The Assassin & The Skald: Liberation

by C. M. Lind

  There was only one place she could hide in the solarium, and she had no strength to crawl back out into the hallway. If she did that, Etienne would find her, and she had no idea whether or not he had drugged her for himself, his cousin, or both.

  She opened her eyes. The soil was still pounding as she put her hand onto it to pull herself deep into the garden of ferns. The ground was wet, and just below the surface she felt stiff, sinewy tendrils at the tips of her fingers. She clenched her jaw and put out another hand.

  Slowly, through the screams and sobs around her, she pulled herself deeper. Hiding among the garden of putrefaction, she closed her eyes tight. Clutching her hands over her mouth, she laid there, her skin trembling and the ground below her throbbing.

  Chapter 67

  Saemund had led his new master into the kitchen, and she was looking through the various bottles of wine on the counter. She inspected each corked one, ignoring those that had already been opened.

  The pain inside him had stopped, and his mind felt as if the fog within it had finally rolled out. Standing so close to the one he could call master left him feeling breathless. His chest was warm as if he had drank a whole pot of hot tea—even his fingers tingled.

  “This will do,” she said, tapping the bottle of red wine in her hand.

  “Excellent choice, mistress.” Saemund nodded. “Southern Velascan Syrah. Aged 19 years. A complex taste of blueberries, blackberry, pepper, and vanilla, with a touch of smoke.”

  “If you have to call me that,” she fished her hand into her pocket, “at least call me master.” She grimaced. “Mistress was something men called my mother a long time ago—for an entirely different reason.”

  Saemund nodded. “Of course, master.”

  “You think he’ll like it?” She showed him the bottle.

  Saemund smiled, glancing at the ornately designed label of blue and white with hand-written Venari words. “He is a man of status, and he is adamant on showing people that. Whether he will enjoy it or not is irrelevant. Because it is expensive, he will approve.”

  She set the bottle down as she pulled out a small vial and a tiny, long tin. “He only needs to drink it; I don’t care if he likes it.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt,” said Saemund. “All these pathetic humans are so predictable: beauty and expense are all it takes.”

  She rolled her eyes as she opened the tin. Inside laid two pieces: a tiny glass tube with a plunger and a long needle.

  Saemund raised his brow. “I don’t see many of those around here.”

  She pulled the needle out and screwed it onto the tube with the plunger. “That is because most people around these parts treat their illnesses with poison and prayer like the idiots they are.”

  Saemund chuckled, and the warmth in his chest was renewed.

  She stuck the needle of the syringe into the small vial, which was filled with a dark, mulberry, inky fluid. Pulling the plunger back, the empty chamber filled with the liquid.

  “Poison, is it?” he asked.

  “That is the plan.” She pulled the syringe free, careful not to let any drop touch her.

  “Get him close?” Saemund mimicked stabbing with the syringe. It was brilliant, he thought, fast-acting venom that would barely leave a wound while they escaped.

  She shook her head while she grabbed the bottle. “It has to be ingested.”

  He eyed her as she slid the needle through the wax sealed cork of the bottle, expelling the inky liquid with one push of her thumb. All the evidence that was left of her tampering was one, tiny, imperceptible pinhole.

  “Real gentlemen would never sip before a lady,” he said, still staring at the cork.

  “I know,” she said.

  Saemund’s feet shifted. “Fortunately, he really isn’t much of a gentlemen from what I have heard.”

  “This is plan A.” she said, nodding to the bottle while she unscrewed the needle. “There is plenty in there to kill him before he finishes his first glass.” She placed the disassembled syringe back into the tin, sealing it up with a snap.

  “What is plan B?” he asked, secretly hoping he was involved in some way.

  She handed him the tin. “Get rid of this after the party.”

  He nodded, taking it without thought. “And what is plan B?”

  She eyed the food and trays around him. Platters of meat with knives and forks were abundant, but her eyes settled on a small tray of sliced cheeses. With a smile, she grabbed the cheese wire off of it. “This is plan B.”

  Saemund nodded. “I’ll warn you, he may be an idiot, but he is fit. You should try to win with plan A.”

  “That is why I’m calling it plan A, Ulrich.” She froze. Shutting her eyes for a second, she sighed before she slipped the cheese wire into the hidden pocket in her gown. “If you’re going to be tagging along, what should I call you anyway?”

  “I don’t mind,” he said. “You may call me whatever you wish, master.”

  She grabbed the bottle of wine in one hand and the glasses with the other. “So where is he?”

  “This way.” Saemund nodded across through the kitchen. “I saw the little lord following a maid, and I can smell that they came through here.”

  “Smell?” Her brow rose.

  “Yes.” He smiled. “I can smell them.”

  “Then maybe I should call you dog,” she said as she walked by him.

  Saemund chuckled. “Whatever you wish.”

  The two walked back through the kitchen, up the narrow, uneven servant’s stairs, up into the hallway of the second floor which was filled with closed doors.

  Saemund pointed down the hall. His master nodded and walked down. He trailed behind her.

  “Which door?” she asked.

  Saemund inhaled. “That one.” He pointed at a large double door with opaque glass and iron spirals that glowed with red and yellow light. “I can smell them both.”

  She nodded. “Good.”

  Saemund smiled.

  They approached the door. Inside they heard sobbing and yelling.

  “And that,” whispered Saemund, “would be the gentlemanly little lord you’re looking for.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  He smiled again. She tried to hide her pleasure at his remarks, but she couldn’t from him.

  “Why on earth are you so happy being a slave?” she asked.

  Saemund shrugged. “I am what I am.” He drew his head close to her ear, and he shivered as he inhaled the scent of her flesh. “And you, master, are far better than my last.”

  She pushed him away. “Are you twisted?”

  He shrugged again.

  “You don’t even need a master,” she said. “Just go off on your own.”

  The sound of another slap rang through the door. Another accusation from the lord calling whoever he was with a murderer and a slut. Oh, thought Saemund, how all men are so quick to call a woman one of the predictable three: slut, whore, and bitch. To Saemund, all humans lacked imagination.

  “Unfortunately,” he said, “I am what I am. Just as you are what you are, master. We cannot escape our nature it seems. The more we fight it, the more it fights back.”

  She nodded. “So you were born like that?”

  “I was made like this.”

  She narrowed her brow. “Because you’re not human.”

  He shook his head. “Not at all.”

  She nodded. “So I cannot call you human. What should I call you?

  “The one before you called me Saemund.”

  Her head jerked back. “Saemund?”

  He nodded.

  A small smile crept onto her face, and her delight made him grin in approval. “What?” He raised his brow.

  “I already know of you,” she said. “I never believed in the boogeyman, and, now, here he is in front of me.”

  “There is much in the world that people do not wish to believe in—doesn’t make them untrue.”

  She shrugged, eyeing him up and down. “Get th
e door.”

  Saemund’s hand went to the handle; a wicked smile was on his face, and he wondered if his new master would want to celebrate her victory with him how he hoped: a prolonged recreation of their previous encounter.

  “And then you’re to stay here,” she added.

  With his fingertips still on the handle, his eyes shot towards her. “What?” he stammered in a whisper.

  “You heard me,” she narrowed her eyes. “You stay. Don’t you dare enter this room.”

  “But what if you need assistance?”

  “I don’t need help from you.” She sighed. “Do as you’re told and obey. You do not enter that room no matter what.”

  Saemund took a deep breath before he nodded. “Fine.”

  “And Saemund,” she said, “I will, eventually, kill you.”

  Saemund watched the tiny muscles of her face, and he knew that she spoke the truth.

  Chapter 68

  The islander had finally left him alone, but if his goal was to keep Randolph busy for a few minutes, it had worked. Randolph went to the doorway of the ballroom. Inside, he couldn’t spot Soli.

  She must have kept running, he concluded, and she could have been anywhere in the house by then.

  The only other thing he could think to do was confront Ety. Randolph had never seen anything but civility between the two, and he needed to know what had broken that.

  Ety was engaged in a quiet conversation with a young woman no older than sixteen years. Her golden hair was plaited with purple ribbons, and her curvaceous, pale body was fitted in a tight gown of matching violet trimmed with bows.

  Every time Ety leaned in to whisper to her, she giggled. Whatever he must have been saying to her, reasoned Randolph, could not have possibly been so funny.

  As Randolph approached the two, the young woman’s face scrunched as if she smelled boiled cabbage and rancid fish. Ety gave him a polite smile, and he whispered to the girl again. She curtsied to him, and then she left, leaving the two men relatively alone.

  “What happened?” demanded Randolph.

  “It seems her mother is a fan of the Reinout bloodline—particularly Jae, of course. She says we have strong features and kind hearts.” Ety sighed. “Poor little thing has no idea what she is getting herself into.”

  Randolph cracked his fingers as he exhaled slowly. “What happened with Soli?”

  “Oh.” Ety looked at the cuff of his sleeve, wiping a random hair away. “She has had far too much to drink, and she has run off to bed.”

  Randolph hadn’t seen her drinking at all for the entire evening, but, he reasoned, it wasn’t like he was keeping that much of an eye on her. Ever since he talked to her in the garden, he was afraid to meet her eye.

  “Is that why she smacked you?” He cocked his head to the side. “Because she had too much to drink or because you made a right ass out of yourself?”

  Ety ran his tongue over his teeth, pausing for a few moments before answering. “That barbarian that you have become so enamored with, which I must say at least like attracts like, came onto me.” Ety cleared his throat; his eyes were scanning the room. “I told her she could not stay after her contract was concluded.”

  “Liar,” scoffed Randolph. “There is no way that would happen!”

  Ety’s eyes shot to Randolph. “No need for ugly jealously towards me. I am not interested in her.”

  “She can’t wait to get out of here.” Randolph’s hands fisted, and his knuckles cracked.

  “Of course, being as drunk as she was, she did not take the rejection well.” Ety’s eyes went back to the party. “You do not even want to hear the things she promised me if I said she could stay.”

  Randolph bit his lip, and he tasted a drop of blood.

  “I told her to go to bed, but she was adamant on finding Jae.” Ety sighed. “Desperate girl said she would do whatever it took to stay.”

  His muscles itched, and never before had Randolph wanted to punch out anyone so quickly. A little voice in his head egged him on, telling him it would only take one little tap to shut Ety up—but he didn’t. He had to find Soli, and it would have been a lot harder to do so with a gaggle of confused guards and a self-righteous Balfour slowing him down.

  Randolph cracked his neck. “I guess I should go find her then, if, according to you,” he sneered, “she is about to do something so regrettable.”

  “Oh, no,” said Ety. “You have a job to.” He gestured to the door. “We all have our responsibilities.”

  Randolph looked to the door then back to Ety. His tight lips contorted into a force smile. “Of course,” he said accompanied by a nod of his head.

  Ety smiled back, calling the young ribbon-ornamented girl back over with the curl of his finger as Randolph returned to the door.

  He took back his spot with Guy and Val, who seemed to barely notice that he even left. What they were discussing, Randolph didn’t know. He kept all his attention on Etienne.

  Of course, he reasoned, Soli wasn’t with Jae—she was disgusted by him. He figured he could wait a little while. He could play nice. Ety couldn’t linger in the reception room forever, and when he left, so would Randolph.

  And Soli? He knew Soli, he thought, and he knew that whatever had happened, there was no way she was with Jae and drunk.

  Chapter 69

  The two wouldn’t quiet. Jae kept yelling; the only lull in his voice was when Soli would see him lean in close to Marguerite to spew tormenting whispers in her ear.

  Whatever he was saying to her, it made her cry harder than anything else he was shouting at her.

  Soli closed her eyes. Breathing deep and steady, she told herself that the room wasn’t throbbing, that her heart wasn’t slowing to its death, and that the ground underneath couldn’t possibly be trying to suck her down, to be eaten by roots.

  Every time she heard another loud sob from Marguerite, she pressed her eyes harder. She had told the girl to flee after taking the medicine. Marguerite had drank the tea, but she had forgotten the most important part—to flee and never come back.

  A monster like Jae would never let the girl off so easily, and his shouts confirmed it. He called her a murderous whore. An ingrate. A stupid bitch.

  All Marguerite did was cry, maintaining her lie, which was falling apart with every second, the whole while: she didn’t know what happened to the baby. If Soli hadn’t drunk the wine, she would have stopped Jae—but she couldn’t. She was forced to listen to Jae’s incensed abuse and Marguerite’s broken cries.

  A clunk of metal, and a door across the way from them opened. Soli’s sigh was a blur, but she could see her: pale skin, a blot of bright red hair, and a gown that matched the top. Soli couldn’t make out what was in her hands, but she recognized the woman’s walk—that of someone with a mission.

  Jae’s screams muted as soon as the door opened, and his hands were off Marguerite just as quickly. The girl had enough sense to run as soon as she could, away from Jae, towards the door that Soli had entered from.

  “My lord!” The woman in red must have cocked her head to the side, for the red bobbed to her left as she spoke. “I have been looking everywhere for you!”

  Jae turned to her, utterly dropping Marguerite and her hurried steps from his mind. “I do hate to make a lady wait.”

  Marguerite, struggling with jagged breaths as her hands were wrapped around her, walked straight by Soli. She stopped, and the two’s eyes met for a tense second. She cast her eyes back to the room.

  The woman in red was giggling. Her curls bounced around her with every laugh, as she approached Jae. He met her halfway and the two had a perilously easy view of Soli amongst the ferns if either had bothered to look her way.

  Marguerite looked back to Soli, then to the door, then back at Jae, and then back to Soli. She was only a few feet away from the door, which was still ajar from Soli slinking in.

  “Oh,” said the woman. Soli thought she saw her wink. “Then you have been very naughty, making me wait upon
you all night.”

  “I do hope you can find it in your heart,” he placed his hand upon her breast, “to forgive me, my sweet, little flower.”

  Marguerite, glancing back to Jae one last time, leaned down to Soli. She brought her index finger to her lips, telling Soli to be quiet. Her eyes looked red and broken, and her face was covered in tears and spit.

  Soli forced herself to nod.

  “For you?” The red woman leaned in, but her breathy whisper was loud enough for anyone in the room to hear. “Of course.”

  Jae’s other hand wrapped around the woman’s waist. “You Debeau girls.” He hummed pleasantly. One might have thought of it like a contented housecat wrapped around a new toy, but Soli thought of him as a patient varberg sizing up dinner—and the mountain lions of the north could never be tamed like housecats. “You are all so utterly pleasant.”

  Marguerite grabbed Soli’s foot, and she shoved it further into the foliage, so that if Jae or the red woman looked, they’d, hopefully, only see leaves and dirt. Soli nodded again, wanting to say thank you to Marguerite, but she was unable to. She also knew better than to risk it. Marguerite knew better too, and she slipped through the doorway as soon as Soli’s foot hit the soil.

  “Are we?” asked the woman. “I’m afraid I’m new.”

  Jae chuckled, a deep, throaty laugh, as the hand on her breast joined the other around her waist.

  “Perhaps,” she leaned in close to him again, holding whatever was in her hands out away from them, “you could show me how to be pleasant?”

  She nuzzled her nose against his face, and his hands drifted lower.

  Soli pressed her eyes closed again. She cursed her luck. She had run away from Etienne only to find Jae. She had hidden from Jae only to watch him stuff a whore. If she was forced to be there, she could at least close her eyes.

  At least Marguerite got away, she reasoned. Soli could stomach hearing Jae’s moans and thrusts, their two bodies mashing against each other, if it meant the girl was able to flee.

  She hoped that Marguerite might finally have the good sense to truly flee once and for all while Jae was preoccupied.