Chapter 8
She hadn’t slept so poorly in years. Hark had unnerved her in the passages beneath the main levels of the palace last night, and the way she had seen Elrod treat the queen had angered her to the point that it had taken her hours to fall asleep.
She hadn’t found answers, and nor would she find any on this job.
But there would be other chances to visit Kastonia, other chances to sneak into this palace on her travels – especially now that she had learnt the layout and guard rotation.
At least Orson had scurried back to whatever hole he was kept in and she hadn’t had to endure that.
It was raining. She could hear the heavy spat of water bouncing off the window ledge, and if the grey, miserable light barely peeking through the window drapes was anything to go by, winter was well on its way.
It would be cold on the northern border; she had been there before when she’d had little knowledge of the climate in the north, and it had taken her not even an hour to regret not packing sheepskin-lined clothes.
Her muscles twitched, unused to lying in the comfort of a bed when she would usually have been up early and running laps of the castle boundaries until she was almost sick.
She couldn’t do that here. Not only did she not know these grounds, but she didn’t want to appear weak when she was bent double, trying not to vomit after pushing her body beyond its limits.
Not that lying in bed was making her look particularly strong.
If she closed her eyes, she could pretend she was at home in Hadalyn.
Not in her rooms at Castle Grey, but at home with her parents in their little white cottage by the river.
She missed them. Constantly. She missed the long walks they would go on through the meadows after school had finished and her father was home from his job as a carpenter.
She missed the way her mother made sure there was always something sweet for dessert and how she’d always hold Arla’s hand a little too tightly when they went to the market.
Pretending was useless, though. It only hurt her, and it didn’t disguise the fact that she was deep behind enemy lines and that she would be forced to be amicable with this family despite her urge to gut them.
She had thought about it. For long hours when she couldn’t sleep.
She had imagined killing them in their beds and setting the kingdom ablaze.
But she would lose her place as assassin and would be left homeless. And that was if Cyrus left her alive.
Sighing, Arla dragged her body from the mattress, not admitting even to herself that it had been beyond comfortable, and she would have liked her bed in Castle Grey to be as lovely as this. Lacing her boots tightly around her calves, Arla made her way down to the stables.
Gods damn her if she was letting Hark Stappen steal her horse again.
* * *
‘It’s lame. Pulled a shoe on her way in,’ a gruff voice called from the stack of hay in the corner of the barn. Arla had made a beeline for Vetta and was already in the process of saddling the mare, when Fallon – she remembered his name now – called out to her.
‘What do you mean she’s lame?’ Arla snapped, already blaming Hark and thinking of a thousand ways she would make him pay for damaging the mare she had spent years training to be battle ready.
‘Pulled a shoe on your journey here, milady. Blacksmith won’t be here until tomorrow.’
‘She needs to be ready today. We’re travelling to the border. King’s orders.’
‘Sent a message to His Majesty already. Trip’s to be delayed.’
She wanted to hit something. Spending another day in this place was going to drive her insane.
‘Then I will take another horse.’
‘None fit, milady. The horses haven’t been sat on in well over five years,’ Fallon muttered, moving from Vetta’s stall to the one opposite her.
Five years? Had the kingdom really disbanded its mounted cavalry? ‘Why not?’
‘You try feeding a barn full o’ horses when there’s no grain. Costs an arm and a leg.’
Was Kastonia so poor they hadn’t been able to afford the upkeep of such a prestigious arm of their military? There were only a handful of horses in the barn now, and Arla wondered if the others had been sold … or used to feed a starving kingdom.
‘Good girl, Vee,’ Arla breathed, stroking the mare’s neck, and inhaling the sweet scent of hay and horse sweat. She had to make the best of it. If she couldn’t leave today, that meant another opportunity to find answers, and this time she would make sure she got them.
* * *
‘You look tired, Reinhart. Something keep you awake?’
Arla squinted at Hark over the breakfast table. She was in no mood for games today.
‘Nothing at all,’ she replied sweetly, noting the king’s eyes on her as she curled her lip at Hark.
Hark had dressed well. The navy jacket he wore was well fitted and looked as though it was worth more than some of the houses on Grey Hill.
He wasn’t wrong, though; despite her eagerness to leave the castle before the sun had fully risen this morning, she was feeling the effects of little sleep and knew her eyes carried dark circles beneath them.
Tough. She had worked harder missions, and on less sleep. This was nothing.
‘Hark suggested you train together this morning, Miss Reinhart. We have heard so much about Cyrus’s assassin and her swordsmanship, after all.’
Each and every word the king spoke was a political move.
It was perhaps a power play, or an attempt to gain a glimpse into the inner workings of Hadalyn, and Arla didn’t like it at all.
Yes, she had thought she could use the morning to train, too, but she was loath to reveal just how fatal blades could be when wielded in her hands.
And if she was going to kill that man one day – and she would, by the gods she would!
– she wanted him to be surprised at just how ruthless she was.
She wanted to watch the fear widen his eyes when the time finally came to kill him.
‘Of course, Your Majesty. I had hoped to be leaving before breakfast, but it seems my mare has thrown a shoe.’
Gods she almost wanted to laugh for the way she spoke to him.
Her years in Cyrus’s court had taught her well, and she knew that he too would laugh at how delicately she was handling the King of Kastonia.
At least, he would have laughed, before he had been consumed by the disappearance of Kastonian supplies, and the talks he was rumoured to be in with the continent.
‘Shall we?’ Hark gestured, rising from his plush, velvet seat.
Gods help you, Stappen.
‘I’d like nothing more,’ she chirped, snatching an apple pastry from the table and tearing into it with the viciousness she wished she could unleash onto the royals.
He led her through winding hallways of red and gold, now bathed in the light of day so she could see what had been shadowed and dark for her the previous evening.
‘You could smile, you know,’ Hark muttered, rolling his eyes as they took another right turn to reveal a circular chamber with pillars that housed glass so perfectly polished it could be mistaken for not being there at all.
She spotted blood on the marble floor, though.
A tiny rust-coloured smudge in the bottom corner, entirely too small for anybody to see besides a keen-eyed assassin.
This would be their training ring, then.
‘You might slip and fall on your own blade but we can’t all get what we want.’
‘Are you always so pleasant?’ he drawled, his back to her as they entered the circular chamber.
‘Only to those who manage to piss me off before my day has begun.’
She met his blade with the speed and strength of someone who had fought men twice his size and won.
She had been hiding her sword down the column of her spine, concealed nicely by her leather uniform and braided ringlets.
The look of surprise on his face was quickly replaced with one of determination and … amusement.
‘First rule of dancing with the devil, Stappen: if you’re going to pretend not to carry a weapon, you’ll have to do better than that. I saw you swipe that sword on your way into breakfast.’
‘You think of yourself as a devil?’ he scoffed, sliding his blade against her own before spinning and meeting her again in a flash of silver.
‘Better a devil than some made-up gods,’ she spat, forcing him backwards with a surge of strength through the metal.
‘Come on then, assassin, let’s see what you’ve got,’ he goaded, feinting left and swinging his blade towards her. Too easy.
She tracked his blade with her own, arcing above them and backing him into the wall.
Come on Stappen, where’s this talent they speak of?
Block, parry, lunge. All of it came as naturally and easily as breathing.
Swords were in her blood – or they been planted there, at least. Nurtured lovingly to bloom in the form of a series of moves so familiar that she was hardly breaking a sweat in the fleece-lined leathers she had chosen this morning in preparation for the iciness of the northern border.
It was becoming an effort to hide the grin threatening to spread over her lips.
This sort of exercise made her heart sing.
She had done this – had become this – to protect her kingdom.
Had become lethal and wicked to ensure that nothing would ever threaten Hadalyn’s walls again.
Her body had been crafted for this, a sword had become an extension of her arm, and she swung it as though she could cleave this kingdom in two.
Hark Stappen would be a good place to start.
He had made it too easy for her to back him against the wall, but she saw the danger flicker in his eyes as his back scraped the marble.
He came at her with such force that it reverberated through her elbows as she took the brunt of his attack. This was the man whose reputation had preceded him.