Daindreth's Assassin #1 Page 2

  Slipping through the entrance, Amira circled to the far end of the tent opposite the figure before her.

  The only sound was the scratch of the stranger’s quill. He paused, studied the page, scratched something out and dipped his quill in ink again.

  The assassin peered over his shoulder, confirming the imperial seal stamped at the top of the parchment. By law, only members of the imperial household and those acting with their authority could use the seal. This had to be Daindreth Fanduillion—archduke of Erymaya, son of Empress Vesha and the late Emperor Drystan, and heir to the Erymayan Empire.

  A few of the words under the figure’s quill caught Amira’s eye. Short sentences, breaking off down the page. Words had been scratched out and rewritten at least a dozen times over, but there appeared to be a final draft at the lower right corner.

  Cut me and I bleed poison

  Wound me to your own pain

  These bruises have crushed giants

  This nightmare maddens the sane

  The young man kept writing, crossing out words, then rewriting, oblivious to her presence.

  Amira recalled hearing from Fonra—when Fonra had still been besotted with the idea of him—that the archduke was said to be quite the accomplished poet.

  Accomplished was not the word Amira would have used. Those words made something shudder along her spine. It was like hearing footsteps when she was supposed to be alone.

  Amira could feel the curse tightening around her throat, a warning. If she put it off much longer, she’d be on the floor gasping. She drew the short blade from her hip, using her opposite hand to steady the sheath.

  Nausea worked its way up the back of her throat. She’d never quite gotten a taste for killing. Most of the people her father sent her after weren’t bad people. At least, Amira thought they were no worse than her or her father. Then again, both King Hyle and Amira’s deaths would likely make the world a better place.

  She closed the distance between herself and the archduke. A single jab to the base of the skull and it would be over.

  Amira coiled to strike—

  The archduke spun around and locked eyes on her. Amira jerked back and almost screamed.

  Red eyes burned like coals with thin, black slits. For one instant, she could have sworn wisps of flame licked at his eyelashes.

  His ka changed—it blustered and smoked like a furnace, hot, ashy, and putrid. Ka didn’t change and yet—

  He snarled and grabbed her wrist with the knife. Amira aimed her knee for his face, and he twisted out of his chair, dropping into a crouch. He grabbed her opposite ankle and yanked.

  In a flash, he tackled her to the carpet. His fist smashed into her ribs. Amira grunted from the impact and stars flashed across her vision.

  The archduke snapped his jaw at her, eyes burning crimson. He curled his lip like he was used to a different mouth, one with sharper teeth.

  Amira snatched a knife from her belt with her left hand and slashed across his face. He brought his arm up and blocked. Her knife left a bloody gash in his sleeve.

  He pinned her right arm to the floor. Amira curled in on herself, wedging her knees and shins between them.

  She bucked, trying to throw him off. She kicked a coat rack and it fell in a clatter.

  “My lord?” came a voice from outside.

  Shit.

  Amira dropped her knife and grabbed the back of the archduke’s loose shirt. With a deft motion, she twisted it up and to the side, tightening the collar around his throat.

  The archduke snarled again, spitting as he did. Amira yanked him to the side and managed to flip him off her. She kicked his ribs the moment she got clear, yanking her knife hand free as she did.

  The archduke sprang back to his feet, eyes glowing like molten steel.

  Outside, his servants had roused, but he didn’t call for them. He just stood there, studying her.

  Amira drew a third knife. If the servants came, they would call the guards and she would be dead, but she had to at least kill him first. She had to.

  It made sense now. Her father must have known. This thing couldn’t reach Lashera no matter what happened. Fonra couldn’t marry this creature. It couldn’t live. It—

  The archduke lunged.

  One instant he was three steps away and the next he was slamming her into the center brace of the tent.

  The whole tent shook, the impact knocking the air from her lungs.

  She’d never been caught before. A caught assassin was a dead assassin.

  Dead, dead, dead. That word echoed through her skull.

  The archduke—or whatever the creature was that kept her pinned against the brace—studied her like one might study a slice of roasted swan seasoned with an unfamiliar spice.

  “Who are you?” His voice was like an avalanche of stones and the roar of a bonfire at once. “Have the Istovari witches gone back on their bargain?”

  A shadow darkened the doorway of the tent—the shape of a young boy, probably the page.

  Amira twisted sideways for leverage and kicked the archduke in the hip to knock him back. She’d sent men sprawling from that kick before, but he only stumbled a couple of steps.

  Amira brought up her knife and the archduke lunged to attack again. He ducked when the knife came up, but she sliced it across her own hand. She could only hope she would bleed enough.

  She slammed her bloody palm into the archduke’s face. He must have been expecting an attack from the knife in her other hand. He didn’t block in time and her bloody hand made contact.

  She forced ka down her arm and into the blood. Even when he stumbled back and broke their contact, the blood was hers, so she didn’t need to be touching him to make it work.

  Her bloody handprint glowed copper. The archduke fell to the ground with a scream and the stench of burning flesh filled the tent.

  “Your Highness!” cried the boy in the doorway. The page rushed to the screaming archduke and three shadows moved outside the tent—guards.

  Cursing, Amira raced for the back of the tent. Her boot caught on one of the carpets. She hit the ground with a thud muffled by the archduke’s screaming. Her breath came in shallow gasps and her head spun.

  Idiot. Idiot.

  She’d panicked and poured too much of her own ka into that spell. The amount of power now burning the archduke’s face was enough to cast a dreadsight spell fifty times over.

  No, no, no.

  “Your Highness! Is it another episode? Are you alright?”

  The archduke’s cry in response was more of a roar, primal and enraged. Outside, horses whinnied and dogs barked. Something in Amira curdled and shrank at the sound of it.

  Attendants flocked around the archduke. The guards hovered at the entrance.

  “What’s happening?” they demanded.

  Amira laid on the floor, heart pounding. They can’t see me. They aren’t expecting to see me.

  It seemed the dreadsight spell was still in place. But if it was, how had the archduke—or whatever that creature was—been able to see her?

  “Fetch Sir Thadred,” said one of the servants. “And Taylan.”

  “Dain?” a male voice shouted from outside. “Dain, are you alright? Is he angry?”

  These people acted wrong. Their archduke was rolling on the floor with fire spreading over his face and no one was searching the tent. No one seemed to expect a threat.

  A young man with a dark tousle of hair and a half-buttoned shirt shoved past the guards. He leaned heavily on a blackthorn cane, his stride punctuated by a limp.

  The newcomer caught the archduke’s flailing arm only to catch an elbow in the face. He stumbled back with a curse, rubbing his jaw. “Daindreth!”

  No one seemed more than slightly concerned. It was like—

  They stood back while Daindreth flailed, looking to one another and to the darker young man, Sir Thadred.

  “What should we do, my lord?” asked the page.

  “This is new,” said Thadr
ed, shifting his grip on his cane. “He hasn’t had an episode like this before.”

  Amira blinked at Thadred from her prone position on the floor. What did the man mean by that?

  Amira pushed herself onto her elbows, shaking. The entrance to the tent was flooded with servants and retainers. She could cut her way out the back, but someone would notice if she started tearing canvas and she couldn’t risk breaking the spell. Thankfully, for now, the archduke’s writhing kept their attention.

  The archduke shuddered and curled into a ball on the floor. He trembled and slowly his ka changed again. It turned lighter, more golden. More like the ka of the others in the tent.

  Amira swallowed. Nothing about this was natural.

  “Dain?” Thadred knelt beside the archduke. “Can you hear me?”

  The paler young man panted, hands clutched to his face. “I...I’m not...” Daindreth’s voice was different. Lighter, not reverberating so much.

  Everything about this was wrong. She needed to escape. Fonra was betrothed to a monster and no matter what happened or the cost, Hylendale needed to break off the engagement.

  The command that she protect her sister with her life rang in her ears. If she couldn’t kill the archduke, she had to save Fonra. Her sister couldn’t marry this—if he wasn’t a man, what was he?

  Daindreth looked up and Amira would have jumped back if she’d been standing. Daindreth’s face didn’t have a mark on it.

  He should have had a splattered burn mark, but no.

  She still smelled his burning flesh. She hadn’t imagined that, had she?

  “The girl,” Daindreth panted in a distinctly human voice, a rich, almost melodic voice. “Where did she go?”

  Thadred smirked. “So that was you dreaming of a girl, was it?”

  Why didn’t he seem concerned? Even the servants had begun to back out of the tent. The guards were no longer at the entrance.

  Never had she been so alarmed by a lack of alarm. Something instinctive and primal within her told her to run, to flee, to get as far away from the archduke and his servants as possible.

  “No, she was here.” Daindreth spun around and his gaze slid over Amira.

  She stayed still and didn’t draw attention to herself. It seemed the dreadsight spell was working again. The archduke’s eyes were dark now, no longer burning with hellfire.

  Thadred frowned, keeping a breadth of space between himself and the archduke, like he expected the other man might go back to flailing at any second.

  Amira pushed up onto her hands and knees. Sweat dripped into her eyes. She hadn’t drained herself like that in years, but in the moment, she’d panicked.

  Carefully, she backed toward the edge of the tent. If she could hide in a corner, she might be able to wait until the archduke went to bed or left.

  “There!” Daindreth leapt off the ground and dove for her, grabbing her wrist.

  Instantly, Amira felt the dreadsight spell burst like a soap bubble. Thadred jumped with a curse—to him, it would have appeared as if a girl with blood smears on her face popped into existence.

  “Who are you?” Daindreth demanded. “How did you do that?”

  Amira twisted her wrist inward, snapping out of his grip. She moved a little slow, but still managed to yank herself free.

  She reached for another knife at her thigh and slashed for Daindreth’s chest. He leaned back. Her blade ripped through linen, but she didn’t see blood.

  “Dain! Guards!” Thadred shouted. He staggered back, leaning heavily on his cane.

  The archduke reached for her again and Amira’s blade slashed across the back of his forearm a second time and he hissed in pain, red dripping from his cut sleeve.

  “My lord!”

  Guards flooded the tent this time. They closed the distance between the entrance and Amira in a heartbeat, or perhaps she was slow from losing so much ka. The first spear jabbed for her side and she stumbled back.

  “No! I want her alive!” the archduke shouted.

  Amira had no intentions of being taken alive.

  She flicked her wrist and a knife plunked into the shoulder of the nearest guard. He flinched but didn’t fall back. Amira retreated only to hit taut canvas.

  She dodged the second strike, diving for the tent entrance. The servants scattered and Thadred dragged back the archduke while the guards swarmed after her.

  Amira dodged the first two strikes, but a third spear thrust and she wasn’t fast enough. Her body jerked and she heard her armor tear, but it wasn’t until she stumbled past the fire that she realized blood soaked her side and hip.

  Shouts and screams rose over the camp as the alarm was raised. Amira ducked and stumbled to the picket lines, where she had seen the horses.

  Survive. That was one of her father’s earlier commands. She kept it at the forefront of her mind, burning and echoing through her skull in case the curse decided she was being disobedient.

  The horse boys scrambled out of their blankets barefoot in nothing but their trousers, rushing to secure the horses. In the dark, Amira stumbled to the center of the picket line, beating the boys there.

  She passed over several pack mules and docile-looking cart horses. A large head yanked up and whinnied, jerking back on its lead rope.

  The head belonged to a destrier, perhaps seventeen hands high or more. The towering horse’s halter lashed him between two whickering mules. The animals stomped anxiously but didn’t bray.

  Amira snatched a bridle from the rows of tack and ducked under the picket line. The stallion’s nostrils flared at the scent of blood, but he was a warhorse. He should be trained to tolerate it. The horse snorted and stomped, either in fear or excitement, she couldn’t tell.

  Even the mules shied from the scent of her blood while the horse boys came running to move up and down the line, trying to quiet the animals.

  “Hey!” One of them spotted Amira.

  She finished pulling the bridle over the destrier’s ears and buckling the throat latch. She took a fistful of the big horse’s mane and swung aboard. Her side twinged. In the dark, it was hard to know the extent of her injury, but some distant part of her mind could tell that it was bad—very bad.

  Amira turned the destrier’s head in the direction of the trees and slammed her heels into his sides. The stallion bolted and she clung to his mane to stay on.

  The big horse charged toward the dark lines of trees, hooves eating up the distance in heartbeats.

  At their backs, soldiers called out. Arrows whipped past, striking the trees and the dirt around them. Amira doubled over the horse’s neck, every stride sending a jolt of pain to her ribs.

  The destrier stumbled in the dark and Amira slammed forward onto his neck with enough force to drive the wind out of her, but she held on, gasping, as he skittered sideways to regain his footing.

  Doubled over with her cheek pressed to his black mane, she angled him toward the north star and pulled on the reins. The destrier snorted, slowing into a canter.

  After a few miles, she eased the destrier to a walk. It was unlikely the imperials would chase her in the dark. There was too much risk of an ambush for them.

  Amira squinted upwards, making out the faint light of stars between the trees. Once she could make an educated guess of the right direction, she turned her stolen horse toward Lashera.

  Chapter Two

  Kingdom’s Sacrifice

  Amira hated to let Fonra see her cry. It was why Amira told the surgeon not to let her sister in the room when they began their work.

  Still, Fonra came running as soon as she heard.

  Penrad had found Amira covered in her own blood and about to fall off her stolen destrier. He hadn’t asked her if she’d succeeded. It had probably seemed obvious. For once, he hadn’t nagged her as he’d shuffled her back to the palace and sent her straight to the surgeon.

  How had Fonra heard Amira was back? The assassin didn’t bother to ask. Regardless, the princess pounded on the door to Amira’s room
until the surgeon caved and let her in.

  Fonra knelt beside the bed, letting Amira grip her hand so hard the older girl feared she might crush it. The surgeon’s analgesics could only do so much. Wavering in and out of lucidity, Amira pressed her cheek into her pillow while tears mixed with mud, sweat, and blood on the blankets.

  Amira had endured worse, but after giving up so much ka, her body’s natural healing process had stunted. The wound wasn’t scabbing properly and kept bleeding. Unlike Fonra, King Hyle didn’t come to see Amira. He sent a messenger ordering the surgeon to fix the girl or face the consequences.

  In her stupor of pain and narcotics, Amira wondered if her mother would have come, if she’d known her daughter was hurt. The Istovari sorceresses were allegedly masters of healing, but Amira doubted they would waste their talents on her.

  It didn’t matter anyway. No one had heard from Amira’s mother or her people in almost twenty years.

  Once the surgeons left, Fonra vehemently ordered the lingering servants out of the apartment. Amira watched, propped on a pillow, brows raised. She could count on one hand the number of times Fonra had raised her voice.

  When she was done, Fonra cradled Amira’s hand in both of hers and wept. “How could His Majesty let this happen to you?” she sniffled, her tears staining the bed’s coverlet. “You nearly died. You—”

  “Fonra!” Queen Hyle’s voice was like the screech of a crow from the other side of the wall. “Girl, get out here!”

  The door burst open and Queen Hyle filled the doorway in an explosion of lace and organza. She hadn’t even allowed the servants to open the door ahead of her. A rare breach of protocol.

  Her Majesty wore her face paints, jewels, and precious fabrics, but any natural beauty she might have had was quashed by a perpetual glower, especially whenever she saw Amira.

  Amira bristled and attempted to rise. She preferred to stand in the presence of her enemies, but her stitches gave a sharp throb. Wincing, she managed to prop herself up on one elbow.

  “Fonra,” Queen Hyle snapped, leaving off her daughter’s title. Two breaches of protocol in as many seconds? She must be truly livid.

  Queen Hyle folded her hands in front of her like a knight slamming down the visor of his helmet—battle ready. “Fonra, His Imperial Highness’s retinue was spotted not an hour ago. Your father wants you ready to receive your bridegroom when he reaches the courtyard.”