I understand.”
“Yes,” Cal says. It’s hard to look at Father Juniper without thinking of Lilac; he’s her personal priest, presiding over her personal chapel. Last night’s argument with Lilac was a stupid mistake, and it solved nothing. But it’s too late now to do anything. With so many people up and about, Cal can’t visit Lilac without detection, and it’s not safe to send her a note.
“We will pray to Deia for your safe return,” the priest says, turning to survey the tower. Some guards have already emerged and loiter near the front door. They can’t have seen anything untoward.
“And you,” Cal says quickly, realizing this is his one chance to get a message to Lilac, “you’ll take good care of the queen, I hope.”
“Of course.” Father Juniper bows again.
“Perhaps you could let her know, when you next see her, that I pray for her safety and will have her happiness and security in the . . . forefront of my mind during this mission to Renovia.”
“I will pass that message on, Chief Assassin,” replies Father Juniper, and Cal bows. Even if he could see Lilac alone right now, he wouldn’t have much more to tell her. They said ugly things to each other in the night. Lilac seemed eager to remind him she’d be sharing Hansen’s bed. Her show of jealousy about Rhema—surely she wasn’t serious? Rhema is his apprentice and nothing more. Perhaps Lilac was merely feigning jealousy to cover up the truth.
Perhaps she’s looking forward to sleeping with Hansen. Perhaps she is curious about him. He’s good-looking. He’s a king. She’s already married to him. Perhaps she was only waiting for this moment to tell Cal the truth, that she’s weary of their arrangement. She saved his life, sure, but her heart is no longer his. If only his own wouldn’t break so.
The rest of the guards pour out of the tower, and their leader walks up to Cal. Father Juniper steps away in deference, to leave them to their conversation.
“All is as it was last night, sir. Just the residents. Nothing extraordinary.”
“Holt!” An old man is calling his name. Daffran, the Chief Scribe, scuttles toward him, a blanket wrapped around his blue robe. “Are you sure these men have checked thoroughly?”
“Under every bed and in every cupboard, sir,” says the guard, glancing at Daffran in amusement.
“And up every chimney?” Daffran asks.
“Yes, sir. We were most thorough.”
Daffran sighs and pulls the blanket tighter around his hunched shoulders.
“It worries me,” he tells Cal, “that you are leaving Mont when the gray monk I most clearly saw, with my own eyes, on more than one occasion, has not been apprehended.”
“I’m sorry that I have to leave,” says Cal, and that, at least, is completely true. “But the captain of the guard has assured me the night watches and searches will be continued, and a thorough search of the castle will begin today. There will also be additional security measures to vet anyone entering or leaving through the gates.”
“The gates!” Daffran mutters. “I don’t think a murderous Aphrasian monk will come walking up to the drawbridge. Do you? Wearing his black mask and nodding to the guards, mm-hmm? They have secret ways and means. You should know that better than anyone.”
“I do, sir. And you must keep the captain informed of anything you or anyone else sees,” Cal tells him. He feels sorry for the scribe. Daffran is getting quite old, and most residents of Mont are nervous and unhappy these days. Everyone is spooked by shadows, imagining the worst. “I wish I could do more, but I’m afraid we must ride now.”
“Do as you must,” Daffran says, downcast. His fingers twitch, seeking out his bag of seeds, but he doesn’t have it with him.
“Sir.” Cal bows to him, and heads back to the horses. Rhema and Jander are wrapped up for warmth in the muted cloaks that assassins always wear into the countryside. They need to blend in with the hills and trees, and always be ready to hide. Even their horses are a uniform seal-brown color, selected for their steady temperaments and endurance.
They all tie up saddlebags and check for essential supplies. Rhema is trying to stuff a sheath of arrows into a bag already bulging with knives and other weapons. Her auburn-red hair is tied up, keeping it clear of the short spear she wears strapped to her back. Cal wasn’t lying when he told Lilac that she was a fighter.
“We should be going,” Jander says to