Crown of Crimson

by Rose Reid

  I finally force myself to get out of the pool of water and redress in the clothes I’ve kicked about the washroom. They’re not in pristine condition by this point and the palace guards back in Lydovier likely would have had me strip them off and burn them before I could set foot inside King Cress’ home, but now it doesn’t matter and I don’t mind the filth on the clothes. I snatch up the splinter and slip it into the waistline of my trousers.

  I push out of the washroom door and just stand in the middle of the room for a moment. My wet hair soaks down the back of my shirt and water drips onto the floor. Coming up with a suitable plan of escape is becoming more and more difficult. I finally shake my head and walk over to the bed, where I sit down on the mattress. I’m exhausted and starving. I fold my legs in front of me, something I would ordinarily consider reckless, since it would be more difficult to jump and run if an assailant were to come my way. I close my eyes and let my schemes roll through my thoughts.

  The Keep is immense and even the chambers I have seen are heavily sentineled, but even the Keep is no fit prison for me. Escaping my quarters will be the only true challenge. Lyom holds one of the keys to my chamber so it will be vital that I procure it from him or escape when I am led away from this room. Of course, taking down the ever-vigilant Swordmaster will be no easy task. But as soon as I have him incapacitated, I can flee. I know little of the labyrinth that is the interior of the Keep but have spent months around its walls, considering its vastness while also keeping watch on my targets. I feel that I have decent knowledge of it.

  It won’t be easy to go through the drawbridge at the front of the Keep. It will be unwinkingly guarded by the Swordmaster’s men, and so will all the side and back entrances. The servant’s quarters beneath the Keep will be far easier to break into. If I could obtain one of their uniforms, I could slip out under their noses. Lyom and the select men that saw me with him will recognize me but the vast majority of Evrallon has never seen my face before. Not even a sketched portrait of me exists.

  Once outside the Keep, I must have a way of escape. Thieving a horse from the royal stables would be entertaining but not as effective as stealing a pony from one of the locals in the shining village of Adandyrl beneath. The local would take longer to realize the pony missing, longer to suspect a thief, and even longer to report it to the palace guards. By then, I will be long gone. I needn’t dwell on what kingdom I will flee to from here; I have no interest in leaving Evrallon quite yet. Dominik, Laderic, and Cicero remain in Evrallon, as far as I have been informed, and I must make sure they pay for their grievous errors before fleeing the kingdom for good.

  Of course, to find the other three I will have to search the contract booths. Surely by now someone has learned of their treachery and has set them up in the contracts. Perhaps I can find Torrin here in Evrallon, enlist his assistance. He has always loathed every one of my companions. I remember when he was first assigned to a sect. He’d petitioned over and over to be assigned to mine but Quay had his own ideas. Torrin’s sect leader is Gileon, and he isn’t particularly fond of me. No matter. I may not have a way with people but Gileon has enough respect for me to hand Torrin over if I requested him.

  The lock to my door clicks, the hinges shrieking an alarm as the door is pushed open. Two footsteps echo into my quarters. The smell of cedar and burning wood fills the room. I keep my eyes closed, not wanting to look up to see who has crossed the threshold. There is only one man in the king’s service that would dare to enter a room alone with me.

  “Gather and dress yourself.” the Swordmaster orders. I hear something like cloth being thrown to the floor and open my eyes, spotting the dress that has been cast to the floor. It appears cumbersome, deep red ruffles with ivory lace hemming the gown. It does not slip my attention that the dress was not made for fighting — probably the king’s way of ensuring that I have no means of escape.

  “Do you expect me to dress in front of you?” I ask, turning my head to look at the Swordmaster. He has changed clothes since I saw him last. No longer is he wearing the drab clothes he wore in Lydovier and Blancathey. He is now adorned in the colors of Evrallon. He wears a longer vest tucked into his belt, colored in the same deep red as my gown. The sword at his side is made of pure silver, glistening in the low firelight. He has done something to tame his wild, dark hair but little wisps and tangles still remain. Blue eyes like sapphires burn their way to me.

  “Get dressed.” he orders with a furious glare

  Showing little emotion, he turns his back to me, busying himself with looking over my room to be sure I have not stored any weapons anywhere. I whisk my dress and matching shoes from the floor and carry them to the dressing screen in the corner of the room. I strip my clothes off, careful to set the splinter of wood on the floor quietly before tugging the red dress over my head.

  “I assume we are meeting with the Cruel King.” I say as I attempt to straighten the bright red dress around my waist, noting how perfectly it fits. What a mockery this dress makes of me — of Lydovier. I suppose I can handle it for now. Later, though, I will ruin this gown, leave it for Evrallonic soldiers to find tattered in my wake.

  “Should you address him as that in the throne room, I can assure you it will not end pretty.” Lyom says.

  My fingers knot up in the fabric at my back. Lacing a dress without a chambermaid is frustrating. I’m sure I’ve laced the dress incorrectly but decide to leave it alone. I pick the splinter up from the ground, searching for a place on my dress I can slip it that it will go unnoticed. Finding a small ruffle in my dress that is concealed, I tuck the splinter away and step out from behind the dressing curtain. Lyom hears my approach and turns to face me, openly evaluating me. No look of approval crosses his face, but neither does a look of disgust. Instead he just nods his head as if my attire will suffice.

  “At least you bathed.”

  I pull my shoulders back and try to stand a little taller to meet his gaze. “Nothing less for the king of Evrallon.”

  Lyom just grabs my wrists and pulls my back to him, clipping thick cuffs over my wrists. I immediately try to pull away from him, managing to get one hand free before he binds it.

  “I think I’m finished with the restraints.” I say with a defiant look.

  “Shame.” says Lyom unapologetically.

  “I’ll make you a deal.” I offer just as he is reaching for my other hand. “I will not kill you or your king this day if you leave me unchained.” I let my threat sink in for a moment. “If not, then all bets are off.”

  If Lyom had more emotion than a tree trunk, he might have laughed. Instead he just glares at me without a word and snatches my other hand, clasping the cuffs over it. I don’t try to pull away from him. Whoever trained the Swordmaster knew what they were doing and his grip is tight enough that I feel the bones in my wrist move.

  “Alright,” I say with a firm nod. “If your king dies today, it is not because I did not warn you.”

  Lyom practically ignores me like I’m a child, pulling me down the hallway. I’m dragged down the stairs and brought to another corridor. He takes lefts, then rights, and I recognize his attempt to try to confuse me. It’s a feeble endeavor. It doesn’t take long for me to recognize where I am and know exactly how to get away from the throne room after I kill the king.

  At the end of a long corridor, two double doors with palace servicemen standing guard are opened before us and the Swordmaster drags me inside. I am immediately struck by the greatness of the room. Banners hang from the walls, among beautifully artistic paintings of former royalty. Then, among the paintings, I see images of silver swords coming down over the heads of strange creatures. I stare at the paintings, confused by their depictions. Magical beings, perhaps? It is no secret that the kings and queens of Evrallon were some of the deciding royals that put an end to the magical creatures. I have heard rumor that some live in kingdoms beyond Evrallon, beyond even Lydovier, but I have been to many kingdoms and have never stumbled upon anything hellis
h.

  The floors have been made of the same marble as the foyer and the chandelier that dangles overhead is magnificent. Then something else catches my attention. At the end of the corridor, I see a grand throne crafted of pure silver, swords jutting out from the back of the seat, fanning out around the crest of the throne. This silver was brought out of the mines in Kinecardine, I’m sure of it. The mining was taken over by Evrallonic prisoners of war years ago and produces the most silver in the world. It is what Evrallon is known for.

  The cushions on the seats are beautifully red, lighter red embroidered in delicate swirls throughout the fabric. But it isn’t the throne itself that catches my attention, it is the man that sits upon it.

  King Dryden. I have caught glimpses of him once or twice in person on my runs to Adandyrl and was made to study his face, his likes and dislikes, his personality, his strengths and weaknesses, allergies, and many other fascinating details about him. If questioned, the guards would think I’d known the man all my life. Or, at least, was planning to assassinate him at some point.

  The king of Evrallon is tall, regal, and young — not older than Quay, who is only forty. His chestnut hair is without a hint of gray and clear, brown eyes stare back at me. Olive skin flatters the man’s hair and eyes but does not make him appear foreign, simply more charming. His perfect smile makes me sick.

  This is the man Quay has trained me to hate and kill. I think silently.

  Not really sure what to say to the man that just sanctioned the destruction of my home, I just say: “Your Majesty.” I lace it with enough venom that the king cannot possibly miss it. My rude but formal greeting does not slip his notice but he does not drop his delighted grin.

  My gaze flits to the throne at his left, one that is much less decorated. On it is seated a young girl with dark hair, nearly as dark as Lyom’s. Her skin is just as olive as the king’s but her eyes are pure jade. She wears a stone around her neck and even from this distance I can see intricate scrawling engraved into it but cannot make out the words.

  She is beautiful — royal. Her presence surprises me because there is only one other person the king would allow to sit beside him.

  His daughter.

  I knew the young princess existed. She is my age, if not a year older. Her mother was queen for only a year before she mysteriously died — likely killed by the king after his heir was born. For only the briefest of moments, I am jealous of the green-eyed princess, who pulls her shoulders back regally and looks down her nose at me with disdain, because her father chose her as his heir. My father disowned me, proclaimed me dead, and sent me to be beaten into the assassin I am today.

  “Welcome to Adandyrl’s Keep.” greets the king. “I apologize for my summoning you but it is an issue of utmost importance.” He waves a hand to the guards stationed around the room. “Leave us.”

  I feel Lyom’s hold on my wrist tighten but he doesn’t argue the king’s command. The guards in the room take up their swords and walk out without question. Lyom remains standing behind me so I must assume the king wasn’t talking to him. The sound of the door closing behind me echoes through the room. The king smiles, knowing I’ve taken this as a sign that I am trapped in the throne room with him.

  “I’m sure you understand I couldn’t have my servicemen knowing of your identity. Word could get out I am making a deal with a bloodthirsty assassin.” the king insinuates.

  A small smile pulls at the corner of my lips. “You killed my people and turned my men against me. I will make no deal with you.”

  King Dryden tilts his head, bright eyes staring me down from across the room. “We shall see about that.” His attention turns to his left, where the princess sits. “I assume you have heard of my daughter, Princess Haraya.”

  I lift my chin, turning my gaze on his daughter, trying a new tactic. “Oh, yes, the princess’s name was in the contracts recently.” I shake my head. “I’m surprised she has lasted this long.”

  Princess Haraya’s eyes widen and her mouth drops open as if she can’t believe what I’ve just said. Lyom grips my arm tighter and I can feel the blood being cut off but I give no indication that it hurts.

  King Dryden only laughs, waving off any concern in his daughter. “Well, with the Cannon now disbanded, your leader gone, and you captured, I have no doubt that my daughter is as safe as can be.”

  I stare at him for a moment, not sure if he is really just so misinformed or if he is playing games with me. “Do you believe that the Cannon is made up of only Quay and the five of us? If so, you are sorely mistaken, King. There are assassins in your kingdom even as we speak, killing nobles and dignitaries left and right. You just wouldn’t know it.”

  I watch as the king’s posture stiffens, his eyes darkening. The first display of true emotion since I have entered the room. Perhaps there is a veil over Evrallon preventing everyone from having any true feelings of their own. Though I suppose I can’t talk; Quay trained me to have little emotion if not any at all.

  “Is that so?” inquires the king, his voice like silk moving over sandpaper — the abrasion so light you hardly realize it’s there, but it snags all the same.

  I nod. “It is.”

  The king scrutinizes me, likely trying to see if I can be trusted or not. I shouldn’t care about the king’s trust or whether he finds me honorable but I do. I want him to look at me and know that I am not lying when I say that Haraya’s name is in the contracts, likely because of her heritage. Yes, I am an assassin, but I do not condone the shedding of innocent blood when I know the victim is blameless.

  Finally, the king’s gaze moves to the Swordmaster standing behind me. “Swordmaster, is this true?”I can feel Lyom behind me, the rise and fall of his chest. For some odd reason, I am hyper aware of him. Not of him, but of the threat he poses to my escape. Standing behind me, holding my shackles, he is going to make this even more difficult. No, he will make this impossible. The feeling of him unnerves me — the cold of his hands.

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it, Your Highness.” Lyom says in an even voice, as if learning that deadly assassins are scattered around Evrallon is nothing; as if he couldn’t care less what we do with our spare time.

  The king’s chestnut brows are furrowed when he looks back to me. He just takes in a breath and his posture automatically corrects itself. “No matter,” he says. “That is not why I called you in here today, Aerietta. It’s not why I instructed my loyal Swordmaster to bring you in alive, rather than killing you on the spot. Would you like to know why?”

  I try to remain uninterested but know I am failing. I do want to know why the king dragged me here instead of executing me on Lydovier’s shores.

  Lyom’s fingers dig into the skin of my arms, another warning for me to treat the king with respect and answer him when he asks a question. He should know by now that my tongue is mine and mine alone, and the king of Evrallon will not silence me nor make me speak up. My father was another matter. I did not respect him because he was my own flesh and blood, but because he was the man I had sworn to obey and defend. It is the oath all assassins must take before they become a part of the Cannon. Quay is breaking that oath by up and running off into the sunset with whatever lass he found.

  The king smiles eerily and opens his mouth but before words can be released, a knock on the door behind us stops him. He frowns at the door over my head but shouts, “Enter.” I hear the door open, feel the breeze at my back. Lyom’s hand around my arm tightens almost imperceptibly and I start to look over my shoulder. I have not even been able to turn my head fully when I hear his voice.

  “You summoned me, Your Majesty?”

  I whirl around, meeting Cicero’s sly smirk. Anger fills me like a whirlwind and before Lyom can stop me I have dropped to my knees and swept his feet out from under him. Lyom falls to the ground hard enough to knock the breath out of him. I bound to Cicero and even in my awkward dress I manage to heel kick him in the head. Cicero stumbles and tries to lunge at me but I
catch him by the throat in a quick jab. He chokes but is given little time to recover before my fist connects with his jaw, following quickly by my elbow in one swift drive.

  Pain radiates through my hand instantly but the satisfying crack is all I need. Cicero shouts in pain and stumbles backwards, falling on his rear.

  Lyom’s hands clasp down on my shoulders and he pulls me away. I should have killed Cicero. I could have taken out my stake and drove it into his chest before moving on to the king and everyone else in the room, just like I promised Lyom I would.

  The Swordmaster spins me around and shoves me to the ground, my knees aching when they hit the marble floor. I try to get out from under his grasp but to no avail. I see the king glaring at me, hostility beaming from his eyes. “That was very dramatic.”

  Through gritted teeth, I ask, “Did you expect a joyous reunion?”

  The king’s glare doesn’t fade. If anything, it grows more malicious. Perhaps it was King Dryden who trained the Swordmaster in his hostile glowers. “You would do wise not to be sarcastic with me, girl.” he spits. His gaze goes to Cicero behind me. “Stand up, fool. I only wanted you here to better explain our situation should it be needed.”

  I hear Cicero groan and then walk around behind me, moving his jaw around as he goes. “I see you have her well guarded.”

  If Lyom is offended he doesn’t show it. The king just says, “I seem to recall that half of the men I sent with my Swordmaster were killed because of your incompetence, and let’s not even consider your brother’s ineptitude.”

  I see a vein jump in Cicero’s temple before he takes up his place at the right of the king, standing beside the throne.

  “Back to business, then?” suggests the king. “I need you to capture a member of your former order.”

  I laugh loudly, madly. Already I do not accept this deal, no matter the reward. They want Quay. I would not even know where to look for him even if I did want to give him up. Unfortunately for King Dryden, I have no intentions of betraying my former leader. Quay may have vanished when we needed his leadership most, but I will not turn against him now. Quay was no friend to me, this is true, but for better or worse, despite the things he put me through, he is the only true father I have ever known.