The Queen's Secret (The Queen's Secret #2) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,3
conversation is sparkling. She finds him exceedingly dull, and Hansen has been chafing about having to visit villages rather than riding to hound out in the forest. Every cold day reminds the king that hunting season is underway, and he wants to get back to his usual pursuits.
A village looms, one of several the procession will pass this morning on its way to the town of Sancton. Cal gallops to the front, whipping a glance at Lilac as he passes. She’s smiling, but it looks strained. At least the village visit will cheer her up. During these autumn processions, in every hamlet and village, every tiny settlement and every town, Cal has seen lilac-colored ribbons tied to window latches and branches of trees. The people of Montrice are welcoming Lilac as their queen. In the towns, small girls present her with bouquets of autumn leaves and flowers. Hansen is asked to drink a symbolic draft from a horn of plenty, and he makes the same joke every time about wishing for ale rather than well water. Everyone laughs, he plants an awkward kiss on Lilac’s cheek, and then the entire royal procession moves on.
Today should be no different, but Cal feels uneasy. He rides up alongside Jander and nods at his slight, frowning apprentice. Some people are surprised that the Chief Assassin trusts and relies on a skinny boy, but they don’t know that Jander is more than just a humble stable hand, and older than everyone in the entire kingdom.
“It’s quiet on the road,” Jander observes in his low, rasping voice.
“Too quiet?”
He gives the slightest of shrugs. But Cal trusts Jander’s instincts, and his own. Something isn’t right today. Perhaps the news from Stur has already reached this village. He had urged the king not to make this trip, but Hansen insisted. Behind Cal, a few people are cheering for the king, but with less gusto than usual. The country folk lined up to watch are craning to get a glimpse of Lilac, but they’re not smiling or cheering. The village that lies ahead looks the same as so many others in this part of Montrice—while the capital city, Mont, is rich and dazzling, the countryside is full of thatched roofs, daub-and-wattle walls, penned goats and sheep, water troughs, a makeshift shelter over the well where chickens peck around in the dirt, and a donkey or two tied to a post. Cal has seen dozens of these over the past few weeks. The only difference among them is the general dirtiness of the populace, and whether the tree of life grows in the middle of the road or in an overgrown village green.
“Long live the king!” bellows the crier from Castle Mont, in his green-and-white livery, his beard as rusty as the leaves drifting from trees. “Long live the queen!”
“Long live the children of Stur,” a voice in the crowd says. So they do know about Stur. The speaker is a young man, maybe, but when Cal tries to single him out, it’s impossible. There’s a sour look to the people assembled here; they seem discontent, which is understandable.
In a moment the villagers have all taken up the cry. “Long live the children of Stur! Deia bless the children of Stur! May we never forget the children of Stur!”
Cal looks around. There are no lilac ribbons tied anywhere, not a single one.
“Pray for the souls of the children of Stur!” shouts one old woman, her voice high-pitched and cracking. “Deia damn the evil magic that killed them!”
Cal trots back toward Lilac and Hansen, scrutinizing their expressions. Both have heard the shouts of the villagers. Hansen looks ill at ease, as though he’s ready to turn his horse and gallop home. Lilac appears serene and untroubled: That’s her aunts’ assassin training at work, Cal thinks. Give nothing away with your face or your body language. Make no rushed gestures. Let no enemy perceive you as nervous, startled, unprepared. Afraid.
“Deia damn the witch who killed them!” a man shouts, and Hansen’s horse rears a little, unnerved by the noise. Cal doesn’t like this. The witch—who do they mean? He glances around. They all seem to be looking in one place. At one person, anyway. The queen.
The lilac-frosted ice.
“Boo! Boo!” The sound is all around them, men’s and women’s voices, sour and angry.
That’s it. Cal has to stop this, right now.
“Your Majesty,” he says, drawing his horse close to Hansen’s. “I believe we must return to the capital.”