Traitor Princess, Assassin Saint

by T. R. Sherwood

  "I do."

  "Well, I'm being completely honest now. We're walking on opposite paths, and our fates will set us against each other, but for me, at least, it won't be anything personal. I won't hate you. You'll just be in my way."

  "Just business, then."

  Annara looked relieved. "Just business, yes."

  Senne looked at her, with her tousled ash-blonde hair and her crooked smile. Senne's business was death. She wondered what Annara's business was.

  Whatever it was, killing someone for business was something Senne understood. "I see. There's only one thing I don't understand."

  "What's that?"

  "How do you know you won't hate me?"

  Annara smiled, but it seemed somehow hollow in comparison to her usual cheer. "I don't think I can."

  CHAPTER NINE

  The next day, Annara woke to find that someone had made breakfast for her again. The same thing happened the next day, and the day after that. She couldn't find any servants to ask about it, and Senne herself was often out. The breakfasts themselves were delicious, so Annara didn't see any reason to complain about it. Each one incorporated pears somehow. Annara figured that someone had heard they were a common fruit in Archon and was, in some small way, trying to make her feel at home.

  When Senne wasn't out working, she mostly kept to herself in her room. One day, though, she took off her veil and fell asleep on a downstairs sofa with her chin in her hand.

  Annara waved a hand in front of her face experimentally. There was no reaction.

  Senne looked much softer when she was sleeping. The curve of her lips was gentle. Her eyelashes cast little shadows on her cheeks in the tangerine light of the sunset. A single stray strand of black hair fell over her face and fluttered as she exhaled.

  Annara reached out a hand as if to touch her cheek, then changed its trajectory at the last minute and unclipped the ring of keys from her belt. They jingled quietly against each other. Senne stirred, murmuring something, but didn't wake.

  Annara pressed the key to the basement into a bowl of soft candle wax. Then she replaced the keys exactly where she found them. She turned to leave, heading towards the closet with the basement door in it, then she stopped.

  Very slowly, to avoid waking her up, she lowered Senne’s head onto the sofa’s pillows and pulled a blanket over her shoulders. The crease between Senne’s eyebrows smoothed, and she sighed slightly into the pillow.

  It didn’t take Annara long to get the key copied. She was back before Senne woke up, and late that night, she crept down to the basement door.

  It opened to reveal a stone staircase and bare stone walls. The air was dry and cool, with a lingering metallic smell. A torch sat in a sconce on the wall, new and apparently unused. The stale smell of pine drifted off its pitch-coated head.

  Annara ignored it and lit a candle instead. The thin, flickering light outlined tortured organic patterns in the stone below her feet, worn into the bedrock by years of rainwater.

  The stairs led to a small, square room. It was completely bare except for a set of heavy iron manacles bolted into the far wall. The chains were thick and scratched and black. Beneath them, the floor was smeared with rust-colored bloodstains.

  Annara stood frozen at the foot of the stairs. A pearl of candle wax shattered on the stone at her feet. She had known Senne’s work was violent, of course, but this looked more like a hobby. Did she kidnap people and imprison them here, interred in chains beneath her elegant manor? Was Annara going to be next?

  She shook her head. She knew better than to jump to unnecessary conclusions. Instead, she knelt down to take a closer look at the manacles.

  They were fashioned from rough black metal that looked like something dredged from the sea. Annara leaned in close, and the smell of iron welled up. There was something dark and red dried onto the metal and a long hair pasted to one of the chains, jet-black and straight. Annara picked it up and held it to the candlelight. It was unmistakably Senne’s hair.

  Next, she touched the red stain and touched her fingers to her mouth. It wasn’t paint, but it wasn’t human blood, either. Annara knew what blood tasted like. This substance looked like human blood, but it tasted too metallic, with a burning, acidic bite that lingered in her mouth.

  “Interesting,” she said out loud, and she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

  Something creaked softly in the house above. Annara blew out her candle and cast one last look at the chains lying in dark clots on the cold stone floor. Then, as quietly as she could, she crept back upstairs to her room.

  ✽✽✽

  Once Annara seemed to have settled into a comfortable routine at Wraith Manor, Senne went to visit Heron. To her surprise, his house was completely empty. She found him kneeling on the ground behind it, contemplating pumpkins.

  The gourds were still immature and ghostly, like oversized pearls buried in a sea of dark green leaves. He looked out of place in his immaculate black clothes. His gold-tipped cane lay across the dirt behind him as he pulled a few stray weeds.

  “Picking up a new hobby in your old age?” she said.

  He stood, brushing a few flakes of dried mud off of his pants. “That’s right. I figured gardening couldn’t be that much harder than assassination.”

  “Is it harder than assassination?”

  “Marginally. How’s your oath-sister?”

  “She’s fine,” Senne said. “She’s been teaching me a little about Crescentian cuisine. It seems to mostly be soups.”

  “You’re smiling,” Heron noted.

  Senne’s hand immediately flew to her veil, but it was still firmly in place. “What? No, I’m not.”

  “You are, actually.”

  “I’m— How do you know that? You can’t see through my veil, can you?”

  “No, I can hear it in your voice,” Heron said. “Is the soup really that good?”

  “No, it’s actually pretty bad. All of the greens that grow naturally in the Crescent are fairly bitter, so most of their good recipes are imported from Alrhen-Xiun.”

  “It must be the company, then.”

  “She talks a lot, about all sorts of things,” Senne said, and Heron raised his eyebrows at her. She must have been smiling again. She forced her voice back into a monotone. “I was skeptical at first, but having her around isn’t so bad. Every day is different.”

  “Hm,” Heron said. “Well, as long as you know what you’re doing. Keep what I said in mind, won’t you?”

  “Keep what in mind?”

  “Someday, the Crown is going to give you an order you can’t accept, and you need to be prepared for that day. What if they order you to kill someone you love? You need to know what you’ll do ahead of time.”

  Senne stared at him. “Heron. I wouldn’t betray the Crown for Annara. I would never betray the Crown for any single person.”

  “If you don’t open your mind to the possibility of something like that happening to you, it’ll take you completely by surprise when it does. Everyone has someone that they can’t afford to lose,” Heron said mildly.

  “Even you?”

  “Everyone.”

  “Who’s yours?” Senne said.

  “That’s a very personal question. This conversation is getting too emotional. Would you like me to fix you a drink so that I can do something that isn’t talking about my feelings?”

  “Oh, now the conversation’s getting too emotional?” Senne said, but she followed him into the kitchen all the same.

  He clattered around opening cabinets and making tea. The weather was just crisp enough that everyone was starting to drink tea again in Seichre. The plum tree had long since dropped its blossoms and developed a crown of dark green foliage, splashing shadows and little coins of light into the room.

  “How’s work?” he said, in a fairly transparent attempt to change the subject.

  “It’s been slow lately. That’s probably a good thing, right? Fewer traitors in the Seichrenese government.”


  “Mm. People are getting used to you as Lord Wraith.” Heron elegantly poured two cups of mint tea. The smell of mint rose into the air like a sudden burst of sun. “The more fearsome your reputation, the less work you actually have to do.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” He handed her a cup of tea, and she wrapped her hands around it. “Don’t you get bored out here, Heron?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You were made to be the greatest assassin of all time. You were good at it, too. Everyone said it must have been your fated purpose. And now here you are, growing vegetables.”

  “Here I am,” Heron agreed. “Growing vegetables isn’t the only thing I do here, Senne.”

  He paused for dramatic effect. A leaf fluttered to the ground outside. Senne waited for Heron to confess that he had been secretly funding a revolution in Alrhen-Xiun or investigating a string of serial murders.

  “I also grow fruit,” he said, smirking.

  “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

  “How can you be so cruel to an old man?”

  “You’re not even that old.”

  “I’m wasting away before your very eyes.” Heron’s expression suddenly turned sober. “You’re doing alright, then?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I heard you got your fortune told.” Heron paused delicately. “Everyone’s been talking about it. People won’t shut up about which one of you will be the first to die.”

  “No one’s surprised, though. Not even you.”

  “I think this sort of thing is only to be expected when you’re Lord Wraith,” Heron said. “So no, I’m not surprised. Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.”

  “It’s fine, Heron. I don’t mind it.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s not ideal. But Annara and I talked about it, and we agreed that no one can fight against fate. It won’t be anything personal, we’re just on paths that will conflict someday,” Senne said.

  “Hm.” Heron set his teacup crisply down on the table. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “What do you mean? I’m always careful.”

  “I know. But you’re still very young, and people never really tell you that sometimes the worst thing you can do to someone is to be kind to them. You think you can avoid getting close to anyone, but it doesn’t work like that, and—” He pinched the bridge of his nose, leaving twin smudges of dirt next to his eyes. “Just be careful, alright? Don’t forget that you can’t escape fate.”

  “I’ve never forgotten that,” Senne said, confused. “You’ve never seen me do anything but my duty, both to Seichre and the stars.”

  “Is that really something to be proud of?”

  “If you keep saying things like that, you’re going to be arrested.”

  “I’d like to see them try.” Heron took a long sip of tea. “Your transformation is coming, isn’t it? How’s that been lately?”

  “It’s tomorrow. It’s been fine. I don’t think the corruption has gotten any worse.”

  “Good,” he said. “Here’s hoping it stays that way.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The sun set slowly over the Royal City, spilling amber light sideways down the streets. Annara watched her shadow, long and black, slink up the stairs. The air was getting colder, slowly but surely. A dying wasp crawled slowly across the cobblestones in front of her.

  Annara shifted her basket on her arm. It was full of apples, bought at the market at the edge of town. Slowly but surely, Annara was learning Seichrenese, although she still had a terrible accent.

  “I’m home,” she called, pushing the door open. Wait, no, she shouldn’t call it that. “I mean, I’m here. I bought apples, Senne, but I don’t know if you like them, so I thought...”

  She paused in the doorway, her distorted silhouette encased in orange light like a fly trapped in amber. The house was the wrong kind of quiet. It wasn’t unusual for Senne to disappear for a few nights, but this time felt different. The air was heavier than it should have been.

  It took her a minute to realize that all the doors leading away from the hallway were shut. Senne normally kept them open, because they were controlled with memory steel, which Annara didn’t use. The air smelled slightly stale, and the hallway was choked with thick shadows.

  “Senne?” she said, her voice faltering embarrassingly.

  “In here, Holly,” said an unfamiliar voice.

  Annara set down her basket, wishing she had her knife. She could visualize its exact position on her bedside table where she had left it. She pushed at the nearest door. It was heavy, and only by throwing her full weight against it could she make it move enough to spill her into the room.

  A dark-haired young man in a poet shirt glared furiously at her from an armchair. One of his hands rested on the ridged leather hilt of a dagger.

  “Who are you?” Annara said.

  His face contorted. “You left me to rot in an Ervonian prison and you don’t even remember my name?”

  “Mercan. What are you doing here?”

  He drew the knife and pointed it at her. The blade looked like it was burning with the light of the sunset. It was ordinary steel, but regular steel and memory steel could cut your throat just the same, and Annara herself was unarmed. The blade shook slightly, making the reflection of the sun shiver.

  “It took me a while, but I finally did it,” Mercan said. “I finally figured out who you really are. Disgraced princess of Archon, daughter of the Traitor Concubine. No wonder you double-crossed me. With a mother like that, it’s like you’re destined to be a bastard in every possible way.”

  Annara shifted her stance, getting ready to run. Showing fear would only encourage him. “Are you just here to mouth off, or are you actually planning to do something interesting?”

  He let out a low growl and slashed at her with the dagger. Time slowed. She saw the vicious tip of the blade glint as it hurtled toward her, but she couldn’t force herself to react in time to get away. Instead, she threw up a hand out of instinct, and the tip of the blade ripped across her palm.

  She didn’t feel it, not at first. All she felt was the wet warmth of blood flowing down her forearm, and then a hard numbness that felt like a physical pressure in her flesh. Blood splattered on the floorboards with a few sick slaps. Annara reached behind her and flung the basket of apples in Mercan’s face.

  He let out a muffled cry. Annara staggered backwards and used all her strength to slam the door back into place. Another door. She threw her full weight against it. Memory steel made the doors so heavy. It was like running in a dream, where even the air was against her, and everything moved too slowly to escape.

  She could hear Mercan behind her: his animalistic grunts as he tried to open the doors, the drumbeat of his heavy breath. Or maybe that was her own. Her fingers kept slipping on the doors, and her feet kept slipping on the floorboards. Everything was wet, sticky, warm but cooling, smeared in shades of red and rust. She was losing too much blood.

  She couldn’t hear Mercan behind her anymore, so she stopped, leaning against a wall. One-handed, she ripped at the hem of her tunic to make a makeshift bandage, which she wrapped tightly around her left palm. The fraying white surface of the bandage flushed slightly, but it didn’t bleed through.

  Annara needed a weapon. No, more than that, she needed a place to hide, at least until Senne got back. Senne could handle this. Where was Senne?

  It didn’t matter. Annara would have to handle it herself, like always. What was the safest place in the house? There had to be one.

  Then it hit her. The basement, with its bare walls and heavy chains. The door to the basement had the heaviest lock in the house, and Annara still had her copy of the key.

  The door to the room started to edge open. “Don’t try to run,” Mercan growled. “I’ll cut your throat.”

  Annara ran. She stopped bothering to pull the doors shut behind her. She ran until she reached the basement door with her heart pou
nding in her throat. She shoved the key into the lock. Metal clattered against metal. She couldn’t feel her fingers.

  The door opened. Annara shut it behind her and plunged into the cool shadows on the stairs. The world seemed to shrink into a collection of blue-grays and soft sounds. She couldn’t hear Mercan anymore. She could only hear her own breath hiss out of her mouth and the tap of her feet on the stone. As her heartbeat started to slow, she could hear something else breathing, too.

  She backed into the little stone room, staring at the closed door. Chains clinked behind her. A rush of warm breath raked through the hair at the crown of her head.

  She turned. The manacles weren’t empty anymore. A massive creature stared back at her with eyes like polished jet. It filled the room with half-seen coils, which glinted like snakeskin carved out of gunmetal in the light from the crack in the door. It had four arms— no, six— no, that wasn’t right, there were eight, each one ending in three claws the width of Annara’s hands and twice as long.

  The creature opened its mouth, and its breath hissed through its teeth. Its head was shaped like that of a fox, with thin threads of saliva dripping from its canines. Its skull bristled with horns, each knife-smooth and twice as sharp.

  Step back, Annara’s brain screamed at her. Two of the creature’s thick arms were restrained by the manacles, so it couldn’t move that far. Her legs wouldn’t move.

  Behind her, something clicked. Instinctively, Annara patted her pockets for the key to the door. Of all the idiotic ways to die, she thought. It wasn’t there. She must have dropped it outside.

  A rectangle of light spread over the creature, illuminating the serpentine curves of its charcoal body. “You can’t run forever,” Mercan said, descending the stairs one by one, dagger held high.

  He hadn’t seen it yet. Annara knew she should do something, but there was nothing left: no plans, no machinations, just the knowledge that she was about to die pounding in her head like a heartbeat.

  Mercan suddenly froze. His eyes widened. Then something dark flashed silently across his neck. The monster behind Annara withdrew its claws, and Mercan’s head toppled from his body, still wearing the same startled expression.