Five Poisoned Apples

by Skye Hoffert et al.

  Oren knelt beside Livna again. His strength faded quickly, but the kiss of even the weakest Dwarven in love could defeat dark magic. Lifting Livna’s head gently, he smoothed the hair from her face and pressed his lips against hers.

  For time unending Livna writhed, suspended in an agony unlike any pain she had ever known. She lost all sense of her surroundings or even her limbs and body beneath the endless pummeling of fire and smoke.

  Then a thought broke through to her, soft and honest amid the onslaught of sulfur and darkness. Livna smiled. The thought filled her mind and reawakened her limbs. She was not alone in the darkness because . . .

  Because she loved Oren. She loved her bossy, opinionated, and passionate Dwarven friend. And he was near.

  Delight bubbled from her heart and outward, for she realized she had loved him all along and always would. Around her the fire slackened and the darkness blurred until they vanished. Livna flexed and relaxed her fingers then grinned. She still felt a lingering pressure on her lips. Blinking her eyes open, she looked up into Oren’s face.

  “Did you kiss me?”

  “Yes, darling.” He chuckled and supported her head her with his arm. “And now I must say goodbye.”

  Livna smile faded into a frown. She looked about them, searching for answers in this strange dream. Black magic drawn from her own limbs rose in a frenetic fog, and through it she saw Nava’s mirror, its surface quivering beneath Maor’s slamming fists.

  Her heart twisted in her breast. “Oren, what did you do?”

  “I defied the prince. But that doesn’t matter now.” His hand brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, but his arm seemed to fade, so Livna could see right through it. “All that matters is you.”

  “Oren, you have to tell me: Why can’t a Dwarven defy his prince?” She scrambled to sit beside him as terror pounded through her. “What happens?”

  “He ceases to exist!” Maor paused his pummeling to gloat. His mouth, contorted in rage, opened like a slash across his face as he laughed and laughed.

  Livna clutched Oren’s shoulders, refusing to look the mirror’s way. “I love you,” she said. The words came so easily, she wondered why she’d not spoken them long ago. “Oren, I love you!”

  He smiled, and his entire body grew fainter until Livna could glimpse the wall behind him. “And I love you.”

  “You can’t go now.”

  “Livna.” Pain flashed in his smile and sliced through Livna’s soul. “I thought I lost a part of myself leaving the Dwarvene Mountains. But just now, seeing you in pain, thinking I would lose you . . . I knew it would be far worse.”

  “You can’t sacrifice yourself for me.”

  “It’s too late to change what’s happened.”

  Maor’s crazed laughter slammed against Livna’s ears like a physical blow. Her fingers tried to grip Oren tighter, but he slipped from her grasp, fading faster now.

  “No!”

  Nava’s screech startled both Livna and Oren. Both turning, they watched as the queen rose up from the floor. All her beauty stripped away, leaving behind a wreck of a woman Livna hardly recognized. She tore at her own face, tore at her ragged hair, realizing what she had lost.

  Then she whirled on the mirror. With an animal shriek, she charged at Maor’s face, hands outstretched like claws. “You took everything! You took everything from me! You don’t deserve victory! I’ll make sure you see your enemy live!”

  Her body slammed against the mirror’s frame, and it tumbled with her, crashing against a marble table and then clanging to the floor.

  Livna squeezed Oren’s faint hand in shock as the woman scrambled to her knees and flipped the mirror with rage-fueled strength, revealing its battered surface. Maor’s mercury eyes widened as Nava drew an iron knife from a sheath at her calf.

  “Liar!” she shrieked again and again as she stabbed and slashed the knife across the mirror’s surface anywhere Maor appeared. Inhuman cries sounded loudly, as if Maor too were being slashed and battered. Nava reversed the knife in her hand, slamming its pommel against the puckered surface. Her fingers slipped onto the blade, and blood covered her hand when she fumbled on the ground to grip the Dwarven pouch Livna had dropped. Blood soaked the fabric as she turned it inside out, shaking all remnants of powder onto the mirror. Its broken surface reflected distorted images of Maor clotted with shadows and darkness. The Dwarven clutched at his skin wildly, as if he, too, had been battered and reshaped beneath Nava’s onslaught.

  “There!” Nava cried and collapsed against the mirror with a sob. “I surrender my mirror and bind you to its broken landscape! You wanted to leave your Dwarvene Mountains, and now you’ll never return! If I can’t have what my heart desires, neither will you have revenge!”

  Suddenly, the fog shrouding the room vanished in a blinding light, and a gust of wind swooshed against Livna. Her palms pressed against the floor, and she refused to move. The maelstrom continued over her head for what felt like forever, and all she could do was crouch and pray and try to hold on.

  At last the gale settled, and Livna blinked until her vision returned.

  “Am I truly here?”

  At the sound of that voice, Livna sat bolt upright. “Oren!” she cried.

  He stood before her, tall and whole as he had been in the Dwarvene Mountains. Livna jumped to her feet and threw her arms around his neck. Her mind whirled, trying to make sense of what had happened. For the moment, all was a storm of confusion save for one certainty and one alone, clear and bright as the sun.

  She clung to her love and, her face pressed into his shoulder, told him, “I’m never letting you go. Never again.”

  Epilogue

  Livna and Oren stood hand in hand by the palace gates, watching Vandrus and his caravan cross the dunes. The emperor had been disappointed to leave Livna behind but assured her of his confidence in her ability to lead the United Tribes after her father. He had also promised that Nava would not return to the Tribes after he brought her to trial in the capital.

  Then they spoke their farewells.

  “You’re lucky,” Vandrus told Oren. “You’re getting a fine bride.”

  To Livna he whispered, “You’re making my decision difficult. I believe I would have chosen you.”

  Livna shook her head. “You have many lovely maidens to choose from.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Vandrus responded with a smile. “Perhaps one will make a suitable empress. But I will never forget you, Princess Livna of Carpatta.”

  So they had parted, and Livna waved to the emperor from her place at the gates. A warm breeze tousled her hair, and she felt Oren squeeze her hand. Squinting against the morning sun, she tilted her chin to look at him.

  “There’s finally peace in your land,” he said. “And you made it happen. I’m proud of you, Fairest One.”

  Livna shook her head. “Not me. You and I together. And the Dwarven who helped us. And even Nava . . . in her way.”

  Following the strange episode in the former queen’s chambers, Oren had studied the broken mirror with care, trying to discern exactly what had happened, how his life had been spared. In the end he gathered that Nava’s sacrifice of the mirror had proven a powerful enough catalyst to activate the Dwarven magic against Prince Maor himself. She had trapped her enemy in the mirror and effectively severed the ties with which he controlled his people.

  With Maor’s control broken, all of the magic which had been fed into the mirror over the course of years had poured back into that room, directly into the Dwarven present—including Oren. Oren could not promise Livna that he would always retain his full stature and form as he now wore it. He might have to journey to the Dwarvene Mountains periodically to restore his magic. But for the moment, he and the other Dwarven who had been enslaved were whole and strong. He could only hope it would last.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Livna had assured him as she interlaced her fingers with his. “Short or tall, it makes no difference to me. I love you, Oren. And I a
lways will.”

  The formerly captive Dwarven had already set off for home, taking Thorus with them to face the judgment of the remaining Council. Oren planned to join them briefly in another few weeks, to see that his people were properly cared for following the downfall of the prince. But he would return soon afterward for their wedding.

  Oren smiled fondly down at Livna, who rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m certain,” he said, “that there will be many other maidens and men, truly brave and fair, to come. But none of them, my darling, will ever be so fair in my eyes as you.”

  Livna smiled. High in the sky above her, she saw the distant outline of a bird soaring. And though it may be fanciful of her to think so, she believed she saw a flash of flame beneath its wings.

  Cortney Manning resides in Kansas City, Missouri with her amazing family and a grown Labrador who still thinks he is a puppy. When not at home, she can be found teaching, studying at college, or working at a magical place in Orlando. She has loved exploring different stories from a young age and is excited to share her own writing with the world. In her free time, Cortney enjoys drawing, traveling, and afternoon tea.

  Visit Cortney at www.cortneymanning.wixsite.com/author

  To Emily and Isabelle—

  The best gang a girl could have.

  Chapter One

  “Word’s out, in need of an assassin.”

  Normally Zaig would have hushed Frinnan for speaking so casually, but the tavern where he sat nursing an ale was unusually empty. “Not interested.” He barely glanced up from the frothy mug. All that interested him right now was drowning his thoughts before trying to sleep, and he’d barely started.

  Frinnan helped himself to the chair across the corner table, and Zaig pursed his lips, exhaling slowly. “Jest hear me out,” Frinnan said, his voice sinking lower. “You’ll be interested.”

  Zaig lifted the mug. “I haven’t finished wasting all of the money from my last job. Check back in a few weeks.” It was a lie. There were only a few coins left in his pocket, and he didn’t want to be confronted with a job again until it was all gone.

  “The queen be hiring.” Frinnan spoke deliberately.

  Zaig nearly choked on the ale. Setting his mug down with a loud thunk, he cast a quick glance toward the few men at the bar, but they wouldn’t overhear at this distance. He turned back to Frinnan. “The queen? Our queen?”

  “Queen Minoa.” Frinnan shrugged one shoulder. “Queen regent now, I guess.”

  “What’s she want with an assassin? Her husband just died. She’s got the throne to herself.” Zaig kept his voice even, but his mind raced. The queen regent could want any number of people dead, but why so soon? The parliament and ministers should still be coddling her after her sudden loss.

  Frinnan shrugged again. “No idee. But she’s got word circulating in all the back alleys thet she be wanting the strongest, fastest, smartest, most cunning assassin the country has t’ offer.”

  “You know she’s not even in mourning. Folks are saying she killed the old Highness herself, and that’s why there was no viewing for the body,” Zaig cut in. He didn’t really believe all that, but it might throw Frinnan off this idea. Though she had yet to be officially crowned, Princess Ailda was the true queen. Minoa merely served as regent until her stepdaughter came of age. To keep that power, it wasn’t the king only who must die. For Minoa to keep her power as regent, it wasn’t the king only who must die. There was a long list of people who would stand in her way, and he thought it unlikely she would start anything without the help she needed already in place.

  Was this some sort of trick then? Did she plan to lure in assassins to have them captured? Or was there someone she wanted dead for a simpler reason? As regent she could order the execution of anyone she wanted, then execute anyone who complained. Certainly she didn’t need an assassin when she had a hangman.

  “She’s offering a huge bounty,” Frinnan continued, unfazed by his stalling.

  Zaig leaned back in his chair and sighed. Frinnan obviously wasn’t going to leave until he’d said his piece. “Well then, tell me how much.”

  “Five thousand gold pieces.”

  The words hung heavy in the silence. Zaig fought for control of his tongue. “Does she want the whole country killed? Five thousand?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Every headhunter in the kingdom is going to be lined up at the castle gates.”

  “Yes, but she only wants the best. An’ she won’t meet no one at the gates. Whoever thinks hisself worthy is to meet her, tonight, under the Lagby Arch.”

  Zaig frowned. “How do you know this?” Growing up with Frinnan told him he could trust him, but he had no such illusions about whoever else was spinning this story.

  Frinnan tipped his chair onto its back legs, outlining himself in the late-afternoon light coming through the window. “I was s’posed to meet a ship’s captain yesterday about a job. Remember thet tavern down along the docks?”

  Zaig snorted. “Yes.” That tavern had looked ready to topple at the barest breeze the first time he entered it at age sixteen. He couldn’t imagine how it had withstood the nine years since.

  “While I was waitin’, this chap came in and ordered a drink. He sat by hisself, but then he turns to me an’ starts muttering about Her Highness needing an assassin and what not.”

  “Sounds drunk.” Zaig grabbed his own mug.

  “He was actin’ like it, but he wasn’t.” Frinnan shook his head, his thin blond hair drooping into his eyes. “I was sitting close by to him. It was morning, he didn’t smell of liquor at all, and his eyes was clear.” He leaned forward. “All the respectable folks, they just passed it off as some crazy drunk, but . . .”

  “Go on.” Zaig didn’t need reminding that he and Frinnan weren’t considered respectable even among the sort of men who frequented that tavern.

  “I jest kinda listened the rest of the day. Heard some fellas talking later about something similar happenin’ in a different tavern. Someone was definitely tryin’ to get the word out, whether it’s Her Highness or not. So I come here. I’d go speak for the job myself, ’cept I’d never make it. I figured maybe five thousand was enough to split betwixt two people though.”

  “What makes you think I could do it?” Zaig asked, tipping his head.

  Frinnan stood, his chair legs scraping over the sawdust-covered floor. He looked down at Zaig, the pale glow of the gas lights reflecting in his eyes. “Because you’re the best.”

  Zaig couldn’t decide whether to curse or bless Frinnan for bringing up the job, and settled for a combination of both.

  Five thousand gold pieces! That was enough to feed a common family for years. He could go away and start over where people didn’t know him and no one could find him. Learn a real trade. Live his life. Even if Frinnan took half it would be more than enough.

  But why did the queen need an assassin? Whom did she want dead? Was it a trick? Surely it must be some sort of scheme to capture cutthroats. But it was a very good scheme. For that amount of money, anyone who’d ever considered killing would show up.

  His reasoning tore him back and forth. This was likely all a plot that he should avoid. It might not even be the queen looking for an assassin but someone else trying to get attention. Yet there was a part of him that wanted to believe it.

  Frinnan’s words echoed back to him. Smartest, strongest, fastest, most cunning . . .

  Just who was he going up against?

  It irked him some to realize he’d already decided to offer for the job. But why not? If this was some sort of trap, he’d be ready. He’d fight his way out and find some other way to fund a new start. It was settled.

  Zaig stood from the table, abandoning his mostly full tankard, and stepped out into the busy streets of Laivden, blinking against the sudden light. Further down the street were booths selling all sorts of wares. From weapons to kitchen tools, and everything in between. Mothers called to their children, who dashed about chasing stray dogs and escaped c
hickens. Men argued prices and swapped news. Horses and carriages rattled over the cobblestones, and somewhere someone was playing a fiddle and singing, adding to the general chaos.

  Everywhere he looked people were wearing whatever bits of black they could afford, putting their grief for the king out on display. King Phileas’s death and how it was being handled by the queen truly was an oddity, and Zaig had to admit that curiosity as much as anything drove him toward her offer.

  He cast his gaze north to where the castle stood high above the town’s level, overlooking the sprawling valley that stretched down to the sea. Its walls of white stone, mined from deep in the hills, practically sparkled in the light as the sun started its downward trek. He had only a few hours to get to Lagby Arch before dark.

  He wove his way through the people and booths. A garlicky, buttery aroma drifted to him from a baker’s shop, making his mouth water. The baker was starting to bring his goods in for the evening, puffing under the weight of his broad girth and a crate. Zaig snatched a small loaf from a table when the man wasn’t looking and continued on, breaking a chunk off and biting into it. The flaky goodness melted on his tongue. A quick pang of guilt flashed through him before he pushed it away. He wasn’t so destitute that he needed to steal anymore. Old habits were hard to break.

  He was nearly finished with the loaf when he came to a sagging tenement house. The Widow Gaisun looked up from her knitting needles as he walked in. She held them so close to her nose, Zaig wondered that she was able to see anything else.

  “Did you eat?” the widow croaked in a small, ancient voice.

  “Yes. No need to get up.” He stopped her in mid motion with a wave of his hand. “I just had to stop by and get some things. I’ll be going back out.”

  “It will be dark soon,” she warned, the chasms of her wrinkles deepening into a frown. “It’s not safe out after nightfall.”