Page 6 of Cinder
Cin thought they were the most right of the lot. Murder was murder, whether or not it had to be done. There was no goodness in killing, no piety in taking a life, only rage and justice.
From the look of the announcement, it seemed there wasn’t any new information posted—though Cin couldn’t be certain, his ability to read limited to the few words he’d memorized over the years. There were no attempts at a picture of him, at least, and no lengthy paragraphs of description. More confirmation that Dorthe hadn’t spoken to anyone of their encounter.
As Cin left the announcement board behind, he headed for the highpoint in the square. If the day was clear enough, sometimes the peaks of the castle towers from the nearby capital city could be spotted from there. It was good luck, his birth mother had told him as a child: a chance to change their fate for the better. As she’d grown sicker, she’d begged to be brought to the square just to see it. The sight hadn’t cured her, nor had it saved Cin’s remaining family from their slow financial ruin, but he found himself drawn to it all the same, especially on days like these—days where he knew he’d not become the child his mother had wished for. The blood might wash out of his cloak, but the murder would not.
It was as though seeing those towers meant he was forgiven in some small way, forgiven by more than simply Dorthe.
A faint wisp of cloud cover hung low, turning the horizon to a dim gray where the farmlands connected Cin’s sleepy outskirts town to the bustling capital. Cin’s heart sank despite himself. It was a ridiculous superstition. But so had been the gleam in his mother’s smile as she basked in this very square, giggling,“See, my little Szule? Our God is smiling on us! Only good things will happen today.”
Still, Cin squinted through the haze to the west, hoping to prove himself wrong. As he did, Lacey and Rags landed at hisside, Perdition swooping past them to drop onto Cin’s shoulder. She cooed, nipping at Cin’s ear.
He tried not to smile, not to roll his eyes and laugh at her—not in public, regardless of how little mind anyone seemed to pay Cin, even now—but he didn’t try very hard. Perdition cooed again as Cin scratched around her little cheeks, a gleam in her bright eyes. Cin chuckled at her.
“Felon,” he murmured.
Across the square, a Hallinisch solider approached the bulletin board. She wore the green uniform of the crown’s watch, but her gold banding caught Cin’s attention. It was delicate and embellished—a style far more elaborate than the ordinary watch members who stalked the streets after a Menace’s murder. That signified a closeness to the royals themselves—a part of their personal guard, even. All the watch belonged to Queen Idonia, technically, but the bulk of them did her bidding throughout the capital, venturing into the surrounding towns and beyond when her family’s need demanded it. Whatever watch work required a personal guard member had to be out of the ordinary.
The watch member pulled a fresh, rolled bulletin from her bag and began hammering it to the announcement board. The pound of her nail sent Cin’s birds into the air. They circled, jabbering to each other, and landed on a nearby rooftop.
Cin’s gut twisted. He had sworn the Plumed Menace’s wanted poster had already been updated, the price already raised, but perhaps the crown had learned something new of him since. What if Dorthe had seen the sugar on her counter, and thought it not a gift, but some odd kind of threat? If she’d gone to the watch just then, could they have printed the new flyer by now?
Why give it to a personal guard of the royal family, though? Their hatred for the Plumed Menace ran deep, but that seemed out of the ordinary, even for them.
As Cin fought back his own panic, the watch member took a step back and proclaimed, “Behold, an announcement from King Warner and Queen Idonia!”
She did not seem inclined to stay and answer questions, but the nearest onlookers pressed eagerly in to view the nailed paper, Cin following anxiously in their wake, watching the faces of those nearest the bulletin for any sign that he was better off fleeing.
“What— Does that mean a marriage soon?” one of them whispered.
Marriage? Cin felt his relief like a bucket of cold water, crackling against his skin and sliding into his bones. It had nothing to do with the Plumed Menace, then. Which left him with a far less panicked curiosity. Cin crept through the growing crowd, listening as two of the nearby shopkeepers spoke in increasing glee.
“Every weekend? For six weeks?”
“There will be food!”
“What is it?” a child asked, grabbing hold of the shopkeeper’s arm.
“A ball,” he replied. Lifting his voice, he shouted out to the gathering mass as he read, “The king and queen are hosting a ball in honor of Prince Lorenz’s impending declaration of marriage to a good and gentle partner, for the bettering of our heir’s future ascension to the throne and to support his just leadership of our kingdom.”
Heir. After growing up with the brilliant and charismatic Adalwin as Hallin’s crowned prince, Cin recoiled at the words. He’d mourned Prince Adalwin’s loss with the rest of the kingdom. Everyone was convinced—if not by the bloody crown, then by the long seven years since he’d last been seen—that Prince Adalwin was gone for good.
In the passing of the wordheir, Cin felt more than just the weight of that crown. It had been found not a month after he’d killed for the second time, pigeon feathers stuck to its bloody surface. Not those of his pigeons, Cin knew, not his blade nor his rage, but the prince’s death had felt personal for it nonetheless. He’d regretted, then, picking a calling card so easy for others to replicate.
It hadn’t stopped him from continuing it, though.
No one Cin killed, common though they were, was worth any less than a prince. Even if that prince had been cherished as a bright and hopeful future for a kingdom who prided itself in being the gentle, kindhearted alternative to its eastern neighbor, a value which seemed to slowly be degraded with every year that passed since his disappearance. In all that time, though, there had never been an official announcement declaring in such blatant terms that his title was passing on to the couple’s younger son.
A son who was getting married, no less.
“Do they have the match picked out?” someone to Cin’s right asked—the wife of the local blacksmith, Cin thought.
“They would not declare a marriage without one,” her friend replied.
“Then why delay the new partner’s identity?”
But the shopkeeper was still reading, “This celebration will occur for the final day of every week for the upcoming six weeks, during which all are invited to the capital to partake in food and drink from the castle’s reserves. There will be space in the Prince’s private party reserved for eligible young—”
By then, the roar of those gathered had overwhelmed the speaker’s voice. Cin caught only passing phrases, the excitement growing with each mention of food. Despite his fairly regular—if often bland—meals, Cin could feel their hunger infecting him as well. A whole banquet, for everyone. Food he didn’t have to cook,didn’t have to serve, food that Cin didn’t have to clean up after, or shop for, or spend every waking minute working around. Maybe there would even be iced cakes or strawberry tarts, spiced veal or mutton, or even the bittersweet chocolate drink made with the legendary beans of the southern continent—all the rich and sweet food Cin hadn’t tasted since before the famine set in.
