Crown of Crimson

by Rose Reid

  “You believe he is an Afterlighter?” I ask, ready to put the rumors about him to bed.

  She seems to consider this but then shakes her head. “No. Not Afterlighter.”

  I sigh. “Byhalia —”

  “I cannot give you anything else because I do not know anything else, Etta! I’m hardly experienced in the world of Afterlighters.”

  “Mama?”

  I straighten up just as Byhalia turns her attention to her beautiful daughter. She smiles widely, extending her hands to her child. She begins to speak to her, asking her what she thinks of the men, still speaking in Adaaian, and giving me my leave.

  Still uncomfortable from the conversation, I head towards the washroom where Carnahan and Lyom are.

  Byhalia warned me to be careful around him. She has always had a sixth sense about these things. He isn’t Afterlighter, though, meaning he is human, but no one ever said all humans are good. The Cannon is proof of that. The world is proof of that.

  I try not to hesitate before going to the door and opening it. I’ve already prepared myself for finding Lyom shirtless again, since it wouldn’t be any stitching or blood that made me queasy, so when I see Lyom standing, bare-chested, leaned over the basin drinking a black liquid, I’m only half surprised.

  I close the door behind me just as Carnahan’s head snaps up. “What are you doing?”

  Carnahan glares. “I could ask you the same question. What are you —”

  “Not you,” I hiss, packing as much venom into those two small words as humanly possible.

  Lyom straightens up and I see the muscles in his back and shoulders straining some, like correcting his posture is physically exhausting. I try not to notice the corded muscle wrapped around his shoulders or the fact that he looks like a statue sculpted by the most famous artist in history but I know I must be failing miserably.

  I’m gathering my thoughts when he grabs his shirt and pulls it on, buttoning it up before he turns around and I can see his wound.

  “What was that you were drinking?” I finally manage.

  “Medicine.” Carnahan supplies.

  I turn my hostility to him. “Not you.” I bite out again.

  “Medicine.” Lyom echoes. “For the gash.”

  I’m tempted to look down to see if I can spot it beneath the dark gray shirt he’s pulled on but decide that it will only look like I’m admiring him. A hundred different questions come to mind but I don’t ask any of them. Instead, what comes out of my mouth makes me want to let Carnahan shoot me.

  “Now you have a shirt on, huh?” I inquire. “You seem so comfortable without your shirt on.”

  Lyom doesn’t give me a second to wallow in my mortification. “I haven’t heard any complaints.”

  My mouth drops open and my eyes go to Carnahan, seeing a smirk on his face. Is he used to hearing Lyom crack jokes — if you could even call his dry humor joking — and give veiled flirtatious comments?

  When I’ve picked my jaw up off the floor and gathered whatever self respect I have left, I say, “We should leave at sunup.”

  “That was the plan.” Lyom answers. “Did you come in here to say anything else or was that it?”

  I stammer. Did I? No. I was just suspicious of their being in here, but then I was thrown off guard somehow. Quay can train you to be impervious to hits, blows, and surprises all he wants but seeing Lyom shirtless? That is something one can never fully prepare for.

  Lyom tries to skirt pass me, clearly trying to stay as far from my body as possible, but before he can make it to the door handle, I reach my hand up to stop him.

  “Wait,” I say right as my hand plants on his chest. I have the words on the tip of my tongue: Will someone be standing guard overnight? Unfortunately, the words are cut short in my throat when I feel the flatness of his chest, the lack of stitches and a grievous wound.

  Lyom tries to take a step back, shoving my hand away defensively, but I’m already in front of him, unbuttoning one of the middle clasps. Before he can throw me back a second time I can see the clean form of his chest. No stitches, no bandage, no cut. It’s like it never happened.

  “Wh —” I don’t know how to finish, just stare at his healed chest. When I finally look back up at his face, I see turmoil in his eyes. “It’s healed,” I whisper.

  “It was only a surface wound.” he answers but I’m already shaking my head.

  “No,”

  “Yes.” he hisses. “It was. It looked worse than it was.”

  With that, the Swordmaster steps around me and pushes through the washroom door. I hear the slam of it but don’t turn around, just stare at Carnahan, who froze the minute I unbuttoned Lyom’s shirt. I immediately begin pointing at the basin, where the metal cup sits.

  “What is that?” I exclaim.

  Carnahan glances at the metal cup before looking back at me. He shrugs. “Medicine.”

  “That is not medicine!” I shout. “Did that … heal him?”

  Then he laughs, shaking his head. “Yes, Aerietta, it’s a magical healing elixir we’ve been keeping from the men all this time.”

  I step over to it, looking inside. The dregs of the liquid are black and bitter-smelling. I scowl at the contents. “Then what is it?”

  “You’ll have to ask the Swordmaster that.”

  I whirl on him, glaring. “There was a slash on his chest just a few days ago — I saw it with my own eyes! And now it’s healed?” And without a single scar. I suddenly remember the lack of marks on him and being perplexed as to how he avoided such battle wounds. I remember thinking that this one would scar, without a doubt. Yet it’s as if it never happened.

  Carnahan just lifts his shoulders. “Guess so.”

  I feel my heart pounding. What is going on here? Carnahan is keeping secrets for the Swordmaster, who has miraculously healed after drinking a bitter-smelling, black liquid. I’m tempted to dip my finger in the cup and dab it on my tongue to see if my wounds heal but what would be the side effect if it was not the magical healing potion I’m half thinking it is?

  I give Carnahan one of my trademark scowls. “Secrets have a cost, dear Carnahan, and mark my words, I will figure yours out.”

  Carnahan merely shrugs again. “Fine by me.” He smirks. “You have a nice evening now, Aerietta.”

  My jaw clenches as I turn around to leave. Normally, I would ignore such trifle things but compiled with the rumors surrounding Lyom like a fog, Byhalia’s mysterious warning, and my own experiences with the Swordmaster, I am tempted to believe that something else — something worth all the secrets — is going on here. And that is something I am willing to risk anything to find out.

  XIII

  “Sometimes a woman’s love of being loved gets the better of her conscience, and though she is agonized at the thought of treating a man cruelly, she encourages him to love her while she doesn't love him at all. Then, when she sees him suffering, her remorse sets in, and she does what she can to repair the wrong.”

  — Thomas Hardy, Jude the Obscure

  “Where do you suspect he will be?” asks Jamas in a hushed voice when Byhalia has fallen asleep in her bedroom nearby. We continue to speak in quiet tones because none of us can be sure she is truly asleep and not pretending so that we will reveal our true reason for being in Adaai. If she were to learn that I was traveling with a company of King Dryden’s men she would surely send us away, afraid that I planned to assassinate her leader, Emperor Yanlin.

  I glance over my shoulder to be sure Byhalia’s door remains shut. She barricaded herself and her daughter in the room about an hour ago. I can understand her for taking precautions. Even being the assassin I am, if a man like Carnahan was staying in my home for the night, I would lock myself in a room that he could never barge through.

  Even thinking his name has me looking over at him and Lyom, still suspicious of their every move. I watch them warily for a long moment until I realize that I never answered Jamas’ question.

  “Either here or in
Zahlemia.” I answer, going back to picking at the food Saraiah gave us in an attempt to act as casual as possible, when in truth I can hardly think about food at this point.

  “Why Zahlemia?” Jamas continues.

  “It’s wealthy.” I explain. “Dominik will try to go somewhere that people can pay for his services.”

  Jamas frowns. “You believe he will go back to being an assassin.”

  “I believe he’ll become a mercenary.” I answer. “Perhaps a tracker for the empire. I doubt he would enlist in something that would involve killing people without question.”

  I look up, finding Lyom with my gaze again. He sits with his back against a wall, legs stretched out in front of him. In his lap is a sketchbook and in his hand is a charcoal pencil. He has been in this position ever since Byhalia retired for the night.

  What does he sketch? I wonder.

  I have always loved sketching, though I have never been much good at it. I cannot imagine the Swordmaster would be skilled in something so creative; his reading choices should make that apparent. So if he does not sketch imaginatively, what does he sketch? He likely creates maps of the lands we have traveled over, or creates new strategies by drawing out his men matched against another company.

  Jamas looks up, follows my gaze. “You watch him quite a lot.” notices Jamas.

  I scowl, scrunching up my nose at the implication, then return to eating my food. “I watch him because he is one of the few people that could conceivably defeat me.” I say, omitting the fact that my wariness of him is based on more observation and hearsay.

  Jamas considers this. “You seem to have grown fond of him.”

  I laugh softly but cannot peel my eyes away from the stern Swordmaster, half of me still trying to decipher if he is a legitimate threat to me or not. “Fond? Truly, Jamas?”

  Jamas understands my meaning and his nose then wrinkles in disgust as well. “Heaven’s sake, no! Not in that way, Aerietta. I’m not sure you could grow fond of someone in that way.”

  Regret and embarrassment gnaw at me in equal measure. Jamas is wrong; I did fall for someone and was then promptly stabbed in the back by him. I don’t think I even realized I loved him at the time. I was trained since I was young that love was not a privilege granted to assassins and I think I actually believed that I would not fall in love with anyone. I’ve seen and heard of other assassins falling in love and it never ended well. Take Torrin and Helleanor for instance.

  “You’re beginning to trust him, though.” Jamas continues, looking over at me, not sensing my inner thoughts. “Which gives me more confidence. If you befriend one of us, you are far less likely to slaughter us all in our sleep.”

  I cringe at that. Because not long ago I considered killing them all while they slumbered. I don’t want to believe I would do it now but know that if it came down to my life or theirs … I know what decision I would ultimately make.

  I just nod at Jamas. “So long as none of you betray me, you are safe.”

  Jamas chuckles. “I am curious to see who would win in a fight between you and the Swordmaster.”

  I look up again. I take notice of Lyom’s broad shoulders, the lean, corded muscle that lies beneath his shirt. His height is formidable as well. I’m sure I have fought taller, but Lyom also has his agility on his side. The giants I have faced before were hulking, lumbering around like great beasts. Lyom is limber and nimble, quick to think and quick to act. I faced him once before in the cold but I hardly consider that a fair fight, and something tells me he was not trying his hardest either.

  The thought of battling with him is almost worrying. There is something about him, something I cannot quite put my finger on. Byhalia confirmed my earlier beliefs that he is not anything other than human, but that does not ease the unnerved feeling I have when I am around him. He isn’t normal, but I suppose anyone in the world could have told me that.

  I nod in agreement, attempting to look confident. “Yes, it would be interesting. However, not extremely long.”

  Jamas raises a brow. “Oh?”

  “I would win.”

  Jamas chortles again. “Perhaps we shall see someday.”

  I straighten my posture, trying to make myself appear more sturdy than my willowy frame is. “Perhaps.”

  Before dawn approaches, we are prepared to head out to search Té’hasam while the sun is still beneath the horizon. I slip up to Byhalia’s door and give it one knock. When she does not answer, I leave the note I scribbled on a parchment by the door, thanking her for her hospitality and telling her that we will no longer disturb her. Before leaving it there on her door, I end my note by saying that I will give Dominik her best.

  Before I leave the home of Byhalia, I slip into her backyard and go to the contract booth there. It is a small booth that looks more like a chicken coop than the warrant unit of an assassin. I quickly open the contract booth and slip inside, closing the door behind me, hoping to find any sign of Dominik’s being here. When an assassin visits a booth, it is not uncommon for them to leave behind their calling card — in Dominik’s case, a die.

  I find Dominik’s calling card within the booth instantly. It takes less than ten seconds for my eyes to trip over his symbol, which has been newly etched into the wood. Truth be told, I was under the impression that Dominik would not have left such an incriminating piece of evidence. And then the fact that he came to Byhalia’s home, visited the contract booth, and left without getting supplies from her? It doesn’t add up.

  Assassins do not always leave their calling card unless they want to be found, or are calling for the help of another assassin. Another reason to leave behind a calling card is if you take one of the warrants listed in the contract booth. If an assassin finds a target they wish to assassinate, they will take the warrant and leave in its place their emblem.

  This means there are three reasons Dominik would have left his symbol. One: He needed the help of another assassin in hopes of warding me away. Two: He is hoping to frighten me off by placing his emblem in a contract booth he knew I would visit. Three: He found a lucrative contract and has decided, For old time’s sake.

  I stand inside the contract booth for longer than I should before closing it up and blowing out the candle I brought with me. I hop the fence into the alleyway where Lyom waits. In the darkness of morning it becomes impossible to see very far and I nearly bump into Lyom when I enter the alley. Lyom steadies me with his hands on my arms and practically shakes me out of any daze I had been in.

  “Dominik’s symbol was in the booth.” I tell him. “It’s new. It could be three days old at most, assuming it has not rained in Adaai in the past day or so.”

  Lyom sighs. “You forget, Assassin, that I know little of the world of the Cannon. Do explain what that means.”

  “It means,” I reply sharply, still trying to keep my tone at a whisper. “that Dominik was in the contract booth recently. He either knows I am coming and is attempting to scare me off or has found a contract that he wishes to complete.”

  “Well?” Lyom asks. “Which is it?”

  “I’m not sure.” I admit. “Let me think.”

  Now is the time to truly consider what Dominik will do. I am no longer tracking him through a small village like Helmfirth, I am tracking him through all of Adaai. He could be in any village, at any home.

  I rake a hand through my long, blond hair and my fingers get knotted in the tangles, only frustrating me further. I hear one of Lyom’s men chortle at my struggles from the back but it’s hard to tell who in the darkness. I just glower at the perp and go back to concentrating.

  Dominik will have gone to a larger village in an attempt to blend in. It is highly doubtful that he took a contract, seeing as though he was always the one against violence, but his betrayal proves how little I know of him. Even still I cannot imagine him going back to assassinations after he narrowly escaped Evrallon with his life.

  I remember back to an easier time when Dominik and I were on assignment in To
rrona, back in Evrallon. Hours before the assassination, Dominik had come to me, asking what I would do if I wasn’t an assassin. I remember I told him that I would not know what to do with myself. The Cannon gave me a purpose, gave me a reason to exist. Beyond the Cannon it seemed I was nothing, just a forgotten princess, forever hated by her father. If I did not serve him in his Cannon, I’d likely be put to death anyway, so there was never any life for me outside of the assassinations.

  For Dominik, though, there was a life. He told me then that he would want to go back to Adaai. He did not want to travel endlessly. He wanted to settle down, find a place where he could live peacefully. I remember him telling me about his fondness of Zahlemia, how the vibrant colors reminded him of his past. I’m not sure if Dominik had planned to betray me even then while we were on assignment, but either way I know what he spoke was the truth.

  He wants to lie low and he wants to reinvent himself — remember his past. What better place to lie low than in the biggest city in Adaai, during the largest festival of the Adaaian year, where colors will be lucid and bold?

  “He’s gone to Zahlemia.” I finally decide.

  “How can you be sure?” Lyom asks.

  “He is trying to blend in.” I tell Lyom, moving past him. “He will attempt to be there before the Feast of Yaran begins.”

  Lyom matches my stride easily. “For what reason?”

  I stop, facing Lyom. “To disappear. He wants to vanish from my sights, vanish from Evrallon’s sights. He will hide in plain sight at the Feast of Yaran. That is what Dominik wants. He wants to recreate himself, remember who he was before he became the assassin. He loved Zahlemia …” I’m so lost in my recollection that I don’t even realize that Lyom’s men watch me with concern, likely wondering if I’ve lost my mind altogether. I gather my thoughts, clear my throat, and finish by saying, “He does not think I will look for him there.”