Epilogue
Darin Marco
People often forgot his title, which he never bothered with, but for some odd reason, it’d been a topic of conversation recently, when he had been serving his king’s interests in the Winterlands. Those Winterlands royals and nobility behaved in odd ways he had found refreshing, even if he disliked the questions about himself. Or maybe he hadn’t disliked it so much. Learning more of others, finding others who wanted to know more about him, was at the very least novel. Definitely a different situation than the one he was currently in, where every person in the ballroom scuttled back a step at his approach.
He was Lord Marco by birth, but by use he’d long ago become Darin Marco, assassin, Hooded Death in his homeland. The last of his line, his parents and any wealth or holdings from his family lost long ago, he himself felt he had no need for the title. It didn’t fit him, oddly, but it was now of the utmost importance to his new mission.
His hand clenched at his side, a flex to anyone looking but a silent scream to anyone who knew him. But no one in the Springlands knew him, not really. He was his job, his duty, the swift hand of his king. Nothing more than something to be feared. Now, after decades upon decades of cultivating this fear, honing him as a weapon to use in and out of his own lands, the king needed him to do something that flew in the face of all his history. He had been tasked with infiltrating the courtiers who feared him as the king’s assassin, somehow gain their trust. Find the ridiculous weapon the king of the Springlands should have destroyed centuries ago but for some reason hadn’t. It was a job for a courtier, not an assassin.
Still, he had to do what he was tasked with doing. The king helped him somewhat in his endeavor, using the success of the Winterlands mission as a ruse to bestow his ancestral lands, rotted and overgrown as they were, back to him in an official proclamation as a prize for helping squash a too-close rebellion of warriors. The uprising had spooked the king, to be sure. Now, assured in his absolute reign, he made Marco officially a lord again, even if he’d technically never lost the title, just the lands. All to remind his court his assassin was a member of the nobility and would be allowed to walk among them as one now.
Darin hated it, as he hated everything about the Springlands Court. The simpering, the lies… the backbiting and cuts with words. He preferred a more direct approach in all things, but understood sometimes finesse was needed. Didn’t mean he had to like it.
There’d been a few moments he could classify as not completely horrible. He’d discussed some treaty with the Winterlands with one of the king’s newest, and less sycophantic, advisers—Lord Elligin Gralax. The Fae had hailed him, in fact, rushing over to talk about his recent trip to the other land. This lord was no warrior, but he reminded him of the Winterlands party: thoughtful, engaged, and bent on doing well. He hated to think it, but with an attitude like that, he’d be out of the king’s favor in no time.
He’d spent a few moments discussing military issues with a contingent of lordly soldiers in attendance. They hadn’t stopped him as Lord Gralax had, but they had not moved away after he’d entered their circle either. Good soldiers stood their ground.
Mostly, he had an early taste of what this latest mission would entail. A great deal of trying to pry his way into the inner circle of the courtiers with them fighting him at every turn. Gods, he wished he could carry his bow into these glittering halls, wear his hooded leathers instead of the stifling gray silk tunic and breeches, and demand answers with a glare of his icy-green eyes.
But no. Such tactics wouldn’t work, although he remained unsure what tactic might actually work for him. He was Hooded Death to these people, not someone they might let their guard down around. He had no in, nothing to humanize him after years spent seen as a deadly weapon. He could find any angle on a battlefield. Hit any target required when he had it in sight down the length of an arrow. None of that mattered in a ballroom, where he would need to engage in a fighting style he didn’t know.
His shadows might help. He could slip in and out, eavesdrop. However, the king was convinced Darin needed to employ a different approach. The king always got what he wanted, so Darin’s shadow magic became a tool he might occasionally use rather than his main form of attack.
Needing a break from the cutting looks and whispers behind hands and fans, Darin stopped his turn around the ballroom midway to exit onto a terrace. He breathed deep the lush smell of freshly cut grass and perfectly tended hyacinth in the meticulously planted gardens outside the ballroom. More than that, he basked in the silence, happy to be outside the range of the prattle and hyena laughs of the glittering court of the Springlands.
Silence, that was, until he heard a whispered “damn” from behind him. He’d been so focused on the quiet, on the feel of his hands on the cold stone railing and the scents of the night garden, he hadn’t heard anyone behind him. A surprise indeed, to have someone sneak up on the assassin. He spun around on swift feet, taking two large, menacing steps toward the sound before his eyes fully registered the source.
There, in the pale light filtering through the glass doors of the ballroom, stood a small woman. Petite would be the proper term, Darin knew, but he was not one to always be polite. She stood no more than neck height to him, though her body was rounded, flaring in the right places. Small but lush for certain, like a blooming flower. Her eyes, a melted caramel color, were wide in a rounded face. Those eyes didn’t leak fear of him. No, he knew the fear of him well. It was more as if she were caught. A child about to be gently reprimanded for having a hand in the dessert before their dinner.
He stepped closer, eyeing her perfectly tailored, floating lavender dress at odds with her haphazard brown bun of curly hair. It was a nod to fashion, but only a nod. Her hands moved, wringed in fact, in front of her, before she pulled herself together. She gathered her breath and her body, rising to a firm posture and tilting her head up to look right into his eyes. As no one had done before tonight, except Lord Gralax. Who, he remembered, had strikingly similar caramel-colored eyes and brown hair. Though, admittedly, much more height and fewer curves.
“Lady,” he said, moving closer into her space, fully expecting her to back away as he did. She did not. The woman held her ground, and his gaze.
“Lord.” The sound was strong, belying her stature, her voice firm, deep, and assertive. It was the voice of someone used to arguing and not losing.
Darin threw a slight smirk her way and a nod, but he did not give up his cold stare at the mystery woman.
She broke first, casting a furtive look at the glass doors behind her, a frown marring her smooth face. It’d disappeared in the time she looked back, having found what she needed to find. Or not. She was, obviously, a lady. As he’d said. Maybe an unmarried lady. If so, with this crowd, being caught out in the dark with a strange man could be disastrous for her ambitions, whatever they may be. For most ladies of the Springlands Court, that would be marriage, but he wouldn’t assume such with her for some reason.
“Feel free to return,” he said, flipping one of his hands toward the ballroom before he clasped them behind his back.
She cocked her head and really looked him over for the first time. “Do I know you, sir?”
He shook his head in reply. No need for more.
“Very well,” she said, jutting a hand out in greeting. To him. “I am Lady Harwel Gralax.”
Her hand hung there, long enough for her to look down at it and back up at him with a frown as he debated whether he should actually take it. Mostly for her sake. He did not think she would wish to have her hand in his once he said his name. Still, he took it, and marveled at how warm, firm, and strong it was in his. For such a small hand, it packed a great deal of power. Also told him a great deal about the woman who wielded it.
“Darin Marco, my lady.” He didn’t bow, but he did nod his head deeply, breaking eye contact for the first time. When he looked back at her, her eyes had flared slightly but she didn’t shake. Didn’t step back. The woman didn’t even take her hand from his.
“A pleasure to meet you, Lord Marco,” she said, pumping his hand once before taking hers back, not because she feared him but because it was appropriate to do so.
“And you, Lady Gralax.”
She gave a small curtsy, the first he’d ever received in his life as far as he could remember, and moved to the side, toward the ballroom door. “Could you?” she asked, gesturing toward the door. Not for him to open it but to ensure he did not follow. No one needed to see them emerging from the dark garden terrace together.
He bowed then, deep at the waist, and gave her a smirk in reply. A promise without words. As he watched her leave, her dress swaying, lovely in the soft lights inside, he thought to himself the promise extended further than Lady Gralax could understand. She was not the lord’s wife; that much he knew. The lord was unmarried. He had, however, heard talk of a sister who was his ward. Much younger and his sole responsibility.
Part of him balked at the idea forming in his mind, but he’d seen a few women stop to speak with the lady in lavender before she had been swallowed up by the crowd. She was part of the crowd, accepted where he was not. Also, for whatever odd reason, she appeared unafraid of him. Another tool he might be able to use.
He needed more information first. Needed to be sure she would serve his purpose. Possibly even find something she might require in return for the vague plan churning in his mind to come to fruition. A full smile hit his lips then, where no one could see it. It felt rusty on his face, but he didn’t mind. He might now have a way into the courtier crowd, and it happened to be a lush, petite woman with a strong voice and firm handshake.