The Winged Assassin

by Gwynn White

The music fumbled and then stopped altogether. A hiss rippled through the room.

  Every hair on Stasha’s neck stood.

  Queen Calarel slowly lifted herself off her throne and stood on a stone dais, linked by three steps to the rest of the hall. She brushed the folds of her dress, letting it spill around her slim, petite figure like water. The casual action didn’t hide the whiff of perspiration that reached Stasha. The queen of Atria was truly uncomfortable about this meeting.

  Queen Calarel took the stairs. Her bare feet made no noise on the marble floor as she stalked to Trystaen. The two fae who stood guard at her throne matched her pace with spears in hand. She stopped three feet in front of Trystaen. “As a youngling, you chose to desert to Zephyr rather than stay and defend your queen.” She sneered at Averin and Suren. “And what do you return as? A traitor to that queen and to your country.”

  Stasha swallowed the snarl building up in her throat and said, “You really don’t want to start debating who the real traitor is.”

  Queen Calarel stood so still, only her chin moved. Her eyes met Stasha’s, then moved down to the red amber pendant hanging from Stasha’s neck. Her nostrils flared as she drank in Stasha’s scent. “What are you?”

  Stasha straightened her spine and threw her shoulders back. “I’m Stasha, Orphan from Askavol, Bearer of Wild Magic, and Weapon Coveted by Nations and Kings.”

  A glass shattered behind her, jarring above the hushed murmur that rippled through the fae.

  Queen Calarel took another step forward. “That is not what I asked. You say you’re from Askavol, a village in my kingdom. Yet you’re a fae with grey eyes and the stench of fire magic on your skin. And something else. Something strange I cannot place.”

  This queen could smell magic? Stasha’s stomach rolled. This would be a terrible moment for her secrets to be revealed. Surrounded by enemies and traitors, they’d never make it out in one piece.

  “You say nothing?” Queen Calarel lifted a slender finger to her cheek. “All right, Stasha, queen of nothing and heir to even less, if you truly are my subject, why do you stand with the Wisteria traitor, the prince of another kingdom, and a Pyreack soldier?”

  Her fists clenched instinctively. How she longed to knock this hateful fae off her pedestal. “Because I’m not your subject.” She looked pointedly at the lavish hall and then back at Queen Calarel. “I don’t serve cowards who lock themselves underground, feasting and dancing while their people and the rest of the world above them are slaughtered by the thousands.”

  Queen Calarel’s throat bobbed. “So you serve Prince Averin?” Her voice was icy, as if she were struggling to keep it under control.

  Stasha smirked. “I serve no one. Only those who need me the most. The same people Trystaen has been fighting to protect for the last three hundred years.”

  Queen Calarel scoffed. “Enough of this nonsense. Prince Averin, who is she?”

  Averin’s lips curved up in a half smile. “She’s exactly who she says she is.” He placed his hand lazily on his sword hilt. Stars sparkled in his eyes.

  Queen Calarel’s slim hands curled into tight fists. The roses and thorns that crept along the walls and ceiling bristled. She jerked her head at the crowd of fae huddled around the tables of food. “Falsefinder.”

  A dark-haired female with skin whiter than a pearl stepped out of the crowd. Her lime-green eyes were even stranger than Boa’s. Her full lips and moon-shaped face betrayed nothing as she fixed her disconcerting eyes on Stasha.

  “You know truth from lie, Lura,” Queen Calarel snapped. “Tell me. Are the words she speaks true or false?”

  “She speaks the truth.” Lura’s voice scratched like spider’s feet on stone. “Yet she knows not the truth. A strange thing.”

  Queen Calarel gave a dismissive wave, as if it wasn’t the answer she sought. “She’s Atrian as she claims?”

  Lura tilted her head, and her dark hair fell across half her face. She didn’t brush it away. “It’s a truth and a lie. For she believes it true, yet she doesn’t know it.”

  “I don’t know the place of my birth,” Stasha snarled. “Why would that matter so much to you?”

  “Because she recognizes your power,” Averin said. “She knows you’re the raw magic that rocked the world. She wants to know who has a claim on you.”

  Stasha turned up her nose and tossed her shoulders back. “I’m not a parcel of land, or a stray donkey you can claim as your own. My power belongs to me and me alone.”

  Embraced in a tight rolling ball in her core, her fire and water hooted their agreement.

  A small smile tugged at Queen Calarel’s mouth as she looked at Averin. “So you’re telling me the power that shook the world eighteen years ago, which is clearly what she is, has gone unclaimed by a son of Zephyr?”

  Stasha snarled—not only at the queen, but at the fae’s horrible magical senses. “Did you not hear what I just said? No one owns me, or my magic. And I’d never serve you.”

  Homrik jabbed his spear in her direction. “You’ll be wise to watch your tone, girl.”

  “Why? She’s not my queen. She left me and my friends to die while she—”

  Queen Calarel hissed. “You claim to come from a village in my kingdom. That makes you my subject. You’ll either accept your position as property of Queen Calarel Adonis of Atria or the status of traitor. Which I needn’t tell you will result in a death sentence.” She looked sharply to Trystaen.

  He grunted. “Do you think I could ever forget the sacrifices House Wisteria made to protect you?”

  A tight-lipped glare replaced Queen Calarel’s supercilious smile.

  Trystaen turned to the crowd. “The day the Pyreack attacked the throne room in Ruepa, my father, Gorduin Wisteria, escorted Queen Calarel to the catacombs in the hope she’d survive to one day lead us to victory. Many of you will remember the day well.” A few of the fae looked at the ground, others at their drinks. No one caught Trystaen’s eye.

  “Enough of this!” Queen Calarel snapped. “Guards. Escort these traitors to the cutting rooms, and throw Prince Averin out of Atria.”

  Homrik and four other fae stepped forward, their spears bristling.

  Fire burst from Stasha’s hands, only to be whipped into a fierce inferno by a sudden gust of wind. Magic trailing from his hand, Averin moved to stand next to her and Trystaen. “You will let Trystaen from House Wisteria speak,” he said mildly, as if chatting about the weather. “Or the son of Zephyr and the Orphan from Askoval will raze this tomb to the ground.” A glint in his blue eyes supported his bluff. Without access to all of his magic, he wouldn’t be much help. “And enjoy doing it too, I might add.” He really did despise this woman. Stasha couldn’t blame him. She shared his disdain.

  Queen Calarel pulled her shoulders back. “I have magic too.” The rose thorns spiking the walls and roof grew to the size of cutlasses. One speared down and pierced Averin’s tunic just above his heart.

  Averin laughed and stood his ground. “Sure you do. But trust me; on your best day, your magic is nothing compared to hers.” Thank the darkness Averin didn’t gesture or indicate in any way that she should put on a show.

  Both of her powers sprang to attention, eagerly awaiting her command.

  Fire only, she said, throwing her arms wide and twirling a pirouette. Wild blue flames not only clothed her from head to toe, they streaked up the walls and along the ceiling, scorching both thorn and bloom. She sensed Queen Calarel pouring earth magic into them, but one by one they turned to ash and sprinkled to the ground like snow. Only once the thorn threatening Averin had fizzled away did Stasha quell her flames.

  Queen Calarel stalked back to her throne and sat. Mouth pulled tight, she crossed her arms and legs, while her guards looked on in bewilderment.

  Giddy from both her power and her spin, Stasha stumbled to a stop and flapped a hand at Trystaen. “I guess the floor is yours.”

  Trystaen’s face was almost as pale as the fae queen who pretended not to
fear him. She expected Queen Calarel to object, but, bolt upright in her throne, the fae watched Trystaen with utter contempt. If it hadn’t been for the sweat souring Queen Calarel’s lavender, rose, and thyme scent, Stasha would have believed her charade.

  In the moment it took Trystaen to gather his thoughts, the other fae were so quiet, Stasha could have heard a glowworm sigh.

  Finally, Trystaen spoke. “The palace had been ransacked. Pyreack soldiers crawled through our capital like fire ants on a corpse. I’m sure you all remember the stench. The terror.”

  A few fae nodded. Others refused to look up from their drinks.

  “While Queen Calarel slipped to safety, my father remained outside the catacomb entrance. For a day and a night, he single-handedly held off the Pyreack so our gracious queen could make good her escape. On the morning of the second day, white heat destroyed him. His ash, all that remained of him, is buried in this very catacomb. I passed his sarcophagus on my way to this hall.”

  Stasha’s hand went to her throat. Had it been one of the tombs she’d so callously counted off like prizes in a toss-the-beanbag stand at a traveling fair?

  “But my father wasn’t the only one to give his life for the queen.” Trystaen’s voice broke. “When all seemed lost, and Radomir had an arrow of fire flying for Queen Calarel’s heart, my mother, Ismene Wisteria, made her sacrifice. She shielded Queen Calarel with her own body. I was there. I saw it all.” He took a deep breath as if the memories were still raw. They probably were. “There was nothing left of her to bury. Her tomb, prepared for her beside my father’s, remains cold and empty.”

  A handful of fae murmured. From their pained expressions, this was news.

  Trystaen nodded. “I know. You were told that she had deserted with me, my brother, and my three sisters.” He turned back to Queen Calarel.

  Two spots burned on her cheeks, livid against her pallor. Around her throne, fresh bloodred roses bloomed. If it worried Trystaen, he didn’t show it. “In the aftermath, my brother Fenro called for aid from you to rebuild our family’s shattered lives. You sentenced him and all of us to death. ‘To be severed in secret.’ Those were your words. Your brave attempt to cover up that you’d let our mother die for you. You, supposedly the most powerful fae in Atria, didn’t even lift a hand to help yourself. That very day I watched my beloved brother and three precious sisters die in the cutting room. If my friend Prince Averin hadn’t begged his father, King Seph of Zephyr, to send troops to rescue me, I’d have been carved up too. Now I’m the last living member of House Wisteria. And you dare to sit there and call me the traitor?”

  The silence that followed was deafening. No one moved. Stasha could have sworn some unseen spell had turned them all to stone.

  Trystaen turned to the Falsefinder. “Tell your queen if I lie. Tell your people.”

  The Falsefinder’s hands shook as she raised them to cover her lips. Her lime-green eyes met Queen Calarel’s olive ones. Some unspoken communication passed between them. The Falsefinder shook her head. “Your Majesty knows I cannot lie.” She let her dark hair curtain her face. “He speaks truth.”

  The roses around the throne curled into tight knots. Their glittering petals darkened into something deep and cold.

  Trystaen strode to the throne, pushing aside raised spears to stop almost within kissing distance of Queen Calarel. “Does Her Majesty really want her people to know that the fae she owes so much to will now die at her hands?”

  Queen Calarel sat unmoving in her hollowed-out tree.

  “Nothing to say?” Trystaen snorted. “Pity. But it doesn’t help you. We all know how the two-faced god will judge you.”

  Snarling like a feral dog, Queen Calarel raised her hand but caught herself before her palm struck Trystaen’s face. Her pearly canines shone in the fae light. “What do you want?”

  Trystaen stepped back and tossed his ponytail over his shoulder. It was soaked with sweat. “For the debt you owe House Wisteria for my father’s life, you will pardon all supposed crimes of treason you’ve attached to Stasha and myself. To be absolved of my mother’s death, you will vow never to lay claim to Stasha or her powers.”

  Stasha blinked back tears that he’d call in a debt so heavy and filled with so much sorrow for her. This was friendship that rivaled breaking into Angharad to rescue Klaus and the others.

  “And lastly, to recompense House Wisteria for the brutal and cowardly murder of four of its heirs, you will command your finest spiriters to take myself and everyone in my company to the Topaz Run. Once there, we will be left to continue our journey into Zephyr unhindered.” He bowed to Queen Calarel for the first time. “Do this, and I will beseech the two-faced god to pardon you.” His face hardened along with his voice. “Refuse, and I’ll call upon the two-faced god to rain vengeance down on you and your court. He will not deny me. No one here will survive. Not even one servant will live to bury your remains in this catacomb you call home.”

  Queen Calarel’s breath came out in puffs so foul, Stasha flinched away from the stench. Not even the Tiyanak stank so bad. The vile fae turned to Homrik and nodded. “See it done.”

  Homrik lowered his useless spear and stepped between Queen Calarel and Trystaen. “Her Majesty has chosen to accept your bargain.” He dipped his head at one of the male nobles. “Lord Wyrran, will you assist with the spiriting?”

  Grass-green eyes hooded, Lord Wyrran put his goblet on the closest table and nodded. “Of course.” He held out his arm, clad in a glorious white linen tunic embroidered with golden and blue flowers.

  While Averin gathered the battalion together around Lord Wyrran, Stasha snorted. Atria’s best spiriter stood no more than three feet from Queen Calarel, yet the woman couldn’t issue the command to spirit them out of the catacombs herself. Talk about entitlement. No wonder Atria’s fine queen had let others die for her.

  Trystaen jerked his head at Queen Calarel. “Consider your debts to House Wisteria paid.”

  Queen Calarel fluttered her fingers. A rose cane curled around a golden goblet on a side table next to her throne. The branch twisted back on itself to bring the goblet to her lips. She plucked it up and took a languid sip before turning away from Trystaen.

  He’d been dismissed.

  All around the room, fae went back to eating and drinking as if nothing earth-shattering had happened. Surely they couldn’t all feel that way?

  Stasha studied their faces. Nothing but bland disinterest. Fire and ice tingled at her fingertips. She curled them into fists to stop magic from pouring out. “Queen Calarel.”

  The hateful fae didn’t even glance in her direction, but the sudden spike in sweat scent assured her that Queen Calarel was listening. She took a few steps closer, not caring that her boots clicked loudly on the marble floor. “Your debt to House Wisteria might be paid, but there are many others that are not.”

  Queen Calarel’s head snapped around so fast, she slopped wine onto her gown. “What are you talking about?”

  Stasha shrugged. “I’m talking about your debt to me. Your debt to Klaus. He’s the boy with the bad leg. To Feral Fox.” She shot Feral Fox a smile. “You’ll recognize him by the kindness in his eyes. To Ivan and to Vlad. You owe debts to Tarik, Goul—Ivan’s best friend—Hathrine and Lenka, Martka Alonya, and Acolyte Inna. Just a few of the thousands upon thousands of humans and fae in Atria under your protection who you left alone to die. Your debt to us is not yet paid.”

  Queen Calarel slammed her goblet onto the table and shot to her feet. “And I suppose you think you can barter for another favor?”

  Stasha shook her head so hard, her braid whipped from side to side. “I’m not bargaining, and I’m not asking for favors. I’m telling you exactly what lies in your future. One way or another, I will end this war. But before I do, I’ll call upon Ocea, Zephyr, Atria, and any other fae who’ll listen to fight with me. When that call comes, you either come out of hiding with your army at your heels ready to fight for the freedom of every soul on Zathryth
, or I will be back here to kill you myself. Only then you can consider the debt you owe to all of Atria paid.”

  Without waiting to see Queen Calarel’s reaction to that truth, Stasha joined her friends and slapped her hand onto Lord Wyrran’s arm. Other hands shifted to make space for her. When every hand had stilled, she snapped, “Get us out of this dump.”

  The world turned upside down and darkened. When it righted, she’d hardly found her feet when the entrance in the mountain that led into the catacombs slammed closed behind Lord Wyrran. Leaving him to return to his cloistered, coward’s life, she turned her back on the Atrian court to see what challenge the unknown Topaz Run had in store for her and the team.

  A frozen lake stretched before her like buttercream frosting on a cake. Winter was barely upon them, and it had already frozen solid.

  Sunlight glinted purple on snowy mountains that hemmed both sides of a wide river. In front of her lay a third mountain range. She recognized their distinctive jagged shape from the Zephyr crest. A frozen waterfall clung to its rocky face. It seemed to be the source of the Topaz Run. The near deathly stillness of the landscape was elegant, brilliant, and brutal.

  A wild laugh burst from her lips, and she spun to find Averin. His gorgeous blue eyes glowed. “That’s the start of Zephyr, isn’t it?”

  He chuckled. “That it is, pit princess. We’ve cut a full week off our journey. We’ll follow the Topaz Run to that waterfall and across the border. In a few hours, we’ll be home.”

  Her stomach knotted, and her excitement faded as quickly as it had flared. She’d just escaped one fae royal hell-bent on owning her magic. There was no way of knowing if she was walking right into the maw of another.

  She took a deep breath and started the slow trudge through the cold toward her fate.

  Stasha’s red boots fought for grip, and her arms flailed to keep her from slipping as she lumbered through falling snow. Klaus, riding on Trystaen’s back, grabbed her arm to steady her. She gave him a quick grin, before pushing forward on the icy Topaz Run.