CHAPTER ELEVEN
Shadow
I MAKE IT TO SERRONE—TORSO bound, hair shorn, clad in stable hand’s garb—just after the sun rises. The crisp morning air chills the back of my bare neck. I hadn’t thought to bring a scarf.
The palace looms over the village. I feel as though it’s watching me. Like it knows I am escaping, and does not approve.
The Brass Crab is closed and won’t open for hours, which is a good thing. The proprietor buys honey for mead all the time. I’m certain he would recognize me. Otherwise there are few people up and about. I see the baker through his shop window; he doesn’t look up or notice when I walk by. The glove-maker’s wife sweeps the walk in front of his workshop and though I pass less than a yard from her, she offers no more than a polite nod of the head.
I was nervous coming into town, but it turns out young men don’t garner much attention at all. It occurs to me they probably believe I’m a page or errand boy, the background of their daily routine and nothing more.
After the row of shops, there is the town square, where I set up our market stand a few times a week. From there the main road forks left toward merchants’ homes and farms beyond; it forks right toward other towns in northeast Renovia. And it continues straight to the palace. The stables, along with the prison tower—a temporary holding cell for housing the accused before they go to trial—are situated on the west end of the property. That’s where I need to go.
Before stepping any closer to the castle grounds, I pause. If I go back right now, I can fix everything. My hair can be covered with a wig. I won’t miss the royal carriage that has been sent for me. It’s not too late to change my mind.
Except, it is. My decision has been made, and I know that this is what I have to do, risks and all.
I follow the ancient stone wall, once tall, now a ruin barely to my waist, that runs through the grassy field toward the stables. Once there, I linger alongside the building, collecting piles of hay. I need to look like I belong.
A couple of boys show up for work, their breath steaming puffs in the frigid morning air. One of them shoves the other, both laughing. Birds land in the grass searching for their breakfast. A mourning dove sits on a fence post; it coos back and forth with others hiding in the trees of the garden.
Shortly after, two transport guards stomp across the grounds, heavy leather boots squelching in the damp lawn. The birds scatter. The men disappear into the stable building, likely to check on the horses and the transport wagon. Stable hands will feed the animals first, then check their shoes and prepare their bridles and reins before hitching them to the wagon. Only when everything’s in order and the wagon pulls out onto the gravel path will the guards board the prisoner. He’ll take the same route through town as Caledon.
I have to time my appearance exactly right. If I approach them too soon, they may expect me to do work I don’t know how to do, or they might want to check up on my story before departing. They’re more likely to accept it if they don’t have much time to think about it.
My hands are dirty, so I smear some of the grime on my face. That will help disguise me. One of the guards shouts out to the other and my stomach feels as if it’s leapt into my throat. I take a few deep breaths. Slow, deliberate, like my aunts always tell me to when I’m upset or scared.
Once they’ve inspected the transportation, the guards return to the castle, following the winding garden path rather than cutting across the lawn. They turn left and enter a creaky back entrance that leads down into the cellar dungeons.
A whip cracks. Hooves clop. Two chestnut horses come out of the stable, dragging the wagon behind them. A stable boy pulls the wagon up on the path to pick up the prisoner, as predicted. He jumps down and walks over to the horses, strokes their backs.
Minutes later the guards reemerge, holding the prisoner between them, the Montrician spy. The guards load him into the cart—or rather, they shove him onto it.
The driver snaps the reins. “Hyah!” The cart lurches forward.
I hesitate for half a breath before running out of the garden toward the cart, yelling, “Sir! Sir!” and waving.
The cart slows and the driver scowls at me. “What is it, boy?”
“Sorry I’m late, sir,” I say, my voice raspy. I should be pretending to be out of breath from running, but the truth is that I’m simply terrified. “I’ve just received this.” I’m brandishing the forged work order.
“What’s this?” the older and heftier of the guards says.
I hold the paper up to him. I hope that he will read it from a distance since he’s in a rush.
No such luck. He snatches the paper from me and opens it, spends a moment glancing it over. My entire body tenses. If he questions me, should I run away, or take my chances on answering and defend the order? After what feels like forever, he sighs. “All right, then,” he says to me, and then to the other guard, “Looks like this one’s comin’ with us.” He mutters, “Not that anyone bothered to tell me before today.”
Relieved, I climb onto the back of the wagon and settle on a crude bench, grasping a wood slat for balance.
“What do we need with another stable boy? All’s they do out there is make trouble,” the second guard says.
The other shrugs. “How about I go in there and ask somebody, then?” he says, motioning toward the tower.
My pulse quickens. I know he’s just being sarcastic, but still. Every minute we stall is another minute I could be exposed. The faster we leave, the better. Go, go, go, I repeat over and over in my head.
“Bah,” the second guard says, waving him off. “We’re behind as it is. Let’s go.”
As we start moving, I can’t help but smile a bit. My disguise—and my forgery—are a success. So far.
I MANAGE TO FALL asleep for a while, sitting up against the side of the wagon with my arms folded across my chest. When I wake up, we’re far from Serrone. Far from the rolling green fields. The terrain is much rockier now. The sickly sweetness is gone; the air is dull with dirt and dust.
It’s late afternoon, almost evening. I shift my body, trying to find a more comfortable way to sit, which is, of course, near impossible. The prisoner is talking with the guards. He’s facing the front of the wagon with his back to me. Their voices are low, so at first it’s hard to make out what they’re saying over the clip-clop of hooves and rattle of wheels.
“Maybe you’ll get lucky,” one of the guards says. “Plenty of vacancies up there, I hear.”
“Yeah. I’m sure that can be worked out,” the other says, nudging the first guard with his elbow.
What are they talking about? Work what out? Then the prisoner says: “If he’s anything like his old man . . .”
A chill races up my spine. They’re talking about Caledon. I lie back again and cover my face, pretend to sleep. They continue their conversation, seemingly oblivious to my presence. Most of it is garbled by the time it reaches me, but if I concentrate I can hear their words under the rumble of the wagon and the rutted road: Queen Lilianna, Aphrasians, Prince Alast, hotheaded kid. And then, Wasn’t expecting the boy, though. Certainly complicates matters.
It hits me—this is all coming together perfectly. The spy is going to Deersia to kill Cal. And the guards are in on it. A conspiracy. Nothing else makes sense. Prisoners are prohibited from addressing the guards, especially in such a casual manner. Why else would they have this hushed conversation? They’re delivering an enemy spy directly to the Queen’s Assassin while he’s a sitting duck. No better way to eliminate him—when he’s less able to defend himself.
Well, I’m not going to let that happen. Little do they know, reinforcements are on the way.
BY THE TIME WE make it all the way up the mountainside road to Deersia, it’s dusk. The fortress looms above me, dark and foreboding. Its highest towers are shrouded in fog. Now that I’m here, I’m not sure what to feel. From a distance it looked, well, regal, elegant—but up close, I see the crumbling mossy stone for what it is. A neglected structure housing neglected human beings.
I expected to feel nothing; this is just another building after all, like so many others I’ve visited. But I don’t. Maybe it’s the castle’s history. People locked up, treated worse than animals. Executed. It leaves an ominous cloud around the place. I fear the return of my visions.
A wave of goose bumps sweeps my spine when I set my feet on the ground. My response must show on my face because one of the guards says, “Impressed, are ya?” I ignore his comment.
The guards take the condemned man out of the wagon. They lead him to the front gate by each arm. I start to follow them inside, but then one turns to me and says, “Where’d you think you’re going, boy?”
While I search for a believable reason to go inside the fortress, he says, “The stables are across the yard.” And points.
With little choice, I turn and head in that direction. I won’t be able to see where Caledon is being held. At least not without some wheedling. This is going to be more complicated than I hoped.
As I approach the stables, I hear raucous conversation inside. It sounds like the stable hands are taking turns telling jokes. One speaks and the others laugh. Their language is rougher than I’m accustomed to. Not that I’m so delicate—just not used to it. I stop at the entrance and take a deep breath. If the stable boys don’t accept me as one of their own, my entire story could fall apart.
I push the door open. There’s a group of boys, around my age and younger, sitting together. They all turn to stare. They stop laughing and talking. “Who the hell are you?” one says. From his demeanor and central place in the group, I guess that he could be their leader. He’s sitting on a crate, perched above the others, who gather around him on the ground in a circle.
“Um . . .” I search my mind. I hadn’t thought of a fake name. How careless. My first mistake.
“So very nice to meet you, ummm,” another says.
One of the others chimes in. “It happened. I finally met someone too stupid to know his own name.”
“Of course I know my name. Doesn’t mean I need to tell you,” I snap.
The first boy asks, “And what do you want?”
“I was sent to work,” I say. The boys look at one another in confusion. Would they have been informed of a new hand on the way? I hope not.
“None of us is leaving,” he says. “So you can bugger off.”
“Yeah. None of us is leaving,” the other chimes in.
“You don’t have to,” I say. The boy on the ground mocks me again, repeating you don’t have to in a high-pitched voice. My cheeks flush.
“Well, thank you for allowing us to stay, honorable sir,” the leader says to me before bowing dramatically. Others laugh. I think I’d rather be locked up alone in a cell at this point.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say, trying to keep my voice low and level. I can’t let them know they are getting to me. Most of all, I just want to go to sleep. My body hurts from being jostled around in the wagon all day long. My throat hurts; I’m thirsty. My water skein ran out hours ago. They all stare at me, waiting. I lift the skein, showing the boy on the crate.
“The well’s out back,” he says. Then he adds, “We sleep in the loft.”
I look up where he’s pointing. Seems like there’s plenty of room. I’ll find a spot as far away from the others as I can.
“But you can sleep there.” He points to a filthy corner. Some of the other boys snicker.
I don’t respond. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Besides, a secluded corner is preferable. I walk away and go out to fill the pouch. I hear them begin talking as soon as they think I’m out of earshot.
I linger outside, listening. Once they determine it won’t be so bad to have someone lowly around to burden with their grunt work, I return inside, heading for the corner where the leader said I could sleep. There’s hay nearby, so I gather some to make a bed and lie down, grateful to collapse into a heap on the ground. I do wish I could remove the linens I’ve wrapped around my body; I’m itchy and it’s difficult to find a comfortable position. But I have absolutely no privacy. And the wrapping does offer more warmth.
Though I haven’t said another word, I guess my mere presence did ruin the fun, because within moments the stable hands disperse for bed, almost all climbing up into the loft. Only one stays behind, in the opposite corner of the barn. If he’s separated from the others, then he’s my best bet for an ally. I wonder why he’s relegated to the floor like I am—maybe he was the last new addition? I’ll try to learn more about him later. In the meantime I need to figure out how to get to Caledon. After I get some rest, that is. My eyelids are heavy. All the sleepless nights combined with today’s adventures have caught up with me.
The first day was a success; still, I’m determined to make this visit to Deersia as short as possible. I won’t be able to hide for long.