by Rose Reid
For some reason, his addressing me by assassin bothers me. He has not used my name since my capture in Lydovier but that is not what troubles me. I am not your normal assassin. Though I kill like my brothers and sisters of the Cannon and am as merciless as Quay, I do feel remorse, and I do loathe who I am and what I do. Does the Swordmaster plan to remind me of my past grievances daily?
Then something else he said is brought back to the forefront of my mind and I hesitate a moment.
“Then you killed,” I say. “You killed to become Swordmaster. Did you kill the Swordmaster before you?”
“I only meant that I have worked hard to achieve my title. As have you. Of course, you have slaughtered your way to the title of Death’s Herald.” Lyom snaps.
I force myself not to slouch when he refers to me as Death’s Herald. There are a hundred other names I am known by in the different villages and kingdoms. I earned the name Queen of Crimson in Evrallon, where I killed my first target — an envoy protecting a noble couple of some sort, who I killed as well. I do not even remember their faces, only that they were engaged to be married, both young. The streets ran red. Evrallon did not take kindly to me, to say the least. I was only an infant when Quay took me in, and only eleven when I killed the envoy.
Eleven.
Quay said I was different; I learned quicker, I was stronger, I was better than his other assassins. So he released me into Evrallon to gain a name for myself.
The Queen of Crimson.
And, in time, Death’s Herald, Ghost of Grimway, and Butcher of Brindale. My name has been public knowledge only for a short time but my reputation was crafted the day I massacred an entire envoy.
Lost in the past, I murmur, “Is there any other way to create a name for yourself?”
Lyom laughs mirthlessly; in fact, it is barely a laugh at all. “One day, Assassin, you will be cast into the silver mines of Kinecardine, the swamps of Solvitoft, or the quarries of Yldervale and your boastfulness will be whipped from you, along with your title. There you will only be the Queen of Ash and Pity, and no one will mourn your death. I look forward to that day, if only to see the improved queen.”
Yes, I think. That is exactly what will become of me. I will find Dominik and kill him for King Dryden as I have been instructed. Then I will try to escape my past, try to recreate myself, perhaps as Evodine Darlington, but the shadows always catch up to the light — they follow the brightness. My shadows and ghosts will never leave me, and when I finally succumb to the darkness, the Swordmaster will be there to see it and cast me into the mines, himself.
“Where are your parents, Swordmaster?” I inquire, trying to take the attention away from me.
Lyom glowers flatly. “They are dead.”
“Oh?” I ask. “When did this happen?”
“When I was young. In a carriage accident.” is the only response I am granted.
Lyom pushes open a door we approach and before me lies stairs that lead downward, lit only by sparse torches. I hesitate before following Lyom down. He grabs a torch from the wall and lights the way, moving swiftly and utterly silently down the stone steps. I again wonder who trained the Swordmaster. He is a worthy adversary in battle, even for someone as expertly trained as me.
I quickly follow him down the steps, careful not to slip on the stone. When we reach the bottom, three dark corridors open up to us. Lyom takes the one in the middle, walking confidently as if he doesn’t fear demons will leap from the stone walls and drink our blood.
“What are we doing down here?” I ask in revulsion.
“King Dryden wanted me to show you this.” Lyom answers.
He turns the corner and marches on. A putrid smell begins to permeate the air, saturating me. I wrinkle my nose in disgust but don’t need to ask what the smell is. I know the stench of rotting corpses all too well.
The corridor opens up into a large room. Catacombs. The skulls of many rest in the walls, their dead bodies surely lying beyond. Their skulls have been defamed and likely their bodies as well. The stench is so strong in the air that I can barely breathe. The smell of death is like the smell of blood — you can never grow used to it.
“These are the bodies of those who have failed the king, if they are not sent to Kinecardine to become laborers.” Lyom explains.
Staring at the skulls and bones I would much prefer to be among them than in the mines of Kinecardine. I have been told the life expectancy in any of laborers in any Evrallonic work camp is six weeks, but Kinecardine is even less: one month.
I look at the decaying bodies and my stomach turns but I manage to redirect my attention to Lyom. “You expect me to fail, Swordmaster.” I shake my head, staring up in cold eyes of glacier blue. “I never fail.”
This time, I am the one that leads out of the catacombs. When I get to the top of the stairs I finally let out the air I’d been holding in while making my way back through the underground corridor but somehow the stench remains. Lyom closes the door behind him after returning the torch to its post.
Lyom escorts me back to my quarters before disappearing for the rest of the afternoon. Sometime later, two maids are sent to my quarters to introduce themselves as my new lady’s maids, Soray and Lisabet. Soray is a kindly young girl who is likely my age with curling red hair and freckles that cover her entire face. If it weren’t for her gangly limbs, one would expect her to be of royal lineage.
Lisabet is a few years older than me, probably in her early twenties. Her hair is a honey brown color and she is quietly beautiful.
My new lady’s maids pick up my room, make the bed I haven’t even slept on yet, start a fire in the hearth, and refill my wash basin with water for washing my hands while chatting the whole time. It would appear the two are quite the gossips, and Soray seems to have developed a fancy for the visiting prince of Belaroux, Prince Atwood.
“Oh, you’d like him, Lady Darlington.” Soray assures me. “He has blond hair, like yours, but beautiful brown eyes!”
Lisabet smirks, rolling her eyes, but concedes. “He is quite charming.”
“Are you going to the evening meal?” Soray inquires.
I shake my head. “The Swordmaster wants me to stay here for the night.”
Lisabet frowns. “Well, I suppose it’s for the best. We won’t be participating in evening meal, either.” she tells me while helping me get out of my red dress. She unlaces the dress expertly and helps slip it over my shoulders while Soray brings me one of the nightgowns from the dresser.
“I’ve always liked Swordmaster Lyom.” Soray says in a childlike tone as she hands me the nightgown. I pull it over my head and when Lisabet reaches to take the pins from my hair I tell her I will take care of it.
Lisabet snorts. “You would be the only one. Do you know what the palace guards call him?” She lowers her voice after glancing around, as if fearful Swordmaster Livingstone has his ear pressed up against the door. “Son of the Devil,”
Soray gasps. “Lisabet!” she exclaims. “You take that back!”
Lisabet shrugs. “There is nothing to take back. I never said I called him that.”
“Why do they call him that?” I ask.
“You’ve seen him, haven’t you?” asks Lisabet. “You have noticed his demeanor within the palace walls and perhaps a little outside, but you have not witnessed him on the battlefield. Turns into another man, he does. One the palace guards say was dragged straight out of Hell by the Devil, himself, to wreak havoc on the Earth!”
Soray seems flustered and horrified that Lisabet would be talking about the Swordmaster this way. She hurries over to her and smacks her on the back of the head. “If anyone should hear you —”
“No one shall hear me.” Lisabet rolls her eyes. “And Lady Darlington wasn’t very charmed by him as it was.”
I’m hardly paying attention to them, though. Lisabet’s tale is eerily similar to the one of the Children of the Elements. And yes, some would say that the Devil himself drew us out of Hell to be released upon
the Earth.
I try to ignore the uneasy feeling in my stomach. I will have to work with this man for several weeks until I kill Dominik. It isn’t that I haven’t worked with fiendish men in the past but rather that I have never worked with anyone I fear I could not defeat — and I have certainly never worked alongside someone with a reputation as strong and fear-inspiring as mine.
Lisabet finishes picking up my dress. “Alright, Soray, we’d best be gettin’ on and leave Miss Evodine to her own business.”
Soray curtsies twice before leaving and Lisabet wishes me a peaceful evening. Not likely. I spend most of the evening sitting in front of the hearth. A peaceful enough look, I suppose, but inside my thoughts are chaotic. I mentally construct a list of villages Dominik could be at if he were attempting to flee the kingdom. Blancathey, of course, is a village by the small sea that separates Lydovier from Evrallon but I doubt Dominik would risk returning to Lydovier so soon. It is probably in the middle of being reestablished as a province of Evrallon.
Helmfirth is on the border of Adaai and I know Dominik has at least one contact there. The last time we were in Helmfirth, he met a young woman named Zenith Milbourn who he befriended. She was almost five years older than him at the time yet she still took an interest in him almost immediately. Not entirely surprising, though. Dominik always had a quiet beauty about him.
Zenith ran the trading routes into Adaai from Helmfirth. She was companions with the Helmfirth record keeper as well. A good contact to have, though I would never have wanted a contact in the first place. If Dominik were trying to flee to Adaai he may be in Helmfirth, or at the very least on his way to Helmfirth. If so, we would need to get there quickly; Dominik will not dally in Helmfirth long.
At some point in the evening, a passing guard locks my door. Evidently Lyom was correct in saying that my privileges will have to be earned. That should have been something the king mentioned when making our arrangement.
The night grows long and even from my quarters I can hear the laughter every now and then from the banquet hall. When I have thoroughly run through every piece of my strategy, I resort to pacing the room. My stomach growls obnoxiously for the third time since I was given a meal at midday.
As if hearing my growling stomach, there is a knock at the door, then the lock turns. I straighten up and suddenly realize I am still dressed in a nightgown. Not the most proper attire but I have little modesty about me. I am no harlot but most of my modesty has been broken by now, thanks to Quay and the other assassins.
I walk to the door and open it, feeling strange that I am allowing entrance to someone into a room that is not mine. When the door opens I see Jamas standing outside. In his hand is a plate of food, complete with a puffy roll, butter, and a silver chalice filled to the brim with water.
“Swordmaster Livingstone suspected you may be getting hungry.” Jamas informs me.
I quickly take the plate from him. “How thoughtful of him.”
I turn around and walk the plate back to the table beside the two chairs that are warming by the fire. Jamas enters and carries the water with him, setting it down on the table beside the porcelain plate.
“You accepted the king’s deal.” Jamas observes.
I nod. “I did.”
Jamas gives his own nod of agreement. “Wise move.”
“Will you be accompanying us when we go to find Dominik?” I inquire.
“Indeed.” Jamas replies. “I go anywhere the Swordmaster requires.”
My nose scrunches in confusion. “But you are so much older than he is!”
Jamas frowns and shakes his head. “The Swordmaster is twenty-one. I am twenty-three.”
“But you are still taking orders from someone younger than you.” I note. “Isn’t that difficult?”
“No,” Jamas replies, heading for the door. “In experience, Swordmaster Livingstone is far older than me. I am grateful to serve under him.”
I consider this. “He does not seem twenty-one.”
“He has been through quite a lot.” Jamas answers.
I raise a curious brow, turning to face him completely. “You know his story, then?”
“Only fragments.” he admits.
“And that does not concern you? That you know so little of the man you serve beneath? Do you not fear that he could be a murderer, someone hardly worth your time, let alone your trust? Someone —”
“Someone like you?” Jamas inquires, staring down at me with the same condescension I saw in the eyes of the king and princess.
“Yes,” I finally answer. “Do you not fear that he could be someone like me?”
Jamas takes in a slow breath and I watch as his shoulders relax some. “I am a firm believer that what you did in the past is not what defines you, but rather who you choose to be in the future that determines your humanity.”
“Are you implying that the Swordmaster has done a great deal of good for this kingdom? Because I would have to protest that it was all done at the expense of others.”
“He has. He saved the king more than once, rescued the princess, and prolonged most of our lives. We owe him everything. And all these things add to his credibility and nobility, make the rest of his swordsmen respect him, but everything can change in a day.” says Jamas.
I look down at my food, moving the fork around on the plate silently. “If you believe Swordmaster Livingstone’s hardened personality will ever change, I feel it my duty to inform you that I have seen too many heartless men to believe that one can ever come back from such soullessness.”
Jamas, as opposed to being offended as I believed he would be, just clasps his hands behind his back. “I was not referring to the Swordmaster.”
With that pointed remark, Jamas leaves me in the room.
VI
“I may do some good before I am dead —be a sort of success as a frightful example of what not to do; and so illustrate a moral story.”
— Thomas Hardy, Jude the Obscure
If Lyom thought by locking me in this room he had left me without my assets he was sorely mistaken. When the banquet hall has been silent for more than an hour and all of the palace seems to have either fallen asleep or into a drunken stupor, I take the two pins from my hair and the golden blond waves fall down around my face. Hurrying to the door, I bend down in front of it, looking through the simple lock.
It takes less than a minute for my pins to unlock the door. Slipping them back into my hair, I push the door open, cringing when I hear the squeak of the hinges. I open it just enough for me to squeeze through before closing the door behind me. What am I doing? I’ve no idea. Wandering, I suppose. Exploring. My mind is too active for sleep and though the king seems to believe I need twelve hours of sleep to function properly, he is incorrect. I am not like his traveling mistresses that require their beauty sleep to be effective.
I dash into the shadows, using them to my advantage as I move down the long corridor and to the stairs that lead me down into the foyer of the Keep. My bare feet are soundless on the marble. When I reach the steps, I stop and overlook the foyer to be sure I am alone. The tapers in the chandelier have been blown out but new candles have been lit around the room, giving it some glow for the guards to see by.
There are three guards in the foyer, two of which are sitting by the door in chairs they have pulled from the seating area and are playing a card game, the other who is sleeping ignorantly, propped up against a wall.
I tiptoe down the first stair, grabbing onto the handrail and flipping over the side of it, using my core to pull myself close to the base of the steps. I drop to the floor beneath them silently and move quickly from the foyer, the two incompetent guards joking and laughing in my wake.
As I make my way down one of the dimly lit corridors, the first room I come to is the library. I am about to pass it when I decide to see what the royal library has on assassins. Pulling up short, I glance once down the hallway before opening the door and slipping into the grand library Lyom brought me
to earlier. It is far more haunting in the darkness of night, only a few flickering candles lighting the alleys between bookshelves. Stacks of books rest upon tables and embers glow in the hearths around the room.
The library is about ten degrees colder than the rest of the Keep, which isn’t very warm to start with. A cold chill whispers over my skin as I walk forward, taking up one of the candlesticks and using its light to search the first bookshelves.
Whoever organized the library did so strangely. I am unable to decide whether the books are organized alphabetically or using a sort of decimal system. I whisk the light of my candle over the spines of different books in sections I would have thought assassins would have been in but find nothing. I search for them under different names, then search for my own title. It seems the library has no information on assassins. All the better, I suppose. The less Evrallon’s royal cabinet knows of the Cannon, the better.
I am about to leave the library when the sound of a book hitting the floor catches my attention. I suddenly stop, turning around to look down the bookshelves. I see nothing at first, nothing but the spines of books and the flickering light of candles that have been left burning for late-night readers. Then, a moment later, I see a shadow move across the wall.
Wondering who else would be in the library at this time of night, I follow the shadow, walking to the back of the library where one of the hearths glows brighter than the others, as if it has been recently stoked. Books lie on one of the tables nearby. Not unusual, as I have seen books scattered on tables throughout the library, but these are open, as if someone has been flipping through them.
I glance around, checking to see if the scholar or scribe that is inside the library is around, then walk to the books. The books that are closed are leather bound, like most, but their covers are dull. There are two of them, stacked atop each other. They look nothing like the rest of the books in the library. They are worn, tattered, and abused. When I get a look at the words on the cover, I realize why.
