The king is dead.
I slump in my best dress on the pew at the back of the cathedral while the funeral bells toll overhead. Outside the church, villagers scream in protest at the leaving nobility, whose emotions stream behind them in trails of color. Amber irritation. Pale boredom. Sour, brown fear.
Apparently, poison tasted like cake. The M.A’s—aka Master Assassin’s—butler hovered over my shoulder as I stared down at the remaining crumbs. After I enjoyed every bite of the slice of cake, the butler victoriously announced he’d poisoned it.
What an idiot, a shrill airy voice whispered straight into my mind.
“Warn’t nearly this hard when yer pa were in charge,” Les Watkins said into the phone, wiping blood off his hands with an old dish towel. He was careful to use the old ones. The missus scolded him nigh to death every time he ruined the fancy towels she’d just got.
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I saw through everything in that magical ballroom. Chandeliers cast a warm glow, but I knew which shadows would hide me. The orchestra played a lively reel, but I knew the immense pipe organ in the balcony above could be problematic in an attack. The governor’s palace was lit with elegance as I joined Georgianna, Cynthia, Elizabeth and the other ladies in their chatter.
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The king sits on a throne of broken bones and watches the girl cross the desert, carrying his death with her.
The air burns Jana’s throat when she inhales, heat wicking the moisture from her mouth. She has walked for an hour, two hours—impossible to tell exactly—with the sun a white, unmoving eye in the bleached sky. The mountain looms over her now, a black mass blotting out the horizon.
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Standing atop a hill at least half a mile from the amphitheater, the distant 80’s classics thrum through my head. The band isn’t overly popular, but they’re free, so the place is packed. The outskirts are the perfect place for an introvert like me. This is shaping up to be an extraordinary evening.
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This should be easy. I am an assassin. He is my target.
Why is this not easy?
Turn around.
I stand in the shadows at the corner of the muddy alley, staring at him. He stands with his back toward me in the dark doorway of a wooden building. The alley drips with sparse raindrops.
I peer through the scope of my crossbow. From my vantage point in the rafters, I’m as good as invisible to the royal family below. As if being a male peasant doesn’t make me invisible enough already. But all that is about to change.
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He was near.
I gripped my sword, sweat dripping from its hilt. I’d been tracking him for days, almost catching a glimpse, but always he eluded me.
No more. He was an enemy from the East; he could not be allowed to invade our territory and live. It was the Sage’s orders.
There are three rules for being an assassin. Don’t hesitate. Don’t question. Don’t feel.
Emotions get you in trouble, and the pain of the past is a distraction.
I glide through the crowd, sipping my champagne and smiling at everyone who meets my eye. I know how to act like just another beautiful woman. I used to be one, after all.
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