by Plum Pascal
“I didn’t summon you,” I reply hotly, my melancholic preoccupation slipping a little in my anger. “And I wouldn’t have to prune you if you wouldn’t keep singing at all hours of night.”
“Singing is what we do.”
“Drinking songs and limericks?”
“Wouldn’t need to sing for it if you’d give us some proper spirits.”
“And what would I say to the king? The Drecaine vines want ale?” I laugh at the ridiculous thought.
“Cider,” the rude vine corrects. “Don’t want any of your human piss water.”
“As if cider will go over better,” I snort. “Now do be quiet before I find my shears.”
“Whore,” he mutters again before his petals curl inward once more and he falls silent.
I fist my hands into my skirts again, this time in frustration. The fabric slides through the gloves and I tug them off in frustration, throwing them to the ground. Sweat be damned, I want one evening where I don’t have to wear the blasted things. Uncle can give me that, surely? If I’m to be married and sent off to Gods only know where for Gods only know what purpose, I can at least enjoy my last nights of freedom.
I pluck a pair of shears idly from their place beneath the bench in the arbor. Perhaps I should prune. Doing so will give me time to puzzle things out—to figure out what my next moves should be. And then I realize I’m only kidding myself—I have no next moves.
If Uncle sends me away, there’s no one to rule my kingdom. No one except a regent. But why would Uncle do that? He has to know Ascor will not accept him. Unless...
Unless they have no other choice. Unless, like Delorood, a regent is the only option they are given.
My stomach bottoms out, like I’ve hit the zenith of a hill and have been pushed roughly over it, plunging down into uncertain waters below. No... surely not! He’s sending me away with Achmed, not handing me over like a pig for slaughter… There has to be another explanation.
There has to be!
Before I can examine this horrifying thought too thoroughly, however, I hear sounds from the other end of the garden. Someone is moving through the narrow garden path, and they aren’t being careful about it. At least one of the saplings I’ve been tending snaps beneath a man’s booted foot. I spin, so my back is to the wall, the bench braced behind my knees. Then I slip the shears into the corner, out of sight, but within reach if I need them.
I fold my hands primly in front of me and pretend to examine the new Camellia blooms.
I wait.
I don’t have to pose for long. Two men round the corner a minute later. A quick peek in my periphery reveals it’s Prince Achmed, closely trailed by Anon. Both stalk forward with almost predatory grace. Neither one of them can see me just yet, hidden as I am by the arbor shadows.
“You said it would work,” Achmed hisses to his valet. “You said Eversleep should make her faint. Then I could have her before you do your business.”
Bile creeps up my throat as his meaning registers. The dizziness I felt earlier wasn’t stress. I was drugged! Achmed and his valet have been conspiring to rape me! Was that why Anon stood so confidently in my doorway earlier? He’d already made plans to defile me even then?
Neither knows that Draven has inured me to poisons and sleeping drafts for this very reason. The dizziness probably ought to have been a clue that something corrupt was going on. But I haven’t had Eversleep in years.
I’m shaking with rage by the time Achmed and his valet come alongside the arbor. Anon seems surer on his feet than the Prince. Is he like me, perhaps? Something not quite human? My mother’s night hag biology gives me an edge after dark, though I’m told my senses are pathetically dull otherwise. It’s Anon who spots me, not Achmed, which solidifies my suspicions.
He’s not human. Or at least, he’s not wholly human.
I inch back toward the bench and my makeshift weapon. The smile Anon hoists onto his lips is seconds late and strained.
“Princess,” he says in a faux jovial tone. “We are so glad to find you well. My Prince was concerned when you left so speedily.”
I’m tired of playing this charade. “Because he might miss his chance to force himself upon me?” I spit back acidly.
The pair pauses for just an instant, exchanging a significant glance.
“So, you overheard, little eavesdropper,” Achmed says.
“You must have inherited more from your mother than we anticipated,” Anon continues. “Reports say you’re not a night hag.”
All geniality drains away from his face, replaced with an arrogance so cloying, it makes my stomach sick. Furthermore, I can smell the conceit upon him. Every emotion has a scent, though none are usually so strong I can scent them on skin. This man must be truly full of himself.
“I’m not a night hag,” I insist. “And you’re not half so subtle as you think.”
Achmed carries on, either not hearing me or ignoring the jab. Behind him, Anon reaches into his cloak and withdraws a blade with a soft snick of sound. Human ears wouldn’t register it. But I’m not wholly human either. Finally, fear seeps in and my anger fizzles and melts away like Sweetland’s candied floss under rain.
Anon is armed and Achmed is reaching for me. I haven’t truly escaped, after all. I’m backed into the arbor, with a stone wall at my back. I can’t hope to climb it before one of them plucks me off. The arbor hems me in on both sides, with Achmed and Anon blocking the only other exit.
I’m trapped and at their mercy. And they have no mercy to offer.
Achmed wears the triumphant smile of a tiger as he sees the realization play out on my face. “Turn around and grip the bench, Princess,” he says, voice silken and dangerous. “Play along and you can survive for a few weeks after the wedding. Who knows? Maybe I’ll fake your death and take you across the desert to serve as my concubine. In a few years you can bear me a son. Your Uncle wants you gone one way or another.”
“N… no. He doesn’t...”
Uncle is all I have left in this world. My only family. How could he betray me like this?
“No, Achmed,” Anon hisses. “It ends tonight. Fuck her if you like, but afterward, we have to stage the thing properly.”
Achmed tuts as my stomach drops.
“You have no sense of adventure, Anon. Sure you don’t want a chance at her? She’s quite fetching. Wonder if the thatch on her mound is just as red as her hair?” He grins wickedly and licks his lips. “I suppose I’ll soon find out.”
He reaches out a hand to stroke one of the red ringlets that falls around my face. Sleek and blood red, it’s one of the only hints to my heritage. That, and my silver-grey eyes. No human I’ve met has precisely the same color eyes or hair. Achmed runs his fingers along my cheek, grin widening when I flinch away from his touch. He skims his thumb very lightly over my lip, frowning when it comes away clean.
“Thought the flush of your lips might be lipstick, since your mother was such a painted little whore. Doesn’t matter. Turn around, Princess. I won’t ask nicely a third time.”
I plant my feet firmly. I can’t hope to defeat both of them. Not in this dress and not lacking weapons. But I refuse to lie back and whimper while this villain divests me of the virtue I’ve been saving for Draven. One open-palmed slap over his ear ought to knock him senseless. Then I can run. How far I’ll get though? There’s really no telling.
Achmed reaches for me. I pivot slightly and raise my hand, throwing it across his face. I put all the power I possess behind the blow, grateful I’ve stripped off my gloves. Now there’s nothing to cushion the blow.
I strike the portion between his jaw and cheekbone. The second my sweaty palm makes contact with his skin, Achmed’s eyes roll back in his head, showing only white.
Then he drops dead at my feet.
FOUR
CARMINE
For a second, I stare at Achmed’s prone form, absurdly hoping he’ll stand up and say this is some sort of jape being made at my expense. The threats, t
he aspersions about Uncle, dropping to the ground as though dead. I want all of this to be some sick prank.
But he’s not breathing. Where my hand touched him, his skin runs with black toxin. I recognize the toxin vaguely from one of my botany lessons. It’s taken from an extremely virulent flower, Aconitum Curare, an illegal splice between Wolfsbane and Curare. The toxin tends to only be utilized by huntsmen and assassins. My gaze drops in horror to my trembling fingers.
I killed him with just my hand. That means…
The sweaty patches that began to sprout on my palms as a young girl were never anxiety-induced. They were poison.
Gods, what if I’d taken the gloves off to touch Draven earlier in the day? I’d have killed him as surely as I’ve killed Achmed!
I catch a whimper of panic behind my teeth and try to wrangle my mounting terror. Oh Gods, I’ve killed Achmed. A prince! I’ve killed a prince! And I didn’t meant to! He wasn’t a good man and perhaps someone should have done it, but I hadn’t intended to! I just wanted to escape him!
This is witchery, no doubt about it. If what they said about Uncle is true, then I’ve just handed him the excuse he needs to execute me. Other countries are more casual about the use of magic when done behind closed doors. The odd potion here or love spell there aren’t strictly punished in other lands, unless the caster becomes too brazen and starts practicing openly.
Not so in Ascor. The law is clear and my uncle, and mother before him, enforce it with frightening rigidity.
Suffer not a witch to live.
I have to flee. Now.
And then I remember I’m not alone.
Anon stares down at Achmed’s body, nonplussed for a protracted second before his gaze flicks back up to me.
“I wondered,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “It was a logical leap. You’re sisters, after all. But it was never said that blood was a factor in the choosing. The other two Chosen aren’t related. I wonder...”
I can’t make sense of his words. Sisters? I’ve been an only child for years, after Neva’s death. Neva’s remains lie beneath the row of white rose bushes, if there’s anything left of her after all this time.
I reach behind me for the pruning shears. I’m not sure what to think about this new, horrifying revelation about my hands. I don’t know the limits of this newfound ability and don’t care to test them. My poison may work only once, or may need time to refill. An intact blade will always stab.
Anon doesn’t miss the motion and whips the blade from beneath his cloak. I get a very good look at the six-inch silver dagger, complete with its thick steel guard and crest depicting an enormous bird in flight. I recognize it at once.
“Gryphus,” I breathe.
He’s a Gryphus huntsman, which means this situation has become more perilous than I ever dreamed. He’s no ordinary assassin or royal lickspittle. He’s one of the most deadly creatures in all of Fantasia. And he’s here to kill me.
Every spare scrap of knowledge I learned from Draven comes screaming into my mind. Always go for the kill shot with a huntsman. Never allow him up to hunt you again.
I scramble to get ahold of the shears and bring them down as quickly as I can, missing his heart entirely when he twists out of the way. The short blades do stick into his thigh, as he extends his left leg to kick me into the wall. No doubt to knock me out and slit my throat while I lay unconscious. The move earns me a respite, at least, and I seize on the opportunity, tripping over the hem of my dress as I sprint in the opposite direction.
With a grunt, the huntsman pulls the shears free from his thigh and drops them to the ground with a muted thump before he comes tearing after me. A quick glance over my shoulder tells me he’s not far behind, his speed making up for lack of knowledge of the terrain.
I’m never going to escape him at this rate. And even if I do, where will I go? I’ll be wanted for the death of Achmed. A witch and a murderess. Who will believe the Prince tried to rape me? There’s no shelter in Ascor. No allies. No one to protect me…
No, that’s a lie.
There is one man.
An injured, semi-mad man trapped in the bowels of the castle for a crime unknown. It’s probably suicide if I attempt to free Draven. He’s not strong enough to face another huntsman. But I don’t see that I have another choice.
I trip in the garden entrance and realize I have to shorten my dress or I risk losing my footing over the material. I reach down and tear off at least two feet off the bottom of the dress.
Anon’s blade whistles through the air above my head, a strike that would have parted my head from my shoulders had I been standing upright. I seize the fallen scrap of fabric, rubbing the slickness off my hands and onto the fabric before shoving the whole lot back toward Anon’s face.
Anywhere the fabric touches him, angry boils erupt, pulsing black toxin into his skin. He doesn’t drop like Achmed though. No doubt, like Draven, he’s immune or at least resistant to many poisons.
“Bitch!”
He lunges for me again, but he’s noticeably slower. I duck beneath this second swing and then dive for the stairs. Three flights of them lead down to the dungeon. I hesitate for a moment, considering the best way down. He’ll likely push me down all three flights, if he catches up to me on the stairs. So that leaves...
I leap onto the banister and push off, the silken skirts aiding in the speedy slide downward. I feel dangerously unbalanced and dizzy as the floors go whipping past me at an incredible pace. Above me, the huntsman bellows his outrage. His feet slap the stairs as he makes a mad dash after me. A senseless giggle rises to my lips, but I press a hand to my mouth to stifle it. I’m not out of the woods yet. Far from it. I’m likely stumbling into the belly of the beast.
With almost no warning, the banister ends and I find myself tumbling down the last stair and onto the cold stone of the dungeon floor. I don’t have time to catch myself and blood bursts inside my mouth, washing across my tongue and into the back of my throat. I gag, spit, and try to recover the breath I lost on impact before the huntsman is on me. He’s close.
A soft cry escapes me as I try to move. The inside of my cheek feels raw and blood continues to pour into my mouth. Did I knock a tooth loose?
Pushing up to my knees, I crawl into the dim interior of the dungeon. The light from the few, small windows is gone and only soft, flickering pools of torchlight illuminate the corridor and the inhabitants of the cells. Ahead I can hear the mumbling of Ia, Draven’s mad cellmate. She speaks about bears again. What is her obsession with bears, I wonder?
The blow must have harmed me more than I imagined, because I cannot seem to recover my balance enough to stand. Instead, I crawl like a whining babe through the dark, hoping something or someone stronger will leap out to save me. The tears begin to pour when I realize I can’t even open the bars of Draven’s cage. The copied key was taken from the pocket of my soiled red dress and placed inside a small hidden cubby beneath one of the loose stones in the wall. Even if I reach him, I can’t free him.
Gods, I’m so stupid. I’m going to die feet away from the only man I’ve ever loved.
“Draven,” I whisper as loudly as I dare. “Draven please wake up. I need your help.”
Vain hope, that my valiant protector will put out an unlikely win at the eleventh hour. If he were strong enough to force the doors, he would have done so by now. His face appears in the gap between the bars and my shuffling crawl stops as I truly take him in.
Gods, my poor, beautiful Draven. What was done to him?
One eye is swollen shut, black with bruises that are only just beginning to heal. Angry burns litter his neck like love bites from Sol himself. His hair has been mostly burned away, leaving it many inches shorter than I remember. It’s gone from shoulder length to ending just above his ears. He’s inexpertly shorn most of it off so it’s at least all one length.
“Carmine?” he croaks. “What are you doing down here? You’ve split your lip! What happened?”
I don’t have time to answer, because the Gryphus huntsman lands on his feet with a loud smack on the stone, just yards behind me. He strolls into the first pool of torchlight with an arrogant, swaggering gait.
“Got you now,” he says with a smirk. His gaze flicks to Draven and it graduates into a leer. “Ah, Corvid. I was hoping to get you as well. Perhaps the bratty princeling had it right. Perhaps I should...”
He crosses the distance between us quickly, stopping my progress by the simple action of stepping on the remainder of my skirts. Though I strain, I can’t move forward. Anon hooks a booted foot beneath my skirts and flicks them up with a simple kick. I lose sight of Draven in a shower of silk and crinoline. I still hear the vicious curse he slings at the Gryphus huntsman as Anon finishes his sentiment.
“Have some fun, before I kill you both.”
“Touch her and I’ll pluck your eyes out, Gryphus,” Draven hisses in a tone of cold fury that chills even me, and I’m not its intended target.
“If you could escape, you would have, crow,” Anon taunts, echoing my earlier suspicion. “Sit and watch and perhaps I’ll make her death painless.”
I bat desperately at my skirts. I’ll fall on his blade if I have to. I won’t let him make my death a spectacle, just so he can taunt Draven.
And it’s this last act of defiance that allows me to see what happens next. A pale shape swings down from the ceiling, emerging from the darkness like the wings of a dove. The shape descends on Anon with silent, deadly grace. A blade flashes in a neat snicker-snack.
Anon’s head parts company with his shoulders.
FIVE
SABRE
The Gryphus Huntsman’s body lists to the left, his head to the right. Both hit the ground at almost the same instant with muffled, meaty impacts.
I peer at the parts critically, though there’s likely no cause for alarm. Not many living things survive decapitation, which is why it’s a favored move among my kin. Head and heart. Even shifters can’t live without them.