When Thea woke, she was alone. Her sewing basket remained, as did Gil’s dagger wedged at the window, but the chair that had pinned the door shut was back beside the table. His boots were gone.
Afternoon sunshine peeked between the curtains, promising to aid with her grogginess, so she pulled them back and let the light spill in. A few voices carried from somewhere downstairs, or perhaps elsewhere in the rooms nearby, but she recognized none of them and couldn’t make out what they said.
For a time, she lay listening and did nothing at all. Wasting precious time, she told herself grudgingly when she finally pushed herself upright. If Gil was out, it was the best time to work on her trousers. While she was still tired, she was no longer exhausted, and magic felt within reach once more. She stripped off her trousers and dragged her sewing basket onto the bed, then sat cross-legged on the mattress and wrapped the blankets around her bare legs. The fabric of her trousers was stiff and dirty after their slog through the river, but there was nothing to be done about it now. Eventually, she’d reach somewhere she might be able to wash them.
Despite having sewn them in the dark, she congratulated herself on a job not terribly done as she picked out the stitches and settled to working more magic into new, proper seams. She worked faster when she was alone and undistracted and it didn’t take long to finish. She considered trying to do something with the raw edges at the bottom of the cut bodice she still wore, then discarded the idea. There was no sense in wasting time repairing something old that couldn’t hold much new magic.
Instead, she pulled a piece of cream-colored fabric from the basket and measured out simple blocks to shape into a tunic. It would be practice, she told herself; something to refresh her skills and determine the best way to craft their disguises. It mattered less if her illusions weren’t perfect. She could make new garments to redo them later if she chose. For Gil, she only had one chance to craft something good enough that he’d leave her be and never return.
“And any artificer worth their salt will someday trace that right back to you,” she murmured as she double-checked her measurements and made the first cut. Everyone’s power bore a unique signature. The more potent the magic, the clearer that signature grew. Yet there was little she could do about that. Illusions were always potent, and dulling it down would only fail to meet his request.
His demand, she told herself. He hadn’t needed to say much for it to be clear there was no room to turn him down. She could tell herself she’d chosen this path, but it didn’t make it true. Choosing to help was no choice at all when the alternative was the gallows—or the headsman’s axe.
By the time the door creaked open, she’d finished her tunic and had just slid it on. Her fingers were cramped, as were her shoulders, but she knew her illusion was effective the moment Gil stepped inside and froze.
“You’ve changed your hair.” A strange note colored his voice. Disappointment? Thea couldn’t fathom why. Her curls shimmered like the brown-black of a starling’s wing. She’d always wanted darker hair. Why shouldn’t she have it?
Instead of replying, she stuck out one leg. “I finished my pants, as well. I’ll be shorter now. At least, at a glance.” Most people could see through an illusion if they knew it wasn’t real; it took momentous effort to create an illusion so strong that its power overtook reason. Glamours were weakest when one didn’t believe, or when they suspected what they saw was false. In an ironic way, that had made her illusions stronger. If illusions were forbidden in Kentoria, no one had any reason to doubt their eyes.
He was less interested in her pants. “I see.” He shifted to display a plate he balanced on one hand as he closed the door with the other. “I’ve brought you breakfast. I’m afraid it’s cold. And left over after middays, but Jaret’s sister prepares a fine meal.”
Thea gathered her supplies and stuffed them into the basket. “Thank you. I’m ravenous, but I didn’t want to set foot downstairs until…” She motioned to her outfit.
“Wise. I’m afraid the news has already spread.” He passed her the plate and then pulled out the chair so he could sit. He’d slept less than she had, yet he appeared fresh and vital. At some point, she’d have to ask what sort of conditioning he underwent to achieve that. For now, all she did was tuck into her food.
The meal was nothing special, just roasted vegetables and meat from some sort of fowl, but Thea devoured it before she had time to decide it didn’t taste all that good once cold. It must have been delightful when it was warm. She cleaned every bit from her plate before Gil spoke again.
“We will sleep here tonight, and then we will have exhausted Jaret’s hospitality. We must resume travel before the sun rises tomorrow morning.” He rubbed his palms against his thighs. “In the meantime…”
“You expect me to sew,” she finished for him.
His shoulders relaxed. “Yes.” Had he feared she might refuse or resist? It wasn’t as if she had any other options.
She pushed herself from the bed and sat her empty plate on the table. “We’ll start with something simple, then. Stand up.”
He rose before she could move back and she found herself only inches from his chest, looking up at him. Her heart leaped into her throat at the same time her stomach dropped. She’d known he was tall, but to be so close made him loom over her like the red granite walls of Samara’s palace. He was giant, and every inch of him exuded the sort of violent strength she could only pray she’d never see. Her pulse soared as fear gripped her chest and threatened to tear her apart. Her knees wobbled and she stumbled back a step before his hand shot out to stop her.
No, not to stop her. His fingers curled around her elbow and rebalanced her as his other hand came forward to seize her other arm and keep her from tipping over. His grip was firm, but gentle, and he averted his eyes with a sheepish bite of his lip. “Sorry.”
The ridiculousness of it all—his speed and her reaction—tore a laugh from her throat. She stepped backwards, more steady now, and drew her arms out of his grasp. “Maybe not so fast, next time.”
“Of course.” He didn’t look her way again as she retrieved her measuring tape from her basket, but she found herself fixated on his eyes anyway. Not storm-gray, not steel. Now they were soft, the comforting gray of the family cat’s coat. She tilted her head and watched him until he finally glanced in her direction. For a moment, she saw uncertainty. Then it hardened, and the storm came back.
She unrolled her tape. “Put out your arms, spread as wide as you can reach.”
Gil brought his feet together and stood straight with his arms to either side. She ducked under one of his arms to stand behind him and measure from the center of his spine to his fingertips and down the length of his back. Then she slipped to the front again and draped her measuring tape around his neck. He twitched as she drew it close.
“Sorry,” she murmured. Few people liked having the tape around their necks. She supposed an assassin might like it least of all. She checked the markings, then gave him the tape’s end. “Here, hold this against that bone in your spine at the base of your neck.”
He did as he was told, his face twisting with a quizzical frown as she brought the rest of the tape up over his head.
“For the hood,” Thea explained. “I’m making your cloak.”
“Ah.” He let go of the tape when she tugged on it and then lowered his arms. “The simplest to make, I assume.”
“And the most effective, at the same time. Cloaks are ideal carriers for illusion magic. Their entire purpose is to cover someone.” She returned to the bed and pulled the green fabric from the basket. “It’s also probably the most useful, since the rest of your outfit won’t stand out so badly with this over the top.”
Gil made a thoughtful sound. “I’d prefer red. It’s autumn.”
“Red cloaks are unlucky. And they draw a lot of attention. Green is an auspicious color. For spring, growth, new life.” She shook out the fabric and then spread it on the floor so she could fold it into a rectangle. It wasn’t wide enough for a full circle, she could tell already. “Besides, I didn’t pack any red.”
“Unfortunate. It’s my favorite.” He moved his chair back to give her more space to work, then sat.
“I’m sure there’s something to be said about an assassin choosing red as their favorite color, but it strikes me as distasteful, so I won’t say it.” Thea hooked a finger in the corner of the folded fabric to pull it out smooth.
“I never actually said I was an assassin. You made that assumption on your own.”
“Is it wrong?”
“That depends on your definition of assassin.” He leaned back in his chair and when she glanced up at him, there was a playful sparkle in his eyes.
Unsettled, she made herself focus on measuring out the pieces she’d need. The sense of wrongness she’d felt the night before —the sense she was missing something—returned. But she’d started this, and to change the subject now seemed ridiculous. Shouldn’t she want more answers? “A person who kills others for money.”
“Then I am not.”
“Or,” she added, her hand poised with her chalk between her fingers, “someone who kills for political gain.”
Gil hesitated.
It was enough. “You don’t refute that one.” Though if she thought about it long enough, she’d probably question some of her own reasoning. If all it took was killing and money, then she’d have to paint Ashvin and every other soldier who’d served Kentoria with the same brush. Slowly, she shook her head. No, there was a clear difference between those who served in the kingdom’s armies and those who killed innocents for their own gain. But then, could King Gaius be considered an innocent? She wasn’t sure she’d label him so.
“It’s complicated, sometimes,” he said slowly. A response to her head-shaking, she realized; he thought she was disgusted. “And if I am to be fully honest with you, sometimes I am not sure whose benefit I’m working toward. Kentoria’s, I tell myself. But there are times I am not certain even that is true.”
The rasp of Thea’s shears struck a cadence between his words. She finished cutting and turned to put away the shears before she spoke. “It shouldn’t be that hard. Who sent you? That should tell you enough.”
He gave a soft snort. “I sent myself.”
She missed the basket and her shears hit the floor with a clack. He’d plotted this on his own? If that didn’t put him firmly in the camp of being an assassin, she didn’t know what else could. “So you seek benefit for yourself.”
“I seek answers. If those are benefits, I’ll take the blame.”
Thea didn’t know what to say. She’d already pegged him as guilty in her mind, but hearing the confirmation in his own words still caught her off guard. Yet it wasn’t quite the confirmation she’d anticipated, and while curiosity prickled at the forefront of her mind, something in the back of her head warned her not to pursue it further. Knowledge was dangerous. If he lacked answers, it made his mission that much riskier. But she lacked them too, and the tingling desire to have her questions resolved won out.
“And,” she began slowly as she threaded her needle and knotted the end, willing her power to bind there, “you think those answers will change things?”
Gil watched as she began the first seam, connecting the two halves of what would become a hood. “Yes.”
She only finished two stitches before she paused. “Why?”
“Because four Rothalan kings are dead, and the same person wanted it every time.”
Her brow furrowed. “But Gaius was the fifth king.”
His eyes darkened from storm-gray to stone. “I am aware.”
Thea stared at the needle in her hand. The tingle of magic brimmed in her fingertips, but she couldn’t make herself sew.
She’d seen the fifth king die. Watched his crown roll across the floor as Gil cut the man’s head from his shoulders. The memory of the other deaths and the simplicity of their announcements spun through her head so fast, they left her dizzy. “But that means—”
“Yes,” he finished for her, his voice both rich and resigned. “A king still lives, and I intend to put him where he belongs.”
A living king. A rightful leader for Kentoria. So her kingdom wouldn’t be reduced to shambles after all. And if Gil achieved what he was after, it would be his hand that restored peace after the travesty that had been Gaius Rothalan’s rule.
Political power like no other, right at the tips of his fingers.
She gulped and turned to face him. “Do you think that…” She trailed off as he gathered the cut fabric and pushed it into her hands.
“I think I’ve done the right thing by removing a wicked man from the throne. Whether or not the rest of my efforts will prove fruitful, it’s still too early to say. What will be fruitful is you finishing my cloak, and it’s already late afternoon. I suggest you get back to work.”
Her heart sank, but she nodded.
If anything, now she had more questions than ever before.
For one, if Gil had taken this mission for himself, why did he need the dead king’s head?
