5
Valine was born on the death date of her grandmother. She noted this because it was the anniversary, and she felt like her heart had struggled to restart today. The day marked Valine’s twenty-sixth year. It was a day she never celebrated.
Her mother told her she was a vicious woman; therefore, Valine was cursed with the sinister nature of the Desdemon matriarch. Because, of course, she was a bad omen, an ill portent if her body and soul shared such an anniversary with as a cruel creature as her. It mattered little that Valine was one of her father’s few legitimate children, and it mattered even less to her mother that even as a babe, she’d been born with beauty and lacked a colicky cry. No, she was foisted onto the family’s wet nurse rather than her own mother’s breast. The plethora of her father’s offspring had been nourished by the woman, bastard and legitimate alike, and how her mother tolerated her father’s infidelity, she’d never know. She was proud, and he was wealthy. Perhaps that was enough for a woman of high bearing who valued her image and glamorous finery.
Valine would not have submitted to a man like that.
Her mother was very different than her wet nurse. Her mother was sharp, slender, and cool, while the woman was soft, plump, and warm. She also had tired brown eyes to her mother’s vibrant jade. This brokered no surprise by the fact that her father’s entire brood had been latched onto her like a disease. Valine had never been permitted to know her name. She’d been treated like little more than a slave to the Desdemon household, yet for many years she’d been Valine’s whole world.
Because Valine was born female, she was her father’s most grievous embarrassment and she was treated worse than her father’s male bastards. Last she was able to count, his seed produced fifteen, nine of which were male. And those were only the ones she knew of.
It mattered no more; his death ended her father’s sleazy ways.
Valine thought of this not only because it was her birth date but because she woke wrapped in a bed of emerald satin, golden midmorning light cast across the sheets, heavy wood furniture standing proudly in the room, with a servant standing at the door. This servant was like her wet nurse. A slave to the crown rather than the Desdemon name.
“Miss Valine, the king requests your presence in the library. I will assist you in getting ready.”
Valine blinked the sleep from her eyes. “Yes, of course.”
She’d not bothered with a bath last night; she was much too tired. Instead, she’d stripped off all her ruined clothes, left the leather on the floor, and threw the fabric in the grand fireplace. After washing her hands and face in the attached bathroom, she’d collapsed into the bed naked, half wishing the king would join her.
Shaking the thoughts from her head, she shucked off the covers and motioned for the maid to enter the room. From the wardrobe, the woman pulled out a garment of storm silk and dark leather. It was a long-sleeved, wrapped style tunic and leggings. In addition, the woman gathered heavy socks and thigh-high boots of gleaming black, as well as one of the corsets that were singular to Adraali. It was sculpted to the female form, the breasts covered in silver filigree, the hard case of it like a frosted ocean.
The ivory and ebony tiles were cold against her bare feet, but Valine was guided to the adjoining bathroom, where a large porcelain tub sat in the center. Within moments, the servant was filling the bath with hot water and scented oils of lemongrass and citrus.
Valine took a second to admire herself in the large, gilt, floor-length mirror. She was slender with all the right curves, a contrast of starlight and midnight with her rich dark hair and creamy skin. Her eyes were a bruised sky, dark brown with the barest hint of lilac, just enough to question their depth and truth.
Of course, she could have been lovely and blemish-free, but the life of an assassin was not kind, and scars scattered her flesh with knife marks and burns and slashes and bites. There were old claw tracks and even a bullet wound, signs of a hard-worn life. How different things could have been had her father not been such a prick. Had she not been born with death magic.
Valine could see the servant adjusting the bath in the background, paying no mind to the naked assassin. It was pointless when Valine covered an ugly scar upon her ribs.
When Valine stepped into the tub, she nearly moaned with pleasure. The heat was glorious, and the smell wondrous. Sinking into the hot bath, Valine leaned back, closed her eyes, and enjoyed the sensation for a moment. The coils of steam, the smell of the oils, the fog on the stained glass windows.
The servant brought over a silver pitcher and washed her hair, but even as Valine relaxed into the bath and the woman’s touch, she didn’t truly relax. No adept assassin really could. Assassins had enemies, and Malik had made it no secret that servants and maids were spies. As the woman massaged lavender soap into Valine’s hair, she tilted her gaze to her.
The woman was perhaps a decade younger than her mother, putting her close to forty. She had soft, red hair, nothing like Alastair’s burning waves, but rather a cinnamon blend of a shade. It was tied at the nape of her neck in an elegant twist. It was a pretty look, and it showcased the woman’s slender neck. Her eyes were earthen brown, like the soil beneath the hawthorn tree at Desdemon Manor. They were wide, open and inviting, much like the tree’s shade on a mild, Hot Season day.
“What is your name?” Valine inquired, letting scented water fall from her cupped hand.
The woman smiled lightly, politely. “Diana, Miss Valine.”
“Just Valine is fine.”
“As you wish, Valine.”
Diana continued in her ministrations, massaging lemon oil into her hair and twisting Valine’s long locks away from her damp skin and over the lip of her bathtub. Producing a file, Diana took Valine’s hand and cleaned beneath her nails, despite her best efforts last night, grime and blood still caked beneath them. Diana did not comment. Once the nails were shaped and cleaned, Diana took up a sponge and set to work on Valine’s sore back, scrubbing and working the strained muscles. As much as she was adept at climbing buildings, it was not kind to the body. As Diana continued, Valine felt the knots releasing and sighed softly.
“Thank Malik for me,” Valine exhaled.
“What for?”
“For sending such a talented woman to keep watch on me.”
“It is my duty, Valine.”
“Not just that. It’s not every day the king appoints one of the ōrdinem to watch over you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Valine smiled indulgently. “You must learn to keep your weapons hidden better. Use colored glass to obscure the vibrancy of poisons, and tuck your moonstone blade deeper within your boot.”
Diana flushed, embarrassment staining her cheeks. “I did not poison you.”
“Oh, I know,” Valine assured her. “I would’ve realized it immediately. You carry such tools with self-import but hide them with afterthought. They are a point of pride but also a last resort. I’ll give you no reason to require them if you give me no threats to my person.”
Diana breathed softly. “On my honor.”
Valine nodded and lifted her foot from the hot water, examining her battered feet. They were a sight and not a pleasant one. Bruised, broken, and rough, she knew it would take pains to refine them back into what they once were in her youth.
“When did you graduate?” Valine asked as she poured more lavender oil into the bath.
“Twenty-four years ago,” Diana responded as she took up a pumice stone and set to work on Valine’s horrendous feet.
So, Diana was forty-two. Graduates of the ōrdinem trained until their eighteenth year, beginning from the age of six. They studied a balance of healing and killing. It was said that learning both earned their acolytes a higher sense of morals and judgment. Upon their tenth year, they chose their path: the ending or continuing of life. Apothecary or mithridatism. Salves or poisons. Bandages or blades. More often than not, students chose the light. As revealed by her moonstone dagger, Diana had not.
Moonstone, opal, and silver for death.
Sunstone, amber, and bronze for life.
They continued the rest of the bath in some companionable silence, interspersed with conversation, Valine luxuriating while Diana labored. The women circled tentative lines of communication; Valine knew Diana’s history, but Valine did not divulge her own. Malik had urged her into secrecy, and without crossing him, she was not willing to reveal any more than what Diana probably knew. Diana likely knew she was an unsavory sort—it didn’t take much wisdom to see scars like hers did not come from a life of luxury.
Diana dressed her and styled her hair, adding a braid and a twist and pulling the mass over her shoulder. With an added touch of cosmetics—a shadow of smoke on her eyes, a slash of liquid black across the lids, pigment for her lashes, berry on her lips—she was a sight more appealing than the sodden and dirty mess she became after the king and his trio’s visit.
On a chaise lounge were her weapons, and Valine grinned as she armed herself.
As they exited the room, a set of two young maids—one blonde, the other brunette—slipped into the room and immediately began stripping the sheets and re-dressing the bed. The heavy doors shut as Valine caught the timid eyes of the blonde. Valine realized it was likely just as many of her ladies were spies as many as others weren’t.
The halls were different in the daylight, less enticing for romantic and salacious interludes and more exposed, easier for eavesdroppers and flirtations. The stone was still dark, the diamond panes and stained glass still beautiful and intricate. The gold was even more vibrant, the viridian even more bold. The gothic palace was just as stunning under the sun as it was below the moon.
Descending a staircase with Diana leading the way, nodding to passing servants and maids, Valine took it all in. In awe and to strategize. Everyone was so busy, bustling, and hurrying. Most kept their heads down, others stood proud. It was easy to pluck out which were seniors in their posts or new as a babe to others. Valine had always prided herself on her perception. It was a skill she’d gleaned back home. When she was a lady, and servants were at her every beck and call.
There was once a maid her father had fired when Valine was twelve. She had been blamed for stealing the sugared plums when it had actually been Valine. The maid had taken it with grace and with her head high. The girl was only five years older than her but had worked for the Desdemons for ten years. Part of an ancestry whose mother and father had been part of the manor for years. It was a generation, and Valine had squandered it. She should have felt guilty, and she did in pangs and twinges, but not enough to face one of her father’s beatings. More so, if she thought about that young woman’s fate, questioned if the young girl she’d seen at the brothel two years later was really her.
Squealing hinges brought Valine back to the present, and she found herself entering a grand room. A glass ceiling, a grand marble fireplace with a chestnut mantle, fanged beasts flanking it. Heavy bookcases lined the walls and ran in stacks across the checkered floor. There was a second level, filled with sofas and tea tables, lighted with jewel-toned lamps, the floors scattered with rich rugs—likely stolen from Ixaitha during the war and pilfered from artists’ quarters. The walls were paneled in more chestnut wood or papered in lush florals, royal sapphire and deep emerald, sconces and chandeliers dripping with even more finery. This room was spectacular and opulent. It was the epitome of luxury, a wild boasting of wealth and wisdom. It was bragging rights and righteousness. It was pride and vanity.
And Valine loved it.
In a saffron armchair by the hearth lounged Malik, clothed in burgundy and ebony, utterly at ease, legs thrown over the arm, a book in hand, an arm pulled behind his head. It was a regal and yet careless pose. He looked haughty and aloof, academic and privileged, uncaring and controlled. He looked exquisite.
Catching sight of the assassin, the king placed the book down and rose. Crossing the room, he met them, a lazy smile on his handsome face.
“Thank you, Diana, you are dismissed.”
Diana dipped slightly and turned on her heel, leaving Valine alone with Malik.
“So, little assassin. What magic do you possess?”