The Assassin & The Skald: Liberation

by C. M. Lind

  Vitoria’s mouth began to move, and a hurried stream of hisses escaped her. Ulrich leaned in closer. She put her hands on his head and pulled his ear to her lips. She stunk. A strong metallic scent oozed from her pores.

  She hissed again, and Ulrich was able to hear it. “Don’t let him in.”

  Ulrich narrowed his brow and tried to pull away from her, but she wouldn’t let go—he didn’t want to hurt her. She pulled him tighter until his face was pressed against her own, and he could feel her sticky, hot skin. “Don’t let him in. He’s trying to get in.”

  The metallic, sweaty scent of her burrowed into Ulrich, and he felt a tugging in his stomach. He pulled away. Vitoria didn’t want to let him go, and she tried to keep him at her lips, repeating herself over and over again. He grabbed her hands from his head, gently pulling them away, and held them until she calmed. She stopped moving, and her breathing became regular. He wiped her sweat from his face. He left her there, tucked into her bed, to sleep, while he went downstairs to talk to the witch.

  * * *

  “Why didn’t you send for me?”

  Aimee was sitting in front of the fire. A kettle was nearby with two ceramic cups by it. Aimee poured the tea into both as soon as she heard Ulrich’s voice. “Have a seat, Ulrich.” She gestured to the chair next to her with a flick of her hand.

  Ulrich walked up to Aimee, ignoring the chair offered to him. He rattled off his questions: “What happened to her? And her hands? Is she sick?”

  “You’re going to be here a while, so take a seat.” Aimee gestured again. “And be polite. You are a guest in my home so act like it.”

  Ulrich looked at the seat. “You’ll tell me everything?”

  “Everything I know, priest. Vitoria keeps many things secret though—even from me.” She took one of the cups and held it with both hands, breathing in the steam.

  Ulrich sat at the edge of the seat. “What happened?”

  “Where should I start?” She took a sip from her cup, and the steam curled up to her eyes, which were staring into Ulrich’s.

  Ulrich stuttered, unsure what to say.

  Aimee took another loud sip, and then she gave a satiated sigh. “I didn’t hear her return. I found her on the floor. Her breath was shallow, and she did not stir—even when I shook her. Her hands were large and swollen, a ghastly shade of purple covered with dried blood. At first I thought she might be dying,” Aimee smiled, “but, she wasn’t. She knew where I kept my herbs and my special concoctions.

  “Ever since she returned she’s been different, Ulrich—and I cannot fault her for it. She now has a weakness for poppy’s nectar—opiate. The poor girl, she has to take so much of anything to feel it. She always has. But she took far too much that night. I suppose to stop the pain.

  “I didn’t move her. I closed the shop for the day and told my neighbors I wasn’t feeling well. No one asked too many questions—people are too afraid of catching something when they think someone is ill. I took care of her the best I could, but the damage was more than stitches could fix. I had to reset and splint parts—and the bruising on her bones was severe.”

  “What happened?” asked Ulrich.

  Aimee took a long gulp of tea. “She wouldn’t say, but I know why she left that night. She had a good plan, one that I helped her with, and, for the life of me, I don’t know where it went wrong. She was supposed to be gone for days, but she was there on the floor where I found her. She’d only been gone for several hours.”

  “What was she doing that would take days?” Ulrich asked, but part of him really didn’t want to know.

  “You heard about that body?”

  His stomach twisted. “Yes,” he said hesitantly.

  “Then you know why she was supposed to be gone for days.” She took another gulp, draining the cup.

  “Who is he?” asked Ulrich.

  “You mean, ‘who was he?’ For he is most certainly dead.” She took the cup that Ulrich had ignored. “Praise the gods for something.” She toasted them with the cup and then took a long sip.

  “Who was he?” asked Ulrich.

  “Vitoria never told you, did she?” She didn’t give him time to answer. “Of course she didn’t. That is the way she is: wanting to believe that the past is the past. But with Vitoria, she can never seem to leave it behind.” She smiled. “She must not have wanted you to know. Perhaps she never wanted you to know that part of her.”

  Ulrich leaned back in the chair. “I think there is a lot she never told me.”

  “Did you tell her a lot?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Yeah, I liked talking to her. Something about her made me comfortable.”

  Aimee’s stern façade cracked, and she laughed, almost spilling her tea.

  “I know it’s strange, but I’m used to women like her: quiet, strong, determined, and complicated.” He thought about Aela, and how stubborn she always was. How, when he would make her angry, she would stare at him with her simmering eyes and torture him with her silence.

  “His name was James, and he was a liar and a cheat. Do you know why Vitoria was in prison?”

  “The guards said it was theft, but she never talked about it.”

  “Not once?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “She never brought it up, and I never asked her about it. I waited for her to bring it up, but she never did.” The last part he didn’t say out loud: that he felt like he was always waiting on her.

  “Vitoria didn’t do it,” said Aimee. “Sure, she has stolen plenty. But she didn’t do what they arrested her for. They said she robbed an auction house. That a lot of rich men lost a lot of money. They offered her leniency if she would tell them where the goods were, but she couldn’t.” She took a deep breath. “But they said there was a witness, so there was nothing she could say to dissuade them. “ She turned her gaze to the dying fire. “The moment they took her in, James was nowhere to be found. It doesn’t take much thought to connect the two.”

  “But, why would she have ‘been’ seen? Why do that to her?”

  Aimee’s fast words were filled with smoldering wrath. Her face looked like Vitoria’s for that second. “I know men like James: men who do what they want as long as it entertains them. Vitoria must not have entertained the rotten prick anymore.” She realized that she was clutching the cup in her hand. She relaxed it, and her words quieted. “She just didn’t know it—not until they stuffed her into The White Cliffs and beat her.”

  Ulrich took a deep breath. “So it was like that?”

  “If I could have found him, the delightful things I would have done to him.” She gently set the cup onto the table. “Do you know what they do to the women in The Cliffs?”

  Ulrich shook his head.

  “I do. When I was younger, I was who they brought in to treat the wounded who needed to stay alive longer—at least until they broke. Until the tortured would tell them what they needed to hear.”

  There was a creak at the staircase, and Ulrich’s eyes darted for it, expecting Vitoria—wanting to see her as before: healthy, energetic, and alert. Nothing was there but empty shadows. Aimee must not have heard it, as she continued speaking uninterrupted.

  “At first they ask you what they want to know and they threaten you. They scare you with their tall, strong men, and their nasty, rusty tools. They might hurt you a little, but they don’t waste their time for long. If you’re a woman, and, you won’t talk, they throw you in the common pit. It’s a large, dark room where men, all murderers, rapists, and thieves stay. They leave someone there for as long as it takes.

  “Usually, the women break quickly. They’ll say anything to escape the pit. But, what if you don’t know what they think you know?” She shrugged. “Awful things happen.” She poured more tea into her cup and then took a sip. “Things I dare not ask her about. But I know them. When I look at her I recognize the look on her face. It’s the same look I’ve seen before, in those at The Cliffs.”

  Ulrich remembered the guards say
ing she didn’t play well with the others in the pit, but he never understood what that meant. “Why would someone do that to her?”

  “Because he was selfish? Maybe he was bored?” She paused. “I think it’s more than one thing, but I can never be sure. Conyers said James was nowhere to be found, so I couldn’t ask him myself. Vitoria went to James for answers, but, if she got them, she hasn’t shared them with me.” She paused, her mouth opened as if to speak further, but then she took a sip instead.

  Ulrich cleared his throat, and he asked the question before he even knew it. “What is it?”

  She smiled, and she took a few moments to speak, as if solidifying her thoughts before they left her mouth. “I met Vitoria because of Conyers, who I know you are familiar with. He wanted me to meet his protégé: a woman born for great things. He was as proud as anyone could be… and he loved her. He really loved her. Imagine my surprise when I found out she was married to that piece of shit, worthless brother of his.”

  Ulrich sighed and crossed his arms. “Jealousy?”

  “Maybe James didn’t like the arrangement. I’ve known men to do terrible things for less.” She went back to her tea, as if she had thought she had spoken too freely.

  “So Vitoria is part of The Disciples?” Ulrich sighed.

  “Not at all. Conyers apprenticed her outside of the guild. Rare I know, but he always thought she would come around. I told him it would never happen, but he thought he could be persuasive if given enough time.” Aimee gave a slight laugh. “Never going to happen now—not after he left her there for so long. And it isn’t like she’s much use to him now.”

  Ulrich nodded. “Then why is she like… that?” He pointed upstairs.

  “It’s the poppy. She hasn’t stopped, and I haven’t the heart to keep it from her.” Aimee hesitated, looking at the ceiling. “She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t do much of anything. At least she is in some kind of peace now.”

  A few moments of silence passed between them. The only noise was the crackling of the fire, and the occasional creak above from, what Ulrich thought was, the house gently moving with the breeze.

  “May I stay?” asked Ulrich.

  “I have no room for you, so what you see is what you get.”

  “That’s fine. I need to talk to her, and maybe she’ll be able to come morning.” Ulrich took one of the cups and filled it with tea.

  “What do you expect from her?” Aimee put her cup down, and Ulrich filled it for her.

  “I don’t know, but I’ll find out in the morning.” Ulrich emptied the cup in one long swig, set it down, and walked to Vitoria’s room.

  As he walked up the stairs he heard stirring sounds from above, as if someone was creeping about. He entered her room, but, much to his dismay, Vitoria was still in the bed. The blanket he had placed over her before was crumpled at her feet. She herself was halfway off the bed, her knuckles touching the floor. So he had heard her tapping the floor, he supposed.

  He gently pulled her back on the bed, tucked the blanket around her, and sat on the edge. In front of him the lamp was dying. He would need to refill the oil in the morning, but for now he figured some quiet darkness would be good for her. Next to it were vials. He pulled their corks out and smelled them each. The first one was bitter, the second smelled like dirt.

  Vitoria’s head rolled towards him, and her eyelids fluttered. She was looking into him. “You let him in.” Her voice was breathy and weak.

  He turned his head towards her and set the earth scented vial back onto the table. “What?”

  “He’ll always be there. He’ll never leave me. Always there,” she whispered. “Trying to get in.” She took a long breath, as if talking had winded her.

  “Go to sleep, Vi. You’ll feel better in the morning. I’ll be here. You’ll be fine.” He grabbed another vial, and when he opened the cork, a sickeningly sweet scent flooded his nostrils. He turned to the window, and he threw it.

  “Ulrich,” she hissed, touching his thigh with her bandaged hand. “You can’t let him in!”

  The vial shattered on the wall of the bakery behind Turmont’s, and the opiate that Vitoria had relied on for weeks oozed down into the gutter.

  Chapter 17

  Vitoria’s muscles ached. A deep, perverse unrest was within her, and she twisted beneath the blanket. As her body slid under the sheet, pins and needles awakened in her skin, prodding her with dull, maddening delight. Her mind was lost in a dense fog, as if her thoughts were trudging through wet silt and sand. She could only register alien sensations and odd sounds. Light was in her eyes, but then it wasn’t. She was always coated in sweat and slightly ill—as if the flu was going to take her soon. A loud, deafening thud pulsed in her head. What would clearly be a heartbeat to some was the sound of James’ corpse clunking down the stairs.

  She heard Ulrich’s voice slipping in between the silence, as if it was the shadow of a flying bird far overhead, but her mind told her it wasn’t Ulrich. It was really James. She was sure of it. He had followed her from that inn all the way back to Aimee’s. The specter that smelled of death was no longer content to wait outside her window and watch her. He somehow had gotten in, and she was sure he would never leave her.

  The voice that was always with her was lost in the haze, and she wished it was there to silence James. She searched, begging for it to tell her what was real and what wasn’t, but it had simply vanished.

  Slipping into blackness was the only thing that made James go away, but it never lasted. She would awaken (or at least she thought she was awake). Water would be poured into her mouth, and then she would hear that voice again. It was James pretending to be Ulrich, or maybe it was Ulrich, or Aimee, or mother—but once there was something else. It was the voice of a monster that purred in her ear, asking her questions—what about she could not recall. She taunted it, because to her ears and nose it was surely death himself. She thought if she died, then nothing would matter anymore. She would have no thoughts of James (or his guilt or innocence), no anger for Conyers, no hatred for herself. No longing for her mother. But true death did not want her. She somehow knew that in her hazy confusion—a state that she could only describe as numb oblivion. Nothing was real, everything was a lie, and, for one such as her, there could be no peace. If death was skulking about her, it only wanted to bring James back to haunt her—to torment her.

  “Somehow I survived,” James told her, whispering into her ear. She could feel the heat of his breath on her face. “The gods spared me so that I may be with you.” She felt his hands grabbing hers, as tight as bindings. “I love you more than anything else.”

  The blackness would silence him, but the tightness of his hands never left. Once the darkness abated, he would return to her. “I never betrayed you. You know that in your heart. So many lie to you, but never me.” He would squeeze her hand even tighter, and she would want to sob from the pain—but she couldn’t in her numb state. “I’ve missed you so much. Let me show you.”

  Then the perverted, twisted memories of his body on hers would overtake her: a suddenly eviscerated James kissing her ear, trailing down her neck, and roving to her lips. His bloodied, naked chest pressed against her. She could feel his hot, wet intestines spilling onto her stomach. His fingers ran up her thigh and entered her with a tender force, while his voice playfully reprimanded her for the removal of their favorite tool.

  She lashed out, trying to find the medicine to make him leave. Enough drops silenced everything around her. It locked away all the memories that needed to be forgotten. It alone could banish the specter. But the medicine wasn’t there. She thrashed her hand about and heard shattering glass and the clank of fallen metal.

  Then something would grab her and force her to be still. She thought it was the specter—James forcing her to stay in bed with him. She tried to push him away but couldn’t. He was so much stronger than her, and she would return to the darkness.

  Eventually, she stopped fighting him. He was her hell, and she si
mply stopped caring. She stopped thrashing against him. The tightness in her hands was still present, but he stopped grabbing her as hard. She didn’t fight when water would pass her lips, and instead took large gulps. Whenever the specter would ask her questions, she would reply. Garbled fragments were what she could muster, but she relented and engaged her tormenter.

  She figured that talking to him was better than reliving his touch.

  “You’re dead,” she would say, over and over again. “I made sure. Made sure you’d never lie…never hurt…again.” Her throat was cracked and dry, and she would take painful gulps in between words. “I was wrong.”

  Whenever she would talk, he would ask more. “Are you here to gloat?” she managed to ask with resounding clarity.

  “Are you finally going to tell me the truth?” She cried hot, wrathful tears that had been brewing for years.

  “Were the petals worth it?” She asked him several times, and her words ran together like spilt ink on parchment. Eventually she was reduced to sniffles, and before she returned to the blackness, she exhaled, “Mother.”

  * * *

  Birds were outside her window, and a steady, pleasant breeze that smelled like bread rustled her awake. She opened her eyes. The window was open, and sunlight poured through it, ending at the foot of her bed. Her body ached, her head throbbed, and she was nauseous.

  To her right was a nightstand with a full pitcher of water. Her tongue was dry, and her lips were cracked. She seized the pitcher and drank it quickly, pounding gulp after gulp. As the water hit her stomach, she retched. The pitcher fell to the floor, the water splashing the nightstand as it plunged. She managed to lean over before the water came back up, and acrid liquid regurgitated itself through her nose and mouth.

  The retching hurt her already worn body. Every convulsion shot tight, hot pain throughout her back. Her lungs burned as some of the watery vomit dripped into them. Strained tears sprang from her eyes. After several spasms, she laid back down onto the bed, forcing herself to take deep, long breaths. She was trembling as she wiped away the tears.