Aren catches my eye, pleading with me not to react, and it takes all my will to hold my temper. My vision tunnels, my hands shake at the effort, and I can feel the power of the Rings trickling through my veins like molten gold.
“Hey, I’m okay,” Aren says, keeping her voice low.
I clench my jaw. “That doesn’t make it right.”
“No, it does not, but this is also not the time or place for chivalry.”
I hate that she has a point. “I’m going to burn this place to the ground when we’re done here.”
“I’ll bring the matches,” she says.
The castle is loud and crowded when we enter through the servants’ doors. My every nerve is on edge as I expect someone to shout an alarm, to stop us, but most of the soldiers inside have already begun partaking in the festivities. Despite the early hour, wine flows from fountains in the atrium, smoke fills the high-ceilinged halls, and laughter and singing float through the air.
There is no sign of Namreth yet, but he is here somewhere, preparing to make a grand entrance when the banquet begins.
Lambert, Tess, and Arnfried arrived several hours earlier to disseminate the plan amongst the castle servants that they and Aren can vouch for. Aren raises her hand to her ear in a gesture that means she recognizes the frazzled butler who supervises the new hires as one of them. The butler nods, recognizing me despite my hair. “You two are assigned to the kitchens and later to serve at the banquet, but first, you have to change,” he tells us as a guard watches on.
We are given fine servant’s clothes, embroidered silks, and masks that look like animal faces. Aren is given a fox mask, and I am handed a white wolf.
It’s a coincidence, surely, but the wolf is the sigil of the royal house of Alarice. The symbol is stitched onto every banner my grandfather will send into battle against the Usurper. Wearing it will give me strength. I tie it tightly around my head. I will not fail him.
We change in the servants’ quarters, and we now don our new clothes. Aren secures the mask over her face, leaving only her eyes visible. The animal masks are undoubtedly intended to remind us that to Namreth, servants are less than human. My stomach churns when I remember that Namreth is my blood, and I once more struggle to quell the Rings.
Not yet, I think, and their agitation abates to a quiet hum.
Aren knows where she’s going, so I follow her, keeping an eye out for trouble. Most everyone we run into is too deep into their wine or their conversation, so we slip easily into the kitchens.
The smells of roast meat, butter, and spices are overwhelming. Namreth hasn’t lost his taste for Alarician delicacies even in this parched desert.
The kitchen is the most packed area I’ve seen yet, and the most silent. No one speaks. Everyone moves as if they are puppets on strings, revolving around one another in a coordinated dance. No one looks at us as we enter.
How many of them are in on the plan?
Aren guides me to the pantry, where she fetches her supplies—including the special seasoning she requested. My eyes go to the knives in woodblocks on the counters. I count six right there. But I must be patient.
By this time, the others will have made their way to their positions, too. All I can do is focus on my assigned tasks and think about how I will kill the king when the time comes.
Aren does most of the work making the pies, while I act as her assistant, handing her anything she asks for. She macerates the fruit, folds the crusts, cuts the pastry. It’s a delicate process, and in any other circumstance, I would have loved to watch her work.
“Hey,” she whispers, quiet enough to not be heard over the clanging of pots. I look at her. She tips her head toward a knife that’s just been cleaned, sitting on the edge of the sink. It’s a carving knife, the blade hardly wider than two fingers, but it’s sharp.
I turn so my back is to the knife. I grab the handle and hand it off to her, swift and silent. She tucks in her waistband. No one notices. If they do, no one says a word.
One down. Many more to go.
…
When I pull the last pie out of the oven, time is up.
The sun set hours ago, and the party in the grand ballroom of the castle is in full swing. There is a constant rotation of servants moving food out of the kitchen, and it hardly lets up, even now. All in all, Aren has armed the entire kitchen staff plus some designated servers who have passed through to bring food to the ballroom. The special pies are stacked on a large cart, still steaming and ready to be served, but some guards stationed in the kitchen are growing impatient to get on with it.
“You there. Bring that here!” a guard shouts at me. He is already rosy-cheeked from wine and glares at me with beady eyes.
The perfect combination: drunk and mean.
I stare, baffled that anyone would talk to me. I glance in Aren’s direction, and she nods. I bring the pie toward the guard.
“Set it down,” the guard orders.
