“You are too soft.” The woman’s voice is thick with scorn. “She has given us no indication she is even considering surrendering.” I slowly pull Arduinna’s arrow from my quiver, then raise my head to peer over the thick leather chest in front of me.
“Her sister has just died.” The king’s voice is gentle, compassionate even. “She is likely clouded with grief, as I would be should you die, dear sister.” There is a faint dry note in his voice that has me wondering if he would truly be as distraught as he claims.
“We must put an end to this farce.”
“And we will. In good time. But we will not be using the cannon. Now, would you like to give the order? Because I know how much you dislike it when I countermand your orders in front of the men.”
There is a long, tense moment before the regent says, “I will do it.”
Boom! An earsplitting crack of thunder fills the camp, reverberating through the valley.
The king’s head snaps up, and he glares at his sister. She shakes her head. “I did not order that,” she says, then hurries from the tent. To my surprise, after a moment’s hesitation, the king follows her.
I am frozen to the spot with shock as I watch my chance for averting this war stride out of the pavilion. What now?
I shove the arrow back in my quiver and rise to my knees. The king’s tent is empty except for the two guards that stand just inside the tent flap. If I go back the way I came, I will run into Balthazaar, who will do everything he can to prevent me from burrowing deeper into the enemy’s encampment.
Which means I will have to fight past the two guards.
I withdraw two regular arrows, clench one between my teeth, then nock the second one to the bowstring. Still crouching in the back of the tent, I release the first arrow, which catches the guard in the windpipe, ensuring his silence as he dies.
Before I can nock my second arrow, the other guard draws his sword and leaps toward me. He is faster than he looked, and I barely have time to drop my bow, grab the long dagger from my waist, and get it up in time to block the thrust of his sword. The force of the blow sends a shock all the way up my arm. As our blades lock together, I see in his eyes the moment he decides to call for reinforcements. As he opens his mouth, I reach up with my free hand as if to place it on the dagger handle for extra leverage. At the last minute, I grab at the second dagger hidden at my wrist, then spin inside his guard and bring it across his throat, cutting off his cry for help. Red blood spatters across my face like warm rain, but I hardly even notice.
Instead, I roll the smaller guard over, unbuckle his sword belt, and wrestle his French tabard over his head. The tabard marks him clearly as one of the royal guard, and wearing it may help me get closer to the king. I slip it on, then grab his helmet and sword as well.
I snag my bow from the ground, my heart hammering—not in fear, I realize, but with anticipation—and use the exhilaration to propel me to the door. Two more sentries wait outside, but with the king gone, their attention is focused on the smoke and noise coming from the northern part of the camp rather than on the empty tent behind them. Which makes it easy to slip up silently behind them and slit their throats, cutting through their vocal cords just as Sister Arnette taught me to do all those years ago.
Only this time, I do not throw up, or even feel a sickening lurch in my stomach. Instead, a grim satisfaction fills me, for I am that much closer to my goal.
Chapter Fifty-Five
MEN ARE SHOUTING, horses whinnying, and hooves thundering as hundreds of soldiers scramble toward a burning siege tower. Not wanting to risk standing out, I join them. The regent said she was going to rescind the order to fire the cannon and I can only hope that the king has followed her.
When I am well away from the tent, I lift my fingers to my mouth and whistle the way Aeva showed me. Because the air is already filled with the shouts of soldiers, the clash of swords, and the thud of galloping horses, I do not see my own horse drawing near until she is almost upon me. I launch myself onto her back and instantly feel more secure being upon a horse. My view is better as well, and I can now see over the heads of the foot soldiers.
The king is seated upon a horse, standing in the middle of a cluster of his cavalry, talking with his sister and the captain in charge of the remaining cannon. There is no way to worm my way through the scores of soldiers who now stand between me and my target.
I look around for the hellequin I rode out with. They linger half a bowshot away from the royal pavilion, waiting and looking. For me. Balthazaar in particular seems to scan the crowd more intensely than the others, his brooding gaze never straying far from the tent. Despair seeps into my bones, for every complication added to our simple plan diminishes his chances of returning to the city.
I look back at the king. Even though he is within range of my bow and we are both mounted, there are far too many other riders between us. I can barely see the top of his head. I do not know if my aim will be as true as Arduinna’s, and it would be too easy to miss and waste the arrow on one of the people who surround him. Then our only chance would be lost.
I consider my options. One cannon is still billowing smoke, and one of the scaling towers is on fire, with hundreds of French troops scrambling with buckets so the flames will not spread. The second scaling tower sits abandoned. Our secondary diversion has already launched from the sally port. A hundred mounted French knights are bearing down hard on the escaping sortie—in truth, only a score of hellequin.
They will not last much longer, not when they are that outnumbered.
I glance over at the second scaling tower and calculate its distance from the king. If I were upon it, I could easily see him. It is even possible he would be in range of my bow. The arrow would have a far better chance of striking him if it came from above.
If I can reach the platform.
And if I can avoid drawing the attention of every French archer in the camp.
Deciding this is my best option, I lightly press my heels against my horse’s sides and she leaps forward. I shut out all the noise and confusion on the field around me and focus on the platform that overhangs the wheels of the scaling tower. I grasp the front of the saddle to steady myself, pull my feet up beneath me, then—as I have a hundred times before—attune my body to every movement of the horse and begin to stand up. I have barely reached my full height when the platform is there, right in front of me, and I have no time to think but must simply react so that it does not knock me off the horse. I get my arms up just in time to grab on as my ribs connect solidly with the platform, and I give silent thanks for the two padded hauberks I wear. Then I scramble up on the platform, relieved when I feel the solidness of the wood beneath my feet. Afraid I have been spotted but not willing to stop and find out, I hurry to the beams and trellises of the scaling tower, step around one, and press myself close to it. Only then do I look back to check if I have been seen.
No one seems to have noticed. I glance over my shoulder at the city wall. From there I am in plain sight, but those on the field cannot see me. Or they have not bothered to look up. Either way, it is a small sliver of luck, and I will take it.
As I shrug my bow from my shoulder, I seek out the figure of the king. I can see him better now, and from this height, I should be able to shoot over the heads of his attendants and retainers. Except now that I am here and free from the press of bodies, I realize it is—just barely—too far, and the breeze is coming from the wrong direction. It blows toward me and away from the king, just enough to drag against the arrow, reducing its speed and range, making the shot impossible.
As I watch, his attendants step back. He is getting ready to dismount, and once he is off his horse and among the crowd, I will never be able to hit him.
There are only impossible options left to me. Even though I am not divine or even gifted by nature of my birth, it feels as if all I have struggled with my entire life, all that I have trained for, and all the skills I have practiced have brought me to this m
oment.
But I had also thought it impossible ever to leave the convent, or confront the abbess, or meet a god face to face, let alone fall in love with one. Impossible things do happen. But only if we make them.
I draw the arrow dipped in the duchess’s blood, then fit it to the bowstring. I lift my bow, the black feathers of the fletching tickling my cheek. Dear Arduinna, I pray as I sight down the arrow. Although I come newly to your service, please let me be your instrument in this. Guide this arrow, for the love you once bore him, for the love you might bear me as one marked by your own hand, but mostly to save all the innocents from the horror of war.
As I pray, the breeze dies down, as if the hand of the goddess is holding it back. But I do not take the shot, for still air will only gain me ten feet, and I need at least thirty. Moments later, I feel a brush of wind against my neck, sending the strands of my hair forward to tickle at my cheeks.
But still, I do not take the shot.
I wait until the breeze sighs past my face and streams down along my shoulder, until I see the grass on the field below me begin to ripple as the gust dances its way downrange. Then, when it is in the best position to carry the arrow forward, I release the bowstring.
In that same moment, ready to dismount at last, the king stands up in his stirrups so that he is ever so slightly higher than those around him. The arrow strikes him in the fleshy part of the arm—praise the saints that he is not wearing full armor—then disintegrates, falling to the ground in a sprinkling of black dust.