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

ESHE AND I QUICKLY make our way back to my room. She has this shell-shocked look about her, mouth open and eyes wide, unfocused. At least she follows me without protest, and I don’t need to take her hand. I’d rather not let the other women see how close we are. Some of it is unavoidable, but if I’d thought we needed to tread carefully before, I know how imperative it is now after watching Safya take out Itr without a hint of remorse. And then there is Raha, who wants me dead but might find evidence leading to Eshe.

Once the door is closed and locked behind us, I turn and face my friend.

She goes straight for the window, plants her elbows on the sill, and stares emptily down to the sunny courtyard.

“Were you the other accomplice?” I ask carefully, keeping my voice quiet in the case of eavesdroppers.

She shakes her head, lets it drop.

I head to her side only to freeze halfway there, my eyes suddenly glued to the scrap of parchment pinned beneath a golden paperweight that looks like a small egg. The sultan wrote back already? About why he didn’t stop Hulla from leaving her rooms last night?

Eshe doesn’t glance back when I lean over the table and pick up the parchment with two fingers to keep from loudly crinkling it.

Oh the ash I taste in my mouth admitting this to you! In fact, why am I admitting this to you? I shouldn’t. You clearly find my mysteriousness intriguing. I ought to play that up more. But alas, I’ve started this note so I might as well finish it and answer your question.

Why didn’t I stop Hulla from leaving her room like I stopped you? A good question indeed. The answer is very simple. As lightning quick as my reflexes are, despite the power I have at my fingertips, despite even my devilishly good looks that you wouldn’t be aware of, there are some things that happen too fast for even me to stop.

I stare down at the message, at the elegant hand. I can almost hear his voice speaking the words, the puff of dry arrogance underscoring his comments about his power and looks. But am I wrong to imagine the unexpected sincerity, and perhaps even regret, beneath his last few words?

I don’t think I’m wrong to believe “some things” might involve more than just Hulla’s demise. What I need to know, more than ever, is why we’re here. This isn’t just about finding a worthy bride, that’s for certain.

This is a test.

My sultan needs something. Something beyond a pretty face and the ability to carry offspring. Something beyond even noble blood.

I need to find out what it is.

I look up to find that Eshe hasn’t moved. Silently, I set the note back down on the table and cross the remaining distance between us. I step to her side, facing her, and cross my arms over my chest as I lean against the window frame.

When I glance at her face, the dullness of her expression has given way to a furrowed brow, watery eyes, and a severe frown. Her fists are clenched against the stone sill. I stay silent, not hurrying her. She’ll talk when she’s ready.

It’s not long before she bursts, “I didn’t think we’d actually be killing each other!”

I glance self-consciously at the door, hoping her voice hasn’t carried through. But I keep my paranoid observations to myself and say instead, “I didn’t either.”

“How am I supposed to trust them now? How can we be a team against the Neverseen King if we don’t—”

“You don’t trust them, Eshe,” I say firmly. “Not even a little bit. Assume all those women will stab you in the back if given half the chance.”

For the first time since we left the Emerald Hall, Eshe looks up at me, anger and tears warring together in her jewel-like gaze. “This is your life, isn’t it? Waiting to get stabbed in the back?”

I blink, and quickly look away, shoving down the sudden emotion bubbling up inside me, threatening to spill out. “Don’t trust them. That’s how we navigate this situation. You can’t trust anyone here except me.” My attention is drawn against my will to the note on the table. I say with even more resolution, “No one except me.”

She drops her face into her hands and groans. “Nadira—I was going to leave my room last night to scout. I was lacing up my boots when Hulla screamed. And . . . then I was too scared. I didn’t leave. I didn’t try to save her. Nadira, I could have saved her—”

“No, you couldn’t have.”

“Yes, I could have! Or at least I could have—”

“—died with her? Eshe, if you’d left your room, you would have died. There was nothing you could have done to save Hulla.” Have I become the Neverseen King? Why am I repeating everything he said to me? Why am I justifying her fear as quickly as I justified mine?

Eshe meets my gaze. Hopelessness flashes in those dark depths, unshed tears catching the morning light—how is it not even noon yet? She closes her eyes, presses the back of her hand to her mouth, and a sob shakes her frame. Oh Eshe. The confidence, the cavalier jokes, the unflagging fearlessness is utterly swept away. By guilt. By fear.

I know how deep those lines can be scored upon the soul. I don’t want Eshe bearing the burden I do, of dozens of lives ended at my hand because I was too helpless to free myself from Jabir, to fight back, to escape.

A flash of fragmented memories assaults me, of a dreadful moment with Kolb when we were trying to escape, and we ran straight into Jabir, of being wrenched out of Baba’s arms, of standing there, frozen, unable to run or fight as my parents were taken from me, of nights breaking into houses and spilling blood before dawn stained the sky.

I reach out, clasp her hand. She grips mine back like her life depends on it. That’s when the full torrent releases, and she leans on me as she cries and cries and cries. I stroke her arm up and down, softly.

And in those moments, I find my thoughts straying to earlier this morning. To the memory of someone else easing my own panic. Someone being there with me while I cried.

The Neverseen King . . . who will dine with Safya tonight.

I shake myself mentally and focus my attention back on my friend. Once her tears have run their course, I squeeze her hand and whisper, “We’re in this together.”

She nods her head, dashes away her tears, and draws in a shaky breath. “But what if one of us dies? What if you hadn’t caught the poison in my drink today?”

If I let myself think about that, I will spiral completely out of control and lose the tenuous hold I have on my composure. So I merely assure her briskly, “We will watch each other’s backs. Just like we’ve always done. Don’t forget that I’m the Mourner, and you’re the best thief in the capital. We are not without resources and skills here.”

“Why aren’t you panicking?” she asks.

“Because you are,” I say with a rueful little smirk. “We can’t both panic at once, now can we?”

The haunted gleam in her eyes slowly ebbs away, and a tiny bit of that sparkle returns.

“So you’re saying—”

“No,” I say, lowering my eyebrows. “Whatever you’re about to say I’m saying, I am definitely not saying it.”

At that, she actually grins. It’s a wet-faced grin, but the sight of it uncoils the tension in my shoulders. “You’re saying that the trick this whole time to keeping you conscious in terrible situations is that I need to have a crisis? To think I could have had so many more crises and they would have actually benefitted you!”

I glare at her.

“The next time I see you struggling to hold it together, I’ll just let myself nearly get stabbed and—”

“No!” I snap, jabbing a finger into her face. “You flirt with death enough as it is. I do not need you doing it on purpose.”

She only grins mischievously at me, and I sigh, wiping a hand down my face. She knows I cannot be angry at her. Not now, at least. I turn and walk away from the window, heading toward the vanity to ensure I don’t look a fright after that competition.

It feels like a crime to think it, but I am so glad Eshe is here with me.

I’m so glad that two nights ago wasn’t the last time I ever saw her.

My attention snags on the note, and for a second I consider hiding it. But I don’t want to look suspicious, and I don’t have anything to hide from Eshe, right?

As if my thoughts beckoned her, Eshe swoops across the room, eyebrows raised, and plucks the note off the table. “What is this?” She opens it, eyes darting right to left as she reads. They grow wider with each pass. “Is this from the sultan? He leaves you notes?”

I turn toward the mirror to hide my flush and busy myself fussing over my hair, even though I care very, very little about it. “He doesn’t leave you notes?” is all I can think of to ask in response.

“Um . . . no,” says Eshe as if it’s the most obvious answer.

“He sent me food yesterday with a note telling me it wasn’t poisoned, and I took the opportunity to write him back and ask him questions. Thus far he’s answered everything.”

“What kind of food? I need to know if it was nicer than what he sent me.”

I glance at her, a hairpin between my teeth as I continue fussing. So I wasn’t the only one to receive food. “It was some kind of roast with sides.”

“That’s disappointing. I got the same thing, but no note. What kind of preferential treatment is this correspondence, and how do I get it? Are you his favorite?”

My flush deepens. I return to my hair and hope my shrug is nonchalant. “He knew I wouldn’t eat it without his assurance that it wasn’t poisoned.” How do I tell her I’ve seen him several times now? That he’s visited me in this very chamber?

“Pfft! Always concerned about poison. It is better to starve than be poisoned,” Eshe says sarcastically. When I open my mouth to argue, she only continues. “You’d better watch out. He apparently thinks you like him too. Intriguing mysteriousness, ha! He certainly thinks highly of himself.”

I change the subject. “We need to do more scouting today, and I need paper and ink to start my floor plan for planning our escape. Do you think you can find some for me?”

She raises her right hand in the air, then presses it over her heart. “I, Eshe bint-Kinid, do hereby solemnly swear to thieve some paper and—”

“No vowing, Eshe. Just get the materials, please.”

She lifts an eyebrow, drops her hand, and puffs out a breath of irritation. “I Am Making a Plan Nadira is back, and she’s no fun.”

I pause, glance at her sidelong, and then say slyly, “Want to see something fun? Something I discovered yesterday?”

She perks up. “Yes! What did you find?”

I smile and motion for her to follow me as I make my way toward the door of my rooms. Her face is flushed and puffy, but she’s otherwise looking like her regular self. It’s a profound relief.

“What is it?” she whispers when we’re out in the hallway.

“A banister,” I say in response. “You’ll love it.”

Eshe is eyeing me suspiciously when we arrive a few minutes later at the banister that opens out into the courtyard. She arches her neck as she stares up at the spiral staircase. “What’s up there?”

“Don’t know, though I assume it leads at least in part to the floor with our rooms,” I say, and step closer to the banister. My hand is suddenly clammy, and my heart beats oddly fast. Am I nervous? Of course not. It’s just a banister. But what if it doesn’t behave like it did yesterday? What if it’s cold like it was last night? I don’t want to babble like a crazy person to my friend about how yesterday it had moved into my touch and purred like a cat.

Shoving aside my trepidation, I gently lay a hand on the polished wood. It’s warm, but motionless. I can’t help but wonder if it’s hesitant because I’ve brought a friend. I refuse to glance back at her, and instead take one finger and slide it up the lip under the railing.

The wood squeaks. Eshe jumps. I laugh.

I scratch it gently, earning more creaking groans. “Didn’t I tell you I’d come back? And look, I brought a friend. You’ll love her.”

Eshe is staring at me like I’ve lost my mind, eyes wide and darting back and forth between me and the banister. “What . . .?”

I can’t help but smile. “It’s magic, Eshe.”

If our roles had been reversed, I’m not sure Eshe could have convinced me to touch something obviously magical on purpose, no matter her assurances of its safety. Eshe, however, hardly hesitates before reaching out her hand.

A gusty draft blows down the staircase as she begins scratching the banister and ruffles her hair. She startles, tenses, so I say, “That means it likes you.”

Her large eyes swivel to mine, and I know without a single word the thoughts flying through her mind. The wonder, the confusion, the uncertainty. How did we end up here? she wants to ask. Is this real? What else do we not know about our kingdom and our sultan? Why is there magic everywhere?

We’re going to find out, I tell her with my eyes.

But instead of being frightened, Eshe responds with enthusiasm. She sets to scratching the banister with gusto, talking to it like it’s a beloved pet. “Look at you, such a good banister. Yes, yes, you are! Does that feel good? Oh, yes it does!”

And then—we’re not alone.

I whip my head toward the staircase, lift my eyes to the curve of the spiral, and though I can see nothing with my naked eye, it’s like my imagination fills out the image of a tall form marching down the steps toward us, a cloak billowing behind him.

I pull my hand away from the banister. It goes stiff beneath Eshe’s fingers, and she glances up with a knotted brow, only to catch sight of my face, and follow my gaze into the emptiness of the staircase.

She flinches when his voice rings out across the narrow space between us.

“What are you doing to my House?” the Neverseen King demands.

Neither of us respond.

“Attend your duty, House of mine,” he barks at the staircase, “or I will sand down your finish.”

Though it doesn’t move, and though I no longer touch it, I can feel the banister stiffening. And almost . . . quivering. It’s just a banister, but heat spikes in my lungs. How could he be so harsh? And why does the sultan make sanding the banister sound like such a heartless punishment?

Eshe levels her shoulders at our invisible sultan, tightening her grip on the railing. Oh no. She’s going to stand up to the Neverseen King on behalf of his furniture. Stars above, what is life?

Swiftly, I reach out to the banister, hiding the movement with my sleeves, and press two fingers to the wood. At the touch, I feel it trembling, which doubtlessly is what Eshe feels too.

Easy, I say in my mind to the House, imagining sending out shooting bursts of calm and reassurance through my fingers. He won’t sand you. I’ll make sure of it.

Immediately, the quivering stops. The wood warms against my fingers, and there’s no denying the sense of peace and trust that seeps into my skin.

The Neverseen King’s attention whips to me so sharply it’s like his gaze is a knife slicing into me. I barely withhold my gasp.

“What did you just do?”

Eshe seems to know he means me, because she turns to look at me, eyes wide.

“Nothing,” I say. I don’t move my hand from the railing.

I have the distinct sense of him climbing down two steps toward me, leaning forward as he demands in a voice that is both angry and yet edged in something almost eager, “No, you did do something. What did you do? Why has my House stopped trembling at my voice?”

Eshe is talking before I have a chance to stop her. “Maybe it’s because Nadira was kind to it while you’re just a big, invisible bully!” Those words come out more petulant than I think she intended.

Silence falls like bricks.

It’s heavy, so heavy, I fear I will drown in the dread of it. The three of us—Eshe, me, and the banister—hold stone-still. Awaiting death, it feels like.

For a split second, I’m not standing before a magic-wielding sultan, but before a vengeful Jabir. I still remember that moment, still feel the plunge of terror like a weight in the ocean, of crawling out of that drain with Kolb and finding myself at the feet of my slaver. At his mercy.

A thousand other memories flood after the first.

I cannot bring myself to move. Even if a knife came plunging toward me, I don’t think I could dodge it. My feet have grown roots into the stair I stand upon.

Warmth flows into my fingertips, from wood straight into my soul.

Easy, something tells me. It’s not a voice, but a feeling. A feeling that sounds like my words caught in a web and distorted to resemble the groan of wood, the creak of a door, the swish of drapes. He won’t sand you. I’ll make sure of it.

It’s like one of those macaws in the bazaar that mimics words of the shoppers.

He won’t sand me? I send the impression of those words back into wood.

The reply is almost instantaneous: He won’t sand you. I’ll make sure of it.

The Neverseen King’s attention returns to me, away from Eshe. I meet his invisible gaze, this time without flinching, and the memory of Jabir slips away until I can breathe again. But he turns back to Eshe, and I almost see swimming shadow as he steps closer to her, down to the step above her. She stares straight through his chest, not seeming to have any idea of where he is.

“Is that any way to speak to your king?” he asks with lethal calm.

Eshe startles so hard she stumbles down one step, almost bumping into me. Yet, in typical Eshe fashion, once her initial fright is past, she lifts her chin and glares as only she can, straight into the sultan’s face. Sweat like ice slicks down my spine.

He won’t sand you. I’ll make sure of it, whispers the House to me.

I don’t want him to sand Eshe either, I manage in response.

Easy. Easy, easy, easy! Eeeeeasyy.

Perhaps I should expand the House’s vocabulary at a less stressful moment.

As suddenly as he appeared, the Neverseen King steps away from Eshe. My held breath whistles between my teeth as I release it, my shoulders relaxing. Eshe still glares into nothing.

“You are dismissed,” says the sultan.

Eshe’s head whips to the new place he stands. Frustration mounts between her eyebrows, marked in furrows and a scowling mouth. If I don’t take this opportunity to drag her away, she’ll spout something about how irritating it is to have a conversation with someone she can’t keep track of.

I don’t want him to sand Eshe, says the House.

As oddly loathe as I am to do so, I let go of the banister, grab Eshe’s elbow, and make to drag her off. We need to scout anyway, I tell myself. She needs to find drawing supplies for me. There are things we need to do besides anger our monarch and pet banisters.

“Not you, little assassin.”

Eshe and I freeze as one. Then, before I can stop her, she bursts out, “If you get one of us, you get both of us.”

I simultaneously admire the boldness while also dreaming of stuffing her foot and all her other appendages into her mouth. “Eshe,” I whisper urgently.

“Run along, thief.”

Eshe casts me a look that is equal parts frantic and determined. Her hand squeezes around mine, and I shake it off quickly before the sultan sees more of our weakness than he already has.

“Listen to the Neverseen King.” My tone is not cold but clipped enough to give her the message. To tell her to leave me and not worry. But she has that stubborn set to her face. That face that means she’s resigning herself to death if it means staying by my side. So I draw a deep breath and snap, “Now.”

Her palms clench into fists. For a long moment, she only stares at me. Challenging me. But at last, to my relief, she turns and marches down the hallway. I don’t doubt that she’s cursing the sultan under her breath with every step.

Firming my resolve in my heart and bundling up the tentative shreds of my courage, I lift my gaze to my sultan’s.

“Come with me,” he says, and turns with a sweep of invisible cloak to march up the steps.