Traitor Princess, Assassin Saint

by T. R. Sherwood

  Annara turned. Tin had been watching them, waiting for her to wake up. Now that she could see him properly, in the flickering multicolored light that sloughed off the ore like water, his memory ore poisoning had advanced. When he smiled, his teeth were the wrong color. They were a dark blackish blue, the color of rot.

  “We meet at last, Lady Archon,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  ✽✽✽

  Juniper had finally lost his mind. If his aides were to be believed, he had been on the verge of madness for years, and now, apparently, he had finally snapped.

  What am I doing? he asked himself, struggling to shove aside a burning beam so that a woman could pass. It wouldn’t budge. Someone else, someone stronger, ran up and finally pushed it aside. What am I doing? No, really, he thought, directing someone towards the harbor in heavily accented Seichrenese, what am I doing here?

  By the time he made it to the other side of the Royal City, he still hadn’t figured it out. By the time he made it to Heron’s country house on the edge of town, he had a slightly better idea.

  Nothing was burning here. The leaves of a massive maple tree rustled in the wind, casting little flecks of light onto the roof. The door to the house had been ripped off its hinges. A crash echoed, deep inside. Juniper caught the scent of metal and old, floral perfume on the wind.

  What am I doing? he asked himself again. Juniper had never been brave. He made up for it, he thought, by being smart and handsome and reasonably competent, but courage had never been one of his virtues. Every attempt to teach him some sort of martial art had ended in failure. He had never once been good in a crisis, and yet, for some reason, he had thrown himself directly into the middle of one.

  There was another crash. Propelled by some impulse he couldn’t quite understand, Juniper ran into the house. Someone immediately grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back outside.

  “What are you doing here?” Heron hissed, releasing him.

  “I don’t know! What’s going on?”

  A white shape crashed through the door and dove at Heron with a memory steel longsword. He parried with both his knives, but the attack was so forceful that he staggered back a few steps.

  Saint Fasalle’s body was looking a little worse for wear. Her long auburn hair had come out of its ribbons to stream down her back, and there was a long, bloodless gash in her side. Juniper had to turn away and gag when he realized he could see her blackened ribs. One of her perfume sachets had broken open, spilling out a sickly sweet scent and a trail of ancient, dessicated flowers, like severed insect wings.

  Even so, Fasalle still fought. She moved oddly fast at times and oddly slow at others, like a marionnette. Injuries didn’t bother her, since she could no longer feel pain. The same could not be said for Heron.

  He coughed and spat a mouthful of blood into the grass, planted his feet, and flicked his index finger down. The saint’s longsword slammed deep into the earth, and she was temporarily occupied with trying to get it out.

  “You need to go back to the Crescent,” he said, wiping his mouth. “If you stay here, you’ll only get yourself killed.”

  “What about you? Come back to the Crescent with me,” Juniper said.

  Fasalle finally yanked her sword free and plunged it into Heron’s abdomen, moving faster than either of them had thought possible. Heron choked and stabbed one of his knives into her throat, with little effect.

  “Can’t,” he said. “She’ll follow. I don’t want to involve anyone else.”

  “Heron, she’ll kill you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Isn’t there anything I can do?”

  The saint wrenched her sword out of Heron’s stomach. It was apparently the opportunity he had been waiting for, since he ducked, and three curved swords materialized and slammed into her chest, pinning her to the ground.

  Heron met Juniper’s eyes. “Actually, I… think there might be.” He tossed Juniper a ring of keys. He caught them awkwardly. “Go into the house. In the kitchen, there’s a trapdoor leading to a tunnel. All the memory steel locks should be down; those keys will take care of the analog ones. You’ll find a room with a sarcophagus. Open it. Inside, you’ll find a small wooden box. Take it, leave Seichre, and don’t look back.”

  “But what about you?”

  “If you do exactly as I told you, I’ll be just fine.”

  Juniper only needed a split second to think about it. “I’ll do it,” he said. “Good luck.”

  Heron unexpectedly gave him a smile, fond and bittersweet, despite the blood at the corners of his mouth. Whatever he said next, though, it was lost, as the saint’s puppeted body tugged the swords free and Juniper turned away, determined not to look back.

  ✽✽✽

  He found the trapdoor exactly where Heron had said it would be. It was already open, and the hole was surrounded by dessicated shreds of flowers, as if the saint had already tried to come in. The opening yawned, black and hollow. A light hiss rose from the depths.

  Juniper lowered himself into the hole. There was a torch on the wall beside him, so he took it out. For once, he knew exactly what he was doing.

  Retired Lord Wraith’s death would have been convenient to Lord Chreon Se, but Juniper couldn’t picture a world without Heron in it. Juniper had never been brave, but, as his advisors liked to say, there was a first time for everything.

  He lit the torch. Red and gold tongues of flame licked upwards, soft blue at the heart, flickering brilliantly off the walls in phoenix colors. It was an odd feeling, to realize someone who had once been a sort of enemy had softly transformed into someone he couldn’t bear to lose. It felt like waking up. He wondered if Annara had felt this way, too.

  The tunnel was short. It led to a small crypt, mainly occupied by a plain stone sarcophagus. Juniper pushed its lid aside. Stone scraped against stone. Inside, just as Heron had said, there was a little square box, just a bit larger than a pomegranate. It was carved from cedar, slightly amber in color, and obviously made by hand. Someone had painstakingly carved roses into the surface of the lid. Juniper wondered if it had been someone Heron used to know.

  He took it out and, wondering if it was some sort of good-luck charm, opened it. Inside, there was a petrified human heart, fashioned from something glassy and crystalline. It was heavy, and hot as blood to the touch. Colors flickered and blazed in its depths, reflecting off the stone walls and the silk folds of Juniper’s clothes, and light pulsed in the center of it like a heartbeat.

  Juniper shut the box and tucked it away. He could feel the warmth of it even through the wooden box. Leaving Seichre would be difficult. Everyone would be trying to evacuate across the water to the Crescent. But Juniper could be very persuasive, and this, at least, he could do.

  He climbed back out of the crypt with the heart in his pocket, and he didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “You’ve been waiting for me?” Annara asked.

  Tin smiled at her. His posture and manner would have been gentlemanly, if not for the situation. “Say rather that I hoped you might show up.”

  “Why is that?” Annara said.

  Her mind whirled. As she spoke, she was trying to formulate a plan, but there was little she could do. Only Senne had the ability to save the Royal City, but Senne was unconscious. Tin was armed with several memory steel blades, which hovered defensively around his chest, and Annara only had a very old, very thin knife, since she ran out of bombs on the way there.

  Her gaze must have flicked instinctively to Senne, because Tin said, “Lord Wraith can’t save you. You must know by now that your position is hopeless. But I don’t mean to attack you, Lady Archon. In fact, I rather admire you.”

  Annara forced herself to look back up at him and quickly sort through the emotions he expected from her. Surprise. Reluctant pride. He expected her to be flattered in spite of herself.

  “You do?” she asked.

  “Yes. What you did on Ervon… well, al
most did, I should say. It was a shame your plan was spoiled by the rain.”

  “It is rather difficult to plan for the weather,” Annara said, covering her face to hide an imaginary blush and turning away.

  “You see,” he continued as if she had not spoken, “your plan inspired me, Lady Archon. I’ve improved it. I won’t be defeated by the weather. I’ll wage war against the Royal City, break the citizens’ spirits, and when I’m done, Seichre will be mine to govern.”

  “That is clever,” Annara admitted.

  “I know. I respect you, Lady Archon. It would be a shame to kill you here. I could help you. You want power? I can give it to you. You want to prove that everyone was wrong about you? I can help. You won’t need Senne anymore.”

  “You’re asking me to betray her again.”

  “Loyalty isn’t in your nature, Lady Archon. It isn’t in your blood. People like you never really change. Redemption isn’t your fate. You’ll be a traitor until your dying breath. And that isn’t a bad thing! You’re safe here. I respect you for who you truly are.” Tin smiled at her. “And I know you don’t truly have many qualms about betraying Senne. You’ve done it so many times already.”

  “That’s true,” Annara said thoughtfully. “One last betrayal, and then I’ll never have a use for her again, so it won’t even matter.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are you sure it’s profitable to run a ruined state?”

  “Ah, I forget you don’t know much about Seichrenese politics,” Tin said indulgently. “The Royal City isn’t our main port. It’s expendable.”

  “I suppose the economy will take a hit, but that’s unavoidable. It’s just the price you pay in exchange for power.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I must confess I’m astonished, sir. You’ve taken my flimsy plans to the next level.” Annara bit her lip and hesitated. “I would be honored to assist.”

  “I knew you would be practical in the end,” Tin said, turning away. “Now—”

  He choked. The instant he stopped looking at her, Annara plunged her knife deep into his back. She knew immediately that it would be a fatal hit. The blade had pierced his lungs. Blood rattled in his throat.

  She pulled the knife out and shoved him. He collapsed onto the floor, leaving a rusty streak on the stone.

  “You were right,” she said, cleaning her knife. “People like me never really change. I might be a traitor until my last breath, but at least I can start betraying the right people.”

  He glared up at her, struggling to speak. “It’s too late,” he rasped. “The Royal City is gone. Without Senne, there’s nothing you can do.”

  “We’ll see.”

  By this point in the conversation, Annara had a plan. It was a stupid plan, but it was better than nothing.

  She walked over to the massive chunk of memory ore and placed her hands on it. It was soft, like chalk. She broke off a fist-sized piece and held it up to the torchlight.

  “You can’t do this,” Tin said weakly. He slumped against the stone, framed by a growing bloodstain. “You won’t do this. The ore will kill you. You won’t sacrifice yourself. It’s not your fate, it’s not in your nature.”

  “Are you still talking?” Annara untied her black cape and let it fall to the floor. She started climbing up the catwalk, rolling up her sleeves as she went. “Your part in this is over, Tin. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.”

  “You won’t…”

  Annara crushed the piece of ore in her hands, chewed it, and swallowed it. She washed it down with a swig from her flask, hoping the burn of the alcohol would mask the burn of the poisonous ore.

  She felt her fingertips heat up. Slowly, the location of every piece of memory steel in the Royal City appeared in her mind, as if she had always known them. Her mouth tasted metallic. It was getting harder to breathe.

  As her throat started to close, she raised her hands like a conductor. Every piece of memory steel slowly cooled from a violent, white heat. Outside, metal hissed and popped as it grew cold and settled. Without that heat, the fires could be extinguished by water, and everything would eventually be alright.

  Annara collapsed, secure in the knowledge that she had taken care of everything, just like she told Senne she would. For once in her life, Annara had managed to fix something.

  As her eyes slid shut, her last conscious thought was that she hoped Senne was safe.

  ✽✽✽

  Heron could, in theory, regenerate indefinitely. However, he was still a person, and he could still feel pain. This imposed a limit on his abilities. Specifically, if something hurt him badly enough, he would go into shock and eventually lose consciousness.

  A leaf from the maple tree landed gently on his cheek. Heron opened his eyes. Slowly, he became aware that his face was pressed into the mossy brick of his own courtyard. The air was thick with the smell of blood, but the smell of floral perfume had faded away.

  He sat up. All of his joints cracked at once. Heron wandered around his house, looking at the holes in the walls and cabinet doors knocked off their hinges. He would have to set it all to rights eventually, but right now, he couldn’t muster the energy.

  The trapdoor in the kitchen hung ajar. Heron clumsily climbed down to check the crypt. Inside, the sarcophagus was empty. The corpse of Saint Fasalle had collapsed next to it. Her unseeing blue eyes were fixed, motionless, on the ceiling. Whatever had happened, whoever was controlling her, they were gone and it was over.

  When she wasn’t moving, Saint Fasalle looked very small. Heron reached out and closed her eyes.

  ✽✽✽

  When Heron found the king, he was sitting in the least-ruined throne room in the palace, looking harried. Daylight could be seen through the holes charred in the rafters. The king himself had an angry red burn on the side of his face. It wasn’t serious, especially not in Heron’s estimation, but he probably hadn’t been injured in years.

  “Oh, thank the Goddess you’re here,” the king said. “Tell me. How did this happen? What did I do wrong?”

  Heron considered being nice and then immediately rejected the idea. “Permission to say something slightly untoward?”

  “Granted,” the king said miserably.

  “How much did you know about the Wraith Initiative?”

  “It made me assassins. I don’t know anything else.”

  “You need to pay more attention to your own government, sire. If you don’t know what atrocities people commit in your name, this is what happens. The Wraith Initiative should never have been allowed to exist.”

  The king nodded eagerly. “What now? What do I do now?”

  “Have you ever actually worked a day in your life?” Heron said, exasperated. “This is supposed to be your job. Listen, other countries are going to offer disaster aid, particularly to your merchants, because that’s how they make money. Accept it. Start rebuilding the capital. What you need right now is organization. If the groups trying to help with the aftermath of the fire don’t communicate, it will go a lot slower.”

  The king nodded again. “What do I do about the Wraith Initiative?”

  “It’s effectively disbanded. Tin was the last of it. The other members are dead or scattered. If I were you, sire, I would dissolve the office of Lord Wraith entirely. Keep your other assassin nobles if you feel you must, but the very concept of Lord Wraith is a liability.”

  “But what about you? I can’t just take your title away.”

  “Grant me another one if it makes you feel better,” Heron said. “Senne probably doesn’t want one, but I advise giving her at least enough money to live on, to ensure she doesn’t find employment with some other country.”

  “Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.” The king looked pleadingly up at him. “I just... Saints, I never thought something like this could happen. In some other country, maybe. One of the barbaric ones, like Pahinvar or Unland. But not here, in Seichre. I could never have foreseen something like this happening here.”

&nb
sp; Heron tried to formulate a polite answer. “Yes, well,” he said at last, “Foresight has never been your strong suit, sire.”

  ✽✽✽

  When Annara opened her eyes again, it was much brighter. She found herself in an unfamiliar room, with a white ceiling and windows with white curtains. There was a sprig of lavender in a blue vase on a table nearby.

  “Oh, she’s awake,” an unfamiliar voice said cheerfully. “What a relief! Congratulations, miss. Your oath-sister is even stronger than we thought.”

  Annara looked up to see Senne watching her, her eyes full of concern. Her hair had been hastily wound into a bun at the nape of her neck, and she wasn’t wearing a veil. She clasped one of Annara’s hands in both of her own, pressed close to her chest at an angle that no one else could see. Behind her, a nurse changed the water in the lavender vase.

  “Where am I?” Annara said.

  “Saint Severanne Hospital, just outside the Royal City,” the nurse said. “You were being treated for severe memory ore poisoning, but you’ve recovered well. I think we’re ready to discharge you. Let me go check with the doctor.”

  She rushed out of the room. Annara waited, but she didn’t come back.

  “How’s the Royal City?” she asked Senne instead.

  “Scorched,” Senne said, “but not as bad as it could have been. Remarkably few casualties.”

  Annara yawned. “That’s good. How are you? Seems like you’ve made a full recovery. Rather rude of you to pass out just at the critical moment, though.”

  Senne’s grip on her hand tightened, but she didn’t respond.

  “I didn’t mean it,” Annara said. “Obviously, you can’t control when you lose consciousness. I was just joking, so there’s no need to—”

  “You can’t do things like this,” Senne said suddenly, quiet but intense.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You could have died! You don’t seem to realize it, Annara, but there are people in the world who can’t afford to lose you. I thought you were dead. I didn’t know what to do.”