Traitor Princess, Assassin Saint

by T. R. Sherwood

  Someone knocked on the door. Heron, probably. Senne ignored it. She didn’t want to talk to Heron. He was too polite to say ‘I told you so,’ but he would be thinking it.

  He had been right all along. Heron was usually right all along, but it never stopped being annoying. Senne truly did have someone she couldn’t afford to lose. She would betray the Crown for Annara. If it ever came down to it, she would betray the Crown for Heron, too.

  Senne ran her hands through her hair. She was so distracted that when she heard the sound of the front door and footsteps behind her, she assumed it was Annara. Someone put a damp cloth over her nose and mouth. By the time she realized that Annara didn’t live there anymore and she never would again, it was already too late.

  ✽✽✽

  When she opened her eyes again, the first thing she noticed was the smell. It was nauseatingly familiar, a mixture of rusting, rotting metal and stale floral perfume. It clung to the back of her throat like a physical thing.

  The air was thick with the multicolored haze of memory ore distortion, like heat above a road. The scene flickered. When she first saw Tin, she thought he was a memory or a hallucination, but the scene was too odd to be anything other than real.

  They were underground, in a chamber that Senne recognized as her own basement. The chains lay coiled on the stone floor. One of the walls was gone, revealing a hidden room. It was dusty, as if it had been unused for a long, long time. That’s right, she realized, the Wraith Initiative built Wraith Manor. It was theirs before it was Heron’s. Of course.

  Tin had turned the space into a makeshift laboratory. The ceiling in the other room was higher. It accommodated a small dais with a massive, twisted chunk of memory ore on top of it. It glittered like a meteorite, full of odd craters and bubbles. Colors rippled across its surface. A hastily-constructed iron catwalk curled up around it.

  The chains on the ground clinked as Tin kicked them aside. Wait, Senne thought, if the chains are there, what’s holding me? The cold thing pressing against her wrists felt almost like a pair of human hands, but they were too stiff and hard.

  She turned her head and looked directly into the still-smiling face of Saint Fasalle. The saint’s eyes were partially open, revealing a pair of blank blue eyes. Her skin was wrinkled in places and firm in others, as if it was just slightly too large for her body.

  Senne tried to jerk away. She didn’t cry out, she never did, even though she could feel horror congeal in the pit of her stomach. The saint’s hands didn’t budge, even when Senne tried to shapeshift, because Saint Fasalle was made of memory steel too.

  “How is this possible?” she asked Tin. “Who’s controlling her?”

  “Do you have to ask?” Tin said. “I am, of course.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “It is now. I’ve figured it out. I know the secret to gaining your powers as an adult. The Wraith Initiative might become obsolete, but I never will.”

  He was wrong. Senne could tell. Whatever he had done to himself, it might have given him the power of Lord Wraith, but it had also given him memory ore poisoning. His fingertips were slightly blue, and the whites of his eyes had turned a pallid gray. He was in the early stages of it, so he could still recover if it was treated soon, but if it wasn’t, he would be dead in months.

  “How?” she asked anyway, because there was no point in provoking him.

  “Small amounts,” Tin said feverishly. “Ingest it in small amounts, and your body becomes acclimated to the poison. I don’t mind telling you, Senne. This means I don’t have to rely on children anymore.”

  Senne decided that kicking at his kneecaps would be more productive than answering. He dodged to one side, but he did look slightly shaken.

  “What are you planning?” she asked. “What are you trying to make me do?”

  “I am trying to make you sit there quietly and stop asking questions. Weren’t you listening? I don’t need you anymore, you or your stupid, insubordinate predecessor. Which reminds me. We can’t have him interfering, either.”

  “Interfering with what?”

  He started to pace. “The other remaining members of the Wraith Initiative thought this would be going too far, but I don’t see an alternative. This is the only way to make the Crown listen.”

  “What’s the only way?”

  Tin turned to look at her. His strange, leonine eyes looked like coins where the eerie multicolored light of the memory ore hit them. “I’m going to take the Royal City hostage.”

  “The entire Royal City?” Senne almost laughed. Tin had finally lost his mind. “Tin, the Royal City has thousands of people in it. You can’t possibly take them all hostage.”

  “Thousands of people, indeed. The Royal City is very prosperous, is it not? Very advanced. Very lucky. And so, of course, it has thousands of tons of memory steel in it. It’s in locks, in doors, in elevators and in paintings and weapons.”

  He turned around to a rickety table he had set up in the back of the room. It held a glass of water, a few maps, and three memory steel knives that Senne recognized as her own. He pointed at them. All three rose so that their hilts pointed towards the ceiling and their tips touched the wooden surface of the table. The blades vibrated slightly mid-air and started to heat, until the surface of the table hissed and caught flame.

  Tin tossed the glass of water over the fire, which continued to send up gray shreds of smoke. “You see? You know better than most, I think, that memory ore can be controlled.”

  “You’re not the only one here who can control memory steel,” Senne said immediately. “What you’re talking about will turn into a massacre. I’ll stop you, and if I can’t, Heron will.”

  “You won’t have the chance to stop me, child. You might have a point about Heron, though.” He turned away, musing. “What to do about Heron…”

  “I’m still here,” Senne said.

  “Yes, you are. In fact, that seems to be the problem.” He snapped his fingers. Saint Fasalle’s body jerked upright like a marionette. “I’ll dispose of you for the time being, and then I can send my saint to kill your insubordinate predecessor.”

  “You can’t beat Heron. Not even with Saint Fasalle.”

  “I think we’ve heard enough from you,” Tin said sharply. “I don’t understand why you people can’t keep your damn mouths shut. You have one purpose, one reason why I spared your life. Can’t you just fulfil that purpose without mouthing off to your betters? Yes, child, your betters. The government might have given you a title, but at heart, you’re still the girl I found on the streets. Come.”

  Saint Fasalle dragged her into the next room, where alien colors rippled across the surface of the memory ore.

  “I will not kill you yet,” Tin informed her. “You can still be useful. Or at least your corpse can, like that of dear little Fasalle. I don’t need you sane, though. Let us see what direct exposure to two tons of memory ore does to your mind, shall we?”

  For the first time, Senne started to feel afraid. She felt cold sweat gather in her palms. “You can’t turn me into a monster again. It’s not possible. I’m done with that, I’m not going back, you can’t make me, you can’t—”

  The saint pressed Senne’s forehead down towards the mottled surface of the ore. As she got closer, the multicolored distortion got stronger. Her vision shivered as memories threatened to overtake reality. The last thing she heard before the world went dark was Tin speaking softly to himself.

  “I can easily kill the Retired Lord Wraith,” he said. “I just need to find his heart.”

  ✽✽✽

  Annara had the right idea, Juniper thought to himself, shading his eyes with his hand. Rheon Se really is lovely this time of year.

  One of his advisors jogged after him with her skirts bunched up in her hand. Instead of landing in Chreon Se, he had suddenly decided to stop in Rheon Se, although its harbor was much smaller and less comfortable. His advisor Chira had to step carefully to avoid stray clams the aft
ernoon fishermen had strewn across the dock.

  “Sir, why are we here?” she said, looking slightly seasick. “Would it not be better to land directly on Chreon Se?”

  “Oh, it’s only a social call,” Juniper said cheerfully. “I haven’t seen Lord Rheon Se in ages. I know the other lords look down on them, you know, for being the lord of the agricultural island, but Rheon Se is really quite nice once you get to know them.”

  “Do you… need me here for this?”

  “Not unless you want to be here. Feel free to grab dinner. Is it too early for dinner? I’ll be back in an hour or too, and then it’ll be business as usual.”

  “You’re going alone?”

  “Rheon Se isn’t Chreon Se. I’ll be perfectly safe.”

  “Very well,” Chira said, obviously eyeing the seafood restaurant that faced the harbor. “Take care, my lord.”

  Juniper bowed and left her there. Rheon Se’s government had a different setup from the rest of the islands. In the Crescent proper, government affairs took place in the palaces of each island’s lord. Lord Rheon Se’s government operated out of several stately sandstone buildings near the coast, while Lord Rheon Se lived in a country house nearby.

  Juniper found them there, looking harried. Lord Rheon Se was a tall, sturdy-looking politician with long black hair and a perpetually exhausted expression. They preferred simple, professional clothing in shades of navy blue. As soon as they saw Juniper approaching, they let out a massive sigh of relief.

  “Chreon Se, thank the Goddesses you’re here. Something terrible is happening.”

  “What is it?” Juniper said.

  “The Dowager Empress of Alrhen-Xiun is vacationing here this month. I’m not good at this sort of thing, you know. I was never an aristocrat. I made my name in hydraulic engineering, for heaven’s sake. Please, you have to help me.”

  Juniper started to laugh. “The Dowager Empress isn’t that bad. You just have to nod and look suitably sympathetic when she starts to complain about how they made torture a war crime.”

  Rheon Se groaned softly. “Can you tell me what kind of wine to serve while an incredibly wealthy elderly woman complains about not being allowed to torture people?”

  “In lieu of the blood of her enemies, I would suggest something red and tannic,” Juniper said.

  “You’re a lifesaver. Red and tannic, Chreon Se says,” they said, as an aside to a passing aide. “Thank you. I’m sorry to be going on about this, it’s just that you always seem to show up just in the nick of time to prevent a diplomatic crisis. How are you? How was your trip to Pahinvar?”

  “I’m quite well,” Juniper said cheerfully. “The trip was lovely, thank you. My mother sends her regards. Asked me to ask you if you’ve been eating enough.”

  “That’s sweet of her. Say, Chreon Se, you wouldn’t be willing to stick around and help entertain the Dowager Empress, would you?”

  “I can’t, I’m afraid. I need to get back to my island before someone accuses me of trying to make it a democracy. I am sorry, though.”

  “Of course,” Rheon Se sighed. “No need to apologize. You’ve helped out so much already. If there’s anything I can ever do for you, just name it.”

  “As a matter of fact, I think there might be,” Juniper said. “You recently granted amnesty to one of my colleagues, I think.”

  Rheon Se glanced up and down the hallway, then they tugged him into a smaller room where they wouldn’t be disturbed. “What do you know about that?” they said quietly.

  “I’m not here to hurt Annara. Exactly the opposite, actually,” Juniper said. “I heard you let her through your borders. That was kind of you, Rheon Se.”

  “It was what I would do for anyone. She begged me for a job, and to be honest, I half-expected it to be part of some kind of scheme. You know how her reputation has been, lately. But she’s kept her head down and done her work.”

  “Where is she? Can I speak with her?”

  “Southern tip of the island. Potato farming, just past the wheat fields,” Rheon Se said. “You can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you! Good luck with the Dowager Empress.”

  “Much obliged,” they said grimly. “I’ll need it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  When Annara saw Juniper coming, she could hardly believe her eyes. Juniper was not the sort of person anyone expected to see on a farm. He wasn’t the sort of person anyone expected to see within five miles of a farm. He looked like he didn’t know what dirt was.

  But there he was anyway, wearing a shell-pink shawl that glimmered with gold threads. He looked like summer personified, with an unrecognizable tropical flower wound into his hair. His clothes made him look as if he had just stepped out of an oil painting.

  He strolled calmly down a row of potato plants and stopped, smiling pleasantly. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to visit you on Archon. I would have, of course, but there was a holiday in Pahinvar, and I absolutely had to visit my family.”

  Annara couldn’t stop staring at him. She would have been less surprised if the sun goddess herself had come down from the heavens to remark on the weather. But he just stood there, beaming expectantly at her, and eventually she had to pull herself together.

  “Would you like to come in?” she said, gesturing at the small wooden shack behind her.

  “Certainly.”

  She brought the Lord of Chreon Se into the shack. He had the grace to pretend the situation was perfectly normal.

  “Would you like something to drink?” she said. “There isn’t any wine or tea, because… well, because this is a farm. I think we have milk in the cellar, though.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t plan to stay long,” Juniper said cheerfully.

  “Look, my lord, I apologize for the impertinence, but what are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to discuss fashion and poetry, of course,” he said, looking surprised to be asked.

  For years, Annara had suspected that Juniper’s image of a useless but beautiful aesthete was a mere facade that hid a brilliant analytical mind. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  “My lord, are you sure this is the time for fashion and poetry?”

  “It’s always the time for fashion and poetry,” he said, flipping open a fan. It had delicate pink peonies painted on it. “May I sit?”

  She nodded at the three-legged stool in the corner. He settled on it, elegantly draping the folds of his shawl around him as he sat.

  “Are you sure it’s always the time? Please, Lord Chreon Se, let me be frank. I would have murdered you in cold blood if you had come to visit me at Archon. Surely you’ve heard by now that I killed my father. Are you sure you want to talk to me about fashion?”

  “I knew that, of course,” Juniper said. “That’s why I visited Pahinvar in the first place. But it seemed rather rude to bring it up. I take it you’re quite finished with your rampage, then?”

  “Yes. I’m done. I… I made a mistake, several mistakes, and there isn’t really anything I can do to make it better. All I can do is to try not to hurt anyone else. I’ll stay here, out of everyone’s way, and grow food until everyone forgets about me. That’ll be good enough, right?”

  Juniper raised a single, devastating eyebrow. “Wearing that?”

  Annara looked down. She wore a gray dress, patched and smudged with dirt, which was fairly standard for farmers on Rheon Se.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “That won’t work. Gray doesn’t suit you. White didn’t suit you either, actually.” He handed her a bundle of clothes. “I think you would look much better in black.”

  Annara’s fists clenched around the clothes. They were simple but soft, and classically elegant: high-waisted pants, a black lace-up shirt, a cape lined with midnight-colored silk.

  “Black is Senne’s— I mean, Lord Wraith’s color,” she said.

  “Is it?” Juniper said unconvincingly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  She chec
ked the pockets of the pants. Sure enough, she found the exact fare for a one-way trip to Seichre. “What is this, Chreon Se? What are you doing?”

  “Something I think I should have done the moment you returned to Archon,” he said, with unusual gravity.

  “I can’t go back to Seichre. I’m fated to kill her, or she’s fated to kill me, or both, and the only way for her to be happy is if I stay as far away from her as possible. It’s written in the stars. Can’t you see that I’m trying my best to do the right thing for once in my miserable life?”

  “Is that what that prophecy said? I forget,” Juniper said vacantly. “Was that exactly what the prophecy said? No other options? Fortune-telling can be so confusing sometimes.”

  “There is no other option for me,” Annara snapped, suddenly hating his fake stupidity more than anything else in the world. “Do you honestly think Senne and I could get married and live happily ever after?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “I think it would take a little bit of effort, but then again, all marriages do,” Juniper said.

  “I don’t think that’s in either of our fates.”

  “It certainly won’t be, if you don’t try to put it there. Have you read The Diary of Eqe Yu?”

  “Why would I have read The Diary of Eqe Yu?”

  Juniper put on a long-suffering look. “Because it’s absolutely fundamental to Xiunian classical poetry, for one thing. And it’s romantic. And, of course, Lord Eqe Yu shared your fate.”

  “Lord Eqe Yu wasn’t me. He wasn’t exiled as a child, the person who shared his fate wasn’t an assassin from another country. How could it possibly be the same?”

  “It wasn’t exactly the same, of course. But no one expected him to marry his fated partner. Most of ancient Alrhen-Xiun was certain at least one of them would be dead before the year was over.” He handed her a thick book. The spine was cracked, and the pages were yellowing, as if he had read it over and over. “Here. Some light reading for your trip to Seichre.”