The man and woman slipped into the castle through a rarely used side door. It wasn’t raining outside, but the dew dripping off centuries-old-eaves had wet the shoulders of their clocks.
The walls around them were silent, the rough-hewn stone seeming to catch its breath. As soundless as death, they stalked down the dimly lit corridor. Torches were set in brackets at regular intervals, but they did nothing more than make the shadows that much darker, the hush that much more chilling. Their thick-soled boots, wrapped in layers of cloth, were soft on the ground.
Coming before a simple wooden door, the woman paused, causing the man to come to halt lest he run into her. “What is it?” he whispered. His voice was so quiet it might as well have been the smoke from the torches, dancing in the air in tantalizing swirls.
“It’s this way,” the woman said. Her pale face was hidden in the depths of a hooded cloak but the strange silver of her eyes flashed. “Come.”
The man did not complain. It wasn’t his place to. Getting on his knees, he extracted a pin from the sleeve of his tunic and inserted it into the keyhole. A little jiggling proved sufficient to make the lock click.
The woman touched the door with her fingers as the man stepped back, the pin vanished up his sleeve again.
Hinges creaked. Both assassins plastered themselves on either side of the door. Under their cloaks, ever ready, were two identical bone-hilted daggers, their wickedly serrated edges hungry for blood.
Nobody charged through the door. The man returned his companion’s small nod, stretched out his hand and pushed the door open all the way through. It bumped against the inside wall.
Again they waited—waiting was the essence of stealth, a necessity in their sphere of life. Yet there came no sound, not even a breath taken wrong. They stepped inside, keeping their weapons ready for any untoward surprises.
“Where to now, Sobia?” the man asked, taking in the haphazardly stacked crates and the dusty floor; they were obviously in a storage area.
Sobia swept her eyes over the surroundings. They alighted on an open door set deep in the wall to the right. “Through here,” she whispered, stepping forward. “Come, Jos. He said the servants’ staircase is behind this door.”
Nodding—though Sobia did not turn to see—Jos followed in her wake. Back to back, with her taking the front and him the rear, they ascended the stairs.
Jos could feel his heart thudding in his chest. They were deep within enemy territory. One wrong step, one encounter gone sour, and everything would crumble like a dirt wall.
For the realm, he chanted in his head, forcing his mind away from dark thoughts of failure, we walk the shadow path. For the stars, we give up our light. For the heavens, we follow the devil’s footsteps.
Thus heartened, he followed his Leader’s daughter through the silent castle. Like a chunk of night, they passed by the guards—some alert and others asleep—but none felt their presence and raised the alarm. They were assassins of the Obsidian Hand. They knew how to walk in shadows without even the shadows being any wiser.
Besides, their mission was to kill one person; they would kill her, and no other.
The nursery was in the west wing. On reaching the bright blue corridor, with its paintings of white unicorns and azure clouds, they stopped a moment. Jos looked at Sobia. There was a tightness around her lips, a strain he recognized. It was not easy to detect discomfort in the silver-eyed woman, but Jos had always been an exception.
She did not want to do this.
Neither do I, he caught himself thinking. But he would do it, regardless. The other assassins hadn’t failed. He wouldn’t either.
On finding his companion refusing to take the next step, he took the initiative and pushed the nursery door open. He knew the guards posted here were right this moment passing out in the kitchen. Four months of apparent safety later, they’d grown lax. Tomorrow they would be strung up on the Devil’s Blockade, their heads food for carrion.
The pale-faced nursemaid was asleep by the crib, one hand extended through the bars so the baby could clutch her finger. The woman—a middle-aged country nanny—had her back to a chest of drawers, her head hanging over her profuse bosum in a decidedly uncomfortable position.
Jos crept forward. Crouching before the rotund sleeping woman, he waited a bated breath to see if she would wake, receiving nary a twitch. Still, he pulled a folded square of flannel from his pocket and, leaning over her outstretched legs, pressed it lightly to her nose. The woman started, her eyes flicked. But it didn’t take very long—Grelda’s potions never did. One whiff, and the woman slid to the side, finger popping from the child’s grasp.
Jos rose, satisfied.
Sobia stood on the other side of the crib now, looking down at the sleeping princess, profile silhouetted by the moonlight into a bite of cold night. The child was starting to whimper, fisting the bedding as if searching for her nanny’s touch.
“Sobia?” he said, voice soft.
The woman glanced up. One look at her eyes, and he knew she wouldn’t do it.
Jos had known this would happen, that to save the woman he loved, he would have to do sacrifice himself. He wanted to hate her, to despise her weakness. Yet he couldn’t, for it was he who was weak. He knew no future existed for his pointless love, but he could as sooner hate her as he could pull his own nails out.
“Alright,” he said, resigned.
Pulling the knife out of its sheath, he bent his head to the sleeping child, only to stiffen. She was looking right at him.
It seemed the loss of the woman’s finger had woken her. Now she gazed up them with green eyes as wide as saucers, plump feet kicking the blanket off her tiny body. Soft dimpled hands rose, reaching for the edge of his dusty black cloak falling into the crib.
She cooed.
He closed his eyes a moment. On opening them, he refused to look at her, refused to acknowledge her babbling voice—or her hand now tugging at the cloth finally in her grasp. The knife touched her butter-soft neck.
His hands started to tremble.
“Jos,” Sobia whispered, touching his shoulder. “Stop.”
The knife shook harder. Transfixed, he watched a bright red line appear at the side of the baby’s neck. The child froze an instant. A fine trickle of blood snaked down her neck and onto her white gown.
Her face reddened, lips twisting as a hiccup left her lips. Then her eyes screwed shut and she started to scream.
“Jos,” Sobia warned. She ran to his side and pulled his hand away, plucking the knife—a delicately red-edged knife—out of his hand and dropping it to the floor. He let her.
“Jos, we need to leave,” Sobia urged, trying to drag him away.
With an almighty effort, he pulled himself together. Shaking her hands off his arm, he said, “We need to finish his.” He gazed into her eyes. “You know who she is, what she’ll do. He will kill you.”
Sobia shook her head. “We cannot do it.”
“All our fates depend on her death.” He couldn’t believe he was reasoning with her. Revulsion filled his insides. The crying princess, as if guessing her fate rested on this discussion, wailed yet harder.
“We cannot kill the child,” Sobia said again.
Jos swallowed. “You heard what the Blood Reader said, same as me.”
Sobia turned to the little girl. She didn’t say anything.
Jos tried again. “Your father will be angry. You have to do your duty. He trusted you.”
She stayed silent.
“Let me do it then,” he said, not moving a muscle.
She turned her eyes on him. Something glittered in their depths.
Finally, he understood. “You never meant to kill her, did you?” he asked. The child was shrieking so hard she was running out of breath. Jos’ head started to hurt.
“I wanted to see her.”
“Why?” Frustration clawed up his insides and settled like a burn in his chest. There was sweat on his brow.
“Because you are right,” she said, touching the edge of the crib, “the future of our world does depend on this girl. But it will not go forward with her death. It will thrive on her life. For now.”
“How?” He wanted to hit something.
Sobia Tashimla placed a hand on the little writhing brow. “Because I am sparing her life,” she said. “I made Father give her life to me so that I might grant her a chance at existence.”
“She has to die,” he choked out.
Her silver eyes flashed. She lifted her hand from the child’s brow. The Princess had stopped crying. Her tear drenched face—with a finger in the mouth for comfort—lifted to the beautiful woman above her.
“The Princess will die, Jos. Just not today.”
