by Jeff Gunzel
Berkeni’s voice bounced around in his head. This night had been planned for some time, and several contingency plans had been put in place. If we get split up, meet back in Taron before the next full moon. He shook his head. That was a several days’ journey from here. I have been talking to other members of the Council. The vote is going to be close, but it looks like you have a very good chance at winning. “I don’t even know if I want the position,” the mysterious assassin mumbled to no one.
With another groan, the assassin reached up and peeled away the damp mask. Fresh, cool air blew against an exposed face. After a few hairpins were removed, long, fiery, red hair spilled down over slender shoulders. A female form was revealed, and the woman bent over and splashed cool water over her face. When the ripples calmed, she gazed down at her reflection. A mere teenager with bright green eyes stared back, the world’s troubles already weighing her down.
No matter what happens, you must get back to Taron before they become suspicious of your absence. The Council must never know of your part in this. She sighed, remembering his words. By this time next week, I truly believe you will be Queen of Taron. “I didn’t think this far ahead,” she mumbled. “I was sure this mission would claim my life. I never intended to be que—”
The spongy slurping of wet leaves underfoot broke her from her thoughts. She turned back and saw two armed men stepping into the camp. They looked uneasy, eyes darting about nervously. “We’re taking the baby,” the larger one said breathlessly. His sword swung from side to side, as if not trusting she was the only one here.
“Your black magic ends here, witch,” said the other, his voice only slightly more steady. “Your soul will burn in the afterlife for this evil.” His knuckles turned white, two hands gripping his short sword.
Ilirra smiled, ignoring the pain of her wounds. “Perhaps my soul is dammed, but I won’t be finding out this day.” She snapped her wrists into the air. Silver daggers flashed into each hand with a click. “Send the gods my regards.”
* * *
With a jolt, the Queen sat up from her bed. Her blue nightgown was damp with sweat, her hair slick and clinging to her forehead. She took several deep breaths, trying to slow her racing heartbeat, then brought a shaky hand to her side, fingers running along a white, puckered scar.
Chapter 2
The air felt cool as it penetrated her thin nightgown. Each graceful step allowed the damp fabric to press against her legs and hug her slim figure. The Queen’s smooth, graceful strides were natural, and not something she ever practiced. Ironically, the transition from warrior to royalty was only a small step in this way. Even now, she moved like a tiger stalking its prey, despite her thoughts being miles away. Forgetting she was barely decent, she drifted across the red carpet like a lost specter in the night.
Nightmares had become a regular occurrence in recent weeks. Between the pressures of commanding a kingdom and constant worry for her friends, sleep had become rather elusive these days. And lately, restless nights had been taking their toll. More and more frequently she found herself being forced to relive her past through her dreams, a former life few were even aware of; memories of events that helped shape the world, yet could never be spoken of. I cannot take back the things I’ve done. These haunting memories are the price I pay for my sins.
Her body tingled from exhaustion, but it was not enough to coax her into trying to go back to sleep. Going back to her room only to stare up at the ceiling in a restless haze did not sound appealing. What she needed was a distraction. Something to help take her mind off things she had no control over anyway.
Marching through the palace without really thinking about where she was going, the Queen found herself standing before the throne room. With an effort, she pushed one of the golden doors. Bordered with black and green grapevines that wove in and out of one another, it slowly creaked open. The chamber was empty, of course. Even if it hadn’t been the middle of the night, no one else was allowed in here without permission. On occasion, her massive bodyguards suited in red body armor would wait for her here. They were the only exception, but they were not here now.
The colorful stained glass windows appeared black in the low light given off by the few oil lanterns that were still lit. Even the long, green banner depicting a gold star hanging behind the throne remained shadowed and dark. It was shocking, really. All the time she spent here; all the meetings discussing business, taxation, and future projects for the city, and yet the chamber looked so unfamiliar now, so foreign in the low light and complete lack of activity. She found the unfamiliarity strangely comforting tonight—a comfort sorely needed in these strange times.
She tiptoed across the room, as if being careful not to awaken anyone. Absurd, really. The Queen of Taron was allowed to do as she wished, which included making all the noise she wanted. Yet tonight, she didn’t want to draw any attention to herself. Tonight, she just wanted to enjoy her solitude.
Hands clasped behind her back, trying to look innocent in case the curtains had eyes, she skipped over to a weapons rack stationed near an empty suit of armor. The silver armor was completely ornamental. Heavy, bulky, and encrusted with colored jewels, the clumsy piece would never serve in real combat. But the swords seated in the rack were quite real, and of very fine quality.
Ilirra slipped out a short sword and held it up in the air. She twisted the blade left then right, causing it to twinkle even in the meager lamp light. With hardly a thought, she flipped it on its side, allowing the back of the blade to balance across her wrist. Fine craftsmanship; well balanced. A good sword, to be sure. But a queen does not play around with such things.
But instead of putting it back, she grabbed a second sword with her free hand. She twirled them in a slow circle, and then crossed the blades in front of her face with a faint clink. A queen should display proper etiquette. She must follow social protocol no matter the situation. But unfortunately, we are not living in normal times. She lowered herself into a crouch, one leg stretched out to the side and both blades pointed forward. The rules of proper etiquette no longer apply.
The room seemed too dark before her eyes. Her mind wandered backward in time, to a place she had nearly forgotten about, a time when minor decisions didn’t have the potential to affect the lives of thousands. A time when the only lives she ever worried about were her own, and the poor soul on the wrong end of her blade. I now understand why so many choose to lead a life of darkness. Leading a life of virtue will push one into an early grave. Killing...well, killing is easy. Taking a life is far easier than saving one.
There came the familiar sound of steel grinding steel while she slowly rubbed the blades together. How long had it been now? A year? A decade? The grinding blades clanged together, twirled twice around each wrist, then came to rest on the carpet as she knelt down low. At this moment, no heavy burdens hung around her neck. There would be zero accountability for anything that happened here. Ilirra Marosia, beloved Queen of Taron? No...not tonight. Her green eyes squinted against light that wasn’t there as memories of her former life began to surface. The hunter stirred within, the enforcer who had never turned her back on justice. The assassin was awake.
Her finely tuned body exploded into movement. The air whooshed as her blades began to dance in circles. Her form was perfect, transitioning smoothly from one kata to another. Steel flashed above her head, then side to side. Each sword moved in perfect harmony with the other as the dance progressed and accelerated. It was a dance that hadn’t been performed in years, yet her muscles knew exactly what to do.
She lost herself in the dance, arms pumping, her body twisting. Although blazing fast, the movements appeared slow and fluid. Effortlessly, the forms flowed like water. Her footwork was light and graceful like a dancer’s; her heels never touched the ground while she bounced back and forth on the balls of her feet. Sweat began to run down her front and back, further dampening her nightgown. The wet fabric clung to her body as she flowed like a river. Ilirra’s mind
was a thousand miles away.
Her body moving on its own, she twirled into a spinning heel kick while slashing her blades outward. The fast-moving weapons clanged loudly against something solid. The sudden impact and vibration forced her eyes open, only now realizing they had been closed. Her mind snapped back to the present, the twirling dance of blades ending abruptly.
There she stood, speechless, as the dark eyes of a hawk bore into her, her twin blades locked against his long sword. Her mouth worked wordlessly, eyes wide with shock. Few men could have sneaked up on her unnoticed. Was he even sneaking, or did he always move silently like a shadow?
“I see your skills remain sharp after all these years,” said Azek. As usual, his hard, chiseled face held all the emotion of a tree. Even standing there in his small clothes, wearing no armor or medals, the blademaster’s confidence was evident. His presence seemed to fill the room regardless of his attire.
“I–I was just– I mean,” Ilirra stammered, rattled by the sudden intrusion. How long had he been standing there? Beads of sweat ran from her temples. Her chest heaved in and out breathlessly. I’m the queen. I don’t have to explain myself to him.
“If your intent is to kill me, best get on with it,” Azek said, raising an eyebrow. A rare but unmistakable touch of humor edged his voice.
Realizing her blades were still pressed against his, she lowered the weapons. As she did, her eyes wandered down his slim physique. Shirtless in only a pair of shorts, his hardened body looked to belong to a man half his age. Carved from wood and deceptively strong, his lean body was covered with scars. Some newer, but most old and faded. A lifetime of war was displayed across his body like a mapped-out timeline. This was not the first time she had seen them, but it had certainly been a while.
With an effort, she raised her eyes back to his. His sheepish smile looked odd as he leaned on his sword. It was hardly a regular expression for the humorless man. Then it hit her. Resisting the overwhelming urge to cover herself, she dropped her swords and began tugging at the clinging fabric of her damp nightgown. Just straightening it. Nothing more. “How did you get in here?” she demanded, still tugging and pulling, avoiding his gaze.
“The door was open,” he shrugged. He polity turned away, allowing her to continue fighting with the nightgown in privacy.
“Wha–” She peeked over his shoulder. Sure enough, one of the heavy doors was slightly ajar. There is no way I left that open. Was he only implying that it was unlocked? Damn him and his games! “And why are you up, sneaking around like some thief in the night?”
“Same reason as you,” he replied with another shrug. Another simple answer that carried multiple interpretations.
She sighed, then gave a final frustrated tug of her gown. The cool, damp fabric snapped against her skin, hugging her curves as tightly as ever. Her exposure suddenly seemed very unimportant. “And what do you know of my sleepless nights?” she mumbled, swiping a hand across her forehead, removing sweat and stray strands of red hair that tickled her eyelashes. “What do you know of the darkness that haunts my dreams?”
Azek turned back slowly and gazed into her eyes. She was surprised at how much effort it took not to look away. “We all carry demons, Ilirra. I don’t pretend to understand the pressures of your symbolic stature. I admit I know nothing of this darkness you speak of. Only the gods themselves would make such arrogant claims.” He took a step closer, his sharp, dark eyes holding her gaze. “But I do know this. A lifetime is no more than a blink in time. A meaningless flash from birth till death. We have but an instant to define ourselves before it is over. To create a name that will live on through the ages while entire generations come and go.”
“And when my brief time has come to an end, what exactly will my legacy be, Azek?” she said, her breathy words heavy with fatigue. “Will I be renowned for losing this impossible war? Remembered as the queen who fell before the darkness, dropping to her knees and trembling like a leaf in the wind? Tell me, Azek Lamanton, famed blademaster and Captain of the Guard, what legend do you see standing before you? A queen...a killer...a martyr...a moth–” She swallowed hard as moisture filled her eyes. “A mother,” she whispered.
Azek brushed a few strands of red hair from her eyes. His voice was soft, but confident. “I see before me the most powerful queen to ever sit upon the throne. A woman of wisdom and integrity, although haunted by both past and future. Taron needs you now, focused and ready to act when the time comes.” He slapped a hand over his chest, breaking her stare. Ilirra only now realized her eyes had been wandering over his numerous scars. “Do you know what I remember about each one of these marks? What I recall of each man and beast who blessed me with yet another badge of honor?” He leaned into her ear. “Only that their hearts no longer beat,” he whispered, every calm word frosted with ice.
Ilirra resisted the urge to shiver, but her voice was tight. “You’re a killer, cold, with no remorse for the lives you’ve taken. I get it. You’re—”
“No, you don’t get it. That’s the problem. The reason I can’t remember their faces is because they no longer matter. It’s all in the past, and you need to get that into your head. You are the Queen of Taron and need to deal with today’s problems, not dwell in the past.” He glanced down to the swords that lay at her feet. “That mindless killer is no longer who you are.”
“That mindless killer made me who I am!” She spun away, hands on her head. “I cannot so easily bury my past the way you can. Their eyes...their screams... I can still see their faces.”
Azek grabbed her shoulder and spun her back. “You must!” he said, looking into tear-filled eyes. His hands slid down to her wrists, holding them softly. He lowered his voice. “This self-torture does you no good. We need you. I need you to be strong. The day of reckoning is coming, and we must be ready.”
“And what does that matter now?” she muttered, gently pulling away from him. “You and I have no hope of stopping this dark force that threatens our very existence. The Gate Keeper himself remains unsure of how to deal with...him. Feel free to amass all the men you can find. Build an army greater than any in history, and it will do little more than anger—”
“Then what would you have me do?” he interrupted. “Shall I inform the men there is no hope? Should I direct a mass suicide in order to spare everyone the inevitable suffering?”
Ilirra drew in on herself with shame. They would almost certainly die when it came time to draw steel. This much was certain, but that didn’t mean it was better to give up.
“Come with me,” said Azek, his half-smile returning. He headed towards the doorway.
“What–where?” she said, puzzlement etched all over her face.
“Find something to wear and meet me outside,” Azek called over his shoulder, then disappeared down the hall.
Both mentally and physically exhausted, she dragged herself back to her room. While slipping into her favorite blue dress and white slippers, she eyed her comfortable bed longingly. With half a mind to ignore Azek’s request and throw herself on the mattress, she reluctantly left her room, her curiosity winning out over fatigue.
After creeping through the palace halls, Ilirra eventually made her way outside. There stood Azek in a faded red shirt and a pair of plain brown britches. With a silent gesture for her to follow, he began walking down the steps. He moved quickly, forcing her into a light jog to catch up. Moving briskly side by side, the two walked in silence through the dark streets. Of course Ilirra was full of questions, but she knew this man too well to bother asking. Besides, her head spun as if she had been drinking. It was clear the daily stress and lack of sleep were taking a toll.
A white carriage approached them from the opposite direction. It rocked back and forth in time with the uneven street stones. A dark-haired boy of fourteen or so peered through the glass while it slowly rolled by. Ilirra made eye contact, smiling at the boy. His eyes widened at the sight of the Queen strolling down the street like some commoner. She watched as
he turned, then began frantically shaking whoever slept next to him. Poor boy, she thought. No one will ever believe him. And why would they? The Queen roaming the streets at night, with a single man for protection? Preposterous.
The night air was cool, but not so much as to be uncomfortable. Spring was fast approaching, and winter’s bite was diminishing by the day. The waning moon shone through the cloudless night sky. Gleaming stars twinkled brightly against the black canvas. The cool air and gorgeous night sky helped to snap Ilirra from her dull state of mind. A sorely needed distraction indeed. It’s beautiful. Why don’t I walk at night more often?
“Over there,” pointed Azek.
Caught up in her surroundings, Ilirra had nearly forgotten why she was out here in the first place. She followed his gaze to an old shack across the street. The rickety building may have been painted at one time. Looking at the splintered old planks, some even rotting, it was hard to tell now. She wondered how a structure so clearly neglected was even still standing.
A young man wearing a black wide-brimmed hat that covered his eyes sat under the roofed porch leaning back in an old chair. Chewing a long piece of grass, the blond-haired man hardly seemed to notice them. But despite his looking unaware, he began lightly stomping one heel against the wood as they approached.
In the blink of an eye, Azek bolted across the street. He grabbed the man’s knee while raising a hushing finger to his lips, shaking his head no. The young man swallowed hard then looked away, nodding his understanding. Reluctantly, he rose from the chair and sidestepped the door, allowing them passage. Azek turned back to Ilirra and motioned for her to follow. She obliged, really wondering what had been going on behind her back...and for how long?
Azek patted the young man on the shoulder before entering the old shack. For someone who had blown his job at standing watch, the young man didn’t look particularly upset. If fact, he appeared rather amused.
