Page 125 of The Crimson Throne
“Yes.” The word is strangled from my throat.
I reach for the chapel door, but it swings open so violently that I stumble back. Joseph’s eyes are wild, his breath ragged. He doesn’t even bother bowing to the queen—which she absolutely notices—and instead turns to me immediately. Which Mary also notices.
“The prisoner is gone,” he says.
“What?” I heard him, but my brain cannot seem to draw meaning from the words.
“Cockburn sent me. Told me to tell you. The guards who were taking the secretary to the dungeon were paid off.”
Mary sneers. “By my husband, I presume.”
Joseph nods.
“Darnley has Samson?” It comes out as a question, but I know the answer. We all thought Darnley had left already, but he must have been hiding somewhere nearby, waiting to see if Samson was successful. When Samson failed, Darnley took his weapon back.
Mary is focused only on how her plan has started. She’s as giddy as a schoolgirl at the thought of her husband’s imminent death.
But also…
My heart stops.
Darnley is going to a house crammed full of gunpowder…with Samson.
“No,” I groan.
“Darnley will be taken care of!” Mary protests. “It’ll be worth it.”
Worth it? If Samson dies?
I must go to a standing stone, beg my father to quit his idle court and come here with troops to help defend Scotland.
But all the closest stones are to the north. And Edinburgh is to the east.
“This is happening tonight?” I say, barely able to get the words out. “Bothwell is already on his way to lay the trap?”
“Of course,” Mary says. “The sooner, the better.”
How much time has passed since Bothwell left the chapel? Not much, but if he’s had a plan in place, it won’t take long for a series of hard runners to enact his explosive vision.
I turn on my heel and start running.
“Alyth!” Mary calls, but I don’t pause. I know I should be summoning the fae instead, demanding they cross through every portal with every weapon they have and fight, but…
Darnley can die; I don’t care. But he has Samson. And if the entire house at Kirk o’ Field is going to explode, there’s no way Samson can escape unscathed.
I bypass the Great Hall, racing to the stables, although I do pause to steal a winter cloak, throwing it over my gown. I need to gofast, faster than a horse, buthow?
I’m racing toward the stables when an icy winter wind slices through me, whipping the cloak around. I pause.
And a wild stag appears before me.
Beira, I think. She said she would help as she could. And deer are her domain.
A sob chokes my throat—not just at the idea that the Queen of Winter has given me aid but that this means she doesn’t see Samson as a monster either.
The stag stares down at me. It’s easily twice as large as any wild deer I’ve ever seen before, with antlers branching out in a massive display. Its reddish fur is shot through with silver—not a sign of age but a sparkling, glittering touch telling me this is from Queen Beira’s own herd.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the wind, to the wild.
