Shadow Crown

by Kristen Martin

  “Great, I was just headed that way.”

  I try not to groan as I let him walk beside me. The sweet smell of glazed ham and pork wafts through the doors, and I pick up my pace, hoping that maybe I’ll walk fast enough to leave Rydan behind. But, much to my dismay, he keeps up with my stride as we approach the tables filled with food, and I find myself frowning as I scoop a spoonful of thick, clumpy porridge into my bowl. Rydan helps himself to a serving of the same, then follows me to one of the rickety wooden tables. Banners of all shapes, sizes, and colors sway from the rafters above us from the permanent draft in the room. I can feel the defeat of kingdoms past glaring at me as I scoop the porridge from my bowl.

  We eat in silence. Out of my peripheral, I can see Rydan casting glances my way as I devour my meal, but I ignore his feeble attempts to draw my attention. Before I know it, I’ve finished my breakfast. I consider helping myself to a second serving, but I notice an overwhelming number of Cruex members file into the mess hall, even though it’s two hours earlier than they normally eat.

  Rydan interrupts my hunger-filled daze. “We need to be in the Great Room at 0600 hours. What time do you have?”

  I finish the last bite of my porridge, then pull out my gold inscribed pocket watch. It was my father’s—at least I think it was. I was never told what happened to him, or to my family, but the back plate of the watch is inscribed with my last name, Eliri, so it must have come from some familial line somewhere. Even if it wasn’t my father’s, I like to pretend it is. It makes me feel as though I have some semblance of self after seventeen years.

  I almost choke on my water as I read the time. “0550.”

  Rydan wolfs down the last of his breakfast, finishing it off with a giant glass of milk. “I suppose we’d better get moving then.”

  

  I wrap the cloak tightly around my body as Rydan and I approach the doors to the Great Room. The same burly guard that had escorted us the night before blocks the way. “Names?” he demands in a gruff tone.

  It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. He knows who I am, but I tell him my last name, then watch as he checks his scroll. I tap my foot impatiently. Finally, he nods at me in confirmation, then turns his attention to Rydan.

  “Helstrom. We have an appointment with the king at 0600 hours.”

  The guard waves him off as though he were an annoying insect buzzing around his ear. “You’re late. Enter now.”

  I can tell Rydan is about to argue with the oaf of a man, seeing as he’s always on time, but before he can open his mouth, I grab his arm and pull him along behind me. I make sure to politely utter a “thank you” to the guard. Rydan stumbles after me, cursing as we enter the Great Room. I turn around and shush him, hoping that the king didn’t catch his childish outburst, but luckily for him, the king’s squire appears to be holding his majesty’s attention rather well.

  My heart pounds in my chest as I approach the throne. As much as I wish I were the sole assassin assigned to this mission, I feel somewhat relieved that Rydan was chosen to be my partner. Anyone else would have been a hindrance, and although Rydan can, and does, get on my nerves (more often than not), he’s sharp, quick, and incredibly skilled. If I can’t do it by myself, having Rydan by my side is the next best option. He’ll never know that, though.

  King Tymond sees us approaching and dismisses his squire with the wave of his hand. An oversized amethyst ring glints in the rising sunlight, and I almost have to shield my eyes at the sight. Slowly, he rises from his throne. “Eliri.” He nods at me. “Helstrom.”

  As if we’re the same person, Rydan and I both bow and say, “Your Majesty.”

  The king looks directly at me. “Do you have the parchment?”

  I reach behind me and pull the scroll from the waistband of my trousers. I gently set it in the squire’s outstretched palm, trying not to laugh as he scurries up the steps to present it to the king.

  Before he has a chance to unroll it, I say, “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I noticed there was some missing information for this mission.”

  King Tymond flicks his gaze at me, then unfurls the document and browses the text. He mumbles something to the squire under his breath, then turns his attention back to Rydan and me. “I am aware. This is precisely why you are here.”

  Rydan looses a breath. Even though I can only see him out of the corner of my eye, I can tell he’s tense, nervous. Neither of us have any idea what the king is about to say.

  “Your mission is in the Isle of Lonia. I have arranged a ship to take you there. It will set sail at 0800 hours tonight.” He hesitates before continuing. “Your target is the Soames household. Their residence is located in North Portside in the river valley, dwelling LVII. Take care of them however you please, it makes no difference to me, so long as they’re no longer breathing.” The king scrutinizes the parchment once more before rolling it back up. His squire rushes over to him and ties a royal purple ribbon around the scroll, then hurries down the steps to hand it back to me.

  I gape at the king, feeling more confused than ever. This is the least amount of information I’ve ever received for a mission, and I can tell by the look on Rydan’s face that he feels the same way. I know I should swallow my words and keep my mouth shut. That I should bow and walk away once dismissed. But, as it always does, my curiosity gets the better of me. “And what is to be said for their crimes?”

  Rydan nudges me in the side. If I could see him right now, I’m almost certain his eyes would be popping out of his skull.

  The king flicks his gaze from the squire. It’s lethal. It seems his rage is bubbling just below the surface, and I don’t want to be here when it explodes. I swallow the lump in my throat. For the first time in a long time, I wish I’d just kept my stupid mouth shut.

  “This is a category eight mission,” King Tymond says through gritted teeth, “and you really think the details regarding their crimes would just be handed to you freely?”

  Actually, that’s exactly what I thought, but I know better than to say so out loud. Instead, I remain expressionless, unmoving.

  “Foolish girl,” the king tisks. “You swore an oath to me. You swore your loyalty. And when I order you to do something, you do it. No questions asked.”

  My cheeks burn as I steady my gaze. As much as I want to lash out and curse him, I hold my tongue. Instead, I say the one thing I know he wants to hear. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  King Tymond doesn’t smile. “That’ll be all. Dismissed.”

  I loose the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding as I turn on my heel and make my way to the doors. Tears prick my eyes, and I shake my head to ensure they don’t fall. Rydan stays a couple of steps behind me, the heels of his boots clacking on the marble surface. We’re just about to reach the giant iron doors when the king clears his throat.

  I turn around, slowly, so that my eyes meet Rydan’s first. His are wide with fear, as if he knows that I’ve pushed the king a bit too far. I take a deep breath before we break eye contact and turn to face his majesty.

  Devoid of emotion, the king signals for us to come closer. We only take a few steps before he throws an open palm in the air. Rydan and I halt in our tracks. I can feel our nerves radiating off of each other, the heat between us almost insufferable. I chew on the inside of my cheek as the king’s steely gaze meets mine.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” King Tymond says as he resumes his place on the throne. He taps the amethyst ring against the armrest three times before gripping the edges. “I have a specific way in which I’d like you to handle the Soames.”

  My throat goes dry as he continues to stare directly at me. This can’t be good.

  “You’ll assassinate the Soames,” the king says with a demonic smile, “and as proof, you’ll bring me their heads.”

  RYDAN HELSTROM

  RYDAN QUICKENS HIS pace as he exits the Great Room. He can hear the swish of Arden’s trousers as she struggles
to catch up to him. Only a few hundred feet until he reaches his chambers. Just a few more hallways to scurry down.

  He halts as Arden’s booming voice fills the halls. “Don’t you dare run away from me, Helstrom!”

  One would never expect such a brash, bold voice to come from someone of her stature. He chuckles to himself as he turns around, amused at her seemingly harsh tone. “And if I do?”

  She moves her hand underneath her tunic and unsheathes a gold dagger from a hidden holster. “I’m not sure if you recall my aim from target practice. Care to be reminded?”

  She’s got him there. Impeccable aim. Today does not feel like a good day to be injured or dead, so Rydan throws his head back and with his eyes trained on the ceiling, stalks toward her. She keeps the dagger drawn until he’s standing just inches from her face. He raises his hand and puts his fingers on the smooth edge of the blade, carefully pressing down on it so she’ll lower the weapon. Arden resists at first, but eventually gives in. With an exasperated sigh, she sheathes the dagger back to its rightful place.

  “Now, what’s all the fuss about?”

  “I should ask you the same question. Nudging me in front of the king like I’m some sort of child,” she scoffs. “What was that all about?”

  Rydan can feel his expression turn cold as he recalls the recent incident. “Do you realize what you’ve done, speaking out of turn like that?” he mutters under his breath. “Do you realize what this means?”

  Arden shrugs. “So we have to take the Soames’s heads. We’ve done it before.”

  He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilts his head to the left to showcase his prominent scar. She winces at the sight of it, then casts her eyes toward the floor.

  “Indeed, we have done it before,” he responds, his voice brusque, head still turned. “And look how well that turned out for me.”

  “That wasn’t your fault,” Arden whispers quietly. “And it wasn’t my fault either.”

  Rydan shoots her a bewildered look. “Then, tell me, Arden, whose fault was it?”

  She stays silent. The silence stretches on and on, until there is only tension mounting between them. The thickness of it is enough to leave them both suffocating for air.

  His fourth mission. She wasn’t supposed to be there, but somehow, Arden had found a way to tag along and ruin everything. Perhaps she was just observing, or perhaps she’d meant to get in the way. To this day, her intention still remains a mystery. He’ll probably never know.

  Rydan’s fourth mission had taken place in Miraenia, a nearby bay village just a little ways south of the Kingdom of Trendalath. He’d ridden his favorite horse, Amadeus, into the town, hooves clapping against the worn cobblestone, his black Cruex cloak flapping in the wind behind him. He’d spotted his target’s residence from afar. The dwelling was hard to miss: a two-story weathered wooden building with navy blue shutters falling off its hinges, and an oversized bronze knocker in the shape of a lion’s head growling angrily on an emerald green door. The Langleys. The residence had matched the description on the parchment almost exactly, making it the easiest target he’d ever had to spot.

  The sun had just set and he’d hurriedly tied Amadeus off to a nearby post in town. The longsword strapped to his back felt lighter than air, as though it were a part of him, as he crept toward the Langley household. He’d completed his first mission from a high peak in the Vaekith Mountains with just a bow and arrow, his second mission with an axe, and his third with a longsword. He’d had surprisingly good aim with the bow and arrow (beginner’s luck), whereas the axe had felt bulky and sluggish. The longsword was, by far, his weapon of choice. It sliced through his targets with one clean sweep, and the look of it alone was enough to frighten even the most experienced swordsman.

  After locating the rear entrance to the house, he’d taken a moment to wrap his hands in linen gauze. He hated the way strangers’ blood felt on his skin, sticky and thick, but even more so, he despised the copper-like scent that hung in the air for hours after the slaying. It was enough to make his stomach turn.

  Just as he’d finished wrapping his left hand, the rear door to the house swung open and out strolled Graham Langley. But the man wasn’t alone. He was surrounded by four of his companions, none of whom were on Rydan’s target list. Per Tymond’s sources, Graham was supposed to be alone that day.

  Trying not to panic, Rydan slowly began to slip away toward the front of the house. He silently cursed a twig as it snapped underneath his boot. The sound was enough to grab the group’s attention.

  What had happened from that point forward hadn’t been pretty. Knowing that he’d been spotted, Rydan drew his sword and charged at the men, but they were one step ahead of him. Each held a pair of gleaming serrated knives, poised and ready to strike. A large oak tree stood behind them, and as he was charging, Rydan noticed a figure crouching on one of the branches. From underneath a cloak identical to his own, he could see long brown hair fluttering in the autumn breeze.

  Arden.

  Although he’d only been distracted for a moment’s notice, it was long enough for one of Langley’s companions to heave a knife aimed straight at his face. Rydan dove to the left, but not soon enough to avoid the blade carve a jagged line from his chin to his ear. He dropped his sword as his hands flew to his cheek, blood spurting from the gash, the linen gauze quickly soaking up the red. His hands stained crimson, Rydan averted his eyes to his fallen sword, then to his only hope, the girl in the oak tree.

  Just as the men geared up to attack him, curved throwing axes, more commonly known as chakrams, had flown from the tree. Rydan watched as one sliced across Graham Langley’s neck, his eyes bulging as he fell forward onto his knees. Four more chakrams skimmed through the air, skating swiftly across the necks of the others. In mere seconds, the five men lay before him in a pool of crimson.

  He’d sat there in shock, clutching his cheek.

  In just a few deft movements, Arden had made her way down the tree, leaves crunching underneath her boots as she landed. She’d made her way around the fresh corpses, restocking her chakram inventory with each stop. When she’d finally arrived in front of him, he didn’t know what to say. What would the king think when he found out that more than just Graham Langley had been killed? And that Arden had caught him by surprise when she’d suddenly shown up? And that he hadn’t actually killed anyone? That it had all been her doing?

  She’d extended her hand, her expression grim. Reluctantly, Rydan had accepted, still clutching his cheek as she pulled him to his feet. With her eyes locked on his, she’d whispered, “This stays between us.”

  And it had. They’d burned the bodies of the four nameless companions, but decided to take Graham’s head. “As proof,” Arden had murmured as she tossed the head into her satchel. And they’d never spoken of it again.

  Until now.

  Rydan’s thoughts scatter as he’s brought back to the present.

  “I suppose we need to gather our things before we set sail tonight,” Arden says quietly, her eyes still cast toward the floor. “I’ll come to your chambers at 0730 hours.”

  Rydan only nods because if he speaks, he’ll choke on his words. He waits until she’s turned the corner before gritting his teeth and laying his fist into the stone castle wall.

  

  Three hours before they’re due to set sail, Rydan finds himself sitting at his desk in his chambers, staring into space, shivering in the brisk evening air. Echoes from the other Cruex members bounce off the castle walls, but he hardly notices. A book lay stretched in front of him, the many pages ripped and torn. It’s a wonder it’s managed to stay bound for this long; the spine is falling apart and looks as though it only has a few more reads left in it. Rydan shifts his gaze from the wall back to the text in the book. The History of Lonia. His eyes skim the words, but of course he can’t find what he’s looking for. He wets the tip of his index finger to flip through more of the pages. The
next page is just as useless, if not more, than the last, containing information he’d already learned as a young Cruex member. Nothing new.

  Rydan slams the book shut. He takes a deep breath as he runs a thick hand through his midnight-black hair. Thoughts of earlier that morning swarm his head. The minute the king mentioned the name Soames, Rydan knew he’d heard of it before, but for the life of him, couldn’t remember where or what importance it held. His uneasiness grows the more he repeats the name in his head. Over and over again.

  Soames. Soames. Soames.

  With a whirl of his chair, Rydan rises to his feet and marches over to the bookshelf. He runs his fingers along the edge of each shelf until reaching the one on the very bottom. A book with a similar ragged spine, just as worn as the Lonia book and navy blue in color, catches his eye. He pulls it from its spot and gently blows the layer of dust from the cover. The History of Miraenia. If memory serves him right, Miraenia and Lonia used to be allies before Tymond overthrew the previous king of Trendalath. Hope surges through him as he brings the book to his desk. To his surprise, a long piece of parchment unfurls as soon as he opens the cover.

  What do we have here?

  A childish joy lights from within him as he realizes what the scroll contains. Names, hundreds of names—essentially a roster for the villages of Miraenia and Lonia. The names do not appear to be in any sort of logical order, alphabetical or otherwise, so Rydan uses his index fingers to go through each one, line by line. As he nears the bottom of the list, the small flame of hope he first had is in danger of being snuffed out entirely. He reaches the bottom of the list and sighs. No Soames.

  Rydan slams his hand on the desk, causing the nearby lantern and copper mug to shake violently. He’d been almost certain he’d find the Soames’s name on that list. He rubs his eyes with one hand and pulls a watch from the pocket of his trousers with the other. Thirty minutes of his life, wasted. He reaches for his mug of black tea, cursing as some of the liquid spills over from the top and lands on the parchment. His eyes immediately go to the wet spot on the document as it seeps through the thick paper. His eyes widen as the spot grows darker in color. Flip the parchment over.