At last, as the assassin reached the internal door to the east tower, we found a guard who hadnt abandoned his post. Sir Graeham, knight of my table, asleep on his feet, held upright by a combination of plate armour, a halberd, and the wall. Pale hands positioned the long knife at the gap between gorget and shoulderplate. The assassin set the heel of his palm over his knifes bone hilt, positioned so a sharp blow would puncture both leather and chainmail, and find the jugular beneath. He paused, perhaps sharing my thought that the knight might create quite a clatter if he fell. We held, close enough that I could draw Sir Graehams ripe stink in with each breath. The wind howled and I drove the knife home. Its hilt stung the hand that wasnt mine, the business end stung Sir Graeham worse, and he fell, twitching. His weight pulled him from the knife.
Again the assassin cleaned his blade. This time on the knights red cloak, smearing it with a brighter shade. Fastidious, this one.
He found the key on Graehams belt and unlocked the oak door, iron-bound and polished by the touch of hands. Old as the door was, the archway held more years. My uncles scrolls spoke of a time when the Haunt was nothing but the east tower, a single watchtower set on the mountains shoulder with a military camp about its base. And even those men, who fought the tribes of Or and forged a stronghold in the Highlands, did not build the tower. There is writing on that arch, but time has forgotten even the name of the script. Its meaning has passed beyond knowing.
The assassin stepped beneath the archway and beneath the runes deep-set upon the keystone. Pain shot through me, thorns found my flesh, hooking through skin and blood in a manner that promised no easy release, like the barbed arrow that must be dug free, or the lock-hound that needs killing before the muscles and tendons along its jaw can be sliced and its teeth pried from the bone. It hurt, but I found my freedom, torn from the body that had held me. He walked on without pause and I staggered in his wake, following as he mounted the stair. Across the back of his black cloak a cross had been sewn in white silk. A holy cross.
I ran at him, but passed through as if I were the ghost, though in truth it was me that shivered at the contact. Lamp light offered me his face as I turned, just for a moment before he walked through me and left me standing on the steps. The man held no colour, his face the same pale, drowned hue as his hands, hair oiled to the scalp, the iris of his eyes matching the ivory of the whites. He bore a cross embroidered in white silk across the front of his tunic to echo the one on his back. A papal assassin then. Only the Vatican sends assassins out into the world bearing a return address. The rest of us would rather not be caught using such agents. The papal assassin however is merely an extension of the Popes infallibility how can there be shame in executing the word of God? Why would such men cloak themselves in anonymity?
Sprawled in an alcove off the stairwell, Brother Emmer lay dead to the world. The assassin knelt and applied his knife to make sure it was a permanent state of affairs. Emmer had shown little interest in women on the road and had seemed a good choice to watch over my queen. I watched the Popes man climb the stairs until the turn of the tower took him from view. Emmers blood washed down, step by step, in crimson falls.
I never fought Katherine, never tried to escape her illusions, but that didnt mean I had to cooperate. Somehow I had broken free of the assassin and I had no reason to watch what else he might do. Murder my queen, no doubt. Miana would be sleeping in the chamber at the top of the stairs if Katherine kept to the castle plan she had mined from my memories. Should I follow like a fool and watch Mianas throat slit? See her thrash in her blood with my child dying inside her?
I stood in the darkness with just the echoes of lamplight from beyond the winding of the stair above and below.
Truly? You think you can show me anything that would hurt me? I spoke to the air. Youve walked my rememberings. I let her wander where she pleased when she came with her nightmares. I thought perhaps that daring the long corridors of my memory was more torment to her than her punishments were to me. Even with the key to each of my doors in her hand I knew there were places in me she didnt go. Who in their right mind would?
Lets play this game, Princess, all the way through. Lets discover if you find the end too bitter.
I ran up the stairs, the contacts between foot and stone were light and without effort, as if only in the assassins flesh could I properly touch this dream. I caught him within moments, passed him and won the race to the top.
Marten waited there, crouched before the queens door, his sword and shield on the floor, his eyes bloodshot and wild. Sweat held dark hair to his brow and ran down the straining tendons of his neck. In one fist a dagger, making constant jabs into his open palm. His breath came in short gasps and blood brimmed crimson from the cup of his hand.
Fight it, I told him. Despite my resolve I found myself drawn in by his struggle to stay awake and guard Miana.
The assassin came into view, my view, not Martens. He stopped, sniffed the air without sound, and cocked his head to catch the faint gasp of Martens pain. Whilst he paused I dived into him, determined to settle around his bones, clinging to anything tangible. A moment of blind agony and I stared once more out of his eyes. I tasted blood. He had shared the hurt of reunion with me and although he hadnt cried out, a sharp intake of breath had passed his lips. Perhaps it would be enough to warn Marten.
The Popes man reached into his robe, replacing the long bone-handled blade and drawing forth two short and heavy daggers, cruciform and weighted for throwing. He moved very fast, diving into Martens line of sight whilst at the same time releasing the first of his knives, just a flick of the wrist but imparting lethal force.
Marten launched himself almost in the instant we faced him, slowed for a heartbeat perhaps by the weight of sleep he denied. The assassins dagger hit somewhere between neck and belly I heard chain links snap. He passed us with a roar and the assassins foot lashed out, catching Martens chin, propelling him into the curved wall. Momentum carried him feet over head over feet, clattering down the stairs. We hesitated, as if unsure whether to pursue and check if any bones remained unbroken. The hot wetness below our knee convinced the assassin otherwise. Somehow Marten had sliced the assassin as he passed. The Popes man hobbled on toward the door, hissing at the pain now spreading from the cut Marten had left on us. He paused to tie a bandage, a silk sash from an inner pocket, pulled it tight, then advanced up the steps.
Any key had clattered down the stairs with Marten and the Popes man took out his picks once more to work the lock. It took longer than before, the queens door boasted a tricky mechanism perhaps as old as the tower. Before it yielded to our patient work the flagstones were pooled with the assassins blood, red as any mans despite the pallor of his skin.
Any key had clattered down the stairs with Marten and the Popes man took out his picks once more to work the lock. It took longer than before, the queens door boasted a tricky mechanism perhaps as old as the tower. Before it yielded to our patient work the flagstones were pooled with the assassins blood, red as any mans despite the pallor of his skin.
We stood, and I felt his weakness blood loss and something else he strained some muscle I didnt share, but I knew the effort wearied him. Perhaps the all-encompassing sleep had cost him dear.
The door opened without sound. He took the lamp from its hook where Marten had crouched and stepped in. The strength of his imaginings began to reach me as at last his excitement mounted. I saw the pictures rising in his mind. All of a sudden, dream or no dream, I wanted him to fail. I didnt want him to slice Miana open. I had no wish to see the red ruin of my unborn child drawn from her. The fear surprised me, raw and basic, and I knew it to be my own, not some sharing with Katherine. I wondered if it might be an echo of what Coddin warned I would feel for my son or daughter when I first saw them, held them. If that were true then I had my first inkling of how dangerous the bond might be.
On the dresser by the bed a glimmer from the silver chain I gave Miana on her name day. Under the covers a mounded form caught in shadows, wife and child, soft in sleep.
Wake up. As if saying it would make it happen. Wake up. All my will and not even a tremble of it on his lips.
Cold certainty gripped me by the throat. This was real. This was now. I slept in my bed in a tent, Miana slept in hers miles from me, and a pale death approached her.
Katherine! I shouted her name inside his head. Dont do this!
He stepped toward the bed, the second of his throwing knives raised and ready. Perhaps only the size of the lump beneath the covers prevented him from flinging the blade at it immediately. Miana could not be said to be a large woman, even with a baby straining to get out of her. It looked as though she had company in there. I might even have thought it, but for Marten at the door.
Another step, his injured leg numb and cold now, his lips muttering some spell in silence, as if his magics mirrored his unsteady gait and needed support. I had no warning, my arm his arm drew back to throw. In that moment the covers fluttered, I heard a muted choom and a fist hit my side, hard enough to throw me back, spinning twice before slamming into the wall. I slid to the floor, legs stretched before me and looked down. Both pale hands covered my side, blood spurting between my fingers, pieces of flesh hanging.
The covers lifted and Miana faced me, crouched around the black mass of the Nubans crossbow, eyes wide and fierce above it.
My right hand found the bone handle of the longer knife. Spitting blood I crawled to my feet, the world rotating around me. I could see that no bolts remained in the crossbow. Inside the assassin I strained with every piece of my being to still his legs, to lay down the weapon. I think he felt it this time. He moved slowly, but keeping between Miana and her door. His eyes fell to her belly, taut beneath her nightgown.