by Rose Reid
He takes a step closer to me and before I know it we are on our backs, my fingers hooking into his belt loops, never breaking the contact between our mouths — and never considering what this means.
I cling to his shirt, wrinkling it as I haphazardly attempt to pull it over his head while his lips move to my jaw, my neck.
He suddenly drops his shoulder, a move I recognize from combat training back in the Aerie, and rolls so he is on his back and I lean down over him. Our breath mingles and somewhere at the back of my mind I realize I am breathing him in. His hand fists in the loose material of my shirt while his other hand lays beneath it, fingers splayed over the scars on my back.
My shirt rides up more and I am surprised at how at ease I feel with him, allowing it to ride up to my shoulder blades. His breathing is ragged, teeth grazing my bottom lip. I gasp, wondering where the Swordmaster learned such a tactic. Then I suddenly remember and wish I hadn’t.
My momentary hesitation is all it takes for Lyom to realize what he’s just done. His hands are on my shoulders in an instant, shoving me backwards. I catch myself with my palms, feeling the moisture from the ground under my fingers.
He jumps to his feet, turning away from me, his hands in his hair. I try not to panic or let my cheeks flame from embarrassment — honestly, I’m too confused to even consider mortification at this point.
When he turns around, there is fire in his eyes, which seem to have turned from blue to black in an instant. “What were you thinking?” he growls. He reaches up and wipes his mouth, looking down at his hand as if he expects it to come away with blood.
That’s when the mortification hits.
I don’t know what to think, let alone what to say. What was I thinking? That the Swordmaster of the Cruel King would suddenly forgive my offenses and fall deeply, madly in love with me? That since I was being released soon, everything was going to be alright? That either of us is anything other than a brutal killer?
“I …” I’m not sure how to finish my thought.
Lyom looks incensed, hardly human, and for the first time I actually consider the possibility that he is an Afterlighter. I’d given it slight thought here and there simply because of rumors, but with the way he looks now, he could not be of this world.
“Do not make the mistake of touching me again.” he hisses.
I stammer. “Lyom … I didn’t —” Didn’t what? Mean to? Yes, you did. Didn’t think? That’s more like it.
I have the crazy urge to reach up and touch my mouth. He felt nothing? For the first time in my life, I feel my heart sink — literally sink, all the way down to my stomach. I almost laugh, the crazy kind of laugh that would make Lyom think I belong in a mental house, because I fell for him. I, an assassin of the Cannon, an order of deadly killers, fell for Evrallon’s Blight, the Swordmaster of the Cruel King.
And I kissed him.
Quay would be so ashamed of me.
When I look back up at Lyom, I see that his skin has turned a sickly color of pale, not his usual ivory, and those dark eyes seem to have sunken into his face. My heart leaps into my throat and all I see standing before me is the man cloaked in darkness, his bony hand clutched around my throat.
He doubles over, coughing, and this is when I see that he does have blood on his mouth, but not from me — from coughing it up.
He spins on his heel and grabs his saddlebags, pulling a dark vial out. I watch in horror as he downs the vial, slamming it down on the rock in the tent area. The glass shatters into a thousand pieces, cutting his palm and wrists, but not a single drop of blood falls from the lacerations.
My mouth isn’t working and neither is my mind. I should be panicking at this moment. Because there is only one other person I have ever seen look so deathly.
I thought … When the whisperers said that the Riser had betrayed me … I thought they meant Dominik!
I’m suddenly on my feet, chest heaving, breathing not at all normal.
“You’re …” I gape at him, unable to believe my own eyes. Byhalia said he wasn’t an Afterlighter … she was sure of it!
He turns around to face me. I prepare myself to see the hollowness that the dark man had but he is back to normal, eyes as blue as the morning sky and skin its normal flushed ivory. But now I know he isn’t who he says he is. By this point, I shouldn’t be surprised — nothing should surprise me.
“You’re a Riser … an Afterlighter,” I can hardly get the words out of my mouth, almost choking on them. He couldn’t know about me … he doesn’t know who I am, but it would explain why he is searching for Princess Cress, as Zenith believed. It would explain why King Dryden was so quick to bring him into the Keep as his Swordmaster.
Lyom stands tall, brows drawn down in that forever scowl of his.
“Yes,” he replies, not even trying to deny it.
Still attempting to grab a hold of my composure, I point at the vial he smashed. “And that?” I exclaim. “It heals you?”
“No.” he answers. “It keeps me alive.”
My hands are cold — my whole body is. Is that why he has always felt so chilled? Is he dead? I cannot believe a word he is saying.
“You work for the man in the darkness,” I whisper.
Lyom’s expression changes and I see curiosity coloring his eyes. He doesn’t know that I saw him, doesn’t know that I was in the Forest for what seemed like hours. And he never will. Whatever trust I had placed in Lyom is gone. He isn’t human. He has been an Afterlighter this whole time, working simultaneously for the Cruel King and a man in the Afterlight world that seems to think I have a choice to make, and choosing the wrong side will be the end of me. All comfort I feel when I am around Lyom has vanished, leaving only a cold sense of dread in my chest.
Suddenly, I hear a gunshot echoing along the canyon walls, saving me from any further humiliation. Lyom’s gaze shoots to the tent’s entrance and his whole posture stiffens but it is impossible for any more rage to leak into his system.
Lyom is the first out of the tent and I hear shouts and more gunfire. I shove through the tent’s fold and am immediately met with a sword. It clashes down over my head and I barely manage to deflect with my dagger in time. A man stands over me, eyes of brown glowing like embers. I slide my knife down the blade of his sword, spinning out of the way before the hilt can come down on my head.
Fire glows out in the corner of my eye and somewhere nearby Lyom shouts something, followed by Jamas’ reply. I narrowly avoid the tall man’s swing when he barrels back around at me. Ducking to the ground I roll out of the way, kicking his knees out. He grunts and collapses to one knee but he is excellent, rolling across the ground before I can get close to him. Unfortunately for him, I am better. I dodge his next advance and spin behind him, slicing my knife across his throat. Kicking him to the ground, I turn around to assess the situation.
The world is on fire. Tents burn, shots are fired, and men I do not recognize emerge from the darkness. Jamas and the rest of Lyom’s swordsmen fight swiftly, swinging their swords in deadly ways, but they are outnumbered. I begin to move from my position to aid them but then stop when I notice something about our enemy — about they way they move.
At first glance I would have imagined they were marauders, upon further thought I would have considered the possibility of them being demons, but as I watch them for a moment, I recognize the familiar fluidity of their movements. They move like reapers, like Risers, and I know why.
We are wind and shadows.
XXI
“‘Will you walk into my parlor?’ said the spider to the fly;
‘‘Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you may spy.
The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,
And I have many curious things to show when you are there.’
‘Oh no, no,’ said the little fly; ‘to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.’”
— Mary Howitt, The Spider and the Fly
The Cannon boasts more assassins than I can ever count but I have crossed paths with them all at one point or another, whether it be in the Aerie during training or returning from an assignment or out in the world on an assassination, and I never forget a face. Yet now that I look at the assassins that sweep through our camp I recognize none of them. Not a single face do I find familiar. Hence this is not the work of the Cannon.
Pulling my hood up over my head, I dart down into the mix of Evrallonic serviceman and assassin, finding it ironic to be on this side of the battle, fighting alongside Lyom and his men. The first assassin I come in contact with is a young man with blond hair like mine but a cruel snarl on his face. He recognizes my cloak, most definitely, and when he lunges at me, he does so without the use of a weapon.
Poor, foolish thing.
When the man reaches for me with outstretched arm I wily spin from his grasp, catching him by the elbow and raising my dagger to strike into the back of his neck. The trained assassin spins and grabs my hand before it can drive the knife into him. Squeezing my wrist so tightly I fear the bones may break, the man bears down on me, a wild grin upon his face. I wince, grinding my teeth together as I twist and drop the dagger into my left hand. I swing quickly at him, which he dodges but releases my wrist in the process. I drop to my knees, sweeping his legs out from under him. He hits a rock and the wind is knocked from his lungs, allowing me to pounce and drive the dagger through his chest.Rolling away from the man’s dying body, I lift my dagger and throw it at an assassin that attacks Jamas. The knife whirs through the air towards the assassin’s head but before it hits its mark, Jamas’ attacker spins and catches it midair, an inch from his skull. With lightning quick reflexes he projects the knife back towards me. I move my head two inches to the left to avoid being struck. When the knife clatters to the stone walls behind me I am already racing towards the assassin, untying my cumbersome cloak and letting it fall, the assassin running right back at me, knife in hand.
We meet in the middle, clashing together. I duck beneath one of his blows and manage to land a kick to his gut, which does far more than one of my pathetic punches ever could have. The reason I make such a fine assassin is not because of my excessive strength — certainly not — it is because my enemies underestimate me. They see me as a frail girl and do not realize that when trained, even the smallest child could prove to be a lethal weapon.
A knife nicks my upper arm and a blow to my stomach staggers me only momentarily. When the man’s balance wavers slightly, I use it as my opportunity and leap into the air, wrapping my legs around the man’s neck. Twisting sharply, I hurl the man to the ground, slapping him against the rock like I am beating the dust from a blanket. I hear the painful crack of his neck and steal his dagger off his lifeless body, moving to Jamas who has just finished off another assassin.
We both look around, seeing the vast number of shadows moving. I see only flashes over the other servicemen — a punch from Carnahan, a flash of silver from Moher, an arrow from Gresham.
“They’re assassins.” I tell Jamas.
Jamas breathes heavily. “The Cannon?”
I again consider the Cannon’s affiliation as I examine the faces around me. “No.”
Another assailant throws himself at us and a gunshot rings out, followed by many more. I kick the knees out of the assassin and Jamas rings a sword through him, throwing him to the side.
“Who else could it be?”
I shake my head, standing. “I do not know of another order.”
Jamas lets out a ragged breath. “Where is Lyom?”
“I haven’t the faintest.” I answer, anger still burning in my veins.
He growls, the first sign of strong emotion I have seen out of him. “Try to subdue them. They are here for something; we just have to comprehend what it is.”
I cannot imagine what they would want. Dominik is of no use to them, I am no one but another order’s former favorite, and though Lyom is the king’s Swordmaster, surely they know how precarious his situation is, and if they want ransom for him, the king will surely not pay it.
I leave Jamas where he is and return to striking through the army of assassins, sweeping through them like a storm. I roll to the back of one, slashing his leg with a blade so that he is forced to buckle his knees. Taking him down from there is simple, though the next assassin I face is decidedly more difficult, managing to get away from my grasp.
When I get to my feet again, I walk to my cloak and snatch it from the ground. I begin to scan the area looking for Dominik or Lyom or another swordsman when someone catches my eye. I almost overlook him at first, not paying him much mind, but then my mind registers who I have just laid eyes on and I do a double take.
I cannot believe it. He stares straight at me as if he knew exactly where I would be — and he probably did.
He wears the dark colors of the night, dark hair combed back and silver streaks coloring his sideburns. He looks more like a politician of the king’s court than the leader of the assassins, his gem-encrusted sword shimmering with blood. Who has he killed? Ulric? Gresham? Lyom? Can an already-dead Riser be killed?
I all but gape, my mind stuttering. When the gears in my head finally click and reality sets back in, I take a step forward, examining him.
“Quay?” I demand, baffled by his appearance.
Quay smirks, stepping forward through the chaos of battle as his assassins fight Lyom’s remaining men ferociously. He saunters towards me, stretching out a hand in greeting, raising a curious brow.
“You have been busy in my absence.” he says, looking around him.
I want to flinch at his words but lock my own muscles up. “Yes, well, you taught me to always look after myself.” I say, gauging his reaction.
He waves a hand at my surroundings. “And how does this life work for you? Do you enjoy being the king’s lackey?”
I tilt my chin up, trying to ignore the gunshot that rings out. “It has its moments.” I nod to his assassins. “They aren’t Cannon.”
“No,” Quay admits. “I gave up on that Cannon. I knew Cress was going down and all of the Cannon would disperse. This is my new Cannon.” Quay smiles at me. “They have helped me find you. We’ve been following you for quite some time, Aerietta.”
I watch him carefully. He is the cause for the fires at night, the dust from hoofbeats in the day, though I cannot determine if he has grown careless in his old age or if he meant for us to know of his presence. “I am not rejoining the Cannon, Quay.”
“Ah, yes,” Quay grumbles. “You have forged new loyalties. You must know Dryden will not hold to his word. You will be slaughtered the moment he sees that Jezdah on your back.”
I suddenly stand straighter, the Jezdah seeming to burn against my skin. Then a flash of a memory jumps to the forefront of my mind.
I had come so close to allowing Lyom to see it — he’d practically had my shirt off! What was I thinking? When have I ever been so careless? Let ridiculous, human emotions get the better of me? I’ve known Lyom just long enough to establish that he is everything the rumors have said and more. How could I have —
“And it will only be that much harder,” continues Quay. “seeing as though you have already fallen for the Swordmaster.” His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Did you only just learn of his heritage? I must say, I always expected you to kill the Riser hunting you, not fall in love with him. But I suppose it’s not really love, is it, Aerietta? After all, my assassins have been trained never to succumb to such ridiculous distractions.”
I glare at him, jaw tightening and anger boiling. He knows. “What do you want, Quay?”
“New information has come to light.” he explains. “I’ve learned things — key things. About our mutual friend Dominik.”
“Oh?” I ask sarcastically. “The king seems to have become privy to this information as well. So do tell me why Dominik is so sought after these days.”
He laughs. “He is a Child, just as you are.”<
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It takes me a moment to register that he means a Child of the Elements, rather than just a kid. I shake my head in disbelief. “According to legend, the Girls and Boys never exist at the same time.”
A wicked grin forms on his face. “Which is what makes you rare.” He chuckles, looking at the carnage around him. “Are we truly going to have this conversation now?”
The sound of gunshots remind me where we are. I stand in a war zone. While we chatted, Lyom’s men could have been slaughtered. But I am not sure how to proceed. Quay leads the assassins we have been fighting, which means if we wish to defeat them, we must also defeat Quay. Is that what I want? Quay may have been the worst father alive but he was the only father figure I have ever had.
Quay extends a hand. “Come with me, Aerietta. I have Dominik already; you are all I need. Come with me and I promise you vengeance — for your betrayal, for your father, and for your kingdom. I have an army — we have an army. The Afterlighters are rising up, prepared to overthrow the Darkness coming to the kingdoms. It’s leaking from the Forest and it will be upon us soon. And it is coming for you and young Giovani.”
I stare at his hand, almost considering his offer. They must have found Dominik and convinced him to go with Quay. What awaits me back at the palace now that they have Dominik? Certain death, since I have failed to bring Dominik back? Surely Quay knows the king will kill me if I return without my promised captive, and that would put a damper on his plans.
Then I hear a shout.
This grabs my attention and I turn, witnessing as Gresham collapses to his knees, blood draining from his stomach. The assassin that stands over him does not hesitate, swinging his sword again and slicing through the muscle and bone of Gresham’s neck.
I recognize the second life leaves his body, his eyes becoming dull. His head topples off his neck, rolls away while the rest of his body just drops to the ground like a sack of flour — lifeless, inanimate.