Crown of Crimson

by Rose Reid

  I lunge forward, grabbing man after man by the head and dragging a long line across his throat, leaving the man to bleed out on the hot ground. The bandits or murderers, whoever they are, are unskilled and clumsy, easily defeated, but they are brutes with bodies that likely weight twice what I do. They tower over me, sneering with teeth that look as though they have never seen a brush. Their triumphant smirks fade when my blade meets their necks and they collapse into a pile of their own filth onto the ground.

  Sweat pours off my body as I continue to attack and I begin to notice that Lyom’s swordsmen are slow to counter, the heat getting the best of them as well. I struggle to lash out again, defeating the last of the bandits in my area, and when the last near Lyom falls, I all but collapse on the ground, my head spinning.

  The heat from the parched dirt drifts up and scalds my skin and, I imagine, leaving burn marks all up and down my arms. Black spots appear in my vision and I know if I were standing I would be wavering on my feet.

  Get up. I order myself. Do not lie here on the ground like a helpless girl. GET UP.

  My furious inward yelling does me no good. My muscles refuse to cooperate. I feel like melting ice on the sand of the Menca Denu. I gasp in a breath, arms shaking, furious with myself for becoming so fatigued — and for surely allowing the Swordmaster to outdo me again.

  Arms lift me from the ground and my instincts yell at me to get up and away from the person carrying me but again my muscles hardly listen.

  I hear a splash, followed by the cold sensation of water streaming over my arms. I jolt up, blinking as I try to get away from whoever held me. Looking back, I see Lyom, waist deep in the pool of water, an annoyed frown on his face. Too disoriented to care that it was the Swordmaster that picked me up off the ground, I fall into the water, splashing the horses around me. I hear splashes coming close to me and know Lyom probably fears I’m drowning so I grudgingly surface, throwing my hand up before Lyom comes too close, saving both of us the awkward moment.

  “Believe me,” I begin, glancing up at Lyom. “it would take far worse to kill the Queen of Crimson.”

  “I would hope so.” counters Lyom. “That would have been a lousy deal.”

  I gape at Lyom, hardly believing my ears. “Did you just make a joke?” I inquire in complete confusion, my gaze sweeping over him again and again. My voice drops to a surprised whisper. “Can you do that?”

  Lyom’s face remains neutral. “Get cooled off then mount your horse. I would like to get a safe distance from this place before nightfall.”

  When Lyom walks away I fall back into the water again, counting to one hundred seconds before I resurface. I’ll regret getting in the water later when night falls and I am still damp but for now I will delight in the comfort of the coolness.

  I eventually pull myself from the water and we ride on down the path until we reach the hillsides, where the trading route runs past craggy escarpments that rest along the sides of the mesas. Lyom sets up our camp in the cavelike area beneath the rises. As expected, I am chilled by the time the sun sets. I scoot close to the fire, which Lyom has permitted us to have, and keep my hands close to it.

  We’ve tied our horses to the slightly greener shrubbery and have hoped that one of them does not pull loose before morning — catching a runaway steed in the expanse does not sound enchanting.

  For the better half of the evening, Ulric tells stories he heard as a child of the Menca Denu. Surprisingly, half of his stories consist of magical beings and the humans they preyed upon. Evidently, Evrallonic children were taught to fear the Menca Denu.

  Even before the moon has risen, the landscape is lit. It takes on its unnatural glow and lights up the area around us, though it is impossible to see far past the escarpment where we take shelter.

  As I stare into the dancing flames, my mind wanders again to the prince of Belaroux. What was he doing in the library the night I encountered him? And looking at texts about assassins and mythical creatures, no less. Perhaps the young prince has a certain myth he’d like to look into.

  Lyom’s reluctance to share information about the young prince does not give strength to my confidence, either. He’s most definitely hiding something. I would not be surprised if Prince Finn did not come to negotiate with Evrallon’s king at all. There could be a hundred ulterior motives to Finn’s journey, and the Swordmaster seems to know it.

  Why my mind must yet again travel to Dominik I do not know. Even as I sit here before the warm fire, I wonder where he is. Only half of me seeks to kill him now, the other half disappointed and saddened by his betrayal. I suppose his betrayal out of them all hurt the most, because whether I would like to admit it or not, I fell for Dominik. In a way. As an assassin, I was trained that fleeting romances to be had on assignments were permitted, but romances within the Cannon were frowned upon, if not forbidden.

  I fell for Dominik in the way that a young girl might fall for her best friend. Not because I saw something special in him, or because he was abnormally kind to me, flirted with me, or showed me undue affection, but because I’d been with him for so long it was hard not to.

  I curse myself again. Will I ever stop? I rest assured that whatever I had felt for Dominik died when my trust in him did. I search my heart, knowing that if even an ounce of love for Dominik remains, I will not be able to kill him. When I look back into the fire, I am sure that I have rid myself of any affection for Dominik. Killing him will be easy.

  I stand from the fire and walk back into the shallow cave that is more of an overhang, back to Lyom’s tent, which has been pushed up against the jagged stone walls. I stop in front of the flap to his tent and peek my head inside to peer at Lyom, who is sitting on his bedroll with a book in his hand.

  I feign a gasp. “The Swordmaster reads?”

  Lyom looks up and frowns when he sees me in the flap of his tent. “Do you ever knock?”

  I shrug, entering his mobile quarters. “Knocking wastes time, especially when you know you are already welcomed inside.” I say it as a joke, waiting for Lyom to object.

  He just sighs, however, either too tired to argue or deciding I have heard enough of his counters today. I nod to the book in his hand. “What are you reading?”

  Lyom taps the cover thoughtfully, though his gaze remains in the book’s pages. “War Records and Strategies of the Praigue.” answers Lyom.

  I try for a smile but am not sure whether I succeed or not. Honestly, the day, my memories, and the heat have begun to get to me. “And here I thought you were reading a novel. How foolish of me.”

  Lyom glances up from his book and then buries his nose in it once more. I continue to look about his quarters, noting that he keeps his weapon nearby. Strange though it may be, his tent is no warmer than the outside breeze, making me wonder again if the Swordmaster puts off any body heat at all.

  Without lifting his gaze, Lyom asks, “What is it you need, Assassin?”

  “Nothing.” I answer. “I’m just …” My voice trails off. What am I doing here?

  Lyom sighs and grabs a book from the stack to his left and tosses it to me. I catch it and turn it over to read its cover.

  The Entries of Giradus Atticus

  “Splendid.” I say, taking a seat beside Lyom. “A battle journal. How engaging.”

  “It is.” Lyom answers, hardly looking up from the pages of his text.

  I flip the first page of the book over and glance at the first few words.

  Day One:

  Dark clouds overshadow our land. The captives scream out from their confines, begging us to deliver them back to their kingdom, but we deliver them not. The soothsayer believes we are destined for defeat, but many back home are counting on us.

  The Afterlighters will surely kill us all, she says.

  The men are tired, weary. The days grow longer and longer. I’m not sure how much more we can take.

  I slam the book shut before I die of boredom.

  “This is not literature.” I accuse.
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br />   Lyom lets out a breath. “If you were engaged by strategy and marksmanship, it would be quite fascinating.”

  “Fascinating?” I laugh. “Have you read this, Lyom? Oh, it’s terribly drab. Please tell me you were only jesting and you don’t actually read this for entertainment.”

  Another sigh escapes Lyom’s lips. He picks up another book and throws it my way.

  “Perhaps this will suit your liking.” Lyom says.

  I take the book and glance over the cover but frown at its dreary title.

  “This may be worse than the last.” I admit.

  “Help yourself to my stack.” Lyom continues without looking up. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to read.”

  I find little to nothing of actual literature in Lyom’s collection. The book I choose to read is less drab but hardly considered creative writings. It talks about the different Adaaian cultures, and since we are traveling into Adaai, I guess it would be good to brush up on my facts.

  I spend the rest of the night in Lyom’s tent, reading beside him, until darkness finally claims me. When I wake up in the morning, I find that I am still at Lyom’s bedside and said Swordmaster has already departed. I quickly gather myself and head out of the tent, snatching my red cloak up from the ground as I go. I sneak out, making sure that no one sees me leaving his tent.

  Outside, the swordsmen are already preparing their horses for the long journey ahead. If anyone has found my staying in the Swordmaster’s tent suspicious, they don’t mention it.

  We ride for the rest of the day and half of the night and when we do finally set up camp, I stay in Lyom’s tent again, this time dragging my own bedroll in. His breathing lulls me to sleep quicker than I have been able to drift off in the recent nights. And if his breathing does not send me to slumber, then one of his books does.

  Lyom’s books are endlessly boring, prattling on about worthless information. Perhaps to the Swordmaster knowing about the tactics of one war hero are intriguing but I would much rather delve into an imaginary story in which I can lose myself, forget who I am. Reading has never been something I have been able to indulge in but if it had been, I would not have wasted my time reading the methodic, calculated words of a soldier.

  During the days, Lyom takes out that leather-bound sketchbook of his and draws in it with charcoal pencils. What he draws in that sketchbook I may never know. I will catch him sketching something down onto the paper when we stop for a water break or even just to let our horses rest. He will prop himself against a log or remain on his horse and sketch, always without looking up and always with that pensive expression on his face. Clearly whatever those pages hold is valuable or private because I have attempted to steal the sketchbook on numerous occasions and every time he manages to snatch it up before I can grab it. My best fits of ill humor cannot get him to hand the sketchbook over. One day I shall open it up and see what treasures it holds.

  The next several days pass in a blur, the heat of the day unbearable and the cold of the night harsh, until we are a day’s ride from Adaai. Just as the sun begins to set over the horizon, Lyom pulls to a stop. I watch as Jamas rides ahead to meet with Lyom, telling me to stay where I am. Ignoring Jamas’ order completely, I follow him up the hill, riding to stand alongside Lyom.

  “Problem?” I inquire.

  “We’re being followed.” Lyom answers.

  I frown, looking over my shoulder, expecting to see a few men huddled in a bush or at the very least a pack of ravenous dogs hiding in the hills. Instead, I see nothing.

  “How do you know?” I ask, returning my gaze to Lyom, who refuses to take his eyes off the landscape.

  “I saw their fires last night.” replies Lyom. “Today I saw the dust from their horses hooves. They’re getting closer.”

  “Marauders?” I ask.

  Lyom shakes his head. “They’re stalking us. If they were marauders, they would try to stop us before we reached the Adaaian border. They have not approached us yet.”

  “Adaaian scouts, then?” Jamas suggests.

  “Unlikely.” answers Lyom. “Mercenaries, more like it.”

  “Hired by who?” I ask, brow furrowed in confusion.

  “Lydovier, perhaps?” Lyom suggests. “It could also be some of your assassin friends coming to retrieve you.”

  I don’t even need to think about it. “Doubtful. The only one desperate enough to get me back would be Quay, and he is not with the Cannon any longer.”

  I don’t think I realize it until that moment but I am truly, utterly, and forever on my own. Perhaps Torrin would help me if I needed him desperately, and I could scrounge up a few others in the Cannon who I have not made enemies with, but I have no people. My kingdom is gone — slaughtered by the Blight of Evrallon and his cruel men — my companions have betrayed me, my assassins are dwindling, and even my unworthy father is dead. I am my only ally.

  Lyom doesn’t seem satisfied. He looks at Ulric. “Keep a wary eye on the horizon.”

  “If they’re mercenaries let me kill them.” I suggest, the words tasting bitter in my mouth but I’m numb to them by this point.

  Lyom scowls. “I will not risk you being killed and leaving us with Dominik.”

  “It was only an offer.” I reply.

  We ride for the rest of the night and the rest of the following day until the border of Adaai is within sight. Like Evrallon’s border, the wall that protects Adaai is built of stone with towers every few hundred yards, each sporting Adaaian guards. Before I have even completely assessed the wall, my gaze goes to the east coast of Adaai, finding the drainpipes easily.

  I point from our hiding place in the bushes. “There is our entry point.”

  “Dominik is already in Adaai?” Jamas asks, sneaking up behind me.

  I nod. “He must be. We couldn’t have beaten him to the border.”

  “And how do we plan to find him in Adaai?” Ulric inquires.

  “One step at a time, shall we?” I answer.

  Lyom nods to the drainpipes. “You’re sure they don’t search them?”

  “They haven’t before.” comes my answer since I do not have a better one. “Once we get into the drainpipes, we will walk them up to the inside of the wall that surrounds Adaai. From there we must eliminate the guards in the towers inside. I can handle that.”

  Lyom’s brows furrow as he tries to understand all that I have thrown at him. “Past the drainpipes is a tower, where there will be guards, then past the tower?”

  “Adaai. The drainpipes are the quickest and easiest way into the kingdom, assuming they have not secured them.” I say.

  Lyom stands. “Let’s hope not.”

  Something we hadn’t considered was that we would have to leave the horses behind. We tie the horses up, hoping that our trip into Adaai will be an in-and-out excursion, and head for the drainpipes. I slide down the hill before Adaai and dip into the seawater beneath the dock, quickly followed by Lyom and his men. I keep my head below water, swimming quickly, holding my eyes open through the sting of the salt.

  When the drainpipe comes into view, I slowly surface, looking around before I pull myself out of the water. I climb silently out of the water, drawing myself into the drainpipe. I roll inside as quietly as I can, water still dripping from my saturated clothing. Lyom surfaces beneath me and he begins to follow but we both hesitate when we hear the hiss of Adaaian guards.

  “Qüîet. Ma daärd somegrodah.” a guard whispers nearby — overhead.

  Lyom silently ducks back down into the water. I’m not sure if he speaks Adaaian or not but he apparently received the message. Thankfully, I am fluent in Adaaian. Quay ensured that I knew the language before I was ever released into the world.

  Quiet, the guard had hissed. I heard something.

  I’m quietly amazed at Lyom’s lung capacity as he stays underwater for the time that the guards lean over the railing of their tower. I listen to their footsteps as they walk away, then to their mumbles, complaining about working too much.
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  When I am certain the coast is clear, I reach down into the seawater and feel Lyom’s hand grab around mine. I do what I can to pull Lyom from the water but my pitiful strength is not enough and Lyom must plant another hand on the drainpipe to get himself out. Jamas follows shortly after and Lyom helps him out while I stand sentry, listening to the conversations in the tower as Lyom continues to pull his men from the waters below.

  “Dyanit be vaüpîd.” curses a guard, warning the other not to be a fool. “Wsandendah abiut tda Menca Denu wî get vilk kîna.” The first guard tells the decidedly younger guard that wandering off into the Menca Denu will get him killed

  “Jä,” says the other, agreeing. “büt tai noc da csäry —”

  Nau!” exclaims the other guard, silencing the younger. He orders the younger to be silent and to not fear what comes out of the Menca Denu, and to stay close to the tower.

  The last of Lyom’s men are drawn from the canal and shake their wet bodies off inside. Before we head towards the inside of the tower, I extend my hand to Lyom.

  “I seem to have misplaced my dagger.” I say implicatively.

  Lyom rolls his eyes and takes out the dagger he must have taken off me during my sleep at some point and places it gently in my hand.

  “You still don’t trust me.” I note.

  Lyom frowns. “You have a job to do.”

  I nod and twirl the knife around in my hand.

  That I do.

  I make my way down the drainpipe, Lyom and his men following until we come to a place where a grate sits above us. I hear the footsteps of a nearby guard — judging by the weight and clumsiness of the footsteps, I’d say it’s the younger of the two guarding this tower.

  I let out a breath, rolling my shoulder back. There is no telling what will happen if this young guard manages a scream before I can get to him. There is a bell in each tower, that much I remember. If he should reach the bell and alert the other towers, we are done for and will have to wait another several weeks before we attempt another incursion. By that point, Dominik will have heard of our arrival and will have fled, perhaps deeper into Adaai or perhaps he will have taken to the sea, traveling to another kingdom we cannot even hope to consider, let alone reach.