Shadow Crown

by Kristen Martin

  ARDEN ELIRI

  BACK IN MY quarters, I stifle a scream. Holding in excitement has never been an easy task, but somehow I manage. After years of dealing with men and their lack of showing emotion, I’ve learned to compartmentalize my own emotions into a hidden sector of my mind, only to be accessed when I’m alone. Showing excitement around the kingdom, especially as an assassin, is a death wish. No one should be excited to kill. It’s a duty, plain and simple. Complete it and move on to the next one.

  But not for me. Killing is my bread and butter, my very own road to “carpe diem”. And seize the day I shall.

  I meander over to the far left corner of my quarters, perusing the stacks of books sitting idly on my desk. Most of them contain information about weapons, martial arts tactics, and strategizing. Not the kinds of books most would enjoy reading, but I adore them. I’ve found that there is nothing better to sharpen my skills and know-how except for the actual kill itself, but, obviously, this isn’t always at my fingertips. For those times, these books fill the gap.

  At first, I’m curious to find a book on the properties of healing, given my strange encounter earlier that day. During training, I’d severely pulled a muscle in my shoulder—to the point where I couldn’t even lift my arm above my head—and Rydan’s relentless jokes were no consolation. But after massaging the area for just a few minutes, the pain had completely subsided—almost as if it had healed on its own somehow. But that’s impossible.

  Isn’t it?

  I take a step toward one of the many bookshelves in my room and gently slide my fingers over their spines, leaving track marks along the way. When I reach the end, I blow the hardened dust that has collected on my fingertips into the night air. It dances around me like paper faeries first taking flight. My eyes settle back on the shelves, and I spot an unfamiliar title that appears to be out of place. The Archmage and Illusié. Old magick. I hesitate.

  Since before I can remember, before I joined the Cruex, it was made clear that any talk of magick was forbidden. It was considered a myth and would be treated as such. All scrolls or books mentioning magick, whether fable or fact, were ordered to be destroyed by King Tymond.

  Well, it looks like they missed one.

  I slide the large book from the shelf and set it on my desk. I take in its deep evergreen color as my hands cascade down the front, removing even more dust than was on the spine. I’m careful to open it, seeing as the binding has started to come undone. I flip through the first few pages, fascinated by elegant drawings of gemstones, mage robes, and masks. It makes me wonder if this particular book is based on fact or fable. As I delve deeper into the pages, the answer becomes clear. Spread over two pages is an older map of the Lands of Aeridon, where Trendalath and its surrounding villages, mountains, forests, and isles reside. I focus my attention on the Isle of Lonia, where I will be going in less than twenty-four hours.

  Fact.

  A loud banging at my door startles me. I jump and slam the book shut. I consider putting it back on the shelf, but now that I know it exists, I worry someone else will discover it. So I do the sensible thing. I throw it under my bed.

  It’s probably Rydan, arriving early to take me to training. Although, what time is it? Has it been two hours already? I flatten the wrinkles out of my trousers, realizing that I haven’t changed nor eaten a proper meal since we last parted ways.

  The banging continues, loud and persistent as ever.

  “Just a second!” I yell as I change my tunic. I throw my hair up into a loose bun and make my way toward the door. When I open it, my heart sputters. It is not Rydan who stands before me, but one of the king’s guards.

  “King Tymond requests your presence in the Great Room,” he says.

  I try not to look caught off-guard, but my demeanor speaks for itself. “Uh, sure. The Great Room,” I repeat back, sounding like an imbecile.

  “Follow me,” the guard says as he turns away.

  I survey my quarters, trying to think of anything I might need to bring with me. Normally I’d be clad in my Cruex uniform with weapons in their holsters, but clearly there isn’t time for such niceties. I decide to just go with it and follow the guard down the hall, rolling my eyes as we stop in front of the chambers housing the male Cruex.

  “Sir, I believe the Great Room . . .”

  He holds up a hand to silence me, then bangs on the door. “Rydan Helstrom!” he shouts, his voice powerful and intimidating.

  Why is he calling Rydan’s name? What is going on?

  I tap my foot, waiting impatiently as the door swings open. Rydan’s hair is unkempt, his shirt un-tucked, and if it weren’t for the vigilant look on his face, I would have assumed he’d fallen asleep after dinner. I stifle a laugh at the bewildered look on his face when he realizes I’m standing behind the guard.

  “Follow me,” the guard orders. “The king requires your presence in the Great Room.”

  Rydan smooths back his hair as he takes a step forward. “Right now?”

  The guard glares at him. “Did I stutter?” Without warning, he turns on his heel and starts down the hall.

  I follow suit and shortly after, Rydan is right next to me, dragging his feet like a kid whose shoes don’t fit properly. He mutters under his breath so the guard can’t hear. “Why are you needed in the Great Room?”

  I tilt my head to the side and ask him the exact same question.

  He shrugs. “Whatever it is, it can’t be good.”

  I’m not sure why, but his statement troubles me. We are assassins. In a sense, we are the king’s livelihood. And without his livelihood, the “king” ceases to exist. He needs us more than we need him. At least, that’s how I see it.

  “I’m sure it’s fine. It probably has something to do with the Lonia mission.” I swallow my words as a thought occurs to me, but I keep it to myself. What if the king has decided to remove me from the mission? What if he decides to assign Rydan to Lonia instead? The thought alone makes me want to tear every strand of hair from my head. I press my mouth into a firm line as the guard leads us into the Great Room.

  I guess we’re about to find out.

  As we approach the throne, King Tymond stays seated. Only when we stand in front of him and bow does he rise. “Eliri,” he says as he addresses me with a nod of his head. “Helstrom.”

  “Your Majesty,” we both say in unison.

  Tymond waltzes down the stone steps, his black and red robe swaying back and forth with the movement. He pauses on the last step to signify that he is still above us and will always be above us. It’s the first time I notice the dragon broach securing his robes.

  My thoughts scatter as he speaks.

  “It has been brought to my attention that the information pertaining to mission CLXXVI in the Isle of Lonia is not as explicit as we’d originally thought.” He shoots a harsh glare at the guard who’d brought us here. “Given the current situation, we’ll need to make some adjustments to the assignment.” He pauses as he wets his lips. “We’ve deemed it a category eight mission.”

  I try not to gape at his words. A category eight? That would make this mission the most dangerous one ever assigned to the Cruex.

  “Due to the nature of this mission and this newfound information, it would be a death wish to send only one Cruex member to overcome the obstacles and expect them to successfully return.”

  Bile rises in my throat as the king’s words echo in my ears. What he really means to say is that it would be a death wish to send a female Cruex member. I feel my hands clench as they ball into fists, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep myself from showing any reaction. Yet another “perk” of being the only female assassin. I’m constantly faced with doubt, ridicule, and never being good enough. The only problem is I am good enough—leagues better than half of the male Cruex members combined.

  My anger gets the better of me. I step forward to speak. “Your Majesty, I can assure you that I am fully-equipped to ha
ndle this mission alone. You will not be disappointed.”

  I hear Rydan inhale a sharp breath. He probably thinks I’m a fool for interrupting the king, for speaking out of turn. I thought that by now he knew me well enough where my rash behavior wouldn’t surprise him. I suppose I was wrong.

  “Be that as it may, no single Cruex member has ever even attempted to complete a category eight mission, let alone a category seven.” The king raises an eyebrow at me. “But I admire your tenacity, Eliri.”

  Even though he’s a step behind me, I can see Rydan’s exaggerated eye roll. I step back in line beside him, anxious for the king’s next words.

  “I decree, as of this day, you will work as partners on Cruex Mission CLXXVI in the Isle of Lonia.”

  The breath Rydan was holding in slowly comes out. I’m sure the look on his face is smug as all hell, and I wish I could turn to him and slap it right off. But I maintain my composure, not flinching, not moving a muscle.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” we both say in unison.

  “Good,” the king says. He sounds surprised, almost as though he’d expected some resistance from the two of us. “You are dismissed.” He turns away from us and walks back up the steps to his throne. The guard shows us out and slams the large iron doors behind us.

  In the hallway, Rydan gives me a playful nudge. “Well hey there, partner,” he teases.

  I roll my eyes. “This is a crock of crap. You know I could complete this mission by myself with my eyes closed and my hands tied behind my back.”

  Rydan stops walking. “I know you could,” he says, his voice almost a whisper. “But it’s a category eight, Arden. Do you know how dangerous that is?”

  I consider this for a moment. I do know how dangerous it is. Does he not remember the last mission we partnered on? The one that left him with a bruised ego and a deep-rooted scar? Or has he forgotten?

  “Listen, if you don’t want my help, I can put in a transfer. I’m sure Denholm or Alston would love to work with you.”

  His sarcasm stings and I can feel myself closing up, pulling away. The truth is, I don’t want to work with anybody but him. He’s the closest thing I have to a friend. A confidante. Family. It’s just that I’d prefer to go at this alone, like almost everything else. But instead of saying this and speaking the truth, I shut down, like I always do. “Do what you want. I’ll either see you tomorrow at the mission, or I’ll see you after I complete it. Makes no difference to me.”

  My response wounds him. I can see it in those sad eyes of his. I feel a flicker of remorse, but it quickly dissipates as we approach the chambers.

  “If it really doesn’t matter to you, then I guess when you find out makes no difference. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.” He pulls the handle to the chamber door and sighs. “Goodnight, Arden.”

  I stand there like a statue as he disappears through the door. My shoulders sag at the exchange that has just taken place. Although I’ll never admit it out loud, I know I’ve made a mistake.

  I should have told him the truth.

  DARIUS TYMOND

  THAT EVENING, IN his chambers, King Darius Tymond stands on the balcony overlooking the Kingdom of Trendalath. A dreary combination of black, gray, and navy paints the night sky and large raindrops fall from invisible clouds. A bolt of lightning illuminates the darkness and a deafening clap of thunder follows. The shouts of people running for cover echo just outside the kingdom’s walls. He can hardly understand what they’re saying, but the languages are a mixture of old and new. Although he’d outlawed almost everything from the past—languages, customs, texts, and most notably, magick—he’d found that old habits were hard to break, especially when the majority of the townspeople had little to no respect for him. All things considered, it probably would have been easier had he just slayed those living under the previous king’s reign; but he hadn’t because that would mean starting over completely. In the interest of time, he’d chosen to spare their lives.

  What a foolish choice that had been.

  The screams grow louder as the thunder roars. Babies cry and women wail as the men shout to one another to find shelter. Savages, Tymond thinks to himself with a shudder. He places his hands on the balcony and leans over the side, gazing around at the massive walls that protect him. It honestly wouldn’t come as a surprise if the entire town suddenly decided to storm the doors and overthrow his reign. Some days, he actually expects it.

  As he brings himself upright, a hand lands on his shoulder. Although the touch is gentle, it’s enough to startle him. He whirls around, tense, with guarded eyes, but when he sees that it’s just his wife, Aldreda, he immediately softens. Plump pink lips meet his cheek as she purrs into his ear. “You should come to bed, My King. Enduring such ill-tempered weather is not a duty of the royal bloodline.” She smirks at the panicked voices idly threatening to forge through the castle walls. “It’s a duty of the commoners.”

  Darius turns his head to look at her. Strands of long blonde hair—so blonde it’s almost white—cascade over her shoulders and down her back, the ends dancing in the blustery wind. Blue eyes deeper than the oceans surrounding Miraenia gaze into his own, and although crow’s feet line her eyes, she’s aged beautifully, like a fine wine. He takes her petite hand in his and kisses it. “My Queen. As always, you make an excellent point.”

  A knowing smile crosses her face. She caresses his cheek, then leads him back into the chambers, shutting the balcony doors securely behind her. “How was the Lonia assignment taken today? Well, I hope?”

  Darius shakes his head as he unfastens the brooch on his robes. He throws the garment onto the bed in a huff before seating himself. “It was, at first. Until . . .”

  “Until what?”

  The king sighs, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Until I assigned two Cruex members to the Lonia mission instead of just one.”

  Aldreda raises an eyebrow. She clasps her hands together, her beige silk robes gliding along the floor behind her as she approaches the bed. “I see you heeded my advice to add Helstrom to the mission.”

  The king lets out a small laugh and shakes his head. “Don’t I always?”

  “I know you appreciate my counsel, but I didn’t know it was a major factor in your final decision-making. Seeing as I can’t be in the Great Room when said decisions are made . . .” She casts her eyes toward the floor, her words lingering in the air.

  Darius stiffens at the intentional directness of her statement. “As the queen, there are many essential duties required of you every day. I don’t appreciate what you’re implying.”

  “And I am grateful, My King. Truly.”

  He stares at her. A flicker of something familiar darts across her eyes. Resentment? Or perhaps it’s only his imagination. He waves it off, hoping to avoid this conversation again; one they’ve had hundreds of times. Asking Aldreda to let something go is like asking a knight to go into battle unarmed—pointless and dangerous. Best to tread lightly. “If you’ll recall, I have requested that you be present at only the most important meetings in the Great Room.”

  Aldreda scoffs as she messes with the braids woven throughout her hair. “I would say a category eight mission is one of the more important meetings you’ve called to order during your reign, wouldn’t you?”

  So much for treading lightly. “The King’s Guard has yet to give their approval. You know these things take time.”

  With a solemn nod, Aldreda moves to the other side of the bed, drawing the covers down in the process. She slips out of her robe and crawls under the thin sheets, shivering as a cool draft sweeps through the chambers. She pulls a wool blanket over her body so that it covers everything but her chin. “Of course, My King. We can discuss it in further detail at a later time. You must be tired from such an eventful day.”

  Darius lets out a soft exhale, relieved that Aldreda is being agreeable for once, but when he turns to face her, he realizes she is anything but. A forced
smile sits on her face, her eyes colder than ice. “Goodnight, Darius.” Her flat tone is enough to make any man, no matter how egotistical or strong-willed, feel like a meek little mouse. She tilts her head, eyes narrowed as a barely discernible smirk tugs at the corners of her lips. Then she rolls away from him.

  “Goodnight, My Queen. Sleep well,” he whispers. As he slips into bed beside her, bitter reminders of memories past creep into his mind. Sadly, he knows this is the first of many webs he’ll find himself trapped in with little to no hope of escape. Consequently, he won’t be sleeping well, if at all, for a long, long time.

  ARDEN ELIRI

  IF ONLY YESTERDAY had been a dream. I’d be waking up, preparing to go to Lonia on my own. But this is not the day that awaits me.

  I stretch my arms overhead as I sit up and throw my legs over the bed. Just as my feet hit the smooth stone floor, my stomach rumbles. It’s then I realize that in the midst of everything, I never had the chance to eat a proper meal last night. Feeling famished, I stumble over to my armoire and hastily throw on a pair of black trousers and a beige tunic. I grab the scroll of parchment and tuck it into the waistband of my pants. With my unfastened boots and tousled hair, I look more than unkempt, like a beggar who’s been wandering the streets for months. I bend down to fasten my boots, smooth my hair down, and grab one of the cloaks hanging on the back of the door before rushing toward the mess hall.

  Suffice it to say, I didn’t sleep well last night, making me even more irritable than usual. As much as I wish for plates upon plates of haggis and pork, in the interest of time, a steaming bowl of porridge will do. The mess hall comes into view, just a hundred or so feet away, when an annoyingly chipper face impedes my view.

  Rydan.

  “Mornin’, Arden,” he says with irksome cheerfulness.

  “Morning,” I grumble back. I try to move past him, but he mirrors my every move. I let out a sigh and fold my arms over my chest. “Do you need something? I’m starving.”