The Assassin's Tale (Isle of Dreams)

by Kirsten Jones

  ‘Thank you all for coming,’ he began in a strong, clear voice then turned his head to look across to the bar, seeking out the barman. ‘Floris, if you would please begin.’

  Mistral and the whole tavern turned to watch Floris lift the hatch in the bar and walk over to where a huge wooden barrel had been placed in the centre of the tavern. Grunting from the effort, Floris wrenched the wooden top from the barrel and raised it above his head then brought it down forcefully over his bent knee, smashing it into two. This barrel would be drunk tonight.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Leo quietly, then, more loudly to the rest of the room. ‘Fill your tankards and drink! We do not mourn the passing of a warrior tonight but honour his life.’

  He swept from the open doorway and strode across the room to take the tankard Floris held out for him. Leo dipped it into the ruby liquid then held it aloft, brimming full of rich wine.

  ‘To Bali,’ he called in a ringing voice. Raising the tankard to his lips he drained the contents in one long swallow.

  At once the room was full of movement and the sound of chairs scraping against the floor as their occupants rose to take their drink from the barrel. Mistral watched each person fill a tankard and solemnly raise it in a silent toast before draining the contents in one draught.

  The door to the tavern suddenly opened again and Mistral glanced over to see Leo’s three hatchet-faced Lieutenants entering bearing a stretcher between them. Mistral watched them walk slowly towards the bar and gently lay Bali across the top. Her eyes were morbidly drawn to the mask-like face. It was utterly devoid of any expression, leaving no hint behind of the man that had led them out of the Valley that morning.

  ‘Mistral.’

  She looked around a little wildly to see Phantom holding a tankard of wine out to her.

  ‘Drink this,’ he said softly.

  Mistral took the tankard and raised it briefly in the direction of Bali’s body, ‘Farewell brother,’ she murmured and drained the tankard.

  An expectant hush had fallen across the room once more. All eyes were fixed on Phantasm. He placed his empty tankard on the bar and faced the room full of people, far from nervous, his expression was composed, almost serene. After a brief pause he began to recount their tale for the second time that evening. Mistral stared unseeingly at the dregs of wine inside her tankard and let his words wash over her, listening only to the soothing sound of his voice. Everyone in the tavern listened in rapt silence until Phantasm described the actions of the three boys then an angry murmur rippled through the crowd. Phantasm paused and waited calmly until the room was completely still again before continuing. He did not linger on the moment of Bali’s death, mentioning only briefly that Mistral had severed the troll’s head and brought it back with them to the Valley. While Phantasm retold the non-events of their journey home Mistral looked up from her empty tankard to realise that Grendel was staring straight at her.

  Mistral’s blood froze in her veins as Grendel’s eyes bored into hers. He had just heard Phantasm tell a room full of people that she had helped hunt and kill a troll that was quite possibly his father. With a burst of dread she realised that Grendel was surely going to seek some sort of revenge. Forcing her reeling mind to work, Mistral tried to remember Phantasm’s recently spoken words; had he mentioned Bali’s suspicions about the troll’s relationship to Grendel?

  Voices broke out around her. Phantasm had finished speaking and the room was suddenly filled with the sounds of several conversations all happening at the same time.

  She spun round to face Phantom, putting her back to the room so that Grendel wouldn’t be able to see her speak.

  ‘Did Phantasm mention anything about the troll possibly being Grendel’s father?’ she hissed urgently.

  ‘No, he left that bit out,’ he murmured back. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Grendel is looking at me like he wants to kill me!’

  Phantom lifted his gaze and looked over her shoulder across the room, instantly spotting the glowering features of Grendel.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ he said with a frown. ‘Looks a bit angry doesn’t he? I wonder if he knows –’

  ‘Oh great,’ Mistral muttered darkly. ‘Grendel with a grudge. Just what I need.’

  ‘Just don’t go anywhere tonight without us coming with you,’ said Phantom, his face creasing into a concerned look.

  ‘Do you want to come to the toilet with me as well?’ she asked sarcastically.

  ‘Yes,’ said Phantom looking at her seriously.

  Mistral rolled her eyes and turned back to face the room. People were beginning to leave, making their way in groups of threes and fours out into the village square.

  ‘What’s happening now?’ she asked.

  ‘Now it’s time for Bali’s funeral,’ said Phantasm joining in their conversation.

  They joined the throng of people pouring into the night. A massive wooden structure had been erected in the centre of the village square. In the light that spilled out from the open door of the tavern Mistral could see that it was a funeral pyre.

  People were gathering in a circle a short distance away from the base of the pyre. Mistral stuck close to the twins, feeling suddenly vulnerable in the dimly lit square. She looked around cautiously, trying to spot the hulking form of Grendel. A flash of something moving drew her eye, but it was only Golden flinging her long pale hair around while she talked animatedly to Leo Sphinx.

  ‘Look at that,’ Phantasm whispered, nudging his brother in the ribs and tilting his head in Golden’s direction.

  ‘Princess Perfect is in action again I see. She has absolutely no sense of occasion,’ Phantom muttered with a disgusted shake of his head.

  ‘Shh,’ muttered Mistral. ‘They’re bringing him out – ’

  A respectful silence had descended. The crowd parted to allow the three Training Lieutenants through to place Bali’s body in the centre of the pyre.

  ‘Discipline, courage and strength; the qualities of a warrior –’

  The silence was broken by a sighing, reedy voice. Mistral looked up sharply. She had heard that voice only once before in her life but it was unforgettable.

  The frail figure of the Divinus was stood directly next to the base of the pyre. He held a burning torch tightly in one claw-like hand and the light flickered eerily over his milky eyes and papery skin. He was not alone. On his right stood the sharp featured Malachi Nox and on his left the unmistakable bulk of Mycroft Casterton.

  The Divinus spoke again, his ethereal voice sighing like the wind through trees.

  ‘The services of warrior may be bought but the title cannot; it can only be earned. I ask you all to remember your brother with respect.’

  As he spoke the last word he touched the blazing torch to the pyre. Bright flames of red and gold instantly flared, leaping hungrily at the dry wood until Bali’s body was completely engulfed by fire. Thick black smoke spiralled up into the night sky, bringing with it the unpleasant reek of burning flesh.

  Leo stepped forward out of the ring of people and tossed a round object into the flames. Mistral heard Grendel roar and realised that it must have been the troll’s head. She was definitely not looking forward to facing him in training tomorrow. Phantasm heard her sigh and slipped an arm around her shoulders.

  Mistral let her head rest on his shoulder and stared at the burning pyre, her wearied mind mesmerised by the twisting shapes in the flames. Would she end up on a warrior’s pyre one day? Probably, and it might even be sooner than she expected if the look on Grendel’s face was anything to go by.

  ‘Ah boys, I’ve been hoping to have a word with you.’

  A plummy voice broke Mistral out of her reverie. She turned to see the corpulent features of Mycroft Casterton looking keenly at the twins.

  ‘I understand you have quite a thirst for politics?’ he asked eagerly.

  The twins nodded mutely. She could see by their expressions that they were torn. Mycroft Casterton was a member of the Magnate respected
for his knowledge on Council affairs and politics. If he took an interest in them they would be guaranteed to stay for a second year’s training, something they desperately wanted. Here was a perfect opportunity to speak with the reclusive Master.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,’ she whispered quickly to Phantasm and slipped out from beneath his arm. ‘I’ll go hang around Leo; even Grendel’ll think twice before trying to bump me off in front of him.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Phantasm frowned.

  Mistral nodded and moved away from his side before he could argue. She was quite glad to get away from the unctuous sounding tones of Mycroft Casterton; he had the kind of voice that would make watching paint dry seem interesting.

  The crowd was starting to thin, people were making their way back to The Cloak or to their homes. Mistral pushed her way through the small groups still scattered around, looking for the familiar figure of their Training Captain, but she couldn’t see him anywhere. The funeral pyre had died to a smouldering glow that shed less light on the surrounding square. Shadowed faces loomed out of the half-light; she peered hopefully at each one, only to be disappointed when it was no-one she recognised.

  ‘Mistral.’

  A voice grunted in her ear and a heavy hand clamped onto her shoulder. She smelt the distinct aroma of troll.

  ‘Hello Grendel,’ she said quietly and turned to face him.

  He kept one huge hand pinned onto her shoulder, holding her in front of him. His ugly features were inches from hers. Mistral instinctively balled her hands into fists and tensed, ready to fight.

  ‘That troll today,’ he growled.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mistral tersely, sliding one foot back half a pace and preparing to duck under Grendel’s raised arm.

  ‘Did Bali say who he was?’

  Mistral hesitated, she was a terrible liar. Even Grendel would immediately see that she was trying to conceal something. Mistral decided to tell the truth and face the consequences.

  ‘He may have mentioned something –’

  Grendel’s face screwed up into a grotesque mask, he threw back his head and let out a roar. Mistral reached for a sword with her free hand, her fingers curled around the hilt as Grendel’s face drew level with hers once more. She froze. His face was wet with tears.

  ‘Thank you,’ he grunted hoarsely.

  She stared at him blankly.

  ‘I have waited years to hear this. What he does … what he did to my mother … I have hated him ever since I knew the truth about my birth. I spent years hunting him but I didn’t have the skills to find him – it’s why I came to the Valley. And now my mother is avenged. I won’t forget what you did today Mistral.’

  Grendel abruptly dropped his hand from her shoulder and stomped away, leaving Mistral rooted to the spot with a shocked look on her face. She had never considered how Grendel must have felt about his mother not being able to survive giving birth to him. Suddenly she was utterly exhausted. Her head ached and her muscles were sore from the long day. Leaving the smoking remnants of the fallen warrior behind her, she walked wearily up the path towards the dorms and her bed.

  Bonding

  ‘Good morning Mistral. Are you assigned to me today or are you in need of treatment?’

  Serenity’s polite question was more than perfunctory. Mistral was so often in the Infirmary for treatment of injuries sustained during training that Serenity had good reason to check.

  ‘Assigned,’ confirmed Mistral glumly.

  Serenity nodded and was suddenly business-like. ‘We have two concussions,’ she nodded to where Mistral could see Brutus and Saul stretched out on beds. ‘Courtesy of Grendel’s over enthusiasm during training this morning.’ her tone held a distinct note of disapproval. ‘And one other case.’ Her kind face saddened as she motioned wordlessly to the bed nearest to the window.

  Mistral glanced over and her first thought was that the bed was unoccupied. She frowned and looked more closely, realising that the figure in the bed was so slight they hardly made a bump beneath the pristine white sheets. Mistral could see from her waxen face that it was a woman, but terribly emaciated.

  She looked questioningly at Serenity, ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  Serenity sighed and signalled for Mistral to follow her into the small apothecary storeroom. Once inside, she closed the door quietly and turned to face Mistral, her gentle brown eyes full of compassion.

  ‘Her name is Isadora. She was Bali’s Bonded partner.’

  Mistral looked blank. She’d never heard of the term and didn’t understand why that would mean the woman was so ill.

  ‘Bonded? Like married? She was his wife?’

  Serenity sighed again and gazed sorrowfully into space for a moment before replying, ‘Bonding is a deep commitment, more binding than tradition or ceremony. It is the instinctive and unalterable joining of two souls.’

  ‘Like ... love?’ Mistral asked, feeling stupid.

  Serenity gazed thoughtfully at the rows of brightly coloured glass bottles before she replied, ‘Love. Yes, but more powerful.’ she paused and looked intently at Mistral. ‘Sorcerers call it love, but they temper their emotions with reason, ambition and self-interest.’

  ‘Is it just Arcanes that Bond then?’

  Serenity shook her head, ‘No. Bonding is not affected by what blood you have, whether full or mixed. Despite their disdain for the term, sorcerers can all instinctively Bond ... and their half-breed offspring too,’ she added quietly.

  ‘Is that what’s wrong with her?’ Mistral asked in a quietly horrified voice.

  Serenity nodded, her eyes never leaving Mistral’s, ‘Her Bonded mate is dead and a part of her soul died with him. She has nothing tying her to life anymore.’

  ‘Family?’ asked Mistral with a desperate raise of her eyebrows.

  ‘Half-breeds cannot have children, I sometimes wonder if that’s why we Bond so strongly.’

  Mistral looked at the shrunken figure in the bed and shuddered ... to die for want of another ... to be dependent ... vulnerable, was a concept abhorrent to her.

  ‘What will become of her?’ she asked in a hushed voice.

  ‘We will care for her until the end. She chose to come to the Valley to die. This is where her soulmate’s pyre burned and she feels close to him here.’ Serenity looked at Mistral, her brown eyes suddenly business-like again. ‘Anyway, it will do you good to nurse the dying, help you to get in touch with your compassionate side.’

  Mistral said nothing but privately thought that it would be more compassionate to put the poor woman out of her misery.

  ‘Can’t she recover? What if she met someone else?’ Mistral persisted.

  Serenity gazed pityingly at Mistral, ‘Do not underestimate the irresistible force of Bonding. The commitment is absolutely binding for that person’s lifetime; they could not break it even if they wanted to.’

  Mistral absorbed this frightening piece of information while Serenity began filling glass vials from one of the large bottles on the shelf. The clinking of glass made her think of the sound of chains. Bonding in chains. Bonding sounded more like a death sentence than a lifetime commitment to her. She was struck by a sudden terrifying thought.

  ‘Does everyone Bond?’

  Hearing the note of panic in her voice, Serenity carefully set down the glass vials and turned to face Mistral. She smiled reassuringly, ‘It is not that rare for Arcane races. Most of them Bond by their twentieth year.’ she paused and a wistful look came over her face. ‘But for the Ri it is more unusual. Warriors tend to lead solitary lives due to the nature of the work they undertake.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Mistral said with obvious relief.

  Serenity looked more closely into Mistral’s face, a small furrow of concern dividing the ivory skin between her eyebrows, ‘Bonding is not something to fear Mistral. To find your soulmate … to complete each other … is glorious.’

  Mistral was dubious about that but kept her thoughts to herself and resolved to read the dying
Isadora’s aura and get a true perspective on how it felt to be Bonded.

  ‘I’ll go check on Brutus and Saul,’ she said and quickly let herself out of the storeroom before Serenity could tell her any more horror stories.

  The Mercenary Contract

  It had been a brutal day, even by Ri standards. Mistral and the twins were making their way back down the narrow pass that led to the Valley’s smaller Southern Gate in exhausted silence. On the instructions of their Training Captain they had spent the day tracking a knucker in the low lying marshlands a few miles south of the valley. August had proven unseasonably wet and recent rainfalls had turned the heavy clay land to thick mire. All three horses had quickly cast shoes in the heavy ground and hunting the knucker on foot had proved impossible. The swamp dragon had proved itself to be far more at home in the dreary and boggy conditions than the three apprentices. Driven on by the need to complete the task and impress their Training Captain, they had persevered long into the early evening until the failing light had made it impossible to continue.

  Muddy and bedraggled, the three apprentices trudged wearily through the open gate into the Valley.

  ‘A knucker! Outwitted by a slimy worm! Huh!’ Mistral grumbled.

  ‘It did have a slight advantage over us today,’ said Phantom testily. ‘Knuckers are designed to crawl around in the mud, we, on the other hand, are not.’

  ‘I swear the damned thing was laughing at us!’

  ‘At least one found today amusing,’ muttered Phantom sourly.

  They walked in silence for a while, slowly leading their lame horses down the path towards the village square.

  ‘Do you think this’ll go against us?’ Mistral eventually asked.