottom of my bag I come upon crushed flowers wrapped inside a handkerchief. My mother gave it to me during her last visit a few years ago, when I turned fourteen, but it will have to do. I shake the dried flowers into the bag and thrust the handkerchief through the bars. “Take it.”

Caledon glances down at the handkerchief, then scoots back and opens his hands, which are tied behind his back. His fingers close around the fabric before he slides it up his sleeve. “You’re not alone,” I add impulsively, letting go of the bars just as the guard looks in my direction. I’m not sure what I’m going to do or how I’m going to do it, but I have to help him.

I back away, holding my hood across the bottom of my face, and slip through the back of the crowd. I walk a few yards, following the road, then stand on the front step of the Brass Crab to watch the cart move on. Caledon stares at me as it goes, eyebrows knit together in confusion. I can’t tell for sure whether he knows I’m the girl from the abbey.

His gaze roots me to the spot, and the world around me drifts away into the background; there’s only the road ahead, and Caledon. We remain this way—watching each other—for a long, long time, until the cart finally disappears over the hill.