Chapter 6
Dinner passed uneventfully, much to her surprise.
Even Orson had been uncharacteristically silent.
Arla hadn’t trusted any of the dishes of chicken, or pheasant, or fish, but after watching every person sitting at the table eat the same food from the same silver platters, she decided she was too hungry to dissect each mouthful for traces of poisons or sedatives.
The wine had been plentiful, though Arla had been clever to disguise that she was not drinking half as much as the others did; she needed them tired and well on their way by the time the meal was finished.
She was intrigued by them, much to her disappointment.
She had only wished to feel hatred and disgust towards the Kastonian royal family but could not help the desire to know more about them and the workings of their kingdom.
Especially the prince, who winked at her whenever her eyes strayed his way.
It seemed they kept a very small court; only those who were integral to the running of the country were welcome at the palace.
How different to Hadalyn, which was often heaving with courtiers, and entertainers, and people who just wished to spend time there.
In a brief moment of silence as each of them lifted their glasses to their lips, Arla took the chance to question the Prince of Kastonia.
‘It must be daunting, being the heir to such a large kingdom?’
‘I believe it is—’ Reuben began before Hark cut him off.
‘It’s getting late. We have a long journey tomorrow, Reinhart. I suggest our beds would be a better use of our time?’
Reuben snorted at Hark’s words, and it only worked to confuse Arla further.
But chairs were being pushed back from the table as each of them rose in unison, breaking the ruse that the royal family of Kastonia were enjoying their evening with the assassin from Hadalyn.
Who would be the first to slit the other’s throat?
Hark disappeared as quickly as he had arrived, and Arla was glad when the bubble of anticipation finally popped at his exit.
He made her nervous, as though he could cut her at any moment, and she would not have the capacity to stop bleeding.
Her mind kept wandering to him and the far-away corridor he was housed in on the other side of the castle.
It frustrated her. She of all people should be able to spot a wolf dressed as a lamb – had been one herself.
By the time the clock hit midnight, she had paced the length of her bedchamber so many times that the soles of her feet had begun to memorise the grain of the wood on the floorboards.
Finally, she could begin to unravel the mystery and well-kept secret of Larkire palace and the family that called it home.
With the practised silence only a thief – or an assassin – could master, Arla slipped through the door and out into the winding hallways of the palace.
There was a ticking somewhere in the labyrinth of corridors, and Arla let her ears adjust to it and then block it out.
That would be a constant, and it was not important to her search for …
what? What had possessed her to don a black cloak and move like a wraith through shadowy corners and concealed servants’ doors?
Something that would explain how the royal family had stayed so wealthy when their kingdom was at risk of collapse?
Or why she had not heard of Prince Reuben in all her years slinking through this kingdom?
Perhaps something else entirely? Could she find an answer to the question that had plagued her for years: what had bewitched the Kastonians into storming Hadalyn and killing her parents in search of non-existent dragons and long-extinguished magic?
It was laughable, really. That Kastonia had been so desperate to search for these mythical dragons in the hope of persuading them to ask the gods to end the suffering Kastonia was experiencing.
As if the gods cared that Kastonians were too lazy to grow food or help themselves!
Arla had seen the fertile land on the way here; Kastonia was more than capable of growing its own food.
They’d bought plenty of seeds and tools from Hadalyn in the past – Arla had seen the trade documents on Cyrus’s desk – so why weren’t they making use of those lush meadows?
Clearly they didn’t care to help themselves.
They’d blamed Hadalyn of course. Hadalyn, which was thriving and growing stronger each day. Hadalyn, which was supposedly hiding dragons beneath Castle Grey and using the dragons’ connection with the gods to bring prosperity to the kingdom.
Kastonia was jealous. Jealous enough to send troops into Hadalyn and slaughter their people.
Gods, she hated this kingdom.
It didn’t take her long to find something of interest. Like a shadow, she slipped behind a velvet curtain to watch in secret.
A heavy, wooden door with intricate gold runes carved into the oak stood ajar, allowing Arla’s eyes access to an eccentric, wonderfully decorated royal suite.
She could see the queen, who had been backed against a green chaise, and even from outside Arla noted her scared eyes and trembling fingers.
They should have been long asleep from the amount of alcohol Arla had seen them consume.
‘I have given you a home, and a crown, and that is how you think to conduct yourself?’
Arla ground her teeth together as Elrod’s fist gripped Arabelle’s arm hard enough that it would be sure to bruise.
‘It won’t happen again,’ the queen whispered, barely loud enough for Arla to hear. Why she had married him, Arla couldn’t say. The queen was young, and pretty, and could surely have found a better match with a lord in a wealthier kingdom. Was having a crown worth this? Arla didn’t think so.
She wouldn’t find the answers she was looking for here, not with them all still awake.
The townspeople might be of more use to her.
Or perhaps the servants? Cyrus had night servants to respond to his needs; surely someone as self-absorbed as Elrod would have similar expectations and she didn’t want to be discovered by any of them while skulking around.
She doubted his servants harboured any kind of loyalty to him – they probably weren’t even Kastonian – but she couldn’t be certain.
As silent and sure-footed as she had ever been, Arla abandoned her position behind the curtain, leaving Arabelle to Elrod’s wrath.
She did not have time for guilt. Arranged marriages were common amongst the nobility; if she reacted to every woman crushed beneath the ego of a man, she’d never get anything done.
The servants’ quarters were not hard to find because there was an abundance of hidden doors and breathtakingly narrow staircases throughout the palace.
She wouldn’t take them, though. Arla had almost failed her training in the King’s Guard when they had locked her in a tiny cupboard and tasked her with forcing her way out.
She hadn’t done well with small spaces after that fateful day when Kastonian troops had stormed Hadalyn and her parents had locked her in their dresser to keep her safe.
The thought of being trapped in a tight servant’s passage caused her breath to catch in her throat.
Not tonight. Not tonight.
It was warmer on the lower levels of the castle.
It had been far too easy to descend to this level, down the main staircases of the palace.
Not a single soldier lined the walls or alcoves, leaving the perfect hiding spot for an inquisitive assassin.
The floors down here were laid with huge stone slabs and torches flickered in the corridors.
Someone must be awake if the torches were still burning.
A sorry-looking wooden door hung on one hinge at the end of a passage lit by two sputtering torches.
Clearly the beautiful rune-carved oak was reserved for quarters of the castle that were meant to be seen.
Creeping slowly on soft feet, Arla approached the door, craning her neck up to squint through a gap in the wood.
Two tired servants sat nursing what looked like tea at a wooden table.
It would be easy to get them to talk. And if not, there were always other ways.
‘Do you always stand on your tiptoes to spy on people?’
She whirled, knife free of her belt and against his throat in an instant.
‘That would be a yes, then,’ Hark chuckled, not at all concerned by the blade against his neck. This was becoming a regular routine between them.
‘Gods, I’d love to stab you,’ she whispered angrily, pressing the silver harder against the pulsing vein in his neck.
‘I’d like to see you try, sweetheart.’
Astonishingly fast, even for Arla’s reflexes, Hark twisted and disarmed her, catching the blade before it could hit the stone and alert the servants to their presence on the other side of the door.
‘Now, care to tell me what you’re doing down here?’
‘I don’t have to explain myself to you, Stappen,’ she growled, bringing her leg up into the side of his knee and swiping her dagger free of his grip.
‘On the contrary, Reinhart. I find you sneaking about my home, armed to the teeth with swords and daggers, and that’s exactly what you’re going to do.’
‘Your home?’ she scoffed, pulling the edge of the cloak tight around her to disguise just how many weapons she currently sported – it had been a lucky little accident that she should stumble across her own blades as well as a few extras she had discovered on her jaunt around the palace.
She’d had to leave her bow where it was, its shape was no good for sneaking around. She’d fetch it later.
‘Or would you rather explain yourself to the king? I am sure it can be arranged,’ Hark said, leaning casually against a stone pillar.
‘I don’t want to spend another second in that bastard’s company, and while we’re on the topic, I don’t wish to spend another breath in yours, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going to bed,’ she growled, shoving past him to disappear in the shadows again.
Gods, he was such a thorn in her side!
He had ruined what would likely be her only opportunity to explore and find answers. She could only hope to enjoy a few hours’ sleep before setting off to the northern border and discovering who – or what – was stealing supplies.