Red Hood's Revenge

CHAPTER 1

    I F QUEEN BEATRICE’S PREDICTION WAS correct, this night would end in death. Unfortunately, Bea had been rather vague about whose.
    Danielle pulled her cloak tighter against the chill of the autumn air as she crossed the courtyard. The walls of Whiteshore Palace broke the worst of the wind from the sea, but after sneaking from her bedroom, where the embers of the fireplace warmed the room and Prince Armand warmed the bed, even a gentle breeze was enough to make her shiver.
    Leaves rustled against the base of the walls. The flowers on the ivy vines were shut tight against the cold, as were the wooden shutters on the windows. Atop the walls, the guards stayed close to their towers. If anyone did happen to glance into the courtyard, they wouldn’t see anything unusual in a lone servant girl hurrying to the storeroom by the stables on some unnamed errand. They certainly wouldn’t expect the Princess of Lorindar to be up and about at such an hour, or dressed in such a plain wool cloak and simple gown.
    Danielle’s sword bounced against her left thigh as she joined her two closest friends. She hoped the sword would be unnecessary, but Queen Beatrice was rarely wrong about such things.
    “Is everything prepared?” she asked as she reached the storeroom.
    “I’m hurt you even have to ask.” Snow White’s voice was light and musical, almost childlike in her merriment. She had thrown back her own hood, allowing the breeze to play through her hair. Snow was younger than Danielle, though strands of white mixed with her night-black locks, the price of magic spells cast years ago. The moonlight accentuated the paleness of her face. Beneath her cloak she wore a white scarf and a fitted gown of blue linen that accentuated the curves of her body.
    “We’ve been waiting nearly an hour. I was tempted to do this without you.” Dressed in a heavy cape over a rust-colored wool tunic, Talia Malak-el-Dahshat appeared to be the very model of a proper lady-in-waiting. She stood beside the storeroom wall, blending into the shadows. “They’re inside, where it’s warmer.”
    “Don’t mind Talia,” Snow said. “You know how cranky she gets when she hasn’t pummeled anyone in a while.”
    “I had to wait for Armand to fall asleep,” Danielle said. If the prince had known what she had been doing these past two nights, he never would have agreed to let her risk herself. Especially after Queen Beatrice’s warning of blood and death.
    Snow grinned. “There are ways of helping a man sleep.”
    “I don’t think the queen would let you cast a sleeping spell on her son,” Danielle said.
    Snow blinked innocently. “Who said anything about spellcasting? Some magic even you can perform, Princess.”
    Two years ago, such comments would have left Danielle red-faced and stammering. Now she simply raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I didn’t?” She turned to Talia, ignoring Snow’s choked laughter. “Please tell them I’m ready.”
    “Yes, Your Highness.” Talia moved with the grace of a hunting cat as she strode to the door. She made no sound, despite the arsenal she kept on her person. Even on a normal day, Talia carried at least three knives, a set of darts, a small whip, and several more exotic weapons. Tonight she could probably arm an entire squadron of the king’s guards.
    The storeroom door opened without a sound, thanks to a liberal coating of oil Talia had applied three nights past. The smell of dust and straw wafted from within.
    Talia was first through the door, searching the corners before stepping to the right. Snow followed, taking a position on the opposite side. Piles of straw filled the storeroom, rising nearly to the roof and leaving only a narrow pathway down the center. An old spinning wheel sat at the very back of the room. A small, covered lamp hung from the far wall, the blue flame dancing in the draft. The fairy-spelled light would burn nothing but oil, unlike a regular lantern, which could have set the entire room ablaze.
    Standing near the back of the storeroom were a middle-aged man and a young girl. A fringe of unkempt brown hair circled the man’s otherwise bald scalp. He wore an oft-patched jacket and stained trousers tucked into old boots. He smelled of sweat and mud. The sole of one boot flopped loosely as he stepped forward and dropped to one knee. “Your Highness.”
    The girl did her best to imitate the movement. Her brown dress was little better than sackcloth, and