Page 32 of Warrior Princess Assassin (Braided Fate #1)

Chapter Fifteen

The Assassin

N o one stays in the palace dungeon for long. If your crime is bad enough, you’re executed. Otherwise, you’re marked and turned over to the slavers.

Despite everything I’ve endured, I’ve really only been here once before.

This time is just as bad as the first.

When the guards hauled me away, I couldn’t look at Jory.

My heart was a wild rush in my ears, my thoughts consumed with panic.

I kept hearing the king’s low voice when he promised sanctuary, the way my blood pulsed with longing.

How for one shining moment I wanted to believe there was a way out of Astranza, away from the threat of slavers and the torment of killing.

The way I allowed a spark of hope to form in my heart.

The way I believed every word.

But that was a trick. A lie. There is no sanctuary. There’s no hope.

Once we were down below, the guards cut the bindings on my wrists.

It should’ve been a relief after trudging through the snow, but it’s not, because they replaced the leather strap with ice-cold steel shackles.

My ankles get the same. Then they cut every stitch of clothing away from my body, a true torture, since the dungeons are freezing.

The decree against fire hasn’t been lifted, because it’s pitch-dark, too.

Only a few dim shadows form in the moonlight that filters through the tiny barred windows.

They left me in a cell. No water, no food.

Just frigid stone against my skin. I’ve curled into a ball, but it doesn’t help.

My shaking breath clouds with every exhale.

I might be alone now, but I won’t be for long.

A man is sobbing somewhere nearby, but I don’t try to look to see what’s happening to him.

Maybe he’s starving, maybe he’s being tortured, maybe a bored guard is taking advantage of him.

It’s never good to know.

At some point, the glow of a fire flickers along the walls, and I remember the king pulling a ball of flame into his palm.

I have the bizarre momentary hope that Jory has convinced him to come for me.

But that’s foolish, because Jory can’t help me—and the king of Incendar doesn’t care.

All of his promises were a means to an end.

I am to ally with this country. I would know its faults as well as its promise.

I should have killed him. I should have taken her away.

Maybe I would have ended up here anyway.

I just have to survive. I’ve escaped the slavers before. I can do it again.

But this time, there will be nowhere to go. Jory will be gone.

When two guards return, I have no idea how much time has passed.

The sky outside the windows is still inky black and I haven’t frozen to death, so I doubt it’s been too long.

I go slack when they drag me through the doorway to the cell, but once we’re clear, I seize the only opportunity I have: I surge against their hold, getting in one strike with my shackled hands, swinging the chain at the other in an attempt to knock him out.

But there’s a third I don’t see waiting just outside the gate, and he knocks me in the jaw with the hilt of his dagger. I’m hungry and tired and stiff from so much time in the cold, and the blow brings me to the ground. Blood fills my mouth.

“What’s this one getting?” the guard asks, and his tone is bored. A prisoner fighting back is nothing new.

At first I don’t understand the question—but then I hear a strike of flint, and new shadows find the walls. They’re lighting the forge.

A sob threatens to form in my chest. I choke it back and force my mind to go blank.

Because I forgot about the brand. The marks on my cheek didn’t hurt terribly much, but I forgot the one on my shoulder—the one put there with fire-hot steel, like an animal.

Prisoners destined for the slavers are branded with an X on their shoulder.

I’ve seen men and women with multiple brands, people who’ve paid their debt only to be charged with another crime.

Sometimes the scarring blends together, forming a horrific pattern across their skin.

So far, I only have one. Unlike the stripes on my face, I expected it to stay that way.

I watch the fire in the forge grow, the bar of steel beginning to glow orange. The guards are gossiping with each other, ignoring me. I can barely hear what they’re saying. My eyes only see the fire.

I should’ve killed him. I should have run.

When they grab me again, I fight, because I have to fight.

But it’s futile. There are too many of them and only one of me.

They press the brand into my shoulder, and I don’t want to scream, but I do.

The pain is blinding, searing, stealing every thought from my head.

It only takes a moment, but somehow it also takes forever.

When they did this the first time, I was sixteen.

I vomited the contents of my stomach all over the boots of the men holding me.

This time, my stomach is empty, but I dry-heave anyway, coughing spit at the floor.

They haul me back to the cell, where I roll onto my back, hoping the cold stone will ease the burn, but it’s worse .

I cry out again. I might be sobbing. I might be keening.

Again, I have no idea how much time passes, but my thoughts won’t organize.

My shoulder is nothing but agony. My mouth still tastes like blood.

The king’s words won’t stop ringing in my ears.

I am offering him mercy .

No. He didn’t. No one ever does.

“You. King Theodore has sent a summons.”

I don’t realize the guard is talking to me until he repeats it, and even then I’m still trying to make sense of the words when he kicks me in the side. “Put these on,” he says, and a pile of fabric is dropped in front of my face.

When I don’t move, he kicks me again. “Put them on ,” he snaps. “Or I’ll find a hot poker and see if that doesn’t help you move.”

I move. Every shift of my arm is agony. The guard unchains one limb at a time so I can pull my hands and feet through the loose trousers and tunic. The rough muslin brushes against the fresh brand, and it nearly sets me dry heaving again.

I can’t believe that I woke up in the princess’s bed this morning, and now I’m all but vomiting in the straw of the dungeon tonight.

What’s more shocking is that I ever thought this could end another way.

When the guard orders me to get up and walk, I do it.

The torches of the palace are blazing now, throwing shadows over the walls as we pass.

I have no idea how late it is. It’s odd to be led through the palace like this.

I’m so used to creeping through secret passageways and springing from alcove to beam like a cat.

I don’t even know where they’re taking me, but we’re not going fast. The chain between my feet is short, making my steps small and shuffling.

I don’t know why King Theodore would have summoned me.

Jory had my orders, so perhaps she was able to give them proof of why we fled the palace.

But surely Dane would deny his involvement—and Maddox Kyronan would deny his.

I may adore Jory with every fiber of my being, but I know how powerless she is here.

Could the king of Incendar have done something? Said something? Spoken in my defense?

As soon as I have the thought, I banish it from my thoughts. He tricked me. He lied . I’ve already been caged and branded like an animal.

Maybe I’ve simply been summoned to prove that they’re delivering punishment, that justice will be served.

By the time the guards draw me to a stop, the pain in my shoulder has settled into a dull ache. We’ve reached a set of massive wooden doors flanked by additional guards, and I realize they’ve brought me to the throne room.

My heart thumps hard, and my feet seem rooted to the ground. Am I to be executed? Is this what happened to my mother?

A guard raps with his halberd, a man calls for us to enter, and then the doors are drawn open. As they half lead, half drag me inside, I don’t just find myself facing the king. I’m surrounded by more than two dozen people.

Jory’s father is on the throne, and even if I didn’t know he was sick, I might suspect it.

His skin is pale, his eyes a bit yellowed.

Dane is on a smaller throne beside him, looking healthy and hale, with eyes that I’ve hated since I was old enough to know how much bitterness hides behind them.

They’re both backed by more guards, and to their right is a man I know well: the Guildmaster.

Master Pavok is a large man, with a thick head of gray hair and a gut falling over his belt buckle. I’m shocked to see him here. Did they summon him to verify my orders? Maybe he’ll be able to set this all straight. I’ve been loyal to the Guild since he took me on, and he knows it.

But as my eyes sweep the room, I realize that the king of Incendar is here, too.

His five soldiers surround him, but a tiny sphere of fire catches my eye.

He’s passing it back and forth, palm to palm, the way an antsy child might fidget with a ball.

His gaze falls on me, and I’d swear I can see that same firelight flicker in his eyes, as if that magic lives inside him.

Rage lights up my veins.

They don’t need another Hunter , I think. I will find a way to end you.

As if he heard me, the ball of flame goes still. I jerk my eyes away from him.

“Asher.” Jory’s voice comes from somewhere to my right, full of shock—or maybe pity. I don’t know what I look like, but I doubt it’s very good.

I have to search for her, because I didn’t see her in my first glance at the room, but she’s there, seated on a chair by the wall, her lady Charlotte beside her.

She’s been dressed in a new gown, all silk and satin perfection, her hair freshly arranged.

Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes red like she was crying.

Well, that’s not encouraging.

“Jory,” I say, and my voice is barely more than a rasp.