Of the five kings who had ruled in the past three years, Gaius Rothalan was said to be the worst. Not because he was a bad ruler, but because he was merciless.
When Thea had petitioned for an audience with the crown, the third king of those five had still been the man wearing it. Now she stood outside the palace with her letter of audience crumpled in her hands, unsure if it was worth setting foot inside the throne room.
“In or out,” the guard at the gate said, as if her tiny moment of hesitation were a burden. “You’re the last one today. The gate shuts after you.”
Flustered, Thea gripped her paper and hurried into the courtyard. Afternoon sun dappled the cobblestones, casting everything in shades of gold. The manicured maples that lined the walkway fluttered their orange and yellow leaves in the wind, promising more color in the coming days. Autumn had arrived a bit early this year. Everyone swore it meant winter would be hard. All the more reason to ensure her business was settled now, she reminded herself. The harder the winter, the riskier the travel. Should the winter prove as cold as the sugarmakers claimed, being turned out of her home due to a clerical error no one had been able to resolve could end with an icy death.
“You’re late,” called another guard as she approached the palace doors.
Thea was never late. She was also in no position to argue with any of the king’s guards, so she kept her jaw clamped tight as she turned the letter of audience for his inspection. He waved her on like it didn’t matter. She supposed it didn’t. The first guard wouldn’t have allowed her through the gate without that letter.
“Won’t be anyone left in the sitting hall this time of day,” the guard said. “Go on down the hall and straight to the throne room. Don’t knock, he’s waiting. Best pray he’s not annoyed.”
“Thank you.” She glanced to the door, half expecting the man might open it for her, but he remained at the foot of the shallow stairs. She continued on her own, letting herself into the palace.
Though the rich red granite of the palace exterior led her to expect it would be dark inside, high, narrow windows let in enough warm light that it didn’t take long for her vision to adjust. The notion of a sitting hall left her anticipating a waiting room, but instead, a long corridor ran straight to the next set of doors. Benches lined the walls.
“Sitting hall indeed,” Thea murmured to herself as she made for the doors at the far end. All she had to do was go in. The letter granting her audience was all she held, but notes filled the pockets of her skirt. With fortune, the king would be willing to let her read them. Knowing his reputation, she might be allowed two sentences.
She paused outside the doors, drew a deep breath, and willed her hands not to shake. A stray thread on her sleeve caught her attention, a small reminder of the dozen or so garments she still had to stitch magic into, and she plucked it off with a wince. She’d done her best to be presentable and professional. Now all she could do was hope.
Thea squeezed her eyes shut and pushed into the throne room.
A gurgle greeted her and her eyes flew open.
Before the throne, a man in black jerked a blade from the king’s chest. Two guards lay beside Thea’s feet, slow-spreading pools of crimson beneath their bodies. The crown fell from the king’s head and rolled lazily across the room. She watched, frozen, as it tipped over right in front of her and wobbled circles against the floor.
Her chest grew tighter, until she couldn’t breathe. A low throb echoed in her ears, the sound of her own pulse drowning out the rattle of the crown and the sick saw-smack of the knife.
The crown stopped and the air rushed back into her lungs.
Thea screamed.
The killer spun toward her with the king’s severed head in hand. Instead of the murderer’s face, she was greeted by a silver executioner’s mask.
She screamed again and an instant later, he was on her. His free hand closed on her arm with the strength of a vise.
Guards burst through the door at her back. They shouted in alarm as they all but tripped over the bodies of their comrades. The assassin spat a curse and released her arm. The guards drew weapons, but he was fast, and a flurry of punches and kicks drove the men to their knees.
Thea turned to flee, but the man in black caught her arm again before she could. He drew a breath as if to speak. Instead of his words, a shrill whistle split the air, and he swore again. “Run!” he snarled, dragging her through the door.
The whistle piped again and a clatter of boots rose in the hall. Thea dug in her heels and strained against the assassin’s grasp. He was stronger than she expected and when he pulled again, he almost dragged her off her feet.
Guards spilled into the far end of the sitting hall. More footsteps rose in the throne room behind them, accompanied by cries of dismay as they found what remained of the king. Thea’s eyes swung down to the head in her captor’s hand before she caught herself. Her stomach lurched and she lost her will to fight.
The assassin bore enough battle lust for both of them. He released her long enough to launch himself at the guards, his strikes precise and devastating. They tried to swarm him, but the hall was too narrow for more than a few to face him at once.
Thea spun back toward the throne room. She made it two steps before he had her again.
“I mean to kill only once more,” he snapped. “Your blood will not be on my hands.”
They burst from the palace and descended the stairs before the gate guard intercepted them. A fist to the face sent him crashing to the ground. Then they were beyond the gate, running for some narrow alley while a chorus of screams rose from the city’s people. What was she doing? By the Light, she was running from the law!
Shadow swallowed them and at last, they slowed. Thea jerked her arm free and clapped her hands to her middle. She felt for her pockets, then looked at her palms. Empty. Her paper was gone. “My audience!” she cried.
“Audience?” The assassin turned toward her. His arm shifted and she screwed her eyes shut, lest he make her look at the king’s severed head.
This was not how the day was supposed to go.
When she pried her eyes open to see if she could run—from him, this time, instead of the guards—she saw him fold shut the flap of a leather satchel, sealing the head away from view. He wiped his hand against his hip and looked back the way they’d come. “We must go.”
“We?” she repeated, incredulous.
The sounds of the city beyond their cranny grew louder. The baying of hounds rose above the thunder of boots and armor. Before she could protest again, he snagged her wrist and led her farther down the winding alleyways. She thought of fighting back, but the cries of the dogs put a lump of fear in her throat and the sight of the leather satchel that bumped at his hip made her knees feel like water. She wobbled on her feet, but his grip never faltered.
What little strength she had collected in her voice and escaped as a single protest. “Let me go.”
Her captor said nothing. Nor did his hold on her abate. Step by step, he led her deeper into parts of the city she had never seen. In the dark, narrow alleys of Samara, the cool autumn air turned sour with the stench of rotting garbage and damp, decaying leaves. The hounds’ keening grew distant and faded.
They emerged between shacks near the lake. The streets here were little more than mud, but they were empty. Soft breezes whispered through the leaves and stirred the water to lap against the shore, both sounds something that should have been peaceful. Instead, they put Thea on edge. Whoever lived on the city’s outskirts, they were gone for the day, earning their keep elsewhere.
There was no one nearby to hear if she cried for help.
A small lean-to against the back of a rough house was where they stopped, though only for a moment. The assassin’s hand closed on the lock and she didn’t see what he did, but a snap split the peace and the lock fell to the ground. He jerked open the door and thrust her inside.
Panic surged in her chest as she stumbled into a pile of firewood and he slammed the door shut behind them.
“Don’t kill me!” she gasped, her hands up, palms out, as if she held any power to stop him. She hadn’t even been able to prevent him from dragging her through the city while fear held her tongue.
He snorted. “I’ve told you already, your blood will not be on my hands.” The lean-to was poorly constructed, with wide gaps between the vertical boards that comprised the walls, providing enough light to see him clearly. He swept the uncomfortably familiar executioner’s mask from his face and cast it to the floor.
Thea had expected many things from the assassin, but that he might be handsome wasn’t one of them. The notion that killers ought to be as frightful on the outside as they were on the inside sprang to mind, but she quickly stuffed it down. Her brother’s killers had been handsome, too. It hadn’t changed his wrongful death.
He left the mask on a stack of firewood and raked his fingers through his dirty blond hair. When he looked at her again, he exhaled hard. “You weren’t supposed to be there. No one was supposed to be there.”
“I had an audience,” Thea protested.
His brows rose. “Then you were late, because audience hours were over.”
“I was not late!” She clenched her hands to fists and stomped one foot, only realizing after she’d done it that showing belligerence to a man with a severed head tied to his belt might be unwise. Her throat thickened and she gulped. “My letter said the king would see me at five.”
“It did not say five.”
Her jaw tightened until it ached. “Well I can’t prove you wrong now, my letter is gone.” And so were her chances of having her problem solved. The gravity of everything that had just transpired bore down on her shoulders until she thought she might collapse.
Her letter was gone, and so was the king. The last of the Rothalan line had been murdered right in front of her. The kingdom would be in turmoil before the sun set. And here she was, standing in a wood shed with the man who had done it, arguing over whether or not she’d read her letter wrong.
Thea made herself wet her lips with her tongue. When she spoke again, her voice shook. “I won’t tell anyone I’ve seen you. Please, spare me. I’ll make no trouble.”
“No.” The single word was spoken without hesitation, firm as the ground beneath her feet.
Her heart beat faster. “But you said—”
“That I won’t kill you, yes. That’s fun, isn’t it.” The sarcastic edge in his voice took her off-guard. Again, he slid his fingers through his hair. Why was he so troubled? He had no right.
“Then why did you bring me here?”
The look he gave her made her feel the answer should have been obvious. “You were the last person to enter the throne room. The only person the guards knew was present. You stood in the throne room with murdered guards at your feet. What do you suppose would be done to you, had I left you behind?”
Her hand rose to her throat before she could stop it.
“Precisely.” He turned as if to pace, but there was nowhere for him to go. The twitch of a muscle in his cheek betrayed his frustration. “Had I left you there, you would be executed by morning. Had I left you there, knowing I bore the power to spare you, I would be as guilty of your death as I am of his.” His hand hovered above the satchel, then went for the mask. He contemplated it for a moment, then gritted his teeth and left it where it was.
Thea gripped her skirt in both hands. “Then you’ve spared me and done your part. Leave me here. I’ll escape on my own, go back to my shop—”
“To where the guards will be looking for you?” He arched a brow. “You showed a letter with your name on it to every guard between me and the front gate. Whoever you are, you’re a wanted woman now, and there’s no going back.”
“Thea.”
“What?”
“My name,” she replied hotly. “Who I am.”
“I don’t care who you are. All I care about is getting both of us out of this mess, so I can keep my conscience clear.”
Her eyes widened. “Your conscience? You have a man’s head in your bag!”
He glanced down at it with a frown, as if he’d not yet considered its moral implications. By the Light, what sort of assassin had she gotten herself tangled up with?
Either he reached a conclusion or he decided it didn’t matter, for he glowered at her a second later. “The hounds are still after us and the scent of blood will lead them this way with ease. At this moment, you have two choices. You may stay here, or you may come with me. If they catch you, you will be executed. If you stay with me, I’ll take you somewhere safe before I continue on my quest.”
“Your quest,” she repeated.
The flat stare he gave her indicated he would discuss it no further.
A distant howl caught her attention. They both turned toward it, though there was nothing to be seen beyond the lean-to’s slats. In the moment of silence that followed, she grew aware of her heartbeat drumming in her ears.
Against her better judgment, she found herself turning her gaze to the silver executioner’s mask that lay on the wood. It was the same, she was sure of it. How strange that the mask that had haunted her nightmares since her brother’s wrongful death might now lead to hers, too. How might things be different, if Ashvin had been presented the same opportunity? A chance to face the crime he was accused of—a crime he’d not committed, but for which he’d surely be punished—or a chance to flee?
As if to hasten her decision, the assassin slid his hand over the mask’s features. He removed it from the wood pile and thrust it into his bag. Had he stolen it from the palace, or were such masks all the same? Did it matter if they were? She stared at the bag until she realized he’d placed the mask in with the king’s head, then tore her eyes away.
The choices were cooperation or death. In truth, that was no choice at all. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, defeated, and the simple words made the assassin’s shoulders sag with relief.
“I’ll go.”
