Traitor Princess, Assassin Saint

by T. R. Sherwood

  “Artist or not, Thianhi Mal is a consummate professional. I’m sure my wretched skullduggery will go smoothly now that I have access to her work.”

  The captain didn’t smile. She only watched Annara through her single remaining eye. Her eye was brown, the same shade as Senne’s eyes, and her stare was stony and resolute.

  “What are you planning to do with these explosives, Lady Archon?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll hear about it eventually.”

  The captain stepped in close. “Don’t play coy, my lady. If you plan to violate the treaty, tell me now. I have no desire to be caught in a war between the Crescent and Alrhen-Xiun, so if there is to be one, I would like to know.”

  “If there was such a war, what would you do? Would anywhere be safe?”

  “Pahinvar, maybe. They may be a part of the treaty, but they tend to steer clear of this sort of thing.”

  “True enough,” Annara said. “Don’t worry. I have no desire to violate the three-state treaty.”

  The captain shook her head. “How can I believe you?”

  “I swear it on my mother’s grave,” Annara said earnestly, with one hand on her chest. Not that she has much of one. “I will not violate the three-state treaty. There will be no war.”

  The captain looked at her for a long time. Waves crashed and slid against the docks, each one eating away a little more of the wood and sending crystalline streams of water pouring over the barnacles. Eventually, she sighed.

  “I believe you. I can tell you are in earnest,” she said. “What are the explosives for, then?”

  “A personal matter.”

  “What kind of personal matter requires enough bombs to bring down a mountain?”

  “The kind that is none of your business, captain,” Annara snapped. She took a deep breath and adjusted the angle of the crown on her head. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to be rude. I simply prefer to keep my business and personal matters separate.”

  “As long as you don’t make it my business,” the captain said.

  “It won’t ever be your business,” Annara said testily. “This is between me and my...”

  Annara suddenly realized she didn’t have a word for what Senne was. She wasn’t exactly Annara’s enemy, and she wasn’t exactly someone Annara used to love. Someone she was preparing to betray, maybe, but that wasn’t something she wanted to say out loud.

  She bit her lip and said, “Well, someone I used to know.”

  ✽✽✽

  Senne opened her door to a flood of black envelopes.

  She sat at the kitchen table in the thin yellow light of a lantern, cutting them open with a letter-opener. Most of them were requests to kill Annara, but there were a few for a provincial lord in the east of Alrhen-Xiun, who had recently made some noise about rebelling against the Xiunian government.

  This was what happened after any political upset. As Heron said, the nobility of Seichre had never lived through a war or an insurrection, so they thought assassination was the solution whenever they felt uneasy about any sort of conflict. The culture in Seichre around the existence of assassin-nobles really didn’t help. It was Senne’s responsibility to vet the requests and only respond when she felt it was necessary, or worth the money her client was offering.

  She dumped all the requests into the stove, where the black paper curled at the edges and paled into ash. The Xiunian government would take care of the provincial lord, and Annara— or rather, Lady Archon— had yet to do anything bad enough to warrant a response from Seichre.

  Someone knocked on the door, and Senne was distracted enough to say, “Come in,” without bothering to check who it was or if they had a key.

  Heron poked his head into the kitchen. He wore plainer clothes than usual, with no embroidery on his coat or his boots, but there were two small teardrop earrings in his ears. They were carved from obsidian that flashed white when it caught the light.

  “How are you?” he said.

  Senne wrinkled her nose at him. “Fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

  “Oh, no reason,” Heron said airily, rummaging through her cabinets for something to eat. “Just, you know. There seem to be a lot of black envelopes in your stove over there. Can I have one of these?”

  He was holding a bag of dried, candied fruit. Senne shrugged.

  “Help yourself,” she said. “And yeah, apparently there’s a wannabe warlord in Alrhen-Xiun making everyone uneasy.”

  “Mm. And the recent events in the Crescent, of course.”

  “Yes, the recent events in the Crescent. Will you shut up about that for a minute?”

  “Certainly,” Heron said, unfazed. “Though, if you ever want to talk about it...”

  “I don’t.”

  “Right. Any further sign of Tin lately?”

  “No,” Senne said, heaving an audible sigh. “In fact, no one has seen or heard from him for about eight weeks, unless you count me. I’ve asked around.”

  “So have I. Similar results. I did, however, track down one of the poor bastards who stole the ore for him.”

  “Did they have anything to say?”

  “Well, when I say I tracked him down, what I really mean is that I was there when they fished his corpse out of the river.” Heron slapped a dossier down on the table. “A man by the name of Ercan, lived on the south bank right outside the Royal City. Identified by his sister and daughter. Apparently, he was a small-time crook who was often involved in crime around the docks: smuggling, pickpocketing, that sort of thing.”

  “How did he die?”

  “When we found him, his body showed signs of severe memory ore poisoning. That wasn’t what killed him, though. He was shot three times in the chest, here and here and here.”

  “What’s your opinion on those wounds?”

  “The killer wasn’t very professional,” Heron said disdainfully. “Anyone with half an ounce of expertise could have done it better. And probably quicker, too. I think there’s a real possibility that Tin did it himself.”

  “Tin’s not a professional?”

  Heron shook his head. “There’s a reason why Silver trained us. Cruelty was the only thing Tin was ever good at.”

  Senne’s memories of Tin were blurry, but she trusted Heron’s opinions of people. “I’ll take your word for it. Is that all we know?”

  “Unfortunately. If Charan had just lived, we could at least try to figure out the pseudonym Tin’s using, but as it is, it’s a dead end.”

  “Why would Tin want that much memory ore, anyways? Why did it have such an effect on me?” Senne said, frustrated.

  “Ah. I might have an answer to that one. Are you free right now?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  Heron put the bag of candied fruit back in its cupboard and dusted off his hands. “There’s a place in the northwest that I think you need to see.”

  ✽✽✽

  Heron had hired a carriage to take them out of the capital. Normally, Senne slept during carriage rides, but after about fifteen minutes of quietly rattling towards their destination, Heron pulled out a pack of cards and a hopeful expression, so she decided to play cards with him instead.

  Playing triumph with Heron was sort of pointless. He always won. He had learned to count cards early in life as a way to make a bit of extra cash when most of his salary as an assassin still went to Tin and the rest of the Wraith Initiative.

  “Has anyone ever beaten you at cards?” Senne said.

  “Yes,” Heron said.

  “Really? Who?”

  “Annara. She cheats like there’s no tomorrow,” Heron said, placing a card down on the rickety table that unfolded from the side of the carriage. “Once the Lord of Chreon Se distracted me long enough that we ran out of time before I could win, if that counts. Three of serpents.”

  “I don’t think it does,” Senne said. “Seven of saints. You used to play cards with Annara?”

  “Mhm. She said she wanted to practice cheating. Very polite of her, to tel
l me she was going to cheat right off the bat. Never quite caught her at it, though.” Heron played a triumph card. “Armageddon.”

  “Damn. Can I still win, or will the rest of this game be an exercise in futility?”

  “Don’t worry, you still have a chance,” Heron said. “Admittedly, it’s a bit of a slim one. Got any triumph-cards?”

  “One.”

  “I’ll tell you when to play it.”

  “Alright,” Senne said. “Two of serpents.”

  Heron played another triumph. “Justice.”

  “Why do you have so many triumphs?”

  “Luck. Or fate, if you prefer. I think the deck was stacked against you from the very beginning.”

  They watched hills undulate past the carriage window, melting into a nondescript blur of brown-bronze-green. A few flecks of water hit the glass, too few for it to be truly raining.

  “I don’t want to hurt her,” Senne admitted quietly.

  Heron quietly set a card down on the table. “I know.”

  “Saints, Heron, I know we’re not good people, but I just want to be good to one person. I know what I am, and I know nothing can ever erase the things I’ve done, but I just want to be good and gentle to at least one person for once in my life. I don’t know why that’s too much to ask.”

  “Mm.” Heron put his chin in his hand and sighed. “Me too.”

  “You were always good to me,” Senne said.

  Heron reached out and ruffled her hair like he used to when they were children. “Likewise.”

  “I just miss her, you know? I keep walking into rooms in the Manor and expecting her to be there. I never say things like this, because I know complaining won’t change my fate and it’s stupid to whine, but I wish things didn’t have to be like this. I wish I didn’t have to be like this.”

  “Six of knives,” Heron said. “Technically speaking, you don’t. You just have to decide which choices are worth making.”

  “My choices can’t change my fate. Everyone knows that. Fate is as the goddesses will it, nothing can change it.”

  “True.” Heron played another card. “But they can affect what happens in the meantime. And that’s not nothing.”

  “The outcome stays the same. It might as well be nothing.”

  “So the process doesn’t mean anything at all? I feel like most philosophers would have something to say about that.”

  “Most philosophers aren’t governed by the twin star,” Senne said irritably.

  “Eqe Yu was.”

  “Who?”

  “Lord Eqe Yu, a second-century poet from Alrhen-Xiun. Apparently, he revolutionized Xiunian lyric poetry when his personal diaries were published after his death. His fate was shared by a Xiunian peasant. After a few false starts and a lot of confusion, he decided to be kind to the person who shared his fate.”

  “Since when do you care about second-century Xiunian poetry?”

  Heron shrugged. “Saw someone I know reading The Diary of Eqe Yu, so I was curious. I haven’t actually read the book, though.”

  “Everything must have been easier for him. He was a poet instead of an assassin.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “So it doesn’t really apply to me,” Senne said miserably.

  “Perhaps not,” Heron said, placing his last card. “Ah, I think I’ve won.”

  “Wait, you never told me when to play my triumph card.”

  Heron blinked innocently. “I forgot.”

  She kicked him gently under the table. He laughed.

  “Sorry. Just out of curiosity, what card was it?”

  She turned it around, even though she was almost certain he already knew. “Redemption.”

  Gold foil glittered on the eggshell-thin card, which featured a woman dressed in rags reaching for a comet-like object that showered her with golden sparks and miniature stars. Her hands were battered and bleeding, but her expression was peaceful.

  “Well, how about that,” Heron said.

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” Senne said, exasperated. “It’s just a card.”

  “You know, in Pahinvar, they use those to tell the future.”

  “Sure they do, Heron.”

  “I’m just trying to say that you do have choices. It matters when you’re good to someone, even if it’s just for a little while. If your actions can have bad consequences, can’t they have good consequences too?”

  She stuck her tongue out at him and slid the card over the table.

  “Mature of you,” Heron said, tucking the cards away. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Follow the king’s orders.”

  “Even though you don’t want to?”

  “I don’t know what else I can do.”

  Heron shrugged. “Your choice. I’ll back you no matter what you decide.”

  “Even in treason?”

  “I said no matter what, didn’t I? I almost think a little treason would be good for the old man. It could snap some sense into him.”

  “Which is why you say such treasonous things at the slightest opportunity, I take it,” Senne said.

  “That, and I think your reactions are entertaining,” Heron said brightly. “Ah, look at that. We’re here.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Outside the carriage, Senne could see the gentle green slope of a dormant volcano, and a large, imposing church carved from black volcanic stone. The rainy weather turned the colors intense and fiery, so that the grass was brilliantly lime and the church seemed to be built of dried ink. It was a church dedicated to the moon goddess, Senne could tell from the colors of the windows and the stark, bare stone of the walls. It was also the only building in sight; built by and for anchorite nuns, perhaps.

  “What is this place?” she said.

  “Half-Moon Abbey,” Heron said, opening the door to the carriage. “A small and isolated moon church, built from rock quarried from Mount Penumbra in the reign of Empress Lusxie.”

  He stepped out of the carriage onto a road half-overgrown with long yellowing grass. Senne followed. The ground was soft, and mud clung to her boots. The earth was so dark that the puddles were black. The air smelled like rain.

  Heron tossed a coin to the coachman. “Be ready to run at any time,” he said. “I doubt you’ll be in any danger, but it’s always best to be prepared.”

  The coachman tipped his cap, visibly taken aback.

  “Why are we visiting an isolated moon church built in the reign of Empress Lusxie?” Senne asked.

  “Half-Moon Abbey was built for one purpose, and one purpose only: to house the incorruptible remains of Saint Fasalle.”

  “I thought incorruptible corpses were a myth.”

  “So did I, to be honest. Most of them are hoaxes, others are the result of skilled embalmers or mummification due to unusual conditions. Normally, they’re not very impressive. In most cases, it’s impossible to completely prevent decay.”

  “Most cases?”

  “Maybe all cases,” Heron said. “We’ll see.”

  The entrance to the church was a massive, medieval wooden door, pocked by age and held in place by huge iron bolts. There was an iron knocker in the shape of a crescent moon, and Heron used it to knock politely.

  A nun opened the door almost immediately. Senne was instantly reminded of Annara, though this woman was a moon nun and Annara was a sun nun, so their habits were different colors and styles. This nun had very long blonde hair pinned into place with a crescent-shaped abalone comb. Silver rings glittered on her fingers. The Order of Saint Fasalle obviously did not take a vow of poverty.

  The nun recognized them immediately. Senne could see it in her eyes. She tried to slam the door, but Heron had wedged his foot in between the door and the doorjamb.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I would like to see the body of your saint.”

  “The inside of Half-Moon Abbey is forbidden to outsiders,” she said. “Please leave this place and return to your duties in the capital.�
��

  “I hope that isn’t true. It would go against the direct wishes of the saint you worship.” Heron switched effortlessly to Old Seichrenese. He had always been better at languages than Senne was, so she couldn’t quite figure out what he was saying, but from the look on the nun’s face, he was clearly quoting some sort of scripture.

  “Besides,” he added, dangerously low, “what would you know of my duties in the capital?”

  The nun’s mouth twisted as she weighed her options. Finally, she took a deep breath and said, “Forgive me, my lord. I misspoke. I only meant to say that my sisters and I are unused to strangers, remote as Half-Moon Abbey is. You may come in, of course.”

  “Thank you,” Heron said, pushing past her. “Might we take a look at your library?”

  The nun smiled. “That section is forbidden to outsiders, as you well know, Retired Lord Wraith. You have clearly studied Saint Fasalle’s writings.”

  “Ah, well, it was worth a shot. I apologize. Take us to see the saint, please.”

  “Follow me, my lords.”

  The nun pushed aside a series of veils hanging from the high ceiling and led them into a dark, narrow passage. The walls were dark and wooden, and the entire building creaked like a ship at sea as they walked. The structure smelled old, not unpleasantly, but in the way of an ancient building that held the ghosts of every smoke and perfume that had ever brushed against it. It was too dark for an ordinary person to see clearly. The nun seemed to navigate by memory alone, and Senne and Heron had always been graceful in the dark.

  “Through here,” the nun said, gesturing at a narrow wooden door.

  “Thank you,” Heron said. “We both appreciate your help.”

  She stared at him, her silver-gray eyes almost luminous in the thin strip of light that spilled from the crack in the door. “A word of warning, my lord. The Wraith Initiative won’t be happy with you. And no matter what you learn, it won’t change the fact that you belong to them. They created you. No amount of knowledge can change what you are.”

  Senne felt dread creep up the base of her spine as she wondered what the Wraith Initiative would do to them, but Heron only smiled and narrowed his eyes slightly.