8
It had only been hours and a day in the palace before Valine had been sent off. After Malik informed her of her first assassination assignment, he gave her directions to divert suspicion, as well as why she and Sarim would be stopping in Luneth. She, however, did not appreciate the fact that they were being sent across the Twilight Sands to do so.
“Are you mad?” she’d crowed at the king. “Have you ever encountered sand serpents?”
Sand serpents were not typical snakes. They were massive serpentine creatures with two arms, claws, fangs, and a secondary mouth in addition to their rotating maw. Such beasts travelled beneath vast expanses of sand, able to camouflage among their surroundings, and detect vibrations in the ground. Not to mention a single one of their bites was deadly—whether that death entailed the rapid torture of their venom or being ripped to shreds.
Valine was immune to the former and had no interest in experiencing the latter.
Malik had only inclined his head. “I have not.”
“Neither have I, but I have met men who’ve lost limbs and eyes and friends to them. They were forever haunted by the encounters.”
“But they were not you. We cannot risk you being seen through the Muravo Mountain Pass before us, and going through Pravo will add weeks to the journey we cannot afford.”
“But you are going through the pass.”
“I am, which is why you cannot.”
“It’s insanity.”
“Are you on good terms with any discreet basilisk riders, then?”
She thinned her lips, and shook her head.
“Then you’re out of options.”
And that was that. She began packing the necessary belongings in a fuss, her hot temper burning beneath her skin, and the desire to slap the king tingled in her palm. Somehow, Malik had obtained the location of where she’d been previously inhabiting, and had her things sent over. She should’ve been concerned; she’d been so cautious of her comings and goings, but she was too angry to much care. Besides, they were now on the same side.
The only thing that had softened her ire was a small wrapped package on her bed. She disregarded the attached note, ripping the twine free. When she tore through the parchment to the present beneath, she held her breath. It was a golden hilted dagger with a viridian blade, the design that of a basilisk in flight. The gift shone viciously in the light and Valine held it up, watching the lines of the blade gleam. Her eye had caught on the note, and she picked it up, reading.
For your twenty-sixth year. May your birthdate be merry, Little Liar.
M
It was the shock of a lifetime, yet she couldn’t have beat the grin off her face with a mace.
The chestnut stallion beneath her cantered to a stop. It had been six days since she’d departed from the palace, and beside her Sarim was holding a recently drawn map of their continent, Enneive, stretched out before him. It was a jagged horseshoe-shaped landmass with Valencya and Thycca stacked at the base of the curve. After a careful consult, Sarim traced their path. They’d just crossed the borders into Luneth, and Valine resisted the urge to look southwest to Runell. Instead, she peered further into the golden dunes of sand before them. This close to the border, sand serpents were unheard of due to the impenetrable rock wall fathoms beneath the sand, but one could never be too cautious.
Terramancers had tried to recreate this wall erected by Dunia, but for some reason they never held—whether it was the serpents crashing through them, or the magic failing.
“We should reach Bastia this afternoon,” Valine told him, her newly ink-stained locks escaping the white linen wrap covering her head. The heat of the morning was already aggressive, making thoughts sluggish and agitating attitudes.
Sarim’s kohl-lined eyes slid to hers, dubiously. “Do you really think you can pull this off?”
Valine shrugged away his doubts. “I don’t see why I can’t.”
He snorted. “Infiltrating Luneth’s capital city and posing as—”
She silenced him with a look, her eyes daggers. There was no reason the rest of the retinue needed to know the true purpose of stopping in Bastia. Perhaps she was being paranoid. The riders were more than five yards away, and in no danger of overhearing conversation spoken in normal levels. Even so, she wasn’t taking chances. This was the first mission assigned by the king, and she wasn’t fucking it up.
Under the guise of acquiring supplies to cross the Twilight Sands—Luneth had deserts and stores of practicalities for such environments, but Adraali was not so prepared—the three soldiers accompanying them had a list to fill while they had alibis to secure and compromise. There was a reason she’d dyed her hair with ink, and that reason was the same one that had her carrying jewels in her satchel.
“There is a river before we reach Bastia, is there not?” Valine inquired, eyes peering at the map Sarim still had before him.
“Yes, here,” he said, indicating a thin ribbon that snaked by a mountain range. “The Lazuli, it branches from the great Lapis River. We can set up camp nearby before we depart for Talloh tomorrow.”
“Lady Hardgrave?”
Valine turned to one of the soldiers approaching on her left. His complexion was reddened by the sun and pockmarked, while what little of his eyes she could see beneath the draping linen were a hazy blue. She scrutinized him for a moment, attempting to recall his name.
“Yes, Olivander?”
“I do not wish to question the motives of our king, but I can’t help but think it ill-advised to—”
“Do you really think you should impart the wisdom you think you speak?” Valine cut; her dark eyes shrewd. She knew what he was going to ask and she was not going to allow such ponderings. “Your king gave you an order. Do not disobey it.”
He hung his head in shame. “It sounds treasonous, but I fear the Twilight Sands only spell our doom.”
Valine drew in a slow breath, the hot air and dry sand burning her throat. “King Malik assigned you to this mission. Do not insult him by refusing this out of cowardice.”
Olivander inhaled sharply, his brows drawing closer. “Of course, My Lady, my apologies.”
“If it will assuage your concerns, you may be in charge of selecting our weapons for the journey. The bladesmith is located in the city center and I have heard tell of a flute whose notes are so piercing they are silent. Such sounds we cannot hear, but the sand serpents scream in agony from them.”
A light blinked alive within Olivander’s eyes.
“Here,” Valine said, tossing a pouch of silver at him, “find that flute.”
Olivander clutched the coins to his chest, greedily. “I will not fail my task.”
“See that you don’t.”
Two hours later they crested a dune, and found the city of Bastia sprawling in an oasis below. The streets were strung with linens and silks, blocking out the worst of the overbearing midday sun. The buildings were squat sandstone, no taller than four floors with open air windows in curved arches, and balconies encased in hand-worked iron. Terracotta roofs glowed warmly in the sun, palms arcing across the sky and sat in clay pots. The city opened from the dunes straight into the verdant grass that was welcomed by a fountain before the city square and a bustling market. It was one of the few cities that wasn’t encased within walls—its walls were somewhere underground, miles away to prevent sand serpents from entry if they managed to cross the river—it simply ceased at some point in the sand, constantly expanding along the landscape.
Except for the palace that stood proudly at the western edge of the city. Its surrounding walls were sun-bleached stone, blocks painted gold and white, some carved with depictions of saints and daemons, others displaying legends and rulers long gone. The palace itself was golden stone and ivory pillars and sapphire tiles; the roofs and windows were done up in luxurious shades of the gemstone, and those apertures that weren’t made up of glass were open to the air. Waving proudly from the battlements were a series of Luneth flags, the orange background rippling, the circular series of the moon cycles blinding white under the harsh sun. Beyond, orchards and groves took up the most fertile of land and whatever greenery was left went to the wealthy denizens of the city, selfishly boasting lawns of green and flora that backed onto mansions and manors of grandeur.
Because of its proximity to the Lazuli River, the breeze carried a hint of fresh coolness. But deep within the heart of the Luneth palace fortress and worlds away from the teeming city was an expansive natural pool, rimmed with bright pink bougainvillea, shining daffodils, and the wildest array of peonies wealth and magic could buy. Paintings existed solely to capture the wonder of Luneth’s most treasured garden, the Bowl of the Saints. Royals flocked to Bastia celebrations desperate for just a glimpse of the trove, commoners pledged service to the crown just to pass a flicker of it, people killed just to bear witness to it if only once.
Valine had been one of the lucky few to behold it. She had never forgotten it.?
Pulling herself from the past, Valine directed four of their entourage to set up camp at the bank of the river that ribboned around the city. A mile out there was a spot that offered palms and reeds, reasonable shade, and support from the thin trees. They separated while Valine, Sarim, Olivander, and another soldier took on the city.
The slope of the dune was a sharp degree and it caused Valine to practice a careful rotation of her hips to keep saddled, and it was then when she noticed the fourth soldier staring at her lewdly. She gave him a venomous smile, and as if she had bit him, he flinched and trotted ahead.
“I imagine he wanted to sleep with you,” Sarim commented from beside her.
The smile she tossed him was more playful. “I imagine his plight will end in vain.”
“It’s the folly of men, truly.”
She couldn’t help the mirth that crept into her voice. “Oh, it truly is.”
When they arrived, their group divided once more, Olivander and the soldier in search of the flute, and Valine and Sarim towards their own goal. They stabled their horses for a copper and tipped a silver each for generous treatment of their steeds. The stable hand didn’t seem to know what to do with two silvers to rub together, but he quickly set the horses troughs with fresh water, and a clean brush.
On foot, Valine and Sarim weaved through the packed streets, sounds of the market around them; a plethora of languages, the shuffle of feet, the yells of hawkers. The scent of roasting meat was thick in the air, and Valine even caught the luxurious scent of honeysuckle and citrus from a perfumery. The further they traversed the market, the seedier the clientele and enterprises became. Street urchins ducked elbows and cut purses, whores beckoned from brothel doors, a gambling den threw a drunk from its entrance. Closer to their destination the more potent the scent of piss and unwashed bodies became. Valine was suddenly very grateful for the required disguise, her nose and mouth covered by linen to filter the worst of the smells.
Their destination was at the final line of Enders Alley, and here even the dregs of Bastia’s citizens didn’t dare linger. These were opium dens and mortuaries, sick rooms and abandoned jail houses. The roads were filthy and the air just as bad.
“My father told me that Astra and Nyxia smelled like this before Malik’s father’s rule,” Sarim told her, the scrunching of his nose evident even beneath the navy linen wrap. “It was before indoor plumbing had become commonplace and shit had run in the streets. Even still, apparently it took years for the stench to leave.”
“I miss ten seconds ago when I didn’t have that mental image.”
Sarim laughed and clapped her on the shoulder. “You’re telling me an assassin is squeamish about—”
“We are not having this conversation. Besides, I think this is the place.”
Sarim’s entire demeanor shifted, straightening and focusing. Valine steered them towards a hollow section of brick, squeezing into the space with little room to spare. Valine’s side was pressed against Sarim’s front as she fished out her brass timepiece. They had minutes for their opportunity.
They waited, Sarim’s breathing controlled, his muscles taut. Valine held still, her body coiling, preparing to strike. Minutes later, the shush of leather-soled slippers met her awareness.
The mark was arriving.
As the uncoordinated shuffling continued, Valine twisted her fingers beside her, coiling that dark magic that resided in her, pulling the tendrils out, and weaving them between slender fingers. The invisible blackness wrapped her wrist—ready. She remained poised until her target emerged.
He was around her age, garbed in orange silk, gaudy with golden medallions strewn across the tunic and threaded through his greasy dark hair. She couldn’t believe how unbelievably idiotic this man was, to wear gold and silk on Enders Alley. The man was begging to be robbed.
Once he was in range, she let loose her necromantic magic, and shot it at the unsuspecting drug lord in a deadly arrow.
It hit a barrier, and her magic scattered across the dome of protection like ash.
Her mark startled, and his dark eyes widened as he looked around for the threat that had just tried to end his weaselly existence. As he spun in place, a silver necklace swung from his neck, the labyrinth pattern the bane of Valine’s existence.
“Fuck!” she seethed.
“What? What’s wrong?” Sarim whispered, panic edging his tone.
“He has a Veritasium Medallion. My magic can’t touch him.” She pulled her magic back in. “Okay, alternate plan.”
She prayed he didn’t have a Robursium Medallion, too.
With that, she launched herself out of the ruined alcove, pulling out a plain dagger from her thigh sheath. She was upon him in seconds, stabbing and gutting without precision—as if she didn’t know what she was doing. But she did know what she was doing, and she knew how to ensure she didn’t get a drop of blood on her clothes. He fell to the ground, blood pooling around him before he’d even had a chance to scream.
The man slipped from this world with a gurgle, and Valine quickly set to work, cutting the gold chains from the drug lord and swathes of unbloodied silk. She internally thanked herself for packing a spare satchel as she began stuffing the items into it.
“You were supposed to make it look like his heart gave out, Valine.” Sarim gaped at the massacre she’d created in only a handful of breaths.
“That was the plan,” she grunted as the blade caught. “But plans sometimes fail. Now it looks like he was mugged. You can’t tell me it’s an unreasonable assumption in this area. The man was wearing silk, for fuck’s sake.” As she sliced the Veritasium Medallion from his neck, she rose and stuffed it into her pocket. It was then she caught Sarim’s disbelieving expression.
She examined her blood caked hand with displeasure while Sarim continued his frozen observation, a hint of fear entering his eyes. She didn’t blame him. She’d severed the man’s soul from his body with hardly a second thought, and despite the fact that it was her norm, and she’d completed acts like this many times, the distanced brutality startled her. Lost in thought, Valine scrubbed her hands free of blood on some of the ruined silk, and donned a pair of dark gloves.
“Malik really doesn’t understand what he got into with you,” Sarim finally said.
“I’d like to believe I surpass expectations.” She surveyed her arms and torso. “Any blood?”
Sarim raised his brows and searched her. His brows furrowed. “Surprisingly no.”
“Lovely. Let’s go. We’re not done this job yet.”