“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.”
“What’s going on?” Hansen asks, bewildered. “They’re upsetting my horse.”
“The terrible news from Stur has upset our people,” Lilac says in a loud, clear voice, no doubt aware that her words will carry. “That’s to be expected. We should have canceled this visit today as I suggested. It is . . . unseemly at such a sad time.”
“I don’t know why they’re angry with us,” Hansen complains, frowning at Lilac. “Hang this. We’re in the dark like everyone else, and news of Stur arrived just this morning. I saw no reason to change course. This is still my kingdom.”
“Quite,” says Cal, keen to end the conversation. The booing intensifies, the crowd growing more brazen. He holds up an arm to summon the assassins, and they gallop up, circling the monarchs.
“Rally to the king and queen,” he mutters. “Follow me.”
“What on earth is going on here?”
It’s the Duke of Auvigne, his face even ruddier than usual. “What is all this to-do? These subjects need a good thrashing, if you ask me. I’ve never heard such disrespectful nonsense.”
“We’re returning to the castle, Your Grace,” Cal tells him. “At once.”
“Very well, but the guards should arrest some of these louts and make an example of them.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Once again, Lilac sounds calm and firm, though Cal knows that she must be in turmoil. When he looks into her dark eyes, there’s no sparkle. “We should make haste.”
At a nod from Cal, Jander takes off toward the back of the procession, to spread the word of an about-face. In an instant, they’re on their way, retracing their progress along the road to Mont. The city is visible on its hilltop in the distance, and Cal wants to set a quicker pace than their journey out.
The countryside isn’t a happy place anymore, and it’s not a safe place. Deia damn the witch who killed them.
In the minds of the people of Montrice—so adoring last week—has everything changed so utterly? Is Lilac the “witch” they fear? Cal is troubled, but for now he needs to get Lilac back behind the city wall and into the castle, where she will be safe from her people.
Chapter Two
Lilac
It’s been three days since our last attempted journey, and for the time being no one is allowed out of the royal castle. People here in Mont call it a palace, but it’s more like a fortress, the moat a weed-infested gully strewn with iron spikes to deter invaders. At nightfall the heavy portcullis clangs shut and the drawbridge rises. We’re all trapped in here, for our own safety. These are dangerous times, and I fear the danger will only grow.
Aside from an emergency meeting of the Small Council, I haven’t seen Hansen. He has always had the love of his people, and I don’t think he’s taken our recent reception well. Maybe he thinks it’s my fault. In fact, I’m sure he thinks it’s my fault.
The weather has turned chilly and wintry, and it’s been decided that we should suspend further excursions around Montrice until . . . until what? Until spring? No. Until the rumors die down, and the anger.
The day drags, and then at last, night falls. I sink into my vast bed, its brocade curtains drawn around me before my ladies depart, fussing with their candles and competing to be the last to wish me good night.
“Sleep well, Your Majesty,” they say, though their faces are anxious, and I doubt any of us are sleeping well right now. All the talk is of the terrible news from Stur and the people who died there. The children who died there. My ladies are careful not to say anything directly to me, but the men in the Small Council are less circumspect. Anyway, I knew—as soon as I saw their faces and heard their displeasure when Hansen and I rode out the other day. They hate me. They blame me.