Kill the Queen (Crown of Shards #1) Read online

  Maeven, the kitchen steward, surveyed the room, her gaze moving from one worker and cooking station to the next. After several seconds of silent scrutiny, she snapped her fingers at the three guards who were standing behind her, clutching wooden crates full of bottles. “Why are you just standing there? Put those down and go fetch the others from the wine cellar. I want the rest of the champagne for the luncheon brought up immediately.”

  The guards set the crates down and beat a hasty retreat.

  Maeven snapped her fingers at some of the teenage servers. “You three. Go help them.”

  She didn’t raise her smooth, silky voice, but the three servers still flinched and dashed away, almost tripping over their own feet in their hurry. Maeven had been running the kitchen for more than a year now, since the previous steward had retired, and the workers had quickly learned that hers was an iron fist on its best, gentlest day.

  “The Andvarian ambassador is an important dignitary, and I want everything to be perfect for the luncheon,” Maeven called out. “Understood?”

  The workers ducked their heads, avoiding her gaze. Maeven nodded, satisfied that she had cowed everyone into continued obedience. She looked around the kitchen again, and she noticed me standing with Isobel. Her gaze cut back to the crates of champagne, but she plastered a smile on her face and walked over to us.

  “Incoming.” Isobel stepped back, grabbed a wet dishrag, and started wiping flour off the table, leaving me to face the kitchen steward alone.

  “Coward,” I whispered.

  Isobel grinned and kept working.

  Maeven stopped in front of me. Up close, she was even more beautiful, especially her deep, dark, amethyst eyes. “Lady Everleigh. I didn’t realize that you were . . . visiting the kitchen.”

  Visiting? That was Maeven’s way of stating that this was her territory, not mine, and that while my presence was tolerated, it would never truly be welcomed. As if I needed another reminder of my lowly position.

  I pasted my usual bland, benign smile on my face, matching her supposed politeness. “Yes, I had to make the pies for the Andvarian ambassador. It’s tradition.”

  “Oh, yes, the pies.”

  Maeven’s gaze swept over me, and her lips puckered again. Not a speck of flour, sugar, or anything else marred her tunic, but the same could not be said for me. Sugar granules clung to my fingers like sticky sand, while flour stains streaked my clothes like stripes of chalky paint. Plus, several tendrils of my black hair had escaped from its braid and hung down the sides of my face. I blew one of the strands out of the way, but of course it dropped right back down again.

  Maeven’s face cleared, as though some other, far more pleasing thought had distracted her from my unkempt appearance. She waved her hand at the crates. “Can I interest you in some champagne? I would love to get a royal opinion on it. Besides, you’re always . . . tasting things for Isobel.”

  It might have sounded like an innocent request, but suspicion filled me. Maeven never asked me to taste test anything. Besides, what kind of lush did she think I was? It was barely ten o’clock. Even Cousin Horatio, the Blair family drunk, wouldn’t guzzle champagne at this hour. He’d wait until at least eleven.

  “You’re the expert. I’m sure that whatever champagne you’ve picked out will be fine. But thank you ever so much for the offer.”

  Disappointment flashed in her eyes, but she smiled at me again. Well, as much as she ever smiled at anyone. “I’ll be sure to save you a glass.”

  “That sounds lovely.”

  The guards and the servers returned with more crates. Maeven tipped her head to me, then stalked over to them, her heels stabbing into the floor. She grabbed one of the bottles and examined the label. She nodded in satisfaction, then barked out more orders.

  “What was that about?” I murmured to Isobel, who had finished wiping down the table.

  She eyed the other woman. “I don’t know, but I don’t like it. You should leave now, while she’s distracted.”

  “I can take care of myself, even against demanding kitchen stewards.”

  Instead of grinning at my joke, Isobel frowned. “There’s something not quite right about that woman. Maybe because she’s from Morta. I’ve never liked Mortans. Always invading, always trying to take more land that doesn’t belong to them.”

  “Just because she’s from another kingdom doesn’t automatically make her evil.”

  “No,” Isobel said. “But it doesn’t make her a friend either.”

  “Be careful with that sourpuss tone,” I teased. “You’re starting to sound like Alvis.”

  She snorted. “I’d have to say a lot worse for a lot longer to sound like Alvis.”

  “Yes, you would. But you know how grumpy he gets when I’m late. I’ll see you at the luncheon, okay? Save me a piece of pie.”

  “Of course. You earned it, Evie.”

  I winked at her, then headed out of the kitchen. My winding path through the pages, servers, and cook masters took me close to where Maeven was examining those bottles. Our gazes met, and she tipped her head to me again. I returned the gesture, then walked past her.

  I reached the swinging doors that led out of the kitchen. I started to push through them, but something made me stop and glance back over my shoulder. Maeven was still watching me, her fingers curled around a champagne bottle. Her dark, painted nails were the same color as her eyes, and they looked like amethyst talons trying to punch through the green glass.

  Maeven smiled at me a final time, then turned and slid the bottle back into the crate with the others.

  Three smiles in one morning, none of which had even come close to reaching or warming her cold eyes. Isobel was right. Definitely not a friend.

  But that was nothing new at Seven Spire.

  Chapter Two

  My duties, royal and otherwise, weren’t finished for the day. So I left my unease about Maeven behind in the kitchen and wound through the spacious hallways that made up the first-floor common areas of Seven Spire.

  The palace was the crown jewel of Svalin, the capital city of the kingdom of Bellona. Seven Spire had originally been a mine, where workers had chiseled tearstone, fluorestone, and more out of the mountain. But thanks to Ophelia Ruby Winter Blair, a stone master who had been one of my ancestors, the mine had been turned into a marvel of marble, granite, and tearstone. Over the years, the palace had been enlarged and expanded until now it was practically a mountain and a city unto itself.

  Seven Spire reminded me of one of Isobel’s elaborate, tiered cakes. A wide, sturdy base, with stone stairs and metal lifts climbing up both the inside and the outside, like strings of icing and ribbons of hardened sugar. The palace spiraled up and into the side of the mountain, with balconies and terraces adorning each level, before tapering to a series of seven tall tearstone spires that seemed to pierce the sky itself. Hence the name Seven Spire.

  I stopped at one of the windows. Down below, the Summanus River glittered like a frothy carpet of sapphires and diamonds as it tumbled down from the surrounding Spire Mountains. Seven cobblestone bridges jutted out from the palace, spanned the river, and led into the city. Across the water, buildings of all shapes and sizes stretched out, most of them topped with smaller, metal versions of the palace’s spires. I loved the view at night, when the city lights reflected off the spires, making them gleam like gold, silver, and bronze toppers on yule trees.

  A white paddlewheel boat with the name Delta Queen painted on its side chugged along the river, slowly approaching an enormous, round, domed arena near the edge of the city. I squinted, but I couldn’t make out the symbols on the white flags flying on top of the dome’s spires that would tell me which gladiator troupe called that arena home.

  Gladiator troupes were all the rage in Andvari, Unger, Morta, and the other kingdoms. Ask anyone, and they would proudly tell you who their favorite gladiator was, which troupes they rooted for in the various leagues and championships, and which gladiators and troupes they utterly de
spised.

  But gladiator troupes had an especially frenzied popularity and special meaning here in Bellona. Once upon a time, Bryn Bellona Winter Blair had been a lowly gladiator who had risen through the ranks to unite the disparate regions into one kingdom, which had been named Bellona in her honor. Bryn had also driven back the Mortan invaders and had defeated the Mortan king in one-on-one combat in true gladiator style. She had been crowned the first queen of Bellona for her strength, bravery, and cunning, both in and out of the gladiator ring.

  The stories about Bryn were some of my favorites. When I was younger, I had tried to be as strong, brave, and fierce as she had been, although life at the palace had quickly turned me cold, bitter, and jaded instead.

  I had never been to one of the gladiator shows, but I had heard plenty about them. Part circus, part spectator sport, part combat. Most of the bouts were rather tame, with gladiators only drawing first blood or battling gargoyles, strixes, and other creatures. But every once in a while, a black-ring match would be announced, either between two rival troupes or sometimes even between two gladiators in the same troupe, much to the delight of the masses, who would pay through the nose to see the warriors battle to the death.

  The paddlewheel boat churned on past the domed arena and disappeared from sight, so I walked on.

  Sunlight streamed in through the windows and reflected off the gold, silver, and bronze threads that ran through the tapestries that covered the dark gray granite walls. The floor was made of the same stone, although it had been polished to a high, slick gloss. Wooden stands topped with glass cases lined the walls, each one boasting some historic statue, sword, or other treasure. The jewels on the artifacts burned as brightly as gargoyle eyes in the sunlight.

  But the most impressive things inside the palace were the columns.

  They used to be the supports for the old mining tunnels, although they had always seemed more like the bones of some great mythological creature to me. A few of the columns were slender enough for me to wrap my arms around, but most were massive monoliths that were larger than seven men standing shoulder to shoulder. Whether they were narrow or wide, short or tall, all the columns were covered with figures celebrating Bellona’s history.

  Gladiators clutching swords and shields. Spears that shot up from the floor or dropped down from the ceiling as though they were zooming toward targets. Stone gargoyles stretching their wings out wide and pointing the thick, curved horns on their heads at the strixes, enormous, hawklike birds with metallic feathers and razor-sharp beaks and talons. Caladriuses hovering above them all, their tiny, owlish bodies hiding their true power.

  All the columns were made of tearstone, which was unusual in that it could shift color, from a light, bright starry gray to a dark, deep midnight-blue, depending on the sunlight and other factors. The tearstone’s shifting color brought the gladiators and creatures to life, making it seem as though they were circling around the columns in a continuous battle for victory and supremacy. Similar columns also adorned the outside of the palace, supporting the structure.

  I had only been twelve when I’d first arrived here from my parents’ estate in the north, and I had been terrified of the flickering figures, despite the steady glow of the fluorestone lights embedded in the walls. I hadn’t realized back then that the columns were just columns—and that it was the people inside the palace who could truly hurt me.

  On a normal day, everyone would be out and about, conducting their business. Servants carrying food and drinks to meetings of palace stewards, guilders, and district senators tasked with running everything from Seven Spire to the city of Svalin to the rest of Bellona. Guards patrolling the hallways. And nobles, of course, lords and ladies with money, power, privilege, and access, trying to worm their way into better favor and broker better deals with whatever steward, guilder, senator, or royal they were targeting.

  But it was Saturday, which meant that the week’s work was done, and the only scheduled event was the luncheon. So the hallways were empty, except for a few guards and servants making their rounds, although the area would fill up later.

  I walked down several sets of stairs until I reached the bottom level of the palace, buried deep in the mountain’s bedrock. The dungeon, as Isobel called it. This deep underground, I was closer to the river than I was to the sky, and the air felt cool and misty. The fluorestones clustered in the ceiling corners created more shadows than they banished, but I didn’t mind the gloomy quiet, or the eerie echo of my boots on the flagstones. The chilly stillness was a welcome relief after the kitchen’s heat, commotion, and tension.

  I stopped in front of a door made of blue, black, and silver shards of stained glass that joined together like puzzle pieces to create a frosted forest. I admired the artistic scene, then banged my knuckles on the door, turned the knob, and stepped inside.

  The door opened up into a workshop that was shaped like an eight-pointed star. A table covered with metal cutters, pliers, and stacks of soft polishing cloths took up the center of the circular room, while short, narrow hallways led to eight little nooks of additional space. Unlike the dim hallway outside, several rows of fluorestones were embedded in the low ceiling, all of them blazing with light, as though someone had set miniature suns into the dark granite.

  The light flooded the entire workshop, including the eight nooks with their glass cases full of precious gems and metals tucked into the corners. Each case was sorted by color, from the first holding only the clearest, whitest diamonds and silver sheets to the last boasting midnight onyx stones and the blackest bars of coldiron. Pinks, yellows, reds, greens, purples, blues. Gems and metals in all those colors glittered and gleamed in the other cases, making it seem as though I had stepped inside a jeweled rainbow.

  A man perched on a stool at the table, his head bowed, shining the fluorestone lamp clamped to his forehead onto his latest project. Wavy, salt-and-pepper hair puffed out all around the leather band that anchored the light to his head, and his skin was almost the same color as the slivers of polished onyx spread out on the white cloth by his elbow.

  The man didn’t raise his head or call out a greeting. Alvis wasn’t big on politeness or protocol. Instead, he peered down through the large, freestanding magnifying glass sitting on the table and used the tweezers in his hand to pluck one of the onyx shards off the cloth. Then he hunched forward and dropped the shard into the appropriate slot on the piece in front of him.

  Only when I heard the soft tink of the gem sliding into place did I move away from the door, walk over, and set the bag of plum tarts that Isobel had given me onto the table. Then I leaned over his shoulder and looked through the magnifying glass.

  A rose-shaped brooch glittering with pink-diamond petals, emerald leaves, and onyx thorns was anchored to a padded work tray. The magnifying glass let me see every exquisite detail in super-sharp focus, from the heart-shaped diamonds to the needle-thin slivers of onyx to the delicate filigree that had been etched into the gold setting.

  “Nice design,” I murmured. “Although all those pink diamonds are a bit much. I would have used plain old rubies.”

  “And how many times have I told you that we’re not paid to think?” Alvis grumbled. “We’re paid to design what the client wants, right down to the garishly colored stones.”

  He picked up another onyx sliver and dropped it into the next open slot. He waited for the gem to tink into place, then reached out and waved his hand over the piece. The scent of magic surged over the brooch, and tiny gold prongs curled in to hold the onyx shards in place.

  Alvis was a metalstone master who’d been at Seven Spire for more than thirty years. Originally from Andvari, he’d decided long ago that he would much rather use his magic to shape the precious jewels and metal that his countrymen dug out of their mines rather than pry them out of the ground himself. So he’d left his homeland and had gotten an appointment at Seven Spire as the royal jeweler, making pieces for the nobles, senators, and anyone else who could afford t
hem.

  I had met Alvis about a month after I’d come to the palace, after rigorous testing had determined that I was a mutt with only an enhanced sense of smell, and no other magic. Of course, that wasn’t true, not at all, but my parents’ murders had taught me to keep my other power to myself, lest someone try to use it—and me—for their own ill ends.

  Since I was an orphan with no close family, money, or power, I had been required to learn a trade to help offset the cost of my royal education and upkeep. Hence my apprenticeship to Alvis. You didn’t need magic to polish jewels or twist metal, and Alvis was notorious for going through apprentices like ladies went through ball gowns. A few hours of wear and tear was all that it took to send boys and girls sobbing from his workshop, vowing never to return.

  Alvis hadn’t liked having yet another apprentice foisted off on him, especially not a royal girl who kept having to leave to attend one silly function after another. He hadn’t said a single word to me during the first three months that I’d worked here. He’d just grunted and pointed at whatever gem, metal, or tool he wanted me to fetch. I had been so heartbroken over my parents’ deaths, and the cruel betrayal that had come next, that I hadn’t minded his grumpy demeanor. His silent brooding had matched my own dark mood perfectly.

  Still, being around all the glittering jewels and gleaming sheets of metal had helped pull me out of my heartbreak, and I’d grown curious enough to start playing around with the gems and settings, trying to shape them into something beautiful the way that Alvis always did. Of course, he had growled at me to stop, but I was as stubborn as he was, and I had worn him down, pestering him with questions and making a mess of things until he’d finally decided that he would be much better off to teach me everything he knew.

  I would never be a true master like Alvis, and my finished pieces were pale imitations of his, but I enjoyed the work. Picking out the right jewels and metal and then bending, twisting, and shaping them into something new soothed me. I felt like I was bringing a little bit of beauty into someone’s life, a small bauble that would remind them of a special time and bring them enjoyment for years to come. It gave me a sense of accomplishment and made me feel useful in a way that being the royal stand-in at all those boring recitals, luncheons, and teas did not.