The Mirror King (Orphan Queen) (9 page)

THE NEW PATROLS
were such that climbing up the front of the palace would be asking to get caught. That made my placement at the back of the Dragon Wing convenient for sneaking in and out.

When I climbed to my balcony and hopped over the rail, my landing was silent.

A light shone in my sitting room.

I’d left the suite dark, but obviously
someone
was there now. A maid might have come looking for me. Sergeant Ferris, maybe. Still, I made sure my daggers were loose in their sheathes, ready to draw, and I slipped into my bedroom.

The room was dark. Quiet. I stepped deeper into shadows as I pulled the door closed behind me.

Light flared: the gas lamps in my bedroom hissed to life, and a portly man appeared next to the door.

Prince Colin Pierce.
Overlord
of Aecor Territory.

My daggers were in my grasp before my eyes finished adjusting to the blaze of light, but Prince Colin held up a hand. “Better not, Princess. There are those who aren’t certain you weren’t the one to assassinate my brother.”

“You know I didn’t touch King Terrell.”

“Do I?” He motioned toward my weapons. “Seems to me you’re capable of reaching well-guarded locations
and
using those weapons. You are Black Knife, after all. Suppose I was to tell someone I saw you creep back into your quarters like a thief, after you were forbidden to leave the palace? What would everyone say?”

“Suppose you did. Oh, how awkward the questions would be for you. Why were you sneaking into a young lady’s bedchambers? What were you planning on doing to her?” My pulse thrummed in my throat; that was a
good
question.

He narrowed his eyes. “Oh, dear Wilhelmina. All I’d have to say is that I was invited here. You want Aecor, after all. Everyone knows what you are: Black Knife, identity thief, flasher, wraith animator. You can claim you’re trying to apprehend your friend Patrick Lien as much as the rest of us, but for all I know, you were out there warning him of our plans and tactics.”

Blood pounded through my ears. He was
threatening
me. “What do you want?”

His smile crept up like a spider. “What do you think I want?”

“Aecor. You want me to give up my kingdom.” And if I resisted . . . then what? He’d instigate an investigation? Happen upon proof I’d gone out as Black Knife?

“I want you to give up everything.” His gaze slid down my body, as heavy as a touch. An awful crawling sensation made
my breath hitch and my body shudder. Phantom hands slithered across my skin, bruising, and a desperate part of me wanted to rush forward and drive my daggers into his chest.

With a sharp smile, Prince Colin’s attention lingered on my legs. “Sleep well, Your Highness. I know I will.” He bowed and left the room.

Head spinning, I took two deep breaths and listened to the sound of his footfalls through my sitting room. In
my
space.

Rage fogged my vision as I darted after him, my blades ready. But he was already halfway through the door as I approached, and he shot me a chastising look, as though reminding me how utterly stupid it would be to kill him.

“By the way, I heard an interesting rumor about my nephew. He was near death when I visited, but he seems quite recovered now. Interesting that you were present for both his miraculous healing, and that of his bodyguard.”

With that, he strode down the hall, leaving me to stand in the empty doorway with my daggers clutched in my fists.

No one was standing guard. Where—?

Prince Colin. Of course.

He could threaten all he wanted, but he couldn’t keep my kingdom.

And I’d kill him before he touched me.

I was out my door before dawn.

Sergeant Ferris stood there with his arms across his chest, his brow drawn inward. “What happened to Chris?”

“Who?” I scanned the hall, but other than the pair of guards at the wraith boy’s storage room, it was empty. There wasn’t
even anyone standing outside Tobiah’s suite, though perhaps he was not as opposed to having them stationed inside.

“Your overnight guard. And while I’m at it, where were your wraith monster’s guards?”

“Ask them.” I brushed past him, focusing on keeping a neutral face as I strode down the hall.

Sergeant Ferris followed. Of course. “Where can I take you?”

As if he was the one doing the leading.

“I have an appointment with Captain Rayner.”

“This afternoon.”

“He’ll see me this morning.”

Further questions were met with silence, and only the dagger I’d strapped around my leg—hidden beneath my ocean-colored gown—helped the anxiety building in the back of my thoughts.

The wood-paneled walls of James’s new office were bare except for a small plaque with the Rayner family crest engraved in brass, and a line of bookcases along the interior wall. They were filled with histories and tactical studies and atlases.

“Your Highness.” James stood, his tone formal when I entered the room. “Please, come in and sit. Excuse the mess. I haven’t had much time to set up in here.” He motioned at the papers and books strewn across the desk. And in spite of his invitation, the chair on my side of the desk bore a tray piled with empty teacups and caddies.

“Captain, a moment?” Sergeant Ferris lingered in the hall.

James picked up the tea tray and took it with him. The door shut, muffling their voices, but they spoke only a moment before James returned. “Sorry. I got shoved in here yesterday afternoon.
It’s an upgrade from my previous office; this one has a window.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. You’ve had a lot to do since you awakened.” It was hard to believe that had only been two days ago.

James’s eyes lowered and he nodded. “Yet I feel the same as ever. You’re
sure
you didn’t have anything to do with my awakening?”

“Absolutely sure.” It had to be a coincidence that he’d opened his eyes just as I touched his hand. “Have you made any progress finding Patrick?”

“We know where he
isn’t
.” James sat behind his desk and cleared a small canyon between us.

Melanie’s list hissed against the desk as I slid it toward James. “I found this last night.”

His face was dark as he tilted the paper toward him. “Where did you get this?”

“Fisher’s Mouth.”

He released a long sigh. “All right. What is it?”

“It’s a list of Aecorian resistance groups. It’s rearranged, and I think the new order indicates where Patrick is going first.”

“Can we trust this?” He tapped the first location. “We need to be sure before sending people there.”

“I trust Melanie.” I pulled out the letter she’d left in the Peacock Inn. I’d read it a hundred times already; most of it was what we’d covered when we met. “The list was her second attempt to leave information for me. She was delivering this when we bumped into each other outside the inn.”

He skimmed the letter. “The Red Militia?”

“That’s what he’s calling his army.”

“Your army, he hopes.” James folded the letter. “You can’t give in to his demand. If you declare yourself queen, you’ll provoke Prince Colin. And then Patrick gets what he wants.”

“But if I don’t declare myself queen, Patrick marches against the Indigo Kingdom.”

James narrowed his eyes. “Are you planning to—”

“No.” I sucked in a breath. “Not right now. It just seems like I can’t win, no matter what I do. Prince Colin won’t give up Aecor, and Patrick won’t wait for me to claim it myself. Unless Patrick is arrested, there’s going to be a war, and I don’t know what side I’m supposed to be on.”

James rubbed his temples and nodded. “All right. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about how this puts you in just as bad a position as the rest of us.” He placed the list of resistance groups on top of a pile of papers. “I’ll have people sent to these locations, though even Melanie says Lien doesn’t trust her. If he told her this was the order, it could be more false information to lead us into a trap.”

Better than anyone, I knew about lying on paper. “I understand. But meanwhile, I can’t sit around and do nothing.”

“I wouldn’t call your nightly excursions ‘nothing.’” He shook his head, but at least he wasn’t giving me a hard time about it. “What of the letter to Aecor?”

“I’ve been making notes.”

“Good.” James glanced at the small clock on a mostly empty bookcase. “I have some time now, if you want to get started. There are writing supplies here somewhere.”

He gave me the comfortable seat behind the desk while he leaned on the edge, keeping out of my light.

“Tobiah would be better at helping you with this, but he’s still trapped in his quarters. His guards are already asking questions, but they know better than to voice their misgivings to anyone.”

“What about the messenger? Alain?”

“I had him followed. He eventually ended up with Prince Colin, but if they’ve done anything with that information, I haven’t heard about it yet.”

When I closed my eyes, I saw Prince Colin in my quarters last night. His sneer. His satisfaction. The memory made me shudder.

James didn’t notice my discomfort. “Anyway, I’ve sat in enough meetings to be able to assist you with this.”

“And I’ve forged enough official documents—”

“Really?”
He looked incredulous. “Do I even want to know?”

I smirked. “No, actually, I haven’t. Nothing like this, anyway. But I know the tone and language, more or less. Still, it might be wise to have someone look over it before copies are made. I’d hate for anyone to think I didn’t know how to be a proper princess.”

James rolled his eyes. “I can’t imagine there’s any question about what kind of princess you are, Your Highness. Now, let’s get this finished. I have both a memorial and coronation to coordinate security for, you know.”

I flapped my hands at the other chair. “Sit down and try not to drool on the paper.”

Once James was settled beside me, I arranged my writing supplies around a sheet of creamy, white paper. It was smooth, without blemishes or watermarks, and unlined. While the palace
had plenty of fine paper, sending a letter like this on paper with an Indigo Kingdom crest on top might not be the best idea.

With a ruler, I began measuring line widths and making guide marks. Once the sheet was covered with pale hashes, I adjusted the ruler and traced faint lines.

Usually, the necessary carefulness of lining pages calmed me, but now my tired mind wandered toward the reason for this work. What would the people of Aecor think when they realized I was alive? Would they feel betrayed, like I’d purposefully neglected them all these years?

More importantly: what would Patrick tell them when my letters arrived? How would he twist my words until people believed what he needed them to believe?

No doubt he’d win them over just as he’d won the Ospreys. And while his goals were noble, his method for achieving them—

At what point had he become a
murderer
?

Betrayal burned through me as I shoved my pen into the ink.

The words I’d rehearsed flew out in a flurry of anger.

This is an official statement . . .

I, Princess Wilhelmina Korte, daughter of King Phillip and Queen Angela Korte, and rightful heir to the vermilion throne at Sandcliff Castle . . .

Crown Prince Tobiah Pierce, House of the Dragon, son of the late King Terrell the Fourth, was previously unaware of my survival. Now he wishes to help me set matters right between Aecor and the Indigo Kingdom, and we will begin discussion with his uncle, Prince
Colin Pierce, House of the Dragon, Overlord of Aecor Territory . . .

Patrick Lien, son of the former general Brendon Lien of the Aecor Army, has acted without my consent. He is to be taken into custody and held until my arrival, at which point I will conduct a trial and determine how he can begin atoning for his crimes . . .

The Red Militia is an unsanctioned force . . .

I wrote, furious scrawls and flourishes and scratches across the page. The scrape of my pen against paper was an awful, unlovely sound, and I couldn’t remember why I usually liked it. Why it usually grounded me and brought me peace.

Giving in to Patrick’s demands was out of the question; it would only give him more power. But I wanted to take back my kingdom with that kind of directness. Trying to persuade Prince Colin to let it go peacefully was never going to work. He’d already said he wouldn’t give up Aecor.

And that he would retaliate if I insisted on claiming it.

My hand cramped around the pen, and my wrist throbbed from holding it too stiffly as I added the final lines of my letter.

I stopped short of signing my name.

I couldn’t make my hand shape the
W
. What did my signature even look like? Small? Clipped? Wild? Was it legible, or a scrawling mess of ink?

And the letter itself . . .

The letter was like the storied monster of many parts, with my handwriting fading from tidy to flourishing, from flowing to scratching where I let the ink run out. Teardrops marred the
words, darkening the paper, carrying the ink in translucent blots across the grains. There were at least seven different hands.

“You didn’t sign your name.” James spoke softly.

“I haven’t signed my name to anything since I was a child.” My fingers shook as I lowered my pen, ink still pooled in the nib. “Patrick never let me; he never even told any of our tutors or trainers my true identity. I was a secret.”

James rested his forearms on the desk as he leaned toward me. “You aren’t a secret anymore. You can sign if you want.” He glanced at the monster of a letter, his unspoken words plain in his expression: I could try again.

“I don’t know what my signature looks like,” I whispered. “I know priests’, generals’, merchants’. Even yours and Tobiah’s. But not my own.”

“And your handwriting?” He studied the letter, tracing a wild flourish with the tip of his finger. Ink smudged onto his skin. “After you were taken to prison that night, I said I’d found samples of handwritings. I asked which was yours.”