Traitor Princess, Assassin Saint
Page 1
Traitor Princess, Assassin Saint
T. R. Sherwood
Copyright © 2021 T. R. Sherwood
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9798530086922
Cover design by: T. R. Sherwood
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
About The Author
CHAPTER ONE
The craftsman was almost to the border when the assassins caught up. The snow-capped mountains that marked the end of Seichre rose along the horizon, cool and inviting in the summer heat. He dashed between birch trees, his leather shoes kicking up a spray of black mud, when suddenly a small throwing knife slammed into the ghostly bark of the nearest tree.
The craftsman froze instinctively. He whirled around and scanned the trees, trying to find out where the knife had come from. Stripes of white bark and yellow-green grass formed a dazzling pattern. He seemed to be the only soul around for miles.
He turned back around with a sigh of relief, only to find a dark figure standing directly behind him. There weren’t multiple assassins, just one woman, veiled and dressed in black. Under her veil, the shape of her hairpiece made it look like she had horns.
The craftsman’s only chance of survival was to kill her before she could kill him. He drew his sword; a precious memory steel falchion whose colors shifted faintly from sea green to faint red, the color of blood in water. It was the first memory steel blade he had ever created. The steel was bound to his soul, and he could control it with nothing more than a thought.
He slashed at her, but she was no longer there. Goddesses, she’s fast. Cautious, perhaps, of the dangerous memory steel, she retreated into a clearing.
It didn’t matter. The craftsman let go of his sword and willed it to remain in the air. It rose to head height, unsupported, and hurtled at the assassin’s throat. She didn’t move. Her expression was unreadable behind her black veil. Instead of slicing into her neck, the sword froze mid-air, and hovered before her.
The assassin made a slight hand gesture. The glowing metal of the blade slowly darkened until it was pitch-black, matte and rich like something unreal, like a hole in the air. Then it turned and rocketed back towards its owner.
She wasn’t just any assassin. She was Lord Wraith, the only person who could control memory steel that belonged to someone else. Even the unfortunate craftsman, an expert in memory steel, had no idea how she did it. He didn’t want to know. Some secrets only got you killed. Being a memory steel craftsman was already bad enough.
Lord Wraith flicked her fingers. The blade turned sideways, slowly pressing its dark edge into his neck until he backed up into the nearest tree.
“Please have mercy,” he said breathlessly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you. Please don’t take off your veil.”
No one in Seichre had seen Lord Wraith’s face and lived, except for her predecessor, the previous Lord Wraith. The craftsman squeezed his eyes shut. Hot tears grew at the corners of his eyes.
Lord Wraith considered him coolly. “Do you understand what you’ve done?” she said. Her voice was eerily soft and quiet.
The craftsman swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed against the cold edge of the blade.
“You planned to cross the northern border into Unland and sell the secret of refining memory steel,” she said, in a tranquil monotone. “Many Seichrenese blacksmiths know the secret. Have you ever wondered why how many of them survive trying to defect?”
He shook his head, trying not to move his neck.
“My predecessor and I have been tasked with hunting traitors for the last twenty-five years. No one escapes Lord Wraith, and no one betrays the Crown.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. Please, I have a family.”
“Everyone has a family,” Lord Wraith said, with a hint of irony creeping into her voice. “It’s a poor excuse for you in particular. You have a brother who lives in the Xiunian quarter of the Royal City, but he doesn’t rely on you for anything.”
“I have an aunt,” the craftsman said desperately. “An elderly aunt.”
“In Alrhen Xiun,” Lord Wraith said. “I believe you haven’t spoken to her in several years.”
“You really did your research,” he said, emboldened by the fact that she was still talking to him. If she was talking, she was willing to negotiate. “I’m impressed. Here.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a coin pouch, embroidered with turquoise snakes. “A token of my goodwill.”
“You have two choices,” she said calmly, ignoring the bribe. “You may return to the Royal City, or you may die.”
“But that’s...”
“Choose, please.”
Suddenly, his face twisted. “I could have been rich if not for you,” he snarled, reaching into his cloak.
It was too late. The memory steel sword slashed across his throat, and he fell, dead before he hit the ground. Lord Wraith bent to pick his sword up by the hilt. Suddenly, the blade winked out of existence. Lord Wraith tucked the empty hilt into a pouch at her waist.
The craftsman had decided to gamble with his life for a chance at riches beyond imagination. If his opponent had been someone else, he might even have succeeded.
Lord Wraith began her journey back to the Royal City of Seichre. Behind her, the body of the craftsman started to sink into the muck. Ravens wheeled overhead. Soon, they too would sense the smell of decay.
✽✽✽
Annara’s favorite thing about living in the Crescent was watching the storm fronts sweep in over the sea. Standing on Ervon, the northernmost island, she was among the first to see them come. Thunderheads bloomed on the horizon. Each one was miles high, hazy, with bright lace edges and darkness at their hearts. The air turned metallic. Sheets of gray rain inched into the harbor, stirring the waves into treacherous whitecaps.
Annara breathed in the storm air and watched small fishing boats hastily turn back towards the harbor. Waves of cold air blew in off the ocean, tugging at the edges of her rust-colored habit. She turned away. She had an appointment to keep.
Wind rushed down the cobblestone streets as she passed. Windows rattled. Some of them were cracked, while other of them lacked glass entirely, filled only by a darkness like gaps between teeth. The copper ornaments on the roofs were weathered and green with age. The city-state of Ervon was not impoverished— the Lord of Ervon lived quite well in a palace towards the south— but its government was one
of the most corrupt in the Crescent, and its people rarely benefited from their lord’s decisions.
The house she was looking for was old, with thick wooden beams. Wind whipped smoke out of the chimney. A young man in a loose poet shirt stood by the door, tapping his feet and puffing on a cigarette.
His name was Mercan, and he forged paintings for a living.
Annara bowed slightly and flashed him a smile as she approached. “Sun’s blessings be with you.”
He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t have any money.”
“I’m not here to collect alms, Mercan.” She lowered her voice. “You’re planning to forge one of the lost paintings of 9th century saint Severanne of Ervon and sell it to the Lord of Chreon Se. You need my help.”
His expression changed. “I think you’d better come in.”
The inside of the house was humid and dark. Heat hung in the air, seeping out of the rough wooden beams. Everything smelled sharply of paint. Dimly, Annara could see oil paintings leaning against the walls and balanced in stacks on the creaking floorboards. Frames gleamed golden in the thin strip of light that fell from the door. Mercan watched her carefully as he shut the door behind them.
“You’re not one for witty conversation, are you?” Annara said. “Calm down, I’m not about to sell you out to the Ervonian Guard. Your boss hired me to help you. My name’s Holly, by the way.”
He shook her hand. “Mercan.”
“I know. Can you spare a cigarette? I’m dying for a smoke.”
He fumbled in his pockets. “I didn’t know nuns could smoke.”
“You didn’t know nuns could help you plan your criminal enterprises, either, but here we are.”
Annara took the cigarette and lit a match by scraping it against a wooden beam. The tip flared. Colors briefly leapt off the paintings around them like a chemical fire. The room blazed in shades of gold and emerald and rich magenta, all in thick, heavy brushstrokes. She lit her cigarette and shook the match out. The colors faded, and the tip of her cigarette glowed orange.
“Why the Lord of Chreon Se?” she said.
“He’s a patron of the arts. Frivolous. Carefree. He spends all his time on clothes while his advisors run the city.”
“Having a nice fashion sense doesn’t actually make you stupid,” Annara said. “Chreon Se is sharp. I’ve seen your paintings, and I think you can pull it off, but don’t get overconfident. You’ll need the exact right type of paint and a way to make the finished product look realistically old.”
“I can take care of the aging. But the paint...”
“Saint Severanne’s paint formula is recorded in one place, and one place only,” Annara said. “The Royal Library of Chreon Se.”
“I can’t break into the Royal Library,” Mercan said anxiously.
“You’re in luck, because I can. If the formula calls for memory ore, though, there’s nothing I can do. You know that, right?”
“Why’s that?”
“Neither of us can afford it, and it’s impossible to fake, not to mention poisonous and difficult to handle before it’s refined. But, realistically, it probably won’t be a problem. Saint Severanne was never wealthy. Do you have my advance payment?”
“Yes, of course.” Mercan rummaged through a drawer in the half-light until he found a leather case full of papers.
She took them and flipped through them, tapping the ash from her cigarette into a bottle-green ashtray. It was hard to tell in the low light, but they were a full set of identification papers for someone matching Annara’s description.
“Thanks so much,” Annara said, slipping them into her bag. “I’ll get that formula to you by the end of the day.”
“Wait, that’s it?”
Annara blinked. “Of course. What else could there be?”
“Don’t you need a crew and a floor plan of the library?”
“Do you have a floor plan of the library?”
“No, but—”
“Then why would you ask? I don’t need one. I don’t need a crew, either. I work by myself and for myself.”
“But you’re working for me,” Mercan said slowly. “You’re helping me scam the Lord of Chreon Se.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” She smiled brightly. “There are always exceptions. I should go if I want to get to Chreon Se before the storm hits.”
“Until tonight, then.”
“Until tonight.”
CHAPTER TWO
It wasn’t raining yet, but the air smelled ferric. The horizon darkened like a bruise. Annara scanned the street briefly until she saw a beggar. He was an old man with a long beard trying to take shelter from the storm in a thin alley.
She bowed as she walked over. He nodded courteously at her. Nuns and beggars got along well in the Crescent. A mendicant nun who had taken a vow of poverty was only a step above a beggar herself, and most nuns and monks practiced some kind of charity as part of their vowsd.
She offered him her cigarette. Annara didn’t actually care much for smoking; she only did it when she wanted to make an impression.
He took it gratefully. “Thank you, sister. Sun’s blessings be with you.”
“You too. Take care during the storm.”
She watched him huddle against the brick, carefully cupping the orange flame between his palms to hide it from the wind. Then she moved on.
All seven city-states in the Crescent were linked by bridges, except for Rheon Se, which was only accessible by ferry. It took about a day to walk from the first city-state to the sixth, depending on how crowded the streets were. The first bridge Annara had to cross linked Ervon and Archon. Unlike the others, it was guarded by soldiers with polearms.
Annara flinched when she saw the colors of the Lord of Archon in their uniforms, gray and white with black piping on their coats. She forced her smile back on. Stray raindrops began to darken the wood of the bridge. One shattered against the back of her hand.
“Awful weather, isn’t it?” she said cheerfully. “Looks like quite the storm out there. Sun’s blessings to you both.”
One of the soldiers laughed. “Fat lot of good the sun goddess can do us in all this damned rain.”
“Papers, please,” the other soldier said grimly.
“Just goes right down the back of your collar, doesn’t it? The rain, I mean,” Annara said, flashing her forged identification papers. “I should get back to the abbey before I get completely soaked. I only have the one habit, you know.”
“I only have one uniform,” the first soldier said miserably.
“You may proceed.”
“Thanks. Take care, gentlemen.”
The rain started to pick up as she crossed Archon. It hissed onto the cobblestones and murmured in the gutters. A thin veil of mist drifted along the ground. Annara ducked into a tunnel and opened her back. Under the leather case of forged papers, there was a long brown coat, a black skirt, a beret, and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses.
Certain that no one was looking, Annara threw the coat and the skirt over her habit. She buckled a belt loosely over her waist. Her habit still peeked out from under the velvet at the cuffs and hem of the coat, but its color had faded so much that, outside the context of its shape, it was no longer recognizable as a nun’s habit.
She tucked her long hair up into the beret so that it looked shoulder-length and began peering through the glasses. They had no lenses, since glass was expensive, but hopefully no one would get close enough to tell. She checked her reflection in a puddle, then carefully uncorked a bottle and added a few smears of ink to her chin and hands. Perfect.
A nun walked into the tunnel. A shy young scholar walked out.
The Royal Library of Chreon Se was slightly larger than the palace. It rose high above the rest of the city, crowned in gleaming glass and reddish copper. Flags streamed from the library’s towers, emblazoned with the pink and red camellia of Chreon Se.
Annara ducked in by the west entrance and squeezed water out of the hem of her coat. Inside, th
e vague reflected lights of a chandelier glowed in well-polished wooden walls. A librarian sitting at a reception desk looked up idly.
“Papers, please, miss.”
“Certainly.”
The librarian took her identification papers and passed her a guest log to sign. Annara dipped the pen into the inkwell and scratched an indistinct name across the page.
“What is the purpose of your visit to the library?”
“Oh, you’ll laugh,” Annara said, with a sheepish grin. “I’ve been here twice this week already. I’ve been trying to finish my dissertation, but my advisor keeps saying I absolutely must include a section on sun saints in order to make it an academically sound piece of writing, even though they’re not really my area. Something about cultural context. You know.”
“What’s your dissertation on?”
“Sixth-century Crescentian poetry. It’s fascinating, really, in the way it combines Xiunian and Seichrenese influences— but I don’t want to keep you from your work. Could you direct me to the library’s materials on the life of Saint Severanne?”
“You can find sun saint biographies on the third floor of the east wing,” the librarian said.
Annara bit her lip. “Oh, actually, I was looking for a primary source. Now, I don’t know a whole lot about saints, but doesn’t the library have Severanne’s personal notes?”
“Those are in the special collection,” the librarian said sharply, leaning over the desk. She was pretty, with tightly curled black hair and a dusting of dark freckles across her light brown skin. “The scroll is incredibly delicate, which you really ought to know.”
“I am a scholar and a conservator,” Annara said, feigning indignation and resisting the urge to lean back so that the librarian wouldn’t notice her fake glasses. “I would never knowingly do something to damage such a priceless artifact.”
“Be that as it may, we have protocols here at the Royal Library of Chreon Se. Come back with a signed letter from your advisor.”
“Oh, sweet goddesses. Please, can you see your way to making an exception? My advisor is a real bastard when it’s raining— sorry for swearing— says it hurts their joints.” Annara put on her best pleading expression. “I don’t want to sit there while they lecture me about not being able to do anything by myself. I can’t do that. I’ll die.”