“You may drink,” the priestess said, breaking the sudden silence.
Lord Wraith sipped from the golden cup, expression unchanging, and handed it to Annara. Annara took a delicate sip. It was mead, and it was sharply alcoholic. She felt it burn heat into her throat as she swallowed. It had been sweetened to mask the taste of blood, and the sweetness lingered on her lips even after she handed the cup back to the priestess.
“Congratulations,” the priestess said. “You are now oath-sisters in the eyes of the goddesses and the law.”
She took them both by the wrist and placed Lord Wraith’s left hand in Annara’s right, the hands that were bleeding. Lord Wraith pulled the veil back over her face.
“Thank you. Moon’s blessings be with you,” she said.
“And with you, of course, my lord.”
Lord Wraith bowed. Her fingers closed around Annara’s, and she helped her climb down from the plinth under the altar, supporting her without tugging too hard. Her hand was warm, and her touch was gentle.
“Does it hurt?” she said, very quietly.
If it had been an actual wedding ceremony— if it had been a real and sincere oath-sibling ceremony instead of a political one— her conduct would have been perfect. Lord Wraith would make an elegant, sweet, and considerate bride. The gesture was only common courtesy, Annara could tell, but it still felt like affection.
Annara could still taste a trace of intoxicating sweetness on her tongue. A feeling like an old bruise bloomed in her chest. Could she really kill someone who treated her like this? What would that make her?
“No,” she said out loud. “It doesn’t hurt.”
✽✽✽
Wraith Manor was a sprawling building just inside the palace complex, surrounded by a high wall with a tall iron door. The roofline was jagged and complex, and the lines of the windows were sleek and modern. The rooms inside were unlit, making the windows as flat and dark as mirrors. The stone walls were a burnt volcanic black.
Lord Wraith took a long iron key from the ring at her belt and tossed it to Annara.
“House keys. You’re welcome to come and go as you wish. Some areas in the Royal City are restricted, obviously, but they’re well-guarded and difficult to miss.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Senne.”
“Pardon?” Annara said.
“You’ve seen my face, so you might as well call me by my given name.”
“Oh,” Annara said, feeling a complicated warmth glow in her chest. This is a really bad idea. “Then you can call me Annara.”
Senne nodded. Beyond the gate, the towers of Wraith Manor rose, smooth and elegant. The entrance hall was cool and dry, full of plain black wooden panels, and far less ornate than Annara had expected— at least until Senne raised her hand, and a staircase spontaneously unfolded from the ground and a door vanished as if it had been nothing but a trick of the light.
Magic, was Annara’s first thought, but no, that was stupid. “Memory steel?” she said out loud.
Senne nodded. “Most places in the palace complex use it. Normally there’s a dedicated servant or official who can control each piece, but all the memory steel in this house is attuned to me.”
“Whoa,” Annara said without thinking. “Who’d you have to kill to live in a place like this?”
“Several people, actually,” Senne said dryly.
“Oh, right, sorry.”
Senne gestured at the end of a hallway, and another door slid open. “This place really isn’t built for two people, but we’ll have to make do. The doors can be opened manually, but you’ll need a crowbar. Do you think you can use one?”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Annara, who had plenty of experience with crowbars.
Senne gave her a quick glance from underneath her veil. “Good. If you can open the doors, the entire manor is open to you. You can go wherever you want, except the basement. You shouldn’t be able to get in, but you should avoid the basement at all costs.”
Annara immediately resolved to break into the basement at the first opportunity. “Of course.”
“This has all been at slightly short notice, so I’m afraid your bedroom might not be what you’re used to.” Senne pushed open a door, revealing a small room with a bed piled high with blankets and pillows. A window looked over the peaked roofs of the palace.
It was considerably nicer than what Annara was used to. “Thank you.”
Senne shifted her weight. The awkwardness of the situation seemed to have crept up on her.
“I’ll let you get settled in, then,” she said at last, and left.
Annara sat on the bed, feeling the callouses on her hands catch on the smooth cotton quilts. Outside, a soft rain began to fall, whispering in the gutters. Mist covered the Royal City like an old wool coat, carrying a familiar scent that she couldn’t quite place.
✽✽✽
The next morning, Annara woke to find herself enclosed in a sphere of warmth. The soft edge of a quilt brushed against her cheek. The rain still fell, and the gentle sound of water in shutters still slipped through the cracks of the house. Outside, the sky was gray. Colors muted and intensified in the silver light. The black roofs of Wraith Manor were softer than usual, while pink flowers blazed in the courtyard.
Annara had fallen asleep in her clothes, and now she felt creased and stiff. She took the top quilt off her bed and threw it around her shoulders, yawning.
When she opened the door, the bottom of it clinked against something on the other side. She pushed it open very cautiously and found a rectangular wooden tray with a few bowls and a thick mug of hot tea. There was oatmeal dusted with cinnamon and topped with thin golden slices of pears, a sweet poppyseed bun, and a bowl of blackberry jam so dark it was almost black.
It was still warm. Curls of soft steam rose from the tea and the porridge. Strange, Annara thought, sitting cross-legged on the floor and picking up a spoon, I thought pears didn’t grow well in Seichre. They were an Archonian fruit. Archon was famous for them, even though Rheon Se was probably better at cultivating them. Maybe Lord Wraith has a Crescentian cook.
The porridge was delicious, full of warming spices and brown sugar, with bright pieces of pear that tasted like the sun cresting mountain peaks on the horizon. The bun was still warm and glazed with sugar that stuck to Annara’s fingers in icy flakes. She took the dishes to the kitchen, thinking about giving her compliments to the chef, but the kitchen was empty.
There was, however, a black envelope torn like an abandoned eggshell on the kitchen table. A note next to it read, Out working. Please make yourself at home. —S.
Annara wandered the narrow halls of Wraith Manor, trying to do just that. The house was built in the Seichrenese style, with lots of dark, narrow wooden slats on the walls, sharp corners, and pointed arches. There were cobwebs hanging in the dark corners like lace. Either Senne had very few servants, or very lazy ones.
Annara rolled her sleeves up, found an ancient broom in the corner of the courtyard, and decided that cleaning was an excellent excuse to snoop. She tied a rag around her head and knocked all the spiders out of the corners. It wasn’t difficult. The house wasn’t messy, exactly, just neglected. Many rooms had an unloved staleness that smelled like old wood and closed windows. She threw open the shutters and mopped the floors. She polished glowing memory-steel mechanisms that had become frosted with dust. Little by little, the manor brightened.
She found rooms of dusty bookshelves, but all the books were in Seichrenese. She found a room full of expensive memory-steel weaponry, including a mace that was nearly as tall as she was, but few of the weapons looked like they saw regular use.
There were only two locked doors in the entire manor. One fairly obviously led to Senne’s bedroom, while the other was hidden at the back of a small closet in the back of the house. It was fastened in place with three heavy-duty locks, made of thick metal, and half-hidden by an old coat.
She peered into one of the keyholes, ex
pecting to see the faint glow of memory steel, but the lock’s mechanisms were completely dark.
“Interesting,” she said aloud.
All of Wraith Manor’s moving parts were made of memory steel, because Lord Wraith could control it with nothing more than a thought. What was different about the door to the basement? Either way, it was good news for Annara. If the lock had been made from memory steel, she would have been locked out for good. As it was, all she had to do was find the key.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next day, they went to see a soothsayer. In Seichre, it was tradition to have your fortune told whenever you entered into a new major relationship, such as marriage, adoption, or sworn sisterhood. Annara wasn't looking forward to it. She knew her future with Senne couldn't hold anything good.
The soothsayer's office was in a tall square building on the edge of the palace. Inside, the hallways were clean and bright. A clerk led them to a door with a shiny brass plaque to one side. Senne, who seemed to know what she was doing, stepped forward and knocked.
"Come in," said a clear voice from inside.
Senne opened the door and motioned Annara inside.
The office was dim, with tightly shuttered windows. The only light came from a thin circle of golden candlelight. The curtains on the walls made Annara feel enclosed in a rich pocket of oxblood-colored velvet. A simple desk stood in the center of the room, covered with golden embroidery. A large bowl sat on the desk, and behind the desk sat the soothsayer.
He was a young man, younger than Senne and Annara, dressed in the midnight blue robes of a monk who worshiped the moon goddess. His hair was coppery where it caught the light.
He said something in brisk, businesslike Seichrenese.
"Lord Wraith, personal name Senne, and Princess Archon, personal name Annara," Senne said. "Could you speak in Xiunian, please? My oath-sister doesn't understand Seichrenese."
"Certainly," the soothsayer said. "Have you ever had your fortune told, Princess Archon?"
"I can't say that I have," Annara said. "How much of my blood do you need for this one?"
The soothsayer looked visibly disconcerted. "Uh... none. It doesn't hurt at all, and I don't need anything more than your presence and your names. I also need complete darkness, so I am going to blow out the candle... now."
He leaned over and blew the candle out. A thin thread of smoke twisted up towards the ceiling, illuminated from below by a pale glow. Light flickered from the surface of the bowl on the table, which was full of water and tiny, glowing specks that shifted and flashed like minnows in a pond.
"What are those?" Annara said.
"Memory ore," the soothsayer said.
"I thought memory ore had to do with— well, you know. Memories. The past."
"Knowing the future is just remembering in the wrong direction, Princess Archon." The soothsayer trailed his fingertips across the surface of the water.
The specks began to gather together into nebulae and constellations that shone like pinpricks pierced into the dimness. Eventually, they settled, and the soothsayer stared hard at them, frowning. His face was lit eerily from below, in the pale cream light that bled up from the glittering silver and gold in the bowl.
He forced a smile. Annara could see sweat glisten on his forehead, bright in the strange milky light.
"Congratulations," he said. "You two are destined to have a happy ending. You will be married someday, and it will be a marriage full of love and contentment."
Annara and Senne involuntarily exchanged a glance. To Annara's surprise, she could see her own skepticism perfectly mirrored in Senne's posture. Even through the veil, she could tell exactly what Senne was thinking. The soothsayer had to be lying. There was no way that was true.
"Are you sure?" Senne said. "I'm not sure you're being entirely honest with us."
The soothsayer's smile twitched. "Even I am aware of your reputation, Lord Wraith. Do you really think I would lie to you?"
"If the truth had a greater chance of angering me, then yes, I think you would," Senne said. "I am not going to be angry with you. Even if I was, murdering you out of irritation at a bad fortune would be highly unprofessional. Spit it out. That isn't the marriage star at all, is it?"
The soothsayer seemed to wilt against his desk. "Well. No. It wasn't a complete lie, you see, it was just..."
Annara leaned over the bowl. The glowing specks of memory ore did form familiar star patterns, she realized, like a miniature model of the night sky. She could see the hunter with his bow and the great tree faintly in the background, behind two lights that burned holes in the silky dark surface of the water. They were very close together, identically sized. One was silver, and the other was gold.
"Which fortune is that?" Senne said patiently.
"It's the twin star," the soothsayer said. "The star of ambivalence, the star of extremes."
"What does it mean?"
He swallowed hard. "Your future will be either blissfully happy or agonizingly painful. The fact that your fates are tied to this star indicates that you will have a strong emotional connection to each other, but the star doesn't specify whether the connection will be positive or negative. In other words, you could become soulmates or archenemies, and there's no way for you to tell which is your destiny."
"Is there more?" Senne said calmly.
"Yes. There's a possibility that everything I said earlier wasn't a lie. The twin star says that you'll either marry and grow old together... or murder each other and die young."
There was a brief, nasty pause. Someone on the floor above them shifted in their office. Floorboards crunched and creaked. A faint shred of laughter filtered through the ceiling.
"When you say 'die young,'" Annara said, "how young, specifically, do you mean?"
"In the last two hundred years, no one born under the twin star has lived past the age of thirty," the soothsayer said. "I really am sorry. I know this might be surprising. I’m sorry if it’s hard to hear.”
Annara wasn’t surprised, and from the wry curve of her mouth beneath her veil, neither was Senne. She supposed that as an assassin, dying tragically young was an occupational hazard.
“There’s a chance that one of you might survive,” the soothsayer said, “but only if you kill the other. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” Senne said briskly, as if she heard about her own premature death every day. She slid a few silver ingots across the desk. “Thank you for your time.”
✽✽✽
Senne couldn’t bring herself to speak on the way back to Wraith Manor. Annara chattered about the differences between Seichrenese and Crescentian architecture to fill the silence, but Senne never replied, at least not until the front door shut behind them and she took off her veil.
“And so I really don’t understand why Crescentian architects love skylights so much, I mean, it’s always raining in the Crescent. How much light can there possibly be in the sky?”
Senne wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m sorry, Annara.”
“Huh? What? About the skylights? I mean, so am I, I don’t think they’re a very good design choice, but I also don’t think it’s such a big deal.”
“Annara, we just learned that I’m destined to kill you.”
“No, we didn’t,” Annara said indignantly. “We just learned that one of us is destined to kill the other. How do you know I won’t be the one who kills you?”
Senne helped Annara out of her coat as she spoke. “Because I was specifically created to be the world’s most powerful weapon, and you’re a nun.”
“Former nun,” Annara said, “and that sounds like a challenge to me.”
“Annara...”
“In fact, if you spend more time with me, you might find that— think fast!”
Annara suddenly turned and threw a punch at Senne’s face. Senne caught her wrist with minimal effort and gave her a long-suffering look. Annara immediately tried again with her other hand. Senne caught her fist. She struggl
ed to get free, but it was like pushing against iron.
“Very mature of you,” Senne said dryly, and released her.
“Alright, so maybe I can’t beat you in a fair fight. But that’s not the only way to kill someone. You might not have any physical weaknesses, Senne, but you’re not a weapon. You’re a person. People have psychological weaknesses.”
Senne curled her hands into fists behind her back. The seams on her gloves dug into her skin. For some reason, it always hurt when someone said she was a person. She wasn’t. She wasn’t supposed to be. A sick feeling clawed at the pit of her stomach.
“Am I a person?” she said carefully. “What makes you say that?”
Annara shrugged. “Everyone’s a person. And you definitely have psychological weaknesses.”
“Thanks,” Senne said sarcastically. “Might I ask what they are?”
“You’re shy. You don’t like places with lots of noise or people. You don’t just wear the veil because it’s your uniform, do you? Oh, and you have to think before you talk.”
“Whereas you never think before you talk.”
“Exactly! It lets me talk much faster.”
Senne shook her head. “I’ll admit I’m not perfect, but I still don’t think you’re capable of taking me out.”
“We’ll just have to see, then, won’t we?”
Annara had followed Senne into the kitchen, where Senne walked around looking for snacks in the cabinets. Then Annara opened a drawer and took out a wax-paper package.
"Here," she said, offering it to Senne. "Candied hazelnuts. You like those, right?"
A flicker of surprise passed over Senne's face. "I do." She paused. "These aren't poisoned, right? You're not trying to get a head start on fulfilling your destiny?"
"When I start trying to murder you in cold blood, I'll at least give you a warning first. You'll know." Annara bit her lip. Senne couldn't quite read her expression. "When that happens— look, I haven't always been completely honest with you, about who I am and what I want. I get the feeling you know that already."
Traitor Princess, Assassin Saint Page 6
