Deaths Crossing

[Scriven]

Bryn Mattick

He had never cared for messy deaths.


Anselme had once told him that after spending so much time in the business of killing that he could appreciate a slow, gruesome death. The confession had come as a shock to Bryn. Anselme, though he had killed countless people, was nevertheless a gentle giant. He didn’t kill because he enjoyed it. He killed because it was sometimes necessary; at least, that was what Bryn had always believed. Maybe he was wrong though.


Tom, too, had admitted one night when they’d been too far into their cups that he got a certain thrill from it. But only men, he’d clarified, spilling ale on the table. Killing women and children was the devil’s business and men could get no joy from that. It was necessary sometimes, aye, but if a man grew to enjoy that... “Well, then you’ve crossed over, and there’s no coming back from that,” Tom had told him.


Bryn had killed more people than he cared to think about, but he’d never gotten joy out of it. He’d made his peace with it long ago, but it didn’t mean he liked it. Still, there was a certain grim satisfaction to eradicating the most vile of men. Anselme had taught him never to take such a serious job lightly. “Take only the lives that will make the world a better place.”


The world would certainly be better off without Danyel de Pinchemont, the sheriff of Gladhavn, who was sleeping peacefully on his goose down mattress. It was well known that the man was crooked and immoral, but he had gone too far and upset the wrong person. Several weeks ago, while Willem had been out toiling in the fields, Pinchemont had paid his wife a visit.


“My wife had just given birth,” Willem told him, filled with anger and no small amount of grief. “She was holding my son in her arms when Pinchemont barged in.”


There had been a skirmish as the sheriff attempted to assault her. The baby was knocked out of her arms, his head hitting the side of the table before he landed on the ground. Pinchemont had raped Willem’s wife and the child had died. She was inconsolable.


“Make him suffer,” Willem had implored. “I want him to feel pain. I want him to feel fear before you end his miserable life.”


Bryn couldn’t blame Willem, but it didn’t change matters. Bryn got no joy from killing, and he didn’t care for torture. Removing the knife from its sheath at his hip, the man moved silently across the dark room, bent over the sleeping figure of the sheriff, and put his knife to the other man’s throat. Pinchemont’s eyes opened as the cool metal touched his flesh, but Bryn had a hand clamped tightly over his mouth.


“This is for Willem’s wife and child,” he said, and dragged the blade across his throat. Blood poured from the gash, soaking through the mattress. Bryn wiped the blade of his knife clean on the sheriff’s blanket, looking at the lifeless body of the man. He felt that same familiar feeling of wrongness, even knowing that the world would be better off without Danyel de Pinchemont. Suppressing it, Bryn left quietly.


That was number ninety-nine, he realized as he slipped away from the house, leaving the area as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself. He didn’t try to keep count, but it was something his mind seemed to keep track of despite his intentions. Almost a hundred people, dead because of him. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool night air.


What a macabre accomplishment one hundred would be.

 

[mechanimated]

Kylah dy Casmera

The windows rattled loudly in their frames, their clattering mingling with the hiss of sand blowing against the castle walls. How Kylah hated the dryness, the incessant heat, the monotony of the landscape. Urda was a beautiful place, she had to admit, but it was the sort of land she'd have preferred to visit rather than live it. It was the middle of the dry season at the time. Well, dryer than usual. And than meant sandstorms. No matter how well-sealed the palace was, sand found its way into everything. Kylah would wake in a bed crusted with the golden granules. Her handmaidens never ceased brushing the stuff out of her clothes. Kylah was sick of it. She missed the woods, snow, cold mountain air.


Fiddling absently with her embroidery hoop, the young woman was brought out of her reverie with a wince. The pure white linen, partially stitched with flowers, bloomed with ruby dots. It was so easy to get careless these days. Kylah found it increasingly hard to care. She had been married a child, ignorant and naive. Once, there had been some spark of rebellious life in her. Now? Kylah found it hard to get up most mornings. Her "husband" was not so terrible a man, but he was approaching his seventieth birthday. The couple hadn't slept in the same room since their wedding night, when the grandfather she had been forced to call "my love" tucked a weeping child into bed. She loved him in truth, now, a near fifteen years later, but not in a way anyone might mistake for lust. Alone, Kylah and Harram were more like a nurse and a patient. Ever the dutiful wife, she bathed his aching limbs, fed him food ground to mash, and read him books his cataract-scarred eyes could no longer see. Neither suffered under any sort of delusion that there might be more between them.


The troubles, Kylah found, stemmed more from her dear husbands children. There were three, and all were older than their adoptive mother by at least half a decade. None welcomed the pale-faced barbarian queen from the north. Once, they had been kept in check by their fathers power. Now? With the old kings health and memory both on the decline, the unruly children of his dead past wife were becoming increasingly restive. Kylah had vague, creeping fears about the future and her place in it. She had long occupied a position that had power more through the force of her husband than any will of her own.


Putting aside the embroidery, Kylah walked to the end-table and considered the candle flame. Flickering, temporary. There was little for her to do these days but wax philosophical. Glancing up, the young queen caught sight of herself in the ornate mirror. She looked a ghost; white, white. Or perhaps it was less her colour, and more the fading way she seemed to impress herself upon this world, as though a moment of forgetfulness or a stiff wind and...


Kylah blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. Momentarily blind, Kylah stripped and left her clothes (obscenely ornate as usual) in heaps on the floor. She slipped between silk sheets, shivering, and strained to capture the silence of the room. There was little to her life but anxiety these days. Kylah's hair fanned out, sleek ivory, across her pillow. She imagined that if she held her breath and lay quite still there would be little difference between her living and dead. But she couldn't think such things - it was sinful. Besides, Kylah needed to think about the future. Her poor Harram was waning. Soon, Kylah would be alone. Childless. A usurper, the whore queen of the wretched northmen. Where to go from here? Kylah stared at the ceiling, pale blue eyes silvering in the faint light of the moon breaking through the window. No sleep tonight.

 

[Scriven]

This seemed a strange land. The sun blazed hotter here, the air blew dryer. Sand, which he had only before seen around rivers and lakes, covered the landscape. It was blown and whipped about by the wind, occasionally creating great tunnels of it that swirled over the dunes.


The people here had a different look to them, their garb often more intricate. His dark hair and beard helped him blend in more easily among the men, though a closer look clearly marked him as a foreigner. His skin, though burnished from the sun, was still fairer than most, and his eyes were an uncommon blue. Still, despite his differences (or perhaps because of them), Bryn had never been treated more kindly. The people in this country were hospital and generous. Many he had encountered during his travels had balked at the idea of him renting a room for the night and insisted he stay in their homes, even though they were little more than acquaintances.


Asad, who he had met yesterday and stayed with last night, had tried to offer Bryn his own bed. He had refused (no easy task with Asad, who took insistence to competitive levels), but had slept in the man’s barn on a bed of fresh hay. The goats had kept him company, which was fine by him. His host, between courtesies, had nevertheless managed to slip a heavy threat into the conversation: if his daughter was touched, Bryn would find himself with no hands.


Asad’s daughter, though lovely and charming, offered no temptation. She was, after all, only thirteen. When Bryn had pointed this fact out to Asad, his host had assured him that his daughter had indeed reached marrying age. “How old are girls when they marry in the land you come from?” Asad had asked.


“Quite a bit older,” he had replied, then shook his head. “Usually.”


He had thought of her- his childhood playmate. How old had they been when she had been taken away from her home, married to some foreign prince or king? Perhaps she hadn’t even been as old as Asad’s daughter. It had been so long since he had thought of her. It made him a little wistful, thinking of that time in his life. It felt as if his life was split into two very distinct acts: the years with Kylah, and the time after she was gone. His life had changed irrevocably after she left, even more so after he fled the castle that had always been his home.


Perhaps it was because he was in the country’s capital, standing in the shadow King Harram’s beautiful palace, that he thought of her again. It was different from the castles in the North, yet it was enough to make him think of that past life. He pushed the thoughts away, walking through the arched doorway with a confident stride. He had only made it a few steps before he was stopped by one of the palace guards. This place was crawling with them, he realized, looking around. Four at this door, more stationed at the stairs. No doubt there were guards assigned to the king, and more importantly, the queen.


“On what business are you here today?” a guard asked sharply. He was a big man, and fit. Bryn wouldn’t want to go hand to hand with him, that was for sure.


“I’m one of the attendants of Lord Vincent Tulles,” he said, the lie prepared and rehearsed. “He is an emissary of Bellbrook and a guest of his majesty.”


All of that, fortunately, was true; all but the first bit about him being the man’s attendant. He had no idea who Vincent Tulles was, but Bryn had learned of his presence in the palace a few days ago, and it was information that would gain him entrance to the palace. The guard nodded, stepping back, and Bryn murmured his thanks before proceeding up the stairs. He wanted to get to know the layout of the castle and discover the routines of the queen from her staff. She was his latest target, and if all went well, his last.

 

[mechanimated]

When the sky began to streak pink with the first hints of dawn, Kylah had still not slept. Vague bruises marred the skin under her eyes, but it was no matter. Slipping out of bed and onto the thickly carpeted floor, the young queen padded to the bathroom. The tub was already full of hot water, rose petals floating on the perfumed surface. Somehow, no matter how early or late Kylah woke, the bath was always fresh and hot. It must have been some sort of sixth sense, she guessed. The other ladies of the court were often lamenting or praising this or that servant for such. Some people were just born to take care of others.


Lowing herself into the water, Kylah sighed deeply, and waved a hand idly in the air. She didn't need to open her eyes or speak; a pad of paper appeared in her questing fingers, and a pen. It was a daily ritual. Kylah murmured a thanks and rested the items on the floor at the edge of the sunken tub. This process helped her clear her head and prepare for each new day. When Kylah wrote, it was with beautiful, curling script. Once, as a very young girl, she had received a stinging rap across the knuckles when she didn't form her Y's and P's properly.


1. See to Harram


2. Stocking for Fet-i-Bani


3. Meeting with Tulles and Cosgrove


4. Hearings


5. Cleansing





Laying the heavy gold fountain pen down, Kylah examined her list. A busy day, today. With Fet-i-Bani, the Festival of New Waters, on the horizon, everyone was wrapped up in preparations. The holiday was meant to mark the midpoint of the dry season, the day the waters would slowly begin flowing anew. The city would be hung with blue and white, and people would slick their hair with fragrant oils and dance barefoot in the street - an act meant to simulate getting caught in the rain. The drunken revelries would carry on all night.


Then there was the meeting with Tulles. She had actually met the man once, apparently, though she was too young to remember it. By all accounts, the man was a decent fellow. It was his fellow ambassador, Ricarde Cosgrove, who had the bad reputation. A legendary womanizer and snake-tongued liar, he would do or say anything to wring another pence out of a person. General scum, in short.


Kylah laid in the tub until the water started to go tepid, and rose dripping and pruney to a morning now in full bloom. Dressing was always a process. Two lady's maids laced and buttoned her into a heavily brocaded blue-and-silver gown, the front paneled with serpents and lions. A round window under the high neck framed a brilliant sapphire the size of a pigeons egg. Her hair was brushed and braided before being adorned with the Moon Crown. It was made of white gold, a delicate cage capping her head and supporting a massive, gleaming diamond above her brow. Harram wore its companion, the Sun Crown. The third in the set, the Star Crown, would be worn by the heir-apparent, next in line for the throne. It was currently locked in the vaults, sitting idly on its red velvet cushion. Harram refused to name an heir, much to the chagrin of his increasingly impatient children.


A little time in front of the vanity served to hide the rings under Kylah's eyes, brighten her lips, and add a faint rosy glow to her cheeks. One must keep up appearances, after all. Her preparations complete, Kylah sent the maids out of the room. Once they were gone, she rose and pulled back the hanging tapestry to the left of her bed. Feeling around briefly, she found the hidden latch and opened the door to her husband's room. No one knew this door was here, not the castle steward nor the royal children. Kylah used it to attend Harram in secrecy. It would not do for anyone to find out he could not raise himself from the bed without aid. Silently, Kylah woke the aging king and eased his feet to the floor. She held out a supporting hand, speaking soothingly until Harram could gather his wits. He forgot things, nowadays, especially just after waking.


"You are a delight, my dear. Do you know that? We must celebrate your seventeenth birthday properly..."


Kylah gently reminded him, for the tenth time this month, that she had not been seventeen for over eight years. By the time Harram had bathed, eaten, and dressed, he was more his old self. The royal couple departed together, arm in arm, and spoke quietly as they walked down ornate stone halls.


"Ever the spring blossom, my queen. I have to attend to Usfeth today. He is being quite the little weasel about fortifying the southern border. His tallies for supply costs are absurd - as though I wouldn't notice he was paying twelve thousand sikram for 'horseshoes'! You are seeing to Tulles today, yes? Give him my apologies that I cannot meet with him as well, but you know Usfeth will whine and wheedle over every little thing, and what should take an hour will take five if I'm lucky."


"You flatter me too much, you old goose. Don't think it'll convince me to let you sleep in. But yes, I am speaking to Tulles today, and that wart, Cosgrove. I'll probably be as long about it as you are. Cosgrove is cut much from the same cloth as Usfeth."


"Mmm. Yes, well. After all is said and done, I wanted to speak to you about something. About the crown."


Kylah had to cover a falter in her pace. She liked Harram, loved him even, but the thought of sharing a bed repulsed her. It would be like sleeping with her father.


"I want you to be first queen - alone - when I am gone. And to remarry, after some time. You might consider Shetwan, he is a fine young man. A little younger than you, perhaps, but his family is good and he would be good to you."


"I-you-...B-but your children..."


"Do not speak to me of those scheming wretches. I see now this is a conversation for some other time, I should have realized. Tactless. But think on what I said, and we will speak further tonight. I must go. Farewell, love."


Harram kissed Kylah on the cheek and squeezed her hand before disappearing behind the heavy oak doors of his war office, which swung shut with a bang. Kylah was left to blink slowly, mouth open, in the hall. This...Kylah shook her head. Not the time. First Queen...No, there were other things to do. Descending to her own study, Kylah had servants bring her reams of paper and lists of supplies for Fet-i-Bani. Seating herself at a sun-bathed table, she set to work checking and double-checking amounts, costs, dates, writing memos, sealing letters...It was dull work. After a few hours, Kylah leaned back with a groan. She waved over the servant who stood in the corner, waiting to attend.


"A pitcher of chilled wine, Miles, and food. Have Tusi fix something hearty. Oh, and fetch Lord Tulles' manservant."


The servant bowed and disappeared. Alone, Kylah had an opportunity to close her eyes and rub her temples. She might have to put Tulles off for today, which meant speaking to one of his men to convey the message...

 

[Scriven]

The palace was vast. Whereas those in the North were dark, heavy and formiddable, this one seemed light and airy. There were great arching passageways, wide windows, and several courtyards. These courtyards seemed like an oasis in the desert; they were as lush and green and vibrant as the rest of the country was dry and brown.


In some of these courtyards he noticed women in beautifully intricate gowns chatting with one another, painting, or working at their embroidery. The children of the court played, running about with a freedom they would lose in coming years. One was never so free as during childhood.


And everywhere, everywhere, were guards. Bryn had never assassinated someone so high profile and so well protected. How was he even going to get into the queen’s room? The hall outside her chamber would be guarded, of that he was almost certain. Perhaps there was a window he could slip through. He would have to locate her room so he could judge it from the outside and determine if he could get to it without drawing attention.


Still, the difficulty of the task was reflected in the price that was put on her head. Whoever wanted to queen dead was being very secretive about it. He (or she?) had hired a middle man, who communicated first to Anselme, and then to him. This was a grim job, that was for sure. He knew nothing about this country and had no idea why someone wanted the queen murdered. Perhaps the world would be better off without her, but Bryn had no way of knowing. It seemed equally as likely that the one who wanted her dead would benefit from her death.


In the end, despite his misgivings about it all, the pay was too good to pass up. There were also some thinly veiled threats about what would happen if he didn’t complete the job, but Bryn wasn’t too concerned with that. He had always found his mark.


“Ah, sir, excuse me-” a voice called out, causing him to turn.


“Are you talking to me?” he asked in surprise.


The man nodded. “Yes, sir. You are Lord Tulles' attendant, are you not?”


Well shit, thought Bryn. “I am.” And damn whoever had told this person.


“You have been summoned. If you’ll come this way-”


“Well, see, I can’t. I’m actually right in the middle of-”


The man cut him off. “You are being summoned by the queen. Whatever you were doing must wait.”


This was not how things were supposed to go. She was never supposed to know his face. He was supposed to slip into her room one night while she was sleeping and slit her throat. It would be almost painless. She would be dead seconds after the feeling of his blade awoke her. But now... Bryn hated when things didn’t go as he had planned.


He bowed his head. “Of course.” What other choice did he have? This wasn’t going to end well, he thought. How long would it take before it became apparent that he didn’t know anything about Lord Vincent Tulles? If the man had been standing in the very same room, Bryn wouldn’t have known it. Tulles was just a useful name; just a lie to get him through the door.


He followed the man down the stone corridor. It was open on one side to the courtyard. A woman was singing words he didn’t understand, her voice echoing off the chiseled stone.


The man in front of him stopped, opening the door. He went in first, announcing Bryn’s presence to the queen. “Your grace, I have brought Lord Tulles attendant.”


Bryn took in a deep breath and fixed a smile on his face, crossing through into the bright, airy study when the man ushered him in. His eyes landed on the queen sitting there, piles of paper all around her, a glass of wine near her hand. Beads of condensation formed on the goblet, one slowly dripping down the stem. Bryn felt his smile falter.


It was uncanny. The queen reminded him so strongly of his childhood playmate that he felt his stomach lurch. He knew it was just a superficial resemblance, but it was enough to make the words he might have spoken die on his lips. He tried to remember Kylah’s face, but she had only been a child then, and it had been so long since he had seen her. The queen had the same coloring though, and the same silky, cream-colored hair.


“Your majesty,” he said, finally finding his tongue. He bowed, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. “How may I be of service?”

 

[mechanimated]

Kylah nodded absently as the servant introduced Lord Tulles' man. The door clicked shut, and there was a moment of silence but for the scratching of pen on paper. Kylah pressed the cool dampness of the goblet to her forehead, sighing. Four barrels, two barrels, seven casks....yes, all should be in order. Signing off with a flourish, Kylah took a sip of her wine and looked up at the manservant, mouth open as though to speak.


The words died on her lips. It was impossible.





"Look at me."


Kylah's voice was a whipcrack, stern, brooking no argument. Surely it couldn't be...not here. Not now. She had been so sure he was dead, or at the very least hundreds of miles away back home. It was like a blow to the back of the head. The wine glass trembled in her vice grip, burgundy liquid spilling over Kylah's white-knuckled fingers. Memories, unbidden, floated to the fore of her mind. Years spent together, promises made, promises broken.


"Will you take me with you when you leave, Ky?"


The young princess paused momentarily in her grooming, flicking a twig of hay she had just pulled from her hair at Bryn. It bounced off his nose and into his lap.


"Of course, pea-brain. How could I go without you?"


Bryn, his face still soft with youth, looked unconvinced. His brow was furrowed in consternation as he reached forward to help his young charge pluck hayseed from her scalp.


"If I was a-goin' with, why haven't none of the palace folk packed me, or told me, or anything?"


Kylah looked unperturbed. She couldn't fathom the idea of something going so entirely not her way. Besides, Bryn wasn't just her best friend, he was supposed to keep her from harm. A burr sticking to her hide meant to discourage un-princess-ly activities. It was a poorly thought out plan, honestly. It's not like he could lay a hand on the girl, at least, not when any adults might find out. The two had wrestled often enough in the barn, though they were caught by the stablemaster the one time. Bryn has said he got striped for thieving apples later, but Kylah didn't believe it. Nor, in turn, did Bryn likely believe that she believed it. It was a convenient lie neither of them wanted to call out, because the taint of it would hang over their easy friendship like a stormcloud. How could children play easily with that relationship between them? The better part of the pleasure of childhood was mischief. Kylah did go to the stablemaster later and tell him he was a sneaking tattletale, and hid all his best horseshoes. For what was far from the first time, the headstrong young princess set up a blazing row with her father and mother, and retired to her room that night in tears.


"Oh, come on Bryn, even I only found out a few days ago. The grown-ups have probably just not had any time for us with all their rushing about. I'll bet no one bothered to tell you or me because it'd be so pig-head stupid to think you aren't coming. Do you need your nanny to tell you water is wet, too?"


In place of an answer, Kylah received a handful of hay scrubbed onto her head. The pair fell, shrieking, back into the haystack they had just clambered out of. Any concerns about the wider world were instantly forgotten.





Kylah stood, crossing to the door and locking it with a snap. A sudden fear had squeezed her heart. If anyone knew who Bryn was, where he was from...because Kylah was sure it was him. Oh, he had aged more than a bit. The beard threw her for a loop. It was the voice though, unmistakable. She would have known it anywhere. Half-running to the window, the queen leaned out, peering intently into the courtyard. When Kylah spun back to face "Lord Tulles' servant", there was vague panic in her eyes. She spoke in a croak, her voice barely above a whisper.


"Bryn? What are you doing here?"

 

[Scriven]

“Look at me.”


He did. The order was sharp, commanding. Shit, how had she seen through him so quickly? He had barely spoken. No, he couldn’t give away the lie, Bryn thought, keeping his features placidly calm. He was jumping to conclusions, just guessing at the cause of her sharp tone. The guilty made excuses. He mustn’t start babbling.


He met her gaze solidly. The queen stared at him, her expression intense but impossible to read. He had no idea what she was thinking. Her hand trembled, wine spilling from her cup. She stood very suddenly, his eyes following her as she crossed the room, moving behind him to shut the door. He took a slow, even breath in, holding it, keeping his panic from rising. This was fine. It was fine. Out of the usual, but he hadn’t been tossed in the fire yet.


His eyes followed her again as she darted to the window. She peered out of it, seemingly distressed, then spun to face him again.


“Bryn? What are you doing here?”


He felt his lips part, his lungs gasping in a sudden, quiet breath. He gaped at the queen in surprise, his brows knitting together into a frown, his eyes darting over her face as he tried to comprehend. She knew who he was?


She knew who he was!


His eyes widened. He had had the strangest feeling of deja vu when he had seen this woman, but it seemed so impossible. Could it really be her? Could this truly be his dear, beloved Kylah? The last time he had seen her she had only been a girl. It had been so long that he couldn’t even truly recall her face. Even if he could, this woman was a woman grown, no little girl.


“...Kylah?” he asked finally. He took a step forward, then another. He grasped her by the tops of her arms, looking at her. Those eyes... That determined look on her face... “Is it really you?”

 

[mechanimated]

Hot tears pricked Kylah's eyes, though she blinked them away with the ease of long practice. "Never let them see you bleed" was a lesson she had taken in at her mothers breast. Even more than a king, a queen was always scrutinized for chinks in her armor that could provide a place to gain leverage. Bloodhounds had nothing on the aristocracy for their ability to sniff out a wound. When Bryn seized her shoulders, Kylah swayed in place. It was too much to take in. When she spoke, her voice was a faint whisper.


"It's like seeing you back from the dead...I can't believe it. I have so, so many questions."


Kylah could barely order her thoughts. Where to begin? It had been, good god, almost a full two decades since she had last seen her beloved childhood friend. Seventeen long years she had languished, largely friendless, in this hot, strange land. So many letters, unanswered. So many gifts, unreciprocated. There was so much Kylah wanted to say that the words crammed up in her throat, and she couldn't manage to speak at all. Instead, Kylah pulled Bryn into a tight, desperate hug, as though she expected him to turn to smoke before her eyes. He smelled of starch and horse and sand and sweat and lye, and under it all that familiar Bryn-smell that Kylah knew so well. Her heart lurched along, erratic, as though after so long it had forgotten how to bear affection or joy.


"Bryn...There is so much to tell you. So much for you to tell me. Where did you come from? Why are you here? Did you ever get my letters? Why didn't you write back? Oh, I'm-I'm just...I think I might faint. But gods, it is dangerous for you to be here. If anyone knew, I mean, about us. About us being friends...How did you come to be employed by Tulles?"


Her words tripped over each other in their haste to get out, and Kylah stepped back and pressed the back of her hand to her brow. She was trembling faintly, as one did after a terrible shock. The adrenaline was fading from her system, leaving her twitching and nervous. A sheen of clammy sweat glistened on her cheeks. The young queen looked on the verge of a breakdown. Stress had not been kind. To see a familiar face, to see this specific familiar face...Kylah imagined this was what a drowning man felt like seeing a lifeline appear out of the storm. A flutter of hope blossomed. Maybe this was an opportunity, a chance at a fresh start. Maybe she could make it up to Bryn, for leaving him behind. For breaking her word. Kylah reached out and clasped Bryn by the arm, making to pull him over to her table. She felt a glass of cool wine might do her good at the moment. However, as soon as she made the familiar gesture, Kylah froze. Her hand, porcelain and thin, felt the unmistakable outline of a dagger strapped to his heavily muscled forearm. She loosed her grip, tracing with utter disbelief the shape of the weapon beneath the loose cloth of his shirt. When she lifted her eyes to meet Bryn's, there was a new sort of fear in them.


"Bryn...why are you here?"

 

[Scriven]

The past seemed to war with the present right before his eyes as Bryn tried to make sense of what was happening. Seeing Kylah was like seeing a ghost; she was from another time, another life. She was from that bittersweet, all too brief, innocent time before he had barely survived the streets, learning to kill. Kylah symbolized everything that was childhood and joy, but she had disappeared one day, leaving without him, and that chapter of his life had closed.


He had never expected to see her again. Now, to see her like this... Under these circumstances... God, how could fate be so cruel?


She fell into his arms, hugging him tightly. For a moment Bryn froze, his body rigid, but after a second he put his arms around her, hugging her just as tightly, trapping her in his embrace, the top of her head under his chin. This was new, he thought. They were close in age, he only a couple of years older than her, but as children she had always been taller. It had been a little infuriating at the time, he remembered, even though it was normal for girls to hit their growth spurt earlier than boys. As children, Kylah had seemed unbreakable, unstoppable, her tremendous energy filling the room. Now she seemed small, frail, and entirely too human. How easy she would be to kill.


He felt her trembling in his arms and let her go, watching her quiver, her hands shaking. She looked pale, strain showing on her face. God, but she had grown to be beautiful.


She grasped his arm before he could stop her, trying to pull him toward her desk. She froze and their eyes met. She traced the knife that was secured to his arm beneath his shirt, fear in her luminous eyes.


"Bryn...why are you here?" she asked.


There was a long pause in which he struggled to answer. Finally, after a moment, he put his hands gently on her shoulders and guided her over to her chair. “You need to sit,” he told her, pressing her back into the seat behind her desk. She looked ready to collapse, and what she was about to hear wasn’t happy news. He knelt in front of her, gathering her hands up in his. His heart felt heavy, his soul like lead. “Kylah... So much has happened. I never thought I would see you again, and now... Now I wish I hadn’t.” He shook his head. He knew this wasn’t making any sense to her. “Kylah, I was hired by a man to kill King Harram’s wife.”

 

[mechanimated]

Kylah squeezed her eyes shut, leaning her head against the back of the chair. The minute she had felt the concealed weapon, she had known, but having it said out loud somehow made the tragedy so much more real. Bryn's hands felt so hot against her cold fingers, solid and real. To see him so hale, healthy, so very much alive...and yet here to kill. To kill her. It was a cruel jest. Someone had hired him to commit regicide. Kylah mentally ran down the list of people who stood to benefit. Topping it were her husbands vile brats, naturally, but the names trailed on. Lords vying for power, and particularly Jasimar and Semwick. The two were lieges from neighboring states with highly eligible daughters, no doubt hoping to displace Kylah and insert their progeny into the vacuum. But would they stoop to regicide?


The potential consequences and dangers unfurled in her mind, a thousand intertwining paths that led to chaos and destruction. Even now, Kylah could not step outside her role. It was in her blood, the bureaucracy and underhandedness of court. Who would care for the hundreds of domestic issues of each day? So many shipments of wine, so many bales of wool, so many exports and imports. Who would help Harram with the border defense? His eyesight was so weak now, he needed someone to read his maps to him aloud in the candlelight now. No one else knew his shorthand so well as Kylah. And his bastard children, who would keep them from his aging throat? They held no love in their bitter hearts, but that which they felt for power and the throne. It was the crown upon their fathers' brow they adored.


Kylah's hand clutched at her chest, the other spastically tightening around Bryn's fingers. Harram. Was he in danger? In her mind's eye, glinting daggers lurked in every shadow, a gloved hand held vials of poison over every cup. But no, no. Surely if whoever it was had chosen to put a price on her own head, Harram was safe. For now, at least. When she spoke, Kylah's voice sounded flat and colorless. She gazed, unfocused, at some middle distance out the window. How could she have found this place so desolate? It was beautiful after all.


"So. What do we do now? Do you slit my throat and disappear? I locked the door, like a fool."

 

[Scriven]

Kylah turned her head, staring dully out the window. When she spoke, her voice held no inflection or emotion. She had given up already, Bryn thought.


"So. What do we do now? Do you slit my throat and disappear? I locked the door, like a fool."


His teeth clenched, a muscle jumping in his jaw. The first emotion was anger, and it came hot and swift to the surface. He let go of her hand, standing so he could walk away from her. He was wounded by her words.


“So that’s your opinion of me now, is it?” he asked her sharply. “Haven’t I done enough to prove my undying loyalty to you? Every mistake you made, I paid for it with my own flesh, but I never bore you ill will. And now you think that I’m going to slit your pretty little throat and just call it a day?”


There was a short, humorless bark of laughter. “Maybe I should. It would certainly be the wiser decision for me. But no, Kylah. Despite your complete lack of faith in me, I’m now going to have to find a way to save your life. And trust me when I say it needs saving. When the man who hired me finds out I didn’t finish the job, they’re going to come after me. And they’re going to send someone else after you, too. I sincerely doubt you’ll get so lucky a second time.”

 

[mechanimated]

((It's fine, it happens. I get really busy with school myself.))


Kylah did not even flinch when Bryn snatched his hand away as though burned, though his words brought a bit of color to her cheeks.


"You jest. 'My opinion of you now'? 'Undying loyalty'? Bryn, the last time we saw each other was as children. I loved you dearly, more than you can imagine, but neither of us knew anything of loyalty then, nor anything greater than ourselves. The first time I see you in over a decade, and-and you're a killer. You tell me with your own lips that you have come, willingly, to murder. The Bryn I knew would never have come to anyone with such violence in his heart. How could I rely on anything else about you being the same? If the only thing staying your hand is distant childhood familiarity, well, then you will forgive me for thinking my shield frighteningly insubstantial."


Kylah clenched her now empty hands on her knees. Her breathing was unsteady, and she poured herself a brimming chalice of cool wine. ruby liquid spilling over her wrist, and emptied it in two short quaffs. The whirlwind of emotion that raged in her mind was slowly receding. Years of political scheming and schooling were bubbling to the surface. There was a way out. There was always a way out. So much had happened - Bryn had changed, she had changed. But perhaps there was still time to wrong rights, and at the very least keep them both safe long enough to lay their own traps. Kylah was a woman in a foreign land. Her power, what little she had, could only ever be enforced through wit and delicate prodding from the shadows. When she spoke again, her voice had regained some vigor, laced with a businesslike steel.


"The most important thing right now is to cover your tracks. Whoever your patron is...Bryn, you have put your foot in a quagmire so deep you cannot even begin to imagine. I fear he did not intend you to ever get away clean. You are in immense danger whether you cut me down or not. Now, if you've never shown this man your face, it makes both our lives significantly easier. If you are a killer now, I can only assume you don't want your likeness plastered on every wall, so you must have taken this precaution, yes?"

 

[Scriven]

For a moment, Bryn was thoroughly taken aback. His gaze dropped to the ground- expensive white marble covered by an equally expensive, plush rug. God, how much work was it keeping sand out of this place? Yet somehow it was spotless. Only the best for the king and queen, he thought bitterly.


“You’re right,” he said. “You’re right, okay? But dear God, I still can’t believe you think I’d just- just- kill you.” Yes, he was a killer now, but it didn’t mean he was heartless. Or maybe it did. They had clearly both changed, so maybe he had lost his heart and just wasn’t privy to it yet.


"The most important thing right now is to cover your tracks. Whoever your patron is...Bryn, you have put your foot in a quagmire so deep you cannot even begin to imagine. I fear he did not intend you to ever get away clean. You are in immense danger whether you cut me down or not. Now, if you've never shown this man your face, it makes both our lives significantly easier. If you are a killer now, I can only assume you don't want your likeness plastered on every wall, so you must have taken this precaution, yes?"


He listened to Kylah, slightly stunned. “I’m being instructed in the art of assassination by the queen,” he muttered to himself. His dark eyed gaze met hers, a smile pulling up one side of his mouth -just slightly- in amusement. “Your majesty, forgive me for my impertinence, but I assure you that I am not a complete novice when it comes to assassination, otherwise it’s unlikely I would be hired for this job.”


They were getting off to a fine start, weren’t they? They hadn’t seen each other since childhood, but this was no warm reunion. “The man who hired me is exceedingly secretive when it comes to his identity. He had a middleman contact my master. I have never even seen the man who works on his behalf.”

 

[mechanimated]

Kylah watched Bryn, the hurt on his face, and found herself suffused with relief. She had...well. She was not the innocent flower she had once been. It was not the first time Kylah had spoken to an assassin, and they had always had such...empty eyes. The best of them, they were like butchers. It was just a job. There was no anger, or hate, or pleasure. No desire to hurt the animal - just the unfortunate fact that it needed to die. To see Bryn still exhibit some shame or hurt, it was so god damned beautiful. Kylah hugged herself, hands on her elbows, and let her gaze fall briefly to the floor as well.


"There is nothing I can take at face value anymore, Bryn. I go to sleep every night and wonder if the morn will find my lovely silken sheets ruined with thick blood."


When she looked up again, Kylah thought she had caught the hint of a smile. Her own responding one was so instinctive that she almost brought her hand up to her face in shock. It was a reflex, strange to feel when she was so detached, to smile back at that once-trusted face.


"Well. You are but one killer, one man. I am a queen - just imagine the number of daggers I've directed and deflected in my time. It's just a matter of experience, dear. Though," she said with a flash of a roguish grin, "it isn't the first nor the last numbers game I've had more experience with than you, I'm sure."


It was such an old joke - Kylah used to love scandalizing Bryn by insinuating that every time she slipped away from him it was for a roll in the hay with the stable boy or a quick tryst with the squire. His horrified gasps quickly turned into a competition of oneupmanship, each trying to fabricate the lewdest, most unbelievable adventure they could. Naturally, as children, they had only the faintest idea of what they were saying beyond that it made all the grown-ups red-faced with shock if they ever heard.


Her smiled went as quickly as it came, however.


"I can think of a few names that top my list for would-be employers of yours. For now...you must stay close to me always, Bryn. I fear if you leave here, you will not make it two miles on the road before an arrow finds its mark in your throat. We will...hm..."


Kylah thought briefly, her gaze turning back to the window. The minutes dragged by as she drank her wine in gulps, seemingly unaware that she was swiftly emptying the carafe.


"Here is what we will do. I will have made some fine livery, sewn with my family crest. My old one, I mean. In the meanwhile, you will go and hide in town. Go to an inn called the Needle and Thread. It's in a middling part of town, a bit rough but reasonably safe. Very average. Tell the in-keeper Miss Bluewater sent you and she'll give you a room, no questions, and turn aside anyone who might be even remotely interested in you. In two nights, I should be able to have the livery delivered to you in secret. Take a horse from her, the best she has in the stable, and sneak out of town early in the morning. When day breaks, change and come riding in hard. Say you are a messenger bearing urgent news for the queen. My seventh cousin, whom I loved dearly, has died in childbirth. I will mourn ostentatiously, and you, being a familiar face while I am stranded so far from the land of my birth in my grief, will stay by my side as my personal page and companion. I will have many questions for you of home, and naturally, we will spend much time together as I struggle to overcome the homesickness brought on by these terrible news."


Kylah leaned back in her seat, looking satisfied.


"You will shave at the inn, and put your hair back. I think with the dirt washed off and your face bare, no one will be able to recognize you even if they have by some chance seen you before. Us lily-white northerners are rare enough that many have trouble telling us apart."


Kylah poured herself another cup and stood, but teetered suddenly. She made a soft 'oh!' sound as wine once again trickled down her wrist. there was less than a quarter of the wine left, and a faint flush suffused her cheeks. With a sound of disgust, Kylah drained the glass and set it aside. It was so hard to know what to feel, but a terrible sadness was rising inside. After the anger, the shock, the fear, the hurt, the joy...it was this she feared the most. This deep regret, that she had to see her cherished friend after such long years in such circumstances. What could have been, she thought, if I had never left? If I had been born some middling cousin of some duke or another, unimportant enough to leave alone in the green meadows of some little fiefdom? Ah...but if wishes were sheep we'd all bathe in ewes milk.

 

[Scriven]

As plans went, his dearest Kylah’s wasn’t bad, though it did nothing for them but buy a little time. Still, in that time new plans could be made. They could narrate an escape for her from this country where every night she went to bed fearing she wouldn’t wake in the morning. She was apparently not a well-loved queen. Who all wished her dead? Perhaps if she made a list he could find the bastards and slit their throats in their sleep. The less enemies she had, the better, and if it meant he did not yet retire from the business of killing, so be it. This one last time, thought Brynn. This one was time he would spill blood across his hands. Not for coin, but instead for... what?


Realizing he no longer had a reason to look out for the pale haired beauty, Brynn hesitated in his plans. He glanced up at Kylah, who was gulping down her wine. He owed her nothing. Sparing her life when it came at so much risk for him was more than she deserved from him, so why was he already considering different ways to keep her safe- to kill her enemies for her? A lifetime ago she had disappeared, leaving him in a place where he had only enemies. If she hadn’t left, he wouldn’t have been forced onto the streets. If she hadn’t left, he never would have stumbled into the kind yet terrifying world of his master and father-figure, Anselme. If not for her, the blood of countless people might not be on his hands.


Perhaps this was a manipulation. The realization struck Brynn like a hard blow to the stomach. Beautiful women often possessed the most cunning minds. A woman, fair of face and fine of figure, could convince a man to lay down his life. Was that what was happening here? No, surely not. And yet he couldn’t quite shake the notion.


“The Needle and Thread,” he muttered, his dark eyes flicking up to see Kylah stumble slightly, wine spilling from her cup. She drained the goblet and set it down, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol. He could think over this decision there at the inn, he thought. He was too thrown by the unlikely meeting with his once beloved childhood friend. She wasn’t his friend any longer though. He needed to remember that. Kylah was a stranger to him now- a potentially dangerous stranger. Was she the victim or the perpetrator? Was he her assassin or her savior? Much had to be decided.


“I’ll see you soon, Kylah,” Brynn promised. He just wished he knew whether it was to save her or to kill her. He turned and left the room, leaving the way he had come. He found The Needle and Thread, though suspicion was heavy in his heart. What if this was a trap? If this was a setup, Kylah would regret it, he thought. He let the innkeeper lead him to his room, then sat there, tensed and waiting. If this was some sort of a trap, he would make sure she paid for it with her life.

 

[mechanimated]

Kylah breezed through the rest of her day in a fugue. Perhaps it was her cold aloofness, perhaps it was the clear preoccupation with bigger matters, but everything seemed to take no time at all. Preparations for Fet-i-Bani were completed in record time, and none of the chefs even gave her trouble with the wine orders. The meeting with Tulles was almost pleasant, and the man even seemed aware enough of things other than himself to ask after her health. Kylah made a mental note to have a basket sent to him later, with some of that spicy pear cactus brandy he liked so much. Even Cosgrove, the whinging little worm, seemed unusually docile. Was there a hint of shock, at the sight of her? Disappointment, anger? Everywhere she looked, Kylah saw eyes flicking away from her face, muttered conversations silenced. Who was the would-be architect of her death? The paranoia only increased as the day went on, and by the time Kylah retired to bed, she was barely holding on to her scattered wits. Every closet held a dagger-wielding killer, every sleeve hid a vial of poison to slip into her cup.


From Harram, she could not hide her distress. The man, so fatherly and kind, mind slowly being unraveled by old age, was still sharp as a razor and no fool. And he truly did care about Kylah, if not in a husbandly sort of way. Kylah told him of her near death experience as she helped him ease his boots off. A hot bath of salts and herbs stood nearby for him to lower his aching feet in. It helped ease the joint pain long enough for him to fall asleep.


"This is grave news...No indication of who hired him, of course. Hm. Well, I will assign a detail of personally selected men whom I find trustworthy to guard your quarters and shadow you outside the palace. Your food will be tested for poison before being sent up to you, and I'll have two of your handmaidens replaced with women from the Flowing Water House. No, I don't want to hear it. I know you trust Cima and Sobhati, but this is a matter of personal safety. It's smart, too, to keep this friend of yours close. He might know the faces of other assassins by sight. I will have a talk with Tulles tomorrow morning, about his cover story when first entering the palace. I think he is trustworthy, and could be an ally in helping ferret out the snakes in our midst. Now, then, dear...I think we should both turn in. It has been a long day to say the least."


Kylah wrapped herself in her nightgown and laid down to bed with a churning mind. The Water House Women were famous monks, martial artists who held ideals of molding to the natural flow of history rather than influencing it. They were highly popular as bodyguards due to their general abhorrence of assassination or other violent attempts to radically destabilize power. General, because if a ruler or individual was unpopular enough, they felt assassination WAS the natural flow for that individual, as they invited retaliation through their action. As such, have a Water House bodyguard required a fair amount of confidence in yourself as a public figure, since they might well not interfere in an attempted murder otherwise. In spite of the questions chasing each other in her head, Kylah found she fell asleep as soon as she hit the pillow.


============


In the morning, the routine was the same as ever. Rise early, help Harram prepare, dress herself for court. Luckily, due to the unusually productive day yesterday, Kylah had mostly paperwork left for today. She would be free to rest in the solar with her papers, undisturbed, until it came time for her little performance with Bryn. She had attired herself with special care, in a thin, flowing gown of layered silk that hung loosely off her bare shoulders. It was in varying shades of blue, from deep indigo to periwinkle so pale it was almost white, and sewed all over with teardrop crystals of brilliant citrine that glinted gold and orange in the sun. The folds of the dress cascaded about her in a waterfall, hiding more than enunciating her figure. Kylah left her hair down under her crown and wore no paints today. She would look young, no illusion to give her more years than the 25 she had naturally. Vulnerable.


Kylah sat with her hand still on a letter she was halfway through writing. A prop, really, that she wouldn't regret losing when she spilled ink on it in horror at the 'news' Bryn would bring her. Bright sunlight spilled through the massive glass windows arching most of the way around the round room. The solar was Kylahs favorite place in the palace, full of warmth and potted plants. Her favorite, honeysuckle, wound around the walls and graced the air with a delicate sweetness. In two rocking chairs in the corner, almost invisible, sat her two new handmaidens. They looked entirely unassuming as they embroidered, but hidden on the left breast each bore a tattoo of an overflowing ewer, mark of a master of their craft. Where Harram had found two such skilled Water Women unassigned, Kylah couldn't guess.


There was a knock at the door.


"Enter."


A servant, leading Bryn, shuffled in. He looked unbelievably reluctant to be where he was, sweating under the cool gaze of the queen. From the corner, Kylah's bodyguards watched. They tracked not the servant, but Bryn, with the blank, disapproving looks of two ladies-in-waiting who felt their charge ought not be disturbed by ruffians.


"Ah, uh, your M-majesty, there is a man here to see you. H-he says he has...news...from...your...home..."





Kylah waved the stammering youth to silence before he had a heart attack. Bryn looked appropriately attired. He wore a uniform of green and silver, with Kylah's old family crest on the breast. It wasn't the design she remembered, but it had been many years since anyone here (herself included) had seen a servant from Casmera Province that it hardly mattered. The colors were right, the style was right, and the sigil was right. It would pass.


"A messenger from home? Well, man, what news, to bring you so far? Come, sit here and water yourself and tell me."