by Megan Derr
"Counts as two, but we won the second round."
"Did we?"
Charlaine sighed. "I suppose not, at that. Let's get some sleep. Dawn is only a few hours away."
"Don't remind me," Jac muttered, both eager to be on their way to save Myra but also in desperate need of sleep.
As it often did when she was finally able to hold still, sleep won out, overriding even the anxious tumult of her mind as it tried to come up with every possible scenario and all their conceivable solutions.
She jerked awake, disoriented and fumbling in the dark.
There was a sleepy grunt and an arm fell heavy across her lower back.
Jac tried to get her brain to function, but exhaustion was thick and heavy, and the warm arm was familiar and reassuring for reasons she couldn't parse. Giving up, the bad dream that had woken her already forgotten, Jac drifted back to sleep and this time didn't wake.
Chapter Seven
Myra hurt.
Inside. Outside. He couldn't breathe or move without something hurting. His stomach had given up any hope of food hours ago. His wrists ached from being bound, though thankfully the ropes had been tied properly so as not to cause him permanent damage.
On the other hand, that care had only been taken because they wanted to make certain he'd be in relatively good health so it would take longer for him to die. Unless something had changed in the past twenty years that hadn't changed in the past few centuries, they would stake him in an open field and wait.
He'd never witnessed the death of a traitor, but one of his earliest memories was of them bringing the corpse back to the village. How old had he been? Six? Seven? He and every other child had examined it with the sort of gleeful, morbid curiosity only children could manage. Well, his friends had been gleeful and morbid. Myra would have preferred to go back to playing sharks and fish, but he hadn't wanted to look like a weak crybaby.
Would children look over his corpse the same way?
He closed his eyes again and tried to think of happier things, even if that brought a whole different sort of pain.
Kissing Jac. That was a sweet memory. Kissing Charlaine. How had he gone from a man with no lovers to being caught between two people? And how selfish and greedy did it make him that he very much liked the idea of that: being between them, the three of them. It wasn't something he'd ever thought about before—he hardly thought about lovers at all—but now the idea was there, he could not dislodge it.
If he weren't so exhausted and hurting and afraid, he might have laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. Secretary one day, caught between two possible lovers and being dragged back to his homeland to die the next. He should have remembered how quickly life could turn, instead of letting twenty years make him complacent. He'd managed to keep his skills up, but he'd forgotten to do the same with his guard.
He looked up at the sound of footsteps, anger and loathing coiling through him.
The man knelt, grabbed the back of his tattered jacket, and yanked him back. Myra had cut his hair so it wouldn't be a risk when he fought, or a burden when he traveled, but he also hadn't wanted anyone yanking or pulling it, as his father and brother had been fond of doing. There was also the fact that Iron Moon, and many other clans, kept their hair long as a point of pride—or rather, dangerous arrogance, just like the tattoos Iron Moon assassins bore. "Ryan. Are we finally going to chat?" he asked in Soltorish.
Ryan bared his teeth and let go of his jacket, but only so he could shift enough to slap Myra across the face. "I wish I could say it's good to see you, Eliza, but I really wish you'd stayed dead."
"That makes two of us." Myra spat blood on the floor. "That's not my name any longer."
"I'm not calling you by some dogshit Harken name," Ryan said.
"It's my name. Whether or not it's Harken is irrelevant."
"Traitors don't deserve respect, nor am I letting you hide from what you've done by giving you a name you bought with our father's blood." Ryan backhanded him that time, and Myra spat out more blood. "All these years we thought you were dead, then we send a recon team to lay the groundwork, and what do they report back to me? That someone with my face is Primary Toady to the Emperor."
Myra said nothing.
"You killed Father. I'm right about that, aren't I? There's no other way you could have gotten away with it."
"I'm not telling you anything."
Ryan struck him again, hard enough Myra toppled over, then kicked him in the stomach and strode off.
Myra curled up in a ball, closed his eyes against the stinging tears, and tried to focus on only his breathing.
The name Ryan had used curdled his stomach. He wasn't Eliza anymore. That name belonged to somebody who'd died twenty years ago. Eliza Karlota, daughter of Karl Voker, brother to Ryan Karlot and Matthew Karlot.
Pantheon, he just wanted to go home. Or at least for this to all be over with. There was still a long journey ahead of him, though. They'd used gliders to cover a great deal of distance once the sun had gone, and once everyone had rested an hour or so, they would resume.
Gliders had been created, through a lot of trial and tragedy, to expedite crossing the Heart Lake. They weren't much more than kites large enough to carry a single person—with a few that could handle two people, though they didn't glide as far. But they made all the difference when time was of the essence and crossing the lake by boat wasn't fast enough.
The Heart Lake was enormous, a stretch of water larger than the three countries surrounding it. All their religions revolved around it, and the incredible depths to which it reached, while still being fresh water. Growing up, Myra had believed it divine work like the rest of the clan. A few years in Harken, with access to books they'd never allow within the clan, he had learned it was less divine and more science—but that only made it more impressive. If there was anything at all he missed about home, it was the Heart Lake.
Being that massive, though, meant crossing it was time consuming. Several days with good wind, and impossible in foul weather—which could come out of seemingly nowhere, especially during typhoon season. More than a few ships had sunk because the crew hadn't properly respected the power of a simple thunderstorm.
To overcome that limitation, the gliders had been developed, made from bamboo and special fabric, the secret of which was known only to the master crafters who made them. Different clans had different styles—some triangular in design, others more birdlike. All of them were collapsible for easy transport when not in use. They could only go for a few leagues before failing, but that was balanced by the platforms that had been scattered about the lake, each large enough and tall enough for landing and taking off. They reduced a trip of days to hours.
At the rate they were traveling now, it wouldn't take them more than a few days to reach the western coast, and from there the voyage to Soltorin would be relatively brief. Sailing from Harkenesten would take at least a month. Even if anyone had intended to come after him, which they shouldn't, they'd be far too late. Myra wouldn't be dragged directly home. They'd have to dock at Odon and there'd be further delays while Ryan and the others met with their client and whoever in Odon had brokered the deal. That still wouldn't be enough of a delay.
Footstep drew his attention again, softer than Ryan's imperious tread. The woman who knelt in front of him was just as hard and cold, however.
What was a woman doing here? Assassins were always men. She had entirely too much chest. Men like Myra were always expected to have their breasts removed, to prove they were sincere in 'giving up womanhood to live as a man and bring honor to Iron Moon by way of an assassin's blade'. What in the Pantheon had changed so much that a woman would be wearing the garb and gear of an Iron Moon assassin?
Myra swallowed his questions for the time being; he'd only get ignored or slapped or told to shut up.
The woman set a plate of food down, bound his left hand and arm to the wall, then freed his right arm. "Eat."
Myra almost thanked her, si
mply from habit, but cut the words off at the last moment. He picked up a piece of bread and dipped it in the uninspiring looking stew—but food was food, and he was going to need his strength. His chances of escaping were practically non-existent, but if a chance did present itself, he wasn't going to lose it because he was too weak to act.
Silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating, the woman watching him like she thought he might attack her with day-old bread and overcooked lentils.
"Why did you do it?" she finally asked, voice still cold, with that edge in her voice that said she was just waiting for a chance to tell him why she thought he was wrong.
Myra stifled a sigh. "Do what?"
"Murder Karl and Joseph. Betray Iron Moon."
"Does it matter? Would motive change your mind, alter the severity of the crime in your mind? Would you argue for leniency on my behalf?"
Her lips curled. "No. You're a traitor. You've brought your punishment on yourself." She flicked the long, heavy braid of her hair over her shoulder. A pang twisted through Myra's chest to be reminded of his own shorn hair. Cutting it had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He'd liked his long hair, even if it was also a clan tradition to wear it long. He'd argued with himself a hundred times about cutting it. But he wasn't going to do something just to be unlike the clans. So he'd kept it. Until now, when practicality mattered more than pride. Though it hadn't hurt they'd see his shorn hair and taken it as him rubbing his traitorous behavior in their faces.
Myra sighed. "If that is your opinion, what difference do my reasons make? I guarantee they won't ask about my motives at the tribunal. They'll list off my crimes, tell me why I'm a terrible person and deserve what's coming to me, and then stake me in the field. If the clan is much the same as it's always been, they'll place bets on what will kill me first: sun, cold or animals. They'll place bets on how long it takes before I start pissing and shitting myself. On when I turn delirious." He sneered. "What's the fun of inflicting a slow, agonizing death on a traitor if you can't make a little money from it, right?"
Something like shame flickered across her face before it was overtaken by contempt again. "Do you deserve a quick death for what you did? Do you deserve mercy and respect?"
"I deserved to decide my own life," Myra snapped. "I deserved a chance to live my life the way I wanted. When I tried to say that, my father told me no by way of a beating. I don't want to do this, he said. It hurts me more than it hurts you. It's for your own good. Let go of these foolish notions. You're clan. You should be proud to be clan. The only concession he ever gave me was to treat me like the man I am instead of the woman everyone else wanted me to be, and I think he allowed that only so he could brag that he would have three sons to follow in his bloody footsteps, and three daughters to provide the next generation. He always liked his numbers to line up nicely. Maybe he didn't deserve to die, but neither did High King Sarrica. I chose the man who treated me like a person over the man who treated me like a well-trained dog. For twenty years, I've lived the life I chose instead of the life forced upon me, and I refuse to be sorry that I'd rather be a secretary than a killer."
"You're the worst sort of killer," she said with a sneer and slapped him hard. "At least we have enough self-respect to make people pay us. You murdered two people for nothing but your own selfish gain. What honor is there in that?"
"What honor is there in thinking any person's life has a price that can be measured in coins? Go get fucked by a squid."
She lifted her hand, and Myra braced for the hit—and felt only air as she abruptly stood, grabbed his empty bowl, and stormed off.
Myra sighed again.
Only a few minutes later, Ryan returned and retied both his hands behind his back before hauling him to his feet—which were also bound. "Hope you don't need to piss."
"No," Myra said anyway.
Ryan dragged him out of the small backroom of the inn they'd been staying in, right at the edge of the small town they'd stopped at. From there, it was a long walk into the hills, and Ryan finally had to throw Myra over his shoulder because there was no way Myra could climb the steep hill at the end of their journey.
At the top were their gliders, already set up by the woman who'd fed and pestered him. Three of them were meant for single occupancy. Two were meant for riding double, though only Ryan's would have two occupants.
Myra went without protest as he was strapped into the harness of Ryan's glider. At least Ryan showed just enough consideration to wrap his face and eyes with the protective coverings necessary to avoid bugs and other possibly damaging things in the sky—and Myra had made certain to wear warm but lightweight clothing before leaving the palace.
He tensed as they took off, a difficult and not always successful endeavor on the duel gliders—but Ryan had always excelled at gliding. He'd apprenticed to the glider makers for years, working with them whenever he was not busy with assassin training. The Soltorin gliders were a highly coveted secret, and one they viciously refused to share. The crafters were highly selective of their apprentices, and the penalty for sharing secrets was death—of whoever shared and anyone they could have possibly spoken to. They were fragile, dangerous, not really meant for more than quickly crossing the lake to deliver messages and the like. The dual ones, even harder to control and incapable of going as far, were generally used only for the transport of people in need of a healer, and prisoners.
That they'd brought them along for this mission only emphasized how determined they'd been to retrieve him.
It was all so fucking stupid. Twenty years. Yes, he'd murdered two people, but all these years later Myra still didn't think those deaths had hurt the world. Not the way murdering Sarrica would have hurt more people than he could count. Myra's father had been a cold-hearted bastard, and Joseph…he'd only been a trainee, but with a kill count already higher than some full assassins. People like that always went too far eventually. There'd already been whispers about it. His death should have been a relief to the clan.
Wasn't it better to leave the matter in the past?
But if he were in their position, if someone had killed Sarrica, Allen, Charlaine, or Jac—would Myra have still held a grudge twenty years after the fact?
Given how much he still despised the clans, he just might have.
Pantheon, he was tired. After two decades, he had stupidly believed he was safe. That he could really, truly relax.
At least Charlaine and Jac were safe. Sarrica was alive. Allen was alive. Myra had failed miserably with Prince Larren, but he was selfish enough to be glad everyone else had lived. That probably made him an awful person, but he had not once regretted killing his own father, so he was already awful. What difference did more proof make?
Tired of thinking about himself and his own predicament, Myra shifted to happier thoughts, even if they hurt in a different way: the softness of Jac's lips, that lovely hitched breath. He'd wanted so badly to kiss her properly, had hoped to do so when they went for tea.
Then of course he'd proven himself a cad by kissing Charlaine senseless in the hallway, exactly the way he'd always wanted to—the way he'd hoped to do with Jac. And oh, wasn't that still the loveliest picture, and wasn't he just proving he really was a selfish bastard by wishing he didn't have to choose.
Both deserved better than him. Pantheon, they should consider each other. Was that selfish too? Liking the idea of the two people he had come to care most about growing closer?
Hopefully Sarrica wouldn't punish them. Charlaine had only helped him because Myra was going to act with or without him. Jac hadn't done anything wrong, only gotten caught in the middle. Myra still didn't know if they'd figured out she was important to him personally, or taken her solely because she was important to the High Consort.
Sleep should have been impossible, but exhaustion tended to win out against all else—even flight, even being tied up, even fear of all that was to come. Myra didn't sleep well as they glided through the air, but he did sleep.
> He was jarred awake by the landing, rough enough that Ryan nearly sent them toppling into some nearby scraggly bushes.
Ryan and another one of the men pulled Myra down and dragged him into a nearby scrub of forest. Given how long they'd been traveling, they must be in Tricemore by now. They'd be on the coast in another day, and from there…a couple of weeks, with good wind and weather, to reach Odon. Another few weeks to travel to Iron Moon territory…
They dropped him on the ground. Myra did his best to stretch his sore, stiff limbs while they set up camp. When it was ready, they dumped him on a too-small bedroll with a threadbare blanket. Ryan tied another piece of rope around his ankles, then secured it to a bell-trap. If Myra removed the rope or moved too much, the bells would ring—loudly—and wake the camp.
Sighing, Myra got as comfortable as he could and fell asleep, once more thinking of Charlaine and Jac and all the things he wished he could be doing with them, from relaxing in the gazebo during a rare shared moment of peace, to spending hours in bed doing every last thing they could think of to each other. Jac was so quiet on duty, but when her guard was down, or she was off duty, that serious demeanor vanished like mist burned away by sunlight. He'd also seen hints that she'd probably be quite the bossy minx in bed, though that could also be his imagination getting away from him. He doubted it though. Nobody got as far as she had, at so young an age, without being as fierce as a typhoon and twice as strong as the rocks even a typhoon couldn't break.
He smiled faintly into the pillow he'd managed to make of his headwrap. They were all three so used to being in charge, in their own way, in their day to day duties. How would they balance out when all of that was stripped away? Not secretary and bodyguards, simply three people…
Not that they would be three. Even if Myra lived, that would never happen.
Ah, well, at least they had each other, and their comrades, and Allen. Sarrica would be stubborn, but Allen would make him soften and not punish Charlaine—or at least not punish as severely. And Jader would do as Sarrica asked.
