The Queen's Secret (The Queen's Secret #2) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,55
defend the crown, he needs to follow the crown to the place where it’s in imminent danger. The assassins have to get back to the Montrician capital before it’s too late, and—like Violla Ruza—Castle Mont is burned to the ground, too, with the entire royal family in it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lilac
For days I’ve been waiting for the thunder of horses riding into the courtyard, and the creak and sway of the Renovian royal carriage, and here it is, at last. My mother is back in Mont—safe and sound—if any of us can be considered safe these days.
It’s strange to think of Mont as being familiar to her. Long ago, she was supposed to marry the Crown Prince of Montrice, Hansen’s own father, and this castle would have been her home. But instead she eloped with my father, and the story of the four kingdoms changed again. All these years she’s been the strong presence holding wild Renovia together. But now she’s had to flee, and the dream palace of Violla Ruza, in all its towering beauty, is gone. Nothing lasts forever. Like Baer Abbey before it, Violla Ruza is a heap of ruins. The Aphrasians have had their revenge at last.
It’s a cold day and the sky is heavy, threatening snow or icy rain. I pull up my fur-lined hood and lean out the window, my ladies begging me not to lean too far or expose myself to the cool wind. I ignore them. To see the Renovian carriage clatter in, with its gilt and purple decorations—not to mention the coachman’s livery—is a welcome sight. It’s selfish to be pleased that my mother is here, given the circumstances, but I’m desperate to see someone who I know is on my side.
Lord Burley has sent word that he will greet my mother and then escort her directly to my chambers. There is no need, he says, for me or the king to expose ourselves to illness and discomfort by loitering in the courtyard, slipping around the icy cobbles. I protested, but was overruled.
“There is the issue of your safety, Your Majesty,” he said, with one of his obsequious bows, and I couldn’t argue with that.
So instead I lean out the window, the tip of my nose icy, and peer for the first glimpse of my mother. She emerges from the carriage in her usual elegant way, though she must be stiff from the long journey in such inclement weather. Her flowing robe is purple as heather, a woven wool that’s one of the specialties of Argonian craftsmen. Her hood falls back, and I can see the glint of silver in her black hair, the warm honey of her dark skin. Even exhausted and anxious, my mother is always regal.
I want to shout to her, but she wouldn’t approve of that kind of behavior. I’m not a farm girl anymore. Instead I have to make do with leaving my apartments and rushing down the long gallery, past the dreary portraits of inbred Montrician ancestors, and enjoy the flurry of guards and ladies who sprint along with me. We all tumble to a halt at the top of the grand staircase, to wait for the dowager queen.
“You shouldn’t be out here, you know.” It’s Hansen, arriving from his own apartments. He has twice my entourage and twice my guards. He’s also wearing twice the amount of clothing: For someone who loves riding through damp forests, Hansen really does hate the cold. A fine woolen scarf is wrapped around his head and neck like some strange, bulky kind of bandage. “We’ve been ordered to stay put.”
“Orders you haven’t obeyed, either,” I point out. I haven’t seen Hansen since the incident at the horse races. We’ve kept apart in some kind of unspoken pact.
“I wanted to greet the dowager queen,” he says, and sniffs in a theatrical way. Perhaps he’s been ill. Half my ladies have had colds, but all that powerful herbal medicine fed to me by my aunts when I was growing up has made me hardy and resilient, unlike these feeble Montrician nobles.
“As ever, we think alike,” I reply, and I smile, but Hansen doesn’t smile back. I wonder if he’s ashamed about how he crumbled at the races, so terrified he could barely walk. Or perhaps he’s scared of me, convinced—as so many others here seem to be—that I’m the source of all the dark magic.
Downstairs there’s the noise of doors opening and closing, guards smashing their spears on the flagstones, and—from outside—a