CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Caledon
CAL SWINGS THE DUCHESS BACK toward the edge of the dance floor, where an older gentleman stands alone. “My dear,” he says to the duchess. “I have monopolized your company too long.” Before she can protest, he leaves her and heads into the crowd to find Shadow.
The rooms are so packed and the women’s hats and hairpieces are so monstrous that he can barely see beyond what’s right in front of him.
There is no sign of Shadow or her blue dress anywhere, not in the large ballroom nor the small one, nor in any of the receiving chambers or hallways. Did she leave the party because he was dancing too close to the duchess? He shakes his head. Of course not. She wants to discover the plot against the princess as much as he does. So where is she?
He conducts a few more rounds through the party but there is no sign of her. The sound of booming cannons signals the start of the fireworks, and he follows the crowd out to the balcony. He bumps into the earl that she was dancing with earlier, but he is alone.
“Have you seen Lady Lila?” he asks.
The earl looks mortified. “Did she tell you what happened?”
“What happened?!” asks Cal, alarmed.
“Oh, nothing, nothing! I only meant to help with her broken heel,” the earl says. “It was innocent!”
Cal pats the man on the back. “Of course, of course. A broken heel, did you say? She must have gone back to her room to change.”
“Yes, she went off that way,” the earl tells him as he points to the south wing of the house instead of the stairs.
Cal narrows his eyes as he heads toward the south hallway. These are the duke’s private quarters. What is Shadow doing here? He is starting to really worry. If the duke is the conspirator, then no one is safe, not just the princess, but Shadow as well.
He runs to the door that leads to the duke’s bedchamber and opens it. Nothing. No one. Just the bed, tapestries, and a roaring fire. Cal is about to leave when he sees movement out on the balcony.
The duke has his back turned. He is wearing a gray evening suit with a black cape around his shoulders. Gray and black, the traditional colors of the Aphrasians, a code indicating his allegiances. Cal has been a fool, more concerned with romance than conspiracy.
But now his mind works overtime. The duke is an Aphrasian conspirator. Grand Prince Alast was definitely in Montrice with the duke a few months before he was killed . . . so he was conspiring against the queen, his sister-in-law. The truth is a bitter pill, even though there is no alternative.
Except Cal is thinking of the papers they found in the duke’s study. The bill of mortality. The deaths of the real duke and duchess. The letter from King Esban thanking the duke for hosting his brother. King Almon died here during a hunt, and Grand Prince Alast visited the duke for a hunt before being killed himself.
The duke loathes hunting but finds it a useful hobby . . .
CAL STORMS OUT TO the balcony and opens the patio doors, but the duke does not even turn around. Instead he removes a silver cigar case from his inside coat pocket and flips it open. “Ah, just the man I was looking for,” he says. The inky ring on his finger shines in the dark, and when it catches the moonlight, Cal notices that its stone is made from the same liquid glass as the fragment the aunts showed him and Shadow the other evening. Obsidian. The duke wears an obsidian ring.
The duke addresses him, his back still turned. “So, Lord Holton, if that’s what you’re calling yourself these days, you have come to confront me at last?”
“Your Grace?”
The duke steps away from the railing and turns to face Cal.
Cal can’t believe what he’s seeing. He blinks a few times. Alast? It’s the grand prince, the one he killed at Baer Abbey. Alive. But how? And why is he here?
“What have you done with the duke?” It’s a ridiculous thing to say, but he does so without thinking.
“I am the duke,” the man with Alast’s face says. “Or do you prefer this face?” he asks, and shifts again, so that it changes to that of the leader of the group of monks who ambushed them in the forest.
The truth hits Cal like a flash of lightning. Grand Prince Alast was a guest of the Duke of Girt a month before he died. The duke killed him on a hunt and took his form. The grand prince was never a traitor; instead, he came too close to discovering the truth of the Aphrasians and died for it. But Alast was no longer useful after Cal killed “him” at Baer Abbey. So the duke went back to this form, the one that wears the face of the Duke of Girt.
“Who are you? Who do you work for? The king?” Cal demands.
“King Hansen?” the duke sneers. “The king is a shallow, stupid boy, nothing more.” Now the duke laughs. “Oh, my young assassin, you are very young indeed. The better question is, what am I?”
“A shapeshifter,” says Cal. With the obsidian ring and the blood of his victims, the duke can take on any form he chooses.
“At last we understand each other,” says the duke.
Enough is enough. Cal must act now, while he still has a chance. Cal slips the dagger from his sleeve into his hand. But before he can strike, the duke shakes his head. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
The duke motions to the far side of the balcony. Cal turns to see Shadow standing in the corner. She is bound by an invisible force, trapped by a collar she wears around her neck—one made of pure obsidian.
“A wave of my fingers and the collar will slice right through her pretty neck. A pity, don’t you think? But then it also stops her from talking, which is an advantage if you ask me,” the duke drawls.
Shadow’s eyes are wide with fear. She cannot move. He can almost hear her thoughts in his head. If only he could make out what she’s trying to tell him.
“Let her go,” says Cal, his mind racing. All is not lost, not yet.
What is Shadow trying to tell him? He can’t quite make out the words.
The duke laughs. “It’s over, Holt. By tomorrow Renovia will be mine again. I tire of this conversation. Jander, take care of him.”
Another, smaller figure comes into the light. The young, mute stable boy from Deersia. Jander walks closer to Cal, his mouth set in a grim line.
He raises his blade, but instead of striking Cal, he turns quickly and slashes at the duke, cleaving the finger that wears the obsidian ring.
The ring. Cal realizes now that was what Shadow was trying to tell him. Get the ring.
Jander had heard her instead.
The duke roars and sends Jander flying across the balcony, slamming the boy’s body against the wall so that Cal can hear bones break. The small body falls to the ground with a thud. But the duke’s hold is broken. Shadow wrenches the obsidian collar from her neck and collapses.
Now the duke turns to her, raising his hand and sending a powerful force to obliterate her, just as he did Jander, but Shadow recovers and holds her hands high, sending the shock force back to the duke.
“Cal!” she screams. “Now!”
The duke staggers back but recovers quickly and raises his arms once more. Yet he is not quick enough. Cal doesn’t hesitate. He is fast and deadly and merciless. He has his dagger drawn. He stabs the duke once, twice, three times, straight through the heart.
He is the Queen’s Assassin, the protector of Renovia, and his blade is swift and true. The duke falls to the ground, dead.
Cal runs to check on Shadow, who shakes him off. “I’m all right. My aunts’ talisman slowed the duke down a little. But Jander—help Jander.”
Jander lies prostrate on the floor. Cal puts his fingers to the boy’s neck. There is a pulse. “Stay with me, Jander.” He tries to keep him present. “Fight it.”
But Cal knows that in truth, the boy is mortally wounded.
“I have lived long enough,” Jander says. His voice is as raspy as an old man’s. His face begins to waver, change. He grabs Cal’s shirt. “Listen to me.”
“I’m listening,” Cal tells him.
“Duke Girt. Whatever he calls himself now.”
“Yes?”
“You have to burn his mortal flesh.”
Cal nods. “Because he is a shapeshifter.”
Jander shakes his head impatiently. “No. No . . . Caledon, he is more than that. You must burn his body with the fire of Deia. Or he’ll return. He always comes back.”
Cal’s body goes strangely still. A chill runs up his back, and gooseflesh, along with an overwhelming vertigo. He wants to say something, anything, but nothing comes out of his mouth. The duke is not just a shapeshifter, but the return of the immortal demon, a monster of legend, a monster who has stalked Avantine for centuries.
“Yes,” he promises. He will burn the duke’s body with the white fire of Deia. It is the only way. But right now he wants to keep Jander here, alive, with him, though he can tell the boy—is he really a boy?—is being pulled away toward Deia.
“Who are you really?” Cal asks, then realizes that is the wrong question once more. “What are you?”
“Cursed,” answers Jander sadly. “I was cursed by the king long ago. But if you burn his body I will be free.” He grabs Cal’s shirt and tries to pull himself up somewhat, into more of a sitting position. “Hurry. Take the body, burn it.” He starts coughing, hacking blood. Specks of red splatter on the glass doors.
Shadow comes to kneel by them, puts a hand on Cal’s shoulder. They huddle together, Cal holding Jander’s body in his arms, when a scream pierces the air.
Duchess Girt is standing at the doorway, shaking, mouth open in a now-silent shriek, along with a growing pack of onlookers vying for a glance at what’s happening outside.
The duchess finds her voice and screams again, this time shoving people aside to get inside. As she goes, she yells, “They’ve killed the duke! Murderers! Lord and Lady Holton are assassins!”
“Caledon!” Jander spits out. He grabs him one last time and yanks him close. “The scrolls! He has the scrolls.”
It is the last thing Cal remembers before they are taken away.