The Anari

by Adrianna J Tetnowski

  THE ANARI

  ADRIANNA J. TETNOWSKI

  PAPER OWL PUBLISHING

  This paperback edition published in Great Britain in 2019 by Paper Owl Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by Adrianna J. Tetnowski

  Adrianna J. Tetnowski asserts the moral right to be

  identified as the author of this work.

  Cover Art Copyright © by Tom Edwards

  Maps Copyright © by Takayo Akiyama

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or

  Transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ISBN: 978-1-9993382-2-0

  Printed and bound by Blurb Distribution

  This book has been published under the imprint name

  Paper Owl Publishing

  www.adriannajtetnowski.com

  BOOKS BY ADRIANNA J. TETNOWSKI

  THE TALES OF IRADAS

  The Dark Maiden

  NOVELS

  The Anari

  This one’s for Mum and Dad

  1-

  ARIADNA

  If there was anything Ariadna Vikander hated most, it was the weekly procession of the Sisters of Atimae, on their way from their precious Convent to the tremendous temple in the city centre.

  The virgin priestesses, in all their youth and untouchable beauty, walked with an air of superior confidence in their fine white silks and slippers. Veils flecked with gold covered their faces and were secured by wreaths of leaves and red berries atop their holy heads. The women did not even share a glance between the adoring spectators, who watched them as they returned from their weekly visit to the temple. For the most part, the girls remained behind the safety of their Convent walls and did not do more than pray in silence. You would have thought such pious figures would be eager to go out in the city and care for the poorest of the poor but, no. That was not the case. A priestess was expected to be pure, pious and therefore believed to be precious. Any girl sent to a convent of their parents' choosing could not indulge in alcohol or sexual pleasures, treasures and materialistic items, not even luxurious food. Nor could they face society alone and without a veil over their heads - then again, travelling to and from the city temple was far from interacting with any of the city folk. Should a priestess be stripped of her virginity in any way, it was she who would pay with her life, unless solid evidence could prove the fault did not lie with her.

  Ariadna remained within the shadows of the multiple buildings overcrowding the city centre, among the chilling silence of the people, as the priestess’ continued to move like a river past the spectators. Ari brushed her way through the crowds; her body no more than a whisper against the people’s arms as she moved undetected.

  This is not you anymore, she thought to herself.

  You are no longer Sister Shiyla of the Convent of Aphur.

  You are Ariadna Vikander. Trained assassin, liberated woman. This is not you anymore.

  Ariadna stopped a breath away from the procession, her eyes burning beneath the heavy hood covering her face. Her beautiful features were cast in a shadow, along with the hideous scowl that now stretched across her face.

  Bitches, she thought. Arrogant, intolerable bitches.

  The assassin ran a gloved thumb over the pommel of her sword, which swung in her sheathe on her left hip. Ariadna looked like nothing more than a common sell sword. Already, her mind was being filled with poisonous thoughts of how delightful it would be to see those perfect white robes stained red.

  This is not you anymore!

  But it once had been. Ariadna didn’t need reminding of the treachery of her father against her. How her father, furious and no longer bothered with his seven-year-old daughter, had packed her off like she was a trinket and sold her to the Convent of Aphur. He had even stripped her of the name she had been given at birth, allowing the sisters he sold her to to give her a new name, one which did not suggest any connection to him. Cruel man! From then on, Ariadna had no longer woken up to the luxurious satin tapestries of her canopy bed, back at her father’s manor house. Instead, she awoke to a dull grey ceiling and the sound of three other girls giggling as they helped each other into those stupid, stupid robes they had been forced to wear.

  Ah, enough, Ari told herself.

  As though hearing Ariadna’s insults loud and clear, one of the priestess’ dared to glance her way and for a brief, icy moment, her gaze met Ariadna’s. But only for a second. The girl gave her eyes an almost lazy shift back to the road ahead before she and the other women turned a corner and were out of sight.

  The streets came to life in a split second and all sorts of commotion broke out once the people were free to let loose a breath and go about their business again. There came the sound of wagon wheels creaking against cobblestoned pavements and the mindless chatter of stall owners to their customers.

  Ariadna felt ready to uncurl her fists, the leather of her gloves squeaking as she did, but she kept them to her side and turned for the shadows again. Why she even bothered to taunt herself with watching the procession each week, she did not know. Perhaps, despite her attempts to forget about what had happened in the past, a part of Ari did not yet feel comfortable letting it all go. Not quite. Soon enough, she would.

  The gods had given Arin Vikander two daughters, of which he only truly loved one. Jooney had been his golden child, the eldest and the lovelier of the two, and it surprised no one who met Jooney that her father loved her best.

  Jooney had been beautiful, likely even lovelier after having been married off and starting a family of her own. Five years older than Ariadna, Jooney had never been kind to her younger sister and joined in with her father’s jeering. They thought of Ariadna as a moody, violent girl who was too intrigued in the world’s brutality than things she was expected to excel in.

  But Ariadna had thought smacking tree trunks with wooden sticks was better at relieving anger than pushing a piece of thread through a needle. Her father had not liked that and when he had received comments like ‘Your Ari is a beautiful girl Sir, but she is not marriage material’ he had sent her off once her use to him had worn off.

  The assassin stalked her way back towards the same crowded buildings and down the skinny alleyway running in between them.

  “Your anger makes you careless sometimes.” a deep voice called out from behind her.

  Ariadna did not even have to turn to find out who had been stupid enough to follow her.

  Vinn Maurith was perhaps one of the few men in the city who was not afraid to get close to Ariadna. As the Head of The Anari – an institute made up of the deadliest assassins and craftiest thieves – Vinn had the luxury of glancing upon Ariadna’s loveliness on the daily.

  Ariadna had a different kind of beauty. Her hair was a thick rush of silver, crawling down to her waist - if not up in her usual high ponytail, and her pale skin and blue eyes made her look like an icy goddess of some sort. If eyes really were a gateway into a person’s soul, then Ari’s cold eyes were all that were needed to describe her character. It was a shame that Ariadna’s beauty only stretched so far as her exterior. Deep inside she was still the same girl from the Convent, carrying the same burning hate and anger buried inside her after all these years. She was plagued with anger and bitterness which either she refused to let go of or could not. She was not too sure which one it was.

  “A fine assassin, you are. Yet you still make the stupid mistake of letting your emotions get in the way. I’d thought I’d broken you enough to not have thos
e kinds of feelings anymore?” Vinn asked her. His question was said all too casually but, it was not enough to get Ari to look at him, even when he fell into step beside her.

  “I admit something tempted me to slit one of their pretty throats and just be done with it.” Ariadna replied.

  Vinn smoothed his dark hair back and shrugged.

  “What would you have done then? All out in the open, the blood of a holy woman on your hands?”

  Ariadna turned on him and jabbed a finger at his chest.

  “Do not – there is nothing holy about being a priestess. You pray in silence and then pray some more, to faceless gods who don’t even exist. I have my personal vendetta with the Convents in every single city there is and with good reason.”

  Vinn watched Ariadna stalk off for a moment and then jogged after her.

  “You still have your list, don’t you?” he asked her.

  “It’s not a list if there are only two people on it, how many times do I have to tell you. But yes, I suppose I do, you know I do Vinn. Why even bother asking me? Is it just so you can tease me more about potentially giving me the opportunity to carry it out? You’ve been putting my names off for too long, I need to sort my business out and soon. I’m tired of waiting.” Ariadna snapped.

  Vinn was used to such a tone from Ari, in fact he did not expect any less or else he would be worried about where the real Ariadna had gone. He took hold of Ari by the arm and forced her to look at him whilst he spoke.

  “All I’m reminding you of is, you did not train hard for five years under my roof to throw your talents away so carelessly.”

  Ariadna turned her attention to the busy street behind them as she thought through the most sensible thing to say in response. She decided upon rolling her eyes and replying,

  “You think I don’t know that?” pulling her arm out of Vinn’s grasp, she jumped up the steps leading to the Institute and left the front door to swing open behind her, as Vinn followed her inside.

  2 –

  TROIAN

  Sand had found its way into Troian’s mouth again, as the Mercenary pulled his scarf from his face a moment to take a gulp at his canteen. He spat the gritty granules out and wiped at his tongue with the back of his hand, loosening any sand that may have remained.

  The Khaishee Mercenaries had been travelling through the dunes of Zhadaewae for three days now. Their services had been called upon to the foreign city of Vhorgo, to extend their swords to the reigning Dictator there by the name of Kanra Mortier.

  It was not that Troian Orisena was not used to travelling such lengths between his contracts but, rather he had never quite gotten used to the taste of sand. He washed his mouth out with as much water as he could spare and screwed the cap of his canteen back on before hiding it away into his backpack.

  “Tell me again about this man, Kanra.” Troian said to the figure riding beside him.

  Kholo Izann gave his young comrade a brief glance and replied,

  “He’s a special client.” the Captain began. “A man willing to pay a tremendous, ridiculous even, amount of money to carry out a contract of vital importance for him.”

  “Which is?” Troian asked. He did not like when his Captain kept crucial information about contracts a secret, in particular ones concerning ‘special’ clients. When he and his brothers-in-arms had been told the first time they were being called upon by the Dictator of Vhorgo, alarm bells had already gone off in Troian’s head. He did not want to admit to Kholo that they still rung in his ears even now. “A noble lord then?” Troian asked. He kept himself steady on his saddle, fighting against the ever-strengthening sandstorm.

  “What?” Kholo asked. His words were muffled the slightest behind the scarf he had wrapped around his own face.

  “Kanra Mortier is having us kill a noble man, then? Someone of obvious importance. You must tell me, Kholo. My imagination only stretches so far.” Troian said.

  Kholo spurred his horse onwards, yelling for his troupe to pick their paces up behind him. He was in no mood to talk in the sandstorm gathering around himself and the others.

  That only made Troian suspicious. Kholo had no problem telling them every detail about the contracts they received – they were a team. They were brothers in arms and yet, now Kholo kept his tongue behind his teeth about what it was the Dictator of Vhorgo had called upon them to do.

  Up ahead, the palace in which the Dictator lived stood so silent, Troian had not even realised they had arrived at the city. The people living behind the towering walls crowded the shabby streets but, they were like ghosts. They all kept to themselves, the sellers at their stalls whispering to their customers instead of calling out to them.

  There were not even any children running through the streets, chasing after toys or stray animals of any kind. The city appeared dead. Or perhaps restrained by the Dictator who held power over them.

  Troian had heard very little about the city of Vhorgo but, the things he knew were far from pleasant. He heard demons lived here; that they stole children from their beds during the night and drank the blood of young women. He did not think it was true, or at least tried hard not to.

  “What is this place?” Artus Madhan, another mercenary, asked his captain as he swung himself off his horse by the palace steps and gave the people following them a weary gaze.

  The rest of the mercenaries had not seemed to notice the strange silence of the city, perhaps having not cared to but, it was like a sad song of whispers and shuffling feet which echoed throughout the crowded streets. All whilst Kanra Mortier’s palace stood a cruel overseer to the city and its people.

  Artus approached Troian with near silent steps and leaned in close to his ear.

  “He’s still refused to say a word about this contract?” he asked Troian, of which he only got a curt nod in response.

  Troian tucked a loose strand of his black hair behind an ear and risked a glance over his shoulder. He found a group of citizens had gathered at the bottom of the steps with them, watching with their cold and emotionless gazes.

  It was then that the thick iron doors to the palace groaned open and a soldier stepped out to greet the Khaishee Mercenaries. He looked the part of a nasty brute, with his tremendous height and unnervingly big build.

  The man shook the ground as he walked. His dark skin almost blended in with the black leather of his jacket, thrown over a black tunic and a pair of black breeches. He did not seem to be a fan of colour. The man’s deep red eyes, brown in some lights, darted from one mercenary to another. He paused his sight on Kholo.

  “Welcome,” he said dramatically and gave a deep bow to his expected guests, “My Master hopes you have had a pleasant journey and he bids you all welcome to his fine city. I am Kadira, personal guard to his Lordship, Kanra Mortier.”

  Fine city my arse, Troian could not help but think, as he suppressed the urge to check if the crowd had still gathered behind them. A series of growls and threatening words from Kadira was enough to tell him that the crowd was still there; or at least it had been.

  The people scurried off like rats in a sewer, hoping not to get caught in what they were expecting to be a sudden fit of anger from Kadira. He really was a brute. It was no wonder the city people seemed to tremble at even the words he spoke, let alone the things he could do with those large hands of his. Kadira ran strong fingers through his tangled black beard and gave another dramatic bow before urging the mercenaries to follow him into the palace.

  How strange. His behaviour was off-putting and suspicious as it was. Now, Troian was not too sure he even wanted to step foot into the palace; for fear of those demons he thought he did not believe in appearing and eating him alive.

  Artus kept close to his comrade’s side, with Kholo in front and the others following behind. He appeared as suspicious as Troian but, both men were wise enough to keep their mouths shut upon entering the palace. The place was as dull and uninviting as both men had expected it to be. Not only was Kadira not a fan of colour, nei
ther was Kanra. Nor windows either, it soon became clear.

  “My master extends his apologies. He cannot see you yet as he is a very busy man and already has a schedule he needs to attend to. I will make sure you all settle comfortably into your chambers and will leave you all to do what you will after that. Lord Kanra is not expecting to see you any earlier than dinner.” Kadira said out loud, to no one in particular.

  The corridors leading down to the mens’ chambers dragged on for what seemed like an eternity. Every which way they turned, the mercenaries faced the same grey walls and candles, so dimly lit they did not appear to have any real effect on the darkness stretching all around them.

  Troian’s gaze slipped to a heavy set of stairs leading deeper into the belly of the castle. Ironically enough, it seemed far brighter than any of the actual corridors above ground level. He wondered what horrors likely lived down there.

  “That is not for your wandering eyes.” Kadira said to him.

  Troian turned and found the guard had stopped by his side. He had not even realised he himself had stopped but, the way Kadira glared at him was reason enough to not ask questions about that strange set of stairs and what it led down to. The mercenary was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Yet, what worried him most was that fact that Kholo was turning a blind eye to every strange vibe both Troian and Artus seemed to get from Kadira, the entire palace and the Dictator they were yet to meet.

  3 –

  Ariadna

  It was not even midday yet and already, Ariadna was fed up with how her day had gone so far. She did not greet the other men within the institute, as they sat around on dark red couches with mugs of ale and pipes in their mouths, either playing a game of cards or entertaining themselves with checkers.