Crown of Crimson

by Rose Reid

  He mustn’t reach that bell.

  I motion to the ground beneath me and Jamas kneels, offering me a leg up. I step back before getting a running start and jumping into his extended hand, launching upward. I push the metal grate out of my way and catch it in the air before it can clatter to the ground. I spring into the tower, landing gently and silently on the floor beneath me.

  The guard is striding away from me, walking with rigid posture down the corridor that surely leads to another tower. He’s making his rounds, I assume. The other guard must have wandered off as well.

  I silently replace the grate before taking the dagger out of my belt again, moving soundlessly across the tower floor. I pass the bell, which is in the corner of the room, cutting the string that holds it to the wall. Before it can hit the ground ringing, I catch it and gently place it on the floor before moving to the guard.

  The young sentinel does not stand a chance. By the time he realizes he has been hit, he is lying dead on the floor, bleeding out of a neck wound. The footsteps of another guard catch my attention and I straighten up, glancing around the corner to see if the other sentinel is walking my way. He does not approach from another tower, so perhaps the other corridor. The walls are so incredibly echoey that determining the source tunnel of the noise seem impossible.

  I am light on my feet as I run to the next corridor, waiting for the guard to stroll leisurely around. He does so, whistling the whole way, until he finds his fallen companion. I hear his backpedalling, listen to his footsteps as he begins to retreat. He doesn’t make it five feet. I am on his back in an instant, one hand over his mouth, the other clutching the knife at his throat. The only thing that makes a sound is his body hitting the floor.

  Wiping the blood from my hands, I walk to the grate where I left the Swordmaster and his companions. I pull the grate open and offer Lyom my hand, which he scowls at when he notes the blood on it. It’s shame that first runs through me but anger quickly flushes it away when I remember it was his men that slaughtered the women and children on Lydovier shores.

  “How do we get out of the tower?” Lyom asks.

  “This way.” I answer, then pray that I know the correct way out of the maze of corridors.

  Thankfully, my memory serves me well and we find the entrance to the towers rather quickly, being guarded by only two men. When I have them both under my knives, Lyom protests, saying he doesn’t want to kill them, but I quickly remind him that they will have seen our faces and will alert the Adaaian forces before I can get to Dominik. With that, Lyom nods grimly and unsheathes his sword, slashing a line across the Adaaian’s throats before I can even lift a finger.

  I’m sure I stare at him for a long minute, expecting to watch as he flinches, realizing that he’s just ended these men’s lives, but there is nothing. I’m hardly able to put my thoughts together. A moment ago, he wanted to spare them, and now he mercilessly slits their throats?

  I look down at the fallen men. If I had the choice to, I would never take another life. But there are some things we are gifted with, and some things we are not. My gift is not in life. I would be a horrid doctor and an even worse mother. My gift is in death, as the grim reaper of the children’s nightmares. There are some that God has predestined to be the heroes of the story, and then there are those He has predestined to be the villain. It does not take a scholar to determine which I am.

  I force myself to return to the assignment. Adaai. Dominik. He’s here in the city somewhere. The village we have just stepped foot into is Té’hasam. It is not far from Adaai’s capital, Zahlemia. There are four border villages Dominik could be in — Té’hasam, Abunuaid, Katronkonda, and Tédi — but it is most likely that he is here, in Té’hasam. It is the village our sect normally chose when traveling into Adaai for a mission. He would know contacts here, would know how I usually broke us into the village. He has more information about Té’hasam than he does about most Adaaian villages.

  Glancing around me, the small village does not look like much, but it looks just as we last left it. Laundry hangs from windows on frayed strings, the homes built of mud, clay, and rock all seem sort of slanted. Adaai is not a profitable country and most of its inhabitants live poorly, but in Zahlemia, the people prosper. If Dominik were to leave Té’hasam, it would be to travel to Zahlemia.

  “Assassin,” Lyom whispers, coming to stand beside me. “Where do we go?”

  At least thankful that Lyom has taken my command seriously, I lead out, trying not to draw much attention to ourselves. The only Adaaian people that are awake are the beggars in the streets that watch us as buzzards would the carcasses of animals. When we duck behind a strip of drying laundry, I snatch several shirts from it and Lyom follows my lead. The next time we pass a house, I turn and stop his company of men, thrusting the attire into Lyom’s arms.

  “Have your men change.” I command. “They’re drawing attention.”

  Lyom’s gaze moves to my red cape. “And your bloody cloak is not?”

  “My cloak stays.” I say with conviction.

  Lyom grumbles something edged in hostility under his breath before handing the shirts back to the men, having them take their Evrallonic garb off and leave it in the dirt. Most of them take on the new, Adaaian clothing but Lyom does not. Whether it is because he refuses to undress in front of me or because he will not soil his Evrallonic garments by laying them in the dirt of Adaai, I’m not sure.

  I lead out again, taking them down winding streets, hoping that I remember the way to our contact’s house — if she even still resides there.

  When I have the residence in sight, I stop Lyom, then point to the home.

  “There.” I say. “A woman named Byhalia lives there.”

  “You’re certain?” Lyom looks at me, close enough that I can yet again smell the leather and cedar rolling off his skin like his own personal fragrance.

  “As certain as I can be. I will investigate beforehand, Swordmaster.”

  Lyom shakes his head. “I will go with you.”

  “Nau,” I reply, speaking in the Adaaian language to see if he understands. “Stay here.” I say, just to be certain he’s comprehended my words.

  I dip out of the shadows and walk easily across the road as I pull the hood of my cloak down off my head. My hair, soaked through with sea water, tumbles from the wet folds of my cloak. I know I risk Adaaian men spotting me and wandering my way but I leave my hood down. Byhalia will not trust someone hooded in darkness.

  The door opens at the second knock and a young woman opens the door. Dark, cloud-like hair forms a halo around her caramel face complete with a snub nose and rounded cheeks. She has received several more scars, all on her face, since I saw her last but she is otherwise unharmed — and still living in the same location.

  “Byhalia,” I breathe quietly, looking at her to see if she recognizes me. “It’s —”

  “Etta!” Byhalia shrieks the moment she recalls my face, wrapping her arms around my waist before shrieking and backing away. “By Sona’s garb, you’re soaking! Whatever have you been —” Recognition lights Byhalia’s face and she immediately begins shaking her head. “Oh, absolutely not.” Byhalia scolds in a thick accent. “Absolutely not! You would not have just broken into Adaai, knowing the Feast of Yaran is just around the corner!”

  I try to placate her by raising my hands in defense. “It will only be a night, Byhalia, I promise it.”

  Byhalia shakes her head quickly. “You know the guards will be crawling all over my humble abode if they get wind of your arrival.”

  “They won’t.” I answer. “Byhalia, please. Dominik —”

  “Where is he?” Byhalia asks quickly, her voice full of concern. “If that boy has finally gotten himself killed, I’ll be sick to my stomach! I warned him, over and over, that he wasn’t cut out for your line of work!”

  I quickly realize that I will get nowhere with Byhalia if I admit that I am on an assignment to kill Dominik. I forget so often how many hearts Domin
ik has taken captive, whether he knows it or not. Now that I know what I do about him, I am willing to bet that he knows exactly the kind of trail he is leaving behind him.

  “Byhalia,” I say, interrupting her rant.

  Byhalia stops, blinking, looking at me. She is somewhere in her mid thirties. She has a contract booth in her backyard and by allowing such a thing to be established she has already placed herself in the sights of the Adaaian forces — if she were to be discovered.

  She has clothed me when I was naked, fed me when I was hungry, and sheltered me when I was nearly caught on one of my first few missions. Then she lived with her family of five — her husband, daughter, and two sons — but two years ago she lost her husband and sons when they were summoned to the Sairaat Temple in Zahlemia. Now she lives alone with her eight-year-old daughter. Byhalia has given up much for the Cannon and me. The least I can do is withhold my purpose for being here — and Dominik’s deceit. Let her believe that there is good in all people, and that corruption does not reach every soul.

  “Dominik is alive.” I assure Byhalia. “He just didn’t come on this mission with me. I figured I should fly solo for this one.”

  Byhalia immediately believes my story, her guard dropping. I breathe an inward sigh of relief when Byhalia wraps me up in her arms for the second time, ignoring how wet my clothes are.

  “Come inside, please,” Byhalia insists, opening the door for me to enter.

  “Umm,” I begin, looking over my shoulder, unsure of how Byhalia will take to more strangers entering her house — ten men that Byhalia certainly wouldn’t want around her daughter.

  Byhalia frowns. “What is it, Etta?”

  “I have brought others with me.” I reply.

  At first Byhalia’s expression gives away nothing, then she bursts into joyful laughter, embracing me again. Entirely confused, I just stand there while she squeezes the life out of me. When Byhalia finally releases me she wipes tears from beneath her eyes.

  “You rescued people from Lydovier?” Byhalia asks.

  I open my mouth to correct her then slam it shut again, forcing myself to nod. “Kin of mine. Not assassins.” I assure her. “We won’t even be here for the whole night. Just long enough to check injuries and move on.”

  Byhalia nods fervently. “You are welcome here as long as you need.” Byhalia looks over her shoulder, calling to her daughter in Adaaian. She quickly tells her daughter to bring fresh clothes for me and my companions and to start a fire. At least for tonight we are safe.

  XII

  “There will be little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to expect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better: we find comfort somewhere.”

  — Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

  Saying Byhalia is suspicious of the refugees would be an understatement. She keeps a watchful eye on Carnahan and Moher, who are by far the most brutish of the bunch, and certainly do not look like the survivors of a nasty war. They have been well fed, even during our journey across the Menca Denu, and their stern expressions put her on edge.

  Strangely enough, she and Lyom have seemed to form a quick and easy relationship, though she now knows him under his alias of Lee. Lyom remains respectful and Jamas is just as thankful for her hospitality but he throws in a bit of charm the Swordmaster doesn’t have. Saraiah, Byhalia’s daughter, is helpful to say the least. She brings us in fresh bowls of water that Carnahan uses to clean the wounds of the men. At least that goes along with our story.

  “An odd bunch,” comments Byhalia from behind me.

  I look up, smiling at her. “They are.”

  “How are they related to you?” she questions, taking a seat in front of the hearth next to me.

  I look at the men, my gaze flickering to Lyom. Carnahan stands in front of him, the two talking. I see Lyom’s brows furrow and he stands up, glancing at Jamas. I hear him say something but can’t make out the words. Then Lyom follow Carnahan into the washroom Byhalia showed them. Judging from the bandages in Carnahan’s grip, I’d assume they’re checking Lyom’s gash, but why the secrecy?

  A thought strikes me. Perhaps Lyom’s men have bought the stories that he is anything other than human. Have they ever seen him bleed? It would make sense that the seemingly-invincible Swordmaster would want to keep his weaknesses from his men but did they not see his red-streaked shirt at the Badger? I scoff. Maybe they thought it was the enemies’ blood.

  “Etta?”

  Byhalia’s confused voice draws me out of my thoughts and I snap back to her. What had she just asked? My gaze flits about the room and I suddenly remember.

  “Not exactly blood relatives,” I explain. “Good men from a fishing village that was under siege. I know them all personally.”

  Byhalia raises her deep brown eyes, studying the expressions on each of their faces. Thankfully, they are all acting more human tonight, laughing with each other, punching one another brotherly on the arm. Byhalia watches them thoughtfully.

  “It was good of you, Etta.” she finally says. “Good of you to bring them out of Lydovier. Do they have wives? Children?”

  I shake my head. “I do not know.” I consider it, though. How many of these men have families waiting for them back home? I take Jamas as my sample specimen, wondering about him. Does he have a family he has left behind? A new bride? It is hard to imagine him with a family of three — he is so young — but a new wife?

  He is honorable, respectable. I could understand why he would already have a bride … and also why he wouldn’t. Loyalty can be a curse as much as it is a blessing.

  “And Dominik?”

  Byhalia’s question jars me and I involuntarily flinch. She hasn’t asked much about him since I arrived.

  I mustn’t tell her, I remind myself, but I so badly want her to know what happened. I must tell someone the truth, someone that would understand rather than slit my throat to shut me up. Lyom will not cry for my lost companions and neither will any of his men. The Cruel King laughs knowing he was my undoing and Torrin … he has his own grief.

  But Byhalia shouldn’t remember Dominik as a traitor. He doesn’t deserve it, but I decide to let her believe that he is well, hiding in Lydovier, and that I am on my last mission for Lydovier — to help escort the inhabitants of the fishing community to safety.

  “What of him?” I ask Byhalia.

  “Why did he not come with you?”

  “He is helping others,” I answer. The lie slips off my tongue as if it was the easiest thing in the world. I’ve grown too used to lying, too used to wearing two faces. But when I leave the king’s service … never again.

  “In Lydovier?” I hate to hear the hope in Byhalia’s voice. She wants Dominik to be a hero, wants him to rescue people like I am …

  I nod. “Helping the lords and ladies of the court.”

  Then she breathes a sigh of relief. “That is good.” She looks at me. “It is good of you. I am glad you have rescued this time, rather than destroyed.” She tsks. “Destruction does not suit you, Aerietta Elony.”

  I try to match her smile but know it’s a weak attempt. She has always seen the good in both Dominik and me — seeing him now would surely break her.

  I should want to stay with Byhalia, reminisce about the days when Dominik was not a back-stabbing traitor, I was not on a seek and destroy assignment commissioned by the Cruel King, and just talk to her, as she is one of the few people I can do such things with, but my daft mind goes to Lyom again. I can’t stop myself from looking at the door he disappeared behind. I hear that little whisperer in my ear again, the assassin that wants to know what is going on.

  What is he doing back there?

  “I should check on Lee,” I say to her, half in a trance as I begin to stand up.

  Is Carnahan really just cleaning his wounds or are they discussing something in private? Something about me? I feel the slightest twitch of fear i
n my stomach. Curiosity is winning out over my want to be with Byhalia so I begin to walk away from her but she grabs my wrist before I can go.

  “Etta,” she whispers, looking about.

  I stop and look back at her, at the way she’s clutching my wrist. It’s such a contrast — her dark hand wrapped around my completely pale wrist. She’s the kind of ebony beautiful with flawless skin that over half the population in Adaai is. Sparkling dark eyes flit around the room with a hint of suspicion behind them. Could she doubt my story? I’m tempted to laugh. She may be the only person that would believe such ridiculousness outright. She has always been the naïve sort, willing to see the righteousness in anyone.

  “Däj keh niniv Lee,” she hisses in Adaaian.

  I flinch immediately, the words tumbling around in my head. I look over my shoulder at the room again before my gaze goes to Byhalia. Perhaps she doesn’t always see the goodness in people. Perhaps she isn’t as naïve as I have always believed. Her words stun me enough that I’m left standing in silence for a long moment.

  Do not trust Lee.

  “Why?” I ask in Adaaian.

  Her gaze is steady, even, and completely sane when she whispers back, “He isn’t who he says he is.”

  I crouch down, covering her hand on my wrist. I look into her eyes, trying to decide if she knows something I do not or if she is beginning to suspect that he is the Swordmaster. In either case, I must know. “My friend, if you know something I should know —”

  “I know nothing,” whispers Byhalia. She clasps a hand over her chest. “I feel it … here. You know my family’s past.”

  I nod. Byhalia’s great grandmother was a knowledgeable woman. She operated an apothecary, tending to both Afterlighter and human at the edge of the Menca Denu — one of the weak points where the Afterlight Forest can intersect with our world. Her family is well accustomed to odd things happening but since the fall of the Afterlighters, Byhalia has said she’s felt no connection to them. Now suddenly this has changed?