by C. M. Lind
Could she have been an assassin all along? Unlikely, he still maintained.
Those of Nox tended to never make it to The Cliffs. They were rarely captured, and those suspected of following Nox tended to simply disappear en route to The Cliffs. Why would she have been locked away as a petty thief if she was of Nox? Why would they have let her be taken at all? Why wouldn’t they have aided her sooner? It all didn’t make sense to him, and it frustrated him beyond measure.
The idea had struck him in the basement of Turmont’s Tinctures to simply snap her neck. It wouldn’t matter if she was or wasn’t an assassin. She’d be dead and of no consequence.
But he didn’t.
He stared at The Cliffs, imaging her lithe body hooking from one rock to the other when a rogue breeze smacked him, delivering the scent of salt and fish. It was the cool winds of the ocean that fluttered through his robe, teasing his hot flesh, and pulling loose strands of his blonde hair that whipped at his eyes.
After his robes settled around him, he ran his hands over his new skin. At least, he thought, he had this for the next couple months. His hands went to his hair. He pulled the leather thong from his pouch, and, using it, he bound his hair into a simple ponytail. A small prickle stung along his hairline, and he realized that his forehead must have burned under the sun.
His eyes went back to The Cliffs as a large wave crashed against its base. The sharp rocks below bowed to nothing, not waves nor the men that landed upon them. Gulls kept diving around the rocks. What they were going for, he could not see, but he suspected, given their zeal, that a prisoner had been freshly executed.
The woman probably wasn’t of Nox, he thought. Turmont’s was no guild house, after all, and wouldn’t an assassin return to her family? But Saemund knew many of the assassins were in hiding, so perhaps they were playing it safe by having her stay away.
Rumors said the old woman of Turmont’s was a witch. Saemund didn’t know if it was true, and he didn’t care to find out. When she led him to the basement he kept his eye on her, but eyes alone couldn’t be trusted when it came to magic. But why would a witch and a thief be together if they weren’t somehow connected by The Disciples?
He found himself at a loss.
After he had spent the day away by himself, thinking, he went back to the temple. His only course of action, he reasoned, was more research. Perhaps he missed something in the journal.
He opened the leather bound book and examined the perfectly penned words within. He read through it all in one sitting, took a short break to relieve himself, and then he began it again. Eventually he found himself muttering the words as he read, except his lips were ahead of his eyes by a few words.
Sleep snuck up on him completely, and it took him completely unaware. The letters and words were burned into his eyes as he slept, and his dreams were filled with the acts and thoughts of the priest—at first.
An aberrant dream entered his mind.
He was in a dry field, and the soil below him was more sand than anything else. He cupped it in his hand, and it slipped through without care. It hadn’t rained in six weeks, and there were no clouds in the sky.
He raised his head, throwing the remains of the sand away. A wayward wind struck just then, and the sand was blown back into his eyes. He clenched them, and he felt them water in an attempt to wash away the grit.
The sun blazed, and his skin was already burned light red, but he didn’t care. What was sunburn to him but another day? The wind, which should have soothed his skin, brought only more discomfort. More dry earth was carried upon it, scratching his burnt flesh.
He waited for the wind to stop, and, as it did, his long hair settled around his shoulders. He raised his fingers to his eyes and tried to brush the sand from them the best he could, scratching his pupil in the process.
His wife was behind him, calling his name. What was it she said? It sounded simple—common really. Why couldn’t he hear it?
She was crying. She always cried it seemed. Even when she truly wasn’t crying, there was always a damnable, pathetic sadness in her voice. Why couldn’t she be tougher? Things died all the time where they came from: crops, livestock, and people.
Just last week their youngest died. She was a fresh, wet, pink, little babe who only took two breaths—her first and last.
He buried her in the dirt—well, he corrected himself, he shouldn’t call it dirt—he buried it in the fucking sand. His sand that only held the bones of crops and babes.
His life had brought him nothing but trouble, and nothing but trouble would be his destiny.
What was her name? He had named her something important, he thought. It was the name of his mother. Why couldn’t he remember her name? Or the name of his wife? Or his own?
He brushed the last of the sand from his eyes while his wife cried out again. What was she screeching about? He couldn’t hear. Her quivering voice was choked with sobs. Why couldn’t she be tougher, he thought again.
Saemund awoke with a jump in the priest’s bed as if cold water had splashed him. He heard a clunk, and only then did he realize that he had thrown the book clear across the room. His eyes settled on the thing, which held no tales of droughts, farmers, or dead daughters, and he took a deep breath.
He was sweating, and the last of the woman’s cries fluttered from his mind.
Chapter 31
Randolph woke before the sun crested the horizon. He took care not to wake any of the other slumbering guards as he dressed in his leather and chainmail before slinking into the manor.
He found the place pleasantly quiet at such an hour. The graveyard shift guards hadn’t bothered him, and the bakers were too busy in the kitchen to even exchange pleasantries—although he wouldn’t mind them saying a quick hello and offering a sample or five. He smelled caramel and vanilla as he walked by the kitchen. Yeah, he thought, definitely at least five.
He went down the dimly light hallways all the way to Soli’s room. He pressed his ear to her door. There were no sounds from within. He smirked. Somehow, he figured, he had beaten her for their sparring this morning. He was ready for their session while she hadn’t even stirred.
He raised his fist to knock upon the door. His hand was inches away from impact, but he pulled it back while his eyes shot to Ety’s door. The last thing he wanted was Ety ruining their fun (or sniffing around his woman), but he couldn’t see any way around it, unless he popped the lock on the door. He had done it before, after all. Not on her door, per se, but in general on the doors throughout the manor. Only an idiot couldn’t bypass those doors, he surmised. The locks on the spare rooms were abysmal compared to Jae’s quarters. Those, he reasoned, could only be penetrated by a kick or two.
He cocked his head, weighing the thought. Randolph knew he didn’t know much about women, but he was pretty sure they didn’t like it when men broke into their rooms. But he wouldn’t be breaking anything, he rationalized, and Soli wasn’t like other women. Surely she would find it funny, much like how she surprised him yesterday while he was sleeping. But, then again, he sobered with the thought: Soli wasn’t like other women. She could easily throw an axe at his head the moment he stepped inside, just a second before he could say a pleasant “Surprise!”
And that would be how his story would end: killed by the love of his life with an axe to the skull.
He raised his hand again and ventured a quiet knock.
It elicited no response, so he gave it a few more raps, this time louder.
Someone stirred within.
He pressed his ear to the door, hoping she was whispering something to him. But, alas, there were no whispers for Randolph, only the clinking of scale and muffled footsteps through plush carpet.
Perhaps he hadn’t beaten her awake after all.
“Soli!” he whispered as loud as he dared.
The clinking came closer to the door in a fast dash. “Randolph?” She asked in disbelief.
He grinned. “The one and only, sweetheart.”
It wasn’t the greeting he was expecting, and he couldn’t help but smirk. “Did you miss me?”
She raised her brow at him.
“Are you ready to train?” He asked. “I thought I’d surprise you this time, given that you visited yesterday.”
She poked her head out past the door, looking both ways down the hall. “Anyone else up?”
“Just the usual at this hour.” His eyes flitted from one end of the hall to Ety’s door. “Why? Are you expecting someone?” Randolph couldn’t help but think back to his lie to Balfour. His grin disappeared.
“No one I wish to see.” There was no jovial radiance to her, and she sounded tired.
“What is it?” asked Randolph.
She turned her face away from him as she shrugged her shoulders.
His hand was wrapped around her arm before he knew it. “What is it?” he asked again.
She met his eyes. “Your man.” She pshawed. “That’s who.”
“What?”
“Your man, Jae. That is the fox I was expecting to be slinking outside my door.”
Randolph took a second to let it sink in. He blinked thrice, and then he cracked his neck and clenched his fists. “What happened?” He walked into the middle of her large room, and he looked about for signs of… anything. He wasn’t sure what, but his mind was racing a dozen or so scenarios. Did he hurt her? Did he let himself into her room last night?
Would Randolph have to go break his employer’s arm?
The stubborn room offered him no clues. There were just her bags that were still packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice atop a disheveled bed.
She closed the door behind him and clicked the lock. “He watched us the other day.”
He unclenched his fists. “Wait? That’s it?” Randolph recalled his face full of sand, and Soli’s victory over him. He couldn’t keep the thought out of his mind: hopefully the boss hadn’t seen that part.
She set the axe on a nearby table that was tiled with painted porcelain; it tinkled like a fine bell as the metal landed on it. “No.” She shook her head.
He narrowed his brow. “Then what?”
Soli crossed her arms. “Just words. All he gave me was words.”
He took a few steps closer to her. “What kind of words?”
She took a deep breath, and she did not look him in the eyes. “The unwelcome kind.”
He wanted to see those eyes. “He didn’t touch you?”
“He didn’t hurt me,” she said while her eyes were on the axe. “But if it had been any other man, I would have snapped his wrist quicker than Justino’s.”
His lip curled, and his words went breathy. “But… he did touch you then?”
She looked up at him and their eyes met. “Only a little. Lucky for him.” Her words were as cold as the metal of her axe.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He wished he could say more, but it was all he could think to say.
“Do not apologize for your lord. His actions are his own, not yours.”
He wanted to clarify. He wanted to say he was sorry for not walking her inside, for not watching Jae whenever he was awake, for not sleeping outside her door to stop him, even if that meant—he wasn’t sure. What would it mean? How would he ever stop Jae from doing anything? A stern word or two? Unlikely, he thought. Damn unlikely.
Randolph felt sick.
“I wanted to break him,” she said, completely unaware of his mental struggle. She looked to her axe. “I wanted to leave him pleading apologies in that hall.” She gave a sharp, cruel laugh. “But I couldn’t, could I? Would the Justicar have hanged me, or would he have walked me off The Cliffs?”
Randolph shrugged. He honestly wasn’t sure. Perhaps Balfour would have just thrown her in The Cliffs, but he didn’t say it. He was sure that wasn’t what Soli wanted to hear.
She turned to him, peering into his eyes. “I hate this place.” Her whisper was as thin and brittle as crackling ice in spring.
He nodded. “I know. I know you do.”
Her words regained strength. “I want to leave, Randolph.”
He nodded again. “I know.”
“Your man has decided that I am to lunch with him today. I talked with Etienne about it last night, but he wouldn’t do a thing. He said he’s happy when Jae’s happy. He said that his cousin is harmless. Can you believe that? He, of all people, knows what his cousin really is.”
“He knows exactly who Jae is, that son-of-a-bitch,” muttered Randolph. “He’s had to answer for a few complaints against Jae in his time. He makes them all go away.”
Soli nodded. “I won’t sit here and be another hare for him to ensnare.”
Randolph’s stomach dropped. “Are you leaving?”
“Yes, but not yet. I have two weeks left. And honestly, the Jubilee is in twelve days. I don’t think he’ll be too much to handle with that coming up, he seems to be planning it like a royal wedding.”
“Twenty days until you’re free?” It seemed to Randolph that a whole lot of shit could go down in twenty days. “Why then?”
“The contract is up then, and there is no way I’m going to renew it.”
He scrunched his brow, as if it was all too much of a gamble to him. “Screw the contract.”
The edge of her lip curled into a half-smile. “It’s not that simple, Randolph.”
“Sounds simple to me.”
“It was Roed’s contract.”
“Exactly. Not your problem, sweetheart.”
“No, that means it is exactly my problem.”
“So you’re just going to sit here and let Jae…” he didn’t know how to finish the sentence, so instead he crudely gesticulated.
She laughed, and the half-smile turned into a full one. “No, I won’t let that happen.” Her mirth was gone, and she was serious again. “I swear that won’t happen.”
Randolph sighed. “Sweetheart, I really don’t want to watch you walk off that cliff because Jae won’t play nice.”
“I don’t either.”
“If it comes down to it, promise me you’ll leave.”
She took a second before she nodded.
“Good.” He gently took her by the shoulders, and his left hand relished her smooth, thick hair. “Thank you. I’m going to hold you to that.”
She nodded again, brushing her hair (and displacing his hands), but not away from her face. Instead she moved more of it over the left side.
“When is your lunch?” asked Randolph.
“I’m not sure. I suppose whenever the man wants it to be.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter when. If you’re leaving, I’ll be sure to come with. I’m Jae’s bodyguard anyway. If you’re dining in, there is no reason I won’t be nearby. Jae could need me there. Who knows what assassins will strike during the appetizers!” He smiled at her. It was not so much because he felt confident, but because he wanted her to believe that he did. “I guess I’ll just have to be your shadow for the next twenty days.” At least, he added to himself.
After that? He did not know.
“Won’t that be obvious?” Her hand pushed more hair over the side of her face as she turned her eyes away from him and back to her resting axe.
“Doesn’t matter to me if it doesn’t matter to you. Let’s not give him any chances alone, and, hopefully, we can keep you off The Cliffs.” Randolph didn’t even think about what he would do if Jae ever ordered him to leave Soli and him alone.
“Honestly, Randolph,” she sighed as her brow wrinkled, “that is the best plan I can think of.”
Chapter 32
Saemund was still in the priest’s bed, reading the journal for any clues he may have miss
ed, when there was a knock at the door. It was weak and barely audible to the concentrating creature, and Saemund was unsure if he had been only one knock, or if it was merely the first he had heard.
He shoved the journal under a pillow and jumped to his feet. “Yes?” His eyes flitted to the window. Sunshine poured through. Easily a few hours had passed since he had begun reading the book again.
“Ulrich?” asked Nico. There was a nervous flutter to his voice. “Sorry to bother you.”
Saemund was at the door before the boy had even finished speaking. “It’s no bother,” he lied as he opened the door, leaning against the wooden frame to prevent the lad from entering.
“It’s just that…” Nico gave an uneasy smile. His fingers fidgeted, rubbing them together at his sides as if there was a hidden worry stone in his palms. “There is a very insistent man waiting for you. I told him you were not well, but he refused to leave until I told you he was waiting for you.”
Him, thought Saemund. Damn. It would have been too much to ask that the woman would have called upon him. He tapped the door frame once with his fingers. How he would approach her again, he was unsure.
“Were you expecting someone?” asked Nico.
He tapped the frame again. “Who is he?”
Nico's face turned from unsure to victorious, and his fidgeting fingers ceased. “He was reluctant to say, but I told him the price of fetching you was a name!”
Saemund tapped a third time. The boy reminded him of Worm or Dotard. He seemed to crave constant validation. Saemund found him tiring. “Excellent, Nico. And what is his name?”
“Conyers!” announced Nico. “He wouldn’t give a surname or a title. Only Conyers.”
“Of course!” Saemund tapped his fingers a last time before he dropped them from the frame and smiled. The journal spoke of C… “Of course it’s him.”
“To be honest,” Nico half-whispered, “I was worried maybe this all had something to do with that Justicar that showed up before.”
“No, of course not.” Saemund slipped out the door. He closed it quickly with a sure thud—ensuring that Nico's curious eyes had no time to look within. “I had simply forgotten he was visiting today.”