by Sam Farren
Castelle took a deep breath. She had to save her strength for the right opportunity, not waste it thrashing about. She closed her eyes, lost in a darkness of her own choosing, and put the misshapen pieces together. Everything beyond the edge of the forest was a blank. The assassin had knocked her out, using something other than brute force.
Her body ached from the strain of panic leaving her. The cuts and scratches across her skin began to sting, and she pressed her feet together, trying to soothe them. Her nightdress was in tatters, her skin caked in dirt, and in the midst of being kidnapped and carted across the country, all she could think was how thirsty she was.
The cart stopped a few hours in. Castelle strained to listen, but there was only one set of footsteps and no words filled the air. Birds chirped in the distance, and only at a standstill was Castelle sick with motion. The distance between her and the forest was unknowable. The rest of Laister was open, rocky land she’d scarcely seen with her own two eyes.
It wasn’t the first time she’d been kept out of sight. In the years it took to cross the archipelago, Castelle had hidden in hay, amongst luggage, under canvas and in disguises, all of it unfitting for a Princess. The rebels had been dizzy with their dirty victory, and the islands swarmed with traitors, suddenly bold enough to speak up, to act out.
How had she passed the time, stopped the spike of fear from rising? How had she kept the images of her family sprawled across the marble floor out of her head?
Boredom, it turned out, was trauma’s biggest contender.
She’d not yet been on the road long enough to give herself over to monotony.
The cart carried on its way, struggling over bumpy ground. With every hour that passed, her army appearing and striking down the assassin grew less and less likely.
Part of her prayed the cart journey would never end, for her fathers would be beyond furious with her. She’d have to tell them the assassin pulled her from her window; she could never admit she’d wandered into the forest, lured out by a single puppy.
Gods.
Was that how the Greyser line was to end, after fourteen years of carrying the last of its blood in her veins?
The cart rolled to a stop, after what felt like days of travelling.
Castelle strained to listen to the world around her, but it was too loud, too close, too sudden. Ropes groaned, rubbing against wood. The canvas fell slack. It was pulled away, replaced by a blanket of stars and drifting clouds, a hundred miles overhead.
The pale moonlight struck her eyes. All she saw of the assassin was their silhouette, antlers rising in the dark.
“I… I’m…” Castelle tried, words little more than a whisper.
The assassin said nothing. They climbed into the cart, pulled her from the corner, and reached for her wrists. Castelle yanked her hands away, skidded back, and the assassin leant back on their knees, hands held up.
Without the heat of stale air around her, Castelle shuddered. The assassin drew a small blade, more letter-opener than weapon, and gestured to their wrists.
“You’ll… you’ll untie me?” Castelle asked.
The assassin nodded.
With a lump in her throat, Castelle shuffled around. Either the assassin killed her now, silencing anxiety and apprehension and uncertainty, or Castelle would have her hands back. She didn’t care which. Something, anything, had to happen.
The assassin pressed their gloved fingers to Castelle’s wrists. She grimaced, biting the inside of her mouth. Friction burns and bruises mottled her skin, and the assassin wasted no time cutting through the ropes.
Castelle seized her wrists, clutching them to her chest and rubbing them.
The cart tilted to the side as the assassin climbed out. The horse that had taken them so far from the temple was tied to a tree, grazing on the grass, and a few bags were piled a safe distance from the small fire the assassin had started.
Castelle took in the scene, beyond belief. She hadn’t expected to see anything ever again, much less the assassin crouched by a campfire in their deer skull mask, dropping food into a pan.
She stood slowly, gripped the sides of the cart and jumped out. Every bone in her body groaned as her feet hit the ground, and she slumped against the cart, exhausted, hungry, and dehydrated. No wonder the assassin wasn’t watching her. Her body had betrayed her. Running would get her nowhere.
The fight in her heart was gone, leaving her trembling to her fingertips.
The horse’s ears perked up. He looked at her, tail swishing, and returned to eating.
Without looking up, the assassin pointed to a canteen of water by their side.
Everything in Castelle’s body told her not to take another step, not to bring anything the assassin offered to her lips, for a thousand poisons could be cultivated from the beauty of nature. Servants had tested her meals for decades.
She didn’t care. The assassin had blades, had their hands, and the coast of Laister was as steep and rocky as the rest of Fenroe. If they wanted her dead any time soon, they’d have done it already.
Castelle staggered, crouching as far from the assassin and as close to the canteen as she could. The lid popped under her shaking thumbs, and she wheezed a grateful breath with the first mouthful. She tilted the canteen back, drinking, drinking, willing to drown in it.
The assassin stirred the food in the pot, legs crossed in front of the fire.
Castelle’s eyes slowly adjusted to her surroundings.
The horse’s tree was the only one for miles. In their place, pillars of granite rose from the bottom of the steep valley. Castelle’s feet were already torn to ribbons, and the hillside looked to be made of more stone than grass.
Ignoring her surroundings, Castelle stared at the pot of food. That was what she needed. Something simple, something to occupy her thoughts. The day had been overwhelming, incomprehensible, like so much of her life, but food was food, warm and inviting, being spooned into wooden bowls by the assassin.
They held out a bowl to Castelle.
She leant forward, knees digging into the ground, and took it without a word. She might wolf it down in front of the assassin, but she’d never voice anything like gratitude.
Rice and beans. Nothing complex. No matter. Castelle turned her back to the assassin and shovelled it down.
Her strength returned as she ate. With every mouthful, the energy to cry crept back into her veins. She took deep, sharp breaths. She stared at the horse, through the horse. Whatever happened, she couldn’t cry. Her family hadn’t cried, and neither had she. Not back then. She wouldn’t give the assassin the pleasure of seeing her sob.
No sooner had Castelle finished her only meal of the day than the assassin was standing over her, gesturing for her to rise. Castelle didn’t move. The assassin crouched, antlers tilting towards her, and Castelle shuffled back, standing up before they could yank her off the ground.
The assassin nodded, used a foot to nudge Castelle’s empty bowl towards the fire, and pointed into the dark. They lit a torch with the campfire, and Castelle had no choice but to follow them through the valley.
“Why are you doing this?” Castelle asked softly. “If it’s for money, I will personally pay more than double whatever your reward for this is. Please, I have—heirlooms, jewellery adorned with diamonds and emeralds. Please. You don’t have to do this. Whatever reasons you think you have, we—we can talk about them. You don’t want this on your shoulders. You don’t want this hanging over your head. If you’re in some sort of trouble, I can help.”
She spoke to the assassin’s back. Their shoulders didn’t rise and their gait didn’t falter.
“My name is Castelle Marcella Adriana Greyser, but I’m certain you know that. Why else would you kidnap me from the temple?” Castelle asked, lifting her chin. “I have been living in Laister Forest for the past twelve years. The island has sworn fealty to me, along with Llyne. This valley may be deserted, but we will encounter my citizens, sooner or later. This may be the only chan
ce you have to secure your freedom.”
It wasn’t much like the inspiring, commanding speeches her mother had given, nothing like the texts she’d spent years poring over.
The assassin stopped.
They glanced over their shoulder and Castelle’s heart leapt.
It was all for nothing.
They held their torch out to the side, firelight reflecting off a shallow stream. Castelle didn’t move. The assassin pointed towards the water, then rubbed a hand against their arm.
“Excuse me?” Castelle said. “You want me to—to bathe?”
The assassin nodded.
“Weren’t you listening to anything I said? What sick game is this?” Castelle demanded. “I—I will not.”
The assassin shrugged. They tugged the front of their cloak, pointed to Castelle’s clothes, and emptied a bag onto the ground. Everything Castelle needed was there: breeches and a shirt, plainer than anything the servants wore, but still serviceable, and a heavy, scratchy looking cloak.
Lowering the torch, the assassin sat on a protruding rock, back to the stream.
Castelle held out her arms, desperate to argue, but the wind picked up. Her wounds stung all over again. There was a small jar amongst the offered clothes, some sort of salve that made her fingers twitch.
She balled her hands into fists. Fear had done away with modesty, but she couldn’t very well tear into some small village and claim she was the Princess of Fenroe, the archipelago’s rightful Queen, looking like that.
Castelle edged towards the water. The assassin didn’t turn around.
Smooth river rocks shifted under her feet, silt clouding the water, stream cleansing itself. The water stung on its way to bringing relief, and Castelle tilted her head back, eyes on the stars.
She had studied them since she could speak, had spent decades transfixed on maps of Fenroe, dedicating herself to every landmark across the thirteen islands. Laister wasn’t large. There were few valleys with upright rocks. The assassin had to have taken them south of the forest. Continuing that way would take them to the fjord that near-enough cut the island in two.
If Castelle could reach the bridge, if she could cross the great divide, she could cut the ropes, forcing the assassin back. They’d have to cross the fjord a dozen miles away, and Rhea’s village was somewhere west of there.
Castelle knelt in the shallow water, threw it in her face, and wiped down her wounds. They were nothing, nothing. The bruises were the worst of it, and the rest would heal over in a few days. Eyes burrowing into the assassin’s back, Castelle rid herself of her tattered nightdress and wrung out her long, tangled hair, letting the night air dry her.
She stepped out of the stream, picked up the salve and clothes left for her, and not once did the assassin turn around.
With food in her stomach and clean, stiff clothes on, Castelle was human again. Her plan pulled itself together in fistfuls, and she tried the assassin’s patience by standing there, silent.
They stared ahead, unmoving.
With no more time to waste, Castelle glanced around. The horse. She’d have to take the horse, else the assassin would catch up to her in short, futile minutes. Her breathing hitched. She hadn’t ridden a horse since she was fourteen, and there was no reason to believe he would listen to her.
She bit the inside of her mouth. The assassin hadn’t given her boots. They knew she’d try to run away, over and over, and they were prepared for it.
Stupid, stupid.
The assassin hadn’t killed her yet, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t. They were taking her somewhere for a reason. Killing her and taking her head as a prize wasn’t enough. She was being carted to the capital alive, so that those who had stolen her throne could see the job finished. There’d be a public execution. She’d be a spectacle.
She was going to die for their entertainment, she was going to die alone, surrounded by hundreds, without any kind eyes upon her.
Castelle took a step back. Her breathing was jagged, but she didn’t stop. She knelt, searching for the roughest of rocks, and took slow, steady steps towards the assassin. She held the rock over her head, and still, the assassin didn’t look around.
She’d never hurt anyone before. She’d thought about it in more detail than daydreams should allow, but knowing that this was self-defence, that the assassin had dragged her from her home and would drag her to the gallows, did nothing to bring that surge of anger she’d nurtured for years to the surface.
She’d swung her arm before. She’d beat her fists against her pillow.
This was the same. This was the same. A simple motion she’d made a thousand times over and she’d be free. She’d escape the valley, cross the fjord, and sprint all the way to Rhea’s village.
Her fingers tightened around the rock. No part of her trembled.
The assassin turned around.
The moon made the deer skull glow.
The assassin lifted a hand, but Castelle acted first.
The rock came down with a crack of bone, and the assassin covered their face. They didn’t howl. Didn’t scream. Castelle wasted seconds staring at them. Dropping the rock, she raced off with all the fear and fury that had always been inside her.
The valley tore away. The horse whinnied in the distance, but the sound came no closer. Castelle’s legs burnt against the steep hillside, rage surging through her. She didn’t know where she was heading, except for away, away, out of the valley, over the crest of a hill, out into the wide, open plains of Laister.
There was a light in the distance, faint but glowing. A hamlet, maybe, or an isolated farmhouse. The spirits themselves gathered as the wind, pushing Castelle on, but even they were not enough.
The assassin grabbed her arm. The ground rose to meet her, and the assassin fell on Castelle’s back, pinning her down. Momentum not yet lost to her, Castelle kicked her legs, face pressed into the dirt.
“Get—let me go,” she barked at the rough ground. “Let me go! How dare you, how dare you!”
It was aching nonsense, more of a shriek than a demand, but the assassin’s hands loosened around hers. They moved Castelle onto her back and knelt over her, hands on her shoulders, holding her down.
There was a crack down the deer skull, but Castelle saw only darkness within.
“Let me…” Castelle murmured, twisting beneath the assassin. “Get off, or I will—”
She couldn’t finish a sentence, but she wouldn’t stop struggling.
That was the moment it was no longer worth it. A bigger reward was not worth putting up with this across the archipelago, and half a payment was better than none, in the case she managed to escape.
Their hand moved to the small of their back.
That was it.
They were going to draw their blade.
They were going to cut her throat.
They were going to stain the metal red, hidden behind their mask.
“Show me your face,” Castelle said. Her voice was loud, clear, filling the night sky. “Show me your face. Don’t be a coward! If you’re going to kill me, let me see your face. Let me look at you! Let me see your eyes! Show me your face! You’re going to kill me, so what do you have to lose? Show me your face! Show me your face!”
The assassin froze. Castelle howled the words over and over, and slowly, slowly, they pulled their hand from the small of their back.
They held out a length of rope, not a knife.
Castelle grit her teeth together, seething, unblinking, and the assassin dropped the rope.
They let go of her arm and raised their hands in a sign of peace, of understanding.
Castelle pushed herself back. The assassin didn’t stop her.
They hooked their thumbs under their deer skull mask. Their antlers framed the moon, and they pulled it off, dropping it to the ground.
“I am not going to kill you, Princess,” said the woman with a face full of scars. “No one is going to kill you.”
Chapter Five
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br /> The woman’s accent was strong but settled, jarring to Castelle’s ears. There was too much blood pounding in her head to place it, but the woman did not slow her words, did not speak clearly for Castelle’s benefit.
Her hair had come loose, made a mess of by the hood. The rock Castelle wielded had done no damage deeper than deer bone; blood barely trickled from the woman’s nose.
Castelle stood, shaking, and took wide strides back.
“You…” she said, pointing an accusing finger. “You’re the guard who stopped the last assassin.”
The woman nodded, still on her knees.
There was less to fear, now the assassin had a face. Confusion took hold and Castelle’s heart finally slowed.
“What is the meaning of this? You understand who I am, don’t you? You must know what kidnapping me means for you and Fenroe,” Castelle said. “How did you even get into the temple with such intentions? The Captain only lets the most loyal of my army into the forest itself. How did you manage it? With your—your disposition?”
The assassin picked up her mask and smoothed her fingers across the wounded bone.
“I said I wished to work for you, Princess,” she said. “That is all it takes.”
Castelle let out a short, sharp laugh.
The temple had been kept safe from assassins and invaders alike for more than a decade. Every guard had proven themselves across Laister and Llyne beyond before they were allowed to set foot in the forest.
The dogs would never abide by anything less.
“Why did you abduct me?” Castelle demanded.
The woman said nothing.
“Well?” Castelle said.
The woman got to her feet, deer skull mask between her hands. Castelle didn’t back away. She didn’t need to.
The woman was shorter than her, without her antlers.
“I am not the enemy, Princess,” was all the woman said.
“Not the enemy? You lured me out of my chambers, dragged me through the forest, rendered me unconscious, confined me to a cart and moved me across half the island,” Castelle said, voice rising. “And all without a word! And when you do speak, you do not do so with the voice of a Fenronian. Yet you say you aren’t my enemy. Do you—do you have any idea how frightened I was? I have spent my entire life hounded by assassins, and ever since… since…”