by Gregory Ashe
Chapter 52
Ilahe brought the sword in her left hand down hard, slicing deep into the blond esis’s arm before the blade caught in the top of the thick oak table. The blond man swore, but his mace whipped toward her head. Ilahe dropped to the floor of the entryway, injured knee flaming in protest, and felt the mace whistle past. With the blade in her right hand she thrust, catching the esis in the gut as he reversed his stroke. The esis let out a squeal, and the mace fell from his hand to hit the ground. He followed a moment later.
Ilahe stepped over him, past the other two men she had slain. A serious cut ran under her left arm; blood, too hot against her cold skin, ran down that side. Ilahe’s other wounds were minor—a shallow slash along her forearm, which had not touched the muscles, and a cut along her jaw. The wound in her shoulder had reopened, and it blazed every time she swung her sword, but she could not help it.
The guards had been waiting for an intruder, although perhaps not Ilahe—they had seemed surprised to see her, even though they had been waiting in formation. Ilahe grimaced; the men were as much blind-fools as any man Ilahe had ever met. Blind-foolish enough to underestimate a lone woman.
Hallways and doors led away from the entryway, but Ilahe ignored them all and headed up the stairs with their crimson runner. The eses had stood guard in front of the stairs; it was the best clue as to where Ayde might be. Each step sent a flash of pain up Ilahe’s leg, and even the air brushing the wound in her side seemed torture, but she forced herself up. Killing Ayde was the last thing before Ilahe could start her new life. A life where she had friends, women who cared about her, a purpose. Hash. She pushed that last thought away. He would want nothing to do with her, no matter what the other women joked about, and Ilahe would never bring herself to pay him. And even if he did want her, there was still the matter of the quickening, of the godling that waited inside Ilahe’s womb.
When she reached the next floor, Ilahe pushed those thoughts away. A woman stood at the center of the room, pale as snow. Skin, hair, dress—white like the morning horizon. The lips were red, though, as dark as the thick carpet that covered the floor, and the woman’s eyes were pale grey. When Ilahe reached the landing, drops of blood spattering the runner on the stairs, the woman drew back.
“A salt-blade,” she muttered. Pale eyes darted around the room. “Who sent you?”
Ilahe took a step into the room, and the woman backed away. “Are you Ayde?” Ilahe asked.
The woman tossed her white hair and stared at Ilahe for a long moment. She was old, Ilahe realized. The lines were almost invisible in that too-pale skin, but they were there.
“Well?” Ilahe asked.
“A poor assassin who does not even recognize her victim,” the woman said. “I am Ayde.”
Ilahe took another step into the room. She didn’t bring the blades up; she was too tired to waste the energy. “I’m not an assassin,” Ilahe said. “At least, I was not hired to kill you.”
The woman took another step back, her pale eyes locking on Ilahe. “No,” Ayde said. “Only my god.”
“I have no interest in him either,” Ilahe said. “Now that there’s no money to be had.”
“Who was your employer?” Ayde asked. “Give me his name, and I will let you live.”
“I don’t know his name,” Ilahe said. It seemed impossibly stupid now, but she had been desperate at the time, and Dorur had been so certain. She had trusted Dorur. It was not his fault; he could not have known the job would fall through. If anything, he hated gods more than she did. “How did you know I was coming, if you do not have him captured?”
Ayde flicked a hand impatiently, her eyes distant. “We intercepted a few of your letters, although now that I think on it . . . no, he couldn’t possibly. Could he? Not even Sikkim was that clever.”
Ilahe took another step. “I want to be left alone.”
Ayde gave a small, tight smile. With a speed that belied her age, she turned and darted through the door behind her. Ilahe ran after her, knee raging at every pace. The door was bolted, and though it only took a few moments for Ilahe to cut through the soft wood and release the bolt, Ayde had already disappeared from sight. Ilahe found only a long hallway—one of the wings she had seen from the outside—with a door at the far end. Windows along each wall admitted weak patches of starlight, but otherwise the hall was dark.
Wounds burning, Ilahe ran down the hall as fast as her wounded knee would allow. If she lost Ayde now, things would be even worse. No, she had to kill the woman, even though a part of Ilahe resisted the thought. The chance to have a life was sweet on her tongue, and the thought of becoming a weapon again—of returning to that empty tunnel of revenge—did not appeal to her. Ilahe ran, swords drawn, because to do otherwise would end her new life before it even began.
A blur of movement, white streamers in the darkness, appeared in the far door. Ilahe slowed to a trot, knee aching, shoulder on fire. Something was wrong.
She heard the first arrow before she saw it, but by then it was too late. It struck her shoulder with the force of a charging bull, spinning Ilahe a quarter step and knocking her back. Before she could blink, two more shafts struck—one in her breast, near her heart, and another in her side, spinning her back to face the door.
Ilahe stared. Shock kept away the worst of the pain for a few heartbeats. Ilahe watched as the white streamers of movement at the end of the hall settled into the familiar figure of Ayde, her burgundy lips drawn into a smile. A massive bow—almost as tall as Ayde herself—hung easily in the other woman’s hand.
She was out of range of the salt-blade. That was all she had needed. And the design of the building had been perfect for the plan, gaining the pale woman all the distance she needed.
The thoughts marched through Ilahe’s mind in perfect order. Pain washed over her, then, as though she had drunk fire. She never even saw the arrow that found her throat, throwing her back.
Flying through the hallway, the air cool against hot wounds and hotter blood. Darkness, and distantly, a deep chime. She would die in a dress. There was something she liked about that.