Crown of Crimson

by Rose Reid

  What a pathetic assassin, I berate myself. Twice now I have been pricked by the same dart. I’ll have to make it my mission to relieve all servicemen of their poisonous ikketra darts before I attempt another escape.

  I slump to my knees and somehow end up on my back. I see Jamas get up off the floor, only rolling his neck as if I barely affected him.

  When he looks at me with a potent glare, I just shake my head. “You didn’t think I’d come easily, did you? Killing the Queen of Crimson won’t be easy, and I certainly won’t be paraded in front of Evrallon before the Cruel King beheads me in front of the masses,”

  Jamas straightens the cuffs around his wrists, light brown hair falling into eyes of hazel. “Then it’s a good thing the king doesn’t plan on executing you.”

  III

  “When you compare the sorrows of real life to the pleasures of the imaginary one, you will never want to live again, only to dream forever.”

  — Alexander Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

  I wake with a horrid pain in my back where I must have fallen and a terrible headache that only makes the room around me spin. I’m still laying on the floor of the room in the My Fair Lady. Dark spots lurk in the corner of my vision and I just lay still for a moment to make sure that no one else is in the room with me. When I hear nothing more than the buzzing wings of an insect, I slowly sit up, rolling my shoulders and neck in an attempt to get comfortable.

  I must get those darts away from the servicemen. They leave me disoriented, unused to my own muscles, and dreary when I finally awake. Quay always warned me about the Evrallonic ikketra darts. They’re quite a pain to deal with, especially when in the hands of trained servicemen, no matter how unqualified they are.

  Jamas’ last words still echo in my ears and the need to escape from Blancathey becomes more urgent. I’m not sure which is worse — the king dragging me from Lydovier to Evrallon to be hanged for my crimes here or him dragging me from my home for some other nefarious purpose. What need would King Dryden have for me? A hundred ideas surface and none of them are good. I’d die before being used by someone like the Cruel King.

  I swiftly roll onto my knees, standing from there to assess the room I’ve been left in. It’s a good size room with a washroom off to the left. There is a small bed pushed up against the wall beneath the boarded up window and a bookshelf that has been stripped of its contents on the opposite wall to the washroom. A cold hearth is built into the wall beside the bookshelf, no logs resting beside it. The floor is made of wood and one small jump on it affirms that it is in good condition.

  My gaze flits over the ceiling, looking for any sign of a break or a weak point. Nothing. The beams all appear to be secure and the ceiling itself is perfectly intact. Judging from the light streaming through cracks in the wood-covered windows, I have been out for quite some time. The sun is bright but flecks of red and orange are making their way through the cracks in the beams. Sunset is fairly close, likely only an hour or thirty minutes away. Days in Evrallon are short in the winter and nights are long. Night will be upon us soon. That is when I need to make my move.

  I move into the washroom, where I see a metal tub, a water basin, and several hooks on the wall, one of which is occupied by a towel. The floor is the same wood as the rest of the bedroom. There is water in a pitcher beside the basin and when I feel it, it’s cold. Likely there is supposed to be a fire in the hearth for guests to warm the basin water in but no such luxury is afforded to me.

  With no drawers to check, no cabinets to scour, I’m forced to look for a loose nail in a board. My hands are a weapon of their own but a rusted nail would do me wonders. I scan the walls, hoping by some luck the incompetent servicemen did not do a proper sweep of the room and have left behind some semblance of a weapon. To my disappointment — and surprise — there is no such nail in my quarters. I try to pull a nail from the wall that has been securely hammered in but only manage to make my fingers bleed.

  I move to the wash basin and pour water over my hands, washing the blood away, then splash the cold water on my face. There is no mirror in the room to see what I look like but my appearance is the least of my concerns. I whip my hair up into a knot behind my head only to discover that the leather tie around my wrist has been removed. Of course it has been. It could have been considered a weapon in the hands of someone like me.

  I drop my hair back down around my neck in a curtain and despise the tangles in it but appreciate the warmth it provides. Goosebumps prickle over the bare skin of my arms and collarbone. I glance down at myself, wondering if the Evrallonic servicemen were able to see my Jezdah. They gave no indication of having seen it but I check anyway. Thankfully my undershirt covers my mark completely, only a tendril of black sparking from under my shirt onto my collarbone.

  I pull my shirt up higher and move back into the main room. No weapons. No nail, no hair pin, not even a string to strangle someone with. The Swordmaster’s men were extremely thorough. That same nervousness begins to pool in my stomach. Why did Quay never prepare us for capture?

  In the Aerie, I heard of assassins being captured or killed all the time but it never occurred to me that one day that could be me. It wasn’t that I thought I was too good, rather that I just never considered it to be real. That happened to other people, not the Queen of Crimson.

  No one comes to retrieve me from the room. I hear footsteps passing the room occasionally and I’ll rush to the door to hear who it is but I’m unable to identify anyone.

  I resort to clenching and unclenching my hands after a while, still trying to come up with a suitable plan of escape. What would I do if I was captured during the assassination of the governor? Quay wouldn’t have sent anyone in after me so I would have had to get myself out. How would I have done it?

  The horrible truth of the matter is that I have not been captured by inept guards, rather the Cruel King’s elite — Swordmaster Livingstone. Quay used to warn me of him, tell me that he was my equal in every way. He acted as if he knew him — not well, but at least had crossed paths with him. I try to imagine what would have happened if my former leader and Swordmaster Livingstone had engaged in combat. I wouldn’t know who to throw my coins on.

  I think that is when the sickening feeling sinks in. Like Dominik, the traitor, I am a realist. Escape may be pointless. After I escape, where would I go? Adandyrl and Blancathey are far north of the border of Adaai. I could perhaps procure a horse to ride there but how long until that horse gives out beneath me? Surely I could get another along the way but what of the servicemen? They will track me down and I know little of the Evrallonic terrain past the towns. Are there patrols that are sent out along the Adaaian border? A company I will have to slip past?

  The odds of escape are not in my favor but the prospect of becoming one of the king’s slaves is even less appealing than those odds. I cannot imagine what the king would have for me. Would I become one of his bondservants? Or worse, a mistress? The king is young enough — barely — to want to acquire more and more mistresses. Needless to say, I have no desire to be in King Dryden’s service. No, death is favorable to life in Adandyrl.

  I make my decision silently. I will become a wraith to this company of men. I will relentlessly attack them, will kill one at every turn. I will become a hazard to the Swordmaster and his men. Surely then he will decide that I am not worth the trouble and will dispose of me. He will have to in order to save the remainder of his loyal servicemen. And even he couldn’t watch as I slit his men’s throats.

  I feel sick at the prospect of killing so many innocents. Quay would be proud of me.

  Footsteps begin to approach outside the door. I spin around to face them, listening to the strong clip of the gait, the weight of the man walking, the precision of his footsteps. Before the lock is even turned and the door is opened I have recognized the footsteps to be the Swordmaster’s.

  He opens the door and sees me standing only a few feet from him. He frowns at me and my appearance, barefoot
ed and chilled from the cold, yet sweat has stuck tendrils of gold hair to the sides of my face. In one hand I see he carries a ring of keys and in the other hand is a fresh set of clothes. He tosses the clothes to me.

  “Make yourself presentable.” he orders, tone emotionless. I get the feeling he’d rather not say a word to me if he had the option.

  I look down at the clothes I’ve been presented. It is not what I would consider presentable attire. Simple trousers are given to me along with a thermal shirt. No shoes are provided. I return my gaze to the Swordmaster. “I don’t need new clothes.”

  He glares. “It was not a request, Assassin.” He points to the washroom. “Go inside and make yourself presentable for the king.”

  I shake my head. “You want me to make myself presentable for a king that slaughtered my people? That killed most of my fellow assassins and turned my own sect against me? Why would I want to be presentable for someone like that?”

  The Swordmaster gives no indication that he is agitated by my declaration. In fact, his expression hardly changes at all.

  “Because you are just as fiendish as the man you call the Cruel King.” he growls. “It matters not to me how or when you make yourself presentable. I would be more than happy to send one of my men to ensure that you are properly outfitted.”

  The thought of having one of Livingstone’s brutish men shove me into fresh clothing is unappealing but so is yielding. Luckily, I am not so prideful that I do not know how to obey an order. And should I disrespect him and show flagrant disobedience, he is liable to keep a closer watch on me.

  I grab the clothes off the ground and walk to the washroom. I slam the door shut and a take a second to gather my wits. So far, I am still unchained, but that will change shortly. I run my hands through my hair, frantically attempting to come up with a plan. The Swordmaster stands in the room on the other side of the door. Even if I did manage to slip past him or defeat him with mere strength, there would still be the matter of his swordsmen, all personally trained by him.

  A tendril of fear leaks into my chest but I ignore the ice of it. This is nothing I have not handled before. Sure, the Swordmaster is a new foe and I have never been captured before but this does not change who I am. Now is the time to sit back and take note of the habits the men have — their weaknesses. It is what we clever assassins do — we lie in wait.

  “Shoes are too much of a luxury, I guess.” I say once I’m dressed, walking back out into the room.

  Swordmaster Livingstone is standing exactly where he was before, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze cold and emotionless. I tilt my head, wondering if he feels anything.

  “You’ll be given shoes when you’ve earned them.” he informs me.

  Lyom Livingstone moves to the doorway and unlocks it, standing in the threshold for me. When I don’t move after a second, the Swordmaster glares and shoots me an annoyed, “Move, Assassin.” I force my legs to carry me forward and make my arms extend. The cuffs are slapped onto my wrists and I am yet again in chains.

  I’m brought back down the stairs and into the foyer of the inn, where Aveline waits to release us. Her dark eyes are condemning as if she knows me well but I never forget a face, and I don’t know her. Still, there is something familiar about her. I likely killed one of her close relatives and she now despises me for it. I don’t blame her.

  Jamas awaits us at the bottom of the steps. “Ready to move out, Swordmaster?”

  Behind me, Lyom pushes me the rest of the way down the stairs, responding with a curt nod. I’m handed off to the man that spoke with me on the ship, who grins when the Swordmaster passes me off to him.

  A plan begins to form in my mind as I’m brought outside of the inn and get a look at the Swordmaster’s “preparations.” Fourteen horses wait for us outside, all adorned in the colors of Adandyrl’s Keep. Servicemen mount up on their horses and by the time I get outside with the nameless soldier I was passed off to, the Swordmaster is already engaged in a conversation of arms and strategy, I would assume, with another one of his men.

  The nameless soldier gives a firm jerk of my chains. The cuffs chafe the inside of my wrists and I nearly trip over my own bare feet. I wince when I step on a shard of glass and in response to the serviceman’s annoying burst of impatience, I jerk the chains back in response. These are long enough that when the serviceman stumbles back towards me, I manage to whip the chains around his neck and drag him backwards. He’s quite the lug and it takes all of my strength to throw him against the rear of a horse standing nearby. The horse pops its rear into the air and too-lightly kicks the serviceman. He releases my chains and is thrown to the ground a few feet away from the horse while I pull the shard of glass from my foot.

  Quick footsteps behind me alert me to the Swordmaster’s approach and I’m not given time to turn around and prepare myself before he has my chains in his hands, practically lifting me off the ground. I’m suddenly hit with the realization that he is far larger than me in both height and strength. His eyes spark with rage and annoyance, enough to make even the most hardened assassin fearful. Despite the nerves unfurling like venomous snakes in my stomach, I manage to put on a brave face.

  I meet the Swordmaster’s stare straight on, challenging him to give me a reason to strike him. Not that I need one. The nameless soldier will only be the first in the many servicemen I will bring down to escape my nasty fate in Adandyrl.

  “I am not afraid of you.” I say between gritted teeth.

  “The more you struggle, the harder this is on you.” the Swordmaster growls. “And believe me, I have no qualms about making you bleed.”

  I want to threaten him right back, tell him that all of the men that participated in the slaughtering of my people will die, but hold my tongue.

  Not yet, a voice in my head whispers.

  The Swordmaster snarls at me before throwing me back onto the ground, where the nameless soldier is waiting to grab me. He’s just gotten his hands around my neck and I’ve tightened mine around his wrists when the Swordmaster calls him.

  “Moher,” he demands. “Release her and mount up.”

  The once-nameless serviceman growls at me before releasing my neck. I finally release his wrists, taking in a slow breath that feels like knives dragging up my throat.

  The Swordmaster stands over me in an instant. “Get up.”

  A spark of pain lights up the sole of my left foot when I stand up but I refuse to flinch. He keeps hold of the end of my chains and walks to his horse, which turns out to be a reddish stallion like the one I found in the stables of the fishing community. He mounts and latches my chains onto a ring on his saddle but my chains are long enough that I’ll manage to do damage from the ground, since they evidently have no intentions of giving me my own steed.

  The four hour journey through the valley and around the side of the mountains to the cobblestone road and village of Adandyrl begins. I’m dragged through the streets of Blancathey like a common criminal, people staring at me with confusion and revulsion. We leave the village behind soon enough and begin the walk on the dirt road to Adandyrl, which lies on the mountainside ahead. The weather is biting and the air is filled with the howls of rabid animals. My bare feet turn numb shortly after we begin riding and the sun begins to set.

  Snow won’t fall tonight. I can’t imagine what I would do if I had to dredge through snow in my bare feet. It will fall soon, though. I wouldn’t be surprised if Adandyrl doesn’t see it in the upcoming days. If all goes according to plan, I will not be around to witness the first fall of snow.

  I begin the task of taking out servicemen the moment the sun goes down. At every chance I get, I do something to sabotage the men. At one point, I pull the latigo tie under one of the horses’ girths, letting the saddle drop to the ground. The serviceman lands with a grunt and the horse spooks, darting away from the serviceman whose foot is still caught in the stirrup. The Swordmaster calls everyone to a stop and is off his horse in an instant to help the other servi
ceman. When a soldier dismounts to try to “teach me a lesson,” I use my chain as a noose and suffocate the soldier. He’s on the verge of unconsciousness when two more pull me off him — they don’t fare well either.

  I take down both of the fighting men, knocking them to the ground and nearly getting them unconscious before the Swordmaster returns and has me hauled back to my feet. Annoyed with his quick return, I try to escape from his grasp, spinning out of his way but he has hold of my chains and jerks me back, tossing me against his horse, who doesn’t budge.

  When Swordmaster Livingstone comes after me, I duck under him and use my chains to trip him up. He stumbles and falls but to my surprise, he lands in a roll and is on his feet in an instant. But to his surprise, when he reaches for the dagger at his belt, it’s gone. I smirk at him, tossing it up and catching it to get a better grip.

  Servicemen all around me dismount from their horses and Jamas unsheathes a sword even though Livingstone still has his own sheathed on his belt. The Swordmaster lifts a hand to stop his men and then extends that same hand to me.

  “Return the dagger now, Assassin.” orders Swordmaster Livingstone.

  “I will not be the king’s slave.” I hiss.

  The Swordmaster is undaunted, sauntering forward. “I have no disinclinations when it comes to hurting you, Assassin. I was instructed you return you to Adandyrl alive, not unharmed.”

  I allow a cold indifferent expression to slip over my features. I remind myself that I am the assassin, trained since birth to do this. He is merely a king’s guardsman with a few tricks up his sleeves. With a curious tilt of my head, I goad him. “Come and claim it.”