The Assassin Bride: (The King and The Assassin Book 1)
The Assassin Bride: Chapter 11

I’M NOT SURE IF I’m relieved or terrified when a servant comes announcing dinner. Desperate is probably a more apt description of what I feel—utter desperation for physical nourishment despite the meal I ate a few hours ago, and desperation knowing that I’m walking into yet another unknown.

The only way I can somewhat rationalize away my worry is by telling myself that I will be able to scout through more sections of the palace I haven’t seen before. Hopefully Eshe will be there. I can face whatever danger a meal might present if Eshe is there.

The servant who escorts me is different from the poor one that I nearly strangled this morning. She makes no mention of whether I am to dine with the sultan tonight or not. She wears a bright smile across her face, walks with a bounce in her step, and doesn’t even flinch when we pass a locked door spattered with what looks like blood.

Maybe this truly is a dream. How else can she be so at ease here?

Is she magic too?

If I don’t stop the endless caravan of my thoughts, I’m going to sweat straight through my robes. Or I’ll plant my foot, spin around, and march back to my room. As if it’s some sort of haven—have I gone mad?

But I need to eat, so I cannot keep working myself up into a fluster.

“Where is dinner?” My voice rings in the stillness. I fight a cringe.

The servant turns a bright smile up at me. She’s so short she barely reaches my chin. Though she walks at the side of an assassin who has an abundance of knives strapped to her, she doesn’t seem at all uneasy. But then, what is a simple assassin girl compared to the Neverseen King?

“In the Emerald Hall,” she chirps.

“Not in the Ruby Hall?” I deadpan before I can stop myself. Then I’m kicking myself for my idiotic sense of humor. Only Eshe would replace it funny.

“The Ruby Hall is typically only used for receiving foreign dignitaries,” the girl says without blinking. “So, no.”

“Has the Neverseen King mentioned who he is to dine with tonight?”

She casts a smug look up at me. “That is to be revealed.”

It still might be me. Still might be Eshe. I draw in a deep breath, then set my face forward, resisting the urge to glance to my left through the open windows and wafting crimson curtains out into the courtyard. The orange embers of a dying sun cast lengthening shadows around us. There will be little time between the completion of dinner and nightfall.

Do not leave your rooms after nightfall.

“Here we are!” says the servant girl, and beckons grandly to a pair of gold and emerald-studded doors. Guards in black grip the twisted gold handles with gauntlets, and at my approach they open the doors.

I am immediately overcome.

The hall is, to be short, aptly named. It glitters from the cut of a thousand—or more—emeralds, hanging from the chandelier, set into the smoothed and reflective paving stones, dangling like diamonds from the ceiling. The walls are painted the same rich, jewel-green, trimmed in ornate gold filigree. Three arches of gold-threaded emerald agate are recessed into the far wall, opposite the stretch of a long table with a deep, dark green tablecloth, chairs with backs of gold, and place settings of faceted crystal.

My first instinct is to gape, to tilt back my head and stare at the way the candlelight catches upon the refracting stones hung suspended above the guests seated below it. My second instinct is to run. I might have done just that if Eshe hadn’t called out, “There you are!”

I drag my eyes down from the ceiling to the figure leaning, elbow on the elegant table, out to look at me, a roguish grin on her face. “I saved you a seat!” she says, ignoring the looks the other young women shoot her way.

Those looks—which I cannot ignore—are what keep me from smiling back at my friend. As my shoes pad softly across the polished floor, I scan across the women seated at the table. Ten. I am the eleventh. No one is missing besides the fallen girl from the Golden Hall.

My heart pounds even faster as I slide carefully into the chair beside Eshe, and opt to not place my arms on the engraved golden armrests. It feels grand enough to be a throne, and yet here I am, sitting in it.

Eshe, of course, sits smack in the middle of the women. Which means I’m now sitting in the middle of them as well, and the potency of their hawk-like gazes burns into me.

Sitting on my left is a narrow-boned, slightly hunched girl. Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, as if she’s unsure what to do with them. Her clothes are of fine make, but are shockingly simple in contrast to Dabria’s lavender silks and silver edging across the table. I can only see her profile, but she seems lovely enough. A full mouth, with a sharp nose and long lashes that fan her cheek as she looks down.

“We were just getting to know each other,” says Eshe brightly. “That is Safya next to you. Then Fathuna is across from us.”

I look up from Safya to follow Eshe’s gesture. I replace myself meeting a pair of rather hostile eyes, set in a square-jawed face. This is the tall girl I noticed from the Golden Hall. Fathuna.

“And you are?” asks Fathuna coldly. Her narrowed eyes trail up and down what is visible of me above the tabletop.

“That’s sweet Nadira,” says Dabria with a cheerful smile. “I met her in the gardens earlier this afternoon.”

My hackles rise. Sweet, am I?

“What happened to your face?” asks Fathuna, running her finger along her flawless jaw, indicating the scars on mine.

“Chicken fight, years ago,” Eshe says promptly with a sad shake of her head. “I don’t know what it is about Nadira and chickens, but she’s always loved them, despite what vicious creatures they can be.”

Slave, or blindly devoted to—and horribly inept around—chickens? I think I prefer the chickens.

Fathuna curls her upper lip skeptically. She opens her mouth, and I’m certain she’s about to ask what really happened. Eshe will, of course, deadpan that that was what happened.

I might be more skilled with a blade than Eshe, but I know I’ll be served up on a platter for this banquet without her. The only expression I can allow on my face, however, is one of mild disinterest. Definitely not fear or intimidation.

Eshe interrupts before Fathuna can keep asking about my scars. “Nadira, you remember Hulla here next to me. She’s—oh, deep breaths, darling. We’re only here for a lovely meal, is all!”

I peer around Eshe’s turned frame and catch a glimpse of the round-faced girl with her bounty of curls sitting on the other side of my friend, pale and almost hyperventilating. My lips tighten, something in my chest hollowing out.

I know how you feel, I want to whisper. I wish I was next to her, even to be able to reach out a hand beneath the tabletop so no one could see and clasp her hand in mine. To help her know that she’s not alone, that we’re in this frightening experience together.

“Deep breaths, that’s right,” coos Eshe gently, rubbing Hulla’s back and tucking curls behind her ear. She glances up at the nine pairs of eyes on her, flashes a grin, and says lightly, “I’d say we’re doing pretty well as a group in light of our collective kidnapping! What do you say, Raha?”

Raha is the young woman who gave me a death glare in the Golden Hall. She wears all black and stares at Eshe with irises so dark they swallow up her pupils, saying nothing. Those eyes shift to mine, nearly slicing me in half with the look of one who kills often and has never once been bothered by it.

Dabria gives a light, tinkling laugh beside her, her manner and brightly colored garments a sharp contrast. She’s easily the loveliest person in the room.

My eyes drift to my crystal goblet and plate, faceted to catch the glimmering beauty of the emerald chandelier. I swallow thickly, wishing I was still in my room.

The doors open.

Everyone sits up straighter, except Dabria, whose back was already primly erect. I crane my neck, angling to get a better view of the steward marching through those majestic doors. He doesn’t tilt his head back to survey the gemstone ceiling. Not even the faintest trace of appreciation crosses his face at the sight of the hall. He stops at the head of the table, regarding each of us coolly.

“For his private dinner, the Neverseen King requests the presence of—”

Something threads down my spine, pooling in my gut with an uncomfortable tingling. I’m not sure what I’m hoping for.

“—Itr,” says the steward.

There’s a collective whoosh of released air, soft and almost inaudible, but I don’t miss it. Whether it’s from relief or disappointment, however, I’m not sure any of us know.

The girl in question, Itr, stands. Her hands tremble. She hides them in the folds of her robes, smiling bravely with a firm set of her shoulders. “I-it would b-be my honor,” she stutters.

The steward bows, beckons, and Itr follows. Dabria looks after her with a small smile tilting up the side of her mouth. Fathuna looks angry, though I’m not sure why.

The doors close without a sound, swallowing up Itr.

“If she has better food with the Neverseen King, I’m going to riot,” says Eshe.

Fathuna gives a pathetic excuse of a smile, her nose twitching.

“We can ask Itr about it when she comes back,” says Dabria diplomatically.

“If she comes back,” says a girl I haven’t met yet. Her face is twisted in a dark sort of pout, one that makes me wonder if she often says morbid things.

Eshe’s laugh rings out across emerald and crystal. Dabria hides a smile as she takes a sip of her wine, slim fingers elegantly gripping the goblet stem. I try not to frown as I glance from the girl back to Dabria, and then finally to Eshe, who I realize still has her arm around the hyperventilating Hulla. Eshe’s face is a mask of mirth, but beneath it, her eyes shoot daggers at the nameless girl.

“Mahja,” says Eshe, still chuckling, “what a cheerless sense of humor you have! I’d bet my two hands that Itr will return to us safe and sound, and probably much fatter than before if her supper looks anything like ours. Come, let us eat!”

“Besides, we ought not to speak ill of our sovereign,” comes a voice from the far end of the table. When I glance, I replace a pair of large green-and-gold-flecked eyes and a straight-toothed smile that I cannot read.

“That’s Gaya,” whispers Eshe to me. “Next to her is Kanza.”

It’s Kanza who says almost reverently, “I’m sure there’s no need to speak ill, for there can be no doubt that the Neverseen King has a good reason for this.”

I hope my face is still blank and that I’m not betraying anything of myself. In fact, I rather hope I can disappear in this crowd and be forgotten. Hearing these names, I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps Dabria isn’t the only one with a relation that I’ve assassinated.

“A good reason,” says Raha darkly, so quietly I almost miss the scoffing note beneath her tone. She picks up her knife, spears it straight into a hunk of meat on a platter, and brings it to her plate.

I look away before she glances up and replaces me watching. Eshe exchanges barbs with Fathuna, all while she keeps a comforting hand on Hulla and manages to have the brightest smile at the table.

As everyone begins to eat, I force myself to take a portion from the dishes, my stomach suddenly feeling very full from the meal the Neverseen King provided for me. But if I don’t eat, I’ll draw attention to myself, and to blame my lack of appetite on the circumstances is to offer information I don’t want to give my competitors—even if they all received meals, too. So I eat, slowly, carefully, and try to study as much about the other women as I dare.

But my mind drifts. I wonder if Eshe is right, if Itr will have a lovely time with our sultan, or if there’s more at play here. I wonder what they will discuss, if they even discuss anything at all. I wonder if she will return hale and whole.

I think back to the note he’d left me with the meal. I hadn’t been able to bear leaving him with the last word, and apparently I was emboldened after a full meal. I’d taken the paper he’d left, scavenged my room until I found ink and quill, and wrote on the verso:

One could never accuse you of stooping to poison when a flood of goblins awaits your bidding. Thank you for the food. It was delicious, and so far I am not dead.

-A less hungry captive

I cannot be sure if the note I left for him on the tray will replace its way to him, but I figured it was worth a try.

As the dinner progresses, the light in the room shifts, and the shadows lengthen. I didn’t see windows when I first arrived, but I can’t crane my neck around and look now without drawing attention. Instead, I watch those shadows and force myself to keep eating, trying to pay attention to the chatter around me.

Evening is swiftly approaching, bringing with it my first night in the Neverseen King’s palace.

Never leave your rooms after dark.

I swallow my bite thickly. It lands like a rock in my stomach.

The hall’s doors swing open suddenly, and Hulla jolts sharply. She’s not the only one, either. My own heart leaps, but I’m surprised when the hunched girl next to me, Safya, doesn’t flinch a single muscle.

It’s the steward who marches through those doors, head tipped back and a blank expression on his face. All has gone silent when he speaks.

“The Neverseen King bids you return to your chambers, as night approaches. He also bids you a good evening.”

The walk back to my rooms is even quieter than the first, for the birds have gone silent, and the only sound is the rush of wind through the portico as I’m escorted by a different servant girl. The wind tangles in my hair, kissing my face as I walk, and the sun turns a fiery orange on the horizon. When I pass the courtyard, I realize with a start that the fountain has stopped, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.

We pass the banister I came across earlier. It makes no sound, no movement. A tiny part of my brain wonders if I invented the way it creaked beneath my hand, the way it bent toward me. On impulse, I reach out and touch the smoothed wood.

Nothing.

It’s even colder than before, without the faintest acknowledgement. I purse my lips, pull my hand away, and follow behind my escort.

Only once I’m in my room with the door shut and locked can I breathe again. I stand at the closed door, my eyes trailing over the darkened room, the canopy bed, the curtains wafting through the window. And then my eyes land on the table where the tray of food had been waiting earlier. It’s empty.

Save for a slip of parchment.

Eyes widening, I hurry across the room and snatch it off the tray, my heart’s rhythm kicking up several notches. But it’s dark, and I can hardly make out the characters. Blinking and widening my eyes against the night, I head to the window. The last rays of sun are slipping away rapidly, but it’s enough. I lean against the stone and tilt the paper toward the sparse light and read the missive.

I hate goblins. They chew through magic like mice through clothes.