Abbie Eaton

CHAPTER 1

Beneath Castle Grey, there are dragons in a slumber so deep, not even the gods can wake them.

So Arla had been told when she was a little girl. But now at eighteen, she was vicious, and angry, and did not believe in the dragons that had once served the gods.

Did she believe in the gods anymore? If the gods were real, they hadn’t deemed her worthy of saving––hadn’t deemed her parents worthy, either.

“The king wishes to see you.” A familiar, tired voice echoed from the stone arch of the doorway, barely audible over the sound of swords clashing. Arla bit her lip against the noise, grateful that she had managed to bully a soldier into practicing with her. Not that she could call this practice. If she wanted a challenge, she should have asked one of the king’s guard to engage in her deadly routine rather than a soldier used to guarding doorways.

“Tell the king I’m busy,” Arla ground out between her teeth, frustrated with the lack of skill her partner offered. Or was it lack of food that had put her in this dreadful mood? The smell of roasted pheasant had been teasing her from the kitchens already, and her stomach gnawed at her with the ferocity of a mountain cat.

“Now, Arla.”

“For the gods’ sake,” she snapped, flexing her fingers as her blade struck the wooden plinth no less than a hair’s width from the advisor’s face. Still got it.

As Arla stalked toward him to retrieve her blade, he drawled, “You don’t scare me, Lady Reinhart.”

“I am no lady, Perry,” she said, rolling her shoulders against the stiffness that often came with wielding a blade.

“Quite. I don’t know many ladies who would run a man through with a sword just because he threatened to steal her horse.”

Perry’s eyes glittered with unreleased laughter and Arla had to hide her smirk as she crossed the room towards him.

“He was a thief and a pig. He deserved it.” She scowled, brushing against the king’s advisor, and beginning the long walk from the training hall to the throne room. She hated the long corridors and their sinister whispers––hated that no one save for her ever seemed to think there was something odd about Castle Grey, and why she always felt watched.

The palace was quiet today. Arla was used to seeing a hundred maids scurrying in the shadows and disappearing into alcoves concealing hidden doors and servants’ corridors. This morning, there was only silence and deserted passageways. Not even the soldiers, usually stood so solid at regular intervals, were at their posts. Something was happening, and the thought sent a ripple of anticipation through Arla, curling her palm around the pommel of the blade sheathed at her hip.

She had wanted to practice today; the king had had her running all sorts of errands in the last fortnight. Whether it be disposing of common thieves, or delivering a letter across town that could have been sent with a messenger rather than bothering her. But her irritation was parted with silver framed glass windows and thick red yarn that her boots were certainly too dirty to be walking on––the one vein of colour that ran through the palace.

Castle Grey did not have to work hard to live up to its name. The whole place was just that––grey. Even the silver adorning everything in sight went unpolished, only adding to the miserable dullness of it all. But its occasional beauty was not lost on Arla, especially now it was so quiet. Sunlight bled through the windows––glass polished until it sparkled, unlike the silver––and cast the hallways in a soft light that brought out the red of the carpet and even softened the sharp blonde of Arla’s curls into delicate, golden waves. It needs cutting, she thought as her feet arrived in front of the huge oak doors concealing the throne room from the rest of the palace.

It was true, she had not been to see Halos in months, her schedule not allowing a free afternoon. Her friend would laugh at her and the hours it would take to neaten Arla’s appearance, but the young woman would still refuse the extra coin Arla offered her. She didn’t know why Halos didn’t take the money, the girl was only in her twenties, and she had twins that crawled about in her skirts as she tended to patrons of her ragged shop on the main street. Perhaps it paid to be kind to those who had nothing but still tried their best. Perhaps there was something similar between the two women who had lost families in the battle of Grey Hill all those years ago.

The sharp rap of Perry’s knuckles on the wooden doors drew Arla’s mind from war ravaged families and the memory of mourning bells.

“Enter.”

Arla rolled her eyes, she had grown accustomed to the king’s thunderous voice in the last nine years, it did not scare her anymore. She was the king’s assassin, there wasn’t much at all that scared her.

Breathing deeply––if only to settle the agitation that had been planted on her being summoned so unexpectedly–– Arla rolled her shoulders back and tossed her hair––mostly unravelled from the braid she had woven it into this morning––over her shoulder, before striding through the doors with a swagger called up from a piece of her she had had to coax and nurture to make it through training into the king’s guard. Whatever task Cyrus had for her today, she hoped it would include a sword now that he had interrupted her practice.

“I believe I signed a contract entitling me to one day a week to do with as I wish. I’m now owed two,” Arla called across the hall to the large man sitting upon a silver throne. The king arched a grey brow at his assassin, a smirk teasing the corner of his mouth.

“I believe I signed a contract with a fifteen-year-old. You weren’t actually of legal age to enter into such an agreement,” Cyrus replied, eyes tracking the blonde-haired whirlwind as she marched across the room before bowing harshly in front of him.

“Then it seems we were both stupid,” Arla mused. “Your majesty.”

The King of Hadalyn curled his lips in amusement. Arla knew he had grown used to her behaviour––her simple ignorance of respect for those in authority. The king’s assassin had to be somebody who was quick on their feet as well as their mind, and Arla had proven she was both before she had turned sixteen.

“Good morning, Reinhart, I see you’re ready to play,” Cyrus said, rising from his seat and beginning the descent from the dais, toward Arla. He was a large man, with a reddening, round face and hair that was greying and thin. Arla often wondered how he held any influence at all with the way his appearance was. But he did, and he knew it. When Kastonia had sent their best soldiers to storm Castle Grey, Cyrus had crushed that army, and the armies that came after. None of the other kingdom’s had dared to question his rule in the aftermath.

“I believe Perry referred to me as Lady Reinhart this morning,” Arla chirped, spinning suddenly when another voice scoffed, immediately finding its way under her skin.

“Why is he here?” She growled, her muscles tensing as she took in Hark Stappen, ambassador for Kastonia and general pain in her ass. Something was indeed happening if Cyrus had asked for Hark to be present too. She curled her fingers in her fists tightly.

Hark and Arla had despised each other from the moment Hark had come to court two years ago in good faith from the King of Kastonia––an immediate disliking forming from the roots of blood that ran different colours, and kingdoms that did not see eye to eye. Any correspondence from Kastonia came through Hark, and any news that Cyrus did not wish to break to the neighbouring kingdom himself went through Hark too.

“Always a pleasure, Lady Reinhart,” Hawk cooed, bowing exaggeratedly.

Arla could see it for the insult it was, disguised in respect as he wished it, and marched heavily across the carpeted floor, letting the yarn absorb her malice and anger for the dark haired, pretty faced diplomat.

“I did not give you permission to speak to me,” she snapped, ignoring the cloud of whiskey and leather that attached itself to Hark.

“I don’t need permission to speak to you. Despite what you might think, you are a solider, not a courtier, or somebody who holds any type of influence within court.”

Her hand was around the pommel of her blade before Hark had finished speaking––

“Arla! I did not summon you both here to fight like dogs, though I am beginning to think dogs might be more useful to me than you are.”

Backing away from the Kastonian, Arla took a seat on the stone steps of the dais, her eyes following the king as he paced the length of the hall. Despite his untidy appearance and the harsh way he often spoke to her, Arla liked Cyrus. He was never unfair to his staff or soldiers, and he had had the good grace to let a gangly, orphaned nine-year-old into his barracks and let her watch his private guard train. Arla smiled at the memory in fondness, she wondered sometimes what would have happened to her if she had been left starving and alone after the war. Those two months had been the hardest of her life, and it had seemed a gift from the gods when Cyrus had seen her fall beneath the legs of his horse and brought her to his palace. She wondered if the king had known he would eventually select her to be his personal assassin. Possibly not, he hadn’t known the only reason she had been beneath his horse that day in the marketplace was because she was trying to steal the gold buckles from his horse’s girth. The king did not employ thieves.

“Whilst I have my reservations about asking the two of you to work together––”

“Absolutely not,” Arla interjected.

“Arla, you will be silent.” The king glowered at her, and she flopped back onto the steps she had so quickly risen from.

“Whilst I have my reservations about sending the pair of you on this task,” Cyrus continued, “The need for discretion is more important than your distaste for one another.” Arla’s interest pricked at the king’s words, it was rare he ever asked for discretion, and he had never asked her to work with Hark. He had never asked Hark to work for him at all.

“Shipments are going missing in the north before they can reach Kastonia. I would not normally involve our kingdom in another’s affairs, but your king asked for our help, Hark, and with the money I have invested into getting these shipments, I too, would like answers.” Cyrus turned to face the pair of them, his pale grey eyes fixed on Arla. Hark did not react, though Arla did not doubt the information had been passed through Hark before it was even whispered about within the halls of Castle Grey.

“I don’t need him, I’m perfectly capable of tracing missing supplies on my own,” Arla stated, rising from the steps again. It was true, she had been north many times, with instructions to kill. Discovering the whereabouts of missing cargo would be a breeze in comparison.

“That may be, but it is not just our kingdom that suffers, Arla, it is Kastonia too, and Hark will be joining you. This is non-negotiable.” There was no room for argument in the king’s voice, but Arla could feel anger burning a hole straight through her.

“Since when have we cared about them?” She growled, throwing her arms in Hark’s direction where he looked on at her with a sort of amusement that only sang to the anger in Arla’s blood. “They stormed this very castle to find dragons that do not exist, and then waged war on our city because they didn’t like what they found!”

A muscle in Hark’s jaw feathered, and Arla enjoyed the feeling of satisfaction that came from tapping a nerve.

“We are well rehearsed in the actions of nine years ago, Reinhart,” Cyrus’ eyes had darkened to the colour of steel, and Arla had been toeing that line of disrespect too long to know that she had jumped over it and that it would not be tolerated.

“When do we leave?” She asked, spine straightening and that mask of obedience sliding into place once more. She was the king’s assassin, and if she had learnt one thing in nine years of service, it was when to back off.

“The morning,” Cyrus started, his tone almost…far away, as though the imminent departure of his assassin and ambassador was the least of his concern. Arla didn’t care much for what had preoccupied his mind, and with a sigh of resignation, made her way back toward the oak doors she had waltzed in through.

The king’s voice halted Arla before her shoulders could pass through the doorway.

“I am trusting you, assassin.” A slimy, oily thing turned in Arla’s stomach at the statement. It was rare Cyrus ever spoke to her with anything other than a warm fondness, it was wrong to hear him demote her to her title. “You find out who is disrupting the supply chain, you dispose of them, and you leave Hark alive.”

A wry smile twisted its way across Arla’s lips, and she was glad that her back faced the king. He knew her too well––if it meant giving her a direct order not to kill Hark––and he knew that violent, angry streak that raged in her like a caged wolf, was already plotting ways to dispose of the Kastonian ambassador.

“Of course, your majesty.” She affirmed, palming the pommel of her blade, and setting off toward the town. It would be cold in the north, and it had been a long few months since she had left Hadalyn. She wanted to look her best. She wanted to visit Halos.

CHAPTER 2

Hadalyn was a busy kingdom, growing steadily larger by the day as more travellers and refugees moved out of poorer kingdoms to seek some sort of security. Not that Hadalyn offered much of a reprieve from the poverty that plagued surrounding countries––especially as it grew larger––but it was somewhere that gave people hope. The people still believed that the dragons slept beneath Castle Grey, and that one day, they would ask the gods to stop punishing the world and bless them with food, and goods, and easy lives.

Arla knew it was stupid. The gods didn’t exist––how could they when the world was going to shit? And the dragons that had once served them? Children’s stories to scare them into obedience.

Arla scoffed at a ragged old lady, back stooped with age, wearing a gold brooch that was probably worth more than the entire wooden shack she had shuffled out of. It wasn’t the gold that bothered her though, it was the symbol forged from the metal––a flame encased in a heart. It seemed the old religions were as alive as ever.

Too many people were in the streets––too many since the last time Arla had walked them in the daylight. She knew these streets as if their secrets were inked on her skin, had spent hours lurking in the shadows and dragging unsuspecting thieves into the darkness. It was ironic, really, that she would be the one to rid Hadalyn of thieves when she had spent the first few years in the king’s service stealing from folk just to be able to afford the silk for the dresses she would wear to court. Though Arla was paid handsomely now as the king’s assassin, she was no stranger to the ache of a hungry stomach or the bite of cold hands when she had been training as a soldier. The money had only begun to suit her well once she had made it into the kings guard, and now as his assassin, it served her very well indeed.

Arla knew the ladies in the royal court were often jealous of the new silk dresses she would have delivered each week, or the hordes of books that would be delivered in Arla’s name under the pretence they were for the royal library. But she didn’t care. She had killed, and clawed, and fought her way to where she was now, if she wanted lavender oil in her baths after a day of swinging blades and firing arrows, she deserved it. Just as she deserved to have her hair cut and her nails shaped by Halos.

Arla smiled as she reached her friend’s door, ignoring the urge to pocket the leather pouch dangling from a man’s belt as he passed her by a little too close. It would be his own faut, really, he had made it easier for her. But Arla knew how desperate the people were for money, and even she could not steal from the citizens of Hadalyn anymore, no matter how stupid they were.

Halos had placed a bell above the door since Arla’s last visit, and she wondered if that meant there had been trouble with thieves. The thought left a bitter taste in Arla’s mouth.

The bell had done its job though, and as a teetering toddler moved across the floor of the busy shop at speed that was unnatural for such little legs, Arla’s eyes met Halos’ amber ones across the heads of two old ladies.

“Arla Reinhart.” Halos grinned, scooping the child up in her arms as she made her way toward her friend.

“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” Arla laughed, stroking the hair of the other twin that had materialised at her feet. Neb and Ettie had grown since Arla had last seen them, and she regretted that she had not visited the children in so long that she was shocked they recognised her.

“Look at you.” Halos fussed, picking up limp blonde coils of hair that had grown long enough it now ended below Arla’s breasts, “Arla for the gods’ sake, you should come by more often.”

Arla chuckled, squeezing Ettie’s hand in hers as the little girl pulled her toward the back of the shop behind her mother. Halos dragged a cushioned chair out and gestured for Arla to sit. The chair looked new and barely used, and it eased something in Arla’s heart to know that Halos could still afford new furniture for her shop despite having to raise the twins by herself.

“I try, Hally, but you know how things are, the king’s had me running halfway across Hadalyn every evening––”

“Arla,” Halos interrupted, placing Neb on the floor and handing the twins a carved wooden horse to keep them occupied. “I don’t pretend to understand what it is that keeps you in the king’s employment, but I hope you realise it’s not always their fault––the people he sends you after, I mean.”

Arla sighed, running a hand through her tangled hair. This was why she hadn’t made time to come and see Halos. She didn’t understand. She made Arla look at herself the way other people looked at her. Funny, that for an assassin whose identity should have been unknown to even those closest to her, most people in Hadalyn––and the surrounding kingdoms––could recognise her if they came face to face. It was something she knew bothered Cyrus, but she had taken to not caring. She enjoyed the look of panic that flashed across the faces of her victims when they realised who had come for them. She hated that she enjoyed the job at all.

“I had nowhere else to go, Hal, the king offered me a chance and I took it.”

“Didn’t,” Halos said, preparing the jasmine scented soap for Arla’s hair, “You didn’t have anywhere else to go. You do now, Arla, the money you earn would buy you an apartment on Grey Hill and you could get a job that doesn’t involve killing people.” Halos continued, her voice light and her eyes averted. Arla sighed, how quickly they had fallen back into this old routine. Halos too good to harm people, and Arla too wicked to care.