King of Assassins: The Elven Ways: Book Three

by Jenna Rhodes

  “Milady—”

  “Take the others and go.”

  He started to speak again, but she sliced her hand through the air, silencing him. Smothering his protest, he took his horse and beckoned for the others to follow. Lara called after him, “If this man makes it down the slope, he’s to be allowed to go free.”

  The Vaelinar stopped in his tracks, back stiffening. He muttered, “Aye,” before starting downward again, into the night.

  Harry waited until they were long gone, even the muffled hoofbeats of the horses, before grinning. “Lord and Lady Vaelinar.” He tossed his head, his lank and skinny strands falling back.

  “Do you know us?”

  “No, and I don’t want to.” He began a slow pace to his left, drawing Tranta’s wary attention. “You are lords and ladies. I doubt you’ve ever lived in a street, a ditch, a cave, in your life.” His hands tightened about his weapons. “You think this is a game. Never is, for the likes of me. Haven’t had the trial yet, but they want me for thievery. And murder. Don’t like jail. Like court even less.” When he had paced as far to his left as he apparently wished, Harry began to pace to the right. Tranta marked that he was learning the ground he stood on, its hardness and softness, stones and roots, not easily seen by firelight. Harry kept smiling. “So who is it you usually have do your killing for you? A swordsman like the guardsmen? Perhaps a sellsword like the Kobrir?”

  “I usually don’t have much need for killing,” Lara responded.

  Tranta dropped his ragful of gems at his feet to keep his hands free, feeling uneasier by the breath. “Lara, I begin to think Niforan had the right of it—”

  The Kernan gusted a laugh. He stopped in his pacing. “Now, are the two of you thinking of backing out of your bet? That’s not the way it’s done. Although I wouldn’t put it past a Vaelinar. Lower than Bolgers in my sight.”

  Lara did not draw her dagger, but unwrapped a chain bracelet from about her wrist, and began to swing it. The movement caught Tranta’s gaze, just for a moment.

  The wrong moment.

  Hariston lunged but not at sword’s point, not at chest or arm or head, no, he went low, bowling Tranta’s legs out from under him even as he reached out and sliced Lara’s leg, cutting through riding leathers like a hot knife through butter. He rolled and vaulted to his feet, coming up with a boot at Tranta’s throat as Lara crumpled in spite of herself, with a tiny noise of dismay. Tranta felt her hot blood splatter his face even as he fought to breathe under the Kernan’s heel. Underestimated, Tranta thought. The thief lifted his boot enough to kick him in the jaw, and he saw stars, his ears roaring with the blow. He rolled to his side, ears ringing, eyes losing sight, fighting it, fighting to get up and protect Lara, sucking down wind not only to breathe but to yell for help. Far, far underestimated the hunger in this thief.

  And the quickness. Harry tossed the long sword aside, sweeping his hand toward the girdle to rip it off Lara even as she curled in reflexive pain, her hands going to her leg, trying to stop the spurt of blood. The second dagger began its silvery arc toward the curve of her throat.

  Someone screamed.

  Tranta thought it was Lara as he rolled up and staggered to his feet.

  The scream stopped abruptly as it hit its highest register. Gurgled into a deep moan of the most intense pain and then that stopped as well. Tranta rubbed at his eyes, readying to tackle the Kernan as the thief wobbled back onto his boot heels, both arms outstretched.

  Or what was left of his arms.

  Burning coals, stinking of seared flesh dropped and sizzled in the scrub grass at their feet. Nothing remained of his arms below the elbow. Harry’s head turned, jerkily, a quarter of a turn, and his jaw dropped as if he might say one last thing, but he did not. He pitched face forward and hit the ground, quite dead.

  Tranta did not feel much more steady on his feet, but he lurched to Lara and knelt down. “Hold this,” she said, and grabbed for his fingers, put his index tip into the hole on her leg, as her eyes rolled back in her head and she passed out.

  He felt the blood flow slow to a trickle as he held the hole, and drank down as much air as he could get into his lungs before he bellowed for her guardsmen.

  Then he looked down on her, and the jeweled girdle, and thought that he needed to make her a choker as well, that their fiery brilliance was not all that different from the fresh blood glistening on his hand in the firelight.

  And that the Jewel of Tomarq shielded Lariel quite well.

  DESERT HEAT CRACKLED along his back, warning of an even more dangerous baking once the summer months set in. Sevryn had been there long enough that they gossiped in front of him: no word of Rivergrace, but Lariel, it was said, had been spotted riding from Hawthorne, shining in the sun as if the Jewel of Tomarq itself rode on her shoulder, and he’d no idea what to make of that except that he had no more time. Sevryn had beaten every fighter he knew in camp, most of them more than once. The most dangerous one he’d met had been a woman, as the old Kobrir had warned him, and a left-handed woman at that. She’d come within a palm’s width of hamstringing him and although he’d prevailed, he was not happy that he had maimed her doing it. She did not accept his apologies after but scowled as if he insulted her for being the lesser skilled and weaker. Part of him feared that he might meet with her again, in the dark under dire circumstances, and the outcome would be even more harsh.

  But if she stood between him and his freedom, she would go down. He’d wasted enough time. He’d let the Kobrir educate and hone him, but he had no more time. The ild Fallyn waited for no one. As for Rivergrace, nothing from any who had seen her, and no recent sign from the waters she might have touched. He paused, on his knees, hands in the dirt grubbing weeds, realizing he’d said that last aloud.

  “You have said that before,” the old Kobrir remarked, settling back on his haunches. The lowering sun slanted shadows across his unreadable eyes.

  “Because it is all the more true. Is this bringing me closer to finding your king for you? You set me on that road—let me go follow it.”

  “It may not be a road to your liking.”

  “It never was, but you used a threat to urge me upon it. I take that threat seriously.” Sevryn glared into the mild eyes watching him behind a Kobrir mask. Fading eyes, yes, but a stare returned steadily into his. The old man was as unyielding as the dry land about him, this sere land they called home.

  He had it placed in the map of his memories finally, not far south and east of Larandaril, over the small break of stony hills that had capped the Mageborn Wars badlands from the more verdant First Home lands, this spine-breaking land. There was a river close by, a major river that would disappear into the mountains themselves and then open up to tumble down toward the sacred Andredia which flowed into and out of the Warrior Queen’s holdings. A wall of chaos bordered this patch of land, making it inhospitable to enter and warning off any trade caravan because of the uncertain magics. It seemed, now, to Sevryn that the magics were not so pooled here, except for that wall, and once passed, the Kobrir had not only a gate few would breach, but a welcome curtain drawn over their existence. It was possible they had a few aryns planted along that curtain. Yes, water was dear here, but it would rain enough that it could be stored, and they had the deep lake in the valley which could be used, no doubt fed by underground water sources. If it rained at all, the aryns could hold. The sun was a little too hot here, but the Kobrir weathered it well enough. And they were a little too isolated here, but again, they were a cult of killers. Better for them, or they’d have been rooted out and put to the sword long ago.

  The herbalist stirred. “You may think you’re ready. Perhaps you are, Sevryn Dardanon. You rarely were defeated by us, even before this training. Queen Lariel misses her Hand.”

  “I did more talking for her than fighting.”

  “Even so.” He stood. “Come with me one more time.
”

  Hope surged through Sevryn as he got to his feet eagerly, more than ready to follow the old one again into the terraced garden of his herbs for both healing and killing. He trotted down familiar paths, noting the herbs about ready to be picked, the flowers of some just beginning to bud, knowing them with a familiarity he had not had before.

  They continued past the lake, into a ground he had not yet seen. A thorny growth covered a small patch; the herbalist stopped at the edge of it. Very tiny blue flowers peeked out of velvety leaves, protected by a fine layer of thistle-like undergrowth, and the stems wound up, about and around with long, wicked thorns to finish the guardianship.

  “This is the king’s bed.”

  Sevryn shifted his weight. Thoughts sifted through him. A final trial? Was this the “king of assassins” they had urged him to find? Would he be required to survive whatever test the plant held for him? His mouth dried. Whatever skills he had in fighting would not help him now. He thought of all he’d learned the past days from this Kobrir and wondered if there was anything that could serve as an antidote to the king’s bed.

  The Kobrir seemed to be waiting for his response.

  “Why name it that?”

  A twitch of a smile behind the veil. “Because it puts every king down to rest. That rest has all the appearances of death, but it is not, not for many, many weeks when the body finally wears down because it cannot wake.”

  “A coma.”

  “Rather like that, yes. I am told that the subject is fully awake and aware while in its grip but unable to respond.” The man cut his hand through the air. “I would not like to go like that.”

  “Nor I. Which part of it do you use?”

  “The buds only. Squeezed for the juices. Put upon the tip of a dagger. Jabbed into the muscle tissue. Hit the heart or lungs and there is no recovery. Muscle tissue and the subject succumbs to the rest. Oddly enough, the body will heal itself of all but the turpitude if tended diligently. Once the antidote is given, the subject recovers, often healthier than before.”

  Sevryn frowned, not sure if he quite understood. “If other blows have been struck, they still heal?”

  “Yes.”

  Sevryn took that in. A strike near the heart or lungs would be invaluable. “And you show me this why?”

  “We are giving you a vial. Prepare your weapons when you know you’re closing in. When you meet our king, you must strike. You must bring him to the rest. That will deliver him to us, and from there, he is ours.”

  “He doesn’t want to be king of the assassins?”

  “I am certain he does.”

  “But you don’t want him to be.”

  “Perhaps. Such things are not easy to know, are they? Perhaps we are in need of his counsel, and that has not been forthcoming. Perhaps we fear he attempts too much and must be slowed before we are all lost. Perhaps we are jealous. Perhaps we are tired. Perhaps we are about to be led by another with more potential. Who knows.”

  “If you do not, I certainly can’t begin to.” Sevryn gave him a slight bow. “The antidote?”

  “A maiden. All kings respond to maidens who bow before him, do they not? But that is for us to give.”

  “I understand.” He didn’t, quite, know what that last bit meant but it wasn’t his problem, as they said. “Tomorrow, then.”

  “Yes. First light.”

  “And to where do you send me?”

  “To the battleground, one of yours, not ours,” the old Kobrir said. He made a motion.

  Out of the thorny shadows stepped the woman fighter he’d cut so badly. She did not wear a veil over her face, and the neck of her shirt also lay open, to allow the air to reach the wound and finish the remarkable healing that had already taken place. Both surprised him, the woman and the healing. She held clothing over her arm. “I am to dress you.”

  The herbalist gave a stiff bow and backed away. “I leave you for the moment. When I return, I carry the vials of the king’s rest.”

  She did not move closer until the older master had gone. Sevryn turned to her with curiosity. “Why you?”

  “Why not me?”

  He wondered if she held a dagger under the clothing, one last challenge to meet, but she laid each piece across the ground and folding her legs, went to her knees, and waited for him to disrobe. Sevryn did so, also wondering why these clothes were any different than the ones he’d been given earlier, but as she held out each piece, he could see their weaving was finer, tougher, and darker but in shadows of gray, not like the blacks they wore. The bottom half was no problem, but she watched him critically as he began to pull on the shirt, which wrapped about and cross-tied. “No,” she corrected and put her hand out.

  She changed the fold and sat back again.

  “What is your name?”

  The Kobrir’s gaze flecked up to his face and back down to his chest. “Why?”

  “I’ve met dozens of you in the ring, but not one has given me a name.” Sevryn was not convinced that he had met more than a few handful, over and over, with different battle tactic specialties, but he had no intention of letting the Kobrir know he thought their population as thin as he did.

  “Perhaps it is not our wish to do so. We may meet again, on the street, in the shadows, or on contract. Is it easier to kill someone whose name you know? I do not believe so.”

  “It’s all a business to you anyway. Traders call one another by name.”

  The side of her mouth he had not cut twitched slightly. “So if we trade blows, we should know each other? Very well. I am Bretta.”

  “Thank you. And you all seem to know my name, but I am Sevryn.”

  “Indeed we know you. You are the man who will find our king.”

  “And what do you think about that?”

  Something flashed deep in her eyes. “He must be found. He made us. He led us here. He put us to work. He told us there would be an end to our road, but we’ve never reached it. He has lied to us. There must be an accounting.”

  “So this will not be a happy reunion.”

  Bretta got to her feet smoothly. “Let us hope it will be a just one.” She held up the hood and veil. “You are almost dressed. You’ll come back to the fire, eat and sleep, and a guide will be given to you.”

  And almost completely informed, although he knew there were some vital answers lying in wait for him, like an assassin in ambush. Uncertain as the future was, he welcomed it. Any step on that road would carry him back to his heart.

  Rivergrace

  “Now braid the strands tightly,” Narskap told her.

  “I know, I know,” she said, and shuddered as she could feel Cerat gnawing at her, at the leads she was giving him, even that tiniest portion of the Souldrinking God, readying to go into the man whose heart and soul strings she held, the soldier that Quendius had near killed for them, to make into one of his Undead. It was not the first time today she was doing her weaving for Narskap, nor would it be the last; with each one, she felt more loathsome. She could not return from this. Could never explain it or expect an understanding of it from Sevryn or Nutmeg, let alone hope for redemption. No one but Narskap could even come close to understanding, and he simply did not care, having lost that ability.

  “This is vile.”

  “He will most certainly die if you stop. At least he’ll have some sort of existence under Cerat’s reign.”

  “How can that be good enough?”

  “Almost everyone dying will tell you that any semblance of life is good enough. Otherwise it’s a dark edge we slip over.” His hands cupped hers. “This way and that.”

  “I know.”

  “Then do it.”

  “It fights me.”

  “You fight it.”

  Rivergrace tossed her head a bit to get a stray bit of hair from the corner of her eye. “I hate this.”

&
nbsp; “I know. But it will be vitally important later.”

  “Why?”

  Narskap became very still. He rarely breathed except to talk and she’d gotten used to the eerie stillness behind her unless he was talking, but now he let out a brief sigh. “Trust me only in that it will.”

  Trust in this man, this being, was not easily come by, and he knew that well, so she did not respond. She fumbled the pattern once, and his rough hands moved quickly over hers, smoothing it out.

  “How clearly can you see these threads?” he asked her.

  “The gold is life. Very distinct. It’s more than gold, really, but it has a fullness to it—I can’t quite explain. If I were weaving, it would be like the difference between a thread and a yarn.”

  “But I know what you are saying. And the black thread is death.”

  “It’s not black.”

  “Is it not?” Narskap’s expression, like granite, rarely changed, but she thought she saw a crack.

  “No.” Rivergrace shook her head slightly. “Black is a color. This is an absence of color and warmth. It is a denial of all the gold thread holds. It is like the opposite of existence.”

  “But you can see it? This absence?”

  “I’ve been doing this with you for days. Of course I can see it, or I couldn’t be working with it, but I can’t describe it, except that it’s anathema. It’s loathsome.” She wanted to worry her fingers together at the thought but could not, not as long as she held this man’s threads. This dying man was bargaining with all he was worth to keep on living, somehow.

  “You are fire and ice. And this is nothingness.”

  “Yes. I think you can describe it like that.” She paused as the man before them staggered to one knee. She frowned, twitched her wrists, and then tied the braid off.

  “Are you done?”

  “He either stands and exists or falls and dies. I can tell which I think would be better for him—for any of them—but you don’t wish to hear it. You know it yourself.” She broke away from the bare embrace Narskap held her in, and finally chafed her arms as if cold or so she could shrug off the indescribable feeling that crept up her fingers. She did not look back as the man gave a grunt and clambered up to his feet. He swayed as unsteadily as a newborn foal.