3
Blind trust was something Valine never understood, and it seemed she and the king had that in common. He warned her, as he handed her a thin shawl that future attempts on his life would not be appreciated, and he hoped that his generous payment would be enough for her to joyfully stay in his employ. She wasn’t a fool; she knew this was the best thing she was ever going to get. Even then, she knew her word wasn’t going to be enough. Malik informed her there were servants she’d encounter that wouldn’t simply be chambermaids or cooks but rather spies, and she’d be checked in on. She expected nothing less of the dark monarch.
Surprisingly enough, they returned her stolen weapons to her without a word. Seems some form of trust was at present—she’d remember that for the future.
Alastair led them out, followed by Malik and then herself, with Sarim taking up the rear. Once they were out on the cobbles, a fifth shadow joined their ensemble, and Malik nodded to them. They formed a cage around Valine, hoods up with Alastair whistling without a care. To her right, the king’s face was turned to her, the shadows from the hood obscuring those mysterious eyes. But she felt him watching.
The night was cold, just on the cusp of the Cold Season, and frost threatened to coat the trees. Even then, the shawl they’d given her was nowhere near warm enough, especially in her soaking-wet state. Instead of shivering and chattering her teeth like she wanted to, she gritted and powered through.
“I don’t suppose we’ll be announcing my placement at the palace as an assassin.”
“No,” Malik chuckled. “You’ll be posing as an unattached companion to the hopeful brides next year.”
“You’re betrothed?”
“Saints, no.” He was aghast. “But I’ve been receiving pressure from neighboring kingdoms to commit and solidify alliances, so they’re sending their daughters in hopes of winning my heart and fealty. We have not confirmed who yet will arrive.
“You will be learning their secrets and seeing where it gets us. Perhaps the Princess of Valencya prefers to fuck women? Or the Duchess of Ophette has a terrible drug addiction? Whatever gets them out of my home and their father’s coins in my pockets.”
“Or their kingdoms under your thumb?” she commented dryly.
Malik smiled. “You learn fast.”
They walked in silence for a few moments, their footsteps and Alastair’s whistling the only sound from the quintet. Around them were townhouses shuttered against the night, taverns and pubs quietly hosting only the most committed or desolate of drinkers. Oil lamps glowed gold over the street, some luxmancer and pyromancer-powered lighting reflecting the previous night’s rainfall on the black rocks. Night-blooming jasmine scented the air, the tiny white flowers nestled in beds along the walk, short wrought iron fences guarding them. Tall deciduous trees surrounded them, allowing only a sliver of starlight to penetrate the canopy above. They were in Astra, the old quarter where King Malik’s father, Saalim Halil Amir, swore to protect the old growth and integrity of heritage buildings.
Astra and Nyxia were twin cities, most establishments congregating on the line between the two, known as the Edge—or Astra’s Edge, and the reverse towards Nyxia’s in the case of being in the perspective of the latter. The most notable differences were that Astra was older and seedier, and Nyxia was traditional and contained the palace.
Under Saalim’s peaceful rule, this area flourished. The entire city prospered, but after his untimely death and the several years since, Astra fell into corruption. Now, it boasted a large amount of organized crime, devious associations, and cabals—associations and cabals that Valine now realized Malik had his fingers in.
In the distance sat the castle. It was a massive gothic structure of obsidian, granite, and slate, tall spires stretching into the star-scattered sky. Stained glass windows in emerald, gold, and ruby adorned the towers, diamond-pane windows glowed with warmth from the many rooms and halls boasted throughout. The roofs were tiled in the deepest sage, and gargoyle statues perched on the eves, watching over the city. Towers and turrets hanging onto the fringes of the structure like fingers of a beast.
Valine had never been inside the palace herself, but she’d heard it was dark and beautiful. Brutal and lovely. She’d heard that cruelty streaked the walls as sure as gold dripped from the ceilings.
“In addition to your companion status, I’ll also require you to leave the kingdom on occasion. Certain kings and lords will not bend to my rule, and I’ll need them taken care of.”
Valine nearly stopped in her tracks. “That was never part of the deal.”
“For the amount I’m paying you, I could be asking you to scrub chamber pots.”
She wrinkled her nose. “The castle doesn’t have plumbing?”
Ever since hydromancers existed, people have used hydromancer-powered plumbing, but some kingdoms have shunned the use of magic, refusing the new and upholding archaic and ridiculous practices on the foundation of tradition. Runell was one such kingdom—she hadn’t anticipated Adraali would also be one of them. Especially since most of the establishments—if they were not questionable locations—had it.
“Of course, it does. But that’s not my point,” Malik answered, nearly offended.
“I have a rule against working with royals. I drew the line at working for you.”
This time, he actually stopped, and their entourage continued as if this was something they expected. Malik backed her up against the stone pillar of a bridge they were about to cross. He was so close she could smell the cloves on his breath, feel the heat from his body. He pressed her against the stone, his hands hot and rough on her shoulders.
“I don’t give a fuck if you have any qualms. You made a line? Draw a new one. There are certain things I will allow you to refuse me. You choose not to use sex as a weapon? Fine. If you know a better way to get the job done, then, by all means, do it. If you prefer to use poison rather than a blade? Great. If you think we should wait to target a mark for a different time? I understand; I defer to you because death is your area of expertise. But if you try to tell me you won’t kill a sniveling duke when I know you pulled every single one of Ishaq’s teeth from his mouth, then you’re full of shit. You want to be known as a coward and an embarrassment?”
Valine’s worst trait erupted from her. Her hot-headedness.
“Fuck you.”
Without thinking, without consideration, she shoved the king. He stumbled back a step, and she took the moment to punch him square in the jaw. Surprise lit them both up, and he returned to her with higher intensity and fervor, his arm pinned against her neck and his body flush against her. His hood had fallen back, and she saw the raw fury in his beguiling gaze—the blood dripping from the cut on his lip.
She realized it wasn’t just his arm he had against her throat, but a short blade.
“Don’t you ever—” he said with lethal calm, and panic flickered through her, “—lay a finger on me again. Or I will ensure you lose that finger, and any further transgressions will be punished accordingly.” He was so composed.
Blood leaked down his mouth and his chin. She watched it disappear into the stubble that was turning into a beard, and she held her breath, containing her ire. She felt her lungs expand, her heart race. Blood rushed her face and burned beneath her skin.
“Is that a promise?” she taunted.
“Don’t play coy, assassin. You speak freely because you are afraid, and you think by acting boldly it will protect you. Not only are you a coward, but you are impulsive. The only reason you have those self-imposed rules is because you have something to hide.” His voice was low, careful as his hand ghosted down her body. “If you want to keep those highborn roots of yours hidden,” he paused, searching her gaze as her breath caught. “Try harder.”
He released her, and she felt stripped. He’d seen right through her, and she felt naked and vulnerable before him. Her fa?ade had been thin as tissue. Malik’s words were wind against it, and it took so little for him to unveil her. The only solace was that she kept the worst of her secrets buried inside, beneath the dirt over her grave and inside the casket of her soul.
“What gave me away?”
A slight twitch of his lips indicated that he didn’t quite know, but she’d confirmed it. She cursed herself for slipping up again and strengthening his suspicions.
Malik swiped the blood on his mouth with the pad of his thumb, and the movement captivated her. He stared at it for a moment before continuing.
“The cadence of your words, you speak softer than commonfolk. Not to mention, all of your blades are very expensive, so you have a penchant for luxury born either of wealth or the lack thereof.” As he said this, he tossed her the jeweled blade she’d used to kill Ishaq—the one that was hidden in her boot.
It seemed the king was talented in the arts of sleight-of-hand. It irked her.
Valine caught her thieved property in the air and snarled. The blade was special. Amethyst, opal, and gold, held in a filigree design of blackberry. Leaves, thorns, berries and all. It was her first and most treasured. It also had imbued properties that detected poisons, turning the blade to a sickly green-violet shade.
“Stay on your toes, Little Liar.”
He turned on his heel, pulled up his hood, and continued walking with the rest of the group. The golden lamps caught his silhouette and ringed it with an aura. It made him look regal. Powerful. Like the coronas that circled the heads of saints. Malik held his back straight and walked with the grace of power, wealth, and status. It was filled with confidence, and even from their distance, she knew a smug grin caught his mouth.
Valine was furious that he was so sure she would follow him. The wrath flowed hot and red through her because not only did he hold her entire career at his mercy, but it was humiliation to trail after him like a beaten dog for its master.
Mustering all the dignity she could and ignoring the cold penetrating her bones, she stepped onto the bridge and continued the trek to Malik and her fate.
They entered through the waterways. A large wooden wheel churned up the water from the river—a backup in case the hydromancer-powered machinery failed—and they slipped behind it one by one and through the hidden passage there. It was dark, but what little she could see was rock. They were surrounded by stone and the thrumming of the waterwheel. The vibrations sent tremors through her body and made the already slick stones near treacherous. The tunnel was wet and dank, filled with the scent of damp stone and iron. A whispered word and the gloom was illuminated by a ball of sapphire light conjured by Alastair.
Because, of course, the Runellian was a mage.
She wondered what his affinity was. Luxmancy? Pyromancy?
Alistair caught her eyeing this magic, and he grinned. “Vitamancer.”
Dread hit her like a lead block.
Not a simple light mage or even a fire mage, but a fucking life mage.
Valine’s stomach sank. What a sick joke. He was her opposite. A vitamancer. She’d never encountered her mirror equal in all of her twenty-six years. Valine couldn’t afford a complication like that. Not only was he able to nullify her abilities, but his magic stemmed from life. Therefore, he was constantly powered by the vitality of animals, of the people around him, of his own damned self. Death was only in so many places, and she had to ensure those tools were at her disposal. She had a certain level of reserves within her, but if she had access to instruments of death and decay, then she had to pull less from herself and take from them. If those were unavailable, then her magic drew her closer to the afterlife.
The only comfort she felt from this was that she nullified his abilities as well.
A common misconception was that vitamancers took life from themselves and others, but that wasn’t the case. In fact, the opposite was true. They were charged by life. That life circled through them and they then poured more of it out. There had been cases of people living two centuries from prolonged contact with a vitamancer.
They magnified life.
It made sense why Malik kept him around. However, what didn’t make sense was why his family sent him away, even if he was out whoring and drinking. To shun a vitamancer, even in Runell was the epitome of stupidity. Either they must not have known, or it was a cover. Or even Malik had enough blackmail to retain the mage’s presence at his side.
Alastair began leading them further into the bowels of the castle, and Malik followed closely behind him. Valine remained rooted in place, still reigning in her shock as Sarim prodded her forward with an elbow. She shook herself out of it as a feminine giggle startled her. She had assumed the figure that had joined their entourage was a lean male, but evidently, it was a tall and willowy woman.
She shook off her hood, and being in her presence was like taking a personal blow to her self-esteem. This woman was magnificent. She was sun-kissed with long, sleek blonde hair the color of starlight. Her eyes were fierce and long-lashed, bright green-gold and cunning. Her features were exquisite; full red lips, high and regal cheekbones, a jaw so sharp it could cut glass, brows perfectly arched and severe on her beautiful face.
Valine had never found herself particularly attracted to women, but this one had her questioning herself.
“Freyja Nahara,” the woman introduced. Her accent was the lilting tone of Thycca, the same that Valine herself had donned to con Ishaq with.
“Valine Hardgrave.”
Freyja’s mouth twitched as if prepared to call her lie. They both knew Hardgrave was a pseudonym. An assassin with the last name containing “grave”? It was bullshit.
“Charmed,” she said instead.
Turning back to the others, Valine picked up the pace and traversed the remainder of the tunnel. They ascended several flights of stairs. Each stair brought them to progressively drier and warmer air and stones, lit only by Alastair’s indigo vitamancy. The scent of cinnamon, black orchid, and tobacco caught Valine’s attention, and she was surprised to see lanterns hanging on the walls on the seventh landing.
At the end of the tunnel—which Valine now realized had turned into a hallway with several others attached—was not a dead-end like she thought, but the back of a very large tapestry. Pulling the tapestry back, Alastair ushered them all through, and as Valine entered, she was taken aback.
Not only were they well within the palace…they were in the throne room.
Valine took in her surroundings, awestruck.
The room was like a cathedral. A tall, arched ceiling reached to a golden point, gold leaf on the filigree designs, skylights of emerald stained glass ruled over them. Walls of deepest and gleaming obsidian, pillars of gilt black marble. The floor was a massive expanse of jet inset with an enormous motif of a fanged serpent and orchids. At the tail of the snake, as if the monster were protecting it, stood a grand throne. Plush viridian velvet, black iron, and bright gold. It sat on a three-tiered dais, alternating from onyx to more of that auric metal. Wrought iron chandeliers dripped emeralds, diamonds, and rubies, flouting the lavishness of the royal wealth. Crimson, petaled sconces on the walls held candles that smelled of cloves, and cinnamon, black orchid bouquets graced each of the statues of the patrons. The tapestry they’d entered from behind was deep evergreen emblazoned with a massive pair of leathery daemon wings. They were illustrated in ebony and gilded with details. Fine florals and forest illustrations graced it, blackberries wrought in an aura, wolves gleaming, mountains glittering. Across from it was its mirror, the same depiction only with a golden corona haloing clasped hands.
Valine was so caught up in the grandeur she nearly jumped out of her skin when an explosion erupted from the tunnel.