Crown of Crimson Read online

“True,” agrees the king. “But Swordmaster Livingstone would not know where to look for your erstwhile accomplice. I’m trusting you do know how to find him.” It is almost a question.

  Spine straightening ever so slightly, I nod. “Of course.”

  “Excellent.” The king smiles jovially. “I know you won’t disappoint me, Aerietta. We wish you the best of luck on your assassination.” His gaze goes to his loyal Swordmaster, who stands at my right. “I trust you will keep our assassin in check?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.” Lyom answers.

  The king clasps a hand on Lyom’s shoulder and though the air is light, there is an undertone that warns punishment should Lyom fail. I see it in his eyes, note it in King Dryden’s firm grip on Lyom’s shoulder, watch it register silently on Lyom’s face but he seems the farthest thing from fearful. There is respect, yes, but Swordmaster Livingstone does not look worried about the king’s consequences.

  “I wish you a safe return, Swordmaster.” Dryden says, contradicting his harsh hold. Dryden looks between the two of us and then chuckles as if just realizing something. “The two of you will do well together. One heartless, and the other soulless. I’ll leave you to decide which is which. And … do try not to kill each other. I’ve found that I rather enjoy making deals with dangerous people.”

  Lyom’s expression is serious but he gracefully accepts the king’s blessing and moves past me. His gaze flickers to Haraya and he nods to her quickly before opening the doors to the Keep, waiting for me in the threshold. As I pass, I glance at Haraya to see what her expression is but it has been schooled into an emotionless mask. Frowning at the enigma, I move past Lyom, pulling the cloak around my shoulders and tie it at my collarbone. I look over my shoulder, seeing Jamas give Lyom an unreadable look before following me out. Or maybe it isn’t unreadable. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be too surprised if I was just horrible at deciphering complex emotions.

  Outside I see the true vastness of Lyom’s envoy and pull up short.

  “No.”

  “Yes.” Lyom responds. “Should we have to venture into Adaai, we will need several men to travel with.”

  There are eight servicemen waiting for us, Moher, Carnahan, and Ulric, another familiar face, among them. Including Jamas, Lyom, and me, that will be eleven of us traveling to Helmfirth. If Dominik even hears the tread of our footsteps in Helmfirth, he will flee across the border before I have even begun to track him down. Not to mention Helmfirth itself will be suspicious. Helmfirth is not notoriously known for harboring criminals but they are bound to become uneasy when an envoy of eleven rides into their village, the Swordmaster among them. Seeing a few servicemen traveling from town to town on orders is different — this is an envoy. We are riding horses from the royal stables and marching with the Swordmaster to King Dryden. I do not foresee this going smoothly for us.

  “No one in Helmfirth will trust us.” I state. “I suppose I will have to resort to torturing the information out of the citizens.”

  Lyom scowls at me. “That will not be necessary. All but Jamas, Moher, and I will remain outside of the village while you locate Lady Milbourn.”

  I scoff. “She is no lady. A lady of the night, perhaps.”

  Ignoring me entirely, he continues. “Their presence is only in case we are forced across the border.”

  “And if we are?” I question. “You have no authority there, Swordmaster.”

  “But you require no authority.” he reminds me. “I only go with you as your escort. Despite what you may believe, the king would like for you to return.”

  “And how will we manage to remain inconspicuous? It will be difficult with a caravan of King Dryden’s men.” I note.

  He sighs. “Mount your horse. We can discuss the details on the way to Helmfirth.”

  Jamas brings me to the horse I am to ride into Helmfirth. It is a tall horse with a dark gray coat. A mare with a long, thick mane and a wavy tail. I mount and wait for the swordsmen to do the same. Lyom gets on his sorrel as the rest of his men do. On the backs of the ponies I see bedrolls and canvas cloths for tents. Saddlebags weigh on other horses, likely filled with food and supplies. Everyone has a form of cloak to wrap around themselves, including Lyom, who takes a black cloak from his saddlebag and pulls the hood over his head.

  The air smells of clean rain but the bite of the wind is severe, causing me to believe sleet is on its way. Moher was correct; we will see a storm before morning. We must get moving so that we can get a few miles under our belt before we are forced to set up camp to wait out the storm.

  A harsh gale swirls around me, whipping my red cloak up with it. With my blond hair down in the wind, cloak twisting and writhing about, I wonder if the swordsmen now realize who exactly they have captured and are now working alongside.

  I catch glimpses of a few of Lyom’s men watching me with suspicion, waiting for me to lash out at any of them. I recognize a few of them from the walk to Adandyrl and can understand their concern. I had, after all, acted like a madwoman on the ride out of Blancathey. I had been under the impression that the king would either kill me or parade me through the streets as his trophy.

  “Time to move.” Lyom announces, leading out.

  Moher and Carnahan move up to the front on their horses, walking alongside Lyom as his horse leads the way down the cobblestone pathway that directs us away from Adandyrl, towards Helmfirth. Jamas rides up to me, walking his horse beside mine.

  “Have you been instructed to watch me?” I demand.

  “Yes, but not for the reason you might assume.” Jamas informs me. “In case it slipped your notice, not all of our men are fond of your presence. I am here to ward off any unnecessary trouble.”

  I glance around, noticing the hostile glares some of the swordsmen shoot me. Whether or not I can take care of myself, it will be helpful to have Jamas nearby.

  The village is far more still than I had imagined it would be at night. Blancathey is a village of the darkness, so are many of the Evrallonic settlements. But Adandyrl is quiet. As we ride through the village, the only lights come from the doorposts of homes and the occasional streetlamp. The brisk wind that blows through carries with it the sting of winter. I never realize winter is coming until it is upon me; I suppose I’ve never really noticed the cold.

  The clip of the horses’ gaits against the cobblestone streets echoes throughout Adandyrl. I think this is when it truly sets in. I am aiding the people that singlehandedly destroyed my kingdom. They blew my home to rubble. I cannot be sure whether Quay would respect my decision or be disappointed that I am changing to the winning side; I would hope he knows me better than that. It has never been about the winning side, it is about survival. No one would understand that better than Quay. I briefly wonder where he is then decide it doesn’t really matter. He chose to walk away, leaving me to deal with the consequences. It is no different than what I am doing now. It all comes back to self preservation.

  My gaze flits to Lyom who rides in the front of the envoy. Despite his leaving my room unlocked this afternoon and treating me with a semblance of respect and decency, I still know the Swordmaster trusts me just about as far as he can throw me. He sees the blood I have on my hands and frowns though he has no right to do so. But I have the right to be wary of him as well. I may be the Queen of Crimson, known for her swift executions and stealthy incursions, but he is Evrallon’s Blight, known for his torture tactics and lack of humanity.

  And that’s when something else sets in. It’s like I’m suddenly remembering something I’ve shoved to the back of my mind. I suppose I just didn’t want to consider what all this really meant — working with King Dryden’s men, including his ever-loyal Swordmaster that seems to know a little too much about everything. I’ll have to hope his all-seeing eyes don’t see right through whatever cover I have built up around myself.

  I’ll have to hope he doesn’t see the Girl of the Elements hiding under the red cloak.

  I will have to outdo the Sword
master in every way or I will not make it back to Adandyrl to receive my pardon. I will have to be twice as crafty, twice as malicious, and twice as heartless if I want to make it out of this alive. Because if I slip up at all and Lyom learns my identity, there will be no hesitation before I am brutally killed.

  My stomach hurts at the thought of having to become more like him — more like Quay — but if there is one thing that sunk in during my years at the Aerie, it is that no one else is going to look after you, so you must look after yourself. As assassins, we are to trust no one, because even our shadows will leave us in darkness.

  “The Swordmaster said he would explain the plan further but he seems to have ridden off with the others.” I say, my gaze moving up to him once again. It seems that I cannot take my eyes off him, though I suppose I have good reason to be suspicious. He’s an enigma to me.

  As if he can see into my mind, Jamas says, “Stop. Whatever you are doing, stop now.”

  I frown in confusion, looking back at Jamas. “What?

  “You’re curious; you’re trying to learn all you can about him. Do not. You do not realize it now but it will be a mistake you will soon regret.”

  “You know nothing of him!” I argue. “For all you know, he could be the Son of the Devil.” I immediately wish I could take the words back for Lisbet’s sake but end up just clamping my mouth shut to halt any further comments.

  Jamas straightens, brows furrowing. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Nowhere.”

  Jamas glares at me. “Lyom Livingstone may not be like us but he has singlehandedly defended our kingdom for more years than any of us, despite his youth. You of all people have no right to look at him and decide what sort of man he is.”

  I clench my jaw. Jamas is right, but that does not mean I will cease my wonderings. Jamas said himself that Lyom is not like them — if he is not like his swordsmen, then what is he?

  VIII

  “Some minds corrode and grow inactive under the loss of personal liberty; others grow morbid and irritable.”

  — Washington Irving, The Sketch Book

  As forecast, the storm rolls in several hours before dawn. By the time the sleet began, we had already set up our tents and had taken shelter for the night, tying horses to the trees along the road. We had hoped to make it to the Badger, an inn on the way to Helmfirth, but it was at least another hour ride to the Badger and riding in this sleet storm would be miserable to say the least.

  I lay awake in the bedroll Lyom gave me for hours. No one dares to come out of their tents — not in this weather. Water seeps through the canvas material overhead and a droplet of freezing cold water falls onto my collarbone. I shiver involuntarily and roll over, pulling the blankets further up around me. A fire would be nice about now but the wood will all be wet.

  Trying to drift off to sleep is pointless. I have never had a difficult time sleeping during storms — in fact, they lull me to sleep — but for some reason the Devil keeps me awake tonight. It isn’t that I have too much on my mind or that I am uneasy about my encounter with Zenith or that I fear Dominik has already fled the kingdom — I simply cannot sleep. I should rest up, I know, but I can’t make myself close my eyes and fall into another dreamless slumber.

  Thunder cracks loudly overhead and through the canvas of the tent I see lightning striking off in the distance. The torrent of sleet that bruises the covering over my head is obnoxiously deafening. I try to ignore the cracks of thunder and flashes of lightning.

  I resort to wondering what Lyom is doing in his tent. He and Jamas set up theirs beside mine, effectively boxing me in. I assume Lyom expects me to attempt an escape in the middle of the night. As if I could pass up the opportunity to walk away from Evrallon free and clear after only the death of a traitor.

  The air around me is freezing and I wish I had been able to bring more clothes. My red cloak does little to provide warmth and the thin blankets that were provided were damp when I got them. Gooseflesh raises on my arms and I shiver again. I am unaccustomed to being cold because I hardly ever feel it. Lydovier’s winters never bothered me, and when I visited Evrallon on assassinations, the winters were bearable. Now for some reason the chill of winter has cut me to the bone, turning my blood to ice.

  Lightning cracks again, illuminating the tent. Lyom is probably asleep, not even thinking about the rest of the ride to Helmfirth. We have little time left before dawn breaks and then we simply have to wait for the sleeting rain to cease, which could be at any time. Then we must continue the six-day ride to Helmfirth. We barely got a day’s ride in tonight so we still have a good five and a half days to go. If we ride through the nights without providing the horses with rest, we could get to Helmfirth quicker, but laming the horses is not the preferable route, especially if we have to ride into Adaai.

  My mind then wanders to Lydovier, not for the first time. What is happening to my people there? Have they already been enslaved? The thought of the fallen castle, ruins of homes and villages makes my head pound and bones ache. I hear the screams from the fishing community ringing in my ears and roll onto my side, clamping my hands over my ears. Mothers scream for their children, husbands for their wives, and countrymen for their kingdom.

  But then the screams change. I recognize it the moment that it happens. My eyes shoot open and for a moment I believe the screams are right outside my tent. My breath leaves my mouth in huffs as my brain scrambles to determine if the wails are real or not. I should know they aren’t. I should know that I cannot trust my own mind.

  I close my eyes, trying to push the screams from my memory. They aren’t screams caused by Evrallonic soldiers — they are screams caused by the Queen of Crimson.

  Sometimes I remember them, other times I don’t. Tonight they plague me. I hear whispers, shouts, and howls of pain are my torment. I force my muscles to relax despite the tension in them and let out a long, calculated breath.

  The wails in my mind begin to die out and slowly, slowly, I am left in my tent alone. When I open my eyes again, I see only the darkness of the night and hear the flapping of the tent’s canvas opening.

  No matter what you hear or think of assassins, we are never without regrets. Even the most deadly of us have nightmares.

  I ease back down onto my pillow and lay on my side, eyes still open, afraid that if I close them again I will suddenly see the faces of my victims. Most of them are guilty — murderers, traitors to the Crown, deceptive businessmen, or corrupt officials — but others are those that dared to stand in the way of King Cress’ progress. They are those that supported Afterlighters — people like me. They are those who had the courage to want to make a difference.

  Just as another drop of water rolls from the canvas roof and onto my skin, I feel the material at the back of my shirt become fisted and suddenly I’m thrown through the entrance of my tent and into the sleet.

  Bam!

  A jolt of pain rushes up into my shoulder as puddles of mud and water splash up into my face and eyes. It’s enough of a shock to me that my breath is immediately stolen away, causing my breath to hitch and I nearly choke.

  I roll across the ground in an attempt to ease my fall but my muscles lock up the moment the sleet begins pelting me.

  I splash through the mud, hair whipping into my face and sticking to my cheeks and forehead. I gasp in a breath but only inhale mud and water. Before I can even look up, arms come up around my shoulders and hoist me to my feet.

  Lyom’s men. It is the first thought that comes to mind. I recognize the strength in their hands. Jamas had warned me that they were not fond of me but I hadn’t payed much attention to it — I nearly bested the swordsmen once before, I’ll surely be able to replicate my almost-success.

  I practically growl at the man to my right, flipping my hair up out of my eyes so that I can see clearly, and what I find is more than a disappointment.

  The rugged man that stands before me is not among Lyom’s swordsmen.

  The man has dark, lo
ng hair that is knotted at the nape of his neck, wearing a heavy hood and jacket to keep the frozen rain off his body. A thick, ratty beard hangs from his face and his muscles bulge beneath his jacket. Even while Lyom’s servicemen are torn from their tents, the ratty man watches me with a smirk. I want to lunge at him, surprise him with an attack, but the two men who are more than twice my size hold me back with such ease it’s embarrassing.

  I hear the shing of swords but all rebellions end swiftly. The clan of wanderers outnumber us ten to one. Lyom is suddenly thrown down in front of me, no sword to be found in his hand. In the darkness I barely notice the movement at his sides until more of the wanderers appear and hold the Swordmaster to the ground. He doesn’t even struggle.

  The dark-haired marauder chuckles, stepping forward. The crack of thunder and clash of lightning backdrop him as he glances around. I do the same, realizing that all eleven of us are in the hands of the marauders. I curse myself for not listening or being alert, and then I curse Lyom for not placing men on guard duty. I can understand why they wouldn’t want to stand guard, but it’s their duty. This all could have been avoided.

  “Well, well,” The marauder looks at me.

  “They’re bandits.” Lyom grinds out.

  The marauders looks hurt. “No, no, no. Not bandits. We are reavers. The Reavers, actually. Now, what do we have here? It would appear we have the Swordmaster, who no doubt has plenty of loot for us — we’ll come back to that later, I assure you.” He waves a flippant hand at Lyom, who is still pressed down into the mud by three other marauders. Lyom doesn’t even move. His face is completely calm as he looks up at the Reaver, as if everything is going according to plan.

  “We have his swordsmen.” the marauder continues, referring to the men that surround us. His gaze returns to me and he scrutinizes me carefully. “Then we have a female swordsman. Tell me, warrior,” he mocks. “when did King Dryden begin employing the weak and helpless?”