by Rose Reid
I study Jamas. “Became Swordmaster?” I supply.
Jamas nods. “In a roundabout way. He gained other things as well; namely the princess’s heart.” Jamas shakes his head, going back to running his hand down his stallion’s neck and I wonder what else Lyom gained. “I knew their relationship would never last but the Swordmaster would hear none of it. Soon the princess decided she fancied one of the visiting princes. She took a piece of Lyom,” Jamas tells me, frowning. “Before her, he was just like he is now, but she seemed to bring some life into him. I think he lost that vitality when she left. I doubt he ever gets it back. It is better this way, I suppose. He makes a better Swordmaster when he is not distracted.”
A visiting prince. I huff a laugh. I should have known. Negotiations, Lyom had called it. He certainly did not emit a pleased air when I questioned him on the visiting prince of Belaroux.
“Prince Finnegan,” I decide.
Jamas looks at me with a suspicious glint in his eyes and I realize he does not know I met the prince while held captive in the Keep. “The heir to Belaroux’s thrown, yes.”
I lift my hair from my shoulders, taking a leather cord and wrapping it around my thick hair to keep it off my neck. I snort at the thought of Haraya being interested in Finnegan. She seemed so entranced by Lyom. Perhaps she didn’t miss him until he was gone.
“The princess seems to have her heart set on Lyom.” I note.
Jamas kneels down beside his horse again, adjusting the strap of the bridle around the stallion’s face. He loosens it, pulling it to the side to examine a sore that has formed below the horse’s eye. “Perhaps. Her father has arranged for her to marry Prince Finnegan, though. After the marriage was arranged she lost interest in the prince.”
I watch Lyom, studying him as he opens his saddlebag, placing his journal and charcoal pencil inside. “Will he return to her?”
“The Swordmaster?”
I nod. “Will he recognize her attempts and go back to her?”
Jamas’ brows furrow in contemplation and he sighs, patting his stallion on the neck. “I fear so.”
For some reason this irks me. Surely the Swordmaster is not so desperate that he would behave as a dog and return to his vomit.
“That is how he became Swordmaster at such a young age,” I say.
Jamas nods. “That, among other reasons.”
“Care to elaborate?”
Jamas lets out a tired breath. “Lyom Livingstone is not your average man, Aerietta. There are reasons our king chose Lyom to be his sole protector. There are things that Lyom can do that no one else can, and he can keep the royal family safe. Let us just leave it at that.”
But I can’t. I’m itching to ask a hundred more questions. Lyom can do things others cannot … such as protecting the royal family? But what does Jamas mean? Could Jamas not protect them? Could Ulric not?
Rolling my eyes I decide it doesn’t matter and I take up my horse’s reins. I look around our location and in the near vicinity I see strange mounds before the lone mountain range that exists in the expanse — the Cordillera of Idileonté. The rising and falling slopes just in view must be the foothills Lyom and Carnahan spoke of in Zahlemia — it must be where an entrance to the Forest is.
Looking at the odd hummocks I wonder what sorts of people could live there. Perhaps under the ground? There are tombs in Lydovier that are built beneath the mounds of the Vampire’s Causeway, underground catacombs like that of those beneath the Keep spread for miles, seeming to never end. Perhaps people live beneath the hillocks. I can only imagine what sorts of beasts would want to live beneath the ground. I am silently thankful that Lyom and Carnahan chose to avoid them.
“Do you know the plan?” I inquire of Jamas.
He nods. “We ride until sundown, hopefully leaving the foothills behind us. Lyom wants to rest the horses tonight.”
I nod. “Wise of him.” I run my hand down my gray mare’s neck, feeling the spiky clumps of her hair that have grouped together from sweat.
Lyom calls the order to mount up and I do so quickly, spotting Dominik. He is being watched by Carnahan, who looks as though he plans to slit his throat for me at any moment. I wish he would; it would save me the trouble of having to do it myself.
My mare is uneasy, not appreciating the Menca Denu’s constant threat. She stomps her feet and snorts into the air while bowing her head to the ground, blowing hot breath onto the ground. She throws her head, plays with her bit, and ultimately attempts to avoid doing anything I ask. I spin her in a few circles before we leave to recapture her attention and then we head out again, loping past the foothills. I keep my gaze on the mysterious hillocks as we pass them to ensure no beastly creatures emerge.
At dusk we ride beneath a sort of land bridge formation, the only vegetation in the expanse growing down from the top, vines stretching towards the Earth. This is where we stop, taking refuge for the night. More foothills exist beyond the land bridge, building into the Cordillera of Idileonté. I dismount, patting my horse’s neck down as I examine the land bridge we take shelter beneath. It is a decent location to set camp at but strategically if enemies were to attack they could surround us from both sides. I assume Lyom has considered this. A quick glance to the other ponies tells me he has but a rest for the herd is necessary.
While I hate the idea of being unprepared, I unsaddle my mare, sliding the damp blankets off her back and setting them out to dry. She shakes herself out, a dark patch on her back and ribs where the sweat has shaded her coat a new color. Carnahan and Ulric are the only other two to leave their horses saddled. Behind me I see Jamas and Gresham building a fire while Lyom establishes a place to keep Dominik, though I’m sure he expects me to glean whatever information I can from him tonight and kill him after.
Ulric grunts as he plops down on the ground, leaning against a large, mossy boulder. Carnahan grumbles something to his companion as he drops his medical saddlebags on the ground beside him, digging through them and producing bandages and salves.
“Assassin.” Moher calls. He holds a metal basin in his hand, shaking it over his head. “Fetch water.”
I smile at him and tie the reins of my mare to a green-leafed tree sprouting from the side of the rock formation. Sauntering over to him, I snatch the bowl from his hand and smack him over the head with it. Moher doesn’t even wince, as if he expected me to do it. Rolling my eyes at him I walk off, looking for some sort of water.
There is no pool to gather it from so I resort to looking for a spring in the rock face. One of the horses finds the trickling water before I do, rubbing his nose on it, trying to drink from the drizzle. I move the horse’s muzzle aside and let the water leak into the bowl. The horse gratefully places its nose in the basin, breathing out heavily as he determines whether or not he plans to drink from the water. Seconds later, when the basin is full enough for the horse to drink, he sucks it up, giving the bowl no time to fill.
I stand in front of the spring for several minutes until the horse has had its fill and then top off the basin again, carrying it back to Moher, who passes the basin along to Carnahan. The latter dips bandages into the water, slathers salve on them, then applies them to Ulric’s bare shoulder. The salve must burn because Ulric winces and shouts a curse when it is applied to his arrow wound.
“The horses need water.” I tell Moher.
He nods behind him. “There are more basins in my saddlebags.” He cuts me a dangerous look. “If you steal one of my weapons —”
I pat the knife on my hip, tilting my head to the side in a girlish way. “If I wanted you dead, Moher, I would have killed you days ago.” As I turn around I tsk over my shoulder. “Shame the Swordmaster must deal with such cowardice in his swordsmen.”
I don’t wait for Moher to respond, just walk to his horse — which happens to be the horse I already watered — and retrieve more bowls from his saddlebags. I fill them over and over again, bringing them around to the stallions and mares, who chug them gratefully. Lyom
’s stallion pins his ears back at another, nipping angrily at it when it tries to drink from his basin. It would figure that Lyom’s horse is dominant over the others.
When the horses have all drank and the sun has fully set, a chill sets in. Shivers prickle my arms and I rub them quickly as I approach the fire. A hand is set on my shoulder and I turn around to see Lyom standing there, holding my red cloak. I left it in Zahlemia, I was sure. I smile gratefully and take it from him.
“I thought you didn’t like this.” I recall.
“It is yours. It will keep you warm.” Lyom offers.
I laugh. “Because you certainly don’t.”
I’m not sure what I was meaning to imply but I immediately wish I hadn’t opened my mouth. Did I just admit to sleeping in Lyom’s tent? And knowing that he does not give off any body heat?
Lyom sighs. “If you insist on staying in my tent again tonight please try to refrain from making it obvious. My men may be loyal to me but they are loyal to the king as well.”
I nod. I take a seat around the fire while Ulric and Moher finish setting up the last of the tents. Weapons are set out around the fire pit in case we should be attacked in the night.
We sit by the fire for a while, exchanging stories of daring escapes and adventures. I choose to keep my own escapades to myself, knowing none of them will be appreciated and I feel no need to bring up old ghosts.
The sounds of the night drain into the underneath of the land bridge. For a while we all sit by the fire, Ulric continuing to tell stories I’m sure all the swordsmen have heard before. Dominik is not included in our circle of companions. He sits on the outside, chained to a stake that has been driven into a rock. Deep down I know I should be there with him, not among the honorable men of King Dryden. My place is not here with soldiers and servicemen, it is with those outside of the law.
“We need someone to take the first watch.” Lyom says.
“I’ll do it.” I offer before anyone else can.
Lyom scowls, shaking his head. “No.”
I frown. “Do you not trust me?”
“That isn’t the issue.” Lyom responds. “I need one of my men to do it. You are here for an assassination; that is it.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know that I trust your men to do a good job of guarding.”
Jamas chokes on his cup of diluted trail coffee. “Pardon me?”
I wave my hand. “Except perhaps Jamas.”
“Carnahan is perfectly capable of taking first watch, aren’t you?” Lyom looks at his swordsman.
Carnahan nods tersely. “Of course, Swordmaster.” He gives me the sort of look that could be considered a childish smirk, as if he were chosen the favorite kid.
“Everyone else get some rest,” Lyom orders, standing. “We have a long ride ahead of us yet and I would like to keep moving through the next two nights.”
Jamas nods. “Aye, Swordmaster.” He is the first to stand and retreat to his tent, taking his weapons with him, followed by the rest of them, leaving Dominik and Carnahan outside. As I walk behind Lyom to his tent I wonder if Carnahan will kill Dominik in the night just to be through with him; it would save me the hassle of going through with killing him.
Lyom shoves into his tent before me and I follow in after him, finding him standing with his arms crossed when I enter. I wonder as I let the flap drop if he rushes into places only to look stern and calculating when someone else enters.
“You did not question Dominik.” he notes.
I shrug my shoulders, trying not to seem like I am hiding anything. “I have not yet. I will question him in the morning.”
His glower does not waver. “He kissed you, Aerietta. Do you think I don’t notice the attraction between the two of you?” He takes a step forward, waving a hand in the air. “Do you plan to kill him at all? The agreement you made with the king —”
“I know my agreement, Lyom, you needn’t remind me of it.” I snap but my cheeks are already flaming from his previous comment. Somehow I managed to forget that Lyom witnessed Dominik kissing me. “And you notice I have not spent my nights kissing Dominik, have I? I do intend to kill him.”
“When?” demands Lyom. “You have been given opportunity upon opportunity! When will you decide to kill him? When he is old and gray and has nothing else to live for?”
“I just need Laderic’s location.”
He laughs sarcastically, shaking his head, but when he speaks it is in his growl tone. “Do not tell me that lie again. You know he does not plan to reveal the location of the third traitor to you.”
I scowl at him, throwing my hands in the air with finality. “Alright,” I say. “Yes, I just need to be positive that it was he that betrayed me! But I see now I never really had a choice. I will kill him, Lyom.”
He still does not believe me. “When?” he questions again, eyebrows furrowed. “King Dryden will kill you if you cross the border with him in tow!”
“Well, that shan’t be an issue since I plan to have only his head in tow!”
“Then kill him tonight.” Lyom proposes. “Right now.”
I frown skeptically at him. “Since when have you condoned my killing someone?”
“Since your life depended on it!” he says, his voice incredulous as he steps closer to me until we stand face-to-face. “You know I am not enamored with your previous assassinations but this one must be completed.”
A flicker of something glows in his eyes and I find myself latching onto that flicker, wondering if there is something more beneath it. It shouldn’t matter. I’m a lowly assassin destined to burn in Hell and he is King Dryden’s loyal Swordmaster. That little whisperer at the back of my head shouts, You don’t deserve him! And I know that whisperer is right. Because for all of Lyom’s reputations, the stories that rattle behind him like bones on his belt, I have done worse.
Without thinking, I plant my hands on his shoulders and shove him backwards with enough force that he takes a small step back.
Not hard enough.
“I don’t need your help, Lyom.” I growl. “I can finish this assignment on my own time.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid. I chant inwardly as I spin towards the exit of the tent, walking quickly. Lyom will only get himself killed around me — I’ll get him killed. I just need to finish this assignment and get as far from Adandyrl as my legs can carry me. As much as I loathe to admit it, Dominik may be right. I wasn’t born to be the assassin I am today, but what can I do to correct the past now?
Nothing. This is who I am; this is who I always will be.
Was I really so foolish as to think I could settle down? Carve out a life for myself? Start a family? What kind of wife would I be? What kind of mother?
Lyom moves like the wind and is suddenly in front of me, blocking my exit. His gaze isn’t hostile like it was when I entered his tent; it’s soft and almost worried, though frustration lurks behind his electric eyes.
“Move, Lyom.” I demand, feeling a strange burn at the back of my eyes. “I don’t want to deal with you now.”
This is what my life will be. Running away from anything that makes me feel normal and happy. This is what I deserve. I don’t deserve something as pure and good as Dominik was, and I certainly won’t be a part of ruining Lyom’s life.
It’s better that I leave now. Disappear. When Dominik is killed and the papers are signed, I vanish, never to be heard from again. I won’t look for Lyom or Jamas or Gresham, won’t seek out whatever small friendship they have given me. I’ll just disappear.
“I can’t let you leave, Aerietta.” Lyom says. “Not until you tell me what’s going through your head right now.”
I scoff. He wants to know what’s going through my head? He wants to know the dark thoughts whipping in and out? Never.
“Lyom, please,” I say, not believing the weakness in my voice. “Please just leave me alone.”
“I’m not —”
Frustrated tears burn behind my eyes and I take my anger towards them
out on Lyom, shoving him. He dodges so that he is standing behind me but I push him again and this time he doesn’t resist. He lets me drive him backwards into the pole that supports the tent’s weight.
I stare into his blue, blue eyes that look almost fearful but are laced with concern for me. In the chill of the tent, his breath comes out in white puffs. His lips part in confusion and bewilderment as he takes me in. I see the rise and fall of his chest, the chest that miraculously healed after being slashed through with a sword.
“Aerietta … stop.”
It isn’t what I was expecting to hear. I hardly know what I’m doing, standing here in front of him, my hands either on his shoulders or chest, I’m not even sure which.
“Why?” I breathe.
I inch closer to him, feeling the coldness of his skin and shivering again. It is fitting that someone with such a cold demeanor would have cold skin, I think.
He watches me with careful consideration but I can see the hesitation in his eyes. Maybe even hostility now.
He hates me, I think silently. But that isn’t enough to stop me from inching ever closer. I’ve made it to where our mouths are almost touching when his hand tightens around my arm.
“Don’t.” he warns in a low voice.
I can’t help it; I take his growl tone as a challenge. I close the distance between us and my hands twist into his hair. I don’t wait a second longer, just push myself up to his level and press my lips to his.
The moment my lips touch his I feel that familiar spark of electricity run through me but there is no pain involved. His lips are soft and unfamiliar but I welcome my lack of knowledge, drowning in him. While stiff at first, his body relaxes before me, muscles losing their tension, and I feel a shudder roll through him.
“Never mind,” I hear him say against my mouth.
One of his hands slips to my lower back, steadying me, and I realize I was falling backwards, limp in his arms. I tighten my hold around his waist and feel a sliver of skin where his shirt has ridden up — all toned muscle beneath. A chill runs through me but it has nothing to do with the night and everything to do with the ice from Lyom’s touch. I have the sudden and insatiable urge to peel his shirt over his head, run my hands down the lean muscle of his chest, to see if there is any sort of scar left behind by the Reaver’s sword.
