"I never did that."
"You did," Annara said, laughing. "It was your ninth birthday. It was hilarious." Her expression turned sober. "But you're not here to reminisce, are you? Is someone dead? Sit down and tell me what's going on."
She sat on the rumpled blankets on her bed, but he remained standing. His expression was grim.
"Lord Archon wants you to come back to the palace," he said. "I... I'm sorry."
"Who am I marrying?" Annara said.
Haol frowned. "What?"
"He promised me to someone in an arranged marriage, right? I can't think of any other reason why he'd want me back in the palace. He must be really desperate if he's using me to pay off his debts."
"It's not exactly marriage," Haol said slowly. "It's a Seichrenese thing. Sworn sisterhood. He promised you as an oath-sister to one of Seichre's assassin nobles."
"Sworn sisterhood?"
Haol hesitated. Annara could see fear flicker in his eyes.
"Spit it out, Haol," she said.
He sighed. "Sworn siblings are a member of a Seichrenese noble's household. Their rank is lower than that of a spouse, but higher than that of a servant. Making someone an oath-sibling is supposed to be an expression of true friendship, but most Seichrenese aristocrats just use it to keep their mistresses around. Oath-sisters are concubines in all but name," he said, refusing to meet her eyes. His hands seemed to be shaking slightly.
Annara sighed. "For heaven's sake, Haol, calm down. This is why I asked you to sit," she said, standing up and gently pushing his shoulder until his legs bent. "Do you have any reason to believe that this particular Seichrenese noble wants me to be their concubine?"
"No, but—"
"Good. I'll talk to them, find out what they actually expect with me, and we'll negotiate my duties as their oath-sister when the time comes." Annara stroked her chin. "Frankly, if my father wanted to give someone a concubine, he would choose someone prettier and lower in rank. I'm probably meant to represent a political alliance with Archon."
"You don't know that," Haol said. "Your rank isn't that high. If you try to negotiate with them, you'll have the disadvantage. You’ll have to move to Seichre. You don’t even speak the language."
"If no one was capable of negotiating at a disadvantage, every city-state in the Crescent would lose its independence," Annara said. "We'd all just be colonies of Alrhen-Xiun."
“Well…”
“Have a little faith in me for once, Haol. I’m not a little girl anymore. I’ve survived this much, haven’t I?” Annara said. “I can’t believe I’m the one reassuring you when you’re not even the one being sold to an assassin-noble.”
“You’ve survived a few years as a mendicant nun,” Haol said, gesturing around at the threadbare room. “This is bad, but it could be so much worse.”
Annara pinched the bridge of her nose. “Have you ever been a mendicant nun?”
“What?”
“Have you ever been a nun, Haol?”
His warm brown eyes flicked over her face, as if trying to figure out whether she was being serious. She stared back at him.
“No,” he decided eventually.
“Then shut up and let me handle it. Even when we were kids, I was better at this kind of thing. It’s basically just a disreputable political marriage, and I always suspected I would end up in one of those.” She smoothed her hair back from her forehead and started to pace. “Do we know which assassin-noble he promised me to? What’s their kill count?”
“That’s the thing,” Haol said quietly. “Annara, it’s Lord Wraith.”
Annara stopped in her tracks. She hadn't paid much attention to foreign affairs for the last few years, at least not further than she needed to in order to plan her next crime. Even so, the name sent a shiver up her spine.
Lord Wraith wasn't a person, at least not in the way Lord Archon was a person. Lord Wraith was a legend. He was a shadowy figure that left a trail of blood scattered across the pages of the history books, an immortal assassin that could bypass unbreakable locks and kill untouchable monarchs. According to rumor, he wasn't even human. Legends spoke of a scaled, dragon-like creature with gleaming teeth and metallic spines. No one had ever seen his face and survived, except for his masters, the King and Queen of Seichre.
"Really?" Annara said.
Haol nodded. His face was pale. "I don't know the precise number of people he's killed, but I do know that he killed the last Lord of Midion."
"Good riddance, honestly," Annara said thoughtfully. "Old Midion nearly killed half his population with steep taxes."
"I don't disagree, but for the love of all that is holy, be serious about this. Your life could be in danger."
"What reason would the Honorable Lord Wraith have to go after the life of a mere Crescentian nun? He's probably busy assassinating prominent Xiunian political figures," Annara said carelessly. "Any idea how old he is?"
"Some legends say he's several hundred years old. As old as the saints."
"Well, I hope he doesn't look it."
"Annara!"
"What? You're not the one that has to live with him. When does my father expect me to be back at the palace?"
"Tonight," Haol said solemnly. "You'd better start packing."
Annara didn't have much to pack.
When a nun took a vow of poverty, she vowed to forsake most material possessions. Nuns vowed to keep only a few items: two sets of crimson robes, a collection bowl for money, a wooden bowl for eating, and a wool blanket to sleep under. The rules changed based on personal circumstance. Nuns who preferred to have clean-shaven faces were permitted straight razors, and nuns who grew up in the tradition of carrying religious charms were allowed to keep the sun charms their parents made them.
Annara had broken the majority of her vows, but she still had to live like she was keeping them. Her possessions were relatively few. She had a few sets of clothes she used to hide her identity, cosmetics for the same reason, a knife worn thin from years of sharpening, a few miscellaneous tools for shrine maintenance, one very valuable stolen painting wrapped in a coat, and an old leather satchel to keep them in. She was grateful for the satchel. It would have stung a little to reenter her father's court with her belongings wrapped in a blanket on her back like a beggar.
She sneaked the knife and the painting into her bag when Haol wasn't looking. When he did look over, a complicated expression passed over his face: half guilt, half satisfaction.
"Is that all?"
"That's all," Annara said.
She locked the door of the shrine behind her and hid the key under one of the bricks near the threshold. She could see the palace rise like a ghost from the jagged skyline of Archon. Its marble walls paled next to the brick buildings around it, bone-colored and veined with gray. Banners dripped from its battlements, proudly displaying the white swan of Archon, bright on a background of black fabric. Annara hadn’t seen beyond those marble walls since she was a child.
This time would be different. This time, she was in control.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Royal City of Seichre was arranged like a shell, with a ring of ordinary shops and residences arranged around the walls of the palace. The palace itself was a small city, home to favored aristocrats, civil officials, the entire royal family, and thousands of servants and cooks and craftsmen.
As soon as Lord Wraith returned, the gears of the palace bureaucracy began to turn. Servants directed her through various passageways, until she found herself in a small gilded room with a circular skylight. A circle of weak sunlight spilled down from the ceiling and turned the room painfully bright.
The Minister of Industry sat in a slightly uncomfortable golden chair, waiting to receive her. She bowed perfunctorily. He was her colleague, not her master. His role was to report which of the palace craftsmen had turned traitor.
"You’re late," he said, in lieu of a greeting. “The Retired Lord Wraith would’ve gotten this done days ago.”
; "I apologize. It takes time to travel to the border," Lord Wraith said.
“It never took him this much time. When he was in charge, you could send him a black envelope and the target would be gone the next day, just like that. What does he have that you don’t?”
Confidence, elegance, the uncanny ability to work for days on end without eating or sleeping, and flawless control over his own powers. Not to mention a charming estate just outside city limits.
“I don’t know,” Lord Wraith said out loud.
“Well, whatever. Is it done?”
“Yes.”
"Shame," the Minister said. "He had talent."
"He would have sold us out to Unland in the north, sir."
"Oh, I know. Do you have his memory steel?"
She produced the hilt of the sword and held it up to the light. The blade reformed, like smoke unexpectedly condensing into metal. In her hands, the memory steel was pitch-black, but it shifted to a glowing fuchsia when the Minister touched it. He watched this process with great interest and peered at the blade with a loupe as soon as he received it.
"How do you do that?"
Lord Wraith remained silent.
"Classified information, of course," the Minister sighed. "Forgive an old weapon-smith his professional interest. I’ve always wondered how they made you."
"Curiosity is dangerous in the Royal City," Lord Wraith said. "Especially curiosity about me and my predecessor. It’s fine to wonder, of course, but perhaps a little unwise to ask."
"I know." He ran a hand over his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose I should simply be thankful that such a powerful weapon belongs to the government of Seichre. Even if I don’t understand exactly how it works.”
“I agree,” she said politely. She didn’t bother trying to say she wasn’t a weapon. Everything he said was true, and she had given up trying to argue with it when she was still a child.
“Well, thanks for all your hard work, Lord Wraith. I’ll take this sword and submit my report to the King.”
Lord Wraith bowed her farewell. “Thank you.”
✽✽✽
Instead of returning directly to her own estate in the Royal City, Lord Wraith traveled to her predecessor's mansion outside city limits. She hadn't been there before. The entire process of his retirement and moving out happened so quickly that she suspected he had been planning it for years, and that operating so fast that the court didn't have time to stop him was a significant part of that plan.
Once she got there, she was stunned to see how normal it was. The official Lord Wraith residence in the palace was lavish and modern. Retired Lord Wraith's new home was a perfectly ordinary country house. It was only one story tall, built in a U-shape around a courtyard with a massive, ancient maple tree. The walls were humble wood and plaster. When she walked up to the door, the green paint was slightly scratched. A chain of tarnished brass bells chimed somewhere, joining the music of the crickets in the grass.
She knocked. There was a pause, then a crash, and then the door opened.
"Whatever it is, I don't care— oh! Senne!" Retired Lord Wraith said. "I'm sorry, I thought you were someone from the Royal City."
Lord Wraith's given name was Senne. Retired Lord Wraith's given name was Heron. So few people called them that these days that Senne sometimes started to refer to herself by her title even in the privacy of her own mind. Hearing Heron call her by her given name felt like throwing open all the windows in an old house after a long winter, blowing out all the stale air and cobwebs.
"I am someone from the Royal City," Senne pointed out.
"Oh, I suppose. You're not here to get me out of retirement, though."
"Well..."
Heron gasped and clutched his chest. "No! Betrayed by my own student. Senne, how could you?"
"Sorry."
"I'll try to find it in my heart to forgive you," Heron said cheerfully. "Something to drink?"
She followed him into the kitchen, which was simple and old-fashioned. There was a stack of firewood for the stove in one corner. A blooming plum tree shaded the windows with pink blossoms.
The slightly rustic scene formed a startling contrast with Heron's clothes, which were very fine. As he bustled around the kitchen, he wore a black silk coat with seed bead embroidery which fell to his knees and flared out as he walked. He carried a gold-tipped black cane, and his gloves were velvet that swallowed the light like a moonless night.
He had been required to wear a veil when he was Lord Wraith, but these days, he wore none. His hair was sleek and black, with two premature streaks of gray at his temples. His face was handsome in an ordinary, conventional way, and he wore a perpetually mild and polite expression.
"No servants?" Senne asked.
"No."
"You could keep some, now that you've finished refining your shard."
"I suppose I could," Heron said. "I never got used to having people wait on me. It's horribly awkward, paying people to hang around and be subservient. It creates an entire collection of uncomfortable social situations. You've just returned from the north, right? How was your trip?"
"Too slow, according to the Minister of Industry."
Heron handed her a glass. It was pomegranate juice, chilled and brilliantly magenta. It must have been expensive; pomegranates had to be imported from Pahinvar, usually by way of the Crescent.
"Were you delayed due to your transformation?" he said casually, as if they were speaking about the weather.
Senne felt a hot bolt of shame shoot through her stomach. “Yes.”
"Hm. Was the Minister wearing green?"
"He was, actually, though I don't see why you care."
"I've always admired that man's bravery," Heron said, staring into the middle distance, "in wearing green despite having a face that looks exactly like that of a constipated frog. It's like he's daring me to make the comparison."
"Heron."
"What?”
“You don’t need to mock the Minister to make me feel better. I should be better than this.”
“Who said I’m mocking him to make you feel better? Mocking wealthy courtiers is my favorite pastime.” He gave her a mild, innocent half-smile. “Making you feel better is just a pleasant side effect. Do you?”
“Do I what?” Senne said, distracted.
“Feel better.”
“Oh. Yes. A little.”
He studied her face carefully. “Does it hurt?”
“Not much,” Senne lied.
"Let me take a look. Here, sit on the table." Heron cleared away a bowl of oranges and a stray bag of flour.
Senne sat reluctantly and took off her veil. She slipped out of her coat and unbuttoned her shirt. Under her skin, just above her heart, a metallic mass pulsed erratically, staining her flesh black. Tendrils reached out from the center of it like veins.
Heron looked at it with a cool, clinical gaze, without a hint of embarrassment or disgust. Senne shivered.
"It's getting worse, isn't it?" she said.
He nodded. "The corruption has intensified since we last spoke. Does it really not hurt, or are you lying in an attempt to appear professional?"
Senne swallowed. "It hurts a little. Intermittently. It doesn't hurt now."
"I see. May I?"
"Go ahead."
Heron took off one of his gloves and reached out one long finger to touch the mass. It glowed briefly, a dark red like cooling metal, and Senne's fingernails lengthened into metallic claws. She scored long scratches into Heron's table as her hands tensed. She didn't cry out, since she had been trained better than that, but a cold layer of sweat formed on her chest.
"That's... bad, right?" she said weakly.
"Mm. How often do you involuntarily transform?"
"No more than once a month."
"Good. Call me immediately if it ever becomes more frequent."
Senne bit her lip, staring at the floor. It was covered in cracked ceramic tiles, light brown and painted with a subtle swirli
ng pattern. She watched a stray beetle crawl across the grout.
"Of course," Heron said bitterly, "there's no guarantee I'll actually be able to do anything. But this isn't the sort of thing you should have to deal with alone."
"You were alone when you refined your heart shard," Senne said.
"Do you think it was easy for me?"
"You survived," she said. "Without needing help from anyone."
"My shard was smaller and less volatile than yours is. I was also much older when they implanted it."
"You were only fourteen," Senne grumbled.
"That's twice as old as you were. Be careful, Senne. And try not to be so cruel to yourself. It's not going to help."
"I know. I just..."
"Just what?"
"I just wish you'd come out of retirement," Senne said, pulling her shirt back on.
"An old man like me?"
"You're 32, Heron."
"I'm ancient. Decrepit. Probably going senile."
She laughed a little in spite of everything. "No, you're not."
"I'm on death's door," Heron said, leaning heavily on his cane. "I think I see a light."
"Are you sure you won't come back? You're the best Lord Wraith Seichre ever had. I think the King still half-expects to see you back in his office someday."
"No," Heron said. "Thank you for the compliment, but I'm done doing what the King expects me to."
"Careful."
"I'm not at court anymore. I can say whatever I want. What are they going to do, have me assassinated?" Heron laughed, which drew a small smile out of Senne. “Ah, that reminds me. We have similar titles, so I’ve been getting your mail.”
“Oh, really? Anything good?”
He handed her a sheaf of envelopes, two of them black. “Two assassination requests, neither from the Crown, obviously, so you can choose whether you want them or not. And a very fancy envelope from a Crescentian nobleman.”
“Which one?”
“Archon.”
She took the envelopes, reading the assassination requests first. Both came, as was tradition, in square envelopes of black paper.
Traitor Princess, Assassin Saint Page 3