The Assassin & The Skald: Liberation

by C. M. Lind

  After a particularly hard attempt at sleep, Soli sat alone in her apartment, at the edge of her thin, hard bed. She thought about the past weeks. She smelt the musty hay that was stuffed in her mattress. The place felt utterly empty. By then she had cleaned out everything that was unnecessary, pawning the clutter at a nearby shop. She held a few smooth, silver coins in her hand that she had earned from the night before, jostling them with her fingers. They made a dense clank as they rebounded off each other. A few more to get us home, she thought, feeling the weight of the pouch around her neck.

  She reached under the bed with her other hand and pulled the stuffed backpack out from beneath. It was well traveled and frequently repaired. The straps had been recently replaced with wide strips of soft, thick leather wrapped around a thick canvass interior. She undid the brass clasp in the front and tossed the flappy top back. Inside there was a large wooden box that was latched shut, some loose clothing, extra lyre strings in a cotton pouch, and one leather purse. She pulled the purse out, set it on her lap, and untied the strings holding it closed. Inside there was a cache of coins. Copper, tin, silver, and a few specks of gold greeted its keeper. She added the five silver petals to the pile, one at a time; they fell into their new home with rhythmic clinks.

  As the last coin landed she pulled the purse shut, tied it with a double knot, and shoved it into her backpack. She stood and walked around the room, looking around her. The place was so empty. All that remained was her bed with sparse linens, a bare table, a small wood burning stove with a bundle of fuel next to it, the bare essentials for cooking, and a small, unused dresser.

  She had even sold the tall mirror that had once stood opposite her bed; it had been a spontaneous gift from Roed two winters ago. She walked past that naked spot and stood in front of the small window. Outside the weather was beautiful. It was sunny—not even one single cloud in the sky. The lane outside was filled with people working, walking, and just enjoying the weather. Her view was filled with rooftops except for a large tree, standing like a thick spear aiming for heaven, in the distance.

  It wasn’t fair she was there in Queensport, surrounded by foreigners.

  “I know you wanted to keep me away. You wanted to hide me.” She touched Roed’s pouch. It wasn’t fair. She turned her gaze down towards the street below. There were children marking the street with white chalk, a one-legged man begging for food from those who passed by, a delivery boy running with a basket of rye bread, and a duo of harlots near the corner. She stared at those women. They were aggressively enticing a passing man, grabbing his arms. When they got him to stop, one woman grabbed his ass, the other his front. He barely fought them off.

  “We were supposed to return together,” she whispered. Her eyes began to water, but she continued to stare at the women. In her head she had pictured her and Roed’s triumphant return a hundred times. They would ride in on strong Northern Warmbloods, the horses of their country. Even though grey was rare in the Northern Warmbloods, she decided her horse would be grey, and Roed’s would be the traditional dark, glossy black. The strong yet agile beasts would gladly traverse any terrain and throw off any adverse weather to see the two home.

  She felt foolish in that moment for caring how they even returned home, especially for daydreaming about the color of the horses.

  The watering in her eyes began to pool, and a single drop escaped, falling down her cheek. She raised her hand, clenched into a fist, and smashed the window in front of her. The pane shattered, the glass showering the street below, tinkling onto the ground. A few people gasped, surprised by the sudden sound, but everyone quickly returned to their own business.

  As soon as she had shattered the window, Soli drew her hand back, clutched it to her breast, and closed her eyes. She took a deep inhalation. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she exhaled. She took a few more deep breaths, begging her tears to leave her be.

  You’re so stupid, she thought as she opened her eyes. There was blood dripping down the window and glass lodged into her stinging hand.

  She pulled her backpack back out from under the bed with her foot, opened it with her uninjured left hand, and opened the purse back up. She pulled a few petals of copper and silver from within and placed them into her pocket. She would need to stop by a healer to pull all the glass from her hand and to bind the wound, wasting the money she had worked so hard for.

  Chapter 10

  Vitoria walked guardedly through The Sovereign Garden. It was the middle of the day, and the heat from the sun hung heavily in the still air. Around her, couples enjoyed the place. They walked hand in hand, stopping occasionally to steal close to each other for a whisper of romance, before returning to their careless walk.

  Her eyes inspected the couples: their gestures, movements and posture. The voice in her head had repeatedly warned her since she left Turmont’s Tinctures a couple hours before: enemies are everywhere.

  She told herself she paid that voice no heed, but she could feel its presence crawling under her skin, seeing through her eyes, and whispering in her ears. It was there. It was inside her. It was beginning to claim more and more of her thoughts and memories. Waiting at Turmont’s Tinctures, doing nothing but resting, seemed to agitate it. What started as a voice of caution and care was becoming so much more. It was stronger. It was hungrier.

  When it started, she was fresh in the prison—the new undesirable that was thrown into the common pit after a months’ long interrogation yielded nothing. The pit was a large holding cell for those who were awaiting their formal sentencing. After ten months in that hole, she received a solitary cell further up the complex. Her transition was swift compared to others—something that she hastened along by violent bouts with the fellow prisoners. More than a few of those ended in death.

  That voice was there for her then. It warned her of the men around her. It told her to act first—to defend herself. In a way, she felt loved by the voice back then.

  She hadn’t felt loved like that in a long time—not since her mother.

  She walked along the stone path through a sprawling section of red, orange, and yellow daylilies. All their faces looked past her, staring at the relentless sun above. Their petals and leaves were motionless in the air. Beneath their spiky leaves hid the corpses of flowers past their time: clouded, crumpled, dry husks from the ice lilies of early spring. Vitoria noticed a small, brown mouse rustling in those decaying plants, taking with it whatever it wished. Such a rodent went unnoticed by the others walking about the place.

  She pressed ahead, walking further down the path, where there were large statues of Sapphira. She stood smooth and imposing. They were carved from grey and white marble. She was dressed as a noblewoman, but she had hints of battle about her. Her corset was chiseled in such a way to mimic a breastplate. Her wrists had long, sleek carved bracers. Her large crown encompassed her head like a helmet.

  Vitoria stared at the statues. Out of all of the gods she hated Sapphira most of all. That goddess was used to validate the monarchy, teaching that there was a natural order of hierarchy among humankind. It was by her rules that one family was put in absolute power above all, and her ordained servants, the Justicars, upheld the rule of Queen Colette and King Henri Allaire. The Allaires in turn upheld Sapphira, the favorite child of the creator gods, Anker and Aesa. The king and queen, she thought, what incompetent asses.

  She hawked and launched the sputum towards one of the statues. It missed by a couple feet, landing onto the open face of a yellow lily. The spit was thick with phlegm, and it stuck onto the petals, lilting to one side, but refusing to slide off.

  She walked past the statues towards the terrace ahead. It was Conyers’ favorite place in the city. He loved to watch the ocean beyond the harbor. She wondered if he ever looked to The White Cliffs to the south and thought of her rotting within.

  Conyers was already there, leaning against the stone railing along the terrace, looking out at the ocean. He was dressed in such opulent clothing that sh
e took a few moments to make sure it was him….but it was definitely him.

  She took a step out onto the terrace, leaving the sweet scents of the lilies behind. The closer she stepped, the more the voice within her raised its alarm.

  He’s a liar, it reminded her.

  Be careful, it warned.

  Don’t trust him, it pleaded.

  But what else could she have done? He had what she wanted. Her hands trembled as she approached him.

  She stopped two paces away from him. “Conyers.” Her voice was weak and soft. He didn’t respond. She cleared her throat. “Conyers!”

  He jumped, clutching onto the stone rail, then froze. The two stood there motionless.

  “Conyers,” she insistently declared again.

  He turned towards her. He looked older than he should have to her. He always had smile lines, but now they looked deep and sad. She found that the crow’s feet around his eyes weren’t so charming without that brightness that usually resided within.

  Her hands curled into fists; it stopped the trembling. She stood defiantly, her face as still as the air around her.

  He launched towards her, his empty hands far to the side, and he enveloped her. His hands pressed into her back, pressing her torso up against him firmly. He nuzzled his face into her neck, and she felt his breath against her flesh. “I…” he said with a crackle in his voice, the rest of the words disappearing into the air.

  She envisioned meeting him again while she waited for weeks at Aimee’s. She would rail against him. She would yell. She would curse. She would call him a traitor and a liar, and he would beg for her forgiveness. Instead she brought her hands up to his waist and embraced him.

  The two stood there for longer than they could tell, lost in their reunion.

  Finally he let her go, hesitantly at first, clinging for a few seconds longer. “You’re here!” There was a light glisten in his eyes that he fought back.

  She nodded slowly.

  “I’m so happy that you’re here.” He brought his left hand up and he grabbed her shoulder gently. “You look healthy, even a bit taller than I recalled.”

  She nodded slowly, but faster than before.

  He was smiling, and she could see the lightness in his eyes again. He suddenly looked like the friend and teacher she knew from before. Once again he was the sharp, strong man who taught her so much. She could always pick a cheap lock or lift a purse ever since she was young, but he made her into an artist. She had even killed before meeting him, albeit only a handful of times, but he turned her into a true predator.

  All the memories flooded back. For a few seconds she felt as if she was being pulled into a turbulent whirlpool that was violently ripping her down.

  “Say something,” he said.

  “You’re a liar!” she blurted, her voice reminiscent of when she was six and the boy from the brothel told her that babies came from farms, that they grew in the ground like potatoes. She was petulant, defiant—yet correct.

  His smile evaporated. “I am.”

  “You lied!”

  He looked lightheaded as if his heart was skipping beats. “I…” he took his hand away from her and crossed his arms. “I am sorry. I did.”

  “You had no right to!”

  “It was complicated, Vi,” he listlessly replied.

  “And is it still complicated?” Her fists tightened, leaving her knuckles white.

  He is a liar! the voice inside screamed.

  “I don’t think it will ever not be complicated.” His words were slow and cautious.

  “What do you want?” There was no kindness in her voice, only a deep resentment. She flung her words as if they were hot oil splattering against his heart.

  He looked defeated and tired. “I want a lot. I wanted you out sooner, but I was told no. You were supposed to be out here with us!” He pointed to his chest. “I want you to love me again. You’re my sister practically!”

  Don’t be fooled by this snake. You’re only here to be used by him.

  “I doubt that I was in that shithole for my own good. If you loved me you would have helped me. I know you could have. So many of those cultists adore you, and anyone of them would have freed me at your command!”

  He’ll use you, just like how your mother was used.

  “I sent that priest to take care of you! I paid for him! It was all I could do. He told me everything about you: what you talked about, how you were doing, how you looked!” He didn’t look her in the eye.

  She laughed at him. “I already know he refused your money.”

  And when he’s done using you, you’ll end up just like her.

  “Not at first he didn’t; he loved that money. He wanted it! Even when he did refuse it I still plopped those petals into the temple every week.” His eyes still remained at her waist, unmoving.

  “Why did you make me wait at Aimee’s? You didn’t even visit me! Instead we meet here!” She wanted to punch him for every second he refused to look her in the eye.

  “You can’t come over. I promised Janine that you wouldn’t ever return to my home.” He said her name with reverence tinged with fear, like a supplicant might say when reciting a prayer.

  “That cow?” She was surprised.

  “You mean my wife?” he asked softly without even a hint of anger.

  “Yeah, that stupid bitch. She’s simple you know? Is that why you like her? She doesn’t ask too many questions? She doesn’t challenge you?” She was pushing him, and she knew it.

  “You know nothing about her, Vi. We have a child now, a little girl. Yes, Janine never liked you or James, so I promised you would not be around our child. Things have changed! I am a legitimate merchant now, and I have to look the part.”

  She wanted to hurt him. She wanted him to raise his voice to her, but he wouldn’t. “Where is James?” Things may have changed for Conyers, but Vitoria didn’t feel the same way.

  He exhaled hotly. “That is what you want to know, isn’t it? It’s the only thing you care about?” His moth opened as if he was going to say more, but then it closed, as if he had thought better of it.

  “You lied to me when you said you didn’t know where he was. You knew. You knew, and you lied to me! He is a traitor!” she said indignantly, spit flying from her mouth onto Conyers’ expensive, silk doublet. “You wanted me in your little club! You always tried to get me into that cult! Well, tell me, assassin,” she said, the words were like venom, “what do you do to traitors?” She prodded her finger into his chest with every syllable. “Tell me!”

  He looked her directly in the eyes, and said calmly, “We would kill him. It would not be quick.”

  “No, it wouldn’t, would it?” Her finger relented, sitting at the ready on his breast. “So tell me why does he deserve differently?”

  “He is not a disciple, and neither are you.” His words rang hollow as he tried to find a reason.

  Her finger pressed harder and he took a step back; she ignored the pain and kept pushing. “You’re a liar and a weakling. You should have backed me, and you know it. You should have strangled him with your own damn hands and then sent me his head. He betrayed his own family! He put me in that fucking place without a second thought and you lied for him.”

  “He’s my god damned brother!” he protested, his voice descending to a strong, deep growl.

  “And he was my god damned husband!” she shouted.

  A wandering couple startled nearby and fled back among the lilies. Vitoria lowered her hand back to her side. Both Conyers and Vitoria watched their retreat, staying silent until the couple was far enough away to not hear anything else.

  “It’s him. That is my price. Pay it or I leave now.”

  “I will give you him,” he whispered.

  “In exchange for what?”

  “A life for a life.”

  “Who?” She was curious, but ultimately it didn’t matter. Conyers could have said Queen Colette Allaire and Vitoria would have agreed without hesitation.r />
  “Lord Jae Reinout,” he whispered.

  She chuckled. “Never heard of him.”

  “Jae is from old blood, and he stays out of anything truly important. He is the only child to Lilane and the deceased Gilles Reinout. The idiot hasn’t done anything with his position besides spending a lot of the family’s money.”

  “Then why kill him if he’s so harmless?” It all seemed too easy, and the voice inside her head asked the very same question simultaneously.

  “Not sure who or why someone wants him dead. I’m not told these things. He has a reputation though. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s revenge from a former lover, or victim, depending on what you hear.” He raised his eyebrow for emphasis.

  “Sounds petty. It will not be a problem.”

  “Normally no, it wouldn’t be. But now Jae has declared war on The Disciples. His cousin Etienne, who also lives at the estate, has seen to it that the Justicars are spending a lot of time and manpower trying to root us out.”

  Vitoria smiled wickedly, like a cat that just ate a plump songbird. “And the poor, defenseless Disciples are no match for the inept Justicars?”

  “It’s not the first time they have crusaded against us. They’re really a nuisance. Since it started they have only caught one of us, a boy named Dorson. But their constant harassment hasn’t been pleasant.”

  “And what makes The Disciples quake with fear?” she asked melodramatically.

  “Have you heard of Saemund?” His voice became a pale whisper at the name.

  “The boogeyman?” She hadn’t expected that. Her face scrunched up while she said the words.

  “He’s real.” There was no mirth on Conyers face.

  “He’s here?” She dropped all mockery, and her voice became a hushed whisper, as if speaking of him might invoke him.