Chapter 2
River
You’re only as good as your next target, River Pricemark reminded herself, tucked into a narrow pocket between food stalls as she tracked a man through Queendom’s
bustling night market.
Whenever the spindly vines of doubt began rooting in her conscience, this mantra helped River to push forward and complete
her assignment. If she didn’t finish, there would always be another assassin—younger, more willing—to do what River could
not. It had taken River a long while to get assigned the jobs for which an assassin could actually gain a bona fide reputation.
To miss a target would be to start over at the bottom, spending years regaining the guild’s trust. To pass on a target altogether
would be to betray the guild completely. River would never do that. No matter how difficult this particular job was, she could
not bear the thought of turning on the Deathrose Guild.
She had to kill Galwell the Great.
His legacy loomed so large over Mythria that to see him walk the streets again, River could not help but note how ordinary he looked.
Perhaps because she had no attraction to men of his kind—the beefy, overly earnest ones who did things such as bow when a “lady” walked into a room.
River didn’t have an attraction to many men at all.
But Galwell was not the mythical legend that all the songs and tales had made him out to be.
He was just a person, chatting with his friend Clare Grandhart as they sipped brews, the foam leaving a mustache above Galwell’s upper lip that he wiped off with no shortage of embarrassment.
River would not waste time reflecting on what it meant for him to be killed again. Regret was tedious. Unnecessary. If the guild believed Galwell to be a worthy target, then he was.
“There he is!” someone yelled.
“Hurry, before he’s gone!” called out another.
The group of scribes who had been tracking Galwell all night had found him again. They’d been following Galwell for as long
as River had, making it impossible for her to find a good moment to complete her assignment. They were relentless, greedy
for answers about the current state of Galwell’s life. His relationship with Queen Thessia. Anything. Some of the conspiracy
scribes believed he’d never even died at all, and they wanted to know where he’d been hiding for the last ten years.
Galwell kept his lips pressed together in an uncomfortable smile as Clare, ever the consummate showman, dealt with the situation.
“Listen up, and listen good,” Clare said, smiling with his usual roguish charm, even though he gripped his foam brew so tightly
that it had started to leak onto his knuckles. “Galwell has been nothing but polite with all of you, but it’s gone on long
enough. I don’t ever want to hear another person question whether he really died. Ever. I did not live through the pain of ten years without him to have you ask if all of us were faking.” There was a raw edge
to his voice, the threat of tears clear. “Surely you’ve got plenty to write about that play we all just saw. So why don’t
you go on home and do that, and let my friend have a quiet night for once?”
The scribes nodded, scattering in different directions.
Good.
With them out of the way, River could finally work.
She rummaged through the satchel fixed around her waist, deciding on a poison dart as her weapon of choice.
It would be quick. Galwell would barely feel it.
And River could finally go home. A win for everyone, really.
Except perhaps the crowd of civilians who would have to witness their beloved hero die again. Ah, well.
Life was complicated. And so was death.
But when River returned her gaze to the spot where Galwell had been set to take his last breath—his second last breath? His
last last breath—all new faces surrounded the Harpy & Hind.
“Damn it,” River said, not bothering to whisper anymore. Galwell the Great was nowhere to be found.
She slipped out of her hiding spot, pulling a hood over her chin-length brown hair and adopting a casual pace, scanning the
crowd while pretending to be transfixed by the variety of stalls and shops lining the avenue. There were people everywhere.
Unfortunately, not one of them was Galwell. For all River knew, she was walking in the wrong direction.
Sighing, she retreated into another dark corner.
She needed to teleport.
Her head magic gift was impressive, but it was not without its faults. River could transport herself to anywhere she wanted,
so long as she had a clear mental image of the intended location. Often all she needed was the image of someone’s face, and
she could reach them. Thanks to a decade of looking at portraits and statues of Galwell True everywhere, she could practically draw the man in her sleep.
The problem with her power was, she could not control exactly where she landed when teleporting.
Which is precisely how River ended up tangled in the highest branch of a tree, hovering directly above Galwell and Clare as they strolled down an empty road chatting about—of all things—the majesty of the night.
River fought off the urge to shout expletives as tree bark dug into her flesh.
Hanging upside down as she was, she must’ve looked a bit like a brushwalker—the wily tree-dwelling animal known for wrapping its paws around a branch in order to sleep under it instead of on top.
If River let go now, she would land on top of Galwell. Everyone knew he had been born with the hand magic gift of uncanny
strength. River didn’t dare attack him in this way. Besides, Clare Grandhart would want to do something ridiculous, too, like
joust. It would be quite the production. No, River had to stay in this uncomfortable and inconvenient location, waiting for
Galwell and Clare to stop waxing poetic and move farther down the alleyway. How could two men find so much to discuss about
the wonders of the realm?
Finally, after what felt like ages, Galwell and Clare parted ways, though not without several declarations of brotherly love
between them. Clare traveled left down an alley as Galwell continued forward. River released her hold on the branch. She rotated
three times in the air, spinning with her arms tucked tight into her chest, then pulled her feet down to land in a perfect
squat, effortlessly absorbing the force of her jump.
“Ghosts! Do you fall out of trees a lot? That was flawless.”
A woman stood a few paces back, her face cloaked by the very night that Clare Grandhart had just called “rich and alluring.”
“Be gone!” River commanded, yanking a small dagger out of her satchel to scare the woman off.
The woman retreated into the shadows, and River continued onward. In another life, perhaps she would have entertained the
compliment. If the woman was willing, and the chemistry was right, River would have even taken her out for a drink. Shown
her the other things she was flawless at. But River did not live that life. She was an assassin—only an assassin—and right now she needed to assassinate.
Galwell turned down a side road. River quickened her pace to reach him, drawing the poison dart from her satchel once more.
The closer she got, the more she realized Galwell really was exceptionally muscular.
One dose might not be enough to take him down.
She was using a new poison purchased for her by the guild from overseas, and she wasn’t positive of its efficiency yet.
No matter. River kept several darts on her person.
An assassin could never be overprepared.
Thanks to years of acrobatic training, River could use both hands with equal strength and capability. It proved to be quite
useful in cases such as this one, where two darts needed to be thrown at the exact same time.
Eyes narrowed on her target, River brought her weapons up near her ears, elbows bent into launching position.
“Stop!” a woman yelled.
The disruption did not shake River’s focus. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to complete an assignment with a protesting
audience. So long as the woman didn’t see River’s face, it was fine. River released both darts with the exact speed and precision
she intended.
The woman’s interruption did, however, cause Galwell to crouch down just in time to escape being hit.
Curse his heroic instincts.
And because no one got the name Galwell the Great without running toward danger, Galwell turned and used his crouching position as a start to a sprint, heading in River’s direction.
“Shit,” River said, scrambling away, but not before making direct, unflinching eye contact with Galwell.
Galwell saw her face. She was compromised.
Frantic, River turned—and crashed right into the woman who’d interrupted her assassination attempt.
“It’s you,” the woman said.
All sense left River. Her legs, the very ones that had allowed her to leap and spin her way out of a very tall tree without
any injury, turned wobbly. Of all the people, in all the realm . . .
“Celine?” River asked. Her voice dared to tremble. How traitorous. She hadn’t seen Celine Hazelton since they were teenagers. Now here they both stood,
full-grown adults, and River’s heart still dared to beat that same wild, erratic rhythm that always started up whenever Celine
was around.
There was no time for further pleasantries. If River was going to escape Galwell’s pursuit, she needed to teleport. But Celine
was here, standing in her way, determined to interrupt. Galwell had seen River’s face, and Celine knew River’s name.
River was, to put it lightly, fucking screwed.
She did the only thing that came to mind. She wrapped her arms around Celine, trying to ignore her surprising warmth, which
was nearly impossible, with their bodies pressed together as they were. River teleported them away. They landed in the front
yard of what River remembered to be Celine’s home.