The Assassin's Tale (Isle of Dreams)

by Kirsten Jones

  ‘Why the hell am I tied up?’ she demanded when she saw him.

  Phantasm smiled apologetically and began to untie the knots she had unsuccessfully tried to chew through the night before.

  ‘Tell me what you remember about yesterday’s manticore hunt,’ he said.

  Mistral sat up, rubbing life back into her stiff limbs, ‘Not a lot,’ she frowned. ‘I remember being furious with Xerxes, Bali and Saul for shooting the big male manticore before I could have a go … and for not telling me I was the bait. Then the female turned up and I had a great fight with her! She got me on the arm, look! And on the leg with her tail … oh!’ Mistral’s voice tailed off.

  ‘Yes. Oh.’

  Mistral dropped her head into her hands, ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault,’ said Phantasm briskly coiling up the rope. ‘It was the manticore poison. Apparently it has that effect.’

  Mistral hugged her knees miserably, ‘What? Makes the victim incredibly abusive to everyone within earshot?’

  ‘No, the poison gives the victim an unrealistic sense of invincibility. You were just angry because we wouldn’t go let you hunt gargoyles … in the dark … on your own.’

  Mistral groaned, ‘I’m never going to hear the end of this one am I?’

  ‘Probably not,’ agreed Phantasm. ‘But you survived and we got two fine skins instead of one thanks to you. Now please get a move on, it’s time we started heading back.’

  Mistral apologised profusely to Saul, Bali and Xerxes who had borne the brunt of her bad language then spent most of the ride back to the Valley trying to keep her temper in check as she endured repeated requests to recite some of the swear words she had regaled them all with the previous night.

  ‘Come on Mistral, what was that one about me having a sense of adventure that was smaller than a goblin’s –’

  ‘Leave it Xerxes!’ Mistral growled. ‘If you must know, I learned most of them from the Training Lieutenants. You just need to get on their wrong sides a bit more, then you’ll know what I do!’

  ‘Thanks but I’d rather not. I had enough of the windswept treatment from Barak before we left yesterday!’ Xerxes said with feeling.

  They entered the Valley back through the North Gate before midday. Mistral felt drained and sore, her arm ached and the wound in her leg throbbed and tingled in a way that told her she ought to have it looked at by Serenity. She swung herself stiffly out of the saddle with a resigned sigh; a trip to the Infirmary beckoned. That place was becoming slightly too familiar for her liking.

  After stabling Cirrus, Mistral limped her way over to the Main Building under the disbelieving gaze of Phantom and Phantasm.

  ‘I can’t believe she’s going their voluntarily!’ whispered Phantom to his brother.

  ‘I think Mistral might just be after some respite from the teasing actually,’ Phantasm smiled.

  Pushing open the door to the Infirmary, Mistral stepped into the large white room. It was bathed in bright sunlight that made her blink and lift her hand to shield her eyes.

  ‘Good morning Mistral.’ Serenity’s cool voice called from the row of beds, she paused from her task of neatly tucking in a starched white sheet to look at Mistral. ‘I missed you yesterday afternoon.’

  Her voice had a slight edge to it and Mistral found herself fidgeting uncomfortably under her questioning look.

  ‘Sorry. Something came up,’ she muttered apologetically.

  ‘So I see,’ said Serenity crisply. ‘Would you like me to have a look at those wounds?’

  ‘Yes … er, please,’ Mistral added catching Serenity’s sharply raised eyebrows.

  Serenity nodded and indicated to the bed she had just finished making, ‘Now, you come and lie on this bed for a moment – it really does has the best view, I often stand here when I’m thinking about something –’

  While Serenity bustled off into the storeroom to retrieve whatever instruments of torture she needed, Mistral clambered painfully onto the bed. She groaned. Everything hurt. She turned to look out of the window and admire the view Serenity had praised so highly, but couldn’t help thinking that the best view of the Infirmary was seen over her shoulder as she walked away.

  ‘Now, before I can treat you I need some information.’ Serenity was back, her look stern.

  ‘Like what?’ Mistral was suddenly apprehensive.

  ‘Well, what caused these wounds would be a helpful start, because that,’ she said pointing to Mistral’s leg wound, ‘is obviously poisoned. I can see the discoloured skin through the rip in your trousers and I can’t find an antidote for a poison until I know the creature that made the wound.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mistral looked reluctant.

  ‘Mistral, please! Whatever it was I assure you I have been treating warriors in the Valley for a long time now and I’ve lost count of the bizarre injuries I’ve seen resulting from over ambitious hunting trips and ill-advised Contracts!’

  Mistral looked into Serenity’s eyes for a moment before dropping her gaze and fiddling with the bedsheet, leaving dirty brown smudges on the clean hem.

  ‘Does Master Sphinx have to know?’

  Serenity sighed, ‘I haven’t told him that you failed to return yesterday afternoon, if that’s what you’re worried about. I think we can keep this little visit a secret too, if you wish.’

  Mistral looked up at Serenity, her expression grateful, ‘Please, because I’m already in a load of trouble with him.’

  ‘I know,’ said Serenity with a smile. ‘But I still need to know what creature you have been fighting with.’

  ‘Manticore,’ Mistral mumbled unhappily.

  ‘There, that wasn’t so hard was it?’ Serenity sighed. ‘Now, the next important question is what blood do you have?’

  Mistral stared at her blankly, ‘Why do you need to know that?’

  ‘Some antidotes are poisonous to certain Arcane races,’ Serenity explained, frowning slightly. ‘Surely you would know that from your upbringing with your tribe?’

  Mistral didn’t reply and looked down at the bedsheet, rubbing distractedly at the dirty smudges she had made.

  ‘Mistral?’ Serenity prompted gently. ‘I do need to know or I can’t treat you.’

  Mistral sighed and continued to stare down at the bedsheet, ‘I wasn’t raised by my tribe so I have no idea what blood I have. I was found outside The Velvet Forests as a baby and raised by an old sorcering couple in Nevelte.’

  Serenity looked at Mistral carefully, studying her face.

  ‘And you don’t have the Craft? You’re not a sorcerer’s child?’ she asked after a moment.

  Mistral shook her head and kept her gaze down.

  ‘I can’t see any elf blood in you,’ Serenity murmured, frowning. ‘Or yarthkin, or nymph. What other tribes live in The Velvet Forests? I wonder –’ Serenity suddenly stood up walked across the Infirmary, heading into the storeroom.

  Mistral listened to the clinking of glass bottles and leaned back against the pillows feeling miserable. Confessing to Serenity that she had no idea who or what she was reminded her of how much of an outcast she had felt growing up in Nevelte. Why, she wondered moodily to herself, did everyone seem to be obsessed with blood-lines? The children in Nevelte had constantly boasted about being able to trace their own blood-line back to some great Mage or other, and even here in the Valley, where everyone was of mixed blood, it still seemed to be important.

  Serenity returned a short while later carrying a tray packed with glass bottles of all different colours and sizes.

  ‘Now,’ she said briskly and placed the tray down on Mistral’s bedside table. ‘Let’s start with a simple willow bark extract to ease the pain.’

  Mistral eyed the colourful array of bottles dubiously. She knew what ingredients went into some of the potions.

  ‘Fine,’ said Mistral, accepting a dose of the potion Serenity offered her. ‘But I’m not taking anything with the toad livers in that I was boiling yesterday.’

 
Serenity’s hand hovered of the glass bottles, finally selecting a small ruby coloured flask with a bright green wax seal.

  ‘You mean this?’ she said, holding the bottle up for Mistral to see. ‘I don’t think you need to take it Mistral. I brew it especially for some of the men in the Valley; it’s a cure for baldness you see.’

  ‘I think I’d rather go bald,’ said Mistral with a shudder.

  ‘Oh they do anyway, but for some reason they can’t seem to get enough of the stuff.’ Serenity shrugged lightly then frowned. ‘I’m not sure I will ever understand the male ego, and believe me, I’ve spent years trying.’

  Mistral looked at her as though she’d just expressed a desire to fly to the moon on a cat. What was there to understand?

  Serenity sighed and seemed to drag herself out of some private reverie to see Mistral regarding her peculiarly.

  ‘So, no toad’s liver extract required today then.’ Serenity placed the bottle back on the tray with a smile. ‘But I think we can safely treat the poison with tincture of larkspur and maybe add a splash of hellebore.’

  It wasn’t until Serenity had dosed her unwilling patient with a series of equally foul-tasting potions and cleaned both of her wounds thoroughly with an ointment that stung more than the manticore’s attack that Mistral finally managed to escape. She fled back to her room, eager to get out of her dirty and blood-stained clothes that also now smelt strongly of the ointment Serenity had used. Reaching the sanctuary of her small, bare room Mistral was relieved to see a folded pile of freshly laundered clothes sat outside of her door. Mistral bent to pick them up and felt a small burst of satisfaction in knowing that Columbine had spent her weekend laundering all of the apprentices’ clothes and kicked her door open in slightly better spirits.

  Throwing off her dirty and ruined clothes, she realised with a grimace that a trip to Mistress Eudora’s for some more would soon be in order or she’d be walking around half-dressed. The freshly laundered clothes on her bed were the last set she owned that didn’t have more rips than material. She pulled on the clean trousers and began to think up ways to get around actually visiting the shop; even considering the possibility of paying the twins to go in on her behalf … Eudora would love the opportunity to drool over them again.

  As she slid the belt through the loops of her trousers she realised that there was something wrong. Either she had shrunk or the trousers she was wearing weren’t hers. They were far too big; her feet didn’t even show out of the bottom of them.

  Grabbing the shirt from the pile and shaking it out, Mistral could see that it was also blatantly not her size. Mistral swore under her breath when she realised who was to blame. In a fit of pique Columbine had obviously decided to mix up everyone’s clothes.

  A knock on her door and a voice calling her name broke her out of her angry thoughts of strangling Columbine with whoever’s trousers she had been left.

  ‘Mistral? Is that you I can hear swearing in there?’ Phantom’s voice called through her door.

  ‘Yes, hang on, don’t come in! I’m having a wardrobe malfunction!’ Mistral shouted and quickly yanked her dirty shirt back on.

  ‘You and everyone else!’ Phantom grinned at her when she threw the door open. ‘Bring your stuff and come down to the Main Hall; everyone is trying to sort their clothes out! It looks like a village jumble sale down there!’

  A Mage In The Valley

  The unusually searing temperatures of June seemed to intensify as July arrived, hot and airless, turning everything in the parched Ri Valley to scorched brown. It was a relief each evening when the sun finally began to sink below the Western Range and cool fingers of shadows reached out across the sweltering valley.

  Training was being held at dawn each day before the blistering heat of the day made it unbearable. Their afternoons were spent working in the Infirmary or studying in the Main Hall and it wasn’t until early evening that Mistral found time to muck out Cirrus’ stall. The stables were like an oven by then, making it even more of an unpleasant task than usual.

  Mistral sweated as she tossed dirty straw into a wheelbarrow, pausing often to rub irritably at the chaff that stuck to her face and hair. With a grateful sigh she flung the last forkful into the mounded barrow and stretched her aching back. The cotton shirt pulled uncomfortably across her sweating shoulders. She briefly debated taking it off and finishing the job in her vest but quickly dismissed the idea. Whilst it seemed perfectly acceptable for Golden to flaunt herself at every opportunity if Mistral so much as removed a sock Xerxes would no doubt appear with a moronic leer on his face.

  She rubbed a shirtsleeve across her sweating brow and thought longingly of the cold shower that awaited her. Grabbing the handles of the wheelbarrow with a sigh, Mistral pushed the full barrow out of the dusty stableblock and down to the manure heap. A light breeze had sprung up and Mistral paused to enjoy the feel of the air moving across her skin. She closed her eyes and lifted her face up, letting the breeze tease her long hair away from her hot neck and send cooling rivulets of air down her back. The sun had almost dropped completely below the mountains and the temperature was more pleasant now. Mistral breathed in the scents drifting on the warm air: clean straw, the rich musky smell of horses, the sharp tang of leather and, further away, the gentle fragrance of jasmine and orange blossom.

  Feeling marginally less hot and sticky, Mistral pushed the barrow on again and soon reached the entrance to the enclosed manure heap. All other smells were abruptly obliterated by the overpowering stench coming from the mountain of rotting straw and dung, forcibly reminding her of how Grendel smelled after a training session. She held her breath and tipped the barrow up, trying not to think about the dreaded annual task of helping to shift the manure down to spread on the farmlands.

  Mistral propped the empty barrow up against the side of the enclosure and walked slowly back to the stable. She had yet to lay down fresh straw and was in no hurry to go back into the sauna-like heat of the stableblock.

  Voices attracted her attention to the path running past the stableyard; it was Golden and Columbine making their way back to the dorms, no doubt for a shower. Golden had taken off her cotton shirt and had thrown it casually over one shoulder. She had tied her long blonde hair up in a ponytail that swung gently while she walked. Beside her effortless grace Columbine looked even more drab and dour than usual. She squinted up at Golden with an adoring look on her face, listening reverently to every word. Mistral watched them pass by in silence, feeling dirty and sweaty compared to Golden’s cool elegance. She suffered a rare pang of pity for Columbine who must feel like that every day, living as she did in Golden’s perfect shadow. Watching the mismatched pair walk on up the path Mistral wondered why Golden even bothered with the surly-natured Columbine but quickly reasoned that none of the other apprentices had the patience to listen to her empty prattle. Only Columbine seemed content to suffer her self-obsessed monologues and limitless selfishness. Smiling slightly, Mistral was grateful for the thousandth time that she didn’t have to share a room with them.

  The sound of hoof beats broke into her thoughts. Mistral looked up with a frown; all the horses were out in the paddock – so who was riding into the Valley? A visiting warrior maybe? She listened more closely to the sound, trying to work out which direction it was coming from. The North Gate? Yes, she was sure. It was coming closer now and definitely heading from the Valley’s North Gate. She looked intently along the track, curious to see who would appear.

  Mistral noticed the horse first. A palomino with a pale flowing mane and tail was making its way with dancing steps down the track into the village square. Expensive ... Mistral let her eyes travel over the horse’s gleaming flanks, taking in the well-worn tack before coming to rest on the rider.

  The man rode with easy grace, handling the horse’s skittish movements with a light touch. He wore the soft black moleskin trousers favoured by the Ri and a black cotton shirt, unbuttoned at the neck. A bundled travelling cloak was attached to t
he back of the saddle; he had obviously journeyed to be here. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing the smooth skin of his forearms. Mistral could see the lean muscles rippling as he worked to control the excitable horse. The skin of his throat and face was pale, in sharp contrast to the darkness of his hair which hung nearly to his shoulders looking tousled and unkempt. His face was partially hidden by the length of his hair and Mistral could only make out the outline of a straight nose. Then he turned to face her.

  Eyes as black as night stared into hers with a breathtaking intensity; she knew instantly that he was a powerful Mage. She stared back, rendered powerless by the force of his black gaze and felt a strange imploding sensation in the pit of her stomach, making her heart accelerate and the blood course through her veins.

  ‘Good evening Mage De Winter. Master Sphinx is waiting for you,’ Caleb’s harsh voice called out.

  The rider abruptly snapped his gaze away to look at Caleb, releasing Mistral from the spell of his stare.

  Nodding curtly to Caleb, the rider gave his horse the merest of taps with his heels and cantered away, vanishing quickly from sight up the path to the Main Building.

  That was the first time she saw Fabian De Winter.

  Troll Hunt

  Their Saturday morning training session ended on a rather abrupt note when Grendel lost his temper and flung his massive double-headed battle axe at the archery target they had been using; cleaving it neatly in two. He kicked the pile of broken longbows lying at his feet, muttering curses under his breath and Mistral distinctly heard the words ‘cheap elven rubbish’ amongst the swearing.

  ‘Don’t worry Grendel, I’ll go to the armoury stores this afternoon and see if we’ve got any sturdier longbows,’ called Cyrus in an amused voice.

  Grendel grunted and stomped past the Training Lieutenant with his arms full of the longbows he had snapped during practise.