by CS Sealey
“Ah, Te’Roek,” Cassios sighed, turning to his friend. “Best thing I’ve seen in, what? Nine months?”
“Until you return to your lady,” Rasmus replied, chuckling. “I’m sure she’ll be a welcome sight. Ease all those stiff muscles…”
“If she hasn’t left me yet.”
Rasmus snorted.
“And just when will you find yourself a girl for longer than a night?” Cassios asked, raising his eyebrows.
“It’s them that leave before dawn,” Rasmus insisted. “Who am I to deny the poor things a night of bliss? Especially those whose husbands drink the whole night away.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?”
“Oh, that’s what they tell me.”
The two emerged from the hubbub, passed through the second city wall’s market gate and continued their way up the hill toward the city square. Each carried only a small bag and wore the dusty armor of Ronnesian infantrymen—blue surcoats, iron breastplates and protective guards over a full suit of leather. Upon their dark-haired heads sat a blue-plumed captain’s helmet, engraved with a Ronnesian falcon. They had been riding with their battalions along the Great North Road for a month at a fairly relaxed pace and were glad to be home.
“Once you find the right girl, you’ll never want to part with her,” Cassios said. “You mark my words.”
“Perhaps I’ve already found her but she parted with me.”
“I know you better than that! You’re not the kind of man to let anything go without a fight. Women least of all.”
They came to an intersection and halted.
“I’ll go on to see my brother,” Rasmus said. “He’ll be expecting me.”
“Until this evening, then. Berri Tavern?”
“There’s an ale with my name on it.”
“I’d say there were a few!”
The two soldiers clutched forearms heartily and parted. Rasmus Auran slid his helmet from his head and held it in the crook of his arm. A slight wind ruffled his dark hair and he breathed in a deep, slow breath. He had hazel eyes that always sparkled with energy and sometimes mischief. His features were handsome but he cared little for his looks and often let his stubble grow substantially before he was ordered by his commander to shave it off. He was twenty-five and had been a captain for almost six years, proof of his skill in both killing and leadership.
Rasmus continued up the road and passed through the city square. The large, flat cobblestones had been worn smooth by the passage of thousands of feet, hoofs and wheels over the centuries. Fine houses, the city hall and a few taverns bordered the square. He was quite high up on the slope now and the way ahead was steep. He bypassed the turnoff that led to the monastery, a dull building perched precariously on the cliffs below the castle, and continued up through the gateway in the innermost city wall.
He paused at the bottom of the grand stairway that led to the castle’s terraced forecourt, gazing up at the grand castle. It was constructed of large blocks of white and orange sandstone and was greatly decorated with motifs of interweaving vines and flowers. The windows were arched and each held a sparkling pane of clear glass. Above the main gate was a wide, curved balcony and, on either side, a grand statue of a warrior set in a little alcove in the castle wall. Flags of Ronnesian imperial blue were flying proudly from the towers.
When he reached the top of the stairs, Rasmus looked up at the two burly guards standing on either side of the iron-reinforced wooden gate, wearing ceremonial armor and brandishing long decorative spears.
“Captain Rasmus Auran of the Fourth Battalion Infantry, requesting to speak with Sir Tiderius Auran of the queen’s personal guard,” Rasmus informed them, offering his weapons.
“Permission granted,” one of the guards said. He turned and banged heavily on the door. “Keep your weapons, captain.”
The great gates creaked open and Rasmus entered the castle. The grand entrance hall was lined with blue tapestries and hangings depicting falcons and figures from Ronnesian history and legend. He crossed the marble floor to the high archway at the far end and emerged into bright sunlight streaming into a lush central courtyard. Around the edge of the lawn was an open walkway lined with columns that supported the roof. Each of the castle’s four levels had open walkways looking down into the rectangular courtyard, a peaceful garden of well-manicured hedges, flower beds and lawns.
Opposite him, taking up almost an entire wing of the castle, was the Library of Te’Roek. Admission to civilians was strictly regulated, as there were rooms upon rooms dedicated to the storage of official documents and histories, some of which were only accessible to the queen and her closest advisers.
The air was fresh and cool in the courtyard. Rasmus wandered onto a lawn and felt the warmth of the sunlight upon his face. Clusters of trees in fall colors towered into the sky—most of them oaks and aspens, some of them conifers. A large statue stood in a circular pool in the center of the courtyard, sculptured in the likeness of a beautiful young woman with the tail of a fish and long hair that flowed down her back and over her breasts. There were waves of stone crashing about her and her eyes stared longingly at something only the artist knew.
“Nine months without a woman must have made you really desperate if you’re considering her.”
Rasmus started at the voice and spun to find his brother standing not twenty paces from him, arms folded, his lips set in a mocking smile.
“Sorry, Rasmus, but I have to tell you…she’s not really your type.”
“And how would you know?” Rasmus asked, raising his eyebrows and glancing back at the statue. “I think she’s giving me the eye.”
The two laughed and Rasmus embraced his younger brother heartily.
Tiderius was twenty, possessed green eyes and dirty blond hair like their mother—though he insisted it was light brown—and a wide, cheerful grin that often won the hearts of women twice his age. The brothers had always been close, even as boys. They had often played for hours in the hills surrounding their hometown, coming home dirty, tired and very hungry. Their father had encouraged them to be adventurous, advice that he, himself, had unfortunately followed to his death in the Black Mountains, attempting to discover the hideout of a group of bandits. The family had never been given a clear story of what happened to him and his missing limbs.
Though the brothers had received swordsman training from the age of fourteen, Tiderius was no ordinary infantryman. He had been summoned into the queen’s personal service a mere two years into his fighting career. After a meeting with Lord Markus Taal, he had been immediately inducted into the highly secret royal protectorate. Rasmus had been jealous until Tiderius had explained how much politics his new position involved. “How was the border?” Tiderius asked. “As eventful as the reports suggest?”
“Just about.”
“Then the Ayons are truly biding their time.”
“Or King Samian has them on a tighter leash than his father. That can only be good news for us,” Rasmus said. “But, tell me, what’s been going on here?”
“Nothing good. The queen is dying.”
“What?” Rasmus exclaimed. “Truly?”
“Yes,” his brother said sadly. “She allowed her healers to break the news to us last week. Even Emil admits that there is little he can do.”
“Emil Latrett can’t do anything?” Rasmus asked, shocked. “Then it must be quite serious.”
“It’s his way—when a soul is preparing to pass on, he will do little except ease that passing. There’s no sense in prolonging one’s suffering, no matter how far up the social ladder. It’s cruel. The healers say it’s some disease of the heart. She’s been bedridden for five days now and weak on her feet for much longer than that. All her royal appearances lately have been canceled.”
“This is grave news indeed.”
“Sorcha is nervous.”
“I bet.”
“She’s strong, though,” Tiderius said. “She’ll do very well as a ruler. She has h
er mother’s spirit.”
Rasmus had not heard this last comment, though, for a young woman with white-blond hair had emerged from a room on the floor above, yawned, and started to walk slowly along the open walkway.
“Her name is Aiyla,” Tiderius said, grinning.
“What?” Rasmus asked, hastily pulling his eyes away from her.
“She’s one of the Circle.”
“I don’t remember you mentioning her last time I was here. Is she new?”
“Markus discovered her in Cithille a few months back,” Tiderius said. “She had a tough life there and was all too willing to leave it behind.”
“What does she do?”
“That’s classified, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, come on! I know what you do and that is also supposed to be classified!” Rasmus exclaimed, motioning to the decorative sword strapped to his brother’s belt.
“All you need know is that she’s a very valuable asset,” Tiderius said, folding his arms, “and I think I’d better warn you that she’s taken an oath of celibacy so she can concentrate on her studies.”
Rasmus glared at his brother.
“I don’t wish to bed every girl that crosses my path, little brother.”
“Then war has changed you.”
“In more ways than one,” Rasmus muttered. “Come to Berri Tavern tonight and buy me an ale or two. I could use a drink to wash away the dirt from the road.”
CHAPTER 3
Zoran Sable had been waiting in the rafters for two hours, completely hidden in the shadows. His back was stiff and his knees were sore from crouching.
The man in the bed was snoring now and Zoran was not surprised. It had been an impressive session, he had to admit. Again and again, the man had drawn moans of pleasure from the woman’s lips. Zoran had very quickly become disinterested in their lovemaking and had turned his attention to the framework of the rafters, memorizing the layout of the room and noting all the possible exits. He shifted on the wooden beam and brought his hands out of the folds of his robes. He exercised his stiff fingers and cringed when the joints cracked. The sounds were magnified by the silence, though thankfully not loud enough for the sleeping couple to stir.
Taking greater care to stay silent, he grasped the rafter beneath his feet and swung down, making barely a rustle as he left his perch. His hands kept their grip on the beam for only a couple of seconds as his body swung, then he let go. His thin leather boots made a quiet thud as he dropped onto the carpet next to the large bed. Zoran’s hands grasped the twin knives at his hips as he approached the side of the bed where the man lay sprawled, snoring and content. He shook his head, smiling slightly. Grachis Solom was a well known and greatly influential merchant in El Smials, the southernmost city in the Ronnesian Empire. He was handsome in a roguish sort of way – tall and tanned, with broad shoulders, well-shaped muscles, dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Solom had many friends and connections across the empire but also many enemies. One of these was Feilon Matrice, the duke of El Smials, who was married to the astonishingly beautiful Eila, now lying blissfully asleep in the bed.
Zoran turned his knives over and over in his hands as he thought. He rarely questioned his clients’ wishes, but ever since he had been chased out of Aylesford six months earlier, he had been more careful about accepting jobs from new contractors. His name was infamous and this also meant he was greatly sought after.
Just do the damned job and get out, he told himself as he moved around to the other side of the bed. She’s nothing to you, nothing to anyone.
Many men had been perplexed when Eila had chosen to marry the duke, a man twice her age, to be her husband. She could have had any man she wanted. Some had said that her beauty and lively character would be spoiled as a result of that union, as the duke gave her little attention, but she had somehow blossomed since their marriage. Duchess Eila Matrice was more than just a pretty face. She had her oblivious husband coiled around her little finger. She quietly suggested courses of action to her husband’s steward, who she sometimes took to her bed, and he would relay the idea to his master as his own. Several city ministers were also victims of her methods. However, this affair with Grachis Solom was a passionate and heartfelt one.
Although he was a skilled killer, Zoran did not relish the thought of ending someone’s life while they were sleeping – he preferred to be seen by his victims before they died. In their last seconds of life, they would look back on their existence and perhaps feel remorse. Some of the men and women he had killed had never been more human than in their final moments with him.
Yet what has this woman done but made her husband a cuckold? He absently chewed his lip. Her suggestions were good, despite her methods…And how else is a woman to speak in a society such as this?
Stop it! You’ve made your decision. She must die.
No, she does not have to die. She does not deserve to die…
He hated these moments of indecisiveness. They made him feel weak, manipulated by emotions that did not belong in his profession.
You are merely a tool. It is not your job to judge. He wants the woman dead. Do it. He could have hired another man to do the job, and that man would have done it. You, at least, can grant her a quick end, one with dignity.
He stopped beside the bed and looked down at the peacefully sleeping duchess. He only ever showed his face to his victims, there was something perversely satisfying in that. He kept his mask in place even during his meetings with potential clients. The piece of thin, dark material covered everything below his eyes, even his ears, and was tied securely behind his head. He reached up with one hand, pulled down the mask and threw back his hood, revealing his thin face. His short dark hair flopped onto his forehead and his piercing dark eyes gazed out from the shadows beneath his thin brows.
Do it. Do it now!
He hovered a blade over her chest and then angled the point down to the place directly above her heart. He never enjoyed killing women. There was no pleasure in seeing their eyes dilate at the moment of realization, their full lips parted in a silent scream, their hands grasping uselessly at his clothes…
Just do it!
“Tomorrow night, Sable. You must do it tomorrow night,” Duke Matrice had said sternly during their second meeting in a shadowed alleyway. “I want her killed there and the blame put on that deceitful bastard!”
“Grachis Solom is hardly the only man your wife has taken to her bed,” Zoran had reminded the duke. “What makes him so different? Hasn’t he been an important ally of yours, especially of late?”
“She has disrespected my family name! By all laws, both of them should be put to death!”
“There are far worse crimes than adultery.”
“But she is my wife! She is mine!”
“A lot of young wives find it necessary to seek their pleasures elsewhere. Eila is no exception.”
“You insolent rat!” Matrice had shouted, advancing on him with fists clenched. “If you want my gold, you’ll have to hold that tongue of yours! Just remember who you’re working for, assassin!”
“I may accept your contracts, but I am in control here,” Zoran had said, his own temper mounting. “I am the one who spills the blood!”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Show me some damned respect!” Zoran had hissed, brandishing a knife at the duke’s throat. “Tell me why you want the blame put on Solom and I will do the deed, but don’t think, for one moment, that you own me like one of your hounds!”
Matrice had cowered and slumped back against the alley wall. Zoran had scrutinized him for a moment before calming and sheathing his knife.
“Well?”
The duke had cleared his throat and looked somewhat uncomfortable. “Apart from the fact that my wife, so you say, is unfaithful with one or two men in this city – ”
“I know of eight men.”
“Eight?”
“Eight.”
“I heard her maids talking together in t
he kitchen,” Matrice continued, quivering with rage. “Of course, you can’t hide anything from the servants. They know we haven’t shared the same bed for almost a year now! Stupid endless excuses. Headaches and cramps…I deserve my marital rights!”
“I’m waiting.”
Matrice looked up at him, his eyes narrowed. “She hasn’t bled for three months. That bastard has got her pregnant!”
Leaning over Eila Matrice, Zoran shook his head, then pulled up his mask, obscuring his features once more. He covered her mouth roughly with one hand and held the knife to her throat. Her eyes snapped open and her hands grasped the bedsheets frantically. Then her gaze met his and she tried to scream but he clamped his hand more firmly across her mouth.
“Good evening, duchess,” he murmured. “I am Zoran Sable. Your husband hired me to kill you.”
CHAPTER 4
Eben looked down at the girl sadly. It had been ten hours since he had found her on the beach, ten long hours of watching and waiting. His wife, Maevis, had tried to get the girl out of her damp rags but she did not seem to like being touched. After a long battle, Maevis had finally managed to persuade her to get into a warm bath and scrub the sand from her hair. Later, in the tavern downstairs, Maevis had come to him, looking troubled.
“There are bruises all over her body, Eben.”
“She may have been at the mercy of the sea for hours. Rocks and oysters can do a lot of damage. You saw the cuts on her face.”
“I did,” Maevis had said, “but the bruises are much older, and they’re everywhere. Her cheeks, neck, chest, legs, arms, back…”