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

AM I TO BELIEVE now that aside from being a kidnapped bride, I am not the only kidnapped bride? Does he intend to make a harem of stolen women? Surely not, right? The steward said bride, singular.

My mind is spinning too rapidly for rational thought. The Neverseen King. A bride. Competition.

What sort of competition? Why am I here? I’m not the wife sort. Much less the wife of a sultan. I’m a coldblooded killer. I take lives without hesitation. I am ruthless. Terrible.

Wretched.

A bead of sweat trails down my arm, wet and tickling. Even after the door closes, and I’m left alone in this room once more to dress, my heart won’t slow. It keeps raging like a monster intent on breaking free from its cage.

A plan.

If I’m here without a plan, then I must devise one. I spare a thought for how much better Eshe would do in a situation like this. She would thrive in a palace of darkness and mystery, laughing in the face of the Neverseen King who dared abduct her. She would be the sunshine streaming through my window. And she would find a way to escape.

I can’t keep losing my cool. I must approach this rationally. Carefully. Systematically. I must live up to the reputation Jabir has created for me. Breaking out of a palace shouldn’t be too difficult, so long as I learn the layout, watches, and servant patterns. Until then, I need only to survive.

Once I escape, where will I go?

The thought brings the thunderous roar of my blood to a sudden stop that sweeps down my spine like ice. No, I wouldn’t go back to Jabir. Of course I wouldn’t go back to Jabir.

I would . . . I would go . . .

Does it matter where I go? Won’t Jabir find me like he always does? Will he not find me now, here in the Neverseen King’s palace?

Best to worry about that later. Right now, I need to focus on surviving. This starts with finding something to wear besides this bright nightgown. The wardrobe has a few changes of clothes, all muted shades of brown and black. Hastily, I pull on a loose linen tunic and sirwal, wrap my wild hair in a scarf and tie a sash around my waist. There is a pair of new leather sandals—so new, the leather hasn’t been broken in yet. I pull them on, but they do nothing to dispel the strange bareness I feel without my knives.

Finally dressed, I stare down at the tea leaves and crumbled cakes strewn across the floor. I press a hand to my hollow stomach, glad for its sudden revolt at the thought of eating.

I need to confirm that my food isn’t poisoned before I give in to the temptation to satiate my hunger.

The thought stops me short. Poisoned? Why would a sultan poison his potential bride? Doesn’t he have use for me? I grit my teeth and turn away, striding across the room to the one large window. It never hurts to be careful until I understand what is happening.

I place my hands on the stone ledge and lean out, the warmth shivering up into my cold fingers.

Before me is a courtyard. A fountain burbles in the middle, with chirping birds flapping on the edge of the basin and splashing water over their feathers. Palm trees arch beneath the bright sun, casting shadow over the bursts of pink and white flowers blooming on low shrubs. Framing the courtyard are buildings supported by marble pillars with dozens upon dozens of doorways and open windows, brightly colored curtains wafting in the gentle morning wind. Domed towers rise above the rest of the buildings, and beyond the wall surrounding the complex, is the far stretch of the bustling city of Risya.

It’s beautiful. It’s serene.

Too serene. Though the sun has risen, and the world is awake, no matter how far I crane out of my window I do not find a single servant or guard.

Unseen guards are far worse than seen ones.

I swallow, ducking my head back into my room. This is going to be more difficult than I’d hoped. But it should be—after all, if a sultan kidnapped an assassin, he’d better be prepared for the consequences.

I am considering options for scaling the wall when footsteps tread in the hallway behind me. I whirl, gaze darting around the room wildly for a place to hide.

No. I’m not hiding. I will face what’s coming. No matter how my knees knock together.

If only I knew what was coming. Then I could be stronger.

The door opens, and it’s a guard this time. Only one. He seems normal in every way; a trimmed beard, dark eyes, an armored breastplate, a sheathed jambiya at his hip. Perhaps a little on the short side, but I can tell he’s strong. He is just the sort of guard I’d imagine at a palace. So why is he the only one I’ve seen so far?

He says nothing, only beckons me to follow.

I could take him down. If I had my knives, certainly. But even without, I think I can manage it. Is my sultan that dimwitted as to send me a guard I can overpower and escape?

Somehow, I think not.

I don’t know what his Glorious Exaltation is planning, and until then, I cannot be rash. I will follow through the motions, appear to be a docile little bride with dreams of my sultan. I’ll submit, and then when he lets his guard down and I know what mysteries shroud this strange bridal competition, I’ll strike.

And my Neverseen King will rue the day he dared to kidnap the Mourner.

The moment I step outside of my room after the guard, I stop.

A cobalt rug unfurls before me, matching the tapestries hanging on the hallway between doors like mine. Sconces frame each doorway, lit despite the morning light that is coming from—

I crane my neck, and above me stretches a ceiling of glass. The sky shines blue above it, cloudless and vibrant. My neck begins to ache as I stand there. I don’t mean for my mouth to fall open, especially in front of my guard, and I mean even less to allow for the soft beginnings of wonder into my soul.

I’m a prisoner. Not a tourist. Glass ceilings notwithstanding.

But it isn’t the innocuous appearance of the hallway or the expanse of sky and sun above that makes me pause. It is a slow prickling of the hairs on the back of my neck. It ripples in waves down my spine, pooling around my tingling toes. I fight to draw a deep breath into my too-tight lungs.

When I turn around, no one is there. Only unending silence and a hall that seems to reach so far east it’ll wrap all the way around to the west.

Something spills out beneath one of the doors, seven down from mine, on the opposite side of the hallway. It looks like dirt. I force myself to turn away, to shove down the bubbling panic in my breast.

New.

I realize with alarm that I’ve never been in a building where I did not know the layout by heart. I shake the thought away, clinging to the crumbling bits of my sanity. My only choice is to learn the layout. I note every doorway we pass, adding it to my mental floor plan like I’m sketching it myself. Some of the doors are cracked, and I strain to catch a glimpse of what is concealed.

In the first room, I think I see the gleam of a golden harp. The sultan has a taste for music, perhaps? The next, I’m sure I hear a sound like a gurgling stream. An indoor fountain? Like the one I saw in the courtyard?

I nearly freeze at the next door.

Vines crawl through punctured wood, climbing down the doorframe, and curling around the handle, tendrils digging into the keyhole such that I doubt it can be unlocked. Or locked, rather?

They’re real vines.

Is this some kind of freakish décor trend that I’m unaware of? It is only confirming my conviction to never involve oneself with royalty.

I am so occupied with noting everything I can about what we’ve passed that I nearly fall down the pair of stairs we descend, and then I almost run straight into an enormous pair of double doors. They stretch so high above me that they disappear into the shadow of rafters. The glass ceiling is long gone, and it’s too dark despite how daylight streams in from a nearby open window. I close my sagging jaw just in time for the cold sweat to return.

A pillow appears before my face, and I stare blankly at the items atop it until my mind quickens with sudden relief. I dismiss my mental layout in a flash. My knives. I cannot describe the comfort I feel as I strap each one in place, feeling less bare and exposed now.

I look up, and my focus narrows in on those two doors being dragged open by straining servants, at the narrow crevice before me widening—

Into a hall of solid gold.

The floor is gold, the pillars gold, the fire flickering from a glittering, gold-cut chandelier casting the room in an array of gold . . . and shadows. Distantly, my mind registers eleven women standing at attention, their dress as different from one another as they are themselves, some garbed in black and others in lighter, brighter colors. I’m vaguely aware of the steward at the front of the room. They’re all looking at me, presumably the last potential bride.

But my focus isn’t on them.

Instead, my eyes are drawn as if of their own accord to a shadow deeper than the rest along the far wall. The sultan is there. I know he is.

Our Neverseen King.

Am I wrong to believe I see a flash of white teeth in that impenetrable darkness? Is that a twisted version of a grin? Has he noted my notice of him? Is he pleased that I have spotted him in a room full of seemingly oblivious women?

Only then do I turn my attention to them. There’s a familiar figure among them. My chest immediately clenches so tightly I can’t breathe, as my eyes lock with equally surprised ones.

Eshe.

Eshe, who I was never to see again.

My friend.

“Please take your place,” says the steward.

And turn my back on the Neverseen King? I don’t want to. Everything inside me balks at the idea of presenting my captor with that much of my vulnerability. But then again, he apparently wants a bride, not a bloodbath. He has had ample opportunity to murder me so far, but hasn’t.

I walk to take my place, one determined footstep after another. My vision clouds, but a fierce, determined blink clears it. Though my exposed flesh tingles, I firmly turn my back to my captor and suck in a deep breath.

I’m standing next to Eshe. She reaches out, takes my hand in hers. I squeeze back, grateful almost to tears for this scrap of familiarity. It’s followed by another burst of panic, one wondering how on earth she ended up here too.

“You’re pale,” she whispers.

“Didn’t have time to eat.”

“You refused to eat.”

“The sultan is behind us.”

Her eyes go wide, and a battle ensues in those dark irises. She wants to look. Thankfully, she has the sense to not.

The young woman on the other side of Eshe is tall. Taller than either of us, she peers down at me suspiciously over the edge of a coarse cloak that shields half her face. I regard her mildly in return, and then try to see what I can make of anyone else in the line.

The next girl has eyes as wide as wheels on a cart in the bazaar. She looks younger than the rest in line, but that might just be her small frame, rounded face, and wild mop of curls. She breathes hard—almost frantically.

It’s the last young woman that draws my attention next. She wears harsh black that only makes her pupils seem even more like endless voids. It’s not her clothes that make ice fill my gut, but the way she studies me with an unveiled murderous rage. Startled, I barely manage to keep myself from stumbling back a step. Who is this girl? Does she look at everyone this way?

Apparently she does, because when my attention is demanded at the front of the room, the force of her hatred redirects to Emin.

“Welcome,” says the steward, clasping his hands behind his back and looking at each of us in turn. “The Neverseen King welcomes you all cordially.”

I cannot be the only one fighting a snort.

“He would like to thank each of you for participating in this competition for his hand in marriage. Your sacrifices to be here are not overlooked.”

It’s a good thing I’ve learned to regulate my features, because if I hadn’t, my jaw would have hit the floor in incredulity.

“The Neverseen King doesn’t care to thank us in person?” says a crisp, clear voice next to me. Eshe. My stomach tumbles over itself.

Please stop talking, I want to beg.

Of course, she doesn’t.

“During the competition, the Neverseen King will dine privately with each of you. I will leave it to his honored discretion what he chooses to discuss,” replies the steward with a polite smile that doubles as a warning.

My skin crawls with the presence at my back. I don’t turn around.

The steward continues, his voice deep and rhythmic. “The Neverseen King is hosting a series of competitions of varying types to determine your competency as a potential bride.”

Will these competitions involve debating tariffs and trade routes? Mixing swaths of fabric for décor? Pairing jewelry with gowns, seeing who dances the most elegantly? Reciting poetry or singing ballads?

Because I will fail all of those, and I won’t even have to do it on purpose.

“Whoever wins the competition will have the honor of wedding the Neverseen King and becoming Queen of Arbasa.”

Some of the women in the line perk up at that. I’m not sure how they’ve fared so far at these turns of events, but I don’t doubt that some of them find their circumstances suddenly much more favorable. After all, who doesn’t want to be a queen?

Me. I don’t.

My heart plummets when Eshe tilts her head, as though reconsidering her original notions. Of course she would love to be a queen, though I’m not entirely sure what part of it sounds appealing to her. Outfitting the palace in drapes that suit her liking? Wearing a crown upon her lovely head? Bending the knee to none but her sultan? Being free?

Something inside my chest stutters at the last thought. I quickly quash it with all my willpower. Being the Neverseen King’s queen will be a slavery even deeper than the one I’ve borne most of my life. It doesn’t matter how many jewels he may string around his bride’s neck; one twist of his wrist on those strings of pearls and gold-encrusted emeralds, and she dies.

While I know little enough of my sultan, I know he’s powerful. Somehow, he’s got magic at his disposal, and if I’ve learned anything from my years with Jabir, it’s that the more powerful the master, the less hope for the slave.

“You will remain here in the House through the duration of the competition,” continues the steward. House—not palace? Interesting. “There are two rules that you must abide by.”

I wait, my breath snagged between my teeth.

“The first rule is to never, under any circumstance, at no time”—The steward emphasizes these words carefully, and my throat tightens into a thick knot I doubt will ever come undone—“open your doors after nightfall.”

Because the sultan prowls these hallways at night? And he doesn’t wish to be seen while he rules our kingdom? Or for another reason? That is another mystery I must unravel if I’m to have any hope of escape.

“Second, the House requests that you place soiled clothes in the designated baskets instead of leaving them on the floor—it bothers the House. And please, no manhandling the servants.” This is stated with a pointed glance at me.

“You didn’t,” Eshe hisses at me under her breath.

I don’t deign to answer that.

“As for the matter of the first competition . . .” The steward glances once more toward the shadows behind me, a glance so brief I almost miss it. “It will begin in about . . . nine seconds. May the stars shine bright upon your path.”

With that, he tucks his chin to his chest, turns, and sprints for the back wall.

“What?” the tall girl demands furiously. Two more race after the steward, but aren’t fast enough to slip through the wall panel that is apparently a secret exit. It slams shut behind the steward.

Nine, eight, seven—

Counting is like breathing to me. I turn just in time to see another girl run to the main entrance, feel for handles, and then throw herself against the doors. They don’t budge. It’s almost like there never were doors there, and it’s been golden paneling this entire time. Trapping us.

Six, five, four—

Instinct flares in my chest, and I whip out my knives, whirling in place as the girls around me begin running, scattering across the hall, gold shimmering on colored and dull fabric alike.

The round-faced girl with the curly hair stands in the middle of the room, shaking. She looks so small standing there—a personification of how I feel in this moment. I don’t know what’s coming. I don’t know what is about to hit us. I don’t know where to be in the room. The eyes that I meet across the room are as clueless as mine, shading in various degrees of anger and panic that echo my own. I don’t know—

“Nadira!” Eshe is at my side, her brow set and eyes flashing. “Back to back?”

I meet her gaze, and I cling to her calmness in a world that is falling to pieces around me. I nod, and set my back to hers. I may not have a plan, may have the utter inability to make a plan, but I know I have a friend guarding my back.

Together, we can face this madness.

Against my will, my attention swivels to the dark corner of shadow. My sultan has stayed to watch this competition.

“What’s your name?” Eshe calls to the terrified girl.

“Hulla,” she gasps.

“Come stand with us!”

She breaks into a run, nearly crashing into me and Eshe. She shivers against us, but to her credit, she pulls a thin jambiya from her belt and stands with her shoulders touching ours.

Three, two, one—

Silence falls across the room. I haven’t been the only one counting. All twelve of us are silent. I fix my gaze on that darkness, and a chill races down my spine, like he’s staring back at me. It’s so quiet in the room I’m certain my heaving breaths are the loudest sound.

Then a deafening rip erupts around us. I twist to look over my shoulder, over Eshe’s shoulder, nearly wetting myself as I watch the air split apart.

A wave of shrieking blue pours into the room.