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Chapter One
There’s something intoxicating about death. About planning the perfect kill and stalking my prey and drawing my blade through flesh. Some might call me a monster, but this puts food on the table better than any other trade I’ve worked. And a girl’s got to eat.
The man ahead of me stops at a stall selling roasted meat, the rich, aromatic spices floating to my nose. I used to love this part of Acaria, with its pretty views of the sea and delicious foods and brightly colored clothes. But the memories are no longer fond, painted over with betrayal and heartache, and I find myself eager to finish my task and move further south.
I linger a few paces behind, feigning interest in a large red fruit I’ve never seen before. If I had the time, I’d buy it just to see what it tastes like, but I have other business here today.
The young girl managing the stall with her parents glances up at me and sends me a nervous smile. With my long hair hidden under a thick wool cap and my breasts bound by cloth, I can pass for a boy running errands for his master.
I flash her a wink because it’s what a young boy did to me once, and since I have no intention of hurting her the way I was, it seems innocent enough. Her father notices our exchange and immediately sends her inside with a warning glare in my direction.
Taking a step back, I melt into the crowd and refocus on my task. My target is happily munching on a thick cube of meat, careful not to drip any juices onto his pristine white robes. When the shopkeeper holds out his hand for payment, the other man raises a single brow.
They stare at each other in a battle of wills until the shopkeeper slowly closes his hand into a fist and drops it to his side with a tight smile. Satisfied, the man pops the rest of the meat in his mouth and steps away.
I’m still surprised he moves through the city without guards flanking him. Most high-ranking temple priests don’t leave the temple walls without beefy swordsmen following their every move. This priest doesn’t even have a serving boy to carry coin or packages. Perhaps an unnecessary companion when you don’t intend to pay for anything.
All the better for me. It gets messy when I have to kill witnesses too. Killing a priest is bad enough.
The gold embroidery on his robes catches the light when he stops abruptly to avoid an oncoming horse and cart. A large sun with twelve long, thin triangular rays. I have no idea why the God of Music and the Arts is obsessed with the sun, but Pramis plasters his symbol anywhere it’ll fit across his lands.
The traffic trundles by while we wait to cross, and my fingers twitch at my side. It wouldn’t take much to step up behind the priest and shove him into the busy street. Being trampled by a horse or two would kill him just as well as the blade strapped to my waist, but for all the harm he’s caused, I want to look him in the eye as he draws his last breath.
When it’s finally clear enough to cross, I follow him at a distance, across the street and past rows of neat shops with stalls out front. Between the shops, I can see the rolling blue of the sea, and if I breathe deeply enough, I can smell it.
But I can’t afford the distraction memories bring. I have a job to do. One I’m being paid handsomely for. So I stuff the memories of the boy with golden hair and dark brown eyes down deep where it belongs and angle myself away from the sparkling water.
The crowds thin as we move further away from the shops and wharves. People pay me no mind as the shops give way to small homes packed so tightly together there’s barely a sliver of sunlight shining through the space between them. The thatched roofs look like a single mass settled over sturdy wood frames.
The longer we walk, the larger the temple becomes, and my pulse quickens. No matter how many times I inflict death, there’s always a thrill to it. A challenge, a reminder that people trust me to deliver them the vengeance they deserve.
For a price. And this price is higher than most. Killing a temple priest is considered treason against the god they serve, and Pramis especially takes the ceremony of worshipping him very seriously. Just not seriously enough to keep his own priests in line.
The houses are replaced by large shade trees, and the breeze off the water whispers through the leaves. The only thing dominating the landscape in this part of the city is the temple looming behind a low wall, the white stone weathered to a soft cream.
A large, round tower emblazoned with Pramis’s sun juts out of the center of the compound. In less than an hour, the bells will toll for afternoon offerings. I intend to be well on my way south by then.
There’s an opening in the wall where a gate should be, and the priest steps through it, barely sparing a nod at the lower priests and worshippers alike, who stop to bow their heads out of respect. This man doesn’t deserve their deference.
I slip through the opening behind him, keeping my head down but my eyes locked on his back. He turns right when he reaches the covered walkway, and I follow, careful to keep to the shadows.
I’ve spent several days wandering this temple to get my bearings, and there’s nothing in this direction except private rooms and studies. He’s most likely going back to his chambers to rest before accepting afternoon offerings. It’s exactly where I want him because no one is likely to disturb him until he doesn’t arrive in the receiving hall.
He pauses to speak to a young priest, and I duck behind a fat column. At the shuffle of feet, I peek out from my hiding spot and mutter a curse. They’ve both changed direction, heading instead for the kitchens.
I could leave him to tend to whatever matter needs his attention and wait for him in his rooms, but I can’t risk missing my opportunity. If I don’t kill him today, I have to wait another three days, and I’ve already lingered here long enough.
The scent of freshly baked bread envelops me the closer we draw to the kitchens. There are more people in this part of the temple than I’d like, and I’m forced to stop and pretend to study the sculptures set in alcoves in the wall and lit by torches.
Pramis on the back of a large steed. Pramis playing a pipe. Pramis holding a paintbrush and palette. There’s an unnamable quality to his face that makes him look both innocent and worldly all at once. Or maybe it’s the delicate curls framing his head like a halo at odds with the sharp cut of his jaw.
I tilt my head to study the sculpture closest to the kitchen door. This one is of Pramis holding a sword aloft. Of all the sculptures so far, it’s the most amusing. Like the god is playacting a hero.
Shouts ring out from behind the closed door of the kitchens, followed quickly by the crash and splinter of pottery shattering. Whatever is happening in there, the high priest is not pleased about it.
He breezes out a moment later, his white robe churning behind him in a froth.
“If this happens again, Esto, the brothers will be stripped of their titles and sent to the labor house.”
